THE RIVER.

What wouldst thou in these mountains seek,

O stranger from the city?

Is it, perhaps, some foolish freak

Of thine, to put the words I speak

Into a plaintive ditty?

TRAVELLER.

Yes; I would learn of thee thy song,

With all its flowing numbers,

And in a voice as fresh and strong

As thine is, sing it all day long,

And hear it in my slumbers.

THE RIVER.

A brooklet nameless and unknown

Was I at first, resembling

A little child, that all alone

Comes venturing down the stairs of stone,

Irresolute and trembling.

Later, by wayward fancies led,

For the wide world I panted;

Out of the forest dark and dread,

Across the open fields I fled,

Like one pursued and haunted!

I tossed my arms, I sang aloud,

My voice exultant blending

With thunder from the passing cloud,

The wind, the forest bent and bowed,

The rush of rain descending.

I heard the distant ocean call,

Imploring and entreating;

Drawn onward, o’er this rocky wall,

I plunged, and the loud waterfall

Made answer to the greeting.

And now, beset with many ills,

A toilsome life I follow;

Compelled to carry from the hills

These logs to the impatient mills,

Below there in the hollow.

Yet something ever cheers and charms

The rudeness of my labours;

Daily I water with these arms

The cattle of a hundred farms,

And have the birds for neighbours.

Men call me MAD, and well they may,

When, full of rage and trouble,

I burst my banks of sand and clay,

And sweep their wooden bridge away,

Like withered reeds and stubble.

Now go and write thy little rhyme

As of thine own creating.

Thou seest the day is past its prime,

I can no longer waste my time;

The mills are tired of waiting.

[61] This was the last poem published in the Poet’s lifetime; he

corrected the proof only two or three days before his death.

INSCRIPTION ON THE SHANKLIN FOUNTAIN,

ISLE OF WIGHT.

The following quotation from a private letter, dated “Shanklin, Isle

of Wight, 1st October 1879,” is the authority for ascribing this

inscription to the Poet:—

“Just look at this group of thatched cottages! The one on the right

is a library where we go for books. In the middle is the Crab Inn. Do

you see what looks like a pile of stones to the right of it? That is a

fountain for the use of the public. I read some verses painted there on

a piece of tin, and said to myself: ‘That must be from Longfellow.’ I

found afterward that they were written by him, by request, when he was

here some years ago:

“‘O traveller, stay thy weary feet;

Drink of this fountain, pure and sweet;

It flows for rich and poor the same.

The go thy way, remembering still

The wayside well beneath the hill,

The cup of water in His name.’”

THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS.[62]

What say the Bells of San Blas

To the ships that southward pass

From the harbour of Mazatlan?

To them it is nothing more

Than the sound of surf on the shore—

Nothing more to master or man.

But to me, a dreamer of dreams,

To whom what is and what seems

Are often one and the same,—

The Bells of San Blas to me

Have a strange, wild melody,

And are something more than a name.

For bells are the voice of the Church;

They have tones that touch and search

The hearts of young and old;

One sound to all, yet each

Lends a meaning to their speech,

And the meaning is manifold.

They are a voice of the Past,

Of an age that is fading fast,

Of a power austere and grand,

When the flag of Spain unfurled

Its folds o’er this Western world,

And the Priest was lord of the land.

The chapel that once looked down

On the little seaport town

Has crumbled into dust;

And on oaken beams below

The bells swing to and fro,

And are green with mould and rust.

“Is, then, the old faith dead,”

They say, “and in its stead

Is some new faith proclaimed,

That we are forced to remain

Naked to sun and rain,

Unsheltered and ashamed?

“Once in our tower aloof,

We rang over wall and roof

Our warnings and our complaints;

And round about us there,

The white doves filled the air

Like the white souls of the saints.

“The saints! ah, have they grown

Forgetful of their own?

Are they asleep or dead,

That open to the sky

Their ruined Missions lie,

No longer tenanted?

“Oh, bring us back once more

The vanished days of yore,

When the world with faith was filled;

Bring back the fervid zeal,

The hearts of fire and steel,

The hands that believe and build!

“Then from our tower again

We will send over land and main

Our voices of command,

Like exiled kings who return

To their thrones, and the people learn

That the Priest is lord of the land.”

O Bells of San Blas, in vain

Ye call back the Past again;

The Past is deaf to your prayer!

Out of the shadows of night

The world rolls into light;

It is daybreak everywhere.

[62] This poem, the last penned by the poet, bears date March 15, 1882.

PRESIDENT GARFIELD.

“E venni dal martirio a questa pace.”

These words the poet heard in Paradise,

Uttered by one who, bravely dying here.

In the true faith was living in that sphere

Where the celestial cross of sacrifice

Spread its protecting arms athwart the skies,

And set thereon, like jewels crystal clear,

The souls magnanimous, that knew not fear,

Flashed their efflulgence on his dazzled eyes.

Ah me! how dark the discipline of pain,

Were not the suffering followed by the sense

Of infinite rest and infinite release!

This is our consolation: and again

A great soul cries to us in our suspense,

“I came from martyrdom unto this peace.”

_Poems_

WRITTEN BETWEEN 1824 AND 1826, WHEN THE POET WAS BETWEEN THE AGES OF

EIGHTEEN AND TWENTY. THEY HAVE NOT HITHERTO BEEN PUBLISHED WITH HIS

WORKS.

THANKSGIVING.

When first in ancient time, from Jubal’s tongue

The tuneful anthem filled the morning air,

To sacred hymnings and Elysian song

His music-breathing shell the minstrel woke.

Devotion breathed aloud from every chord:—

The voice of praise was heard in every tone,

And prayer, and thanks to Him the Eternal One,

To him, that with bright inspiration touched

The high and gifted lyre of heavenly song,

And warmed the soul with new vitality.

A stirring energy through nature breathed:—

The voice of adoration from her broke,

Swelling aloud in every breeze, and heard

Long in the sullen waterfall,—what time

Soft Spring or hoary Autumn threw on earth

Its bloom or blighting,—when the Summer smiled,

Or Winter o’er the year’s sepulchre mourned.

The Deity was there!—a nameless spirit

Moved in the breasts of men to do him homage;

And when the morning smiled, or evening pale

Hung weeping o’er the melancholy urn,

They came beneath the broad o’erarching trees,

And in their tremulous shadow worshipped oft,

Where pale the vine clung round their simple altars,

And grey moss mantling hung. Above was heard

The melody of winds, breathed out as the green trees

Bowed to their quivering touch in living beauty,

And birds sang forth their cheerful hymns. Below,

The bright and widely wandering rivulet

Struggled and gushed amongst the tangled roots,

That choked its reedy fountain—and dark rocks

Worn smooth by the constant current. Even there

The listless wave, that stole with mellow voice

Where reeds grew rank on the rushy-fringed brink,

And the green sedge bent to the wandering wind,

Sang with a cheerful song of sweet tranquillity.

Men felt the heavenly influence—and it stole

Like balm into their hearts, till all was peace;

And even the air they breathed,—the light they saw,—

Became religion,—for the ethereal spirit

That to soft music wakes the chords of feeling,

And mellows every thing to beauty,—moved

With cheering energy within their breasts,

And made all holy there—for all was love.

The morning stars, that sweetly sang together—

The moon, that hung at night in the mid-sky—

Dayspring—and eventide—and all the fair

And beautiful forms of nature, had a voice

Of eloquent worship. Ocean with its tides

Swelling and deep, where low the infant storm

Hung on his dun, dark cloud, and heavily beat

The pulses of the sea—sent forth a voice

Of awful adoration to the spirit,

That, wrapt in darkness, moved upon its face.

And when the bow of evening arched the east,

Or, in the moonlight pale, the curling wave

Kissed with a sweet embrace the sea-worn beach,

And soft the song of winds came o’er the waters,

The mingled melody of wind and wave

Touched like a heavenly anthem on the ear;

For it arose a tuneful hymn of worship.

And have _our_ hearts grown cold? Are there on earth

No pure reflections caught from heavenly light?—

Have our mute lips no hymn—our souls no song?—

Let him that in the summer-day of youth

Keeps pure the holy fount of youthful feeling,—

And him that in the nightfall of his years

Lies down in his last sleep, and shuts in peace

His dim pale eyes on life’s short wayfaring,

Praise him that rules the destiny of man.

AUTUMNAL NIGHTFALL.

Round Autumn’s mouldering urn,

Loud mourns the chill and cheerless gale,

When nightfall shades the quiet vale,

And stars in beauty burn.

’Tis the year’s eventide.

The wind,—like one that sighs in pain

O’er joys that ne’er will bloom again,

Mourns on the far hill-side.

And yet my pensive eye

Rests on the faint blue mountain long,

And for the fairy-land of song,

That lies beyond, I sigh.

The moon unveils her brow;

In the mid-sky her urn glows bright,

And in her sad and mellowing light

The valley sleeps below.

Upon the hazel grey

The lyre of Autumn hangs unstrung,

And o’er its tremulous chords are flung

The fringes of decay.

I stand deep musing here,

Beneath the dark and motionless beech,

Whilst wandering winds of nightfall reach

My melancholy ear.

The air breathes chill and free;

A Spirit, in soft music calls

From Autumn’s grey and moss-grown halls,

And round her withered tree.

The hoar and mantled oak,

With moss and twisted ivy brown,

Bends in its lifeless beauty down

Where weeds the fountain choke.

That fountain’s hollow voice

Echoes the sound of precious things;—

Of early feeling’s tuneful springs

Choked with our blighted joys.

Leaves, that the night-wind bears

To earth’s cold bosom with a sigh,

Are types of our mortality,

And of our fading years.

The tree that shades the plain,

Wasting and hoar as time decays,

Spring shall renew with cheerful days,—

But not my joys again.

ITALIAN SCENERY.

——Night rests in beauty on Mont Alto.

Beneath its shade the beauteous Arno sleeps

In Vallombrosa’s bosom, and dark trees

Bend with a calm and quiet shadow down

Upon the beauty of that silent river.

Still in the west, a melancholy smile

Mantles the lips of day, and twilight pale

Moves like a spectre in the dusky sky;

While eve’s sweet star on the fast-fading year

Smiles calmly:—Music steals at intervals

Across the water, with a tremulous swell,

From out the upland dingle of tall firs,

And a faint footfall sounds, where dim and dark

Hangs the grey willow from the river’s brink,

O’ershadowing its current. Slowly there

The lover’s gondola drops down the stream,

Silent,—save when its dipping oar is heard,

Or in its eddy sighs the rippling wave.

Mouldering and moss-grown, through the lapse of years,

In motionless beauty stands the giant oak,

Whilst those, that saw its green and flourishing youth,

Are gone and are forgotten. Soft the fount,

Whose secret springs the star-light pale discloses,

Gushes in hollow music, and beyond

The broader river sweeps its silent way,

Mingling a silver current with that sea,

Whose waters have no tides, coming nor going.

On noiseless wing along that fair blue sea

The halcyon flits,—and where the wearied storm

Left a loud moaning, all is peace again.

A calm is on the deep! The winds that came

O’er the dark sea-surge with a tremulous breathing.

And mourned on the dark cliff where weeds grew rank,

And to the autumnal death-dirge the deep sea

Heaved its long billows,—with a cheerless song

Have passed away to the cold earth again,

Like a wayfaring mourner. Silently

Up from the calm sea’s dim and distant verge,

Full and unveiled the moon’s broad disk emerges.

On Tivoli, and where the fairy hues

Of autumn glow upon Abruzzi’s woods,

The silver light is spreading. Far above,

Encompassed with their thin, cold atmosphere,

The Apennines uplift their snowy brows,

Glowing with colder beauty, where unheard

The eagle screams in the fathomless ether,

And stays his wearied wing. Here let us pause!

The spirit of these solitudes—the soul

That dwells within these steep and difficult places—

Speaks a mysterious language to mine own,

And brings unutterable musings. Earth

Sleeps in the shades of nightfall, and the sea

Spreads like a thin blue haze beneath my feet,

Whilst the grey columns and the mouldering tombs

Of the Imperial City, hidden deep

Beneath the mantle of their shadows, rest.

My spirit looks on earth!—A heavenly voice

Comes silently: “Dreamer, is earth thy dwelling!—

Lo! nursed within that fair and fruitful bosom

Which has sustained thy being, and within

The colder breast of Ocean, lie the germs

Of thine own dissolution! E’en the air,

That fans the clear blue sky and gives thee strength—

Up from the sullen lake of mouldering reeds,

And the wide waste of forest, where the osier

Thrives in the damp and motionless atmosphere,—

Shall bring the dire and wasting pestilence

And blight thy cheek. Dream thou of higher things;—

This world is not thy home!” And yet my eye

Rests upon earth again! How beautiful,

Where wild Velino heaves its sullen waves

Down the high cliff of grey and shapeless granite,—

Hung on the curling mist, the moonlight bow

Arches the perilous river. A soft light

Silvers the Albanian mountains, and the haze

That rests upon their summits, mellows down

The austerer features of their beauty. Faint

And dim-discovered glow the Sabine hills,

And listening to the sea’s monotonous shell,

High on the cliffs of Terracina stands

The castle of the royal Goth[63] in ruins.

