But she must calm that giddy head,For already the Mass is said;At the holy table stands the priest;The wedding ring is blessed; Baptiste receives it;Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it,He must pronounce one word at least!'T is spoken; and sudden at the grooms-man's side"'T is he!" a well-known voice has cried.And while the wedding guests all hold their breath,Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see!"Baptiste," she said, "since thou hast wished my death,As holy water be my blood for thee!"And calmly in the air a knife suspended!Doubtless her guardian angel near attended,For anguish did its work so well,That, ere the fatal stroke descended,Lifeless she fell!At eve instead of bridal verse,The De Profundis filled the air;Decked with flowers a simple hearseTo the churchyard forth they bear;Village girls in robes of snowFollow, weeping as they go;Nowhere was a smile that day,No, ah no! for each one seemed to say:—"The road should mourn and be veiled in gloom, So fair a corpse shall leave its home! Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away! So fair a corpse shall pass to-day!"A CHRISTMAS CAROLFROM THE NOEI BOURGUIGNON DE GUI BAROZAII hear along our streetPass the minstrel throngs;Hark! they play so sweet,On their hautboys, Christmas songs!Let us by the fireEver higherSing them till the night expire!In December ringEvery day the chimes;Loud the gleemen singIn the streets their merry rhymes.Let us by the fireEver higherSing them till the night expire.Shepherds at the grange,Where the Babe was born,Sang, with many a change,Christmas carols until morn.Let us by the fireEver higherSing them till the night expire!These good people sangSongs devout and sweet;While the rafters rang,There they stood with freezing feet.Let us by the fireEver higherSing them till the night expire.Nuns in frigid veilsAt this holy tide,For want of something else,Christmas songs at times have tried.Let us by the fireEver higherSing them fill the night expire!Washerwomen old,To the sound they beat,Sing by rivers cold,With uncovered heads and feet.Let us by the fireEver higherSing them till the night expire.Who by the fireside standsStamps his feet and sings;But he who blows his handsNot so gay a carol brings.Let us by the fireEver higherSing them till the night expire!CONSOLATIONTo M. Duperrier, Gentleman of Aix in Provence, on the Death of his Daughter.BY FRANCOISE MALHERBEWill then, Duperrier, thy sorrow be eternal?And shall the sad discourseWhispered within thy heart, by tenderness paternal,Only augment its force?Thy daughter's mournful fate, into the tomb descendingBy death's frequented ways,Has it become to thee a labyrinth never ending,Where thy lost reason strays?I know the charms that made her youth a benediction:Nor should I be content,As a censorious friend, to solace thine afflictionBy her disparagement.But she was of the world, which fairest things exposesTo fates the most forlorn;A rose, she too hath lived as long as live the roses,The space of one brief morn.Death has his rigorous laws, unparalleled, unfeeling;All prayers to him are vain;Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf to our appealing,He leaves us to complain.The poor man in his hut, with only thatch for cover,Unto these laws must bend;The sentinel that guards the barriers of the LouvreCannot our kings defend.To murmur against death, in petulant defiance,Is never for the best;To will what God doth will, that is the only scienceThat gives us any rest.TO CARDINAL RICHELIEUBY FRANCOIS DE MALHERBEThou mighty Prince of Church and State, Richelieu! until the hour of death, Whatever road man chooses, Fate Still holds him subject to her breath. Spun of all silks, our days and nights Have sorrows woven with delights; And of this intermingled shade Our various destiny appears, Even as one sees the course of years Of summers and of winters made.Sometimes the soft, deceitful hours Let us enjoy the halcyon wave; Sometimes impending peril lowers Beyond the seaman's skill to save, The Wisdom, infinitely wise, That gives to human destinies Their foreordained necessity, Has made no law more fixed below, Than the alternate ebb and flow Of Fortune and Adversity.THE ANGEL AND THE CHILDBY JEAN REBOUL, THE BAKER OF NISMESAn angel with a radiant face,Above a cradle bent to look,Seemed his own image there to trace,As in the waters of a brook."Dear child! who me resemblest so,"It whispered, "come, O come with me!Happy together let us go,The earth unworthy is of thee!"Here none to perfect bliss attain;The soul in pleasure suffering lies;Joy hath an undertone of pain,And even the happiest hours their sighs."Fear doth at every portal knock;Never a day serene and pureFrom the o'ershadowing tempest's shockHath made the morrow's dawn secure."What then, shall sorrows and shall fearsCome to disturb so pure a brow?And with the bitterness of tearsThese eyes of azure troubled grow?"Ah no! into the fields of space,Away shalt thou escape with me;And Providence will grant thee graceOf all the days that were to be."Let no one in thy dwelling cower,In sombre vestments draped and veiled;But let them welcome thy last hour,As thy first moments once they hailed."Without a cloud be there each brow;There let the grave no shadow cast;When one is pure as thou art now,The fairest day is still the last."And waving wide his wings of white,The angel, at these words, had spedTowards the eternal realms of light!—Poor mother! see, thy son is dead!ON THE TERRACE OF THE AIGALADESBY JOSEPH MERYFrom this high portal, where upsprings The rose to touch our hands in play, We at a glance behold three things— The Sea, the Town, and the Highway.And the Sea says: My shipwrecks fear; I drown my best friends in the deep; And those who braved icy tempests, here Among my sea-weeds lie asleep!The Town says: I am filled and fraught With tumult and with smoke and care; My days with toil are overwrought, And in my nights I gasp for air.The Highway says: My wheel-tracks guide To the pale climates of the North; Where my last milestone stands abide The people to their death gone forth.Here, in the shade, this life of ours, Full of delicious air, glides by Amid a multitude of flowers As countless as the stars on high;These red-tiled roofs, this fruitful soil, Bathed with an azure all divine, Where springs the tree that gives us oil, The grape that giveth us the wine;Beneath these mountains stripped of trees, Whose tops with flowers are covered o'er, Where springtime of the Hesperides Begins, but endeth nevermore;Under these leafy vaults and walls, That unto gentle sleep persuade; This rainbow of the waterfalls, Of mingled mist and sunshine made;Upon these shores, where all invites, We live our languid life apart; This air is that of life's delights, The festival of sense and heart;This limpid space of time prolong, Forget to-morrow in to-day, And leave unto the passing throng The Sea, the Town, and the Highway.TO MY BROOKLETBY JEAN FRANCOIS DUCISThou brooklet, all unknown to song, Hid in the covert of the wood! Ah, yes, like thee I fear the throng, Like thee I love the solitude.O brooklet, let my sorrows past Lie all forgotten in their graves, Till in my thoughts remain at last Only thy peace, thy flowers, thy waves.The lily by thy margin waits;— The nightingale, the marguerite; In shadow here he meditates His nest, his love, his music sweet.Near thee the self-collected soul Knows naught of error or of crime; Thy waters, murmuring as they roll, Transform his musings into rhyme.Ah, when, on bright autumnal eves, Pursuing still thy course, shall I Lisp the soft shudder of the leaves, And hear the lapwing's plaintive cry?BARRÉGESBY LEFRANC DE POMPIGNANI leave you, ye cold mountain chains, Dwelling of warriors stark and frore! You, may these eyes behold no more, Rave on the horizon of our plains.Vanish, ye frightful, gloomy views! Ye rocks that mount up to the clouds! Of skies, enwrapped in misty shrouds, Impracticable avenues!Ye torrents, that with might and main Break pathways through the rocky walls, With your terrific waterfalls Fatigue no more my weary brain!Arise, ye landscapes full of charms, Arise, ye pictures of delight! Ye brooks, that water in your flight The flowers and harvests of our farms!You I perceive, ye meadows green, Where the Garonne the lowland fills, Not far from that long chain of hills, With intermingled vales between.You wreath of smoke, that mounts so high, Methinks from my own hearth must come; With speed, to that beloved home, Fly, ye too lazy coursers, fly!And bear me thither, where the soul In quiet may itself possess, Where all things soothe the mind's distress, Where all things teach me and console.WILL EVER THE DEAR DAYS COME BACK AGAIN?Will ever the dear days come back again,Those days of June, when lilacs were in bloom,And bluebirds sang their sonnets in the gloomOf leaves that roofed them in from sun or rain?I know not; but a presence will remainForever and forever in this room,Formless, diffused in air, like