^. e-iSHi i^JHh Date Due s. 1? mt 1'llR' "^ ^2^ — m^"^ rd Ajff «*i IT""Dl — "^ .^ ff P Gt\ < r**i Cornell University Library The original of tiiis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013517051 POEMS AND TRANSLATIONS W. J. LINTON. Note. — 780 copies only printed for England and America. Each numbered as issued. Type distributed. No. IIH^ POEMS AND TRANSLATIONS. W. J. LINTON LONDON JOHN C NIMMO 14, King William Street, Strand, 1889 A . (^ *? 3 If ( CHISWICK VRESS I— C. WHlTTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURI CHANCERY LANE. WILLIAM BELL SCOTT, MY FRIEND FOR NEARLY FIFTY YEARS, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. February, 1889. CONTENTS. Prologue Later Poems. By the River . Young Love Two . . . No Marvel . . Farewell, Hope Love and Youth Too Late The LUy The Riddle Rustic Amaryllis Adonis . Diviner Love Under the Lindens Admiring Love Love Jealous Whom I mean . A Dream Flower-Courtship Love Once . Rosalind . . Other Some Why .... Love Afraid Weep not ! Sigh not Rosy Wine To Sorrow PAGE I 3 4 6 7 8 9 lO II 12 13 H IS i6 17 i8 19 20 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 viii CONTENTS. Later Poems — continued. page Love's Service ... 32 Madam ! no ! 33 No More 34 Sleeping on Latmos 35 Not Flattering .' 36 To Pansies 37 Crippled r . . 38 Mulidor 39 Long Ago 40 Faint Heart 41 Happening 43 Hope and Wish 44 For Strength 45 Fairest 46 The Prayer to Diana . . . .... 48 Under a Cherry Tree 50 Camomile 51 Her Rivals .... 52 Dirge 54 In Her Grave , 55 Tricksy 56 Spring and Autumn 57 The Law of Change 58 If Love might Last 60 Fie, Love ! Fie 61 A Proverb 62 Love's Blindness 63 Seasons 64 The Daisy 65 My Valentine ". ^ 66 Bare Feet 67 Happy Days 68 The Silenced Singer 69 CONTENTS. ix Early Poems. page Bridal Song 71 Hope 71 To the West Wind 72 False Hope 73 Vain Counsel 74 To His Love 75 Parting 76 Mind your Knitting 77 Sweet Gale ... 79 The Advent of Peace 79 A Homily 80 1854 8z Eurydice 84 Iphigenia at Aulis 93 Harry Marten's Dungeon Thoughts 95 Grenville's Last Fight 103 A Requiem Ill Translations. Fair Erembor 113 The Marguerite 115 Virelay 117 To his Nose 119 Vau de Vire 121 Spring 122 Winter 123 Our Vicar 124 Frire Lubin ... 125 In Paris . . 127 To a Lady 128 The Rose 129 I would be ... , 130 To Margaret 132 X CONTENTS. TRUiiSLATlONS^contimtei/. page To the Sunflower I34 The Shepherdess 136 A Praise of Water I37 My Vocation 14° Fortune 142 The Land of Cokayne 144 James i49 Rosette 152 The Poor Woman 154 The Old Vagabond 157 My Contemporary 160 Had he Known 161 An Old Soiig of Young Time 163 Her Grief 165 Since 167 Why 169 The Tomb and the Rose 170 The Waltz of the Leaves 171 The Army of the Republic 173 The Black Huntsman 177 Lament 180 Light 181 Leave Me . .... 186 Fortunio's Song 188 Hope 190 China Ware 191 Serenade. ... .... .... 192 My Oxen 193 TreFilaD'Oro 196 The Song of My Dear . . ...... 197 In Dispraise of a Woman , ... 199 Epilogue . . . 202 TN Childhood's unsuspicious hours ■*■ The fairies crown'd my head with floivers. Youth came : T lay at Beauty's feet ; Site smiled and said my song was sweet. Then Age : and, Love no longer mine. My brows I shaded with the vine. With flowers and love and wine and song, O Death I life hath not been too long. LATER POEMS. BY THE RIVER. T OVE ! of delight the bringer and giver : -* — ' Under the boughs began my lay, Sitting with Her beside the river ; Laughing the glad waves went their way. She whose beauty bewitch'd the Singer (Under the green leaves lovers may) Whisper'd — " I am the joy-gift bringer ! " Laughing the glad waves went their way. Love, of delight the bringer and giver ! — Under the leaves, in the evening grey. Nothing I hear but the laughing river — Mocking my sorrow's roundelay. LOVE-LORE. YOUNG LOVE. O O young were we that when we kiss'd *^ We had no other thought : The joy that first love brought Nought farther miss'd. To watch the dawning of a maiden smile Was worth one's while. In those young days, what though we kiss'd, We kiss'd without a thought : That tender of love sought Did hope assist, 'Twas but as hope helps in a morning dream. When things scarce seem. But^now, O Love ! whene'er we kiss (Be dumb, my thought ! ) The joy by her kiss brought Yet more doth miss. O Love ! thou wast sufficient in young days For innocent praise. LATER POEMS. O Love — Desire ! renew the kiss That had no farther thought ; Or lead to the Besought Whom now we miss : Thee, Hymen, — Love no more enough for us Grown curious. LOVE-LORE. TWO. " I "WO there were in the meadow lying, -*- Under the shade of the blossoming trees Kiss to kiss gave close replying : Nought else heard but the honey-bees. Two were sitting in Sorrow's shadow ; Dead in the cradle their love's fruit lay : Did they think of the sunny meadow And the honey of yesterday ? Two are there in the grave-yard lying Under the roots of the blossoming trees ; Love with love, but no replying : Nought is heard but the honey-bees. LATER POEMS. NO MARVEL. — " Love ties a ■woman's mind Looser than 7vith rofes of hay. " O INCE Love ties a woman's mind, *^ Though as loose as ropes of hay, Prithee,. Love ! my Mistress bind, Only for a day. For a day and night, to lay On her thought my faithful mind, Wliile the hay-rope, all one way, Would remain entwined. Dear ! such sweetness do I find Here upon the fresh-mown hay. That I marvel not the Wind Will not let it stay. LOVE -LORE. FAREWELL, HOPE ! FAREWELL, Hope ! I cry ; I'll not mope, — not I. If in her refusal She Will continue, let it be ! Other Hope I'll try. I'll not care, — not I : So, Despair, good-bye ! Thou shalt never bankrupt me : Love with One as fair as She Yet may share a sigh. Love Thee though I die, Dearest Woe ! and why ? Too long hast thou pinion'd me ; Other Love shall set me free, — One I know, near by. LATER POEMS. LOVE AND YOUTH. ' I "WO winged genii in the air -■- I greeted as they pass'd me by : , The one a bow and quiver bare, The other shouted joyously. Both