Drop by drop upon the plain,
Seem like spirit-voices calling--
Spirit-voices not in vain;
For life's fleeting course they teach me,
With life's endless source on high,
Past and future thus may reach me,
While I learn from thee to die.
XIV.
O stream! hath thy lonely torrent
Many ages yet to run?
O life! will thy mournful current
See many a setting sun?
I know not; but both are passing
From the sunlight into gloom--
Yet the light we left will meet us
Once again beyond the tomb!
SALVATION.
When the gloom is deepest round thee;
When the bands of grief have bound thee,
And in loneliness and sorrow,
By the poisoned springs of life
Thou sittest, yearning for a morrow,
That will free thee from the strife;
Look not upwards, for above thee;
Never sun or star is gleaming;
Look not round for one to love thee;
Put not faith in mortal seeming;
Lightly would they scorn, then leave thee.
Trust not man--he will deceive thee.
But in the depths of thy own soul
Descend; mysterious powers unroll--
Energies that long had slumbered
In its mystic depths unnumbered.
Speak the word!--the power divinest
Will awake, if thou inclinest.
Thou art lord in thine own kingdom;
Rule thyself--thou rulest all!
Smile, when from its proud dominion
Earthly joy will rudely fall.
Be true unto thyself and hear not
Evil thoughts, that would enslave thee.
God is in thee! Mortal, fear not;
Trust in Him, and He will save thee!
MISERY IS MYSTERY.
I.
Misery his heart hath broken--
Misery is mystery!
Let the sad one lonely be;
As the Ancients shunned the token
Of a lightning-blasted tree.
II.
Breathe no word, his doom is spoken--
Misery is mystery!
By its scathing lightning fated,
Human hearts are consecrated,
For a higher destiny.
FAREWELL!
Let mine eyes the parting take,
Which my faint lips never can;
Moments such as these might break
Even the sternest heart of man.
Mournfully doth Joy's eclipse,
Shroud in grief Love's sweetest sign;
Cold the pressure of thy lips,
Cold the hand that rests in mine.
Once the slightest stolen kiss--
O, what rapture did it bring!
Like a violet's loveliness,
Found and plucked in early spring.
Now, no more my hand shall twine,
Rose wreaths, sweetest love, for thee;
Without, is summer's glorious prime,
Within, weird autumn's misery.
CATARINA.
FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS.
"Um mover d'olhos brando e piadoso."
A movement of the soft eyes, slow and eloquent,
A smile of sweet, yet of such chastened joy,
'Twere easy to transform it to a tear.
A gentle, timid motion, like young flowers
Beneath the murmuring west wind undulating.
A graceful, modest ardour--yet at times
Most grave and quiet majesty, as one
Who knows--that rarest knowledge--her own worth.
A childlike nature, index of a soul
Where goodness is intuitive--not put on
To gain false praises for a falser virtue.
A bashful softness when she tells her love--
A tremour as of guilt, with low-drooped eyes
And red-rose cheek, did not her brow serene,
Like to a temple of all holy things,
Forbid the thought. A patient power of sufferance,
Enduring all with angel smiles of love.
This, the celestial beauty of my Circé--
This is the magic potion which has changed
Earth and all earthly sorrows to a Heaven!
THE POET AT COURT.
I.
He stands alone in the lordly hall--
He, with the high, pale brow;
But never a one at the festival
Was half so great, I trow.
They kiss the hand, and they bend the knee,
Slaves to an earthly king!
But the heir of a loftier dynasty
May scorn that courtly ring.
II.
They press, with false and flattering words,
Around the blood-bought throne;
But the homage never yet won by swords
Is his--the Anointed One!
His sway over every nation
Extendeth from zone to zone;
He reigns as a god o'er creation--
The universe is his own.
III.
No star on his breast is beaming,
But the light of his flashing eye
Reveals, in its haughtier gleaming,
The conscious majesty.
For the Poet's crown is the godlike brow--
Away with that golden thing!
Your fealty was never yet due till now--
Kneel to the God-made King!
THE MYSTIC TREE.
FROM ÖLENSCHLÄGER.
Its branches up to Heaven a tree is sending,
Rare to see,
For with flowers, fruit, and seed at once is bending
That mystic tree.
