RICCARDO STEPHENS
O have ye heard of Angus Blair,Who lived long since in black Auchmair?And have ye heard old pipers tellHis story—how he piped in Hell?When Angus piped the old grew young,Crutches across the floor were flung;Nay more, ’twas said his witching breathHad robbed the grave, and cheated death.Above all else, a march of warWas what men praised and feared him for;When that he played, like fire it ranIn blood and brain of every man;Then stiffened hair began to rise,Bent brows scowled over staring eyes;Then, at his will, men spilt their bloodLike water of a winter flood,Swearing, with Angus, ill or well,They’d charge light-hearted into Hell.Long years, through many a feast and fray,Did Piper Angus pipe his way;Till, swept upon the swirling tideOf a night-charge, he sank and died.That night the Piper rose to treadThe ways that lie before the dead.He saw God’s battlements afarBlazing behind the utmost star,And turning in the chill night air,Thought he might find a shelter there.But as he turned to leave the earth,With all its music, maids, and mirth,The battered pipes beneath his feetScreamed out a wailing, last retreat;Then Piper Angus paused, and thoughtOf the wild work those pipes had wrought;“But there,” quoth he, “in peace and rest,Up there, the holy ones, the blest,Praise aye the Lord, and aye they sing,While golden harps and cymbals ring.To my wild march or mad strathspeyThe heavenly host would say me nay,And none would hear my chanter moreUnless the Lord went out to war.But often have I heard men tellHow they would follow pipes to Hell:That way I’ll try: in Hell maybeSome corner’s kept for them and me.”So said, so done—for well contentDown the dark way to Hell he went.The Chanter felt his finger-tips,The Blow-pipe thrilled between his lips,The Drones across his shoulder flung,Moaned till the Earth’s foundations rung,The streamers flaunted on the blastAs, striding smoke and shadow past,With bonnet cocked, and careless air,Piping his march, went Piper Blair.Down where the shackled earthquakes dwellAre piled the reeking halls of Hell.Their walls are steel, their gates are brass;Round them four flaming rivers pass;And sleepless sentinels are setOn every point and parapet,To hedge the souls whose far-off criesUp to the world may never rise.That night, so still the whole place seemed,You’d think all Hell had peace, and dreamedFor the dark Master, brooding ayeOver lost hope and ancient fray,Had, from his vantage, pale and grim,Perchance to please a passing whim,Hissed down a word which quelled and cowedAnd silenced all that shuddering crowd.So now aloft upon his throneHe sat indifferent, alone,While poor damned souls who dared not cryIn writhing droves went whirling by.These, dumb, before he noted aught,Some strange and wandering sound now caught.And first a little note they heardFar off—and like a lonely bird;And then it grew, and grew, and grew,As near and nearer still it drew,Until Hell’s Lord in slow surpriseTurned on the gates his weary eyes.Then they that bent beneath a loadStood up, nor felt the fiery goad.Then they that trod on forks of flameTramped to the wild notes as they came.Then, look, old foes of long agoFeel old revenge revive and glow.Then, heedless of the flaming whip,They roll in one another’s gripWith shout and shriek and throttled jeer,—And over all the pipes rang clear.But from the march those pipes turned soon,And sank, to sing another tune;A low lament, whose sobbing wailFilled aching hearts and made them fail.And they that fought a breath agoNow wept at one another’s woe.A second change—a lilting airMade Hell look bright, made Hell look fair,And wretches gasping new from deathFollowed the tune beneath their breath—Then, piping yet, erect, alone,The Piper stood before the throne.Up rose the Master in his place,Eyeing the Piper’s careless face,“No room, no room in Hell can beFor Piper Angus Blair,” cried he;“Would to such sounds my host had trodEre I was hurled down here by God;Mine hadst thou been, before I fell,I’d rule in Heav’n now—not in Hell.Then every night and every dayOn Heav’n’s high ramparts shouldst thou play,But here—here’s neither war nor mirth,Nor more in Heav’n; so back to Earth.”Thus now, as over glen and braeThe wild wind wanders on its way,Dead Piper Angus Blair goes too,And pipes and pipes the whole world through.Unseen, unknown he goes. To-dayHe’ll pipe perchance for bairns at playTo set them dancing: maybe stealTo-night to watch a roaring reel.There, when the panting pipers tire,He joins, and sets all hearts afire;And ere the dawn his pipes have pealedFiercely across some stricken field.But when each year is at its closeRight down the road to Hell he goes.There the gaunt porters all a-grinFling back the gates to let him in,Then damned and devil, one and all,Make mirth and hold high carnival,The while the Master sits apartPlotting rebellion in his heart.Till, when above the dawn is grey,The Piper turns and tramps away.
O have ye heard of Angus Blair,Who lived long since in black Auchmair?And have ye heard old pipers tellHis story—how he piped in Hell?When Angus piped the old grew young,Crutches across the floor were flung;Nay more, ’twas said his witching breathHad robbed the grave, and cheated death.Above all else, a march of warWas what men praised and feared him for;When that he played, like fire it ranIn blood and brain of every man;Then stiffened hair began to rise,Bent brows scowled over staring eyes;Then, at his will, men spilt their bloodLike water of a winter flood,Swearing, with Angus, ill or well,They’d charge light-hearted into Hell.Long years, through many a feast and fray,Did Piper Angus pipe his way;Till, swept upon the swirling tideOf a night-charge, he sank and died.That night the Piper rose to treadThe ways that lie before the dead.He saw God’s battlements afarBlazing behind the utmost star,And turning in the chill night air,Thought he might find a shelter there.But as he turned to leave the earth,With all its music, maids, and mirth,The battered pipes beneath his feetScreamed out a wailing, last retreat;Then Piper Angus paused, and thoughtOf the wild work those pipes had wrought;“But there,” quoth he, “in peace and rest,Up there, the holy ones, the blest,Praise aye the Lord, and aye they sing,While golden harps and cymbals ring.To my wild march or mad strathspeyThe heavenly host would say me nay,And none would hear my chanter moreUnless the Lord went out to war.But often have I heard men tellHow they would follow pipes to Hell:That way I’ll try: in Hell maybeSome corner’s kept for them and me.”So said, so done—for well contentDown the dark way to Hell he went.The Chanter felt his finger-tips,The Blow-pipe thrilled between his lips,The Drones across his shoulder flung,Moaned till the Earth’s foundations rung,The streamers flaunted on the blastAs, striding smoke and shadow past,With bonnet cocked, and careless air,Piping his march, went Piper Blair.Down where the shackled earthquakes dwellAre piled the reeking halls of Hell.Their walls are steel, their gates are brass;Round them four flaming rivers pass;And sleepless sentinels are setOn every point and parapet,To hedge the souls whose far-off criesUp to the world may never rise.That night, so still the whole place seemed,You’d think all Hell had peace, and dreamedFor the dark Master, brooding ayeOver lost hope and ancient fray,Had, from his vantage, pale and grim,Perchance to please a passing whim,Hissed down a word which quelled and cowedAnd silenced all that shuddering crowd.So now aloft upon his throneHe sat indifferent, alone,While poor damned souls who dared not cryIn writhing droves went whirling by.These, dumb, before he noted aught,Some strange and wandering sound now caught.And first a little note they heardFar off—and like a lonely bird;And then it grew, and grew, and grew,As near and nearer still it drew,Until Hell’s Lord in slow surpriseTurned on the gates his weary eyes.Then they that bent beneath a loadStood up, nor felt the fiery goad.Then they that trod on forks of flameTramped to the wild notes as they came.Then, look, old foes of long agoFeel old revenge revive and glow.Then, heedless of the flaming whip,They roll in one another’s gripWith shout and shriek and throttled jeer,—And over all the pipes rang clear.But from the march those pipes turned soon,And sank, to sing another tune;A low lament, whose sobbing wailFilled aching hearts and made them fail.And they that fought a breath agoNow wept at one another’s woe.A second change—a lilting airMade Hell look bright, made Hell look fair,And wretches gasping new from deathFollowed the tune beneath their breath—Then, piping yet, erect, alone,The Piper stood before the throne.Up rose the Master in his place,Eyeing the Piper’s careless face,“No room, no room in Hell can beFor Piper Angus Blair,” cried he;“Would to such sounds my host had trodEre I was hurled down here by God;Mine hadst thou been, before I fell,I’d rule in Heav’n now—not in Hell.Then every night and every dayOn Heav’n’s high ramparts shouldst thou play,But here—here’s neither war nor mirth,Nor more in Heav’n; so back to Earth.”Thus now, as over glen and braeThe wild wind wanders on its way,Dead Piper Angus Blair goes too,And pipes and pipes the whole world through.Unseen, unknown he goes. To-dayHe’ll pipe perchance for bairns at playTo set them dancing: maybe stealTo-night to watch a roaring reel.There, when the panting pipers tire,He joins, and sets all hearts afire;And ere the dawn his pipes have pealedFiercely across some stricken field.But when each year is at its closeRight down the road to Hell he goes.There the gaunt porters all a-grinFling back the gates to let him in,Then damned and devil, one and all,Make mirth and hold high carnival,The while the Master sits apartPlotting rebellion in his heart.Till, when above the dawn is grey,The Piper turns and tramps away.