I besought to stay their speed, But never Love nor Youth had heed Of my wild cry. As swift and careless as the wind, Youth fled, nor ever once look'd back ; A moment Love was left behind, Bu-t follow'd soon his fellow's track. Yet loitering at my heart he bent His bow, then smiled with changed intent ; The string was slack. LOVE-LORE. TOO LATE. ^^7ES ! thou art fair, and I had loved -^ If we in earlier hours had met ; But ere tow'rd me thy beauty moved The sun of Love's brief day had set. Though I may watch thy opening bloom, And its rich promise gladly see, 'Twill not procrastinate my doom : The ripen'd fruit is not for me. Yet, had I shared thy course of years. And young as Hope beheld thy charms, The love that only now endears Perchance had given thee to my arms. Vain, vain regret ! Another day Will kiss the buds of younger flowers, But ne'er will evening turn away From love untimelier than ours. LATER POEMS. THE LILY. I ^AIR slender Flower, and straight, -*- And though so dainty white, Thy beauty may not mate With Her's, my heart's Delight. Though shapely slim and fair, Yet in less fairness dight You fairest lilies are Than Her's, my heart's Delight. Thou but Her emblem art, An image to the sight Of purity, whose heart Is Her's, my heart's Delight. Alas ! and thou must fade And perish : such the plight Of flower and flower-like maid, — Even Her's, my heart's Delight. LOVE-LORE. THE RIDDLE. T T 7! HY do I my Mistress love ? ' • Tell me why, if any knoweth, That all Ladies else above Unto Her my duty oweth. I confess Their loveliness : What then doth my preference move ? Others are as good and. wise, Some are possibly profounder ; Even to my adoring eyes Is no saintly halo round her. I confess Their worth : no less Her beyond them all I prize. Love, they say, is always blind : Nay ! I see her every failing. Rather Love is as the wind, — Comes and goes, and unavailing 'Tis to guess His waywardness : She is loveliest, to my mind. LATER POEMS. 13 RUSTIC. T T ER cheeks — they are twin blush roses ; -^ -^ Her breath is the new-mown hay ; Right daintily curved her nose is, Ivory carved, you'd say. O rare ! Such is my Fair : Why doth she say me nay ? Her hair like silk o' the maize is, The Wind hath a golden prize ; The Sun in his high noon blazes Can not outshine her eyes. Compare Aught with my Fair ! Why doth she me despise ? O Venus ! but make her willing, Cupid ! thy wit employ : Were surely no prettier billing Though Adon had not been coy. O rare ! Ah me, my Fair ! When wilt thou be my Joy ? 14 LOVE-LORE. AMARYLLIS. MOURN, mourn for Amaryllis whom Desire Masked as Love has stolen from our troop ! Lament for her, ye Virgins ! who could stoop To such base service, quitting Dian's quire. Lament for Amaryllis ! Never more Her voice shall lift the hymn in Dian's praise ; Her silent ghost, among Love's Castaways, Wanders along the sad Lethean shore. Weep, weep for her ! Would that our tears might blot The record of her sorrow and her shame ! Love ! who beguiled her sense abused thy name : Forgive the blinded eyes that knew thee not ! LATER POEMS. 15 ADONIS. IN vain ! in vain ! I must refuse The love so freely proffer'd me : I may not love but where I choose, Though Venus' self the wooer be. Hadst thou but waited, who can tell What happy gatherer might pass ? The fruit that of its own weight fell Is left to wither on the grass. In vain thy love-ripe lips, thy arms Twined round me to compel my stay : Were but reserve among thy charms. Perhaps I had not turn'd away. t6 LOVE-LORE. DIVINER LOVE. /'~\ SON of Ocean-foam ! in vain ^~^ Sad Hope thy restless wings would stay ; Or Pleasure with her flower-chain Confine thee when thou wouldst away. Woe worth their lives in thee who trust, Child of Desire, whose name is Lust ! But thou, O Love the heaven-born, True offspring of the elder God ! Thou hold'st this counterfeit in scorn. And blessest those who kiss thy rod. Thy worship yields a joy more deep Than e'er had Adon luU'd to sleep. Thine is the temple, Power Divine ! To which I bring this constant heart, An offering at my Lady's shrine, Who in thy services hath part. For her dear sake my gift prefer. And gracious answer give through her ! LATER POEMS. 17 UNDER THE LINDENS. T TNDERNEATH the litidens' shade ^--' Where the bees sweet music made, In the idle June time hot, Dora with her Damon lay : Haply he his love might say, — 'Sooth he would and he would not. Well he loved, but was afraid : As they lay beneath the shade ('Twas all innocent I wot) Dora's head against him leant ; Nothing else the maiden meant But she would if he would not. . Underneath the lindens' shade. While the bees their music made. Simple love its measure got ; Fond looks, honey'd kisses Well, Something more might be to tell — If I would, — but I would not. LOVE-LORE. ADMIRING LOVE. LIKE her, the maiden who for years Fed on the scent of flowers fine, Such is my love, which now appears To live but on its thoughts of thine : That sweetness of love-bloom is all My food, my hunger's festival. The grace that halo.s thee around, TJiy beauty's effluence that doth kiss The garden's most removed bound. My fond condition can not niiss, — Who hourly hover round the bloom, Contenting me with its perfume. So modest-humble my delight, Not daring to approach too near, But having thee in constant sight And living in thy atmosphere : No miracle, I may confess, — So fragrant is thy loveliness. LATER POEMS. 191 LOVE JEALOUS.. ' '"T^IME was methought 'twould be enough fop -^ love To live by Her,' to worship and admire : Poor silly moth ! that all too soon must prove The kindling of Love's ire, And play with fire, And drawing nearer, nearer, so be.burn'd, — Unknowing that I yearn'd. I look'd as One might on a painting look. Or on a statue fair but marble-cold ; I sought not, I admired : Love may not brook A love needs not be told. Now would I fold The picture, the warm statue, to my heart : - Now hath Desire his part. Once seem'd it much but listening to Her, Hearing her voice, whose music was so clear- It was all pleasure ; now I feel the stir Of pain while She is near. Lest others hear. She must be mine, all mine, my very own : So Love at last is known. 