VERSION OF A FRAGMENT OF SIMONIDES.

The night winds howled, the billows dashed
Against the tossing chest,
As Danae to her broken heart
Her slumbering infant pressed.

“My little child” in tears she said
“To wake and weep is mine,
But thou canst sleep thou dost not know
Thy mother’s lot, and thine.

“The moon is up, the moonbeams smile
They tremble on the main;
But dark, within my floating cell,
To me they smile in vain.

“Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm,
Thy clustering locks are dry;
Thou dost not hear the shrieking gust,
Nor breakers booming high.

“As o’er thy sweet unconscious face
A mournful watch I keep,
I think, didst thou but know thy fate,
How thou wouldst also weep.

“Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep, ye winds,
That vex the restless brine
When shall these eyes, my babe, be sealed
As peacefully as thine!”

FROM THE SPANISH OF VILLEGAS

’Tis sweet, in the green Spring,
To gaze upon the wakening fields around;
Birds in the thicket sing,
Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground.
A thousand odors rise,
Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes.

Shadowy, and close, and cool,
The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook;
Forever fresh and full,
Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook;
And the soft herbage seems
Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams.

Thou, who alone art fair,
And whom alone I love, art far away.
Unless thy smile be there,
It makes me sad to see the earth so gay;
I care not if the train
Of leaves, and flowers, and zéphyrs go again.

MARY MAGDALEN

FROM THE SPANISH OF BARTOLOME LEONARDO DE ARGENSOLA.

Blessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted!
The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn,
In wonder and in scorn!
Thou weepest days of innocence departed;
Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move
The Lord to pity and love.

The greatest of thy follies is forgiven,
Even for the least of all the tears that shine
On that pale cheek of thine.
Thou didst kneel down, to Him who came from heaven,
Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise
Holy, and pure, and wise.

It is not much that to the fragrant blossom
The ragged brier should change, the bitter fir
Distil Arabian myrrh;
Nor that, upon the wintry desert’s bosom,
The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain
Bear home the abundant grain.

But come and see the bleak and barren mountains
Thick to their tops with roses; come and see
Leaves on the dry dead tree.
The perished plant, set out by lining fountains,
Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise,
Forever, toward the skies.

THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED.

FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEON.

Region of life and light!
Land of the good whose earthly toils are o’er!
Nor frost nor heat may blight
Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore,
Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore.

There, without crook or sling,
Walks the good shepherd; blossoms white and red
Round his meek temples cling;
And to sweet pastures led,
The flock he loves beneath his eye is fed.

He guides, and near him they
Follow delighted, for he makes them go
Where dwells eternal May,
And heavenly roses blow,
Deathless, and gathered but again to grow.

He leads them to the height
Named of the infinite and long-sought Good,
And fountains of delight;
And where his feet have stood
Springs up, along the way, their tender food.

And when, in the mid skies,
The climbing sun has reached his highest bound,
Reposing as he lies,
With all his flock around,
He witches the still air with numerous sound.

From his sweet lute flow forth
Immortal harmonies, of power to still
All passions born of earth,
And draw the ardent will
Its destiny of goodness to fulfil.

Might but a little part,
A wandering breath of that high melody,
Descend into my heart,
And change it till it be
Transformed and swallowed up, oh love, in thee!

Ah! then my soul should know,
Beloved! where thou liest at noon of day,
And from this place of woe
Released, should take its way
To mingle with thy flock and never stray.

FATIMA AND RADUAN.

FROM THE SPANISH.

Diamante falso y fingido,
Engastado en pedernal, etc.

“False diamond set in flint! hard heart in haughty breast!
By a softer, warmer bosom the tiger’s couch is prest.
Thou art fickle as the sea, thou art wandering as the wind,
And the restless ever-mounting flame is not more hard to bind.
If the tears I shed were tongues, yet all too few would be
To tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown to me.
Oh! I could chide thee sharply but every maiden knows
That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.

“Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Granada’s maids,
Thou hast said that by the side of me the first and fairest fades;
And they thought thy heart was mine, and it seemed to every one
That what thou didst to win my love, for love of me was done.
Alas! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know,
They well might see another mark to which thine arrows go;
But thou giv’st me little heed for I speak to one who knows
That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.

“It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep and bear
What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own with care.
Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah! thou know’st I feel
That cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades of steel.
’Twas the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my heart with pain;
But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again.
I would proclaim thee as thou art but every maiden knows
That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.”

Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan,
Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra’s fountains ran.
The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as he was,
He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus his cause:
“Oh lady, dry those star-like eyes their dimness does me wrong;
If my heart be made of flint, at least ’twill keep thy image long.
Thou hast uttered cruel words but I grieve the less for those,
Since she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.”

LOVE AND FOLLY

FROM LA FONTAINE.

Love’s worshippers alone can know
The thousand mysteries that are his;
His blazing torch, his twanging bow,
His blooming age are mysteries.
A charming science but the day
Were all too short to con it o’er;
So take of me this little lay,
A sample of its boundless lore.

As once, beneath the fragrant shade
Of myrtles fresh in heaven’s pure air,
The children, Love and Folly, played,
A quarrel rose betwixt the pair.
Love said the gods should do him right
But Folly vowed to do it then,
And struck him, o’er the orbs of sight,
So hard he never saw again.

His lovely mother’s grief was deep,
She called for vengeance on the deed;
A beauty does not vainly weep,
Nor coldly does a mother plead.
A shade came o’er the eternal bliss
That fills the dwellers of the skies;
Even stony-hearted Nemesis,
And Rhadamanthus, wiped their eyes.

“Behold,” she said, “this lovely boy,”
While streamed afresh her graceful tears
“Immortal, yet shut out from joy
And sunshine, all his future years.
The child can never take, you see,
A single step without a staff
The hardest punishment would be
Too lenient for the crime by half.”

All said that Love had suffered wrong,
And well that wrong should be repaid;
Then weighed the public interest long,
And long the party’s interest weighed.
And thus decreed the court above:
“Since Love is blind from Folly’s blow,
Let Folly be the guide of Love,
Where’er the boy may choose to go.”

THE SIESTA

FROM THE SPANISH.

Vientecico murmurador,
Que lo gozas y andas todo, etc.

Airs, that wander and murmur round,
Bearing delight where’er ye blow!
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.

Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest,
Till the heat of the noonday sun is o’er.
Sweet be her slumbers! though in my breast
The pain she has waked may slumber no more.

Breathing soft from the blue profound,
Bearing delight where’er ye blow,
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.

Airs! that over the bending boughs,
And under the shade of pendent leaves,
Murmur soft, like my timid vows
Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves

Gently sweeping the grassy ground,
Bearing delight where’er ye blow,
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.

THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA

FROM THE SPANISH.

To the town of Atienza, Molina’s brave Alcayde,
The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade.
The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound,
With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound.
He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vain,
And toward his lady’s dwelling he rode with slackened rein;
Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third,
From the door of her balcony Zelinda’s voice was heard.
“Now if thou wert not shameless,” said the lady to the Moor,
“Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door.
Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood,
That one in love with peace should have loved a man of blood!
Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight,
But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight.
Ah, thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to see
How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree.
Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fife
Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife.
Say not my voice is magic thy pleasure is to hear
The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear.
Well, follow thou thy choice to the battle-field away,
To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they.
Thrust thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand,
And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand.
Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead,
On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed.
Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks,
From Almazan’s broad meadows to Siguenza’s rocks.
Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long,
And in the life thou lovest, forget whom thou dost wrong.
These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine own,
Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone.”
She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry cheek,
Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak.

THE DEATH OF ALIATAR

FROM THE SPANISH.