But night is in her wane:—day’s early flush

Glows like a hectic on her fading cheek,

Wasting its beauty. And the opening dawn

With cheerful lustre lights the royal city,

Where, with its proud tiara of dark towers,

It sleeps upon its own romantic bay.

[63] Theodoric.

THE LUNATIC GIRL.

Most beautiful, most gentle! Yet how lost

To all that gladdens the fair earth; the eye

That watched her being; the maternal care

That kept and nourished her; and the calm light

That steals from our own thoughts, and softly rests

On youth’s green valleys and smooth-sliding waters.

Alas! few suns of life, and fewer winds,

Had withered or had wasted the fresh rose

That bloomed upon her cheek; but one chill frost

Came in that early Autumn, when ripe thought

Is rich and beautiful,—and blighted it;

And the fair stalk grew languid day by day,

And drooped,—and drooped, and shed its many leaves.

’Tis said that some have died of love, and some,

That once from beauty’s high romance had caught

Love’s passionate feelings and heart-wasting cares,

Have spurned life’s threshold with a desperate foot:

And others have gone mad,—and she was one!—

Her lover died at sea; and they had felt

A coldness for each other when they parted;

But love returned again, and to her ear

Came tidings, that the ship which bore her lover

Had suddenly gone down at sea, and all were lost.

I saw her in her native vale, when high

The aspiring lark up from the reedy river

Mounted, on cheerful pinion; and she sat

Casting smooth pebbles into a clear fountain,

And marking how they sank; and oft she sighed

For him that perished thus in the vast deep.

She had a sea-shell, that her lover brought

From the far-distant ocean, and she pressed

Its smooth cold lips unto her ear, and thought

It whispered tidings of the dark blue sea;

And sad, she cried: “The tides are out!—and now

I see his corse upon the stormy beach!”

Around her neck a string of rose-lipped shells,

And coral, and white pearl, was loosely hung,

And close beside her lay a delicate fan,

Made of the halcyon’s blue wing; and when

She looked upon it, it would calm her thoughts

As that bird calms the ocean,—for it gave

Mournful, yet pleasant memory. Once I marked,

When through the mountain hollows and green woods,

That bent beneath its footsteps, the loud wind

Came with a voice as of the restless deep,

She raised her head, and on her pale cold cheek

A beauty of diviner seeming came:

And then she spread her hands, and smiled, as if

She welcomed a long-absent friend,—and then

Shrank timorously back again, and wept.

I turned away: a multitude of thoughts,

Mournful and dark, were crowding on my mind;

And as I left that lost and ruined one,

A living monument that still on earth

There is warm love and deep sincerity,—

She gazed upon the west, where the blue sky

Held, like an ocean, in its wide embrace

Those fairy islands of bright cloud, that lay

So calm and quietly in the thin ether.

And then she pointed where, alone and high,

One little cloud sailed onward, like a lost

And wandering bark, and fainter grew, and fainter,

And soon was swallowed up in the blue depths.

And when it sank away, she turned again

With sad despondency and tears to earth.

Three long and weary months,—yet not a whisper

Of stern reproach for that cold parting! Then

She sat no longer by her favourite fountain!—

She was at rest for ever.

THE VENETIAN GONDOLIER.

Here rest the weary oar!—soft airs

Breathe out in the o’erarching sky;

And Night!—sweet Night—serenely wears

A smile of peace;—her noon is nigh.

Where the tall fir in quiet stands,

And waves, embracing the chaste shores,

Move over sea-shells and bright sands,—

Is heard the sound of dipping oars.

Swift o’er the wave the light bark springs,

Love’s midnight hour draws lingering near:

And list!—his tuneful viol strings

The young Venetian Gondolier.

Lo! on the silver-mirrored deep,

On earth, and her embosomed lakes,

And where the silent rivers swept,—

From the thin cloud fair moonlight breaks.

Soft music breathes around, and dies

On the calm bosom of the sea;

Whilst in her cell the novice sighs

Her vespers to her rosary.

At their dim altars bow fair forms,

In tender charity for those,

That, helpless left to life’s rude storms,

Have never found this calm repose.

The bell swings to its midnight chime,

Relieved against the deep blue sky!

Haste!—dip the oar again!—’tis time

To seek Genevra’s balcony.

DIRGE OVER A NAMELESS GRAVE.

By yon still river, where the wave

Is winding slow at evening’s close,

The beech, upon a nameless grave,

Its sadly-moving shadow throws.

O’er the fair woods the sun looks down

Upon the many-twinkling leaves,

And twilight’s mellow shades are brown,

Where darkly the green turf upheaves.

The river glides in silence there,

And hardly waves the sapling tree:

Sweet flowers are springing, and the air

Is full of balm,—but where is she!

They bade her wed a son of pride,

And leave the hopes she cherished long:

She loved but one,—and would not hide

A love which knew no wrong.

And months went sadly on,—and years:—

And she was wasting day by day:

At length she died,—and many tears

Were shed, that she should pass away.

Then came a grey old man, and knelt

With bitter weeping by her tomb:—

And others mourned for him, who felt

That he had sealed a daughter’s doom.

The funeral train has long passed on,

And time wiped dry the father’s tear!

Farewell,—lost maiden!—there is one

That mourns thee yet,—and he is here.

A SONG OF SAVOY.

As the dim twilight shrouds

The mountain’s purple crest,

And summer’s white and folded clouds

Are glowing in the west,

Loud shouts come up the rocky dell,

And voices hail the evening-bell.

Faint is the goatherd’s song,

And sighing comes the breeze:

The silent river sweeps along,

Amid its bended trees,—

And the full moon shines faintly there,

And music fills the evening air.

Beneath the waving firs

The tinkling cymbals sound;

And as the wind the foliage stirs,

I see the dancers bound

Where the green branches, arched above,

Bend over this fair scene of love.

And he is there, that sought

My young heart long ago!

But he has left me,—though I thought

He ne’er could leave me so.

Ah! lovers’ vows—how frail are they!

And his—were made but yesterday.

Why comes he not? I call

In tears upon him yet;—

’Twere better ne’er to love at all,

Than love and then forget!

Why comes he not? Alas! I should

Reclaim him still, if weeping could.

But see,—he leaves the glade,

And beckons me away:

He comes to seek his mountain maid!—

I cannot chide his stay.

Glad sounds along the valley swell,

And voices hail the evening-bell.

JECKOYVA.

The Indian chief, Jeckoyva, as tradition says, perished alone on the

mountain which now bears his name. Night overtook him whilst hunting

among the cliffs, and he was not heard of till after a long time, when

his corpse was found at the foot of a high rock, over which he must

have fallen. Mount Jeckoyva is near the White Hills.

They made the warrior’s grave beside

The dashing of his native tide:

And there was mourning in the glen—

The strong wail of a thousand men—

O’er him thus fallen in his pride,

Ere mist of age—or blight or blast

Had o’er his mighty spirit past.

They made the warrior’s grave beneath

The bending of the wild elm’s wreath,

When the dark hunter’s piercing eye

Had found that mountain rest on high,

Where, scattered by the sharp wind’s breath,

Beneath the rugged cliff were thrown

The strong belt and the mouldering bone.

Where was the warrior’s foot, when first

The red sun on the mountain burst?—

Where—when the sultry noon-time came

On the green vales with scorching flame,

And made the woodlands faint with thirst?

’Twas where the wind is keen and loud,

And the grey eagle breasts the cloud.

Where was the warrior’s foot, when night

Veiled in thick cloud the mountain-height?

None heard the loud and sudden crash,—

None saw the fallen warrior dash

Down the bare rock so high and white!—

But he that drooped not in the chase

Made on the hills his burial-place.

They found him there, when the long day

Of cold desertion passed away,

And traces on that barren cleft

Of struggling hard with death were left—

Deep marks and footprints in the clay!

And they have laid his feathery helm

By the dark river and green elm.

MUSINGS.

I sat by my window one night,

And watched how the stars grew high;

And the earth and skies were a splendid sight

To a sober and musing eye.

From heaven the silver moon shone down

With gentle and mellow ray,

And beneath the crowded roofs of the town

In broad light and shadow lay.

A glory was on the silent sea,

And mainland and island too,

Till a haze came over the lowland lea,

And shrouded that beautiful blue.

Bright in the moon the autumn wood

Its crimson scarf unrolled,

And the trees like a splendid army stood

In a panoply of gold!

I saw them waving their banners high,

As their crests to the night wind bowed,

And a distant sound on the air went by,

Like the whispering of a crowd.

Then I watched from my window how fast

The lights all around me fled,

As the wearied man to his slumber passed,

And the sick one to his bed.

All faded save one, that burned

With distant and steady light;

But that, too, went out,—and I turned

Where my own lamp within shone bright!

Thus, thought I, our joys must die,

Yes—the brightest from earth we win:

Till each turns away, with a sigh,

To the lamp that burns brightly within.

SONG.

Where, from the eye of day,

The dark and silent river

Pursues through tangled woods a way

O’er which the tall trees quiver;

The silver mist, that breaks

From out that woodland cover,

Betrays the hidden path it takes

And hangs the current over!

So oft the thoughts that burst

From hidden springs of feeling,

Like silent streams, unseen at first,

From our cold hearts are stealing:

But soon the clouds that veil

The eye of Love, when glowing,

Betray the long unwhispered tale

Of thoughts in darkness flowing.

_Translations._

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE SPANISH AND PORTUGUESE.

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE.[64]

O let the soul her slumbers break,

Let thought be quickened, and awake;

Awake to see

How soon this life is past and gone,

And death comes softly stealing on,

How silently!

Swiftly our pleasures glide away,

Our hearts recall the distant day

With many sighs;

The moments that are speeding fast

We heed not, but the past,—the past,—

More highly prize.

Onward its course the present keeps,

Onward the constant current sweeps,

Till life is done;

And, did we judge of time aright,

The past and future in their flight

Would be as one.

Let no one fondly dream again,

That Hope and all her shadowy train

Will not decay;

Fleeting as were the dreams of old,

Remembered like a tale that’s told,

They pass away.

Our lives are rivers, gliding free

To that unfathomed, boundless sea,

The silent grave!

Thither all earthly pomp and boast

Roll, to be swallowed up and lost

In one dark wave.

Thither the mighty torrents stray,

Thither the brook pursues its way,

And tinkling rill.

There all are equal. Side by side

The poor man and the son of pride

Lie calm and still.

I will not here invoke the throng

Of orators and sons of song,

The deathless few;

Fiction entices and deceives,

And, sprinkled o’er her fragrant leaves,

Lies poisonous dew.

To One alone my thoughts arise,

The Eternal Truth,—the Good and Wise,—

To him I cry,

Who shared on earth our common lot,

But the world comprehended not

His Deity.

This world is but the rugged road

Which leads us to the bright abode

Of peace above;

So let us choose that narrow way,

Which leads no traveller’s foot astray

From realms of love.

Our Cradle is the starting-place,

Life is the running of the race,

We reach the goal

When, in the mansions of the blest,

Death leaves to its eternal rest

The weary soul.

Did we but use it as we ought,

This world would school each wandering thought

To its high state.

Faith wings the soul beyond the sky,

Up to that better world on high,

For which we wait.

Yes,—the glad messenger of love,

To guide us to our home above,

The Saviour came;

Born amid mortal cares and fears,

He suffered in this vale of tears

A death of shame.

Behold of what delusive worth

The bubbles we pursue on earth,

The shapes we chase;

Amid a world of treachery;

They vanish ere death shuts the eye,

And leave no trace.

Time steals them from us,—chances strange,

Disastrous accidents, and change,

That come to all;

Even in the most exalted state,

Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate;

The strongest fall.

Tell me,—the charms that lovers seek

In the clear eye and blushing cheek,

The hues that play

O’er rosy lip and brow of snow,

When hoary age approaches slow,

Ah, where are they?

The cunning skill, the cunning arts,

The glorious strength that youth imparts

In life’s first stage;

These shall become a heavy weight,

When Time swings wide his outward gate

To weary age.

The noble blood of Gothic name,

Heroes emblazoned high to fame,

In long array;

How, in the onward course of time,

The landmarks of that race sublime

Were swept away!

Some, the degraded slaves of lust,

Prostrate and trampled in the dust,

Shall rise no more;

Others, by guilt and crime, maintain

The scutcheon, that, without a stain,

Their fathers bore.

Wealth and the high estate of pride,

With what untimely speed they glide,

How soon depart!

Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay,

The vassals of a mistress they,

Of fickle heart.

These gifts in Fortune’s hands are found;

Her swift revolving wheel turns round,

And they are gone!

No rest the inconstant goddess knows,

But changing, and without repose,

Still hurries on.

Even could the hand of avarice save

Its gilded baubles, till the grave

Reclaimed its prey,

Let none on such poor hopes rely;

Life, like an empty dream, flits by,

And where are they?