20 LOVE-LORE.. WHOM I MEAN. T NAME her. not: but whoso see -*- A fair and gracious dignity That, gentle born, is careful still For blossoming of gentler will (The flower she weareth on her breast), Know well to whom my hope's, address'd. I need not name her, Beauty's Queen, Since well ye wot whom I do mean. I need not name her: whoso knows The fairest flower on earth tha,t grows Hath seen her and my riddle known. Pure love her beauty doth enzone, And holdeth in her wavy hair One pearl of constancy most rare. I do not name my heart's fair Queen, Since well ye wot whom I do mean. I name her not. None other name But Loveliest my lips may frame. LATER POEMS. O hopeful lips ! when may you meet In worship at love's service sweet ? Sweet Heart, that registers my vows, Such thought of grace my suit allows : Yet name I not love's Fairest Queen, Since well ye wot whom I do mean. LOVE-LORE. A DREAM, IDREAM'D (ah me! but life is dream-like all!) I lay in a garden fair, Sweet-shaded there By a young peach-tree ; and the tree. let fall Its blossoms of rich scent ^ On me, — for what that meant. Then question'd I my thought to find what sense My dream interpreted ; The answer said " The bloom o' the peach betokens preference." O heart ! if it be true My Lady cares for you. LATER POEMS. 23 FLOWER-COURTSHIP. T BROUGHT my Love a posy well composed -*■ To speak for me in words she could not doubt : Sweet basil, box, and broom, And cedar, and the bloom Of red chrysanthemum ; And in my left hand, as of choice kept out, A marigold, half closed. My posy well accepted then by her, The marigold she took and smiling threw Where the tall ox-eyes stand ; Then from her bosom's band Unloosed with lingering hand A single aster, — but with impulse new Pluck'd for me lavender. Sweet Basil, Good wishes. — Box, Constancy. — Broom, Humility. — Cedar, / live for thee. — Chrysanthemum, / love thee. — Marigold, Cruelty. — Ox-eye, Be patient. — Aster, ril think of it. " Owning her love, she sent him lavender." 24 LOVE-LORE. LOVE ONCE. T OVE once is nought but love alway : -* — ' They never loved whose hearts can say Love was : for true loVe can not change ; Tis only fancy loves to range. So reasoning, this content I drew : — Belinda might not be untrue. She told me, perhaps thought, she loved : But love so easily removed Is fickleness, mere Venus froth, — ' Just now I like and now I loathe. Such shimmer of a shifting sea Was all Belinda's "love " for me. BeUnda, like the passing wave. May much embrace, but never gave Herself. A shell on ocean foam Were our Belinda's likeliest home. So, reasoning thus, content I knew : The Unloving to herself was true. LATER POEMS. 25 ROSALIND. ON every tree the graven rind Retains the name of Rosalind ; I carved mine with it on each tree ; 'Tis she alone that loseth me. I dug into the quarried stone Her name, so should our love be known To latest years : for my reward I found her more than marble hard. " My Rosalind " with idle hand I traced upon the shifting sand, To be by the next flood effaced : Her ebb of love had greater hastfe. Than stone more hard is Rosalind, And looser than the sand her mind : Hard heart and will infirm I find ; Love's grave I dig for Rosalind. 26 LOVE-LORE. OTHER SOME. T 'LL not mourn though She refuse me, -*• I'll not deeply care ; Love shall never so abuse me : There are more as fair. Though I chose Love's White Rose, Lilies may compare. Shall I pine if She deceive me ? Die of my despair ? Let her, if so please her, leave me ! Truth indeed is rare ; Yet I'll find To my mind One whose faith is fair. Be She coldly coy, or faithless, I'll not too much care : If her lying leave me scatheless. Her neglect I'll share. Is this wrong ? My love-song Finds a burden there. LATER POEMS. 27 WHY. T T E puU'd the branch of hazel down, -*■ ■■■ And kiss'd me ere he let it go. 'Twas very sweet : I did not frown : Why did my lover tremble so ? Why was he silent as we went Hand fast in hand, the dim wood through ? I knew he loved me, knew he meant Love's question. I was silent too. I've not had time to ask him yet. 'Twas but a moment that my heart Beat against his, just now : we met At mother's gate, to kiss, and part. 28 LOVE-LORE. LOVE AFRAID. T DARED not lead my arm around -■- Her dainty waist ; I dared not seek her lips, that mine Hunger'd to taste : I dared not, for such awe I found, Love divine ! ' I trembled as my eager hand Her light touch graced ; And when her fond look answer'd mine 1 dared not haste. But waited, holding my demand For farther sign. Sweet mouth, that with so sweet a sound My dread hath chased. And to my lips the holy wine. Love's vintage, placed ! Dear heart, that ever now will bound Or rest with mine ! LATER POEMS. 29 WEEP NOT! SIGH NOT! TTTEEPnot! Tears must vainly fall, * * Though they fall like rain : Sorrow's flood shall not recall Love's dear life again. Vain thy tears, Vain thy sobs ; As vain heart-throbs Of lonely years Since thou Love hast slain. Sigh not ! As a passed wind Is but sought in vain. Sighs, nor groans, may not unbind Death's unbroken chain. Sighs and tears Nought avail ; Nor cheeks grown pale In lonely years. Love comes not again. 30 LOVE-LORE. ROSY WINE. TV yr Y Mistress' frowns are hard to bear, -^ ' -*- And yet I will not quite despair ; Nor think, because her lips I leave, There's nothing for me but to grieve. — The goblet's lip awaiteth mine : My grief I quench in rosy wine. Dame Fortune too has faithless gone : But let her go ! I will not moan. Draw in your chair, old Friend ! and see What rating Fortune has from me. Clink yet again your glass with mine, — To Fortune's health, in rosy wine ! Pass, Fortune ! pass, thou fickle jade ! One fortunately constant maid Smiles on me yet j though loves depart. Her presence gladdeneth my heart. Thy tendrils cling, O loving Vine ! My griefs I quench in rosy wine. LATER POEMS. 