a perfume,—A phantom of the heart, and not the brain.Delicious days! when every spoken wordWas like a foot-fall nearer and more near,And a mysterious knocking at the gateOf the heart's secret places, and we heardIn the sweet tumult of delight and fearA voice that whispered, "Open, I cannot wait!"AT LA CHAUDEAUBY XAVIER MARMIERAt La Chaudeau,—'t is long since then:I was young,—my years twice ten;All things smiled on the happy boy,Dreams of love and songs of joy,Azure of heaven and wave below,At La Chaudeau.At La Chaudeau I come back old:My head is gray, my blood is cold;Seeking along the meadow ooze,Seeking beside the river Seymouse,The days of my spring-time of long agoAt La Chaudeau.At La Chaudeau nor heart nor brainEver grows old with grief and pain;A sweet remembrance keeps off age;A tender friendship doth still assuageThe burden of sorrow that one may knowAt La Chaudeau.At La Chaudeau, had fate decreedTo limit the wandering life I lead,Peradventure I still, forsooth,Should have preserved my fresh green youth,Under the shadows the hill-tops throwAt La Chaudeau.At La Chaudeau, live on, my friends,Happy to be where God intends;And sometimes, by the evening fire,Think of him whose sole desireIs again to sit in the old chateauAt La Chaudeau.A QUIET LIFE.Let him who will, by force or fraud innate,Of courtly grandeurs gain the slippery height;I, leaving not the home of my delight,Far from the world and noise will meditate.Then, without pomps or perils of the great,I shall behold the day succeed the night;Behold the alternate seasons take their flight,And in serene repose old age await.And so, whenever Death shall come to closeThe happy moments that my days compose,I, full of years, shall die, obscure, alone!How wretched is the man, with honors crowned,Who, having not the one thing needful found,Dies, known to all, but to himself unknown.THE WINE OF JURANÇONBY CHARLES CORANLittle sweet wine of Jurançon,You are dear to my memory still!With mine host and his merry song,Under the rose-tree I drank my fill.Twenty years after, passing that way,Under the trellis I found againMine host, still sitting there au frais,And singing still the same refrain.The Jurançon, so fresh and bold,Treats me as one it used to know;Souvenirs of the days of oldAlready from the bottle flow,With glass in hand our glances met;We pledge, we drink. How sour it isNever Argenteuil piquetteWas to my palate sour as this!And yet the vintage was good, in sooth;The self-same juice, the self-same cask!It was you, O gayety of my youth,That failed in the autumnal flask!FRIAR LUBINBY CLEMENT MAROTTo gallop off to town post-haste,So oft, the times I cannot tell;To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced,—Friar Lubin will do it well.But a sober life to lead,To honor virtue, and pursue it,That's a pious, Christian deed,—Friar Lubin can not do it.To mingle, with a knowing smile,The goods of others with his own,And leave you without cross or pile,Friar Lubin stands alone.To say 't is yours is all in vain,If once he lays his finger to it;For as to giving back again,Friar Lubin cannot do it.With flattering words and gentle tone,To woo and win some guileless maid,Cunning pander need you none,—Friar Lubin knows the trade.Loud preacheth he sobriety,But as for water, doth eschew it;Your dog may drink it,—but not he;Friar Lubin cannot do it.ENVOYWhen an evil deed 's to doFriar Lubin is stout and true;Glimmers a ray of goodness through it,Friar Lubin cannot do it.RONDELBY JEAN FROISSARTLove, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!I do not know thee,—nor what deeds are thine:Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine?Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me:Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?Naught see I permanent or sure in thee!MY SECRETBY FELIX ARVERSMy soul its secret has, my life too has its mystery, A love eternal in a moment's space conceived; Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history, And she who was the cause nor knew it nor believed. Alas! I shall have passed close by her unperceived, Forever at her side, and yet forever lonely, I shall unto the end have made life's journey, only Daring to ask for naught, and having naught received. For her, though God has made her gentle and endearing, She will go on her way distraught and without hearing These murmurings of love that round her steps ascend, Piously faithful still unto her austere duty, Will say, when she shall read these lines full of her beauty, "Who can this woman be?" and will not comprehend.FROM THE ITALIANTHE CELESTIAL PILOTPURGATORIO II. 13-51.And now, behold! as at the approach of morning,Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery redDown in the west upon the ocean floorAppeared to me,—may I again behold it!A light along the sea, so swiftly coming,Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled.And when therefrom I had withdrawn a littleMine eyes, that I might question my conductor,Again I saw it brighter grown and larger.Thereafter, on all sides of it, appearedI knew not what of white, and underneath,Little by little, there came forth another.My master yet had uttered not a word,While the first whiteness into wings unfolded;But, when he clearly recognized the pilot,He cried aloud: "Quick, quick, and bow the knee!Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands!Henceforward shalt thou see such officers!See, how he scorns all human arguments,So that no oar he wants, nor other sailThan his own wings, between so distant shores!See, how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven,Fanning the air with the eternal pinions,That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!"And then, as nearer and more near us cameThe Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared,So that the eye could not sustain his presence,But down I cast it; and he came to shoreWith a small vessel, gliding swift and light,So that the water swallowed naught thereof.Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot!Beatitude seemed written in his face!And more than a hundred spirits sat within."In exitu Israel de Aegypto!"Thus sang they all together in one voice,With whatso in that Psalm is after written.Then made he sign of holy rood upon them,Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore,And he departed swiftly as he came.THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISEPURGATORIO XXVIII. 1-33.Longing already to search in and roundThe heavenly forest, dense and living-green,Which tempered to the eyes the newborn day,Withouten more delay I left the bank,Crossing the level country slowly, slowly,Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance.A gently-breathing air, that no mutationHad in itself, smote me upon the forehead,No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze,Whereat the tremulous branches readilyDid all of them bow downward towards that sideWhere its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain;Yet not from their upright direction bentSo that the little birds upon their topsShould cease the practice of their tuneful art;But with full-throated joy, the hours of primeSinging received they in the midst of foliageThat made monotonous burden to their rhymes,Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells,Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi,When Aeolus unlooses the Sirocco.Already my slow steps had led me onInto the ancient wood so far, that ICould see no more the place where I had entered.And lo! my further course cut off a river,Which, tow'rds the left hand, with its little waves,Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang.All waters that on earth most limpid are,Would seem to have within themselves some mixture,Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal,Although it moves on with a brown, brown current,Under the shade perpetual, that neverRay of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.BEATRICE.PURGATORIO XXX. 13-33, 85-99, XXXI. 13-21.Even as the Blessed, at the final summons,Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave,Wearing again the garments of the flesh,So, upon that celestial chariot,A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis,Ministers and messengers of life eternal.They all were saying, "Benedictus qui venis,"And scattering flowers above and round about,"Manibus o date lilia plenis."Oft have I seen, at the approach of day,The orient sky all stained with roseate hues,And the other heaven with light serene adorned,And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed,So that, by temperate influence of vapors,The eye sustained his aspect for long while;Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers,Which from those hands angelic were thrown up,And down descended inside and without,With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil,Appeared a lady, under a green mantle,Vested in colors of the living flame.. . . . . .Even as the snow, among the living raftersUpon the back of Italy, congeals,Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds,And then, dissolving, filters through itself,Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes,Like as a taper melts before a fire,Even such I was, without a sigh or tear,Before the song of those who chime foreverAfter the chiming of the eternal spheres;But, when I heard in those sweet melodiesCompassion for me, more than had they said,"O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him?"The ice, that was about my heart congealed,To air and water changed, and, in my anguish,Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast.. . . . . .Confusion and dismay, together mingled,Forced such a feeble "Yes!" out of my mouth,To understand it one had need of sight.Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 't is discharged,Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow,And with less force the arrow hits the mark;So I gave way beneath this heavy burden,Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs,And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage.TO ITALYBY VINCENZO DA FILICAJAItaly! Italy! thou who'rt doomed to wearThe fatal gift of beauty, and possessThe dower funest of infinite wretchednessWritten upon thy forehead by despair;Ah! would that thou wert stronger, or less fair.That they might fear thee more, or love thee less,Who in the splendor of thy lovelinessSeem wasting, yet to mortal combat dare!Then from the Alps I should not see descendingSuch torrents of armed men, nor Gallic hordeDrinking the wave of Po, distained with gore,Nor should I see thee girded with a swordNot thine, and with the stranger's arm contending,Victor or vanquished, slave forever more.SEVEN SONNETS AND A CANZONE[The following translations are from the poems of Michael Angelo as revised by his nephew Michael Angelo the Younger, and were made before the publication of the original text by Guasti.]ITHE ARTISTNothing the greatest artist can conceiveThat every marble block doth not confineWithin itself; and only its designThe hand that follows intellect can achieve.The ill I flee, the good that I believe,In thee, fair lady, lofty and divine,Thus hidden lie; and so that death be mineArt, of desired success, doth me bereave.Love is not guilty, then, nor thy fair face,Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great disdain,Of my disgrace, nor chance, nor destiny,If in thy heart both death and love find placeAt the same time, and if my humble brain,Burning, can nothing draw but death from thee.IIFIRENot without fire can any workman mouldThe iron to his preconceived design,Nor can the artist without fire refineAnd purify from all its dross the gold;Nor can revive the phoenix, we are told,Except by fire. Hence if such death be mineI hope to rise again with the divine,Whom death augments, and time cannot make old.O sweet, sweet death! O fortunate fire that burnsWithin me still to renovate my days,Though I am almost numbered with the dead!If by its nature unto heaven returnsThis element, me, kindled in its blaze,Will it bear upward when my life is fled.IIIYOUTH AND AGEOh give me back the days when loose and freeTo my blind passion were the curb and rein,Oh give me back the angelic face again,With which all virtue buried seems to be!Oh give my panting footsteps back to me,That are in age so slow and fraught with pain,And fire and moisture in the heart and brain,If thou wouldst have me burn and weep for thee!If it be true thou livest alone, Amor,On the sweet-bitter tears of human hearts,In an old man thou canst not wake desire;Souls that have almost reached the other shoreOf a diviner love should feel the darts,And be as tinder to a holier fire.IVOLD AGEThe course of my long life hath reached at last,In fragile bark o'er a tempestuous sea,The common harbor, where must rendered beAccount of all the actions of the past.The impassioned phantasy, that, vague and vast,Made art an idol and a king to me,Was an illusion, and but vanityWere the desires that lured me and harassed.The dreams of love, that were so sweet of yore,What are they now, when two deaths may be mine,—One sure, and one forecasting its alarms?Painting and sculpture satisfy no moreThe soul now turning to the Love Divine,That oped, to embrace us, on the cross its arms.VTO VITTORIA COLONNALady, how can it chance—yet this we seeIn long experience—that will longer lastA living image carved from quarries vastThan its own maker, who dies presently?Cause yieldeth to effect if this so be,And even Nature is by Art at surpassed;This know I, who to Art have given the past,But see that Time is breaking faith with me.Perhaps on both of us long life can IEither in color or in stone bestow,By now portraying each in look and mien;So that a thousand years after we die,How fair thou wast, and I how full of woe,And wherefore I so loved thee, may be seen.VITO VITTORIA COLONNAWhen the prime mover of my many sighsHeaven took through death from out her earthly place,Nature, that never made so fair a face,Remained ashamed, and tears were in all eyes.O fate, unheeding my impassioned cries!O hopes fallacious! O thou spirit of grace,Where art thou now? Earth holds in its embraceThy lovely limbs, thy holy thoughts the skies.Vainly did cruel death attempt to stayThe rumor of thy virtuous renown,That Lethe's waters could not wash away!A thousand leaves, since he hath stricken thee down,Speak of thee, nor to thee could Heaven convey,Except through death, a refuge and a crown.VIIDANTEWhat should be said of him cannot be said;By too great splendor is his name attended;To blame is easier those who him offended,Than reach the faintest glory round him shed.This man descended to the doomed and deadFor our instruction; then to God ascended;Heaven opened wide to him its portals splendid,Who from his country's, closed against him, fled.Ungrateful land! To its own prejudiceNurse of his fortunes; and this showeth well,That the most perfect most of grief shall see.Among a thousand proofs let one suffice,That as his exile hath no parallel,Ne'er walked the earth a greater man than he.VIIICANZONEAh me! ah me! when thinking of the years, The vanished years, alas, I do not find Among them all one day that was my own! Fallacious hope; desires of the unknown, Lamenting, loving, burning, and in tears (For human passions all have stirred my mind), Have held me, now I feel and know, confined Both from the true and good still far away. I perish day by day; The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary, And I am near to fail, infirm and weary.THE NATURE OF LOVEBY GUIDO GUINIZELLITo noble heart Love doth for shelter fly,As seeks the bird the forest's leafy shade;Love was not felt till noble heart beat high,Nor before love the noble heart was made.Soon as the sun's broad flameWas formed, so soon the clear light filled the air;Yet was not till he came:So love springs up in noble breasts, and thereHas its appointed space,As heat in the bright flames finds its allotted place.Kindles in noble heart the fire of love,As hidden virtue in the precious stone:This virtue comes not from the stars above,Till round it the ennobling sun has shone;But when his powerful blazeHas drawn forth what was vile, the stars impartStrange virtue in their rays;And thus when Nature doth create the heartNoble and pure and high,Like virtue from the star, love comes from woman's eye.FROM THE PORTUGUESESONGBY GIL VICENTEIf thou art sleeping, maiden,Awake and open thy door,'T is the break of day, and we must away,O'er meadow, and mount, and moor.Wait not to find thy slippers,But come with thy naked feet;We shall have to pass through the dewy grass,And waters wide and fleet.FROM EASTERN SOURCESTHE FUGITIVEA TARTAR SONGI"He is gone to the desert land I can see the shining mane Of his horse on the distant plain, As he rides with his Kossak band!"Come back, rebellious one! Let thy proud heart relent; Come back to my tall, white tent, Come back, my only son!"Thy hand in freedom shall Cast thy hawks, when morning breaks, On the swans of the Seven Lakes, On the lakes of Karajal."I will give thee leave to stray And pasture thy hunting steeds In the long grass and the reeds Of the meadows of Karaday."I will give thee my coat of mail, Of softest leather made, With choicest steel inlaid; Will not all this prevail?"II"This hand no longer shall Cast my hawks, when morning breaks, On the swans of the Seven Lakes, On the lakes of Karajal."I will no longer stray And pasture my hunting steeds In the long grass and the reeds Of the meadows of Karaday."Though thou give me thy coat of mall, Of softest leather made, With choicest steel inlaid, All this cannot prevail."What right hast thou, O Khan, To me, who am mine own, Who am slave to God alone, And not to any man?"God will appoint the day When I again shall be By the blue, shallow sea, Where the steel-bright sturgeons play."God, who doth care for me, In the barren wilderness, On unknown hills, no less Will my companion be."When I wander