O have ye heard of Angus Blair,Who lived long since in black Auchmair?And have ye heard old pipers tellHis story—how he piped in Hell?When Angus piped the old grew young,Crutches across the floor were flung;Nay more, ’twas said his witching breathHad robbed the grave, and cheated death.
Above all else, a march of warWas what men praised and feared him for;When that he played, like fire it ranIn blood and brain of every man;Then stiffened hair began to rise,Bent brows scowled over staring eyes;Then, at his will, men spilt their bloodLike water of a winter flood,Swearing, with Angus, ill or well,They’d charge light-hearted into Hell.
Long years, through many a feast and fray,Did Piper Angus pipe his way;Till, swept upon the swirling tideOf a night-charge, he sank and died.
That night the Piper rose to treadThe ways that lie before the dead.He saw God’s battlements afarBlazing behind the utmost star,And turning in the chill night air,Thought he might find a shelter there.
But as he turned to leave the earth,With all its music, maids, and mirth,The battered pipes beneath his feetScreamed out a wailing, last retreat;Then Piper Angus paused, and thoughtOf the wild work those pipes had wrought;“But there,” quoth he, “in peace and rest,Up there, the holy ones, the blest,Praise aye the Lord, and aye they sing,While golden harps and cymbals ring.To my wild march or mad strathspeyThe heavenly host would say me nay,And none would hear my chanter moreUnless the Lord went out to war.But often have I heard men tellHow they would follow pipes to Hell:That way I’ll try: in Hell maybeSome corner’s kept for them and me.”
So said, so done—for well contentDown the dark way to Hell he went.The Chanter felt his finger-tips,The Blow-pipe thrilled between his lips,The Drones across his shoulder flung,Moaned till the Earth’s foundations rung,The streamers flaunted on the blastAs, striding smoke and shadow past,With bonnet cocked, and careless air,Piping his march, went Piper Blair.
Down where the shackled earthquakes dwellAre piled the reeking halls of Hell.Their walls are steel, their gates are brass;Round them four flaming rivers pass;And sleepless sentinels are setOn every point and parapet,To hedge the souls whose far-off criesUp to the world may never rise.
That night, so still the whole place seemed,You’d think all Hell had peace, and dreamedFor the dark Master, brooding ayeOver lost hope and ancient fray,Had, from his vantage, pale and grim,Perchance to please a passing whim,Hissed down a word which quelled and cowedAnd silenced all that shuddering crowd.So now aloft upon his throneHe sat indifferent, alone,While poor damned souls who dared not cryIn writhing droves went whirling by.These, dumb, before he noted aught,Some strange and wandering sound now caught.
And first a little note they heardFar off—and like a lonely bird;And then it grew, and grew, and grew,As near and nearer still it drew,Until Hell’s Lord in slow surpriseTurned on the gates his weary eyes.
Then they that bent beneath a loadStood up, nor felt the fiery goad.Then they that trod on forks of flameTramped to the wild notes as they came.Then, look, old foes of long agoFeel old revenge revive and glow.Then, heedless of the flaming whip,They roll in one another’s gripWith shout and shriek and throttled jeer,—And over all the pipes rang clear.
But from the march those pipes turned soon,And sank, to sing another tune;A low lament, whose sobbing wailFilled aching hearts and made them fail.And they that fought a breath agoNow wept at one another’s woe.
A second change—a lilting airMade Hell look bright, made Hell look fair,And wretches gasping new from deathFollowed the tune beneath their breath—Then, piping yet, erect, alone,The Piper stood before the throne.
Up rose the Master in his place,Eyeing the Piper’s careless face,“No room, no room in Hell can beFor Piper Angus Blair,” cried he;“Would to such sounds my host had trodEre I was hurled down here by God;Mine hadst thou been, before I fell,I’d rule in Heav’n now—not in Hell.Then every night and every dayOn Heav’n’s high ramparts shouldst thou play,But here—here’s neither war nor mirth,Nor more in Heav’n; so back to Earth.”
Thus now, as over glen and braeThe wild wind wanders on its way,Dead Piper Angus Blair goes too,And pipes and pipes the whole world through.Unseen, unknown he goes. To-dayHe’ll pipe perchance for bairns at playTo set them dancing: maybe stealTo-night to watch a roaring reel.There, when the panting pipers tire,He joins, and sets all hearts afire;And ere the dawn his pipes have pealedFiercely across some stricken field.But when each year is at its closeRight down the road to Hell he goes.There the gaunt porters all a-grinFling back the gates to let him in,Then damned and devil, one and all,Make mirth and hold high carnival,The while the Master sits apartPlotting rebellion in his heart.Till, when above the dawn is grey,The Piper turns and tramps away.
O Breiz-Izel, O Kaera bro!Koat enn hi c’ hreiz, mor enn he zro!
O Breiz-Izel, O Kaera bro!Koat enn hi c’ hreiz, mor enn he zro!
O Breiz-Izel, O Kaera bro!Koat enn hi c’ hreiz, mor enn he zro!
MEDIÆVAL BRETON
My wooden shoes I’ve lost them, my naked feet I’ve tornA-following my sweeting through field and brake of thorn;The rain may beat, and fall the sleet, and ice chill to the bone,But they’re no stay to hold away the lover from his own.My sweeting is no older than I that love her so:She’s scarce seventeen, her face is fair, her cheeks like roses glow.In her eyes there is a fire, sweetest speech her lips doth part;Her love it is a prison where I’ve locked up my heart.Oh, to what shall I liken her, that a wrong it shall not be?To the pretty little white rose, that is called Rose-Marie?The pearl of girls; the lily when among the flowers it grows,The lily newly opened, among flowers about to close.When I came to thee a-wooing, my sweet, my gentle May,I was as is the nightingale upon the hawthorn spray:When he would sleep the thorns they keep a-pricking in his breast,That he flies up perforce and sings upon the tree’s tall crest.I am as is the nightingale, or as a soul must beThat in the purgatory fires lies longing to be free,Waiting the blessèd time when I unto your house shall come,All with the marriage-messenger[32]bearing his branch of broom.Ah, me! my stars are froward: ’gainst nature is my state;Since in this world I came I’ve dreed a dark and dismal fate:I have nor living kin nor friends, mother nor father dear,There is no Christian on earth to wish me happy here.There lives no one hath had to bear so much of grief and shameFor your sweet sake as I have, since in this world I came;And therefore on my bended knees, in God’s dear name I sue,Have pity on your own poor clerk, that loveth only you!
My wooden shoes I’ve lost them, my naked feet I’ve tornA-following my sweeting through field and brake of thorn;The rain may beat, and fall the sleet, and ice chill to the bone,But they’re no stay to hold away the lover from his own.My sweeting is no older than I that love her so:She’s scarce seventeen, her face is fair, her cheeks like roses glow.In her eyes there is a fire, sweetest speech her lips doth part;Her love it is a prison where I’ve locked up my heart.Oh, to what shall I liken her, that a wrong it shall not be?To the pretty little white rose, that is called Rose-Marie?The pearl of girls; the lily when among the flowers it grows,The lily newly opened, among flowers about to close.When I came to thee a-wooing, my sweet, my gentle May,I was as is the nightingale upon the hawthorn spray:When he would sleep the thorns they keep a-pricking in his breast,That he flies up perforce and sings upon the tree’s tall crest.I am as is the nightingale, or as a soul must beThat in the purgatory fires lies longing to be free,Waiting the blessèd time when I unto your house shall come,All with the marriage-messenger[32]bearing his branch of broom.Ah, me! my stars are froward: ’gainst nature is my state;Since in this world I came I’ve dreed a dark and dismal fate:I have nor living kin nor friends, mother nor father dear,There is no Christian on earth to wish me happy here.There lives no one hath had to bear so much of grief and shameFor your sweet sake as I have, since in this world I came;And therefore on my bended knees, in God’s dear name I sue,Have pity on your own poor clerk, that loveth only you!
My wooden shoes I’ve lost them, my naked feet I’ve tornA-following my sweeting through field and brake of thorn;The rain may beat, and fall the sleet, and ice chill to the bone,But they’re no stay to hold away the lover from his own.