31 TO SORROW. T LOVED sweet Sorrow in my early youth -*- To-day we are but friends. Companions then, and now she only lends Her presence for a while, Graced with a smile Of more content than ruth. She loved me well in those confiding days ; Perhaps she loves me still. 'Tis I am traitor, careless to fulfil The faith we pledged of old : 'Tis I am cold. Who turn me from her gaze. Reproachful Sorrow ! art thou yet as fond ? Ah me ! my heart is dead. In that grey dawn our loves so fairly sped, Thou wooest now in vain : And yet remain ! I will not look beyond. 32 LOVE-LORE. LOVE'S SERVICE. HAST thou no pity, Love ! for thy poor thralls? No ruth for all the sorrow that befalls Thy hapless servitors ? Even so I pray'd To Him, the lord of earth and sea and air ; And he my foolish prayer Deign'd answer, and thus said : " I have no pity. Whoso serve me ask Nor wages nor reward ; but of their task Make their delight — ^^the joy divine of pain, Sometimes, — but none the less it is delight. In their great griefs despite, SufScient is their gain." I am not worthy. Love ! to claim a place In thy. close sanctuary ; but of thy grace Admit- me to the outer courts, and so In time that inner worship I may learn. And on thy altar burn The Sacrifice of Woe ! LATER POEMS. 33 MADAM! NO! "|\ /r ADAM, no ! and leave thy wiles ; ■'■*-'- Though I own thee fair, I in truth mistrust the smiles That any fool may share. I must quit, despite thy charms (Truly they are rare). But those all-embracing arms Can not detain me there. Madam, no ! my heart may yearn ; Love indeed could wait — Cared I but to take my turn With those who crowd thy gate. 34 LOVE- LORE. NO MORE. NO more ! no more ! — O happy Youth, so fearless, frank, and fair 1 Thou comest with the blossoms in thy hair No more, no more. No more, no more ! — O happier Love ! one fairest fair blush-rose Thy garden had, the Flower of Hope, that grows No more, no more. No more, no more ! — Long-parted Joy ! ah, whither hast thou flown ? Youth pass'd, Hope wither'd, and thy voice is known No more, no more. LATER POEMS. 3S SLEEPING ON LATMOS. AWAKE, Endymion ! How art thou sleeping still ? What light step climbs the hill, What brightness cometh on ? Awake, Endymion ! Wake, For Phoebe's sake. - Awake, Endymion ! — What dream hath lit his smile ? Was it that very while Her love around him shone ? Awake, Endymion ! Wake, For Phoebe's sake. Awake, Endymion ! — Wilt thou not wake for this ? And his still lips a kiss Divine from fond lips won. Now wake, Endymion ! Wake, For Phoebe's sake. 36 LOVE-LORE. NOT FLATTERING. ONO ! her eyes are not like stars, Her hair's not threads of gold ; And for her voice, it rather jars On me to hear her scold. Her nose is good, say for a scent ; Her mouth, I own, is wide ; And heaven a knack of laughing lent To show the teeth inside. Her smile is pleasant, I allow ; Her lips, well, — they are curved, Enough forkissing-gear, — I vow Her lover 'd not be sterved. Such as she is, this maid I love ; If she'll have mfe for man, I'll prize her, fairer girls above, As fairly as I can. LATER POEMS. 37 TO PANSIES. " The pansy maidens heartsease call." T)URE maiden thoughts, doubt not, ye are : -*- And yet sometimes we see Your colour richer and bizarre As Venus' pansies be. So be it ! who would change the flower Grown at its own sweet will ? Our only wish with every hour To find the heartsease still. 38 LOVE-LORE. CRIPPLED. ' I ''RAIL thy broken pinion, Love ! -^ Bind thine eyes with sorrow : I, no more thy minion, Love ! Bid thee Good-morrow. Useless to dissemble, Love ! Never can we borrow Past content : -dost tremble ? Love ! Bid thee Good-morrow. Limp away ! forget me, Love ! I have wed with Sorrow. My prayers do not let thee, Love ! . Bid me Good-morrow ! LATER POEMS. 39 MULIDOR. T T ER eyes are brighter than a greedy dog's ; -^ -^ Her hair is yellow as a shock of grain ; Her suppley limbs are nimbler than a frog's Leaping from out a pool and in again. Heigho, dildido ! An I love her in vain ? Her throat's round as a sack of wheaten flour, Wherefrom issues rare music as she speaks ; Her bosom's soft and white as snowy shower ; ' Redder than roses are her ruddy cheeks. Heigho, dildido ! Her have I loved for weeks. She gambols gaily as a youngling sheep ; Or walks more stately than a swimming swan : To tell of her perfections, all the heap, 'Od wot, the longest day it were not done. Heigho, dildido ! I am so love-begone. 40 LOVE-LORE. LONG AGO. DID I love you ? Well you know. Did you love me ? Who can say ? Yet may be you did one day Long ago. Do you love me ? Answer No. Yet I smile, nor will complain : It was sad to love in vain Long ago. Do I love you ? May be, though Love is silent, seeks not gain : I remember love was fain Long ago. LATER POEMS, 4' FAINT HEART. TT^AINT heart wins not lady fair : -*- Victory smiles on those who dare. There is but one way to woo : Think thy Mistress willing too ; Leave her never chance to choose, Hold her powerless to refuse ! If she answer thee with No, Wilt thou bow and let her go ? When, most like, her No is meant But to make more sweet consent : So thy suit may longer be. For so much she liketh thee. Never heed her pretty airs ! He's no lover who despairs ; He's no warrior whom a frown Drives from his beleaguer'd town ; And no hunter he who stops Till his stricken quarry drops. 42 LOVE- LORE. Aim as certain not to miss ; Take her as thou wouldst a kiss ! Or ask once, and if in vain, Ask her twice, and thrice again : Sure of this when all is said, — They lose most who are afraid. LATER POEMS. 