’Tis not with gilded sabres
That gleam in baldricks blue,
Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez,
Of gay and gaudy hue
But, habited in mourning weeds,
Come marching from afar,
By four and four, the valiant men
Who fought with Aliatar.
All mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

The banner of the Phoenix,
The flag that loved the sky,
That scarce the wind dared wanton with,
It flew so proud and high
Now leaves its place in battle-field,
And sweeps the ground in grief,
The bearer drags its glorious folds
Behind the fallen chief,
As mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

Brave Aliatar led forward
A hundred Moors to go
To where his brother held Motril
Against the leaguering foe.
On horseback went the gallant Moor,
That gallant band to lead;
And now his bier is at the gate,
From which he pricked his steed.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

The knights of the Grand Master
In crowded ambush lay;
They rushed upon him where the reeds
Were thick beside the way;
They smote the valiant Aliatar,
They smote the warrior dead,
And broken, but not beaten, were
The gallant ranks he led.
Now mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

Oh! what was Zayda’s sorrow,
How passionate her cries!
Her lover’s wounds streamed not more free
Than that poor maiden’s eyes.
Say, Love for didst thou see her tears
Oh, no! he drew more tight
The blinding fillet o’er his lids
To spare his eyes the sight.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

Nor Zayda weeps him only,
But all that dwell between
The great Alhambra’s palace walls
And springs of Albaicin.
The ladies weep the flower of knights,
The brave the bravest here;
The people weep a champion,
The Alcaydes a noble peer.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

LOVE IN THE AGE OF CHIVALRY

FROM PEYRE VIDAL, THE TROUBADOUR.

The earth was sown with early flowers,
The heavens were blue and bright
I met a youthful cavalier
As lovely as the light.
I knew him not but in my heart
His graceful image lies,
And well I marked his open brow,
His sweet and tender eyes,
His ruddy lips that ever smiled,
His glittering teeth betwixt,
And flowing robe embroidered o’er,
With leaves and blossoms mixed.
He wore a chaplet of the rose;
His palfrey, white and sleek,
Was marked with many an ebon spot,
And many a purple streak;
Of jasper was his saddle-bow,
His housings sapphire stone,
And brightly in his stirrup glanced
The purple calcedon.
Fast rode the gallant cavalier,
As youthful horsemen ride;
“Peyre Vidal! know that I am Love,”
The blooming stranger cried;
“And this is Mercy by my side,
A dame of high degree;
This maid is Chastity,” he said,
“This squire is Loyalty.”

THE LOVE OF GOD

FROM THE PROVENCAL OF BERNARD RASCAS.

All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away,
Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
The forms of men shall be as they had never been;
The blasted groves shall lose their fresh and tender green;
The birds of the thicket shall end their pleasant song,
And the nightingale shall cease to chant the evening long;
The kine of the pasture shall feel the dart that kills,
And all the fair white flocks shall perish from the hills.
The goat and antlered stag, the wolf and the fox,
The wild-boar of the wood, and the chamois of the rocks,
And the strong and fearless bear, in the trodden dust shall lie;
And the dolphin of the sea, and the mighty whale, shall die.
And realms shall be dissolved, and empires be no more,
And they shall bow to death, who ruled from shore to shore;
And the great globe itself, so the holy writings tell,
With the rolling firmament, where the starry armies dwell,
Shall melt with fervent heat they shall all pass away,
Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.

FROM THE SPANISH OF PEDRO DE CASTRO Y ANAYA

Stay rivulet, nor haste to leave
The lovely vale that lies around thee.
Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve,
When but a fount the morning found thee?

Born when the skies began to glow,
Humblest of all the rock’s cold daughters,
No blossom bowed its stalk to show
Where stole thy still and scanty waters.

Now on the stream the noonbeams look,
Usurping, as thou downward driftest,
Its crystal from the clearest brook,
Its rushing current from the swiftest.

Ah! what wild haste! and all to be
A river and expire in ocean.
Each fountain’s tribute hurries thee
To that vast grave with quicker motion.

Far better ’twere to linger still
In this green vale, these flowers to cherish,
And die in peace, an aged rill,
Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish.

SONNET

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF SEMEDO.