Round the giant stem, all rugged, rude, and mossy,
Roses twine,
And the young flowers veil it with their glossy
Hues divine.
The leaves rustle thickly, many-formed,
So green and bright;
The branches spread out broadly to be warmed
In Heaven's light.
Now curve they down, all drooping, to the meadows
And cool springs;
Now upwards on the blue air fling their shadows
Like seraphs' wings.
Pause ye beneath its golden avalanches--
Well it's worth;
For when the breath of Heaven stirs the branches
The fruit falls to earth.
Mocking apes all day there, in their folly,
Play antic wiles;
All night rest the branches, still and holy
As cathedral aisles.
The nightingale, soft in the moonlight singing,
Stops her grief;
For the magic tones of Oreads seem ringing
From every leaf.
The tree is loved by all, but comprehended
Scarce by one;
Yet each basketh in its glory, many-blended,
As 'neath a sun.
Many pause, the bright fruit harvest reaping,
Of golden gleam;
But he who loveth shadow saith in weeping--
Here let me dream.
Lighter spirits, passing, stop where glisten
Brightest flowers;
While others pause, enchanted, but to listen
The music of its bowers.
And he who nothing loveth goes his way,
Unheeding all;
But they who love the universe will say--
Sing on, JEAN PAUL!
'TIS NOT UPON EARTH.
Why comest thou here, so pale and clear,
Thou lone and shadowy child?
"I come from a clime of eternal sun,
Tho' my mother's home is a dreary one;
But Love hath stolen my heart away,
And to seek it through the world I stray."
Oh, turn thee back to thy native land--
Turn, ere thy heart is blighted;
For, alas! upon this desert strand
True love has never alighted.
"My native land is beyond the skies,
Where the perfumed bowers of Eden rise.
But my mother's home is the spectral tomb;
Yet I'll back and rest in its shadowy gloom,
For the grave is still and Heaven is fair,
And the myrtle of love fadeth never there!"
THE ITINERANT SINGING GIRL.
FROM THE DANISH.
Fatherless and motherless, no brothers have I,
And all my little sisters in the cold grave lie;
Wasted with hunger I saw them falling dead--
Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed.
Friendless and loverless, I wander to and fro,
Singing while my faint heart is breaking fast with woe,
Smiling in my sorrow, and singing for my bread--
Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed.
Harp clang and merry song by stranger door and board,
None ask wherefore tremble my pale lips at each word;
None care why the colour from my wan cheek has fled--
Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed.
Smiling and singing still, tho' hunger, want, and woe,
Freeze the young life-current in my veins as I go;
Begging for my living, yet wishing I were dead--
Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed.
IGNEZ DE CASTRO.
FROM THE PORTUGUESE.
"Longe de caro esposo Ignez formosa."
I.
Far from her Royal lover, by Mondego's sunny tide,
Does the Lady Inez wander, Don Pedro's lovely bride;
Her long hair fell around her, like a veil of a golden light,
And the jewelled zone that bound her in the noontide sparkled bright.
II.
But heavy showers are falling fast adown her azure eyes,
As on Heaven with anguish calling, she lifts them to the skies.
Where is her princely lover? Is there none to save her nigh?
Does he know that King Alonzo hath sworn that she shall die?
III.
She trembles at each murmured sound that's wafted on the breeze:
It is the murderer's footstep that rustles through the trees;
But wearily, all wearily, with watching and with weeping,
She sank in troubled slumber, while her maidens guard were keeping.
IV.
She dream'd that in the palace, by her Royal lover's side,
She sat upon the high throne, as his crownéd Queen and bride;
And words of love he murmured, and the crowd knelt down to praise,
And she proudly took their homage, but blushed beneath his gaze.
V.
Fair cloth of silver brighter than the sunbeam's woven light,
And marble pillars whiter than the pale queen of night--
Flowers and odours blending, all lovliest things were there,
Incense-clouds upsending, for her--the beautiful, the fair!
VI.
Her robes of tissue golden outvied her golden tresses,
As she lay enfolden in her lover's soft caresses;
But brighter than the diamonds that circled round her brow,
Were the flashing eyes beneath them--he murmured with a vow.
VII.