43 HAPPENING. T AST evening, carrying home my gift -* — ' Of fresh wild fruit in cool leaf laid, I met the little neighbour maid ; And my ripe offering went adrift. I hear of others. So they take — These fair young thieves, the dues of Eld. How may such larcenies be quell'd ? Tell me, some Matron ! for love's sake. 44 LOVE-LORE. HOPE AND WISH. A Y ! if Love for wishing cared not, -^^- Or content with hoping dared not, Thou and I might love for ever : But our hopeful wishes, — they Must forbid our longer stay : Therefore must we sever. Dearest ! tell Hope to forsake thee ; Say to Wish — Thou shalt not take me, Love and I are friends 'for ever : Or tell Wish from thee to stray; Hope forbid to watch and pray : So we may not sever. So we never shall be parted ; So, although I broken-hearted Die, despairing of endeavour. My poor ghost with thee shall stay : Love, were Hope and Wish away, From thee could not sever. LATER POEMS. 45 FOR STRENGTH. T) REAK not, O heart ! -*--' Stern manhood bear the test ! Thou winn^st not, but thou hast loved the Best. So part ! Be strong, my heart ! Be strong, my heart ! •And strain thy level eyes Beyond this pain, lest Weakness thee surprise. Depart ! Break not, my heart ! 46 LOVE-LORE. w FAIREST. HAT the earth has of most fair, Tell me ! — 'Tis the Rose, When her young buds first unclose In the dew-sweet air. Nay ! not so : For I know One more fair than fairest Rose. What most pure as well as fair ? Tell me ! —Tis the Sleet, Treading swiftly with fine feet The light floor of air. Nay ! not so : For I know One as pure as driven sleet. What has life of joy most rare ? Tell me ! LATER POEMS. 47 — It must be Love as glad as mine for Thee, Lady pure and fair ! Nay ! not so : For I know Greater joy, thy love for me. 48 LOVE-LOSE. THE PRAYER TO DIANA. r~^ ODDESS of the silver bow ! ^-^ Unto thee my days I vow : — Guard me in thy sylvan shade From all terrors for a maid ; From all wildness prowling round Keep me, in thy virgin bound. Love, — I will not heed his shaft, Maiden wit defies his craft ; Hymen, — better Dian's light Than his flame, however bright : Goddess ! take me for thine own. — She forgot Endymion. Even while the girl did pray, Phoebe was upon her way To the happy Latmos cave ; Yet to her votary she gave. In despite of loving haste, Answer holy, pure, and chaste. LATER POEMS. 49 Worship thou among my train, Looking not for Love, nor fain Hymen's flaring torch to invite To my realm of calm delight ! Wait ! And farther had said on. But stopp'd to kiss Endymion. so LOVE-LORE. UNDER A CHERRY TREE. r~\ CHERRY Tree ! O Cherry Tree ! ^-^ That Spring-time was so fair : Thy boughs were a white heaven to me, For He was there. O Cherry Tree, glad Cherry Tree ! He said my red lips were Richer than thy ripe fruit : ah me! He kiss'd me there. O Cherry Tree, sad Cherry Tree ! Now are thy branches bare : The leafless boughs repeat to me — He is not there. LATER POEMS. 51 CAMOMILE. TV /r Y Love is like the Camomile -'■'-*• (A Lover so. complain'd), That trampled groweth more the while And flourisheth disdain'd. The rose upon my Lady's breast Will fade within an hour ; But that, down-trodden, sore oppre'ss'd, Outliveth scorn and stour. So in my heart the bitter weed Uplifteth its despair. And bideth until wholesome heed Shall move my Lady's care : Content to kiss her trailing gown— O love-fed Sorrow ! smile ; For see, my Lady louteth down To pluck the Camomile. 52 LOVE-LORE. HER RIVALS. T GRANT that others have beguiled -■■ My fancy, Love ! from you : But even as on them I smiled, My heart was not untrue. I own one moment your eclipse Behind that golden hair : But while her kiss was on my lips Your name was whisper'd there. And she whose ready blush on cheek Half met my love confess'd. Heard me in fonder accents speak Of One still loved the best. German the first, the other French : I loved them, Dear ! before I courted you. You jealous wench ! What, never see them more ? LATER POEMS. 53 Nay ! by the lovely golden-hair'd, By her whose blush I own, You'll pardon, their sweet names declared, — Moselle and Rose-Bourgogne. 54 LOVE-LORE. DIRGE. "O LOOMS o' the May, with dew impearl'd, -L-' Sweet pale roses of the Spring, Bring, and heap For her pillow, where uncurl'd Those soft tresses may be laid. Gentlest Sorrow ! lay the Maid Down, to sleep. No harsh sound disturb her rest ! Silent — keep thy nest, O Lark ! Dark ! awake That fond plaint thou lovest best. Tune thy requiem, Nightingale ! Out, alas ! can Song avail For Her sake ? LATER POEMS. 55 IN HER GRAVE. T) EAUTY in her grave is lying ; ■*— ' Love's last words are said, Silent Sorrow still replying — Still with tears unshed, For the Lovely and the Lost. O sad heart ! thou dost Too well know Nor Love nor Woe Hath gain of their vain crying. Beauty in her grave is sleeping, Strown with fragrant bloom. O, in vain, vain this upheaping Dead sweets on a tomb ! Love and Sorrow ! come away. O sad Death ! thy prey Can not know Or love or woe. Let us go, yet weeping ! S6 LOVE-LORE. I TRICKSY. T was a tricksy girl, I wot, albeit clad in grey : She woo'd me, an I would or not, and stole my heart away. This tricksy maid This trick she play'd One warm spring day. So sad, so simple, so- demure, 'twas nothing' she might say, But wimpled eyes which did secure the prize of all her play. This tricksy maid : Love-sick, I play'd My heart away. LATER POEMS. 57 SPRING AND AUTUMN. " 'nr^HOU wilt forget me." "Love has no such -•- word." The soft Spring wind is whispering to the trees. Among lime-blossoms have the hovering bees Those whispers heard ? " Or thou wilt change." " Love changeth not : ' he said. The purple heather cloys the air with scent Of honey. O'er the moors her lover went, Nor turn'd his head. S8 LOVE-LORE. THE LAW OF CHANGE. ■■ I ^HEY know not Love who love to range : -*■ As who would sip from wine to wine Loses all taste in his exchange, And sups at length with Circe's swine. Love's self comprised the world at first ; But, grown monotonous. Desire (With itch of restlessness accurst) Began the outer world to admire. Might I but Cleopatra know — Whose varied charms no use could stale : So, sounding love from high to low. From low to high, complete the scale. Yet, Helen ! I would meet thy smiles. And clasp Aspasia to my heart ; Then Sappho's frenzy, Lais' wiles, Experience, proving every part. LATER POEMS. 