My sweeting is no older than I that love her so:She’s scarce seventeen, her face is fair, her cheeks like roses glow.In her eyes there is a fire, sweetest speech her lips doth part;Her love it is a prison where I’ve locked up my heart.
Oh, to what shall I liken her, that a wrong it shall not be?To the pretty little white rose, that is called Rose-Marie?The pearl of girls; the lily when among the flowers it grows,The lily newly opened, among flowers about to close.
When I came to thee a-wooing, my sweet, my gentle May,I was as is the nightingale upon the hawthorn spray:When he would sleep the thorns they keep a-pricking in his breast,That he flies up perforce and sings upon the tree’s tall crest.
I am as is the nightingale, or as a soul must beThat in the purgatory fires lies longing to be free,Waiting the blessèd time when I unto your house shall come,All with the marriage-messenger[32]bearing his branch of broom.
Ah, me! my stars are froward: ’gainst nature is my state;Since in this world I came I’ve dreed a dark and dismal fate:I have nor living kin nor friends, mother nor father dear,There is no Christian on earth to wish me happy here.
There lives no one hath had to bear so much of grief and shameFor your sweet sake as I have, since in this world I came;And therefore on my bended knees, in God’s dear name I sue,Have pity on your own poor clerk, that loveth only you!
MEDIÆVAL BRETON
Sweet in the green-wood a birdie sings,Golden-yellow its two bright wings,Red its heartikin, blue its crest:Oh, but it sings with the sweetest breast!Early, early it ’lighted downOn the edge of my ingle-stone,As I prayed my morning prayer,—“Tell me thy errand, birdie fair.”Then sung it as many sweet things to meAs there are roses on the rose-tree:“Take a sweetheart, lad, an’ you may;To gladden your heart both night and day.”Past the cross by the way as I went,Monday, I saw her fair as a saint:Sunday, I will go to mass,There on the green I’ll see her pass.Water poured in a beaker clear,Dimmer shows than the eyes of my dear;Pearls themselves are not more brightThan her little teeth, pure and white.Then her hands and her cheek of snow,Whiter than milk in a black pail, show.Yes, if you could my sweetheart see,She would charm the heart from thee.Had I as many crowns at my beck,As hath the Marquis of Poncalec;Had I a gold-mine at my door,—Wanting my sweetheart, I were poor.If on my door-sill up should comeGolden flowers for furze and broom,Till my court were with gold piled high,Little I’d reck, but she were by.Doves must have their close warm nest,Corpses must have the tomb for rest;Souls to Paradise must depart,—And I, my love, must to thy heart.Every Monday at dawn of dayI’ll on my knees to the cross by the way;At the new cross by the way I’ll bend,In thy honour, my gentle friend!
Sweet in the green-wood a birdie sings,Golden-yellow its two bright wings,Red its heartikin, blue its crest:Oh, but it sings with the sweetest breast!Early, early it ’lighted downOn the edge of my ingle-stone,As I prayed my morning prayer,—“Tell me thy errand, birdie fair.”Then sung it as many sweet things to meAs there are roses on the rose-tree:“Take a sweetheart, lad, an’ you may;To gladden your heart both night and day.”Past the cross by the way as I went,Monday, I saw her fair as a saint:Sunday, I will go to mass,There on the green I’ll see her pass.Water poured in a beaker clear,Dimmer shows than the eyes of my dear;Pearls themselves are not more brightThan her little teeth, pure and white.Then her hands and her cheek of snow,Whiter than milk in a black pail, show.Yes, if you could my sweetheart see,She would charm the heart from thee.Had I as many crowns at my beck,As hath the Marquis of Poncalec;Had I a gold-mine at my door,—Wanting my sweetheart, I were poor.If on my door-sill up should comeGolden flowers for furze and broom,Till my court were with gold piled high,Little I’d reck, but she were by.Doves must have their close warm nest,Corpses must have the tomb for rest;Souls to Paradise must depart,—And I, my love, must to thy heart.Every Monday at dawn of dayI’ll on my knees to the cross by the way;At the new cross by the way I’ll bend,In thy honour, my gentle friend!
Sweet in the green-wood a birdie sings,Golden-yellow its two bright wings,Red its heartikin, blue its crest:Oh, but it sings with the sweetest breast!
Early, early it ’lighted downOn the edge of my ingle-stone,As I prayed my morning prayer,—“Tell me thy errand, birdie fair.”
Then sung it as many sweet things to meAs there are roses on the rose-tree:“Take a sweetheart, lad, an’ you may;To gladden your heart both night and day.”
Past the cross by the way as I went,Monday, I saw her fair as a saint:Sunday, I will go to mass,There on the green I’ll see her pass.
Water poured in a beaker clear,Dimmer shows than the eyes of my dear;Pearls themselves are not more brightThan her little teeth, pure and white.
Then her hands and her cheek of snow,Whiter than milk in a black pail, show.Yes, if you could my sweetheart see,She would charm the heart from thee.
Had I as many crowns at my beck,As hath the Marquis of Poncalec;Had I a gold-mine at my door,—Wanting my sweetheart, I were poor.
If on my door-sill up should comeGolden flowers for furze and broom,Till my court were with gold piled high,Little I’d reck, but she were by.
Doves must have their close warm nest,Corpses must have the tomb for rest;Souls to Paradise must depart,—And I, my love, must to thy heart.
Every Monday at dawn of dayI’ll on my knees to the cross by the way;At the new cross by the way I’ll bend,In thy honour, my gentle friend!
LATER BRETON
Each night, each night, as on my bed I lie,I do not sleep, but turn myself and cry.I do not sleep, but turn myself and weep,When I think of her I love so deep.Each day I seek the Wood of Love so dear,In hopes to see you at its streamlet clear.When I see you come through the forest grove,On its leaves I write the secret of my love.—But a fragile trust are the forest leaves,To hold the secrets close which their page receives.When comes the storm of rain, and gusty air,Your secrets close are scattered everywhere.’Twere safer far, young clerk, on my heart to write.Graven deep they’d rest, and never take their flight.
Each night, each night, as on my bed I lie,I do not sleep, but turn myself and cry.I do not sleep, but turn myself and weep,When I think of her I love so deep.Each day I seek the Wood of Love so dear,In hopes to see you at its streamlet clear.When I see you come through the forest grove,On its leaves I write the secret of my love.—But a fragile trust are the forest leaves,To hold the secrets close which their page receives.When comes the storm of rain, and gusty air,Your secrets close are scattered everywhere.’Twere safer far, young clerk, on my heart to write.Graven deep they’d rest, and never take their flight.
Each night, each night, as on my bed I lie,I do not sleep, but turn myself and cry.
I do not sleep, but turn myself and weep,When I think of her I love so deep.
Each day I seek the Wood of Love so dear,In hopes to see you at its streamlet clear.
When I see you come through the forest grove,On its leaves I write the secret of my love.
—But a fragile trust are the forest leaves,To hold the secrets close which their page receives.
When comes the storm of rain, and gusty air,Your secrets close are scattered everywhere.
’Twere safer far, young clerk, on my heart to write.Graven deep they’d rest, and never take their flight.
MODERN BRETON
In the white cabin at the foot of the mountain,Is my sweet, my love:Is my love, is my desire,And all my happiness.Before the night must I see herOr my little heart will break.My little heart will not break,For my lovely dear I have seen.Fifty nights I have beenAt the threshold of her door; she did not know it.The rain and the wind whipped me,Until my garments dripped.Nothing came to console meExcept the sound of breathing from her bed.Except the sound of breathing from her bed,Which came through the little hole of the key.Three pairs of shoes I have worn out,Her thought I do not know.The fourth pair I have begun to wear,Her thought I do not know.Five pairs, alas, in good count,Her thought I do not know.—If it is my thought you wish to know,It is not I who will make a mystery of it.There are three roads on each side of my house,Choose one among them.Choose whichever you like among them,Provided it will take you far from here.—More is worth love, since it pleases me,Than wealth with which I do not know what to do.Wealth comes, and wealth it goes away,Wealth serves for nothing.Wealth passes like the yellow pears:Love endures for ever.More is worth a handful of loveThan an oven full of gold and silver.
In the white cabin at the foot of the mountain,Is my sweet, my love:Is my love, is my desire,And all my happiness.Before the night must I see herOr my little heart will break.My little heart will not break,For my lovely dear I have seen.Fifty nights I have beenAt the threshold of her door; she did not know it.The rain and the wind whipped me,Until my garments dripped.Nothing came to console meExcept the sound of breathing from her bed.Except the sound of breathing from her bed,Which came through the little hole of the key.Three pairs of shoes I have worn out,Her thought I do not know.The fourth pair I have begun to wear,Her thought I do not know.Five pairs, alas, in good count,Her thought I do not know.—If it is my thought you wish to know,It is not I who will make a mystery of it.There are three roads on each side of my house,Choose one among them.Choose whichever you like among them,Provided it will take you far from here.—More is worth love, since it pleases me,Than wealth with which I do not know what to do.Wealth comes, and wealth it goes away,Wealth serves for nothing.Wealth passes like the yellow pears:Love endures for ever.More is worth a handful of loveThan an oven full of gold and silver.