And redder than the rubies that enclasped her jewelled zone,
Were the roses on her cheek when he whispered--Thou'rt mine own.
And he stooped his plumed head gently to kiss her--so she dreamed--
But his lips were icy cold, like the touch of death it seemed.
VIII.
And she started from her slumber all tearfully and pale,
For hurrying steps and voices were heard, and woman's wail--
"O God! the hour has come," they cried--"the murderers are near!"
Why weep ye so, my maidens, now?--your cheeks are blanched with fear.
IX.
"I see--I see their shadows--down the marble steps they run;
I see their daggers gleaming in the red light of the sun--
O Pedro! Pedro! save me!"--help from God nor man is nigh:
All vainly to her murderers for mercy did she cry.
X.
Then she raised her eyes to Heaven, and threw back her golden hair,
And in the streaming sunlight calm and saintly stood she there;
While upon her snowy bosom she meekly crossed her hands--
You'd take her for an Angel as she there in beauty stands.
XI.
What! shrink ye now, false cravens!--do ye fear yon pale-faced girl?
Tigers, traitors, as ye are, dare ye touch one golden curl?
King Alonzo's gold is tempting, yet fain ye now would fly
From the calm and holy glance of that tearful azure eye.
XII.
It was but for a moment's pause--the next their daggers gleam,
And she falls, the young and lovely, by Mondego's fated stream;
Like red rain on the young flowers, pours forth life's crimson tide--
And softly murmuring, Pedro! she looked to Heaven, and died.
THE WAIWODE.
FROM THE RUSSIAN.
Secretly by night returning,
Jealous fears within him burning,
The Waiwode seeks his young wife's bed,
And with trembling hand, uncertain,
Backward draws the silken curtain--
Death and vengeance--she has fled!
With a frown like tempest weather,
Fierce he knits his brows together,
Tears his beard in wrathful mood--
Roars in thunder through the castle,
Summoning each trembling vassal,
"Ho there! slaves--ye devil's brood!
"Who left the castle gate unguarded,
And slew the hound?--some hand unbarr'd it!
Quick! prepare ye sack and cord!
My arms here, fellows--loaded, ready!
Now, slave, your pistols, follow--steady---
Ha, traitress! thou shalt feel this sword!
Close in the murky shadows hiding,
Slave and master, onward gliding,
Reach the garden. There, indeed,
Listening to the soft appealing
Of a youth before her kneeling,
Stands she in her white _naridd_.
Through the marble fountain's playing,
Passion's words they hear him saying--
"How I love thee, yet thou'st sold
All thy beauty's glowing treasures,
All this soft band's tender pressures,
For the Waiwode's cursed gold.
"How I loved, as none can love thee;
Waited, wept--if tears could move thee--
Ah! and is it thus we meet?
He ne'er strove through tears and troubles,
Only clang'd his silver roubles,
And thou fallest at his feet.
Yet once more, through night and storm,
I ride to gaze upon thy form,
Touch again that thrilling hand;
Pray that peace may rest upon thee
In the home that now has won thee,
Then for ever fly this land."
Low she bendeth o'er him weeping,
Heeds not stealthy footsteps creeping,
Sees not jealous eye-balls glare--
"Now, slave, steady,--Fool, thou tremblest
Vengeance if thy heart dissemblest--
Kill her as she standeth there."
"Oh, my Lord and master, hear me--
Patience yet, or much I fear me
I shall never aim aright.
See, the bitter night wind's blowing
Numbs my hand, and brings these flowing
Icy tears to dim my sight.
"Silence! thou accurséd Russian.
Hold--I'll guide the pistol's motion;
See'st thou not her gleaming brow?
So, steady--straight before thee--higher--
When I gave the signal, fire--
Darker doom awaits him--Now!"
A shot, a groan, and all is over;
Still she standeth by her lover--
'Tis the Waiwode falleth dead!
Was ever known such sad disaster?
The bungling slave hath shot his master
Straight and steady through the head.
THE COMPARISON.
FROM THE PORTUGUESE.
I.
Loveliest of flowers
That in the garden grows,
Brightest, sweetest, fairest,
Crimson blushing rose.
Envy of all others,
No charm thy beauty misses,
Favourite of Phœbus,
Blushing at his kisses.
