“No, no! the time is past,” her sad voice spoke;
“But be thou tranquil, Heaven will give me strength,
The Lord will shield me from that heaviest stroke.
When here I came, I on the threshold swore
Never to leave this tower, but for the grave.
I wrestled with myself, and thou, my love,
Thou, even thou, against the Lord wouldst aid me.
Wouldst give back to the world a wretched phantom?
Oh think! oh think! if madly I should give
Myself to be persuaded, leave this cave
And fall with rapture into thine embrace;
But thou wouldst know not, neither welcome me,
Avert thine eyes, and ask, with horror struck,
‘What, is this fearful spectre fair Aldona?’
And thou wouldst seek in this extinguished eye,
And in this visage her—the thought is death!
No, never let the poor recluse’s woe
Offend the beauty of the bright Aldona!
“Myself, I will confess, forgive me, love!
Oft as the moon with brighter lustre gleams,
Hearing thy voice, I hide behind these walls,
Unwishing, loved one, to behold thee near!
For thou, maybe, art not the same to-day
Which once thou wert, in those sweet years gone by,
When with our hosts didst to our castle ride.
But thou retainest, hidden in my breast,
Those self-same eyes, that posture, form, and dress.
So the fair moth, within the amber drowned,
Retains its primal form eternally.
O Alf! ’twere better far that we remain
That which we were in former days, and as
We shall unite again,—but not on earth.
“Leave we the beauteous valleys to the happy,
I love the stony stillness of my cell;
For me ’tis bliss enough to see thee living,
And in the evening thy loved voice to hear.
And in this silence, Alf, beloved, we may
Heal every suffering, sweeten every pang,
All treasons, murders, burnings, cast aside,
Strive thou to come but earlier and more frequent.
“If thou shouldst—listen, on these very plains,
Like to that arbour plant another bower,
And hither bring those willows that thou lovest,
And flowers, and even that stone from out the valley;
There let the children from the hamlet near,
Play joyously beneath their native trees,
And into garlands weave their native plants;
Let them repeat the Lithuanian songs,
For native song doth meditation aid,
And brings me dreams of Litwa and of thee.
And later, later, when my life is o’er,
Here let them sing, and on the grave of Alf.”
Alf heard no longer; he, on that wild shore,
Wandered on aimless, without thought or will;
A mountain there of ice, a forest there
Allured him; savage sights and hasty course
Afforded him relief in weariness.
His breast was heavy in the winter rain,
He cast aside his mantle, coat-of-mail,
He tore his garments, from his breast threw off
All—all but sorrow!
Now morning lighted on the city ramparts.
He saw an unknown shadow, stopped, and gazed—
The shadow further moved; with silent steps
It glided o’er the snow, and disappeared
Within the trenches, but a voice was heard
Three times that voice repeated: “Woe, woe, woe!”
Alf at this voice awoke, and stood in thought
He thought awhile,—and understood the whole.
He drew his sword, and looked to every side;
He turned him round, searched with unquiet eye—
’Twas waste around; only the winter snow
Flew in a whirlwind, and the north wind roared
He looked upon the shore, he stood in grief.
At length with rapid stride, though tottering,
He came again beneath Aldona’s tower.
Far off he saw her, at the window still.
“Good day!” he cried; “so many, many years,
We saw each other only in the night.
And now good day! what happy augury!
The first good day after so many years!
And canst thou guess, wherefore I come so soon?”