lonely and lost In the wind; when I watch at night Like a hungry wolf, and am white And covered with hoar-frost;"Yea, wheresoever I be, In the yellow desert sands, In mountains or unknown lands, Allah will care for me!"IIIThen Sobra, the old, old man,— Three hundred and sixty years Had he lived in this land of tears, Bowed down and said, "O Khan!"If you bid me, I will speak. There's no sap in dry grass, No marrow in dry bones! Alas, The mind of old men is weak!"I am old, I am very old: I have seen the primeval man, I have seen the great Gengis Khan, Arrayed in his robes of gold."What I say to you is the truth; And I say to you, O Khan, Pursue not the star-white man, Pursue not the beautiful youth."Him the Almighty made, And brought him forth of the light, At the verge and end of the night, When men on the mountain prayed."He was born at the break of day, When abroad the angels walk; He hath listened to their talk, And he knoweth what they say."Gifted with Allah's grace, Like the moon of Ramazan When it shines in the skies, O Khan, Is the light of his beautiful face."When first on earth he trod, The first words that he said Were these, as he stood and prayed, There is no God but God!"And he shall be king of men, For Allah hath heard his prayer, And the Archangel in the air, Gabriel, hath said, Amen!"THE SIEGE OF KAZANBlack are the moors before Kazan,And their stagnant waters smell of blood:I said in my heart, with horse and man,I will swim across this shallow flood.Under the feet of Argamack,Like new moons were the shoes he bare,Silken trappings hung on his back,In a talisman on his neck, a prayer.My warriors, thought I, are following me;But when I looked behind, alas!Not one of all the band could I see,All had sunk in the black morass!Where are our shallow fords? and whereThe power of Kazan with its fourfold gates?From the prison windows our maidens fairTalk of us still through the iron grates.We cannot hear them; for horse and manLie buried deep in the dark abyss!Ah! the black day hath come down on Kazan!Ah! was ever a grief like this?THE BOY AND THE BROOKDown from yon distant mountain heightThe brooklet flows through the village street;A boy comes forth to wash his hands,Washing, yes washing, there he stands,In the water cool and sweet.Brook, from what mountain dost thou come,O my brooklet cool and sweet!I come from yon mountain high and cold,Where lieth the new snow on the old,And melts in the summer heat.Brook, to what river dost thou go?O my brooklet cool and sweet!I go to the river there belowWhere in bunches the violets grow,And sun and shadow meet.Brook, to what garden dost thou go?O my brooklet cool and sweet!I go to the garden in the valeWhere all night long the nightingaleHer love-song doth repeat.Brook, to what fountain dost thou go?O my brooklet cool and sweet!I go to the fountain at whose brinkThe maid that loves thee comes to drink,And whenever she looks therein,I rise to meet her, and kiss her chin,And my joy is then complete.TO THE STORKWelcome, O Stork! that dost wingThy flight from the far-away!Thou hast brought us the signs of Spring,Thou hast made our sad hearts gay.Descend, O Stork! descendUpon our roof to rest;In our ash-tree, O my friend,My darling, make thy nest.To thee, O Stork, I complain,O Stork, to thee I impartThe thousand sorrows, the painAnd aching of my heart.When thou away didst go,Away from this tree of ours,The withering winds did blow,And dried up all the flowers.Dark grew the brilliant sky,Cloudy and dark and drear;They were breaking the snow on high,And winter was drawing near.From Varaca's rocky wall,From the rock of Varaca unrolled,the snow came and covered all,And the green meadow was cold.O Stork, our garden with snowWas hidden away and lost,Mid the rose-trees that in it growWere withered by snow and frost.FROM THE LATINVIRGIL'S FIRST ECLOGUEMELIBOEUS. Tityrus, thou in the shade of a spreading beech-tree reclining, Meditatest, with slender pipe, the Muse of the woodlands. We our country's bounds and pleasant pastures relinquish, We our country fly; thou, Tityrus, stretched in the shadow, Teachest the woods to resound with the name of the fair Amaryllis.TITYRUS. O Meliboeus, a god for us this leisure created, For he will be unto me a god forever; his altar Oftentimes shall imbue a tender lamb from our sheepfolds. He, my heifers to wander at large, and myself, as thou seest, On my rustic reed to play what I will, hath permitted.MELIBOEUS. Truly I envy not, I marvel rather; on all sides In all the fields is such trouble. Behold, my goats I am driving, Heartsick, further away; this one scarce, Tityrus, lead I; For having here yeaned twins just now among the dense hazels, Hope of the flock, ah me! on the naked flint she hath left them. Often this evil to me, if my mind had not been insensate, Oak-trees stricken by heaven predicted, as now I remember; Often the sinister crow from the hollow ilex predicted, Nevertheless, who this god may be, O Tityrus, tell me.TITYRUS. O Meliboeus, the city that they call Rome, I imagined, Foolish I! to be like this of ours, where often we shepherds Wonted are to drive down of our ewes the delicate offspring. Thus whelps like unto dogs had I known, and kids to their mothers, Thus to compare great things with small had I been accustomed. But this among other cities its head as far hath exalted As the cypresses do among the lissome viburnums.MELIBOEUS. And what so great occasion of seeing Rome hath possessed thee?TITYRUS. Liberty, which, though late, looked upon me in my inertness, After the time when my beard fell whiter front me in shaving,— Yet she looked upon me, and came to me after a long while, Since Amaryllis possesses and Galatea hath left me. For I will even confess that while Galatea possessed me Neither care of my flock nor hope of liberty was there. Though from my wattled folds there went forth many a victim, And the unctuous cheese was pressed for the city ungrateful, Never did my right hand return home heavy with money.MELIBOEUS. I have wondered why sad thou invokedst the gods, Amaryllis, And for whom thou didst suffer the apples to hang on the branches! Tityrus hence was absent! Thee, Tityrus, even the pine-trees, Thee, the very fountains, the very copses were calling.TITYRUS. What could I do? No power had I to escape from my bondage, Nor had I power elsewhere to recognize gods so propitious. Here I beheld that youth, to whom each year, Meliboeus, During twice six days ascends the smoke of our altars. Here first gave he response to me soliciting favor: "Feed as before your heifers, ye boys, and yoke up your bullocks."MELIBOEUS. Fortunate old man! So then thy fields will be left thee, And large enough for thee, though naked stone and the marish All thy pasture-lands with the dreggy rush may encompass. No unaccustomed food thy gravid ewes shall endanger, Nor of the neighboring flock the dire contagion inject them. Fortunate old man! Here among familiar rivers, And these sacred founts, shalt thou take the shadowy coolness. On this side, a hedge along the neighboring cross-road, Where Hyblaean bees ever feed on the flower of the willow, Often with gentle susurrus to fall asleep shall persuade thee. Yonder, beneath the high rock, the pruner shall sing to the breezes, Nor meanwhile shalt thy heart's delight, the hoarse wood-pigeons, Nor the turtle-dove cease to mourn from aerial elm-trees.TITYRUS. Therefore the agile stags shall sooner feed in the ether, And the billows leave the fishes bare on the sea-shore. Sooner, the border-lands of both overpassed, shall the exiled Parthian drink of the Soane, or the German drink of the Tigris, Than the face of him shall glide away from my bosom!MELIBOEUS. But we hence shall go, a part to the thirsty Afries, Part to Scythia come, and the rapid Cretan Oaxes, And to the Britons from all the universe utterly sundered. Ah, shall I ever, a long time hence, the bounds of my country And the roof of my lowly cottage covered with greensward Seeing, with wonder behold,—my kingdoms, a handful of wheat-ears! Shall an impious soldier possess these lands newly cultured, And these fields of corn a barbarian? Lo, whither discord Us wretched people hath brought! for whom our fields we have planted! Graft, Meliboeus, thy pear-trees now, put in order thy vine-yards. Go, my goats, go hence, my flocks so happy aforetime. Never again henceforth outstretched in my verdurous cavern Shall I behold you afar from the bushy precipice hanging. Songs no more shall I sing; not with me, ye goats, as your shepherd, Shall ye browse on the bitter willow or blooming laburnum.TITYRUS. Nevertheless, this night together with me canst thou rest thee Here on the verdant leaves; for us there are mellowing apples, Chestnuts soft to the touch, and clouted cream in abundance; And the high roofs now of the villages smoke in the distance, And from the lofty mountains are falling larger the shadows.OVID IN EXILEAT TOMIS, IN BESSARABIA, NEAR THE MOUTHS OF THE DANUBE.TRISTIA, Book III., Elegy X.