Earthly desires and sensual lust

Are passions springing from the dust,—

They fade and die;

But, in the life beyond the tomb,

They seal the immortal spirit’s doom

Eternally!

The pleasures and delights, which mask

In treacherous smiles life’s serious task,

What are they, all,

But the fleet coursers of the chase,

And death an ambush in the race,

Wherein we fall?

No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed,

Brook no delay—but onward speed

With loosened rein;

And, when the fatal snare is near,

We strive to check our mad career,

But strive in vain.

Could we new charms to age impart,

And fashion with a cunning art

The human face,

As we can clothe the soul with light,

And make the glorious spirit bright

With heavenly grace,—

How busily each passing hour

Should we exert that magic power!

What ardour show,

To deck the sensual slave of sin,

Yet leave the freeborn soul within,

In weeds of woe!

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong,

Famous in history and in song

Of olden time,

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate,

Their kingdoms lost, and desolate

Their race sublime.

Who is the champion? who the strong?

Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng?

On these shall fall

As heavily the hand of Death,

As when it stays the shepherd’s breath

Beside his stall.

I speak not of the Trojan name,

Neither its glory nor its shame

Has met our eyes;

Nor of Rome’s great and glorious dead,

Though we have heard so oft, and read,

Their histories.

Little avails it now to know

Of ages past so long ago,

Nor how they rolled;

Our theme shall be of yesterday,

Which to oblivion sweeps away

Like days of old.

Where is the King, Don Juan? Where

Each royal prince and noble heir

Of Aragon?

Where are the courtly gallantries?

Their deeds of love and high emprise,

In battle done?

Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye,

And scarf, and gorgeous panoply,

And nodding plume,—

What were they but a pageant scene?

What but the garlands, gay and green,

That deck the tomb?

Where are the high-born dames, and where

Their gay attire, and jewelled hair,

And odours sweet?

Where are the gentle knights that came

To kneel and breathe love’s ardent flame,

Low at their feet?

Where is the song of Troubadour?

Where are the lute and gay tambour

They loved of yore?

Where is the mazy dance of old,

The flowing robes, inwrought with gold,

The dancers wore?

And he who next the sceptre swayed,

Henry, whose royal court displayed

Such power and pride;

O, in what winning smiles arrayed,

The world its various pleasures laid

His throne beside!

But O, how false and full of guile

That world which wore so soft a smile,

But to betray!

She, that had been his friend before,

Now from the fated monarch tore

Her charms away.

The countless gifts,—the stately walls,—

The royal palaces, and halls

All filled with gold;

Plate with armorial bearings wrought,

Chambers with ample treasures fraught

Of wealth untold;

The noble steeds and harness bright,

And gallant lord, and stalwart knight,

In rich array,—

Where shall we seek them now? Alas!

Like the bright dew-drops on the grass

They passed away.

His brother, too, whose factious zeal

Usurped the sceptre of Castile,

Unskilled to reign;

What a gay, brilliant court had he,

When all the flower of chivalry

Was in his train!

But he was mortal; and the breath,

That flamed from the hot forge of Death,

Blasted his years;

Judgment of God! that flame by thee,

When raging fierce and fearfully,

Was quenched in tears!

Spain’s haughty Constable,—the true

And gallant Master, whom we knew

Most loved of all.

Breathe not a whisper of his pride,—

He on the gloomy scaffold died,

Ignoble fall!

The countless treasures of his care,

His hamlets green and cities fair,

His mighty power,—

What were they all but grief and shame,

Tears and a broken heart, when came

The parting hour?

His other brothers, proud and high,

Masters, who, in prosperity,

Might rival kings;

Who made the bravest and the best

The bondsmen of their high behest,

Their underlings;

What was their prosperous estate,

When high exalted and elate

With power and pride?

What, but a transient gleam of light,

A flame, which, glaring at its height,

Grew dim and died?

So many a duke of royal name,

Marquis and count of spotless fame,

And baron brave,

That might the sword of empire wield,

All these, O Death, hast thou concealed

In the dark grave!

Their deeds of mercy and of arms,

In peaceful days, or war’s alarms,

When thou dost show,

O Death, thy stern and angry face,

One stroke of thy all-powerful mace

Can overthrow.

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh,

Pennon and standard flaunting high,

And flag displayed;

High battlements intrenched around,

Bastion, and moated wall, and mound,

And palisade,

And covered trench, secure and deep,—

All these cannot one victim keep,

O Death, from thee,

When thou dost battle in thy wrath,

And thy strong shafts pursue their path

Unerringly.

O World! so few the years we live,

Would that the life which thou dost give

Were life indeed!

Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast,

Our happiest hour is when at last

The soul is freed.

Our days are covered o’er with grief,

And sorrows neither few nor brief

Veil all in gloom;

Left desolate of real good,

Within this cheerless solitude

No pleasures bloom.

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears,

And ends in bitter doubts and fears,

Or dark despair;

Midway so many toils appear,

That he who lingers longest here

Knows most of care.

Thy goods are bought with many a groan,

By the hot sweat of toil alone,

And weary hearts;

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe,

But with a lingering step and slow

Its form departs.

And he, the good man’s shield and shade,

To whom all hearts their homage paid,

As Virtue’s son,—

Roderic Manrique,[65]—he whose name

Is written on the scroll of Fame,

Spain’s champion;

His signal deeds and prowess high

Demand no pompous eulogy,—

Ye saw his deeds!

Why should their praise in verse be sung?

The name, that dwells on every tongue,

No minstrel needs.

To friends a friend;—how kind to all

The vassals of this ancient hall

And feudal fief!

To foes how stern a foe was he!

And to the valiant and the free

How brave a chief!

What prudence with the old and wise!

What grace in youthful gaieties!

In all how sage!

Benignant to the serf and slave,

He showed the base and falsely brave

A lion’s rage.

His was Octavian’s prosperous star,

The rush of Cæsar’s conquering car

At battle’s call;

His, Scipio’s virtue; his, the skill

And the indomitable will

Of Hannibal.

His was a Trajan’s goodness,—his

A Titus’ noble charities

And righteous laws;

The arm of Hector, and the might

Of Tully, to maintain the right

In truth’s just cause:

The clemency of Antonine,

Aurelius’ countenance divine,

Firm, gentle, still;

The eloquence of Adrian,

And Theodosius’ love to man,

And generous will:

In tented field and bloody fray,

An Alexander’s vigorous sway

And stern command;

The faith of Constantine; ay, more,

The fervent love Camillus bore

His native land.

He left no well-filled treasury,

He heaped no pile of riches high,

Nor massive plate;

He fought the Moors,—and, in their fall,

City and tower and castle wall

Were his estate.

Upon the hard-fought battle-ground,

Brave steeds and gallant riders found

A common grave;

And there the warrior’s hand did gain

The rents, and the long vassal train,

That conquest gave.

And if of old his halls displayed

The honoured and exalted grade

His worth hath gained,

So, in the dark, disastrous hour,

Brothers and bondsmen of his power

His hand sustained.

After high deeds, not left untold,

In the stern warfare, which of old

’Twas his to share,

Such noble leagues he made, that more

And fairer legions than before,

His guerdon were.

These are the records, half effaced,

Which, with the hand of youth, he traced

On history’s page;

But with fresh victories he drew

Each fading character anew

In his old age.

By his unrivalled skill, by great

And veteran service to the state,

By worth adored,

He stood in his high dignity,

The proudest knight of chivalry,

Knight of the Sword.

He found his cities and domains

Beneath a tyrant’s galling chains

And cruel power;

But by fierce battle and blockade

Soon his own banner was displayed

From every tower.

By the tried valour of his hand,

His monarch and his native land

Were nobly served;—

Let Portugal repeat the story,

And proud Castile, who shared the glory

His arms deserved.

And when so oft, for weal or woe,

His life upon the fatal throw

Had been cast down;

When he had served with patriot zeal

Beneath the banner of Castile,

His sovereign’s crown;

And done such deeds of valour strong

That neither history nor song

Can count them all;

Then, on Ocaña’s castled rock,

Death at his portal came to knock,

With sudden call,—

Saying, “Good cavalier, prepare

To leave this world of toil and care

With joyful mien;

Let thy strong heart of steel this day

Put on its armour for the fray,—

The closing scene.

“Since thou hast been in battle-strife,

So prodigal of health and life,

For earthly fame,

Let virtue nerve thy heart again;

Loud on the last stern battle-plain

They call thy name.

“Think not the struggle that draws near

Too terrible for man,—nor fear

To meet the foe;

Nor let thy noble spirit grieve,

Its life of glorious fame to leave

On earth below.

“A life of honour and of worth

Has no eternity on earth,—

’Tis but a name;

And yet its glory far exceeds

That base and sensual life, which leads

To want and shame.

“The eternal life, beyond the sky,

Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high

And proud estate;

The soul in dalliance laid,—the spirit

Corrupt with sin,—shall not inherit

A joy so great.

“But the good monk, in cloistered cell,

Shall gain it by his book and bell,

His prayers and tears;

And the brave knight, whose arm endures

Fierce battle, and against the Moors

His standard rears.

“And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured

The life-blood of the Pagan horde

O’er all the land,

In heaven shalt thou receive, at length,

The guerdon of thine earthly strength

And dauntless hand.

“Cheered onward by this promise sure,

Strong in the faith entire and pure

Thou dost profess,

Depart,—thy hope is certainty;—

The third—the better life on high,

Shalt thou possess.”

“O Death, no more, no more delay;

My spirit longs to flee away,

And be at rest;

The will of Heaven my will shall be,—

I bow to the divine decree,

To God’s behest.

“My soul is ready to depart,

No thought rebels, the obedient heart

Breathes forth no sigh;

The wish on earth to linger still

Were vain, when ’tis God’s sovereign will

That we shall die.

“O Thou, that for our sins didst take

A human form, and humbly make

Thy home on earth;

Thou, that to thy Divinity

A human nature didst ally

By mortal birth,

“And in that form didst suffer here

Torment, and agony, and fear,

So patiently;

By thy redeeming grace alone,

And not for merits of my own,

O, pardon me!”

As thus the dying warrior prayed,

Without one gathering mist or shade

Upon his mind;

Encircled by his family,

Watched by affection’s gentle eye,

So soft and kind;

His soul to him, who gave it, rose;

God lead it to its long repose,

Its glorious rest!

And though the warrior’s sun has set,

Its light shall linger round us yet,

Bright, radiant, blest.

[64] Don Jorge Manrique lived in the last half of the fifteenth

century. He was a soldier, and died on the field of battle. See

Appendix.

[65] The Poet’s father; he died 1476.

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

FROM LOPE DE VEGA.

Shepherd! who with thine amorous, sylvan song

Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me,—

That madest thy crook from the accursèd tree,

On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long!

Lead me to mercy’s ever-flowing fountains;

For thou my Shepherd, Guard, and Guide shalt be;

I will obey thy voice, and wait to see

Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains.

Hear, Shepherd!—thou who for thy flock art dying,

O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou

Rejoicest at the contrite sinner’s vow.

O, wait!—to thee my weary soul is crying,—

Wait for me!—Yet why ask it when I see,

With feet nailed to the cross, thou’rt waiting still for me!

THE BROOK.

Laugh of the mountain!—lyre of bird and tree!

Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn!

The soul of April, unto whom are born

The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee!

Although, where’er thy devious current strays,

The lap of earth with gold and silver teems,

To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems

Than golden sands that charm each shepherd’s gaze.

How without guile thy bosom, all transparent

As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye

Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count!

How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current!

O sweet simplicity of days gone by!

Thou shun’st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount!

SANTA TERESA’S BOOK-MARK.

FROM SANTA TERESA.

Let nothing disturb thee,

Nothing affright thee;

All things are passing;

God never changeth;

Patient endurance

Attaineth to all things;

Who God possesseth

In nothing is wanting;

Alone God sufficeth.

TO-MORROW.

FROM LOPE DE VEGA.

Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing care,

Thou didst seek after me—that thou didst wait,

Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate,

And pass the gloomy nights of winter there?

O strange delusion!—that I did not greet

Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven how lost,

If my ingratitude’s unkindly frost

Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet.

How oft my guardian angel gently cried,

“Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see

How he persists to knock and wait for thee!”

And O! how often to that voice of sorrow

“To-morrow we will open,” I replied,

And when the morrow came, I answered still, “To-morrow.”

THE NATIVE LAND.

FROM FRANCISCO DE ALDANA.

Clear fount of light! my native land on high,

Bright with a glory that shall never fade!

Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade,

Thy holy quiet meets the spirit’s eye.

There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence,

Gasping no longer for life’s feeble breath;

But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence

With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not death.

Belovèd country! banished from thy shore,

A stranger in this prison-house of clay,

The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee!

Heavenward the bright perfections I adore

Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way,

That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be.

THE IMAGE OF GOD.

FROM FRANCISCO DE ALDANA.