59 Fool ! Change itself content debars : In seeking all thou hast not One. Who shuts out light, to see the stars, May see them, but has lost the sun. 6o LOVE-LORE. IF LOVE MIGHT LAST. T F Love might last for ever, -*■ And Beauty keep her youth, Fond hearts now forced to sever Should 'scape remorse and ruth : If Love might last for ever, _ And Beauty keep her youth. If Love's sole name were Pleasure, And Beauty were not vain. Content might mete its measure. And tears be sweet as rain : If Love knew only pleasure. And Beauty were not vain. If Beauty bloom'd for ever, And Love were constant Truth, Or Love well-dower'd Endeavour, And Beauty queenly Youth, — Love then would love for ever, And Beauty wed with Truth. LATER POEMS. 6i FIE, LOVE ! FIE ! UNTO Love my Lady said — " Fie, Love ! fie ! Counselling a young maid to wed : Wed no man will I." Love ! I pray thee — do not fail. Since unless thou weight the scale All my prayers may not prevail. Ay, Love ! ay. " Cease (she said) to speak his praise ! Fie, Love ! fie ! What know maidens of men's ways ? Men for love will lie." Tell her, Love ! some men are true ; And I, one among the Few, Ask not more than is my due. Ay, Love ! ay. 62 LOVE-LORE. A PROVERB. " A MERRY heart goes all the way, -^^- Your sad heart tires in a mile-a !" And well for the happy one to say, Made glad by your smile a while, ha ! If your smile may be for only a day, Might it last for even a mile-a, How happy could I be, would you say " I will walk with you that mile " ! Ah ! O sad sad heart ! for she tum'd away : We had not travel'd a mile-a. There's nothing for it but Welladay And Alas for the loss of a smile ! ha ! LATER POEMS. 63 LOVE'S BLINDNESS. 'T^HEY call her fair. I do not know : -*■■ I never thought to look. ■ Who heeds the binder's costliest show When he may read the book ? What need a list of parts to me When I possess the whole? Who only watch her eyes to see The colour of her soul. I may not praise her mouth, her chin, Her feet, her hands, her arms : My love lacks leisure to begin The schedule of her charms. To praise is only to compare : And therefore Love is blind. I loved before I was aware Her beauty was of kind. 64 LOVE-LORE. SEASONS. T) LUE flowers twined in the golden hair, -*-^ Bright in the sun and the fresh Spring air. Childhood's laugh with the promise there. Climbing the apple boughs among, Shaking the fruit down, — with a song : Youth ! such pleasures to thee belong. Rich are the colours on falling leaves, Rich is the splendour of crimson eves Or the gold of Autumn's gather'd sheaves. Stooping over the written page, White as the snow and wise as Age : — Which is it history or presage ? LATER POEMS. 65 THE DAISY. ' I ""ELL me, Daisy ! as I pull -*■ Thy petals in the sun, — Does he love me ? does he love me ? My Belovfed One ! Answer, Daisy ! as I touch Thy petals ; tell my lot ! Does he love me ? Yes ! he loves me. No ! he loves me not. Daisy ! Daisy ! once again. True petals, — Love has won. Does he love me ? Yes ! he loves me, My Beloved One t 66 LOVE-LORE. MY VALENTINE. TV /r Y Valentine ! my Valentine ! -'■*-'■ Blue sky ! (he said these eyes of mine Were heaven-like) how art thou bright And he not here, my heart's delight, My Valentine ? My Valentine ! my Valentine ! O foolish heart, so prompt to pine, Knowing his love ! But love is fear. So sure to come, and yet not here. My Valentine ! My Valentine ! my Valentine ! He comes : can Morn so brightly shine ? Sweet lips — But eager love affords No time, nor is there need of words, My Valentine ! LATER POEMS. 67 BARE FEET. /^ FAIR white feet ! O dawn-white feet ^-^ Of Her my hope may claim ! Bare-footed through the dew she came, Her Love to meet. Star-glancing feet, the windflowers sweet Might envy, without shame, As through the grass they lightly came, Her Love to meet. O Maiden sweet, with flower-kiss'd feet ! My heart your footstool name ! Bare-footed through the dew she came, Her Love to meet. 68 LOVE-LORE. HAPPY DAYS. f~^ HAPPY days of innocence and song ! ^-^ When Love was ever welcome, never wrong ; When words were from the heart, when folk were fain To answer truth with truthfulness again. O happy days of innocence and song ! O blessed days of unforbidden joy ! When gentle Love was yet a thoughtless boy, Unchidden for his boldness, yet afraid, For that he loved, to importune his Maid. O vernal promise of eternal joy ! O happy days of unrestrained song ! Days unto which fond memories belong : A golden dawn that never may return, Howe'er the poet's heart for you must yearn, O happy days of innocence and song ! LATER POEMS. 69 THE SILENCED SINGER. ' I ""HE nest is built, the song hath ceased : -*- The minstrel joineth in the feast, So singeth not. The poet's verse, Crippled by Hymen's household curse, Follows no more its hungry quest. Well if Love's feathers line the nest. Yet blame not that beside the fire Love hangeth up his unstrung lyre ! How sing of hope when Hope hath fled, Joy whispering lip to lip instead ? Or how repeat the tuneful moan When the Obdurate's all my own ? Love, like the lark, while soaring sings : Wouldst have him spread again his wings ? What careth he for higher ski^s Who on the heart of harvest lies. And finds both sun and firmament Closed in the round of his content ? EARLY POEMS. BRIDAL SONG. T) LESSED Hours ! approach her gently ; -*--' Peace ! smile on her excellently ; Midnight Stars ! attend her pleasure ; Veil thy splendour, Night ! Not even Love's own eyes should measure Love's delight. HOPE. T)OOR Hope sate on a grave, a very child, -*- Blowing her rainbow bubbles ; as she cast Each one in the air, it broke. Yet still she smiled Upon the latest one : " Look ! this will last." 72 EARLY POEMS. TO THE WEST WIND. /^ SWEET West Wind ! thou breathest on my ^-^ brow : O dear West Wind ! thou comest from my home. O heedless Wind ! had I been free as thou To stay or go, I had not cared to roam. O glad West Wind ! what bringest thou from Her ? Thy breath is fragrant with her plaint to thee. What message hast thou from the weary stir Of that lone heart which ever beats for me ? O happy Wind ! love-laden with her sighs : What dreamy kisses layest thou on my brow ? O sad West Wind l^sad, sad, and most unwise : A fugitive like me^— an exile now. EARLY POEMS. 