In the white cabin at the foot of the mountain,Is my sweet, my love:
Is my love, is my desire,And all my happiness.
Before the night must I see herOr my little heart will break.
My little heart will not break,For my lovely dear I have seen.
Fifty nights I have beenAt the threshold of her door; she did not know it.
The rain and the wind whipped me,Until my garments dripped.
Nothing came to console meExcept the sound of breathing from her bed.
Except the sound of breathing from her bed,Which came through the little hole of the key.
Three pairs of shoes I have worn out,Her thought I do not know.
The fourth pair I have begun to wear,Her thought I do not know.
Five pairs, alas, in good count,Her thought I do not know.
—If it is my thought you wish to know,It is not I who will make a mystery of it.
There are three roads on each side of my house,Choose one among them.
Choose whichever you like among them,Provided it will take you far from here.
—More is worth love, since it pleases me,Than wealth with which I do not know what to do.
Wealth comes, and wealth it goes away,Wealth serves for nothing.
Wealth passes like the yellow pears:Love endures for ever.
More is worth a handful of loveThan an oven full of gold and silver.
HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON
Keeper of the keys of Heaven,Lingering near the starry Seven!Guardian of the gates of Hell,Hushed beneath thy drowsy spell!Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.When the pilgrim of strange loreHaunts thy pale phantasmal shore,Dreams and absolution grant,Priestess thou and hierophant!Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.Builder of eternal towers!Weaver of enchanted bowers!Thou dost forge the fighter’s arms,Thee the lover woos for charms:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.Thou dost soothe the virgin’s fears,Thou dost staunch the widow’s tears,Smooth the wrinkled brows of Care,Still the cries of wild Despair:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.Healer of the sores of shame!Cleanser of the unholy flame!Thou dost breathe beatitudeOn the evil and the good:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.When the cup that Pleasure sipsTurns to wormwood on the lips;When Remorse, with venomed mesh,Frets and tears the writhing flesh:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.Queller of the storms of Fate!Quencher of the fires of Hate!In thy peaceful bosom furledLies the turmoil of the world:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.Calm as noon’s abysmal blue,Soundless as the falling dew,Soft as snow with fleecy plumes,Sweet as curling incense-fumes:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.Keeper of the keys of Heaven!(Cease your vigil, starry Seven)Guardian of the gates of Hell!(Loosen not the drowsèd spell)Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.
Keeper of the keys of Heaven,Lingering near the starry Seven!Guardian of the gates of Hell,Hushed beneath thy drowsy spell!Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.When the pilgrim of strange loreHaunts thy pale phantasmal shore,Dreams and absolution grant,Priestess thou and hierophant!Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.Builder of eternal towers!Weaver of enchanted bowers!Thou dost forge the fighter’s arms,Thee the lover woos for charms:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.Thou dost soothe the virgin’s fears,Thou dost staunch the widow’s tears,Smooth the wrinkled brows of Care,Still the cries of wild Despair:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.Healer of the sores of shame!Cleanser of the unholy flame!Thou dost breathe beatitudeOn the evil and the good:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.When the cup that Pleasure sipsTurns to wormwood on the lips;When Remorse, with venomed mesh,Frets and tears the writhing flesh:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.Queller of the storms of Fate!Quencher of the fires of Hate!In thy peaceful bosom furledLies the turmoil of the world:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.Calm as noon’s abysmal blue,Soundless as the falling dew,Soft as snow with fleecy plumes,Sweet as curling incense-fumes:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.Keeper of the keys of Heaven!(Cease your vigil, starry Seven)Guardian of the gates of Hell!(Loosen not the drowsèd spell)Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.
Keeper of the keys of Heaven,Lingering near the starry Seven!Guardian of the gates of Hell,Hushed beneath thy drowsy spell!Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.
When the pilgrim of strange loreHaunts thy pale phantasmal shore,Dreams and absolution grant,Priestess thou and hierophant!Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.
Builder of eternal towers!Weaver of enchanted bowers!Thou dost forge the fighter’s arms,Thee the lover woos for charms:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.
Thou dost soothe the virgin’s fears,Thou dost staunch the widow’s tears,Smooth the wrinkled brows of Care,Still the cries of wild Despair:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.
Healer of the sores of shame!Cleanser of the unholy flame!Thou dost breathe beatitudeOn the evil and the good:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.
When the cup that Pleasure sipsTurns to wormwood on the lips;When Remorse, with venomed mesh,Frets and tears the writhing flesh:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.
Queller of the storms of Fate!Quencher of the fires of Hate!In thy peaceful bosom furledLies the turmoil of the world:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.
Calm as noon’s abysmal blue,Soundless as the falling dew,Soft as snow with fleecy plumes,Sweet as curling incense-fumes:Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.
Keeper of the keys of Heaven!(Cease your vigil, starry Seven)Guardian of the gates of Hell!(Loosen not the drowsèd spell)Fold thy wings and come to me,Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.
This was our sin. When Hope, with wings enchantedAnd shining aureole,Hung on the blossomed steps of Youth and hauntedThe chancel of the soul;When we whose lips haply had blown the bugleThat cheers the wavering line,And solaced those to whom the world was frugalOf Love, the food divine;Whose hands had strength to strike men’s chains asunderAnd heal the poor man’s wrong,Whose breath was blended with the chords that thunderAlong the aisles of song;Whose eyes had seen and hailed the Light of Ages,In cloudiest heavens a star,Whose ears had heard, on ringing wheels, the stagesOf Freedom’s trophied car:—We turned, rebellious children, to the clamourAnd tumult of the world;We gave our souls in fee for Circe’s glamourAnd white limbs lightly whirled;We drank deep draughts of Moloch’s unclean liquorEven to the dregs of shame,And blinded by the golden lights that flickerFrom Mammon’s altar-flameWe burned strange incense, bowed before his idolWhose eucharist is fire,And on the neck of passion loosed the bridleOf fierce and wild desire:—Till now in our own hearts the ashy embersOf Love lie smouldering,And scarce our Autumn chill and bare remembersThe glory of the Spring;While faith, that in the mire was fain to wallow,Returns at last to findThe cold fanes desolate, the niches hollow,The windows dim and blind,And, strown with ruins round, the shattered relicOf unregardful youth,Where shapes of beauty once, with tongues angelic,Whispered the runes of Truth.
This was our sin. When Hope, with wings enchantedAnd shining aureole,Hung on the blossomed steps of Youth and hauntedThe chancel of the soul;When we whose lips haply had blown the bugleThat cheers the wavering line,And solaced those to whom the world was frugalOf Love, the food divine;Whose hands had strength to strike men’s chains asunderAnd heal the poor man’s wrong,Whose breath was blended with the chords that thunderAlong the aisles of song;Whose eyes had seen and hailed the Light of Ages,In cloudiest heavens a star,Whose ears had heard, on ringing wheels, the stagesOf Freedom’s trophied car:—We turned, rebellious children, to the clamourAnd tumult of the world;We gave our souls in fee for Circe’s glamourAnd white limbs lightly whirled;We drank deep draughts of Moloch’s unclean liquorEven to the dregs of shame,And blinded by the golden lights that flickerFrom Mammon’s altar-flameWe burned strange incense, bowed before his idolWhose eucharist is fire,And on the neck of passion loosed the bridleOf fierce and wild desire:—Till now in our own hearts the ashy embersOf Love lie smouldering,And scarce our Autumn chill and bare remembersThe glory of the Spring;While faith, that in the mire was fain to wallow,Returns at last to findThe cold fanes desolate, the niches hollow,The windows dim and blind,And, strown with ruins round, the shattered relicOf unregardful youth,Where shapes of beauty once, with tongues angelic,Whispered the runes of Truth.