But she must calm that giddy head,For already the Mass is said;At the holy table stands the priest;The wedding ring is blessed; Baptiste receives it;Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it,He must pronounce one word at least!'T is spoken; and sudden at the grooms-man's side"'T is he!" a well-known voice has cried.And while the wedding guests all hold their breath,Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see!"Baptiste," she said, "since thou hast wished my death,As holy water be my blood for thee!"And calmly in the air a knife suspended!Doubtless her guardian angel near attended,For anguish did its work so well,That, ere the fatal stroke descended,Lifeless she fell!At eve instead of bridal verse,The De Profundis filled the air;Decked with flowers a simple hearseTo the churchyard forth they bear;Village girls in robes of snowFollow, weeping as they go;Nowhere was a smile that day,No, ah no! for each one seemed to say:—
"The road should mourn and be veiled in gloom, So fair a corpse shall leave its home! Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away! So fair a corpse shall pass to-day!"
FROM THE NOEI BOURGUIGNON DE GUI BAROZAI
I hear along our streetPass the minstrel throngs;Hark! they play so sweet,On their hautboys, Christmas songs!Let us by the fireEver higherSing them till the night expire!In December ringEvery day the chimes;Loud the gleemen singIn the streets their merry rhymes.Let us by the fireEver higherSing them till the night expire.Shepherds at the grange,Where the Babe was born,Sang, with many a change,Christmas carols until morn.Let us by the fireEver higherSing them till the night expire!These good people sangSongs devout and sweet;While the rafters rang,There they stood with freezing feet.Let us by the fireEver higherSing them till the night expire.Nuns in frigid veilsAt this holy tide,For want of something else,Christmas songs at times have tried.Let us by the fireEver higherSing them fill the night expire!Washerwomen old,To the sound they beat,Sing by rivers cold,With uncovered heads and feet.Let us by the fireEver higherSing them till the night expire.Who by the fireside standsStamps his feet and sings;But he who blows his handsNot so gay a carol brings.Let us by the fireEver higherSing them till the night expire!
To M. Duperrier, Gentleman of Aix in Provence, on the Death of his Daughter.
BY FRANCOISE MALHERBE
Will then, Duperrier, thy sorrow be eternal?And shall the sad discourseWhispered within thy heart, by tenderness paternal,Only augment its force?
Thy daughter's mournful fate, into the tomb descendingBy death's frequented ways,Has it become to thee a labyrinth never ending,Where thy lost reason strays?
I know the charms that made her youth a benediction:Nor should I be content,As a censorious friend, to solace thine afflictionBy her disparagement.
But she was of the world, which fairest things exposesTo fates the most forlorn;A rose, she too hath lived as long as live the roses,The space of one brief morn.
Death has his rigorous laws, unparalleled, unfeeling;All prayers to him are vain;Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf to our appealing,He leaves us to complain.
The poor man in his hut, with only thatch for cover,Unto these laws must bend;The sentinel that guards the barriers of the LouvreCannot our kings defend.
To murmur against death, in petulant defiance,Is never for the best;To will what God doth will, that is the only scienceThat gives us any rest.
BY FRANCOIS DE MALHERBE
Thou mighty Prince of Church and State, Richelieu! until the hour of death, Whatever road man chooses, Fate Still holds him subject to her breath. Spun of all silks, our days and nights Have sorrows woven with delights; And of this intermingled shade Our various destiny appears, Even as one sees the course of years Of summers and of winters made.
Sometimes the soft, deceitful hours Let us enjoy the halcyon wave; Sometimes impending peril lowers Beyond the seaman's skill to save, The Wisdom, infinitely wise, That gives to human destinies Their foreordained necessity, Has made no law more fixed below, Than the alternate ebb and flow Of Fortune and Adversity.
BY JEAN REBOUL, THE BAKER OF NISMES
An angel with a radiant face,Above a cradle bent to look,Seemed his own image there to trace,As in the waters of a brook.
"Dear child! who me resemblest so,"It whispered, "come, O come with me!Happy together let us go,The earth unworthy is of thee!
"Here none to perfect bliss attain;The soul in pleasure suffering lies;Joy hath an undertone of pain,And even the happiest hours their sighs.
"Fear doth at every portal knock;Never a day serene and pureFrom the o'ershadowing tempest's shockHath made the morrow's dawn secure.
"What then, shall sorrows and shall fearsCome to disturb so pure a brow?And with the bitterness of tearsThese eyes of azure troubled grow?
"Ah no! into the fields of space,Away shalt thou escape with me;And Providence will grant thee graceOf all the days that were to be.
"Let no one in thy dwelling cower,In sombre vestments draped and veiled;But let them welcome thy last hour,As thy first moments once they hailed.
"Without a cloud be there each brow;There let the grave no shadow cast;When one is pure as thou art now,The fairest day is still the last."
And waving wide his wings of white,The angel, at these words, had spedTowards the eternal realms of light!—Poor mother! see, thy son is dead!
BY JOSEPH MERY
From this high portal, where upsprings The rose to touch our hands in play, We at a glance behold three things— The Sea, the Town, and the Highway.
And the Sea says: My shipwrecks fear; I drown my best friends in the deep; And those who braved icy tempests, here Among my sea-weeds lie asleep!
The Town says: I am filled and fraught With tumult and with smoke and care; My days with toil are overwrought, And in my nights I gasp for air.
The Highway says: My wheel-tracks guide To the pale climates of the North; Where my last milestone stands abide The people to their death gone forth.
Here, in the shade, this life of ours, Full of delicious air, glides by Amid a multitude of flowers As countless as the stars on high;
These red-tiled roofs, this fruitful soil, Bathed with an azure all divine, Where springs the tree that gives us oil, The grape that giveth us the wine;
Beneath these mountains stripped of trees, Whose tops with flowers are covered o'er, Where springtime of the Hesperides Begins, but endeth nevermore;
Under these leafy vaults and walls, That unto gentle sleep persuade; This rainbow of the waterfalls, Of mingled mist and sunshine made;
Upon these shores, where all invites, We live our languid life apart; This air is that of life's delights, The festival of sense and heart;
This limpid space of time prolong, Forget to-morrow in to-day, And leave unto the passing throng The Sea, the Town, and the Highway.
BY JEAN FRANCOIS DUCIS
Thou brooklet, all unknown to song, Hid in the covert of the wood! Ah, yes, like thee I fear the throng, Like thee I love the solitude.
O brooklet, let my sorrows past Lie all forgotten in their graves, Till in my thoughts remain at last Only thy peace, thy flowers, thy waves.
The lily by thy margin waits;— The nightingale, the marguerite; In shadow here he meditates His nest, his love, his music sweet.
Near thee the self-collected soul Knows naught of error or of crime; Thy waters, murmuring as they roll, Transform his musings into rhyme.
Ah, when, on bright autumnal eves, Pursuing still thy course, shall I Lisp the soft shudder of the leaves, And hear the lapwing's plaintive cry?
BY LEFRANC DE POMPIGNAN
I leave you, ye cold mountain chains, Dwelling of warriors stark and frore! You, may these eyes behold no more, Rave on the horizon of our plains.
Vanish, ye frightful, gloomy views! Ye rocks that mount up to the clouds! Of skies, enwrapped in misty shrouds, Impracticable avenues!
Ye torrents, that with might and main Break pathways through the rocky walls, With your terrific waterfalls Fatigue no more my weary brain!
Arise, ye landscapes full of charms, Arise, ye pictures of delight! Ye brooks, that water in your flight The flowers and harvests of our farms!
