XXVI.Medley.

Several translations from pleasing verses of Charles, Duke of Orleans, have been inserted in this volume; and as the American reader is seldom very familiar with French poets, we shall venture to give a little sketch of their author. Charles d’Orleans was born in 1391, and his life was highly colored by the vicissitudes of that stormy period. He was a nephew of the unhappy Charles VI., and was still a mere lad when, in 1406, his father Louis, Duke of Orleans, and regent of the kingdom, was assassinated in the streets of Paris, an event which placed the youth at once in nominal possession of his father’s duchy. The crime was laid at the door of John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy; and the widowed princess, Valentine Visconti, urged doubtless by the nobles of her political party, sought every possible means of bringing the offender to punishment; a criminal suit, extraordinary in its details, stands recorded in the French annals in connectionwith this circumstance. In order to excite the public sympathies to the utmost, the widowed duchess, with her children, appeared repeatedly in the streets, and courts of justice, in gloomy mourning procession. On all these occasions the young duke held a prominent position at the side of his Italian mother. His father’s murderer and kinsman, however, was too powerful for legal punishment; a few years later he fell under the dagger of the assassin on the bridge of Montereau, and in the presence of the dauphin. The consequences of these crimes were ruinous to France; the powerful house of Burgundy, after the murder of Duke John, rose in open rebellion, and Henry V. of England, through their means, obtained what without them he would scarcely have dared seriously to aim at—possession of the throne of St. Louis. On the famous field of Agincourt, Charles d’Orleans, sharing the fate of so many others, was made prisoner. He was immediately sent to England, where his captivity and exile were prolonged through a period of nearly five and twenty years, and varied only by removals from one stronghold to another. During part of that time he was confined in Pontrefact Castle, where his cousin, Queen Katherine, the wife of Henry V., paid him a visit in one of her progresses. Captivity, as in the case of several other royal and princely exiles, led him to seek consolation and amusement from poetical composition. His verses are very pleasing indeed, full of the simplicity of natural feeling, with much ease and grace of expression. Absence does not appear to have diminished his love of country; he cherished a longing desire to return to France, and envied, as he tells us, even the birds which were flying toward his native shores. At length, after a captivity extending over half a lifetime, he was liberated, and returned to France. Having some claims upon the Duchy of Milan, through his mother, a Visconti, he raised troops, not long after his return to Paris, and led an expedition into Italy, but failed to conquer the ducal crown. He was more successful as a poet than as a soldier; but he left, however, a reputation superior to either of these distinctions, thatof a good and honest man. His death took place in the year 1461.

The Duke of Orleans, who figures in Shakspeare’s drama of Henry V. at the battle of Agincourt, was this same poet-prince. His character is not unworthily sketched in the play, where he appears loyal and brave, superior to the other French princes figuring in the same scenes. When the French are already in full flight, he exclaims:

“We are enough yet living in the fieldTo smother up the English in our throngs,If any order might be thought upon.”

“We are enough yet living in the field

To smother up the English in our throngs,

If any order might be thought upon.”

To which the Duke of Bourbon is made to reply, very expressively:

“The devil take order now! I’ll to the throng;Let life be short, else shame will be too long.”

“The devil take order now! I’ll to the throng;

Let life be short, else shame will be too long.”

Shakspeare was probably not aware that the duke was a poet, else he would doubtless have made an allusion to the fact in Act iii., Scene vii., where some pleasantry occurs between the dauphin and his companions regarding a sonnet he had himself written to his horse.

FROM THE FRENCH.

I stood upon the wild sea-shore,And marked the wide expanse;My straining eyes were turned once moreTo long-loved distant France:I saw the sea-bird hurry byAlong the waters blue;I saw her wheel amid the sky,And mock my tearful, eager eye,That would her flight pursue.Onward she darts, secure and free,And wings her rapid course to thee!O that her wing were mine to soar,And reach thy lovely land once more!O Heaven! It were enough to dieIn my own, my native home—One hour of blessed libertyWere worth whole years to come!Translation ofMiss Costello.Charles, Duke of Orleans, 1391–1467.

I stood upon the wild sea-shore,

And marked the wide expanse;

My straining eyes were turned once more

To long-loved distant France:

I saw the sea-bird hurry by

Along the waters blue;

I saw her wheel amid the sky,

And mock my tearful, eager eye,

That would her flight pursue.

Onward she darts, secure and free,And wings her rapid course to thee!O that her wing were mine to soar,And reach thy lovely land once more!