This was our sin. When Hope, with wings enchantedAnd shining aureole,Hung on the blossomed steps of Youth and hauntedThe chancel of the soul;
When we whose lips haply had blown the bugleThat cheers the wavering line,And solaced those to whom the world was frugalOf Love, the food divine;
Whose hands had strength to strike men’s chains asunderAnd heal the poor man’s wrong,Whose breath was blended with the chords that thunderAlong the aisles of song;
Whose eyes had seen and hailed the Light of Ages,In cloudiest heavens a star,Whose ears had heard, on ringing wheels, the stagesOf Freedom’s trophied car:—
We turned, rebellious children, to the clamourAnd tumult of the world;We gave our souls in fee for Circe’s glamourAnd white limbs lightly whirled;
We drank deep draughts of Moloch’s unclean liquorEven to the dregs of shame,And blinded by the golden lights that flickerFrom Mammon’s altar-flame
We burned strange incense, bowed before his idolWhose eucharist is fire,And on the neck of passion loosed the bridleOf fierce and wild desire:—
Till now in our own hearts the ashy embersOf Love lie smouldering,And scarce our Autumn chill and bare remembersThe glory of the Spring;
While faith, that in the mire was fain to wallow,Returns at last to findThe cold fanes desolate, the niches hollow,The windows dim and blind,
And, strown with ruins round, the shattered relicOf unregardful youth,Where shapes of beauty once, with tongues angelic,Whispered the runes of Truth.
VILLIERS DE L’ISLE-ADAM
Since I have lost the words, the flowerOf youth and the fresh April breeze ...Give me thy lips; their perfumed dowerShall be the whisper of the trees!Since I have lost the deep sea’s sadness,Her sobs, her restless surge, her graves ...Breathe but a word; its grief or gladnessShall be the murmur of the waves!Since in my soul a sombre blossomBroods, and the suns of yore take flight ...O hide me in thy pallid bosom,And it shall be the calm of night!
Since I have lost the words, the flowerOf youth and the fresh April breeze ...Give me thy lips; their perfumed dowerShall be the whisper of the trees!Since I have lost the deep sea’s sadness,Her sobs, her restless surge, her graves ...Breathe but a word; its grief or gladnessShall be the murmur of the waves!Since in my soul a sombre blossomBroods, and the suns of yore take flight ...O hide me in thy pallid bosom,And it shall be the calm of night!
Since I have lost the words, the flowerOf youth and the fresh April breeze ...Give me thy lips; their perfumed dowerShall be the whisper of the trees!
Since I have lost the deep sea’s sadness,Her sobs, her restless surge, her graves ...Breathe but a word; its grief or gladnessShall be the murmur of the waves!
Since in my soul a sombre blossomBroods, and the suns of yore take flight ...O hide me in thy pallid bosom,And it shall be the calm of night!
VILLIERS DE L’ISLE-ADAM
Athwart the unclean ages whirledTo solitary woods sublime,Oh! had I first beheld this worldAlone and free in Nature’s prime!When on its loveliness first seenEve cast her pure blue eyes abroad:When all the earth was fresh and green,And simple Man believed in God!When sacred accents, vibratingBeneath the naked sun and sky,Rose from each new-created thingTo hail the Lord of Life on high;I would have learned and lived in hopeAnd loved! For in those vanished days,Faith wandered on the mountain-slope ...But now the world has changed her ways:Our feet, less free, less fugitive,Tread beaten tracks from shore to shore ...Alas! what is the life we live?—A dream of days that are no more!
Athwart the unclean ages whirledTo solitary woods sublime,Oh! had I first beheld this worldAlone and free in Nature’s prime!When on its loveliness first seenEve cast her pure blue eyes abroad:When all the earth was fresh and green,And simple Man believed in God!When sacred accents, vibratingBeneath the naked sun and sky,Rose from each new-created thingTo hail the Lord of Life on high;I would have learned and lived in hopeAnd loved! For in those vanished days,Faith wandered on the mountain-slope ...But now the world has changed her ways:Our feet, less free, less fugitive,Tread beaten tracks from shore to shore ...Alas! what is the life we live?—A dream of days that are no more!
Athwart the unclean ages whirledTo solitary woods sublime,Oh! had I first beheld this worldAlone and free in Nature’s prime!
When on its loveliness first seenEve cast her pure blue eyes abroad:When all the earth was fresh and green,And simple Man believed in God!
When sacred accents, vibratingBeneath the naked sun and sky,Rose from each new-created thingTo hail the Lord of Life on high;
I would have learned and lived in hopeAnd loved! For in those vanished days,Faith wandered on the mountain-slope ...But now the world has changed her ways:
Our feet, less free, less fugitive,Tread beaten tracks from shore to shore ...Alas! what is the life we live?—A dream of days that are no more!
LECONTE DE LISLE
Along the rosy cloud light steals and twinkles;The East is flecked with golden filigree:Night from her loosened necklace slowly sprinklesPearl-clusters on the sea.Clasped on the bosom of the sparkling azureSoft skirts of flame trail like a flowing train,And cast on emerald blades a bright emblazure,Like drops of fiery rain.The dew shines, like a sheaf of splendour shaken,On cinnamon leaves and lychee’s purple flesh;Among the drowsed bamboos the wind’s wings wakenA myriad whisperings fresh.From mounds and woods, from mossy tufts and flowers,In the warm air, with sudden tremours thrilled,Fragrance bursts forth in sweet and subtile showers,With feverish rapture filled.By virgin jungle-track and hidden hollow,Where in the morning sun smoke tangled weeds,And where live streams their winding channels followThrough arches of green reeds,Steals the black panther from her midnight prowling,With dawn turned to the lair in which her cubsAmong smooth shining bones, with hunger growling,Grovel beneath the shrubs.Restless she slinks along, with arrowy flashesThat scan the shadows of the drooping wood.The bright, fresh-sprinkled crimsoned dew that dashesHer velvet skin is blood.Behind she drags the relict of her quarryTorn from the stricken stag, a mangled spoilThat leaves a loathsome trail and sanguinaryAlong the moss-flowered soil.Round her the tawny bees and light-winged dragonsFlit fearless as she glides with supple flanks;And clustering foliage from a thousand flagonsPours fragrance on the banks.The python, through a scarlet cactus peering,Slowly above the bush lifts his flat headAnd curious eyes, his scaly folds uprearingTo watch her stealthy tread.She glides in silence into the tall bracken,Then plunges lost beneath the lichened boughs:Air burns in the vast light, earth’s noises slacken,And wood and welkin drowse.
Along the rosy cloud light steals and twinkles;The East is flecked with golden filigree:Night from her loosened necklace slowly sprinklesPearl-clusters on the sea.Clasped on the bosom of the sparkling azureSoft skirts of flame trail like a flowing train,And cast on emerald blades a bright emblazure,Like drops of fiery rain.The dew shines, like a sheaf of splendour shaken,On cinnamon leaves and lychee’s purple flesh;Among the drowsed bamboos the wind’s wings wakenA myriad whisperings fresh.From mounds and woods, from mossy tufts and flowers,In the warm air, with sudden tremours thrilled,Fragrance bursts forth in sweet and subtile showers,With feverish rapture filled.By virgin jungle-track and hidden hollow,Where in the morning sun smoke tangled weeds,And where live streams their winding channels followThrough arches of green reeds,Steals the black panther from her midnight prowling,With dawn turned to the lair in which her cubsAmong smooth shining bones, with hunger growling,Grovel beneath the shrubs.Restless she slinks along, with arrowy flashesThat scan the shadows of the drooping wood.The bright, fresh-sprinkled crimsoned dew that dashesHer velvet skin is blood.Behind she drags the relict of her quarryTorn from the stricken stag, a mangled spoilThat leaves a loathsome trail and sanguinaryAlong the moss-flowered soil.Round her the tawny bees and light-winged dragonsFlit fearless as she glides with supple flanks;And clustering foliage from a thousand flagonsPours fragrance on the banks.The python, through a scarlet cactus peering,Slowly above the bush lifts his flat headAnd curious eyes, his scaly folds uprearingTo watch her stealthy tread.She glides in silence into the tall bracken,Then plunges lost beneath the lichened boughs:Air burns in the vast light, earth’s noises slacken,And wood and welkin drowse.
Along the rosy cloud light steals and twinkles;The East is flecked with golden filigree:Night from her loosened necklace slowly sprinklesPearl-clusters on the sea.
Clasped on the bosom of the sparkling azureSoft skirts of flame trail like a flowing train,And cast on emerald blades a bright emblazure,Like drops of fiery rain.
The dew shines, like a sheaf of splendour shaken,On cinnamon leaves and lychee’s purple flesh;Among the drowsed bamboos the wind’s wings wakenA myriad whisperings fresh.
From mounds and woods, from mossy tufts and flowers,In the warm air, with sudden tremours thrilled,Fragrance bursts forth in sweet and subtile showers,With feverish rapture filled.
By virgin jungle-track and hidden hollow,Where in the morning sun smoke tangled weeds,And where live streams their winding channels followThrough arches of green reeds,
Steals the black panther from her midnight prowling,With dawn turned to the lair in which her cubsAmong smooth shining bones, with hunger growling,Grovel beneath the shrubs.