O Lord! that seest, from yonder starry height,

Centred in one the future and the past,

Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast

The world obscures in me what once was bright!

Eternal Sun! the warmth which thou hast given

To cheer life’s flowery April, fast decays;

Yet, in the hoary winter of my days,

For ever green shall be my trust in Heaven.

Celestial King! O let thy presence pass

Before my spirit, and an image fair

Shall meet that look of mercy from on high,

As the reflected image in a glass

Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there,

And owes its being to the gazer’s eye.

TWO SONNETS FROM FRANCISCO DE MEDRANO.

I.

ART AND NATURE.

The works of human artifice soon tire

The curious eye; the fountain’s sparkling rill,

And gardens, when adorned by human skill,

Reproach the feeble hand, the vain desire.

But, O! the free and wild magnificence

Of Nature, in her lavish hours, doth steal,

In admiration silent and intense,

The soul of him, who hath a soul to feel.

The river moving on its ceaseless way,

The verdant reach of meadows fair and green,

And the blue hills, that bound the sylvan scene,

These speak of grandeur, that defies decay,—

Proclaim the Eternal Architect on high,

Who stamps on all his works his own eternity.

II.

THE TWO HARVESTS.

But yesterday these few and hoary sheaves

Waved in the golden harvest; from the plain

I saw the blade shoot upward, and the grain

Put forth the unripe ear and tender leaves.

Then the glad upland smiled upon the view,

And to the air the broad green leaves unrolled,

A peerless emerald in each silken fold,

And on each palm a pearl of morning dew.

And thus sprang up and ripened in brief space

All that beneath the reaper’s sickle died,

All that smiled beauteous in the summer-tide.

And what are we? a copy of that race,

The later harvest of a longer year!

And, O! how many fall before the ripened ear.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ITALIAN.

THE CELESTIAL PILOT.

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, II.

And now, behold! as at the approach of morning,

Through the gross vapours, Mars grows fiery red

Down in the west upon the ocean floor,

Appeared to me—may I again behold it!—

A light along the sea, so swiftly coming,

Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled.

And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little

Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor,

Again I saw it brighter grown and larger.

Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared

I knew not what of white, and underneath,

Little by little, there came forth another.

My master yet had uttered not a word,

While the first brightness into wings unfolded,

But, when he clearly recognised the pilot,

He cried aloud: “Quick, quick, and bow the knee!

Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands!

Henceforward shalt thou see such officers!

See how he scorns all human arguments,

So that no oar he wants, nor other sail

Than his own wings, between so distant shores!

See how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven,

Fanning the air with the eternal pinions,

That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!”

And then, as nearer and more near us came

The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared,

So that the eye could not sustain his presence.

But down I cast it; and he came to shore

With a small vessel, gliding swift and light,

So that the water swallowed nought thereof.

Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot!

Beatitude seemed written in his face!

And more than a hundred spirits sat within.

“_In exitu Israel de Ægypto!_”

Thus sang they altogether in one voice,

With whatso in that Psalm is after written.

Then made he sign of holy rood upon them,

Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore,

And he departed swiftly as he came.

THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE.

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXVIII.

Longing already to search in and round

The heavenly forest, dense and living green,

Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day,

Withouten more delay I left the bank,

Crossing the level country slowly, slowly,

Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance.

A gently-breathing air, that no mutation

Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead,

No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze,

Whereat the tremulous branches readily

Did all of them bow downward towards that side

Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain;

Yet not from their upright direction bent

So that the little birds upon their tops

Should cease the practice of their tuneful art;

But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime

Singing received they in the midst of foliage

That made monotonous burden to their rhymes,

Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells,

Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi,

When Æolus unlooses the Sirocco.

Already my slow steps had led me on

Into the ancient wood so far, that I

Could see no more the place where I had entered.

And lo! my farther course cut off a river

Which, towards the left hand, with its little waves,

Bent down the grass that on its margin sprang.

All waters that on earth most limpid are,

Would seem to have within themselves some mixture,

Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal,

Although it moves on with a brown, brown current,

Under the shade perpetual, that never

Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.

BEATRICE.

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXX. XXXI.

Even as the Blessèd, at the final summons,

Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave,

Wearing again the garments of the flesh;

So, upon that celestial chariot,

A hundred rose _ad vocem tanti senis_,

Ministers and messengers of life eternal.

They all were saying: “_Benedictus qui venis_,”

And scattering flowers above and round about,

“_Manibus o date lilia plenis_.”

Oft have I seen, at the approach of day,

The orient sky all stained with roseate hues,

And the other heaven with light serene adorned,

And the sun’s face uprising, overshadowed,

So that, by temperate influence of vapours,

The eye sustained his aspect for long while;

Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers,

Which from those hands angelic were thrown up,

And now descended inside and without

With crown of olive o’er a snow-white veil,

Appeared a lady, under a green mantle,

Vested in colours of the living flame.

* * * * *

Even as the snow, among the living rafters

Upon the back of Italy, congeals,

Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds,

And then dissolving, filters through itself,

Whene’er the land, that loses shadow, breathes,

Like as a taper melts before a fire,

Even such I was, without a sigh or tear,

Before the song of those who chime for ever

After the chiming of the eternal spheres;

But when I heard in those sweet melodies

Compassion for me, more than they had said,

“O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him?”

The ice that was about my heart congealed,

To air and water changed, and, in my anguish,

Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast.

* * * * *

Confusion and dismay, together mingled,

Forced such a feeble “Yes!” out of my mouth,

To understand it one had need of sight.

Even as a cross-bow breaks, when ’tis discharged,

Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow,

And with less force the arrow hits the mark;

So I gave way beneath this heavy burden,

Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs,

And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage.

THREE CANTOS OF DANTE’S PARADISO.

CANTO XXIII.

Dante is with Beatrice in the eighth circle, that of the fixed stars.

She is gazing upwards, watching for the descent of the Triumph of

Christ.

Even as a bird, ’mid the belovèd leaves,

Quiet upon the nest of her sweet brood

Throughout the night, that hideth all things from us,

Who, that she may behold their longed-for looks,

And find the nourishment wherewith to feed them,

In which, to her, grave labours grateful are,

Anticipates the time on open spray,

And with an ardent longing waits the sun,

Gazing intent, as soon as breaks the dawn:

Even thus my Lady standing was, erect

And vigilant, turned round towards the zone

Underneath which the sun displays least haste;[66]

So that beholding her distraught and eager,

Such I became as he is, who desiring

For something yearns, and hoping is appeased.

But brief the space from one When to the other;

From my awaiting, say I, to the seeing

The welkin grow resplendent more and more.

And Beatrice exclaimed: “Behold the hosts

Of the triumphant Christ, and all the fruit

Harvested by the rolling of these spheres!”[67]

It seemed to me her face was all on flame;

And eyes she had so full of ecstasy

That I must needs pass on without describing.

As when in nights serene of the full moon

Smiles Trivia among the nymphs eternal

Who paint the heaven through all its hollow cope,

Saw I, above the myriads of lamps,

A sun that one and all of them enkindled,

E’en as our own does the supernal stars.[68]

And through the living light transparent shone

The lucent substance so intensely clear

Into my sight, that I could not sustain it.

O Beatrice, my gentle guide and dear!

She said to me: “That which o’ermasters thee

A virtue is which no one can resist.

There are the wisdom and omnipotence

That oped the thoroughfares ’twixt heaven and earth,

For which there erst had been so long a yearning.”

As fire from out a cloud itself discharges,

Dilating so it finds not room therein,

And down against its nature, falls to earth,

So did my mind among those aliments

Becoming larger, issue from itself,

And what became of it cannot remember.

[69]“Open thine eyes, and look at what I am:

Thou hast beheld such things, that strong enough

Hast thou become to tolerate my smile.”

I was as one who still retains the feeling

Of a forgotten dream, and who endeavours

In vain to bring it back into his mind,

When I this invitation heard, deserving

Of so much gratitude, it never fades

Out of the book that chronicles the past.

If at this moment sounded all the tongues

That Polyhymnia and her sisters made

Most lubrical with their delicious milk,

To aid me, to a thousandth of the truth

It would not reach, singing the holy smile,

And how the holy aspect it illumined.

And therefore, representing Paradise,

The sacred poem must perforce leap over,

Even as a man who finds his way cut off.

But whoso thinketh of the ponderous theme,

And of the mortal shoulder that sustains it,

Should blame it not, if under this it trembles.

It is no passage for a little boat

This which goes cleaving the audacious prow,

Nor for a pilot who would spare himself.

“Why does my face so much enamour thee,

That to the garden fair thou turnest not,

Which under the rays of Christ is blossoming?

There is the Rose[70] in which the Word Divine

Became incarnate; there the lilies are

By whose perfume the good way was selected.”

Thus Beatrice; and I, who to her counsels

Was wholly ready, once again betook me

Unto the battle of the feeble brows.[71]

As in a sunbeam, that unbroken passes

Through fractured cloud, ere now a meadow of flowers.

Mine eyes with shadow covered have beheld,

So I beheld the multitudinous splendours

Refulgent from above with burning rays,

Beholding not the source of the effulgence.

O thou benignant power that so imprint’st them!

Thou didst exalt thyself[72] to give more scope

There to the eyes, that were not strong enough.

The name of that fair flower I e’er invoke

Morning and evening utterly enthralled

My soul to gaze upon the greater fire.[73]

And when in both mine eyes depicted were

The glory and greatness of the living star

Which conquers there, as here below it conquered,

Athwart the heavens descended a bright sheen[74]

Formed in a circle like a coronal,

And cinctured it, and whirled itself about it.

Whatever melody most sweetly soundeth

On earth, and to itself most draws the soul,

Would seem a cloud that, rent asunder, thunders,

Compared unto the sounding of that lyre

Wherewith was crowned the sapphire beautiful

Wherewith gives the clearest heaven its sapphire hue.[75]

“I am Angelic Love, that circle round

The joy sublime which breathes from out the bosom

That was the hostelry of our Desire:[76]

And I shall circle, Lady of Heaven, while

Thou followest thy Son, and makest diviner

The sphere supreme, because thou enterest it.”

Thus did the circulated melody

Seal itself up; and all the other lights

Were making resonant the name of Mary.

The regal mantle[77] of the volumes all

Of that world, which most fervid is and living

With breath of God and with His works and ways,

Extended over us its inner curve,

So very distant, that its outward show,

There where I was, not yet appeared to me.

Therefore mine eyes did not possess the power

Of following the incoronated flame,

Which had ascended near to its own seed.[78]

And as a little child, that towards its mother

Extends its arms, when it the milk has taken,

Through impulse kindled into outward flame,

Each of those gleams of light did upward stretch

So with its summit, that the deep affection

They had for Mary was revealed to me.

Thereafter they remained there in my sight,

_Regina Cœli_[79] singing with such sweetness,

That ne’er from me has the delight departed.

Oh, what exuberance is garnered up

In those resplendent coffers, which had been

For sowing here below good husbandmen!

There they enjoy and live upon the treasure

Which was acquired while weeping in the exile[80]

Of Babylon, wherein the gold was left.

There triumpheth beneath the exalted Son

Of God and Mary, in his victory,

Both with the ancient council and the new,

He who doth keep the keys of such a story.[81]

[66] Under the meridian, or at noon, the shadows being shorter, move

slower, and therefore the sun seems less in haste.

[67] By the beneficent influences of the stars.

[68] The old belief that the stars were fed by the light of the sun. So

Milton:—

“Hither, as to their fountain, other stars

Repair, and in their golden urns draw light.”

Here the stars are souls, the sun is Christ.

[69] Beatrice speaks.

[70] The rose is the Virgin Mary, _Rosa Mundi, Rosa mystica_; the

lilies are the Apostles and other saints.

[71] The struggle between his eyes and the light.

[72] Christ reascends, that Dante’s dazzled eyes, too feeble to bear

the light of his presence, may behold the splendours around him.

[73] The greater fire is the Virgin Mary, greater than any of those

remaining. She is the living star, surpassing in brightness all other

saints in heaven, as she did here on earth; _Stella Maris, Stella

Matutina_.

[74] The Angel Gabriel, or Angelic Love.

[75] Sapphire is the colour in which the old painters arrayed the

Virgin.

[76] Christ, the Desire of the nations.

[77] The regal mantle of all the volumes, or rolling orbs, of the world

is the crystalline heaven, or _Primum Mobile_, which enfolds all the

others like a mantle.

[78] The Virgin ascends to her Son.

[79] Easter hymn to the Virgin.

[80] Caring not for gold in the Babylonian exile of this life, they

laid up treasures in the other.

[81] St. Peter, keeper of the keys, with the holy men of the Old and

New Testament.

CANTO XXIV.

“O company elect to the Great Supper

Of the Lamb glorified, who feedeth you,

So that for ever full is your desire,

If by the grace of God this man foretastes

Of whatsover falleth from your table,

Or ever death prescribes to him the time,

Direct your mind to his immense desire,[82]

And him somewhat bedew; ye drinking are

For ever from the fount[83] whence comes his thought.”