You I perceive, ye meadows green, Where the Garonne the lowland fills, Not far from that long chain of hills, With intermingled vales between.
You wreath of smoke, that mounts so high, Methinks from my own hearth must come; With speed, to that beloved home, Fly, ye too lazy coursers, fly!
And bear me thither, where the soul In quiet may itself possess, Where all things soothe the mind's distress, Where all things teach me and console.
Will ever the dear days come back again,Those days of June, when lilacs were in bloom,And bluebirds sang their sonnets in the gloomOf leaves that roofed them in from sun or rain?I know not; but a presence will remainForever and forever in this room,Formless, diffused in air, like a perfume,—A phantom of the heart, and not the brain.Delicious days! when every spoken wordWas like a foot-fall nearer and more near,And a mysterious knocking at the gateOf the heart's secret places, and we heardIn the sweet tumult of delight and fearA voice that whispered, "Open, I cannot wait!"
BY XAVIER MARMIER
At La Chaudeau,—'t is long since then:I was young,—my years twice ten;All things smiled on the happy boy,Dreams of love and songs of joy,Azure of heaven and wave below,At La Chaudeau.
At La Chaudeau I come back old:My head is gray, my blood is cold;Seeking along the meadow ooze,Seeking beside the river Seymouse,The days of my spring-time of long agoAt La Chaudeau.
At La Chaudeau nor heart nor brainEver grows old with grief and pain;A sweet remembrance keeps off age;A tender friendship doth still assuageThe burden of sorrow that one may knowAt La Chaudeau.
At La Chaudeau, had fate decreedTo limit the wandering life I lead,Peradventure I still, forsooth,Should have preserved my fresh green youth,Under the shadows the hill-tops throwAt La Chaudeau.
At La Chaudeau, live on, my friends,Happy to be where God intends;And sometimes, by the evening fire,Think of him whose sole desireIs again to sit in the old chateauAt La Chaudeau.
Let him who will, by force or fraud innate,Of courtly grandeurs gain the slippery height;I, leaving not the home of my delight,Far from the world and noise will meditate.Then, without pomps or perils of the great,I shall behold the day succeed the night;Behold the alternate seasons take their flight,And in serene repose old age await.And so, whenever Death shall come to closeThe happy moments that my days compose,I, full of years, shall die, obscure, alone!How wretched is the man, with honors crowned,Who, having not the one thing needful found,Dies, known to all, but to himself unknown.
BY CHARLES CORAN
Little sweet wine of Jurançon,You are dear to my memory still!With mine host and his merry song,Under the rose-tree I drank my fill.
Twenty years after, passing that way,Under the trellis I found againMine host, still sitting there au frais,And singing still the same refrain.
The Jurançon, so fresh and bold,Treats me as one it used to know;Souvenirs of the days of oldAlready from the bottle flow,
With glass in hand our glances met;We pledge, we drink. How sour it isNever Argenteuil piquetteWas to my palate sour as this!
And yet the vintage was good, in sooth;The self-same juice, the self-same cask!It was you, O gayety of my youth,That failed in the autumnal flask!
BY CLEMENT MAROT
To gallop off to town post-haste,So oft, the times I cannot tell;To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced,—Friar Lubin will do it well.But a sober life to lead,To honor virtue, and pursue it,That's a pious, Christian deed,—Friar Lubin can not do it.
To mingle, with a knowing smile,The goods of others with his own,And leave you without cross or pile,Friar Lubin stands alone.To say 't is yours is all in vain,If once he lays his finger to it;For as to giving back again,Friar Lubin cannot do it.
With flattering words and gentle tone,To woo and win some guileless maid,Cunning pander need you none,—Friar Lubin knows the trade.Loud preacheth he sobriety,But as for water, doth eschew it;Your dog may drink it,—but not he;Friar Lubin cannot do it.ENVOYWhen an evil deed 's to doFriar Lubin is stout and true;Glimmers a ray of goodness through it,Friar Lubin cannot do it.
BY JEAN FROISSART
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!I do not know thee,—nor what deeds are thine:Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!
Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine?Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me:Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?Naught see I permanent or sure in thee!
BY FELIX ARVERS
My soul its secret has, my life too has its mystery, A love eternal in a moment's space conceived; Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history, And she who was the cause nor knew it nor believed. Alas! I shall have passed close by her unperceived, Forever at her side, and yet forever lonely, I shall unto the end have made life's journey, only Daring to ask for naught, and having naught received. For her, though God has made her gentle and endearing, She will go on her way distraught and without hearing These murmurings of love that round her steps ascend, Piously faithful still unto her austere duty, Will say, when she shall read these lines full of her beauty, "Who can this woman be?" and will not comprehend.
PURGATORIO II. 13-51.
And now, behold! as at the approach of morning,Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery redDown in the west upon the ocean floorAppeared to me,—may I again behold it!A light along the sea, so swiftly coming,Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled.And when therefrom I had withdrawn a littleMine eyes, that I might question my conductor,Again I saw it brighter grown and larger.Thereafter, on all sides of it, appearedI knew not what of white, and underneath,Little by little, there came forth another.My master yet had uttered not a word,While the first whiteness into wings unfolded;But, when he clearly recognized the pilot,He cried aloud: "Quick, quick, and bow the knee!Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands!Henceforward shalt thou see such officers!See, how he scorns all human arguments,So that no oar he wants, nor other sailThan his own wings, between so distant shores!See, how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven,Fanning the air with the eternal pinions,That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!"And then, as nearer and more near us cameThe Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared,So that the eye could not sustain his presence,But down I cast it; and he came to shoreWith a small vessel, gliding swift and light,So that the water swallowed naught thereof.Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot!Beatitude seemed written in his face!And more than a hundred spirits sat within."In exitu Israel de Aegypto!"Thus sang they all together in one voice,With whatso in that Psalm is after written.Then made he sign of holy rood upon them,Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore,And he departed swiftly as he came.
PURGATORIO XXVIII. 1-33.
Longing already to search in and roundThe heavenly forest, dense and living-green,Which tempered to the eyes the newborn day,Withouten more delay I left the bank,Crossing the level country slowly, slowly,Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance.A gently-breathing air, that no mutationHad in itself, smote me upon the forehead,No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze,Whereat the tremulous branches readilyDid all of them bow downward towards that sideWhere its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain;Yet not from their upright direction bentSo that the little birds upon their topsShould cease the practice of their tuneful art;But with full-throated joy, the hours of primeSinging received they in the midst of foliageThat made monotonous burden to their rhymes,Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells,Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi,When Aeolus unlooses the Sirocco.Already my slow steps had led me onInto the ancient wood so far, that ICould see no more the place where I had entered.And lo! my further course cut off a river,Which, tow'rds the left hand, with its little waves,Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang.All waters that on earth most limpid are,Would seem to have within themselves some mixture,Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal,Although it moves on with a brown, brown current,Under the shade perpetual, that neverRay of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.
PURGATORIO XXX. 13-33, 85-99, XXXI. 13-21.
Even as the Blessed, at the final summons,Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave,Wearing again the garments of the flesh,So, upon that celestial chariot,A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis,Ministers and messengers of life eternal.They all were saying, "Benedictus qui venis,"And scattering flowers above and round about,"Manibus o date lilia plenis."Oft have I seen, at the approach of day,The orient sky all stained with roseate hues,And the other heaven with light serene adorned,And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed,So that, by temperate influence of vapors,The eye sustained his aspect for long while;Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers,Which from those hands angelic were thrown up,And down descended inside and without,With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil,Appeared a lady, under a green mantle,Vested in colors of the living flame.. . . . . .Even as the snow, among the living raftersUpon the back of Italy, congeals,Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds,And then, dissolving, filters through itself,Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes,Like as a taper melts before a fire,Even such I was, without a sigh or tear,Before the song of those who chime foreverAfter the chiming of the eternal spheres;But, when I heard in those sweet melodiesCompassion for me, more than had they said,"O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him?"The ice, that was about my heart congealed,To air and water changed, and, in my anguish,Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast.. . . . . .Confusion and dismay, together mingled,Forced such a feeble "Yes!" out of my mouth,To understand it one had need of sight.Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 't is discharged,Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow,And with less force the arrow hits the mark;So I gave way beneath this heavy burden,Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs,And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage.