Restless she slinks along, with arrowy flashesThat scan the shadows of the drooping wood.The bright, fresh-sprinkled crimsoned dew that dashesHer velvet skin is blood.
Behind she drags the relict of her quarryTorn from the stricken stag, a mangled spoilThat leaves a loathsome trail and sanguinaryAlong the moss-flowered soil.
Round her the tawny bees and light-winged dragonsFlit fearless as she glides with supple flanks;And clustering foliage from a thousand flagonsPours fragrance on the banks.
The python, through a scarlet cactus peering,Slowly above the bush lifts his flat headAnd curious eyes, his scaly folds uprearingTo watch her stealthy tread.
She glides in silence into the tall bracken,Then plunges lost beneath the lichened boughs:Air burns in the vast light, earth’s noises slacken,And wood and welkin drowse.
A live spring sparkles in the bosky gloom,Hidden from the noonday glare;The green reeds bend above its banks and thereBlue-bells and violets bloom.No kids that batten on the bitter herb,On slopes of the near hill,Nor shepherd’s song, nor flute-note sweet and shrill,Its crystal source disturb.Hard by, the dark oaks weave a peaceful screenWhose shade the wild-bee loves,And nestled in dense leaves the murmuring dovesTheir ruffled plumage preen.The lazy stags in mossy thickets browseAnd sniff the lingering dew;Beneath cool leaves, that let the sunlight through,The languorous Sylvans drowse.White Naïs, near the sacred spring that drips,Closing her lids awhile,Dreams as she slumbers, and a radiant smileFloats on her purple lips.No eye, kindling with love’s desire, has scannedBeneath those lucent veilsThe nymph whose snowy limbs and hair that trailsGleam on the silvery sand.None gazed on the soft cheek, suffused with youth,The splendid bosom’s swerve,The ivory neck, the shoulder’s delicate curve,White arms and innocent mouth.But now the lecherous Faun, that haunts the grove,Spies from his leafy trenchThose supple flanks, kissed by the oozy drenchAs with a kiss of love;Then laughs, as when the Satyr’s wanton impsA wood-nymph’s bower assail,And, waking with the sound the virgin paleFlies like the lightning-glimpse.Even as the Naiad, haunting the clear stream,Slumbers in woods obscure,Fly from the impious look and laugh impureO Beauty, the soul’s dream!
A live spring sparkles in the bosky gloom,Hidden from the noonday glare;The green reeds bend above its banks and thereBlue-bells and violets bloom.No kids that batten on the bitter herb,On slopes of the near hill,Nor shepherd’s song, nor flute-note sweet and shrill,Its crystal source disturb.Hard by, the dark oaks weave a peaceful screenWhose shade the wild-bee loves,And nestled in dense leaves the murmuring dovesTheir ruffled plumage preen.The lazy stags in mossy thickets browseAnd sniff the lingering dew;Beneath cool leaves, that let the sunlight through,The languorous Sylvans drowse.White Naïs, near the sacred spring that drips,Closing her lids awhile,Dreams as she slumbers, and a radiant smileFloats on her purple lips.No eye, kindling with love’s desire, has scannedBeneath those lucent veilsThe nymph whose snowy limbs and hair that trailsGleam on the silvery sand.None gazed on the soft cheek, suffused with youth,The splendid bosom’s swerve,The ivory neck, the shoulder’s delicate curve,White arms and innocent mouth.But now the lecherous Faun, that haunts the grove,Spies from his leafy trenchThose supple flanks, kissed by the oozy drenchAs with a kiss of love;Then laughs, as when the Satyr’s wanton impsA wood-nymph’s bower assail,And, waking with the sound the virgin paleFlies like the lightning-glimpse.Even as the Naiad, haunting the clear stream,Slumbers in woods obscure,Fly from the impious look and laugh impureO Beauty, the soul’s dream!
A live spring sparkles in the bosky gloom,Hidden from the noonday glare;The green reeds bend above its banks and thereBlue-bells and violets bloom.
No kids that batten on the bitter herb,On slopes of the near hill,Nor shepherd’s song, nor flute-note sweet and shrill,Its crystal source disturb.
Hard by, the dark oaks weave a peaceful screenWhose shade the wild-bee loves,And nestled in dense leaves the murmuring dovesTheir ruffled plumage preen.
The lazy stags in mossy thickets browseAnd sniff the lingering dew;Beneath cool leaves, that let the sunlight through,The languorous Sylvans drowse.
White Naïs, near the sacred spring that drips,Closing her lids awhile,Dreams as she slumbers, and a radiant smileFloats on her purple lips.
No eye, kindling with love’s desire, has scannedBeneath those lucent veilsThe nymph whose snowy limbs and hair that trailsGleam on the silvery sand.
None gazed on the soft cheek, suffused with youth,The splendid bosom’s swerve,The ivory neck, the shoulder’s delicate curve,White arms and innocent mouth.
But now the lecherous Faun, that haunts the grove,Spies from his leafy trenchThose supple flanks, kissed by the oozy drenchAs with a kiss of love;
Then laughs, as when the Satyr’s wanton impsA wood-nymph’s bower assail,And, waking with the sound the virgin paleFlies like the lightning-glimpse.
Even as the Naiad, haunting the clear stream,Slumbers in woods obscure,Fly from the impious look and laugh impureO Beauty, the soul’s dream!
LEO-KERMORVAN
On my lips the speech, in my ears the sound of the Armorican:I hear the voice of Esus by the shores of the ocean,And the songs which the great bard OssianResings by the ancient dolmen.Many times since this, my twelfth rebirth on earth,Have I seen the mistletoe grow green on the oak,Seen the yellow crocus, the sunbright, and the verveinBloom again in the woodlands:But never shall I see again the white-robed Druid of oldSeek the sacred mistletoe as one seeketh a treasure;Never more shall I see him cut the living plantWith his golden sickle.Alas! the valiant chiefs with the flowing locks!All sleep in the cairns, beneath the fresh green grass;In vain my voice o’er the fields of the dead lamenting—“Vengeance! Treason!“Be swift, Revenge, on the feet of the sorrows of Arvor!”Alas, dull echoes alone answer my wailing summons.Treason, indeed, and Vengeance! for lo, in the hallowed NémèdesThe wayside flaunt of the Cross!Tarann no longer sends forth his terror of thunder!Camul no longer laughs behind the strength of his arm!Tentatès, rising in wrath, has not yet crumbled the earth;Esus is deaf to our call!Whither, O whither fled are ye, ye powerful, redoubtable gods;And ye, ye famous Druids, the glory and terror of Armor?Who has usurped, who has o’erwhelmed ye, unconquerable knights,Warriors of the golden collar?Thou, who harkenest, I have been in the place of the Ancients!I, alone among mortals, thence have issued alive:Alas, the temple was deserted: I saw nought but some wind-haunted oaksSwaying in the silence.All is fugitive! pride, pleasure, the song, the dance,Blithe joys of friendship, noble rivalries all:The keen swift song of the swords, the whistling lances!Dreams of a dreamer all!... But no,A new dawn wakes and laughs on the breast of the darkness;Earth has her sunshine still, the grave her Spring;Many a time Dylan hath oared me afar in the deathbarque,Many a death-sleep mine, and long!For long I have slept with the heavy sleep of the dead,Ofttimes my fugitive body has passed into divers forms,I have spread strong wings on the air, I have swum in dark waters,I have crawled in the woods.But, amid all these manifold changes, my soulRemaineth ever the same: it is always, always “myself”!And now I see well that this is the law of all that liveth,Though none beholdeth the reason, none the end.Still stand our lonely menhirs, and still the wayfarer shuddersAs in the desolate dusk he passes these Stones of Silence!Thou speakest, I understand! Thy Breton tongueIs that of the ancient Kymry.Lights steal through the hours of shadow flame-lit for unknown saints,As, in the days of old, our torches flared on the night:Ah, before ever these sacred lamps shone for your meek apostles,They burned for Héol.Blind without reason are we, thus changing the names of the gods:Thus, mayhap, we think to destroy them, we who abandon their altars!But, cold, calm, unsmiling before our laughter and curses,The gods wait, immortal.Yea, while the sacred fires still burn along the hill-tops,Yea, while a single lichened menhir still looms from the brushwood,Yea, whether they name thee Armorica, Brittany, Breiz-Izèl,Thou art ever the same dear land!Ah, soul of me ofttimes to thee, Land of mystery!Ofttimes again shall I breathe in thy charmèd air!Sure, every weary singer knoweth the secret name of thee,Land of Heart’s Desire!Enduring thou art! For not the slow frost of the agesShall dim from thy past thy glory immortally graven!—Granite thy soil, thy soul, loved nest of Celtic nations!—Sings the lost Voice, Taliesin.