Onward she darts, secure and free,

And wings her rapid course to thee!

O that her wing were mine to soar,

And reach thy lovely land once more!

O Heaven! It were enough to dieIn my own, my native home—One hour of blessed libertyWere worth whole years to come!Translation ofMiss Costello.Charles, Duke of Orleans, 1391–1467.

O Heaven! It were enough to die

In my own, my native home—

One hour of blessed liberty

Were worth whole years to come!

Translation ofMiss Costello.Charles, Duke of Orleans, 1391–1467.

OSSIAN.

It is night, I am alone; forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard on the mountain. The torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds!

Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! his bow near him unstrung; his dogs panting 'round him. But here I must sit alone by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar—why the chief of the hill his promise? Here is the rock, and there the tree! Here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father; with thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar!

Cease a little while, O wind! Stream, be thou silent awhile! Let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me! Salgar, it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming? Lo, the calm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are gray on the steep; I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not before him with tidings of his near approach. Here I must sit alone!

Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love, and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me; I am alone! My soul is tormented with fears! Ah! they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar? Why, O Salgar, hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! What shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among thousands! He was terrible in the fight! Speak to me; hear my voice; hear me, sons of my love! They are silent; silent forever! Cold, cold are their breasts of clay! Oh! from the rock on the hill—from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale; no answer half-drowned in the storm!

I sit in my grief; I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb,ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream; why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the hill; when the loud winds arise, my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. He shall fear but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma!

James Macpherson, 1738–1796.

FROM “CYNTHIA’S REVELS.”

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;Yet slower, yet, O faintly, gentle springs!List to the heavy part the music bears;Woe weeps out her division when she sings.Droop herbs and flowers,Fall grief in showers—Our beauties are not ours.O I could still,Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,Drop, drop, drop, drop,Since summer’s pride is now a withered daffodil.Ben Jonson, 1574–1637.

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;

Yet slower, yet, O faintly, gentle springs!

List to the heavy part the music bears;

Woe weeps out her division when she sings.

Droop herbs and flowers,

Fall grief in showers—

Our beauties are not ours.

O I could still,

Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,

Drop, drop, drop, drop,

Since summer’s pride is now a withered daffodil.

Ben Jonson, 1574–1637.

“O Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands o’ Dee;”The western wind was wild and dark wi’ foam,And all alone went she.The creeping tide came up along the sand,And o’er, and o’er the sand,And 'round, and 'round the sand,As far as eye could see;The blinding mist came down and hid the land,And never home came she.“O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress o’ golden hair—O’ drowned maiden’s hair,Above the nets at sea?Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,Among the stakes on Dee!”They rowed her in across the rolling foam,The cruel, crawling foam,The cruel, hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea.But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,Across the sands o’ Dee.C. Kingsley.

“O Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands o’ Dee;”The western wind was wild and dark wi’ foam,And all alone went she.

“O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands o’ Dee;”

The western wind was wild and dark wi’ foam,

And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,And o’er, and o’er the sand,And 'round, and 'round the sand,As far as eye could see;The blinding mist came down and hid the land,And never home came she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,

And o’er, and o’er the sand,

And 'round, and 'round the sand,

As far as eye could see;

The blinding mist came down and hid the land,

And never home came she.

“O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress o’ golden hair—O’ drowned maiden’s hair,Above the nets at sea?Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,Among the stakes on Dee!”

“O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—

A tress o’ golden hair—

O’ drowned maiden’s hair,

Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,

Among the stakes on Dee!”

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,The cruel, crawling foam,The cruel, hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea.But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,Across the sands o’ Dee.C. Kingsley.

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel, crawling foam,

The cruel, hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea.

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,

Across the sands o’ Dee.

C. Kingsley.

TO ST. GREGORY NAZIANZEN.