It is a fearful night; a feeble glare
Streams from the sick moon in the o’erclouded sky;
The ridgy billows, with a mighty cry,
Rush on the foamy beaches wild and bare;
No bark the madness of the waves will dare;
The sailors sleep; the winds are loud and high.
Ah, peerless Laura! for whose love I die,
Who gazes on thy smiles while I despair?
As thus, in bitterness of heart, I cried,
I turned, and saw my Laura, kind and bright,
A messenger of gladness, at my side;
To my poor bark she sprang with footstep light,
And as we furrowed Tago’s heaving tide,
I never saw so beautiful a night.

SONG

FROM THE SPANISH OF IGLESIAS.

Alexis calls me cruel:
The rifted crags that hold
The gathered ice of winter,
He says, are not more cold.

When even the very blossoms
Around the fountain’s brim,
And forest-walks, can witness
The love I bear to him.

I would that I could utter
My feelings without shame,
And tell him how I love him,
Nor wrong my virgin fame.

Alas! to seize the moment
When heart inclines to heart,
And press a suit with passion,
Is not a woman’s part.

If man come not to gather
The roses where they stand,
They fade among their foliage;
They cannot seek his hand.

THE COUNT OF GREIERS

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.

At morn the Count of Greiers before his castle stands;
He sees afar the glory that lights the mountain-lands;
The horned crags are shining, and in the shade between
A pleasant Alpine valley lies beautifully green.

“Oh, greenest of the valleys, how shall I come to thee!
Thy herdsmen and thy maidens, how happy must they be!
I have gazed upon thee coldly, all lovely as thou art,
But the wish to walk thy pastures now stirs my inmost heart.”

He hears a sound of timbrels, and suddenly appear
A troop of ruddy damsels and herdsmen drawing near:
They reach the castle greensward, and gayly dance across;
The white sleeves flit and glimmer, the wreaths and ribbons toss.

The youngest of the maidens, slim as a spray of spring,
She takes the young count’s fingers, and draws him to the ring;
They fling upon his forehead a crown of mountain flowers,
“And ho, young Count of Greiers! this morning thou art ours!”

Then hand in hand departing, with dance and roundelay,
Through hamlet after hamlet, they lead the Count away.
They dance through wood and meadow, they dance across the linn,
Till the mighty Alpine summits have shut the music in.

The second morn is risen, and now the third is come;
Where stays the Count of Greiers? has he forgot his home?
Again the evening closes, in thick and sultry air;
There’s thunder on the mountains, the storm is gathering there.

The cloud has shed its waters, the brook comes swollen down;
You see it by the lightning a river wide and brown.
Around a struggling swimmer the eddies dash and roar,
Till, seizing on a willow, he leaps upon the shore.

“Here am I cast by tempests far from your mountain-dell.
Amid our evening dances the bursting deluge fell.
Ye all, in cots and caverns, have ’scaped the water-spout,
While me alone the tempest overwhelmed and hurried out.

“Farewell, with thy glad dwellers, green vale among the rocks!
Farewell the swift sweet moments, in which I watched thy flocks!
Why rocked they not my cradle in that delicious spot,
That garden of the happy, where Heaven endures me not?

“Rose of the Alpine valley! I feel, in every vein,
Thy soft touch on my fingers; oh, press them not again!
Bewitch me not, ye garlands, to tread that upward track,
And thou, my cheerless mansion, receive thy master back.”

THE SERENADE

FROM THE SPANISH.

If slumber, sweet Lisena!
Have stolen o’er thine eyes,
As night steals o’er the glory
Of spring’s transparent skies;

Wake, in thy scorn and beauty,
And listen to the strain
That murmurs my devotion,
That mourns for thy disdain.

Here, by thy door at midnight,
I pass the dreary hour,
With plaintive sounds profaning
The silence of thy bower;

A tale of sorrow cherished
Too fondly to depart,
Of wrong from love the flatterer
And my own wayward heart.

Twice, o’er this vale, the seasons
Have brought and borne away
The January tempest,
The genial wind of May;

Yet still my plaint is uttered,
My tears and sighs are given
To earth’s unconscious waters,
And wandering winds of heaven.

I saw, from this fair region,
The smile of summer pass,
And myriard frost-stars glitter
Among the russet grass.

While winter seized the streamlets
That fled along the ground,
And fast in chains of crystal
The truant murmurers bound.