II.
Yet as he outshineth,
Glorying in his might,
The pale, uncertain splendour
Of Luna's silver light--
So does Amarilla,
When compared unto thee,
Heedless wanton, careless
Of the thousand lips that woo thee.
III.
Thou hast cruel thorns
Beneath thy rich leaves lying,
But she is soft and gentle
As Æolian music sighing;
Thou heedest not the murmur
Of Zephyr when he sings,
But see her dark eyes flashing
When I touch my golden strings.
IV.
In the month of flowers,
When flaunting in thy pride,
Crimson-robéd Queen,
I shall place thee side by side;
Then, Cupid, come and tell me,
On thy judgment I'll repose,
Which is fairest, brightest,
Amarilla or the Rose?
Stay! here is Venus coming,
The goddess will decide--
Ah! tis not the Paphian Queen,
But Amarilla, my young Bride!
BUDRIS AND HIS SONS.
FROM THE RUSSIAN.
I.
Spring to your saddles, and spur your fleet horses;
Time for ye, children, to seek your life courses.
(Thus spake old Budris, the Lithuan brave.)
Never your father's sword rusted in leisure,
Never his hand failed to grasp the rich treasure;
But now my feeble frame sinks to the grave.
II.
Three paths from Wilna to plunder will lead ye;
Ride forth, my sons--each a path I aread ye--
Thus will your booty be varied and rare.
Olgard, go thou and despoil the proud Prussian;
Woiwod, Kiestut, be thy prey the Russian--
Vitald the lances of Poland may dare.
III.
From Novgorod Veliki[9] come back to me never
Without the rich dust of the Tartar's gold river;
Bring the sables of Yakutsk, so costly and fine,
And the silver of Argun they dig from the mine,
The gems of Siberia and far Koliván--
So saints speed the ride of the bold Lithuán!
IV.
In the cursed Prussian land there is wealth for the bold:
Ha, boy! never shrink from their ducats of gold;
Take their costly brocades, where the golden thread flashes,
The amber that lies where the Baltic wave dashes,
Be the prize but as rich as your forefathers won,
And the gods of old Litwa[10] will guard thee, my son.
V.
No gold, my young Vitald, will fall to thy share,
Where the plains of the Polac lie level and bare;
But their lances are bright, and their sabres are keen,
And their maidens the loveliest ever were seen:
So speed forth, my son, and good luck to the ride
That brings a fair Polenese home for thy bride.
VI.
Not the azure of ocean, or stars of the sky,
Can rival the colour or light of her eye;
Like the lily in hue, when its first leaves unfold,
Is the bosom on which fall her tresses of gold;
Fine and slender her form as the pines of the grove,
And her cheek and her lips glow with beauty and love.
VII.
By three paths from Wilna, the young men are roaming,
Day after day Budris looks for their coming--
But day after day he watcheth in vain.
No steed from the high-road, no lance from the forest,
He watcheth and waiteth in anguish the sorest--
"Alas! for my brave sons, I fear they are slain!"
VIII.
The snow in the valley falls heavy and fast--
Through the forest a horseman comes dashing at last,
With his mantle wrapped closely to guard from the cold:
"Ha, Olgard! hast brought me the ducats of gold?
Let's see--is it amber thou'st won for thy ride?"
"Oh, father--no, father--a young Polish bride!"
IX.
The snow on the valley falls heavier still,
A horseman is seen rushing down from the hill;
Wrapped close in his mantle some rich treasure lies--
"How now, my brave son--hast thou brought me a prize?
Is it silver of Argun thou'st won for thy ride?
Come show me!" "No, father--a young Polish bride!"
X.
Faster and thicker the snow-showers fall--
A horseman rides fiercely through snow-flakes and all;
Budris sees how his mantle is clasped to his breast--
"Ho, slaves! 'tis enough, bid our friends to the feast!
I'll ask no more questions, whatever betides,
We'll drain a full cup to the three Polish brides!"
THE LADY BEATRIZ.
ROMANCE.
FROM THE SPANISH.--THIRTEENTH CENTURY.
"Bodas hacian en Francia."
There were stately nuptials in France,
In the royal town of Paris:
Who is it leads the dance?