BY VINCENZO DA FILICAJA
Italy! Italy! thou who'rt doomed to wearThe fatal gift of beauty, and possessThe dower funest of infinite wretchednessWritten upon thy forehead by despair;Ah! would that thou wert stronger, or less fair.That they might fear thee more, or love thee less,Who in the splendor of thy lovelinessSeem wasting, yet to mortal combat dare!Then from the Alps I should not see descendingSuch torrents of armed men, nor Gallic hordeDrinking the wave of Po, distained with gore,Nor should I see thee girded with a swordNot thine, and with the stranger's arm contending,Victor or vanquished, slave forever more.
[The following translations are from the poems of Michael Angelo as revised by his nephew Michael Angelo the Younger, and were made before the publication of the original text by Guasti.]
Nothing the greatest artist can conceiveThat every marble block doth not confineWithin itself; and only its designThe hand that follows intellect can achieve.The ill I flee, the good that I believe,In thee, fair lady, lofty and divine,Thus hidden lie; and so that death be mineArt, of desired success, doth me bereave.Love is not guilty, then, nor thy fair face,Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great disdain,Of my disgrace, nor chance, nor destiny,If in thy heart both death and love find placeAt the same time, and if my humble brain,Burning, can nothing draw but death from thee.
Not without fire can any workman mouldThe iron to his preconceived design,Nor can the artist without fire refineAnd purify from all its dross the gold;Nor can revive the phoenix, we are told,Except by fire. Hence if such death be mineI hope to rise again with the divine,Whom death augments, and time cannot make old.O sweet, sweet death! O fortunate fire that burnsWithin me still to renovate my days,Though I am almost numbered with the dead!If by its nature unto heaven returnsThis element, me, kindled in its blaze,Will it bear upward when my life is fled.
Oh give me back the days when loose and freeTo my blind passion were the curb and rein,Oh give me back the angelic face again,With which all virtue buried seems to be!Oh give my panting footsteps back to me,That are in age so slow and fraught with pain,And fire and moisture in the heart and brain,If thou wouldst have me burn and weep for thee!If it be true thou livest alone, Amor,On the sweet-bitter tears of human hearts,In an old man thou canst not wake desire;Souls that have almost reached the other shoreOf a diviner love should feel the darts,And be as tinder to a holier fire.
The course of my long life hath reached at last,In fragile bark o'er a tempestuous sea,The common harbor, where must rendered beAccount of all the actions of the past.The impassioned phantasy, that, vague and vast,Made art an idol and a king to me,Was an illusion, and but vanityWere the desires that lured me and harassed.The dreams of love, that were so sweet of yore,What are they now, when two deaths may be mine,—One sure, and one forecasting its alarms?Painting and sculpture satisfy no moreThe soul now turning to the Love Divine,That oped, to embrace us, on the cross its arms.
Lady, how can it chance—yet this we seeIn long experience—that will longer lastA living image carved from quarries vastThan its own maker, who dies presently?Cause yieldeth to effect if this so be,And even Nature is by Art at surpassed;This know I, who to Art have given the past,But see that Time is breaking faith with me.Perhaps on both of us long life can IEither in color or in stone bestow,By now portraying each in look and mien;So that a thousand years after we die,How fair thou wast, and I how full of woe,And wherefore I so loved thee, may be seen.
When the prime mover of my many sighsHeaven took through death from out her earthly place,Nature, that never made so fair a face,Remained ashamed, and tears were in all eyes.O fate, unheeding my impassioned cries!O hopes fallacious! O thou spirit of grace,Where art thou now? Earth holds in its embraceThy lovely limbs, thy holy thoughts the skies.Vainly did cruel death attempt to stayThe rumor of thy virtuous renown,That Lethe's waters could not wash away!A thousand leaves, since he hath stricken thee down,Speak of thee, nor to thee could Heaven convey,Except through death, a refuge and a crown.
What should be said of him cannot be said;By too great splendor is his name attended;To blame is easier those who him offended,Than reach the faintest glory round him shed.This man descended to the doomed and deadFor our instruction; then to God ascended;Heaven opened wide to him its portals splendid,Who from his country's, closed against him, fled.Ungrateful land! To its own prejudiceNurse of his fortunes; and this showeth well,That the most perfect most of grief shall see.Among a thousand proofs let one suffice,That as his exile hath no parallel,Ne'er walked the earth a greater man than he.
Ah me! ah me! when thinking of the years, The vanished years, alas, I do not find Among them all one day that was my own! Fallacious hope; desires of the unknown, Lamenting, loving, burning, and in tears (For human passions all have stirred my mind), Have held me, now I feel and know, confined Both from the true and good still far away. I perish day by day; The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary, And I am near to fail, infirm and weary.
BY GUIDO GUINIZELLI
To noble heart Love doth for shelter fly,As seeks the bird the forest's leafy shade;Love was not felt till noble heart beat high,Nor before love the noble heart was made.Soon as the sun's broad flameWas formed, so soon the clear light filled the air;Yet was not till he came:So love springs up in noble breasts, and thereHas its appointed space,As heat in the bright flames finds its allotted place.Kindles in noble heart the fire of love,As hidden virtue in the precious stone:This virtue comes not from the stars above,Till round it the ennobling sun has shone;But when his powerful blazeHas drawn forth what was vile, the stars impartStrange virtue in their rays;And thus when Nature doth create the heartNoble and pure and high,Like virtue from the star, love comes from woman's eye.
BY GIL VICENTE
If thou art sleeping, maiden,Awake and open thy door,'T is the break of day, and we must away,O'er meadow, and mount, and moor.
Wait not to find thy slippers,But come with thy naked feet;We shall have to pass through the dewy grass,And waters wide and fleet.
A TARTAR SONG
"He is gone to the desert land I can see the shining mane Of his horse on the distant plain, As he rides with his Kossak band!
"Come back, rebellious one! Let thy proud heart relent; Come back to my tall, white tent, Come back, my only son!
"Thy hand in freedom shall Cast thy hawks, when morning breaks, On the swans of the Seven Lakes, On the lakes of Karajal.
"I will give thee leave to stray And pasture thy hunting steeds In the long grass and the reeds Of the meadows of Karaday.
"I will give thee my coat of mail, Of softest leather made, With choicest steel inlaid; Will not all this prevail?"
"This hand no longer shall Cast my hawks, when morning breaks, On the swans of the Seven Lakes, On the lakes of Karajal.
"I will no longer stray And pasture my hunting steeds In the long grass and the reeds Of the meadows of Karaday.
"Though thou give me thy coat of mall, Of softest leather made, With choicest steel inlaid, All this cannot prevail.
"What right hast thou, O Khan, To me, who am mine own, Who am slave to God alone, And not to any man?
"God will appoint the day When I again shall be By the blue, shallow sea, Where the steel-bright sturgeons play.
"God, who doth care for me, In the barren wilderness, On unknown hills, no less Will my companion be.
"When I wander lonely and lost In the wind; when I watch at night Like a hungry wolf, and am white And covered with hoar-frost;
"Yea, wheresoever I be, In the yellow desert sands, In mountains or unknown lands, Allah will care for me!"
Then Sobra, the old, old man,— Three hundred and sixty years Had he lived in this land of tears, Bowed down and said, "O Khan!
"If you bid me, I will speak. There's no sap in dry grass, No marrow in dry bones! Alas, The mind of old men is weak!
"I am old, I am very old: I have seen the primeval man, I have seen the great Gengis Khan, Arrayed in his robes of gold.