I believe I may at last flatter myself with having found the end of my wanderings. The hopes of being united with thee—or, I should rather say, my dreams, for hopes have been justly termed the waking dreams of men—have remained unfulfilled. God has suffered me to find a place, such as has often flitted before our imaginations; for that which fancy has shown us from afar is now made manifest to me. A high mountain, clothed with thick woods, is watered to the north by fresh and everflowing streams. At its foot lies an extended plain, rendered fruitful by the vapors with which it is moistened. The surrounding forest crowded with trees of different kinds, incloses one as in a strong fortress. This wilderness is bounded by two deep ravines; on the one side the river, rushing in foam down the mountain, forms an almost impassable barrier, while on the other all access is impeded by a broad mountain-ridge. My hut is so situated on the summit of the mountain, that I can overlook the whole plain, and follow throughout its course the Iris, which is more beautiful, and has a more abundant body of water than the Strymon, near Amphipolis. The river of my wilderness, which is more impetuous than any other that I know of, breaks against the jutting rock, and throws itself foaming into the abyss below—an object of admiration to the mountain wanderer, and a source of profit to the natives from the numerous fishes that are found in its waters. Shall I describe to thee the fructifying vapors that rise from the moist earth, or the cool breezes wafted over the rippled face of the waters? Shall I speak of the sweet song of the birds, or of the rich luxuriance of the flowering plants? What charms me beyond all else is the calm repose of the spot. It is only visited occasionally by huntsmen; for my wilderness nourishes herds of deer and wild goats, but not bears and wolves.What other spot could I exchange for this? Alcmæon, when he had found the Echinades, would not wander farther.

Letters ofSt. Basil, 329–379.

When I see every ledge of rock, every valley and plain, covered with new-born verdure, the varied beauty of the trees, and the lilies at my feet decked by Nature with the double charms of perfume and of color, when in the distance I see the ocean, toward which the clouds are borne onward, my spirit is overpowered by a sadness not wholly devoid of enjoyment. When in autumn the fruits have passed away, the leaves have fallen, and the branches of the trees, dried and shriveled, are robbed of their leafy adornments, we are instinctively led, amid the everlasting and regular change in Nature, to feel the harmony of the wondrous powers pervading all things. He who contemplates them with the eye of the soul, feels the littleness of man amid the greatness of the universe.

St. Gregoryof Nyssa, 396.

FROM ITALIAN OF PETRARCH.

Being one day at my window all alone,So many strange things happened me to see,As much it grieveth me to think thereon.At my right hand a hynde appeared to mee,So faire as mote the greatest god delite;Two eager dogs did her pursue in chase,Of which the one was blacke, the other white;With deadly force, so in their cruell raceThey pincht the haunches of that gentle beast,That at the last, and in short time I spide,Under a rocke, where she, alas, opprest,Fell to the ground, and there untimely dide.Cruell death vanquishing so noble beautieOft makes me wrile so harde a destanie.

Being one day at my window all alone,

So many strange things happened me to see,

As much it grieveth me to think thereon.

At my right hand a hynde appeared to mee,

So faire as mote the greatest god delite;

Two eager dogs did her pursue in chase,

Of which the one was blacke, the other white;

With deadly force, so in their cruell race

They pincht the haunches of that gentle beast,

That at the last, and in short time I spide,

Under a rocke, where she, alas, opprest,

Fell to the ground, and there untimely dide.

Cruell death vanquishing so noble beautie

Oft makes me wrile so harde a destanie.

After, at sea, a tall ship did appeare,Made all of heben and white yvorie;The sailes of golde, of silk the tackle were;Milde was the winde, calme seemed the sea to bee,The skie eachwhere did show full bright and faire.With rich treasures this gay ship fraighted was;But sudden storme did so turmoyle the aire,And tumbled up the sea, that she (alas!)Strake on a rock that under water lay,And perished past all recoverie.O! how great ruth and sorrowful assayDoth vex my spirite with perplexitie,Thus in a moment to see lost and drown’dSo great riches, as like cannot be found.

After, at sea, a tall ship did appeare,

Made all of heben and white yvorie;

The sailes of golde, of silk the tackle were;

Milde was the winde, calme seemed the sea to bee,

The skie eachwhere did show full bright and faire.

With rich treasures this gay ship fraighted was;

But sudden storme did so turmoyle the aire,

And tumbled up the sea, that she (alas!)

Strake on a rock that under water lay,

And perished past all recoverie.

O! how great ruth and sorrowful assay

Doth vex my spirite with perplexitie,

Thus in a moment to see lost and drown’d

So great riches, as like cannot be found.

The heavenly branches did I see ariseOut of the fresh and lustie lawrell tree,Amidst the yong greene wood of Paradise;Some noble plant I thought my selfe to see,Such store of birds therein yshrowded were,Chaunting in shade their sundrie melodie,That with their sweetness I was ravisht nere.While on this lawrell fixed was mine eie,The skie gan everie where to overcast,And darkened was the welkin all about,When sudden flash of heaven’s fire out brast,And rent this royall tree quite by the roote;Which makes me much, and ever, to complaine,For no such shadowe shal be had againe.

