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The World's Greatest Books [Volumes 1-15, 17-20]

Электронная книга - «The World's Greatest Books [Volumes 1-15, 17-20]». Краткое содержание книги:

Антология содержит:
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 01 — Fiction от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 02 — Fiction от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 03 — Fiction от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 04 — Fiction от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 05 — Fiction от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 06 — Fiction от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 07 — Fiction от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 08 — Fiction от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 09 — Lives and Letters от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 10 — Lives and Letters от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 11 — Ancient and Mediæval History от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 12 — Modern History от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 13 — Religion and Philosophy от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 14 — Philosophy and Economics от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 15 — Science от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 17 — Poetry and Drama от Неизвестный
The world's greatest books от Mee, Arthur, 1875-1943, joint editor & Hammerton, John Alexander, Sir, 1871-1949, joint editor & McClure, S. S. (Samuel Sidney), 1857-1949, joint editor
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 19 — Travel and Adventure от Неизвестный
The World's Greatest Books — Volume 20 — Miscellaneous Literature and Index от Неизвестный
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Face downwards at his feet. Then, suddenly,

The throne began to sink below the floor.

"Where are we going?" said the King of Kings.

"Down the deep pit into the inner hall!"

The captive said. A sound like thunder rang

Above them, and the King of Kings exclaimed:

"What noise was that?" "The block of stone

That covers in this pit," the captive said,

"Has fallen in its place!" The King of Kings

Groped in the darkness, and with trembling voice

He asked: "Is there no way out of this pit?"

"Surely," the captive said, "the King of Kings,

Whose hands are swift like lightning, and whose feet

Tread down all nations, can find out a way?"

"There is no light, no sound, no breath of air!"

Cried out the King of Kings. "Why is it dark

And cold within the temple to my fame?"

"Because," the captive said, "it is your tomb!"

Jean Chouan

The work of pacifying Brittany

Was going on; and children, women, men,

Fled from the revolutionary troops

In wild disorder. Over a bare plain

And up a hill, swept by the guns of France,

They ran, and reached the shelter of a wood.

There they re-formed—the peasant royalists.

And then Jean Chouan, who was leading them,

Cried: "Is there any missing?" "No," they said,

Counting their numbers. "Scatter along the wood!"

Jean Chouan cried again. The women caught

Their babies to their breasts, and the old men

Tottered beside the children. Panic, fear

Possessed the broken, flying peasantry.

Only Jean Chouan stayed behind to watch

The movements of the enemy. He stood

Silent in prayer below the sheltering hill;

A tall, wild figure, with his long, loose hair

Streaming upon the wind. And suddenly,

A cry rang shrill and keen above the roar

Of the French guns. A woman's cry it was;

And, looking from the hill, Jean Chouan saw

A woman labouring, with bare, torn feet,

And haggard, terror-stricken face, to reach

A refuge in the forest. Up the hill,

Swep by the French artillery, she toiled,

And the shells burst around her. "She is lost!"

Jean Chouan murmured. "She will be destroyed

Before she reaches shelter. Oh, the brutes,

To mass their fire upon a woman's head!"

Then on the height that overlooked the plain,

Jean Chouan sprang, and stood against the sky,

Fearless and proud, superb and motionless,

And cried, "I am Jean Chouan!" The French troops

Gazed for a moment in astonishment

At his tall figure. "Yes, it is the chief!"

They said to one another, as they turned

Their guns upon him. "Save yourself!" he cried,

"My sister, save yourself!" as, mad with fright,

The woman stumbled onward. Like a pine

Too strongly rooted in the rock to bend

Or break beneath the fury of the storm,

He towered amid the hurricane of death

That roared and flamed around him. "I will wait

Until you gain the forest!" he exclaimed.

The woman hastened. Over the hill she crept,

And staggered down the valley. "Is she safe?"

Jean Chouan shouted, as a bullet passed

Right through his body. Standing still erect,

He waited, with a smile upon his lips,

The answer. When some voices in the wood

Cried, "Jeanne is safe. Return!" Jean Chouan said,

"Ave Maria!" and then fell down dead.

Civil War

"Kill him!" the mob yelled. "Kill him!" as they surged

In fury round their prisoner. Unmoved

And unafraid he stood: a constable

Of Paris, captured by the Communards.

His hands were black with gunpowder; his clothes

Were red with blood. A simple, fearless man,

Charged with the task of carrying out the law,

He gave no quarter, and he asked for none.

All the day he had fought against the mob

That swept with sword and flame along the streets

Of Paris, while the German conqueror

Battened on France. A woman sprang at him,

And shrieked, "You have been killing us!" "That's true,"

The man replied. "Come, shoot him here!" she screamed.

"No! Farther on! At the Bastille!" "No! Here!"

And while the crowd disputed, the man said:

"Kill me just where you like; but kill me quick."

"Yes!" cried the woman, "shoot him where he stands.

He is a wolf!" "A wolf that has been caught,"

The prisoner said, "by a vile pack of curs!"

"The wretch insults us!" yelled the furious mob.

"Down with him! Death! Death! Death!" And with clenched fists

They struck him on the face. An angry flame

Gleamed in his eyes, but, silent and superb,

He marched along the street amid the howls

Of the ferocious, maddened multitude!

God! How they hated him! To shoot him seemed

Too light a sentence, as he calmly strode

Over the corpses of their comrades strewn

Along the street. "How many did you kill?"

They shrieked at him. "Murderer! Traitor! Spy!"

He did not answer; but the waiting mob

Heard a small voice cry: "Daddy!" and a child

Of six years' age ran from a house close by,

And struggled to remain and clasped his knees,

Saying, "He is my daddy. Don't hurt him!

He is my daddy—" "Down with the cursed spy!

Shoot him at once!" a hundred voices said;

"Then we can get on with our work!" Their yells,

The clangour of the tocsin, and the roar

Of cannon mingled. 'Mid the dreadful noise,

The child, still clinging to his father's knees,

Cried, "I tell you he's my daddy. Let him go!"

Pale, tearful, with one arm thrown out to shield

His father, and the other round his leg,

The child stood. "He is pretty!" said a girl.

"How old are you, my little one?" The child

Answered, "Don't kill my daddy!" Many men

Lowered their eyes, and the fierce hands that gripped

The prisoner began to loose their hold.

"Send the kid to its mother!" one man cried,

"And end this job!" "His mother died last month,"

The prisoner said. "Do you know Catherine?"

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