"What I say to you is the truth; And I say to you, O Khan, Pursue not the star-white man, Pursue not the beautiful youth.
"Him the Almighty made, And brought him forth of the light, At the verge and end of the night, When men on the mountain prayed.
"He was born at the break of day, When abroad the angels walk; He hath listened to their talk, And he knoweth what they say.
"Gifted with Allah's grace, Like the moon of Ramazan When it shines in the skies, O Khan, Is the light of his beautiful face.
"When first on earth he trod, The first words that he said Were these, as he stood and prayed, There is no God but God!
"And he shall be king of men, For Allah hath heard his prayer, And the Archangel in the air, Gabriel, hath said, Amen!"
Black are the moors before Kazan,And their stagnant waters smell of blood:I said in my heart, with horse and man,I will swim across this shallow flood.
Under the feet of Argamack,Like new moons were the shoes he bare,Silken trappings hung on his back,In a talisman on his neck, a prayer.
My warriors, thought I, are following me;But when I looked behind, alas!Not one of all the band could I see,All had sunk in the black morass!
Where are our shallow fords? and whereThe power of Kazan with its fourfold gates?From the prison windows our maidens fairTalk of us still through the iron grates.
We cannot hear them; for horse and manLie buried deep in the dark abyss!Ah! the black day hath come down on Kazan!Ah! was ever a grief like this?
Down from yon distant mountain heightThe brooklet flows through the village street;A boy comes forth to wash his hands,Washing, yes washing, there he stands,In the water cool and sweet.
Brook, from what mountain dost thou come,O my brooklet cool and sweet!I come from yon mountain high and cold,Where lieth the new snow on the old,And melts in the summer heat.
Brook, to what river dost thou go?O my brooklet cool and sweet!I go to the river there belowWhere in bunches the violets grow,And sun and shadow meet.
Brook, to what garden dost thou go?O my brooklet cool and sweet!I go to the garden in the valeWhere all night long the nightingaleHer love-song doth repeat.
Brook, to what fountain dost thou go?O my brooklet cool and sweet!I go to the fountain at whose brinkThe maid that loves thee comes to drink,And whenever she looks therein,I rise to meet her, and kiss her chin,And my joy is then complete.
Welcome, O Stork! that dost wingThy flight from the far-away!Thou hast brought us the signs of Spring,Thou hast made our sad hearts gay.
Descend, O Stork! descendUpon our roof to rest;In our ash-tree, O my friend,My darling, make thy nest.
To thee, O Stork, I complain,O Stork, to thee I impartThe thousand sorrows, the painAnd aching of my heart.
When thou away didst go,Away from this tree of ours,The withering winds did blow,And dried up all the flowers.
Dark grew the brilliant sky,Cloudy and dark and drear;They were breaking the snow on high,And winter was drawing near.
From Varaca's rocky wall,From the rock of Varaca unrolled,the snow came and covered all,And the green meadow was cold.
O Stork, our garden with snowWas hidden away and lost,Mid the rose-trees that in it growWere withered by snow and frost.
MELIBOEUS. Tityrus, thou in the shade of a spreading beech-tree reclining, Meditatest, with slender pipe, the Muse of the woodlands. We our country's bounds and pleasant pastures relinquish, We our country fly; thou, Tityrus, stretched in the shadow, Teachest the woods to resound with the name of the fair Amaryllis.
TITYRUS. O Meliboeus, a god for us this leisure created, For he will be unto me a god forever; his altar Oftentimes shall imbue a tender lamb from our sheepfolds. He, my heifers to wander at large, and myself, as thou seest, On my rustic reed to play what I will, hath permitted.
MELIBOEUS. Truly I envy not, I marvel rather; on all sides In all the fields is such trouble. Behold, my goats I am driving, Heartsick, further away; this one scarce, Tityrus, lead I; For having here yeaned twins just now among the dense hazels, Hope of the flock, ah me! on the naked flint she hath left them. Often this evil to me, if my mind had not been insensate, Oak-trees stricken by heaven predicted, as now I remember; Often the sinister crow from the hollow ilex predicted, Nevertheless, who this god may be, O Tityrus, tell me.
TITYRUS. O Meliboeus, the city that they call Rome, I imagined, Foolish I! to be like this of ours, where often we shepherds Wonted are to drive down of our ewes the delicate offspring. Thus whelps like unto dogs had I known, and kids to their mothers, Thus to compare great things with small had I been accustomed. But this among other cities its head as far hath exalted As the cypresses do among the lissome viburnums.
MELIBOEUS. And what so great occasion of seeing Rome hath possessed thee?
TITYRUS. Liberty, which, though late, looked upon me in my inertness, After the time when my beard fell whiter front me in shaving,— Yet she looked upon me, and came to me after a long while, Since Amaryllis possesses and Galatea hath left me. For I will even confess that while Galatea possessed me Neither care of my flock nor hope of liberty was there. Though from my wattled folds there went forth many a victim, And the unctuous cheese was pressed for the city ungrateful, Never did my right hand return home heavy with money.
MELIBOEUS. I have wondered why sad thou invokedst the gods, Amaryllis, And for whom thou didst suffer the apples to hang on the branches! Tityrus hence was absent! Thee, Tityrus, even the pine-trees, Thee, the very fountains, the very copses were calling.
TITYRUS. What could I do? No power had I to escape from my bondage, Nor had I power elsewhere to recognize gods so propitious. Here I beheld that youth, to whom each year, Meliboeus, During twice six days ascends the smoke of our altars. Here first gave he response to me soliciting favor: "Feed as before your heifers, ye boys, and yoke up your bullocks."
MELIBOEUS. Fortunate old man! So then thy fields will be left thee, And large enough for thee, though naked stone and the marish All thy pasture-lands with the dreggy rush may encompass. No unaccustomed food thy gravid ewes shall endanger, Nor of the neighboring flock the dire contagion inject them. Fortunate old man! Here among familiar rivers, And these sacred founts, shalt thou take the shadowy coolness. On this side, a hedge along the neighboring cross-road, Where Hyblaean bees ever feed on the flower of the willow, Often with gentle susurrus to fall asleep shall persuade thee. Yonder, beneath the high rock, the pruner shall sing to the breezes, Nor meanwhile shalt thy heart's delight, the hoarse wood-pigeons, Nor the turtle-dove cease to mourn from aerial elm-trees.
TITYRUS. Therefore the agile stags shall sooner feed in the ether, And the billows leave the fishes bare on the sea-shore. Sooner, the border-lands of both overpassed, shall the exiled Parthian drink of the Soane, or the German drink of the Tigris, Than the face of him shall glide away from my bosom!
MELIBOEUS. But we hence shall go, a part to the thirsty Afries, Part to Scythia come, and the rapid Cretan Oaxes, And to the Britons from all the universe utterly sundered. Ah, shall I ever, a long time hence, the bounds of my country And the roof of my lowly cottage covered with greensward Seeing, with wonder behold,—my kingdoms, a handful of wheat-ears! Shall an impious soldier possess these lands newly cultured, And these fields of corn a barbarian? Lo, whither discord Us wretched people hath brought! for whom our fields we have planted! Graft, Meliboeus, thy pear-trees now, put in order thy vine-yards. Go, my goats, go hence, my flocks so happy aforetime. Never again henceforth outstretched in my verdurous cavern Shall I behold you afar from the bushy precipice hanging. Songs no more shall I sing; not with me, ye goats, as your shepherd, Shall ye browse on the bitter willow or blooming laburnum.
TITYRUS. Nevertheless, this night together with me canst thou rest thee Here on the verdant leaves; for us there are mellowing apples, Chestnuts soft to the touch, and clouted cream in abundance; And the high roofs now of the villages smoke in the distance, And from the lofty mountains are falling larger the shadows.
AT TOMIS, IN BESSARABIA, NEAR THE MOUTHS OF THE DANUBE.
TRISTIA, Book III., Elegy X.