Whither, whither dost thou stray,
Poor dry leaf?”--“I cannot say.
Late, the tempest struck the oak,
Which was hitherto my stay.
Ever since that fatal stroke,
To the faithless winds a prey,
Not a moment’s rest I gain.
From the forest to the plain,
I am carried by the gale.
Yet I only go the way
That the rose-leaf shuns in vain,
And where laurel-leaves grow pale.”
ANDRÉ CHÉNIER’S DEATH-SONG.
André Chénier, for having dared to write against the excesses of his
countrymen, was summoned before the Revolutional Tribunal, condemned
and executed, in the year 1794. The first eight stanzas (in the
translation) he composed in prison, after his condemnation; the two
last he wrote at the foot of the scaffold, while waiting to be dragged
to execution. He had just finished the line, “Le sommeil du tombeau
pressera ma paupière,” when his turn came, and his words had their
fulfillment. In the translation, the spirit, not the letter, has been
regarded.
When one lone lamb is bleating in the shambles,
And gleams the ruthless knife,
His yester playmates pause not in their gambols,
Their wild, free joy of life,
To think of him; the little ones that played
With him in sunny hours,
In bright green fields, and his fair form arrayed
With ribbons gay and flowers,
Mark not his absence from the fleecy throng;
Unwept he sheds his blood;
And this sad destiny is mine. Ere long
From this grim solitude
I pass to death. But let me bear my fate,
And calmly be forgot;
A thousand others in the self-same state
Await the self-same lot.
And what were friends to me? Oh! one kind voice
Heard through those prison-bars,
Did it not make my drooping heart rejoice,
Though from my murderers
’Twas bought, perhaps? Alas! how soon life ends!
And yet why should my death
Make any one unhappy? Live, my friends.
Nor think my fleeting breath
Calls you to come. Mayhap, in days gone by,
I, too, from sight of sorrow
Turned, careless, with self-wrapt unpitying eye,
Not dreaming of the morrow.
And now misfortune presses on my heart,
Erewhile so strong and free,
’Twere craven to ask you to bear its smart--
Farewell, nor think of me!
* * * * *
As a faint ray or zephyr’s latest breath
Revives the dying day,
Beneath the scaffold, that stern throne of death,
I sing my parting lay.
Before an hour, with wakeful foot and loud,
Has marked its journey’s close
On yon bright disc, the sleep of death shall shroud
Mine eyes from worldly woes!
THE LAKE.
(_From Lamartine._)
I.
For ever drifting towards shores unknown,
In endless night, returnless, borne away,
We never, in Time’s sea our anchor thrown,
Pause for a single day!
II.
O Lake, I come alone to sit by thee,
Upon the stone where thou didst see her rest,
Hardly a year ago, it seems, when she
Looked on thy wavy breast!
III.
Thus didst thou threaten to those stooping rocks,
Thus on their wave-worn sides thou then didst beat,
Thus did thy foam, aroused by windy shocks,
Play round my darling’s feet!
IV.
One evening, as we floated on the calm,
And not a sound was heard afar or near,
Save oary music mingling firm and clear,
With thy soft rippling psalm,--
V.
Then, all at once, sweet tones, too sweet for earth,
Awoke the sleeping echoes into bliss,
The waves grew hushed, the voice I loved gave birth
To such a strain as this:
1.
“O Time, suspend thy flight, and happy hours,
Linger upon your ways!
Oh! let us know the fleeting joy that’s ours
These brightest of our days!
2.
For the unhappy ones who thee implore,
Flow swiftly as thou canst,
With all their cares; but leave us, pass us o’er
In happiness entranced!
3.
Alas! in vain I ask some moments more,
For Time escapes and flies!
I ask this night to linger; lo, the power
Of darkness quickly dies!
4.
But let us love, and, while we may, be blest,
Before our hour is gone!
Nor time, nor man has any point of rest,
_It_ flows, and _we_ float on!”
VI.
O jealous Time! those moments of delight,
When Love pours bliss in streams upon the heart,
Must they fly from us with as swift a flight
As days of ill depart?
VII.
Alas! can we not even mark the track?
_Forever lost!_ like all that went before!
And Time that gave them and then took them back
Shall give them back no more!
VIII.
O Lake, mute rocks and caves and forest shade,
Whose beauty Time is powerless to blight,
Dear nature, suffer not the thought to fade
Of that sweet, happy night!
IX.
Still let it live in all thy scene, fair Lake,
In calm and storm, and make thy smiles more bright,
And every tree and rock new meaning take
From that sweet, happy night.
X.
Let it be heard in every passing breeze,
And in the sound of shore to shore replying,
Let it be seen in every star that sees
Its image in thee lying!
XI.
And let the moaning wind and sighing reed,
And the light perfume of the balmy air,
All that is heard or seen or felt declare,
“_They loved--they loved, indeed_!”
THE WANDERING JEW.
(_From Beranger._)
I.
Christian, a pilgrim craves from you
A glass of water at your door!
I am--I am--the Wandering Jew--
Chained to a whirlwind evermore!
Though ever young, weighed down with years,
The end of Time my one glad dream;
Each night I hope the end appears,
Each morning brings its cursed gleam.
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
II.
For eighteen centuries, alas!
Over the dust of Greece and Rome,
I’ve seen a thousand kingdoms pass,--
And yet the end delays to come.
I’ve seen the good spring up in vain,
I’ve seen the ill wax strong and bold,
And from the bosom of the main
I’ve seen twin worlds succeed the old.
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
III.
God gives me life to punish me;
I cling to all that hopes for death,
But ere my soul’s desire I see,
I feel the whirlwind’s vengeful breath.
How many a poor, sad man of grief
Has asked from me the means to live!
But none from me has gained relief,--
My hand has never time to give!
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
IV.
Alone, in shade of downing trees,
Upon the turf, where water flows,
If I enjoy a moment’s ease,
The whirlwind breaks my short repose.
Oh! might not angry heaven allow
One moment stolen from the sun!
Is less than endlessness enow?
Or shall this journey ne’er be done?
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
V.
If e’er I see a child’s sweet face,
And in its pretty, joyous pride,
My own lost innocents’ retrace,
The Hoarse Voice grumbles at my side.
Oh! you, who lust for length of days,
Dare not to envy my career!
That sweet child-face on which I gaze
Shall long be dust while I am here!
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
VI.
I find some trace of those old walls,
Where I was born long, long ago;
I fain would stay, the whirlwind calls--
“Pass on! thy fathers sleep below,
But in their tombs no place is kept
For thee; thou still must wander on,
Nor sleep till all thy race has slept,
And all the pride of man is gone.”
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
VII.
I outraged with a laugh of scorn
The God-man in His hour of woe--
But from my feet the way is torn--
_I feel the whirlwind_--I must go.
You, who feel not another’s pain,
Tremble--and help him while you can;
The crime I dared was foul disdain
Not of God only, but of Man.
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
FINIS.