I saw that to the forest
The nightingales had flown,
And every sweet-voiced fountain
Had hushed its silver tone.

The maniac winds, divorcing
The turtle from his mate,
Raved through the leafy beeches,
And left them desolate.

Now May, with life and music,
The blooming valley fills,
And rears her flowery arches
For all the little rills.

The minstrel bird of evening
Comes back on joyous wings,
And, like the harp’s soft murmur,
Is heard the gush of springs.

And deep within the forest
Are wedded turtles seen,
Their nuptial chambers seeking,
Their chambers close and green.

The rugged trees are mingling
Their flowery sprays in love;
The ivy climbs the laurel,
To clasp the boughs above.

They change but thou, Lisena,
Art cold while I complain:
Why to thy lover only
Should spring return in vain?

A NORTHERN LEGEND

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.

There sits a lovely maiden,
The ocean murmuring nigh;
She throws the hook, and watches;
The fishes pass it by.

A ring, with a red jewel,
Is sparkling on her hand;
Upon the hook she binds it,
And flings it from the land.

Uprises from the water
A hand like ivory fair.
What gleams upon its finger?
The golden ring is there.

Uprises from the bottom
A young and handsome knight;
In golden scales he rises,
That glitter in the light.

The maid is pale with terror
“Nay, Knight of Ocean, nay,
It was not thou I wanted;
Let go the ring, I pray.”

“Ah, maiden, not to fishes
The bait of gold is thrown;
Thy ring shall never leave me,
And thou must be my own.”

THE PARADISE OF TEARS

FROM THE GERMAN OF N. MUeELLER.

Beside the River of Tears, with branches low,
And bitter leaves, the weeping-willows grow;
The branches stream like the dishevelled hair
Of women in the sadness of despair.

On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh;
The rocks moan wildly as it passes by;
Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand,
And not a flower adorns the dreary land.

Then comes a child, whose face is like the sun,
And dips the gloomy waters as they run,
And waters all the region, and behold
The ground is bright with blossoms manifold.

Where fall the tears of love the rose appears,
And where the ground is bright with friendship’s tears,
Forget-me-not, and violets, heavenly blue,
Spring, glittering with the cheerful drops like dew.

The souls of mourners, all whose tears are dried,
Like swans, come gently floating down the tide,
Walk up the golden sands by which it flows,
And in that Paradise of Tears repose.

There every heart rejoins its kindred heart;
There in a long embrace that none may part,
Fulfilment meets desire, and that fair shore
Beholds its dwellers happy evermore.

THE LADY OF CASTLE WINDECK

FROM THE GERMAN OF CHAMISSO.

Rein in thy snorting charger!
That stag but cheats thy sight;
He is luring thee on to Windeck,
With his seeming fear and flight.

Now, where the mouldering turrets
Of the outer gate arise,
The knight gazed over the ruins
Where the stag was lost to his eyes.

The sun shone hot above him;
The castle was still as death;
He wiped the sweat from his forehead,
With a deep and weary breath.

“Who now will bring me a beaker
Of the rich old wine that here,
In the choked-up vaults of Windeck,
Has lain for many a year?”

The careless words had scarcely
Time from his lips to fall,
When the lady of Castle Windeck,
Came round the ivy-wall.

He saw the glorious maiden
In her snow-white drapery stand,
The bunch of keys at her girdle,
The beaker high in her hand.

He quaffed that rich old vintage;
With an eager lip he quaffed;
But he took into his bosom
A fire with the grateful draught.

Her eyes’ unfathomed brightness!
The flowing gold of her hair!
He folded his hands in homage,
And murmured a lover’s prayer.

She gave him a look of pity,
A gentle look of pain;
And, quickly as he had seen her,
She passed from his sight again.

And ever, from that moment,
He haunted the ruins there,
A sleepless, restless wanderer,
A watcher with despair.

Ghost-like and pale he wandered,
With a dreamy, haggard eye;
He seemed not one of the living,
And yet he could not die.

’Tis said that the lady met him,
When many years had past,
And kissing his lips, released him
From the burden of life at last.