The heavenly branches did I see arise

Out of the fresh and lustie lawrell tree,

Amidst the yong greene wood of Paradise;

Some noble plant I thought my selfe to see,

Such store of birds therein yshrowded were,

Chaunting in shade their sundrie melodie,

That with their sweetness I was ravisht nere.

While on this lawrell fixed was mine eie,

The skie gan everie where to overcast,

And darkened was the welkin all about,

When sudden flash of heaven’s fire out brast,

And rent this royall tree quite by the roote;

Which makes me much, and ever, to complaine,

For no such shadowe shal be had againe.

Within this woode, out of a rocke, did riseA spring of water, mildly rumbling downe,Wherto approched not in anie wiseThe homely shepherd nor the ruder clowne,But manie muses, and the nymphes withall,That sweetly in accord did tune their voyceTo the soft sounding of the water’s fall,That my glad heart thereat did much reioyce.But, while herein I tooke my chiefe delight,I saw (alas!) the gaping earth devoureThe spring, the place, and all cleane out of sight;Which yet aggrieves my hart even to this houre,And wounds my soul with ruefull memorie,To see such pleasures gon so suddenly.

Within this woode, out of a rocke, did rise

A spring of water, mildly rumbling downe,

Wherto approched not in anie wise

The homely shepherd nor the ruder clowne,

But manie muses, and the nymphes withall,

That sweetly in accord did tune their voyce

To the soft sounding of the water’s fall,

That my glad heart thereat did much reioyce.

But, while herein I tooke my chiefe delight,

I saw (alas!) the gaping earth devoure

The spring, the place, and all cleane out of sight;

Which yet aggrieves my hart even to this houre,

And wounds my soul with ruefull memorie,

To see such pleasures gon so suddenly.

I saw a phœnix in the wood alone,With purple wings and crest of golden hewe;Strange bird he was, whereby I thought anone,That of some heavenly wight I had the viewe;Untill he came unto the broken tree,And to the spring, that late devoured was.What say I more? Each thing at last we seeDoth passe away; the phœnix there, alas!Spying the tree destroid, the water dride,Himself smote with his beake, as in disdaine,And so forthwithe in greate despight he dide;That yet my heart burns in exceeding paine,For ruth and pitie of so haples plight;O! let mine eyes no more see such a sight.

I saw a phœnix in the wood alone,

With purple wings and crest of golden hewe;

Strange bird he was, whereby I thought anone,

That of some heavenly wight I had the viewe;

Untill he came unto the broken tree,

And to the spring, that late devoured was.

What say I more? Each thing at last we see

Doth passe away; the phœnix there, alas!

Spying the tree destroid, the water dride,

Himself smote with his beake, as in disdaine,

And so forthwithe in greate despight he dide;

That yet my heart burns in exceeding paine,

For ruth and pitie of so haples plight;

O! let mine eyes no more see such a sight.

At last so faire a ladie did I spie,That thinking yet on her I burn and quake;On hearts and flowres she walked pensivelyMilde, but yet love she proudly did forsake;White seem’d her robes, yet woven so they wereAs snow and golde together had beene wrought;Above the waste a darke cloude shrouded her,A stinging serpent by the heele her caught;Wherewith she languish’d as the gathered flowre;And, well assured, she mounted up to ioy.Alas, on earth no nothing doth endureBut bitter griefe and sorrowful annoy;Which make this life wretched and miserable,Tossed with stormes of fortune variable.

At last so faire a ladie did I spie,

That thinking yet on her I burn and quake;

On hearts and flowres she walked pensively

Milde, but yet love she proudly did forsake;

White seem’d her robes, yet woven so they were

As snow and golde together had beene wrought;

Above the waste a darke cloude shrouded her,

A stinging serpent by the heele her caught;

Wherewith she languish’d as the gathered flowre;

And, well assured, she mounted up to ioy.

Alas, on earth no nothing doth endure

But bitter griefe and sorrowful annoy;

Which make this life wretched and miserable,

Tossed with stormes of fortune variable.