The lovely Lady Beatriz.
Who is it gazes on her,
With looks so earnest and bright?
'Tis her noblest Page of Honour,
Don Martin, Count and Knight.
The bride and her maidens advance--
Young Count, why lookest thou so?
Are thy dark eyes fixed on the dance,
Or on me? Oh! I fain would know.
I gaze not upon the dance,
Sweet Beatriz, lady mine;
For many a galliard I've seen in France,
But never such beauty as thine.
Then if thou lovest me so, young Count,
Oh! take me away with thee;
For nor gay nor young, though a prince's son,
Is the bridegroom they'd wed with me.
There was mourning in France, I ween,
In the royal town of Paris;
For no more was seen either Count Martín
Or the lovely Lady Beatriz.
A SERVIAN SONG.
I.
Wherefore neighest thou so sadly?
Stampest with the hoof so madly?
Speak, my steed--why at the tent,
With thy stately neck down bent?
II.
Have not my own hands caress'd thee?
Proudly in gay trappings dress'd thee?
Yet thou com'st not as of old,
Champing at thy curb of gold.
III.
Hast thou not, in bright hues glowing,
Silken shabrack downward flowing,
Silver hoof and broidered rein.
Gemm'd with trophies from the slain?
IV.
And the horse, he answered sadly--
Stamp I with the hoof so madly?
Tramp of steed I hear afar,
Trumpet clang and din of war.
V.
But soon a stranger will bestride me,
Other hand than thine will guide me,
Never more by thee caress'd,
Or proudly in gay trappings dress'd.
VI.
See, the foe, with fury glowing,
Rends my glittering shabrack flowing,
Curb of gold and broidered rein
Fiercely does he cleave in twain.
VII.
And my stately neck is drooping,
'Neath a fearful burthen stooping--
There a dead man lies supine,
Cold as ice--the Form is thine!
INSTABILITY.
FROM THE SPANISH.--SIXTEENTH CENTURY
"Como estoy alegre
Tristezas temo."
When the day is brightest,
Darkness draweth near;
When the heart is lightest,
Coming grief I fear.
Eyes of heavenly splendour,
Radiance o'er me fling;
But when their light's most tender
I fear its vanishing.
Lips, where passion keepeth
Holiest incense, bend to mine;
But when woman speaketh,
Who would trust so false a shrine?
Even in twined caresses
Where love has woven his spells,
Of the mutual love that blesses,
I hear a voice which tells.
As light with darkness weddeth,
So must pleasure with annoy,
And sorrow ever treadeth
On the doomed path of joy.
A WARNING.
FROM THE DANISH.
I.
Fair Guniver roam'd in the sunset light,
Through wood and wold,
In sweet dreams of love, but her heart was bright
As proven gold.
Yet ever a voice to the maiden spoke,
Beware--beware of the false men-folk!
II.
Fair Guniver fished by a lonely stream,
With silken line,
And smiled to see in the silvery gleam
Her image shine.
Yet ever a voice still whispered there,
My child, of the false-men folk beware!
III.
Lo! a Merman rose from the sedgy reeds,
With glittering eyes,
And a mantle of pale-green ocean weeds
Draped kingly-wise;
And wreath'd with the mist of his flowing hair,
Was a crown of the river-lotus fair.
IV.
Sweet Guniver, said he, in tones that fell
So low and clear,
Like music that breathes from the caverned shell
In the listener's ear:
I've gazed on thy beauty down deep in the sea,
And my heart pines away for the love of thee.
V.
Yet I ask thee to grant but one demand,
Oh! let me rest
My burning lips on thy snow-white hand,
One instant blest:
And dream not of harm, for a Merman's truth
Is pure as a maiden's in stainless youth.
VI.
Fair Guniver, heed not the tongues that tell
Of man's vain wile,
For our artless souls, thou knowest full well,
Disdain all guile.
Is it much to ask for thy hand to rest
One moment, in love, on thy throbbing breast?
VII.
'Tis a gentle prayer, she answered, to sue
For one alone;
So, beautiful Merman, here take the two
Within thine own;
And if, as thou sayest, my hand can bless,
Place both to thy lips in one love caress.
VIII.