On my lips the speech, in my ears the sound of the Armorican:I hear the voice of Esus by the shores of the ocean,And the songs which the great bard OssianResings by the ancient dolmen.Many times since this, my twelfth rebirth on earth,Have I seen the mistletoe grow green on the oak,Seen the yellow crocus, the sunbright, and the verveinBloom again in the woodlands:But never shall I see again the white-robed Druid of oldSeek the sacred mistletoe as one seeketh a treasure;Never more shall I see him cut the living plantWith his golden sickle.Alas! the valiant chiefs with the flowing locks!All sleep in the cairns, beneath the fresh green grass;In vain my voice o’er the fields of the dead lamenting—“Vengeance! Treason!“Be swift, Revenge, on the feet of the sorrows of Arvor!”Alas, dull echoes alone answer my wailing summons.Treason, indeed, and Vengeance! for lo, in the hallowed NémèdesThe wayside flaunt of the Cross!Tarann no longer sends forth his terror of thunder!Camul no longer laughs behind the strength of his arm!Tentatès, rising in wrath, has not yet crumbled the earth;Esus is deaf to our call!Whither, O whither fled are ye, ye powerful, redoubtable gods;And ye, ye famous Druids, the glory and terror of Armor?Who has usurped, who has o’erwhelmed ye, unconquerable knights,Warriors of the golden collar?Thou, who harkenest, I have been in the place of the Ancients!I, alone among mortals, thence have issued alive:Alas, the temple was deserted: I saw nought but some wind-haunted oaksSwaying in the silence.All is fugitive! pride, pleasure, the song, the dance,Blithe joys of friendship, noble rivalries all:The keen swift song of the swords, the whistling lances!Dreams of a dreamer all!... But no,A new dawn wakes and laughs on the breast of the darkness;Earth has her sunshine still, the grave her Spring;Many a time Dylan hath oared me afar in the deathbarque,Many a death-sleep mine, and long!For long I have slept with the heavy sleep of the dead,Ofttimes my fugitive body has passed into divers forms,I have spread strong wings on the air, I have swum in dark waters,I have crawled in the woods.But, amid all these manifold changes, my soulRemaineth ever the same: it is always, always “myself”!And now I see well that this is the law of all that liveth,Though none beholdeth the reason, none the end.Still stand our lonely menhirs, and still the wayfarer shuddersAs in the desolate dusk he passes these Stones of Silence!Thou speakest, I understand! Thy Breton tongueIs that of the ancient Kymry.Lights steal through the hours of shadow flame-lit for unknown saints,As, in the days of old, our torches flared on the night:Ah, before ever these sacred lamps shone for your meek apostles,They burned for Héol.Blind without reason are we, thus changing the names of the gods:Thus, mayhap, we think to destroy them, we who abandon their altars!But, cold, calm, unsmiling before our laughter and curses,The gods wait, immortal.Yea, while the sacred fires still burn along the hill-tops,Yea, while a single lichened menhir still looms from the brushwood,Yea, whether they name thee Armorica, Brittany, Breiz-Izèl,Thou art ever the same dear land!Ah, soul of me ofttimes to thee, Land of mystery!Ofttimes again shall I breathe in thy charmèd air!Sure, every weary singer knoweth the secret name of thee,Land of Heart’s Desire!Enduring thou art! For not the slow frost of the agesShall dim from thy past thy glory immortally graven!—Granite thy soil, thy soul, loved nest of Celtic nations!—Sings the lost Voice, Taliesin.
On my lips the speech, in my ears the sound of the Armorican:I hear the voice of Esus by the shores of the ocean,And the songs which the great bard OssianResings by the ancient dolmen.
Many times since this, my twelfth rebirth on earth,Have I seen the mistletoe grow green on the oak,Seen the yellow crocus, the sunbright, and the verveinBloom again in the woodlands:
But never shall I see again the white-robed Druid of oldSeek the sacred mistletoe as one seeketh a treasure;Never more shall I see him cut the living plantWith his golden sickle.
Alas! the valiant chiefs with the flowing locks!All sleep in the cairns, beneath the fresh green grass;In vain my voice o’er the fields of the dead lamenting—“Vengeance! Treason!
“Be swift, Revenge, on the feet of the sorrows of Arvor!”Alas, dull echoes alone answer my wailing summons.Treason, indeed, and Vengeance! for lo, in the hallowed NémèdesThe wayside flaunt of the Cross!
Tarann no longer sends forth his terror of thunder!Camul no longer laughs behind the strength of his arm!Tentatès, rising in wrath, has not yet crumbled the earth;Esus is deaf to our call!
Whither, O whither fled are ye, ye powerful, redoubtable gods;And ye, ye famous Druids, the glory and terror of Armor?Who has usurped, who has o’erwhelmed ye, unconquerable knights,Warriors of the golden collar?
Thou, who harkenest, I have been in the place of the Ancients!I, alone among mortals, thence have issued alive:Alas, the temple was deserted: I saw nought but some wind-haunted oaksSwaying in the silence.
All is fugitive! pride, pleasure, the song, the dance,Blithe joys of friendship, noble rivalries all:The keen swift song of the swords, the whistling lances!Dreams of a dreamer all!... But no,
A new dawn wakes and laughs on the breast of the darkness;Earth has her sunshine still, the grave her Spring;Many a time Dylan hath oared me afar in the deathbarque,Many a death-sleep mine, and long!
For long I have slept with the heavy sleep of the dead,Ofttimes my fugitive body has passed into divers forms,I have spread strong wings on the air, I have swum in dark waters,I have crawled in the woods.
But, amid all these manifold changes, my soulRemaineth ever the same: it is always, always “myself”!And now I see well that this is the law of all that liveth,Though none beholdeth the reason, none the end.
Still stand our lonely menhirs, and still the wayfarer shuddersAs in the desolate dusk he passes these Stones of Silence!Thou speakest, I understand! Thy Breton tongueIs that of the ancient Kymry.
Lights steal through the hours of shadow flame-lit for unknown saints,As, in the days of old, our torches flared on the night:Ah, before ever these sacred lamps shone for your meek apostles,They burned for Héol.
Blind without reason are we, thus changing the names of the gods:Thus, mayhap, we think to destroy them, we who abandon their altars!But, cold, calm, unsmiling before our laughter and curses,The gods wait, immortal.
Yea, while the sacred fires still burn along the hill-tops,Yea, while a single lichened menhir still looms from the brushwood,Yea, whether they name thee Armorica, Brittany, Breiz-Izèl,Thou art ever the same dear land!
Ah, soul of me ofttimes to thee, Land of mystery!Ofttimes again shall I breathe in thy charmèd air!Sure, every weary singer knoweth the secret name of thee,Land of Heart’s Desire!
Enduring thou art! For not the slow frost of the agesShall dim from thy past thy glory immortally graven!—Granite thy soil, thy soul, loved nest of Celtic nations!—Sings the lost Voice, Taliesin.
LOUIS TIERCELIN
Sad the sea-moan that echoes through my dream,And sad the auroral sky suffused with gold,Sad the blue wave that croons along the shore—O Joy of Night in whose still calms I sleep!Sadness of love, and O tired heart of man:Sadness of hope, and all brave vows that be:Sadness of joy itself, the joys we know!Joy of Oblivion, is there bliss with thee?Sad is the splendour, glory, the bright flameAnd laughter of the soul, since underneathDreams and Desires veiled Mystery broods obscure ...O Joy of Death, with thee the Vials of Peace!
Sad the sea-moan that echoes through my dream,And sad the auroral sky suffused with gold,Sad the blue wave that croons along the shore—O Joy of Night in whose still calms I sleep!Sadness of love, and O tired heart of man:Sadness of hope, and all brave vows that be:Sadness of joy itself, the joys we know!Joy of Oblivion, is there bliss with thee?Sad is the splendour, glory, the bright flameAnd laughter of the soul, since underneathDreams and Desires veiled Mystery broods obscure ...O Joy of Death, with thee the Vials of Peace!
Sad the sea-moan that echoes through my dream,And sad the auroral sky suffused with gold,Sad the blue wave that croons along the shore—
O Joy of Night in whose still calms I sleep!
Sadness of love, and O tired heart of man:Sadness of hope, and all brave vows that be:Sadness of joy itself, the joys we know!
Joy of Oblivion, is there bliss with thee?
Sad is the splendour, glory, the bright flameAnd laughter of the soul, since underneathDreams and Desires veiled Mystery broods obscure ...
O Joy of Death, with thee the Vials of Peace!