Thus Beatrice; and those enraptured spirits

Made themselves spheres around their steadfast poles;

Flaming intensely in the guise of comets.

And as the wheels in works of horologes

Revolve so that the first to the beholder

Motionless seems, and the last one to fly,

So in like manner did those carols, dancing[84]

In different measure, by their affluence

Make me esteem them either swift or slow.

From that one which I noted of most beauty

Beheld I issue forth a fire so happy

That none is left there of a greater splendour;

And about Beatrice three several times[85]

It whirled itself with so divine a song,

My fantasy repeats it not to me;

Therefore the pen skips, and I write it not,

Since our imagination for such folds,

Much more our speech, is of a tint too glaring.[86]

“O holy sister mine,[87] who us implorest

With such devotion, by thine ardent love

Thou dost unbind me from that beautiful sphere.”

Thus, having stopped, the beatific fire

Unto my Lady did direct its breath,

Which spake in fashion as I here have said.

And she: “O light eterne of the great man

To whom our Lord delivered up the keys

He carried down of this miraculous joy,

This one examine on points light and grave,

As good beseemeth thee, about the Faith

By means of which thou on the sea didst walk,

If he loves well, and hopes well, and believes,

Is hid not from thee; for thou hast thy sight

Where everything beholds itself depicted.[88]

But since this kingdom has made citizens

By means of the true Faith, to glorify it

’Tis well he have the chance to speak thereof.”

As baccalaureate arms himself, and speaks not

Until the master doth propose the question,

To argue it and not to terminate it,

So I did arm myself with every reason,

While she was speaking, that I might be ready

For such a questioner and such confession.

“Speak on,[89] good Christian; manifest thyself;

Say, what is Faith?” whereat I raised my brow

Unto that light from which this was breathed forth,

Then turned I round to Beatrice, and she

Prompt signals made to me that I should pour

The water forth from my internal fountain.

“May grace, that suffers me to make confession,”

Began I, “to the great Centurion[90]

Cause my conceptions all to be explicit!”

And I continued: “As the truthful pen,

Father, of thy dear brother wrote of it,

Who put with thee Rome into the good way,

Faith is the substance of the things we hope for,

And evidence of those that are not seen;

And this appears to me its quiddity.”[91]

Then heard I: “Very rightly thou perceivest,

If well thou understandest why he placed it

With substances and then with evidences.”

And I thereafterward: “The things profound,

That here vouchsafe to me their outward show,

Unto all eyes below are so concealed,

That they exist there only in belief,

Upon the which is founded the high hope,

And therefore takes the nature of a substance.

And it behoveth us from this belief,

To reason without having other views,

And hence it has the nature of evidence.”

Then heard I: “If whatever is acquired

Below as doctrine were thus understood,

No sophist’s subtlety would there find place.”

Thus was breathed forth from that enkindled love;

Then added: “Thoroughly has been gone over

Already of this coin the alloy and weight;

But tell me if thou hast it in thy purse?”

And I: “Yes, both so shining and so round,

That in its stamp there is no peradventure.”

Thereafter issued from the light profound

That there resplendent was: “This precious jewel,

Upon the which is every virtue founded,

Whence hadst thou it?” And I: “The large outpouring

Of the Holy Spirit, which has been diffused

Upon the ancient parchments and the new,[92]

A syllogism is, which demonstrates it

With such acuteness, that, compared therewith,

All demonstration seems to me obtuse.”

And then I heard: “The ancient and the new

Postulates, that to thee are so conclusive,

Why dost thou take them for the word divine?”

And I: “The proofs, which show the truth to me,

Are the works subsequent, whereunto Nature

Ne’er heated iron yet, nor anvil beat.”

’Twas answered me: “Say, who assureth thee

That those works ever were? the thing itself

We wish to prove, nought else to thee affirms it.”

“Were the world to Christianity converted,”

I said, “withouten miracles”, this one

Is such, the rest are not its hundredth part;

For thou didst enter destitute and fasting

Into the field to plant there the good plant,

Which was a vine, and has become a thorn!“

This being finished, the high, holy Court

Resounded through the spheres, “One God we praise!”

In melody that there above is chanted.

And then that Baron,[93] who from branch to branch,

Examining, had thus conducted me,

Till the remotest leaves we were approaching,

Did recommence once more: “The Grace that lords it

Over thy intellect thy mouth has opened,

Up to this point, as it should opened be,

So that I do approve what forth emerged;

But now thou must express what thou believest.

And whence to thy belief it was presented.”

“O holy father, O thou spirit, who seest

What thou believedst, so that thou o’ercamest,

Towards the sepulchre, more youthful feet,”[94]

Began I, “thou dost wish me to declare

Forthwith the manner of my prompt belief,

And likewise thou the cause thereof demandest,

And I respond: In one God I believe,

Sole and eterne, who all the heaven doth move,

Himself unmoved, with love and with desire;

And of such faith not only have I proofs

Physical and metaphysical, but gives them

Likewise the truth that from this place rains down

Through Moses, through the Prophets, and the Psalms,

Through the Evangel, and through you, who wrote

After the fiery Spirit sanctified you;[95]

In Persons three eterne believe I, and these

One essence I believe, so one and trine,

They bear conjunction both with _sunt_ and _est_.

With the profound conjunction and divine,

Which now I touch upon, doth stamp my mind

Ofttimes the doctrine evangelical.

This the beginning is, this is the spark

Which afterwards dilates to vivid flame,

And, like a star in heaven, is sparkling in me.”

Even as a lord, who hears what pleases him,

His servant straight embraces, giving thanks

For the good news, as soon as he is silent;

So, giving me its benediction, singing,

Three times encircled me, when I was silent,

The apostolic light at whose command

I spoken had, in speaking I so pleased him.

[82] Hunger and thirst after things divine.

[83] The Grace of God.

[84] The carol was a dance as well as a song.

[85] St. Peter thrice encircles Beatrice, as the Angel Gabriel did the

Virgin Mary in the preceding canto.

[86] Too glaring for painting such delicate draperies of song.

[87] St. Peter speaks to Beatrice.

[88] Fixed upon God, in whom are all things reflected.

[89] St. Peter speaks to Dante.

[90] The great Head of the Church.

[91] In the Scholastic Philosophy the essence of a thing,

distinguishing it from all other things, was called its Quiddity; an

answer to the question, _Quid est?_

[92] The Old and New Testaments.

[93] In the Middle Ages earthly titles were sometimes given to the

saints. Thus Boccaccio speaks of Baron Messer San Antonio.

[94] St. John xx. 3-8. St. John was the first to reach the sepulchre,

but St. Peter the first to enter it.

[95] St. Peter and the other Apostles, after Pentecost.

CANTO XXV.

If it e’er happen that the Poem Sacred,[96]

To which both heaven and earth have set their hand

Till it hath made me meagre many a year,

O’ercome the cruelty that bars me out

From the fair sheepfold where a lamb I slumbered,[97]

Obnoxious to the wolves that war upon it,

With other voice henceforth, with other fleece

Will I return as poet, and at my font[98]

Baptismal will I take the laurel crown;

Because into the faith that maketh known

All souls to God there entered I, and then

Peter for her sake so my brow encircled.

Thereafterward towards us moved a light

Out of that band whence issued the first fruits

Which of his vicars Christ behind him left,

And then my Lady, full of ecstasy,

Said unto me: “Look, look! behold the Baron,[99]

For whom below Galicia is frequented.”

In the same way as, when a dove alights

Near his companion, both of them pour forth,

Circling about and murmuring, their affection,

So I beheld one by the other grand

Prince glorified to be with welcome greeted,

Lauding the food that there above is eaten.

But when their gratulations were completed,

Silently _coram me_ each one stood still,

So incandescent it o’ercame my sight.

Smiling thereafterwards, said Beatrice:

“Spirit august, by whom the benefactions

Of our Basilica[100] have been described,

Make Hope reverberate in this altitude;

Thou knowest as oft thou dost personify it

As Jesus to the three[101] gave greater light.”—

“Lift up thy head, and make thyself assured;

For what comes hither from the mortal world

Must needs be ripened in our radiance.”

This exhortation from the second fire[102]

Came; and mine eyes I lifted to the hills,[103]

Which bent them down before with too great weight.[104]

“Since through his grace, our Emperor decrees

Thou shouldst confronted be, before thy death,

In the most secret chamber, with his Counts,[105]

So that, the truth beholding of this court,

Hope, which below there rightly fascinates

In thee, and others may thereby be strengthened;

Say what it is, and how is flowering with it

Thy mind, and say from whence it came to thee;”

Thus did the second light continue still

And the Compassionate,[106] who piloted

The plumage of my wings in such high flight,

In the reply did thus anticipate me;

“No child whatever the Church Militant

Of greater hope possesses, as is written

In that Sun[107] which irradiates all our band;

Therefore it is conceded him from Egypt

To come into Jerusalem to see,[108]

Or ever yet his warfare is completed.

The other points, that not for knowledge’ sake

Have been demanded,[109] but that he report

How much this virtue unto thee is pleasing,

To him I leave; for hard he will not find them,

Nor to be boasted of; them let him answer;

And may the Grace of God in this assist him!”

As a disciple, who obeys his teacher,

Ready and willing, where he is expert,

So that his excellence may be revealed,

“Hope,”[110] said I, “is the certain expectation

Of glory in the hereafter, which proceedeth

From grace divine and merit precedent.

From many stars this light comes unto me;

But he instilled it first into my heart,

Who was chief singer[111] unto the Chief Captain,

_Hope they in thee_, in the high Theody

He says, _all those who recognise thy name_;[112]

And who does not if he my faith possesses?

Thou didst instil me, then, with his instilling

In the Epistle, so that I am full,

And upon others rain again your rain.”[113]

While I was speaking, in the living bosom

Of that effulgence quivered a sharp flash,

Sudden and frequent, in the guise of lightning.

Then breathed: “The love wherewith I am inflamed

Towards the virtue still, which followed me

Unto the palm and issue of the field,

Wills that I whisper thee, thou take delight

In her; and grateful to me is thy saying

Whatever things Hope promises to thee.”

And I: “The ancient Scriptures and the new

The mark establish,[114] and this shows it me,

Of all the souls whom God has made His friends,

Isaiah saith, that each one garmented

In his own land shall be with twofold garments,[115]

And his own land is this delicious life.

Thy brother,[116] too, far more explicitly,

There where he treateth of the robes of white,

This revelation manifests to us.”

And first, and near the ending of these words,

_Sperent in te_ from over us was heard,

To which responsive answered all the carols.[117]

Thereafterward among them gleamed a light,[118]

So that, if Cancer such a crystal had,

Winter would have a month of one sole day,[119]

And as uprises, goes, and enters the dance

A joyous maiden, only to do honour

To the new bride, and not from any failing,[120]

So saw I the illuminated splendour

Approach the two,[121] who in a wheel revolved,

As was beseeming to their ardent love.

It joined itself there in the song and music;

And fixed on them my Lady kept her look,

Even as a bride, silent and motionless.

“This is the one who lay upon the breast

Of him[122] our Pelican; and this is he

To the great office[123] from the cross elected.”

My Lady thus; but therefore none the more

Removed her sight from its fixed contemplation.

Before or afterward, these words of hers.

Even as a man who gazes, and endeavours

To see the eclipsing of the sun a little,

And who, by seeing, sightless doth become,

So I became before that latest fire,[124]

While it was said, “Why dost thou daze thyself

To see a thing which here has no existence?

Earth upon earth my body is,[125] and shall be

With all the others there, until our number

With the eternal proposition tallies;[126]

With the two garments[127] in the blessed cloister

Are the two lights[128] alone that have ascended:

And this shalt thou take back into your world.”[129]

And at this utterance the flaming circle

Grew quiet, with the dulcet intermingling

Of sound that by the trinal[130] breath was made,

As to escape from danger or fatigue

The oars that erst were in the water beaten

Are all suspended at a whistle’s sound.

Ah, how much in my mind was I disturbed,

When I turned round to look on Beatrice,

At not beholding her, although I was

Close at her side and in the Happy World.

[96] This “Divina Commedia,” in which human science or Philosophy is

symbolized in Virgil, and divine science or Theology in Beatrice.

[97] “Fiorenza la Bella,” Florence the Fair. In one of his canzoni

Dante says:—

“O mountain song of mine, thou goest thy way;

Florence my town thou shalt perchance behold,

Which bars me from itself,

Devoid of love and naked of compassion.”

[98] This allusion to the Church of San Giovanni: “Il mio bel San

Giovanni,” as Dante calls it elsewhere (Inf. xix. 17), is a fitting

prelude to the canto in which St. John is to appear. Like the “laughing

of the grass” in canto xxx. 77, it is a foreshadowing preface,

_ombrifero prefazio_ of what follows.

[99] St. James. Pilgrimages were made to his tomb at Compostella, in

Galicia.