He took her white hands, and he drew her down,
With laughter hoarse;
But the fishermen weep, for they look upon
Fair Guniver's corse.
And still, by her lone grave, the same voice spoke,
Beware--oh! beware of the false men-folk!
CASSANDRA.
FROM SCHILLER.
I.
Joy in Ilion's hall resoundeth,
Ere the mighty city fell;
Festive hymns of triumph sounded
With the gold harp's richest swell.
Each stern warrior rests at last
From that strife of direst slaughter;
For the brave Pelides weds
Royal Priam's loveliest daughter.
II.
Troop on troop, with laurel garlands,
Slowly swept the bridal train
Onward to the sacred temple
Where arose the Thymbrian's fane.
By them ran, with long hair streaming,
Ivy-crownéd Mænades;
One alone, of sorrow dreaming,
Wandered in her wretchedness.
III.
Joyless, while they chant their praises--
None to soothe her, none to love--
Did Cassandra tread the mazes
Of Apollo's laurel grove;
To the wild wood's deepest shadow
Fled the mystic maiden now,
And she dashed the priestess-fillet
Wildly from her throbbing brow.
IV.
"Everywhere are sounds of gladness,
From each happy heart awoke;
I alone must rove in sadness,
I alone must grief invoke.
Joy illumes my father's features,
Garlanded my sisters stand--
Yet I hear the rushing pinions
Of Destruction o'er our land.
V.
"Wildly high a torch is flashing,
But 'tis not from Hymen's hand;
Upward see the red stream dashing,
But 'tis not an altar brand.
Costly viands, festal dances,
Wait the bridegroom and the bride--
Yet the Avenger's step advances,
Who will crush them in their pride.
VI.
"And they mock my prophet wailing,
And they scorn my words of woe;
Fatal gift and unavailing--
Still I've wandered to and fro,
Shunn'd by all the happy round me,
Scorned by all where'er I trod;
Heavily thou hast foredoomed me,
Oh! thou mighty Pythian God!
VII.
"Why on me was laid the mission:
Lift the future's mystic shroud?
Why to me the seer's vision
'Mid a spirit-darkened crowd?
When the mortal arm is weak,
Wherefore give the prophet's power?
Can it turn the stream, or break
Clouds of woe that darkly lower?
VIII.
"Wherefore lift the pall o'ershading
Dark and dread Futurity?
Ignorance is joy unfading--
Knowledge, death and misery.
Oh! recall thy mournful mission--
Take the future from my sight:
Fatal is the prophet's vision
To the form that shrines its light.
IX.
"Give me back the happy blindness,
Ere my childhood felt thy spell;
Never sang I in joy's wildness
Since I heard thy oracle.
Clear the future lies before me,
But the present veiled away;
Oh! to life and joy restore me--
Take thy cruel gift away!
X.
"Never round my perfumed tresses
May the bridal wreath entwine;
'Mid thy temple's drear recesses
Doomed in loneliness to pine.
Never o'er my youth of weeping
Did one happy moment rise--
Never aught but sorrow reaping
From thy fatal mysteries.
XI.
"See my gay companions round me,
Blessed with all that love can give;
I alone, my youth consuming,
Live to weep, and weep to live.
Vain to me the sun, the skies,
The flowers on the green earth bending;
Who the joys of life would prize
That could know their bitter ending?
XII.
"Thou, Polyxena, art happy
In thy love's first deep excess,
Hellas gives her bravest hero
To thy young heart's fond caress.
Proudly is her bosom heaving,
Conscious of her bridegroom's love,
Whilst her dreams of pleasure weaving,
Envies not the Gods above.
XIII.
"And I, too, have trembled gazing
Upon one my heart adored--
In his deep eyes' soft appraising
Reading love's unspoken word.
Bridal vows I'd fain have uttered,
Oh, to him how willingly!
But there stepped a Stygian spectre
Nightly between him and me.
XIV.
"Pale and hideous phantoms haunt me,
From the realms of Proserpine;
Ghastly shades of gloom confront me,
Everywhere my steps incline;
Even in festive scenes of pleasure,
Stifling bright youth's careless glee--
Oh! that I could know the treasure
Of a young heart's gaiety!
XV.