BLISS CARMAN
Love, by that loosened hairWell now I knowWhere the lost Lilith wentSo long ago.Love, by those starry eyesI understandHow the sea-maidens lureMortals from land.Love, by that welling laughJoy claims his ownSea-born and wind-waywardChild of the sun.
Love, by that loosened hairWell now I knowWhere the lost Lilith wentSo long ago.Love, by those starry eyesI understandHow the sea-maidens lureMortals from land.Love, by that welling laughJoy claims his ownSea-born and wind-waywardChild of the sun.
Love, by that loosened hairWell now I knowWhere the lost Lilith wentSo long ago.
Love, by those starry eyesI understandHow the sea-maidens lureMortals from land.
Love, by that welling laughJoy claims his ownSea-born and wind-waywardChild of the sun.
Bowmen, shout for Gamelbar!Winds, unthrottle the wolves of war!Heave a breathAnd dare a deathFor the doom of Gamelbar!Wealth for Gamel,Wine for Gamel,Crimson wine for Gamelbar!Chorus:—Oh, sleep for a knaveWith his sins in the sod!And death for the brave,With his glory up to God!And joy for the girl,And ease for the churl!But the great game of warFor our lord Gamelbar,Gamelbar!Spearmen, shout for Gamelbar,With his warriors thirty score!Heave a swordFor our overlord,Lord of warriors, Gamelbar!Life for Gamel,Love for Gamel,Lady-loves for Gamelbar!Horsemen, shout for Gamelbar!Swim the ford and climb the scaur!Heave a handFor the maiden land,The maiden land of Gamelbar!Glory for Gamel,Gold for Gamel,Yellow gold for Gamelbar!Armourers for Gamelbar,Rivet and forge and fear no scar!Heave a hammerWith anvil clamour,To weld and brace for Gamelbar!Ring for Gamel,Rung for Gamel,Ring-rung-ringfor Gamelbar!Yeomen, shout for Gamelbar,And his battle-hand in war!Heave his pennon;Cheer his men on,In the ranks of Gamelbar!Strength for Gamel,Song for Gamel,One war-song for Gamelbar!Roncliffe, shout for Gamelbar!Menthorpe, Bryan, Castelfar!Heave, ThorparchOf the Waving Larch,And Spofford’s thane, for Gamelbar!Blaise for Gamel,Brame for Gamel,Rougharlington for Gamelbar!Maidens, strew for GamelbarRoses down his way to war!Heave a handful,Fill the land fullOf your gifts to Gamelbar!Dream of Gamel,Dance for Gamel,Dance in the halls for Gamelbar!Servitors, shout for Gamelbar!Roast the ox and stick the boar!Heave a boneTo gaunt Harone,The great war-hound of Gamelbar!Mead for Gamel,Mirth for Gamel,Mirth at the board for Gamelbar!Trumpets, speak for Gamelbar!Blare as ye never blared before!Heave a brayIn the horns to-day,The red war-horns of Gamelbar!To-night for Gamel,The North for Gamel,With fires on the hills for Gamelbar!Shout for Gamel, Gamelbar,Till your throats can shout no more!Heave a cryAs he rideth by,Sons of Orm, for Gamelbar!Folk for Gamel,Fame for Gamel,Years and fame for Gamelbar!Chorus:—Oh, sleep for a knaveWith his sins in the sod!And death for the brave,With his glory up to God!And joy for the girl,And ease for the churl!But the great game of warFor our lord Gamelbar,Gamelbar!
Bowmen, shout for Gamelbar!Winds, unthrottle the wolves of war!Heave a breathAnd dare a deathFor the doom of Gamelbar!Wealth for Gamel,Wine for Gamel,Crimson wine for Gamelbar!Chorus:—Oh, sleep for a knaveWith his sins in the sod!And death for the brave,With his glory up to God!And joy for the girl,And ease for the churl!But the great game of warFor our lord Gamelbar,Gamelbar!Spearmen, shout for Gamelbar,With his warriors thirty score!Heave a swordFor our overlord,Lord of warriors, Gamelbar!Life for Gamel,Love for Gamel,Lady-loves for Gamelbar!Horsemen, shout for Gamelbar!Swim the ford and climb the scaur!Heave a handFor the maiden land,The maiden land of Gamelbar!Glory for Gamel,Gold for Gamel,Yellow gold for Gamelbar!Armourers for Gamelbar,Rivet and forge and fear no scar!Heave a hammerWith anvil clamour,To weld and brace for Gamelbar!Ring for Gamel,Rung for Gamel,Ring-rung-ringfor Gamelbar!Yeomen, shout for Gamelbar,And his battle-hand in war!Heave his pennon;Cheer his men on,In the ranks of Gamelbar!Strength for Gamel,Song for Gamel,One war-song for Gamelbar!Roncliffe, shout for Gamelbar!Menthorpe, Bryan, Castelfar!Heave, ThorparchOf the Waving Larch,And Spofford’s thane, for Gamelbar!Blaise for Gamel,Brame for Gamel,Rougharlington for Gamelbar!Maidens, strew for GamelbarRoses down his way to war!Heave a handful,Fill the land fullOf your gifts to Gamelbar!Dream of Gamel,Dance for Gamel,Dance in the halls for Gamelbar!Servitors, shout for Gamelbar!Roast the ox and stick the boar!Heave a boneTo gaunt Harone,The great war-hound of Gamelbar!Mead for Gamel,Mirth for Gamel,Mirth at the board for Gamelbar!Trumpets, speak for Gamelbar!Blare as ye never blared before!Heave a brayIn the horns to-day,The red war-horns of Gamelbar!To-night for Gamel,The North for Gamel,With fires on the hills for Gamelbar!Shout for Gamel, Gamelbar,Till your throats can shout no more!Heave a cryAs he rideth by,Sons of Orm, for Gamelbar!Folk for Gamel,Fame for Gamel,Years and fame for Gamelbar!Chorus:—Oh, sleep for a knaveWith his sins in the sod!And death for the brave,With his glory up to God!And joy for the girl,And ease for the churl!But the great game of warFor our lord Gamelbar,Gamelbar!
Bowmen, shout for Gamelbar!Winds, unthrottle the wolves of war!Heave a breathAnd dare a deathFor the doom of Gamelbar!Wealth for Gamel,Wine for Gamel,Crimson wine for Gamelbar!
Chorus:—Oh, sleep for a knaveWith his sins in the sod!And death for the brave,With his glory up to God!And joy for the girl,And ease for the churl!But the great game of warFor our lord Gamelbar,Gamelbar!
Spearmen, shout for Gamelbar,With his warriors thirty score!Heave a swordFor our overlord,Lord of warriors, Gamelbar!Life for Gamel,Love for Gamel,Lady-loves for Gamelbar!
Horsemen, shout for Gamelbar!Swim the ford and climb the scaur!Heave a handFor the maiden land,The maiden land of Gamelbar!Glory for Gamel,Gold for Gamel,Yellow gold for Gamelbar!
Armourers for Gamelbar,Rivet and forge and fear no scar!Heave a hammerWith anvil clamour,To weld and brace for Gamelbar!Ring for Gamel,Rung for Gamel,Ring-rung-ringfor Gamelbar!
Yeomen, shout for Gamelbar,And his battle-hand in war!Heave his pennon;Cheer his men on,In the ranks of Gamelbar!Strength for Gamel,Song for Gamel,One war-song for Gamelbar!
Roncliffe, shout for Gamelbar!Menthorpe, Bryan, Castelfar!Heave, ThorparchOf the Waving Larch,And Spofford’s thane, for Gamelbar!Blaise for Gamel,Brame for Gamel,Rougharlington for Gamelbar!
Maidens, strew for GamelbarRoses down his way to war!Heave a handful,Fill the land fullOf your gifts to Gamelbar!Dream of Gamel,Dance for Gamel,Dance in the halls for Gamelbar!
Servitors, shout for Gamelbar!Roast the ox and stick the boar!Heave a boneTo gaunt Harone,The great war-hound of Gamelbar!Mead for Gamel,Mirth for Gamel,Mirth at the board for Gamelbar!
Trumpets, speak for Gamelbar!Blare as ye never blared before!Heave a brayIn the horns to-day,The red war-horns of Gamelbar!To-night for Gamel,The North for Gamel,With fires on the hills for Gamelbar!
Shout for Gamel, Gamelbar,Till your throats can shout no more!Heave a cryAs he rideth by,Sons of Orm, for Gamelbar!Folk for Gamel,Fame for Gamel,Years and fame for Gamelbar!
Chorus:—Oh, sleep for a knaveWith his sins in the sod!And death for the brave,With his glory up to God!And joy for the girl,And ease for the churl!But the great game of warFor our lord Gamelbar,Gamelbar!