[100] The general epistle of St. James, called the Epistola Cattolica,

i. 17: “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and

cometh down from the Father of Lights.” Our Basilica; the Church

Triumphant, Paradise.

[101] Peter, James, and John, representing the three theological

virtues, Faith, Hope, and Charity, and distinguished above the other

Apostles by clearer manifestations of their Master’s favour.

[102] St. James speaks.

[103] “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my

help.”—Psalm cxxi. I.

[104] The three Apostles, luminous above him overwhelming him with

light.

[105] The most august spirits of the celestial city.

[106] Beatrice.

[107] In God,

“Where everything beholds itself depicted.”

Canto xxiv. 42.

[108] To come from earth to heaven.

[109] “Say what it is,” and “whence it cometh to thee.”

[110] “_Est spes certa expectatio futuræ beatitudinis, veniens ex

Dei gratia et meritis præcedentibus._” Petrus Lombardus, _Magister

Sententiarum_.

[111] The Psalmist David.

[112] The Book of Psalms or songs of God:—

“And they that know thy name will put their trust in thee.”

Psalm ix. 10.

[113] Your rain: that is, of David and yourself.

[114] “The mark of the high calling and election sure.”

[115] The twofold garments are the glorified spirit and the glorified

body.

[116] St. John in the Apocalypse, vii. 9: “A great multitude, which no

man could number ... clothed with white robes.”

[117] Dances and songs commingled; the circling choirs, the celestial

choristers.

[118] St. John the Evangelist.

[119] In winter the constellation Cancer rises at sunset; and if it had

one star as bright as this, it would turn night into day.

[120] Such as vanity, ostentation, or the like.

[121] St. Peter and St. James are joined by St. John.

[122] Christ.

[123] Then saith he to that disciple, “Behold thy mother! and from that

hour that disciple took her unto his own house.”—St. John xix. 27.

[124] St. John.

[125] “If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?”

[126] Till the predestined number of the elect is complete.

[127] The two garments: the glorified spirit, and the glorified body.

[128] The two lights: Christ and the Virgin Mary.

[129] Carry back these tidings.

[130] The sacred trio of St. Peter, St. James, and St. John.

[Illustration:

THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE.]

THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE.

Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old;

Five centuries old. I plant my foot of stone

Upon the Arno, as St. Michael’s own

Was planted on the dragon. Fold by fold

Beneath me, as it struggles, I behold

Its glistening scales. Twice hath it overthrown

My kindred and companions. Me alone

It moveth not, but is by me controlled.

I can remember when the Medici

Were driven from Florence; longer still ago

The final wars of Ghibelline and Guelf.

Florence adorns me with her jewelry;

And when I think that Michael Angelo

Hath leaned on me, I glory in myself.

THE NATURE OF LOVE.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

To noble heart Love doth for shelter fly,

As seeks the bird the forest’s leafy shade;

Love was not felt till noble heart beat high,

Nor before love the noble heart was made.

Soon as the sun’s broad flame

Was formed, so soon the clear light filled the air;

Yet was not till he came:

So love springs up in noble breasts, and there

Has its appointed space,

As heat in the bright flame finds its allotted place.

Kindles in noble heart the fire of love,

As hidden virtue in the precious stone:

This virtue comes not from the stars above,

Till round it the ennobling sun has shone;

But when his powerful blaze

Has drawn forth what was vile, the stars impar

Strange virtue in their rays:

And thus when Nature doth create the heart

Noble and pure and high,

Like virtue from the star, love comes from woman’s eye.

TO ITALY.

FROM FILICAJA.

Italy! Italy! thou who’rt doomed to wear

The fatal gift of beauty, and possess

The dower funest[131] of infinite wretchedness,

Written upon thy forehead by despair;

Ah! would that thou wert stronger, or less fair,

That they might fear thee more, or love thee less,

Who in the splendour of thy loveliness

Seem wasting, yet to mortal combat dare!

Then from the Alps I should not see descending

Such torrents of armed men, nor Gallic horde

Drinking the wave of Po, distained with gore,

For should I see thee girded with a sword

Not thine, and with the stranger’s arm contending,

Victor or vanquished, slave for evermore.

[131] Fatal.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FRENCH.

SPRING.

FROM CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS.

XV. CENTURY.

Gentle Spring!—in sunshine clad,

Well dost thou thy power display!

For Winter maketh the light heart sad,

And thou,—thou makest the sad heart gay.

He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,

The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain,

And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,

When thy merry step draws near.

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,

Their beards of icicles and snow;

And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,

We must cower over the embers low;

And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,

Mope like birds that are changing feather.

But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,

When thy merry step draws near.

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky

Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud;

But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;

Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,

And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,

Who has toiled for nought both late and early,

Is banished afar by the new-born year,

When thy merry step draws near.

THE CHILD ASLEEP.

Sweet babe! true portrait of thy father’s face,

Sleep on the bosom, that thy lips have pressed!

Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place

Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother’s breast.

Upon that tender eye, my little friend,

Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me!

I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend;—

’Tis sweet to watch for thee, alone for thee!

His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow;

His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm.

Wore not his cheek the apple’s ruddy glow,

Would you not say he slept on Death’s cold arm?

Awake, my boy!—I tremble with affright!

Awake, and chase this fatal thought!—Unclose

Thine eye but for one moment on the light!

Even at the price of thine, give me repose!

Sweet error! he but slept, I breathe again;

Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile!

O when shall he for whom I sigh in vain,

Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?

RONDEL.

FROM FROISSARD.

Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?

Nought see I fixed or sure in thee!

I do not know thee,—nor what deeds are thine:

Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?

Nought see I fixed or sure in thee!

Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine?

Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me:

Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine

Nought see I permanent or sure in thee!

RONDEL.

FROM THE DUKE OF ORLEANS.

Hence away, begone, begone,

Carking care and melancholy!

Think ye thus to govern me

All my life long, as ye have done?

That shall ye not, I promise ye:

Reason shall have the mastery.

So hence away, begone, begone,

Carking care and melancholy!

If ever ye return this way,

With your mournful company,

A curse be on ye, and the day

That brings ye moping back to me!

Hence away, begone, I say,

Carking care and melancholy!

RENOUVEAU.

Now Time throws off his cloak again

Of ermined frost, and cold and rain,

And clothes him in the embroidery

Of glittering sun and clear blue sky.

With beast and bird the forest rings,

Each in his jargon cries or sings;

And Time throws off his cloak again

Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.

River, and fount, and tinkling brook

Wear in their dainty livery

Drops of silver jewelry;

In new-made suit they merry look;

And Time throws off his cloak again

Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.

FRIAR LUBIN.

To gallop off to town post-haste

So oft, the times I cannot tell;

To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced,—

Friar Lubin will do it well.

But a sober life to lead,

To honour virtue, and pursue it,

That’s a pious, Christian deed,—

Friar Lubin cannot do it.

To mingle with a knowing smile,

The goods of others with his own,

And leave you without cross or pile,

Friar Lubin stands alone.

To say ’tis yours is all in vain,

If once he lays his finger to it;

For as to giving back again,

Friar Lubin cannot do it.

With flattering words and gentle tone,

To woo and win some guileless maid,

Cunning pander need you none,—

Friar Lubin knows the trade.

Loud preacheth he sobriety,

But as for water, doth eschew it;

Your dog may drink it,—but not he;

Friar Lubin cannot do it.

ENVOI.

When an evil deed’s to do,

Friar Lubin’s stout and true;

Glimmers a ray of goodness through it,

Friar Lubin cannot do it.

DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN.

The archbishop, whom God loved in high degree,

Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free;

And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan,

And a faint shudder through his members ran.

Upon the battle-field his knee was bent;

Brave Roland saw, and to his succour went,

Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced,

And tore the shining hauberk from his breast;

Then raising in his arms the man of God,

Gently he laid him on the verdant sod.

“Rest, Sire,” he cried,—“for rest thy suffering needs.”

The priest replied, “Think but of warlike deeds!

The field is ours; well may we boast with strife!

But death steals on,—there is no hope of life;

In Paradise, where the almoners live again,

There are our couches spread,—there shall we rest from pain.”

Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel I, alas!

That thrice he swooned upon the thick, green grass.

When he revived, with a loud voice cried he,

“O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie!

Why lingers death to lay me in my grave?

Beloved France! how have the good and brave

Been torn from thee and left thee weak and poor!”

Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o’er

His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow,

“My gentle friend!—what parting full of woe!

Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see;—

Whate’er my fate, Christ’s benison on thee;

Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath

The Hebrew prophets from the second death.”

Then to the paladins, whom well he knew,

He went, and one by one unaided drew

To Turpin’s side, well skilled in ghostly lore;—

No heart had he to smile,—but, weeping sore,

He blessed them in God’s name, with faith that he

Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity.

The archbishop, then,—on whom God’s benison rest!—

Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast;—

His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore,

And many a wound his swollen visage bore.

Slow beats his heart,—his panting bosom heaves,—

Death comes apace, no hope of cure relieves.

Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed

That God, who for our sins was mortal made,—

Born of the Virgin,—scorned and crucified,—

In paradise would place him by his side.

Then Turpin died in service of Charlon,

In battle great and eke great orison;

’Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion;—

God grant to him his holy benison!

TO CARDINAL RICHELIEU.

FROM MALHERBE.

Thou mighty Prince of Church and State,

Richelieu! until the hour of death,

Whatever road man chooses, Fate

Still holds him subject to her breath.

Spun of all silks, our days and nights

Have sorrows woven with delights;

And of this intermingled shade

Our various destiny appears,

Even as one sees the course of years

Of summers and of winters made.

Sometimes the soft, deceitful hours

Let us enjoy the halcyon wave;

Something impending peril lowers

Beyond the seaman’s skill to save.

The Wisdom, infinitely wise,

That gives to human destinies

Their foreordained necessity,

Has made no law more fixed below,

Than the alternate ebb and flow

Of Fortune and Adversity.

CONSOLATION.

TO M. DU PERRIER, GENTLEMAN, OF AIX IN PROVENCE, ON THE DEATH OF HIS

DAUGHTER.

FROM THE FRENCH OF FRANÇOIS DE MALHERBE.

Will then, Du Perrier, thy sorrow be eternal?

And shall the sad discourse

Whispered within thy heart, by tenderness paternal,

Only augment its force?

Thy daughter’s mournful fate, into the tomb descending

By death’s frequented ways,

Has it become to thee a labyrinth never ending,

Where thy lost reason strays?

I know the charms that made her youth a benediction:

Nor should I be content,

As a censorious friend, to solace thine affliction,

By her disparagement.

But she was of the world, which fairest things exposes

To fates the most forlorn;

A rose, she too hath lived as long as live the roses,

The space of one brief morn.

* * * * *

Death hath his rigorous laws, unparalleled, unfeeling;

All prayers to him are vain;

Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf to our appealing,

He leaves us to complain.

The poor man in his hut, with only thatch for cover,

Unto these laws must bend;

The sentinel that guards the barriers of the Louvre

Cannot our Kings defend.

To murmur against death, in petulant defiance,

Is never for the best;

To will what God doth will, that is the only science

That gives us any rest.

THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD.

FROM THE FRENCH OF JEAN REBOUL.[132]

An angel with a radiant face

Above a cradle bent to look,

Seemed his own image there to trace

As in the waters of a brook.

“Dear child! who me resemblest so,”

It whispered, “come, O come with me!

Happy together let us go,

The earth unworthy is of thee!

“Here none to perfect bliss attain;

The soul in pleasure suffering lies;

Joy hath an undertone of pain,

And even the happiest hours their sighs.

“Fear doth at every portal knock;

Never a day serene and pure

From the o’ershadowing tempest’s shock

Has made the morrow’s dawn secure.

“What, then, shall sorrows and shall fears

Come to disturb so pure a brow?

And with the bitterness of tears

Those eyes of azure troubled grow?

“Ah no! into the fields of space,

Away shalt thou escape with me;

And Providence will grant thee grace

Of all the days that were to be.

“Let no one in thy dwelling cower

In sombre vestments draped and veiled;

But let them welcome thy last hour,

As thy first moments once they hailed.

“Without a cloud be there each brow;

There let the grave no shadow cast;

When one is pure as thou art now,

The fairest day is still the last.”

And waving wide his wings of white,

The angel, at these words, had sped

Towards the eternal realms of light!—

Poor mother! see, thy son is dead.

[132] The Baker of Nismes.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

FROM THE NOEL BOURGUIGNON DE GUI BARÔZAI.

I hear along our street

Pass the minstrel throngs;

Hark! they play so sweet,

On their hautboys, Christmas songs!

Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire!

In December ring

Every day the chimes;

Loud the gleemen sing

In the streets their merry rhymes.

Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire!

Shepherds at the grange,

Where the Babe was born

Sang, with many a change,

Christmas carols until morn.

Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire.

These good people sang

Songs devout and sweet

While the rafters rang,

There they stood with freezing feet.

Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire!

Nuns in frigid cells

At this holy tide,

For want of something else,

Christmas songs at times have tried.

Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire!