73 FALSE HOPE. /'~^ OD save me from mine enemy ! ^-^ I pray we ne'er may meet again. She has been worse than foe to me : And yet, if we should meet again I should believe her, to my bane. She has been worse than foe to me, With promised love and present pain, Till love seem'd only injury. And troth was known to be in vain : I did believe her, to my bane. Her clear eyes look'd so lovingly, She clung with such a hearty strain. Her lips — O God ! so sweet to me — Left upon mine a poison blain : I did believe her, to my bane. She has been worse than foe to me : Yet I should love her o'er again If we should meet — dear Injury ! Men call her Hope, — ^but she is Pain. Pray God we may not meet again. 74 EASLY POEMS. VAIN COUNSEL. ^~*- EASE to love ! since all thy wooing ^-^ Can not win her, cease pursuing ! Cease thy loving all so gainless ! Cease, since love can not be painless ! Love not to thine own undoing ! Cease to love love so uncaring ! Cease a love she is not sharing ! Cease to love whose love is fickle ! Fling aside thy broken sickle ! Why should one reap but despairing? Cease rejected vows to tender ! Cease ! thy worthless hope surrender ! Cease to love ! But words are idle. Will could never yet Love bridle : Love struck mad with loving splendour. EARLY POEMS. 75 TO HIS LOVE. (who had unjustly rebuked him.) ^~^ ENTLE as Truth, and zealous even as Love — ^-^ Which is the fiercest of all earthly things ; Frank, and yet using caution as a glove To guard the skin from foulnesses or stings, — Giving the bare hand surely to the true : Such would I be, to make me worthy you. Bitter sometimes, as wholesome tonics are ; Wrathful as Justice in her earnest mood ; Scornful as Honour is, yet not to bar Appreciation of the lowest good ; Loathing the vile, the cruel, the untrue : How should my manhood else be worthy you ? Say I am subtle, fierce, and bitter-tongued : Love is all this, and yet I^ove is beloved. But say not that I wilfully have wrong'd Even those whose hate and falsehood I have proved. Who say this know me not,_ and never knew What I would be, but to be worthy you. 76 EARLY POEMS. PARTING. (from the FRENCH.) "V T OT a penny left, and you know in such a case J- ^ You have but to leave me, Darling ! and — it's easy to forget. One kiss, one look again into your bonny face, And we part, we part for ever But your eyes are wet. It is nought, dear ! we have pass'd a many happy days, To say nothing of our nights; but days and nights are past. Could they have been more lasting But the proverb soothly says — The very best of joys are those which may not last. EARLY POEMS. 77 L MIND YOUR KNITTING. (after stranger.) UCY ! mind your knitting : Blind as I may be, I am certain you're not sitting At your work by me. — " 'Tis so hot this April weather.'' Is it cooler where You and Robert sit together ? You are idling there. Lucy ! mind your knitting. Lucy ! mind your knitting : You have left your seat. Tell me where again you're flitting : Those are not your feet. — " 'Tis the cat that you hear moving."- You speak false to me : I'd like Robert better loving You more openly. Lucy ! mind your knitting. 78 EARLY POEMS. Lucy ! mind your knitting ; Lucy ! have a fear : Some day Robert will be quitting — \ Ah ! she does not hear. These young folk will still be scorning All we old folk say ; They will never heed our warning While their playmates stay. Lucy ! mind your knitting. EARLY POEMS. 79. SWEET GALE. THE sweet South Wind once underground was frozen, And only growth to save her could avail. She grew up through a plant ; the plant so chosen We call in our North Country the Sweet Gale. THE ADVENT OF PEACE. OVER the red field strode an armed knight : Men knew him not ; but when the fray did cease, God's Angel stoop'd to bless Victorious Right, And bade the hero's name thenceforth be Peace. 8o EARLY POEMS. A HOMILY. ■\ T THY hath God led thy noble beauty hither? * *^ To lay upon my heart, a gather'd flower, Through the brief time of passion ; then to wither, And drop away upon my coffin'd hour ? Is human life nought but a lusty living, A day of pleasure nighted by the grave. With no hereafter dawning, no forgiving Of all the eternal hopes our spirits crave? Is love the mere lamp of a wanton chamber, Whose walls are grave-stones, ne'er so finely hid ? Is all the height where Love and Hope can clamber, Alas ! no higher than our coffin-lid ? Is Love a fool for all its future-yearning ? Wise only in the drunkenness of bliss ? Is there no flame divine within us burning ? Is Hope betray'd so cheaply with a kiss ? EARLY POEMS. i Why hath God led thy noble beauty hither ? Why doth celestial light inform thine eyes ? Is it to guide the lone wayfarer ? Whither ? The Star of the East hangs not o'er Paradise. Some girl with delicate skin and golden tresses, And eyes that float in their voluptuous light, Holding her boy-adorer in the jesses Of her caprice, staying his spirit's flight, Smoothing his folded pinions with light fingers, Kissing his vigour to a pleasant swoon. Until the God sunk in the Dreamer lingers Fondly beside her for the frailest boon, — Is this the highest end of all thy beauty ? O noble woman ! art thou but a girl ? Hast thou no thought of all the scope of duty ? No aim beyond the fingering of a curl ? Why hath God made thee beautiful and loving ? Only to bear the bacchanal cup of life ? Cup-bearing Hebe ! seek thou Jove's approving : O Beauty ! be thou Strength's diviner wife. 82 EARLY POEMS. 