When I beheld this tickle trustles stateOf vaine worlde’s glorie, flitting to and fro,And mortall men tossed by troublous fateIn restless seas of wretchednesse and woe,I wish I might this wearie life foregoe,And shortly turn into my happie rest,Where my free spirit might not anie moeBe vext with sights that doo her peace molest.And ye, faire ladie, in whose bounteous brestAll heavenly grace and vertue shrined is,When ye these rymes doe read, and vow the rest,Loath this base world, and thinke of heaven’s bliss;And though ye be the fairest of God’s creatures,Yet thinke that Death shall spoyle your goodly features.Translation ofEdmund Spenser.Francesco Petrarca, 1304–1374.

When I beheld this tickle trustles state

Of vaine worlde’s glorie, flitting to and fro,

And mortall men tossed by troublous fate

In restless seas of wretchednesse and woe,

I wish I might this wearie life foregoe,

And shortly turn into my happie rest,

Where my free spirit might not anie moe

Be vext with sights that doo her peace molest.

And ye, faire ladie, in whose bounteous brest

All heavenly grace and vertue shrined is,

When ye these rymes doe read, and vow the rest,

Loath this base world, and thinke of heaven’s bliss;

And though ye be the fairest of God’s creatures,

Yet thinke that Death shall spoyle your goodly features.

Translation ofEdmund Spenser.Francesco Petrarca, 1304–1374.

THE CAMPAGNA OF ROME.

Perhaps there is no more impressive scene on earth than the solitary extent of the Campagna of Rome under evening light. Let the reader imagine himself for a moment withdrawn from the sounds and motion of the living world, and sent forth alone into this wild and wasted plain. The earth yields and crumbles beneath his foot, tread he never so lightly, for its substance is white, hollow, and carious, like the dusty wreck of the bones of men. The long, knotted grass waves and tosses feebly in the evening wind, and the shadows of its motion shake feverishly along the banks of rivers that lift themselves to the sunlight. Hillocks of moldering earth heave around him, as if the dead beneath were struggling in their sleep; scattered blocks of black stone, four square, remnants of mighty edifices, not one left upon another, lie upon them to keep them down. A dull purple, poisonous haze stretches level along the desert, vailing its spectral wrecks of massy ruins, on whose rents the red light rests like dying fire on defiled altars. The blue ridge of the Alban mount lifts itself against a solemn space of green, clear, quiet sky. Watch-towers of dark clouds stand steadfastly along the promontories of the Apennines. From the plain to the mountains, the shattered aqueducts, pier beyond pier, melt into the darkness, like shadowy and countless troops of funeral mourners passing from a nation’s grave.

John Ruskin.

FROM THE GERMAN.

“Whither, thou turbid wave?Whither, with so much haste,As if a thief wert thou?”“I am the Wave of LifeStained with my margin’s dust;From the struggle and the strifeOf the narrow stream I flyTo the sea’s immensity,To wash me from the slimeOf the muddy banks of Time.”Translation ofH. W. Longfellow.Christoph Tiedge, 1752–1840.

“Whither, thou turbid wave?Whither, with so much haste,As if a thief wert thou?”

“Whither, thou turbid wave?

Whither, with so much haste,

As if a thief wert thou?”

“I am the Wave of LifeStained with my margin’s dust;From the struggle and the strifeOf the narrow stream I flyTo the sea’s immensity,To wash me from the slimeOf the muddy banks of Time.”Translation ofH. W. Longfellow.Christoph Tiedge, 1752–1840.

“I am the Wave of Life

Stained with my margin’s dust;

From the struggle and the strife

Of the narrow stream I fly

To the sea’s immensity,

To wash me from the slime

Of the muddy banks of Time.”

Translation ofH. W. Longfellow.Christoph Tiedge, 1752–1840.

MUTABILITY.

From low to high doth dissolution climb,And sinks from high to low, along a scaleOf awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;A musical but melancholy chime,Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bearThe longest date do melt like frosty rime,That in the morning whitened hill and plainAnd is no more; drop like the tower sublimeOf yesterday, that royally did wearIts crown of weeds, but could not even sustainSome casual shout that broke the silent air,Or the unimaginable touch of Time.William Wordsworth.

From low to high doth dissolution climb,

And sinks from high to low, along a scale

Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;

A musical but melancholy chime,

Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,

Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.

Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear

The longest date do melt like frosty rime,

That in the morning whitened hill and plain

And is no more; drop like the tower sublime

Of yesterday, that royally did wear

Its crown of weeds, but could not even sustain

Some casual shout that broke the silent air,

Or the unimaginable touch of Time.

William Wordsworth.

[Pastoral Scene]

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