Washerwomen old,

To the sound they beat,

Sing by rivers cold,

With uncovered heads and feet.

Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire!

Who by the fireside stands

Stamps his feet and sings;

But he who blows his hands

Not so gay a carol brings.

Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire!

THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTÈL-CUILLÈ.

FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN.

Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might

Rehearse this little tragedy aright:

Let me attempt it with an English quill:

And take, O reader, for the deed the will.

JASMIN, the author of this beautiful poem, is to the South of France

what Burns is to the South of Scotland,—the representative of the heart

of the people,—one of those happy bards who are born with their mouths

full of birds (_la bouco pleno d’aouzelous_). He has written his own

biography in a poetic form, and the simple narrative of his poverty,

his struggles and his triumphs, is very touching. His home was at Agen

on the Garonne.

Those who may feel interested in knowing something about “Jasmin,

Coiffeur”—for such is his calling—will find a description of his person

and mode of life in the graphic pages of _Béarn and the Pyrenees_

(Vol. i. p. 369, _et seq._), by Louisa Stuart Costello, whose charming

pen has done so much to illustrate the French provinces and their

literature.

I.

At the foot of the mountain height

Where is perched Castèl-Cuillè,

When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree

In the plain below were growing white,

This is the song one might perceive

On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph’s Eve:

“The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,

So fair a bride shall leave her home!

Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,

So fair a bride shall pass to-day!”

This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending,

Seemed from the clouds descending;

When lo! a merry company

Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye,

Each one with her attendant swain,

Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain:

Resembling there, so near unto the sky,

Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent

For their delight and our encouragement.

Together blending,

And soon descending

The narrow sweep

Of the hill-side steep,

They wind aslant

Toward Saint Amant

Through leafy alleys

Of verdurous valleys,

With merry sallies,

Singing their chant:

“The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,

So fair a bride shall leave her home!

Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,

So fair a bride shall pass to-day!”

It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden,

With garlands for the bridal laden!

The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom,

The sun of March was shining brightly,

And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly

Its breathings of perfume.

When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom,

A rustic bridal, ah! how sweet it is!

To sounds of joyous melodies,

That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom,

A band of maidens

Gaily frolicking,

A band of youngsters

Wildly rollicking!

Kissing,

Caressing,

With fingers pressing,

Till in the veriest

Madness of mirth, as they dance,

They retreat and advance,

Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest;

While the bride, with roguish eyes,

Sporting with them, now escapes and cries:

“Those who catch me

Married verily

This year shall be!”

And all pursue with eager haste,

And all attain what they pursue,

And touch her pretty apron fresh and new,

And the linen kirtle round her waist.

“Meanwhile, whence comes it that among

These youthful maidens fresh and fair,

So joyous, with such laughing air,

Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue?

And yet the bride is fair and young!

Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all,

That love, o’er-hasty, precedeth a fall?

O, no! for a maiden frail, I trow,

Never bore so lofty a brow!

What lovers! they give not a single caress!

To see them so careless and cold to-day,

These are grand people, one would say.

What ails Baptiste? what grief doth him oppress?

It is, that, half way up the hill

In yon cottage, by whose walls

Stand the cart-house and the stalls,

Dwelleth the blind orphan still,

Daughter of a veteran old;

And you must know, one year ago,

That Margaret, the young and tender,

Was the village pride and splendour,

And Baptiste her lover bold.

Love, the deceiver, them ensnared;

For them the altar was prepared;

But alas! the summer’s blight,

The dread disease that none can stay,

The pestilence that walks by night,

Took the young bride’s sight away.

All at the father’s stern command was changed;

Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged;

Wearied at home, ere long the lover fled;

Returned but three short days ago,

The golden chain they round him throw,

He is enticed, and onward led

To marry Angela, and yet

Is thinking ever of Margaret.

Then suddenly a maiden cried,

“Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate!

Here comes the cripple Jane!” And by a fountain’s side

A woman, bent and grey with years,

Under the mulberry-trees appears,

And all towards her run, as fleet

As had they wings upon their feet.

It is that Jane, the cripple Jane,

Is a soothsayer, wary and kind.

She telleth fortunes, and none complain.

She promises one a village swain,

Another a happy wedding-day,

And the bride a lovely boy straightway.

All comes to pass as she avers;

She never deceives, she never errs.

But for this once the village seer

Wears a countenance severe,

And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white

Her two eyes flash like cannons bright

Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue,

Who, like a statue, stands in view;

Changing colour, as well he might,

When the beldame, wrinkled and grey,

Takes the young bride by the hand,

And, with the tip of her reedy wand,

Making the sign of the cross, doth say:—

“Thoughtless Angela, beware!

Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom,

Thou diggest for thyself a tomb!”

And she was silent; and the maidens fair

Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear;

But on a little streamlet silver-clear,

What are two drops of turbid rain?

Saddened a moment, the bridal train

Resumed the dance and song again;

The bridegroom only was pale with fear;

And down green alleys

Of verdurous valleys,

With merry sallies,

They sang the refrain:—

“The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,

So fair a bride shall leave her home!

Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,

So fair a bride shall pass to-day!”

II.

And by suffering worn and weary,

But beautiful as some fair angel yet,

Thus lamented Margaret,

In her cottage lone and dreary:—

“He has arrived! arrived at last!

Yet Jane has named him not these three days past;

Arrived! yet keeps aloof so far!

And knows that of my night he is the star!

Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted,

And count the moments since he went away!

Come! keep the promise of that happier day,

That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted!

What joy have I without thee? what delight?

Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery;

Day for the others ever, but for me

For ever night! for ever night!

When he is gone ’tis dark! my soul is sad!

I suffer! O my God! come, make me glad.

When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude;

Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes

Within them shines for me a heaven of love,

A heaven all happiness, like that above,

No more of grief! no more of lassitude!

Earth I forget,—and heaven, and all distresses,

When seated by my side my hand he presses;

But when alone, remember all!

Where is Baptiste? he hears not when I call!

A branch of ivy, dying on the ground,

I need some bough to twine around!

In pity come! be to my suffering kind!

True love, they say, in grief doth more abound!

What then, when one is blind?

“Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken!

Ah! woe is me! then bear me to my grave!

O God! what thoughts within me waken!

Away! he will return! I do but rave!

He will return! I need not fear!

He swore it by our Saviour dear;

He could not come at his own will;

Is weary, or perhaps is ill!

Perhaps his heart, in this disguise,

Prepares for me some sweet surprise.

But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see!

And that deceives me not! ’tis he! ’tis he!”

And the door ajar is set,

And poor, confiding Margaret

Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes;

’Tis only Paul, her brother, who thus cries:—

“Angela the bride has passed!

I saw the wedding guests go by;

Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked?

For all are there but you and I!”

“Angela married! and not send

To tell her secret unto me!

O, speak! who may the bridegroom be?”

“My sister, ’tis Baptiste, thy friend!”

A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said;

A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks;

An icy hand, as heavy as lead,

Descending, as her brother speaks,

Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat,

Suspends awhile its life and heat.

She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed,

A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed.

At length the bridal song again

Brings her back to her sorrow and pain.

“Hark! the joyous airs are ringing!

Sister, dost thou hear them singing?

How merrily they laugh and jest!

Would we were bidden with the rest!

I would don my hose of homespun grey,

And my doublet of linen striped and gay;

Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed

Till to-morrow at seven o’clock, it is said!”

“I know it!” answered Margaret;

Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet,

Mastered again; and its hand of ice

Held her heart crushed, as in a vice!

“Paul, be not sad! ’Tis a holiday;

To-morrow put on thy doublet gay!

But leave me now for a while alone.”

Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul,

And, as he whistled along the hall,

Entered Jane, the crippled crone.

“Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat!

I am faint, and weary, and out of breath!

But thou art cold,—art chill as death!

My little friend! what ails thee, sweet?”

“Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride;

And, as I listened to the song,

I thought my turn would come ere long,

Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide.

Thy cards forsooth can never lie,

To me such joy they prophesy,

Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide

When they behold him at my side.

And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou?

It must seem long to him;—methinks I see him now!”

Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press:

“Thy love I cannot all approve;

We must not trust too much to happiness;

Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less!”

“The more I pray, the more I love!

It is no sin, for God is on my side!”

It was enough; and Jane no more replied.

Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold;

But to deceive the beldame old

She takes a sweet, contented air;

Speaks of foul weather or of fair,

At every word the maiden smiles.

Thus the beguiler she beguiles;

So that, departing at the evening’s close,

She says, “She may be saved! she nothing knows!”

Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress!

Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess!

This morning, in the fulness of thy heart,

Thou wast so, far beyond thine art!

III.

Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating,

And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky,

Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting,

How differently!

Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed,

The one puts on her cross and crown,

Decks with a huge bouquet her breast,

And flaunting, fluttering up and down,

Looks at herself, and cannot rest.

The other, blind, within her little room,

Has neither crown nor flower’s perfume;

But in their stead for something gropes apart

That in a drawer’s recess doth lie,

And, ’neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye,

Convulsive clasps it to her heart.

The one, fantastic, light as air,

’Mid kisses ringing,

And joyous singing,

Forgets to say her morning prayer!

The other, with cold drops upon her brow,

Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor,

And whispers, as her brother opes the door,

“O God! forgive me now!”

And then the orphan, young and blind,

Conducted by her brother’s hand,

Towards the church, through paths unscanned,

With tranquil air, her way doth wind.

Odours of laurel, making her faint and pale,

Round her at times exhale,

And in the sky as yet no sunny ray,

But brumal vapours grey.

Near that castle, fair to see,

Crowded with sculptures old, in every part,

Marvels of nature and of art,

And proud of its name of high degree,

A little chapel, almost bare,

At the base of the rock is builded there;

All glorious that it lifts aloof,

Above each jealous cottage roof,

Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales,

And its blackened steeple high in air,

Round which the osprey screams and sails.

“Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!”

Thus Margaret said. “Where are we? we ascend!”

“Yes; seest thou not our journey’s end?

Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry?

The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know!

Dost thou remember when our father said,

The night we watched beside his bed,

’O daughter, I am weak and low;

Take care of Paul; I feel that I am dying!’

And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying?

Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud;

And here they brought our father in his shroud.

There is his grave; there stands the cross we set;

Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret?

Come in! The bride will be here soon:

Thou tremblest! O my God! thou art going to swoon!”

She could no more,—the blind girl, weak and weary!

A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary,

“What wouldst thou do, my daughter?”—and she started;

And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted;

But Paul, impatient, urges ever more

Her steps towards the open door;

And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid

Crushes the laurel near the house immortal,

And with her head, as Paul talks on again,

Touches the crown of filigrane

Suspended from the low-arched portal,

No more restrained, no more afraid,

She walks, as for a feast arrayed,

And in the ancient chapel’s sombre night

They both are lost to sight.

At length the bell,

With booming sound,

Sends forth, resounding round,

Its hymeneal peal o’er rock and down the dell.

It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain;

And yet the guests delay not long,

For soon arrives the bridal train,

And with it brings the village throng.

In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay,

For lo! Baptiste on this triumphant day,

Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning,

Thinks only of the beldame’s words of warning.

And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis;

To be a bride is all! The pretty lisper

Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whisper,

“How beautiful! how beautiful she is!”

But she must calm that giddy head,

For already the Mass is said;

At the holy table stands the priest;

The wedding ring is blessed; Baptiste receives it;

Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it,

He must pronounce one word at least!

’Tis spoken; and sudden at the groomsman’s side

“’Tis he!” a well-known voice has cried.

And while the wedding-guests all hold their breath,

Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see!

“Baptiste,” she said, “since thou hast wished my death,

As holy water be my blood for thee!”

And calmly in the air a knife suspended!

Doubtless her guardian angel near attended,

For anguish did its work so well,

That, ere the fatal stroke descended,

Lifeless she fell!

At eve, instead of bridal verse,

The De Profundis filled the air;

Decked with flowers a single hearse

To the churchyard forth they bear;

Village girls in robes of snow

Follow, weeping as they go;

Nowhere was a smile that day,

No, ah no! for each one seemed to say:—

“The roads shall mourn and be veiled in gloom,

So fair a corpse shall leave its home!

Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away,

So fair a corpse shall pass to-day!”

MY SECRET.

FROM THE FRENCH OF FÉLIX ARVERS.

My soul its secret hath, my life too hath its mystery,

A love eternal in a moment’s space conceived;

Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history,

And she who was the cause nor knew it nor believed.

Alas! I shall have passed close by her unperceived,

For ever at her side and yet for ever lonely,

I shall unto the end have made life’s journey, only

Daring to ask for nought, and having nought received.

For her, though God hath made her gentle and endearing,

She will go on her way distraught and without hearing

These murmurings of love that round her steps ascend,

Piously faithful still unto her austere duty,

Will say, when she shall read these lines full of her beauty,

“Who can this woman be?” and will not comprehend.

BARRÉGES.

FROM THE FRENCH OF JEAN-JACQUES LEFRANC DE POMPIGNAN.

I leave you, ye cold mountain chains,

Dwelling of warriors stark and frore!

You, may these eyes behold no more,

Save on the horizon of our plains.

Vanish, ye frightful, gloomy views!

Ye rocks that mount up to the clouds!

Of skies, enwrapped in misty shrouds,

Impracticable avenues!

Ye torrents, that with might and main

Break pathways through the rocky walls,

With your terrific waterfalls

Fatigue no more my weary brain!

Arise, ye landscapes full of charms,

Arise, ye pictures of delight!

Ye brooks, that water in your flight

The flowers and harvests of our farms!

You I perceive, ye meadows green,

Where the Garonne the lowland fills,

Not far from that long chain of hills,

With intermingled vales between.

Yon wreath of smoke, that mounts so high,

Methinks from my own hearth must come;

With speed to that belovèd home,

Fly, ye too lazy coursers, fly!

And bear me thither, where the soul

In quiet may itself possess,

Where all things soothe the mind’s distress,

Where all things teach me and console.

ON THE TERRACE OF THE AIGALADES.

FROM THE FRENCH OF J. MÉRY.

From this high portal, where upsprings

The rose to touch our hands in play,

We at a glance behold three things,—

The Sea, the Town, and the Highway.

And the Sea says: My shipwrecks fear;

I drown my best friends in the deep;

And those who braved my tempests, here

Among my sea-weeds lie asleep!

The Town says: I am filled and fraught

With tumult and with smoke and care;

My days with toil are overwrought,

And in my nights I gasp for air.

The Highway says: My wheel-tracks guide

To the pale climates of the North;

Where my last milestone stands abide

The people to their death gone forth.

Here, in the shade, this life of ours,

Full of delicious air, glides by

Amid a multitude of flowers

As countless as the stars on high;

These red-tiled roofs, this fruitful soil,

Bathed with an azure all divine,

Where springs the tree that gives us oil,

The grape that giveth us the wine;

Beneath these mountains stripped of trees,

Whose tops with flowers are covered o’er,

Where springtime of the Hesperides

Begins, but endeth nevermore;

Under these leafy vaults and walls,

That unto gentle sleep persuade

This rainbow of the waterfalls,

Of mingled mist and sunshine made;

Upon these shores, where all invites,

We live our languid life apart;

This air is that of life’s delights,

The festival of sense and heart;

This limpid space of time prolong,

Forget to-morrow in to-day,

And leave unto the passing throng

The Sea, the Town, and the Highway.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON.

THE GRAVE.

For thee was a house built

Ere thou wast born,

For thee was a mould meant

Ere thou of mother camest.

But it is not made ready,

Nor its depth measured,

Nor is it seen

How long it shall be.

Now I bring thee

Where thou shalt be;

Now I shall measure thee,

And the mould afterwards.

Thy house is not

Highly timbered,

It is unhigh and low;

When thou art therein,

The heel-ways are low,

The sideways unhigh.

The roof is built

Thy breast full nigh,

So thou shalt in mould

Dwell full cold,

Dimly and dark.

Doorless is that house,

And dark it is within;

There thou art fast detained,

And death hath the key.

Loathsome is that earth-house,

And grim within to dwell.

There thou shalt dwell,

And worms shall divide thee.

Thus thou art laid,

And leavest thy friends;

Thou hast no friend

Who will come to thee,

Who will ever see

How that house pleaseth thee;

Who will ever open

The door for thee,

And descend after thee,

For soon thou art loathsome

And hateful to see.

BEOWULF’S EXPEDITION TO HEORT.

Thus then, much care-worn,

The son of Healfden

Sorrowed evermore,

Nor might the prudent hero

His woes avert.

The war was too hard,

Too loath and longsome,

That on the people came,

Dire wrath and grim,

Of night-woes the worst.

This from home heard

Higelac’s Thane,

Good among the Goths,

Grendel’s deeds.

He was of mankind

In might the strongest,

At that day

Of this life,

Noble and stalwart.

He bade him a sea-ship,

A goodly one, prepare.

Quoth he, the war-king,

Over the swan’s road,

Seek he would

The mighty monarch,

Since he wanted men.

For him that journey

His prudent fellows

Straight made ready,

Those that loved him.

They excited their souls,

The omen they beheld.

Had the good-man

Of the Gothic people

Champions chosen,

Of those that keenest

He might find,

Some fifteen men.

The sea-wood sought he,

The warrior showed,

Sea-crafty man!

The landmarks,

And first went forth.

The ship was on the waves,

Boat under the cliffs.

The barons ready

To the prow mounted.

The streams they whirled

The sea against the sands.

The chieftains bore

On the naked breast

Bright ornaments,

War-gear, Goth-like.

The men shoved off,

Men on their willing way,

The bounden wood.

Then went over the sea-waves,

Hurried by the wind,

The ship with foamy neck

Most like a sea-fowl,

Till about one hour

Of the second day

The curved prow

Had passed onward,

So that the sailors

The land saw,

The shore-cliffs shining,

Mountains steep,

And broad sea-noses.

Then was the sea-sailing

Of the earl at an end.

Then up speedily

The Weather people

On the land went,

The sea-bark moored,

Their mail-sarks shook,

Their war-weeds.

God thanked they,

That to them the sea journey

Easy had been.

Then from the wall beheld

The warden of the Scyldings,

He who the sea-cliffs

Had in his keeping,

Bear o’er the balks

The bright shields,

The war-weapons speedily.

Him the doubt disturbed

In his mind’s thought,

What these men might be.

Went then to the shore,

On his steed riding,

The Thane of Hrothgar.

Before the host he shook

His warden’s staff in hand,

In measured words demanded:

“What men are ye

War-gear wearing,

Host in harness,

Who thus the brown keel

Over the water-street

Leading come

Hither over the sea?

I these boundaries

As shore-warden hold;

That in the Land of the Danes

Nothing loathsome

With a ship-crew

Scathe us might....

Ne’er saw I mightier

Earl upon earth

Than is your own,

Hero in harness.

Not seldom this warrior

Is in weapons distinguished;

Never his beauty belies him,

His peerless countenance!

Now would I fain

Your origin know,

Ere ye forth

As false spies

Into the Land of the Danes

Farther fare.

Now, ye dwellers afar off!

Ye sailors of the sea!

Listen to my

One-fold thought.

Quickest is best

To make known

Whence your coming may be.”

THE SOUL’S COMPLAINT AGAINST THE BODY.

Much it behoveth

Each one of mortals,

That he his soul’s journey

In himself ponder,

How deep it may be.

When death cometh,

The bonds he breaketh

By which united

Were body and soul.

Long it is henceforth

Ere the soul taketh

From God himself

Its woe or its weal;

As in the world erst,

Even in its earth-vessel,

It wrought before.

The soul shall come

Wailing with loud voice,

After a sennight,

The soul, to find

The body

That it erst dwelt in;—

Three hundred winters,

Unless ere that worketh

The eternal Lord,

The Almighty God,

The end of the world.

Crieth then, so care-worn,

With cold utterance,

And speaketh grimly,

The ghost to the dust:

“Dry dust! thou dreary one!

How little didst thou labour for me!

In the foulness of earth

Thou all wearest away

Like to the loam!

Little didst thou think

How thy soul’s journey

Would be thereafter,

When from the body

It should be led forth.”

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE SWEDISH.

FRITHIOF’S HOMESTEAD.

Three miles extended around the fields of the homestead; on three

sides

Valleys, and mountains, and hills, but on the fourth side was the

ocean.

Birch-woods crowned the summits, but over the down-sloping

hillsides

Flourished the golden corn, and man-high was waving the rye-field.

Lakes, full many in number, their mirror held up for the mountains,

Held for the forests up, in whose depths the high-antlered reindeer

Had their kingly walk, and drank of a hundred brooklets.

But in the valleys, full widely around, there fed on the greensward

Herds with sleek, shining sides, and udders that longed for the

milk-pail;

’Mid these were scattered, now here and now there, a vast countless

number

Of white-wooled sheep, as thou seest the white-looking stray clouds,

Flock-wise, spread o’er the heavenly vault, when it bloweth in

springtime.

Twice twelve swift-footed coursers, mettlesome, fast-fettered

storm-winds,

Stamping stood in the line of stalls, all champing their fodder,

Knotted with red their manes, and their hoofs all whitened with

steel shoes.

The banquet-hall, a house by itself, was timbered of hard fir.

Not five hundred men (at ten times twelve to the hundred)

Filled up the roomy hall, when assembled for drinking at Yule-tide.

Thorough the hall, as long as it was, went a table of holm-oak,

Polished and white, as of steel; the columns twain of the high-seat

Stood at the end thereof, two gods carved out of an elm-tree;

Odin with lordly look, and Frey with the sun on his frontlet.

Lately between the two, on a bear-skin (the skin it was coal-black,

Scarlet-red was the throat, but the paws were shodden with silver),

Thorsten sat with his friends, Hospitality sitting with Gladness.

Oft, when the moon among the night-clouds flew, related the old man

Wonders from far-distant lands he had seen, and cruises of Vikings

Far on the Baltic and Sea of the West, and the North Sea.

Hush sat the listening bench, and their glances hung on the

gray-beard’s

Lips, as a bee on the rose; but the Skald was thinking of Bragé,

Where, with silver beard, and runes on his tongue, he is seated

Under the leafy beech, and tells a tradition by Mimer’s

Ever-murmuring wave, himself a living tradition.

Midway the floor (with thatch was it strewn), burned for ever the

fire-flame

Glad on its stone-built hearth; and through the wide-mouthed

smoke-flue

Looked the stars, those heavenly friends, down into the great hall,

But round the walls, upon nails of steel, were hanging in order

Breastplate and helm with each other, and here and there in among

them

Downward lightened a sword, as in winter evening a star shoots.

More than helmets and swords, the shields in the banquet-hall

glisten,

White as the orb of the sun, or white as the moon’s disc of silver.

Ever and anon went a maid round the board and filled up the

drink-horns;

Ever she cast down her eyes and blushed; in the shield her

reflection

Blushed too, even as she;—this gladdened the hard-drinking

champions.

FRITHIOF’S TEMPTATION.

Spring is coming, birds are twittering, forests leaf, and smiles

the sun,

And the loosened torrents downward singing to the ocean run;

Glowing like the cheek of Freya, peeping rosebuds ’gin to ope,

And in human hearts awaken love of life, and joy, and hope.

Now will hunt the ancient monarch, and the queen shall join the

sport;

Swarming in its gorgeous splendour is assembled all the court;

Bows ring loud, and quivers rattle, stallions paw the ground alway,

And, with hoods upon their eyelids, falcons scream aloud for prey.

See, the queen of the chase advances! Frithiof, gaze not on the

sight!

Like a star upon a spring-cloud sits she on her palfrey white,

Half of Freya, half of Rota, yet more beauteous than these two,

And from her light hat of purple wave aloft the feathers blue.

Now the huntsman’s band is ready. Hurrah! over hill and dale!

Morns ring, and the hawks right upward to the hall of Odin sail.

All the dwellers in the forest seek in fear their cavern homes,

But with spear outstretched before her, after them Valkyria comes.

* * * * *

Then threw Frithiof down his mantle, and upon the greensward spread,

And the ancient king so trustful laid on Frithiof’s knees his head;

Slept, as calmly as the hero sleepeth after war’s alarms

On his shield, calm as an infant sleepeth in its mother’s arms.

As he slumbers, hark! there sings a coal-black bird upon a bough:

“Hasten, Frithiof, slay the old man, close your quarrel at a blow;

Take his queen, for she is thine, and once the bridal kiss she gave;

Now no human eye beholds thee; deep and silent is the grave.”

Frithiof listens; hark! there sings a snow-white bird upon the bough:

“Though no human eye beholds thee, Odin’s eye beholds thee now.

Coward, wilt thou murder slumber? a defenceless old man slay?

Whatsoe’er thou winn’st, thou canst not win a hero’s fame this way.”

Thus the two wood-birds did warble; Frithiof took his war-sword good,

With a shudder hurled it from him, far into the gloomy wood.

Coal-black bird flies down to Nastrand; but on light unfolded wings,

Like the tone of harps, the other, sounding towards the sun

upsprings.

Straight the ancient king awakens. “Sweet has been my sleep,” he

said;

“Pleasantly sleeps one in the shadow, guarded by a brave man’s blade.

But where is thy sword, O stranger? Lightning’s brother, where is he?

Who thus parts you, who should never from each other parted be?”

“It avails not,” Frithiof answered; “in the North are other swords;

Sharp, O monarch, is the sword’s tongue, and it speaks not peaceful

words;

Murky spirits dwell in steel blades, spirits from the Niffelhem,

Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks but anger them.”

THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD’S SUPPER.

PREFATORY REMARKS.

This poem, from the Swedish of Bishop Tegnér, enjoys no inconsiderable

reputation in the North of Europe. It is an Idyl descriptive of rural

life in Sweden, round which something primeval and picturesque still

lingers.