1854. npELL the Tzar of England's glories, -*- Let him learn the deeds of yore ! Tell him how we fought at Florez," How we won at Azincour ! Tell him of the great Armada Wreck'd upon our English shore ! Say, for all our peaceful bearing, England yet hath noble blood ; Dwarf 'd we may be, yet our daring Mocks his height in field or flood : We have men whose hearts are higher Than the ebb of Cheapside mud. Tell him Thor's unerring hammer Fitteth yet an English hand ; Say, at our first battle-clamour Arthur comes from fairy-land, Alfred fronteth the invader, Drake hath his far-reaching brand. EARLY POEMS. 83 Mind him of our Portland glory, Of the Nile and Trafalgar ; Say, such is the unfinish'd story . Of the Book of English War ; Copenhagen unto Cronstadt, Tell him, is not overfar. Tell him, our unwaning glories Ruin's self could never dim, Though all England lay at Florez, Though all Europe bay'd with him : He might then beware his triumph, — Grenville's look is very grim. 84 EARLY POEMS. EURYDICE. (" ORPHEUS' SWEETEST SONG.") 1 "* ROM out the thick &bade of a laurel grove -*- (Crowning a little knoll of sacred ground, Like to a wreath forlorn hung o'er an urn) Issued a dim and melancholy voice, The tender air infecting with sad breath. The yellow leaves dropp'd down the failing light, The autumn wind crept slowly through the boughs ; The wind and falling leaves with low sweet tones Echoed that plaint, till the great pulse of life Seem'd but the ebb and flow of one long sigh. " Eurydice! Eurydice! " was all The burthen of that sorrow : but anon These words came sobbing forth from a burst heart. Gushing in full flow of abandon'd grief. Like the low pining wail of Philomel. "Eurydice! mine own Eurydice! — O Earth o'er which her music footsteps moved ! O clear blue Sky, not deeper than her eyes ! EARLY POEMS. 85 Thou Forest-shade with sunlight leaping through, Not sunnier than her laugh, — nor lovelier that Than her thought-shadow'd depth of seriousness ! Ye Torrents, grandly falling, like her hair ! Ye honey-clefted Rocks, firm as her truth ! And ye sun-kissed Slopes of harvest land, Smooth-rounded as the blessed globes above Her fertile heart ! O Earth and Sky ! O Life !— That speak to me of her in every tone. That spoke to me of her in every word : — Why are ye beautiful, and She no more ? " Ye Hamadryads, with brown arms enlaced. Leaning against the gnarled trunks, half veil'd In flood of level sunshine, your bright eyes Flashing amid green leaves ! or ye who gUde Mistily down dim aisles, with gentle feet Responsive to the gentle fall of rain Dropping upon soft turf from lofty boughs. And glistening in the moonlight, like quick tears Upon a smiling face ! — why do ye mock My longing with vain phantoms, till mine eyes Strain to the distant purple of warm eves. To reach her form ? why do ye play with grief? Ye Naiads pure, calm-flowing in the cool 86 EARLY POEMS. Of overhanging foliage, your lank hair Trailing along the current !-^why do ye Babble with ripply lips that Sweetest word — Eurydtce, until the. blabbing reeds That told King Midas' secret whisper mine . To. every wind, till every trickling wave Repeats my woe m more melodious tone ? Ye Nereids, with your coral crowns, and plumes Of waving- weed, and blue hair in the spray Caught on the wave's edge by some eager breeze ! — Why do ye haunt the sea-board with yoUr grace ? Still rusheth up the shingle and returns The melody of dancing feet, and round " The smooth-cheek'd pebbles slides the creamy foam. Eurydice ! — O Presences and Powers Of Nature, once so dear ! iny heart is deaf. To your best witcheries. The strings are rent. My lyre no more can answer your delight. Nor with glad notes provoke your swift reply. " Eurydice ! my lost Eurydice ! No more thy bounding limbs are eloquent. On the smooth beach our Greek girls, as of old. Dance in the twilight : in the torches' glare,. EARLY POEMS. S7 Answering the passion of the westering sun, Their warm cheeks flush more rosily ; I see The gleam of their uplifted arms, as each Hastily in the mazes of the dance Passes the flame unto some sister hand ; I hear tlie song, borne by the gentle-voiced, Close-following upon the trail of fire In all its windings,— 'that dear Freedom-song Our youths and maidens, love ; and I can hear The sweet time-beats of soft feet on the sand : — Eurydice •! Eurydice ! no more Thou lead'st the chorus. Freedom, Fatherland : — Eurydice ! the future as the past Is buried in thine urn. I have no hymn. The torches are extinguish'd ; the drear sea Moans in'the gloomy hollows of its caves. "0 thou vast soul of Nature I once waked With lightest touch ! O throbbing heart of Life That used to listen fondly to my lyre Made eloquent by her ! I do appeal Unto thy grateful memories. Alas ! The pulse of Life is no more audible. — Dryads and Oreads ! wherefore have we laid Our oil and milk and honey at your feet ? S8 EARLY POEMS. Nymphs of forest, mountain, plain, and flood ! Why have we pour'd our songs more honey-sweet, Our oil-smooth songs, our rich and fruity songs, — Why have we borne our Dionysian songs To you, making you jocund with much mirth, And ye are silent now ? O gentle Nymphs ! Have ye no drops left in your brimming cups ? Dear Echo ! has thy sympathy no word. No drained flavour of those richnesses. To bring to my dry heart in her dear name ? Ye Satyrs ! wont to troop around our path. With rude, broad gambols, your most awkward speech Were musical as Phoebus' golden tongue. If you would tell me whither She is gone. 1 pray to you, for all my household gods Are scatter'd. Unto you the Homeless prays, 'Powers of the waste and solitude, once loved ! " Eurydice ! my own Euiydice ! — Alas ! no voice replies : the Earth is dead. — My Beautiful ! whose life was as the crown Of festal days, — whose blush was as the bloom On the full fruit, — whose days were as ripe grapes, Clear and delicious on one cluster growing ; EARLY POEMS. 89 My Beautiful ! whose smile moved o'er the earth Like the first sunbeam of the year, — whose voice Was the mild wind that whispereth odorously Unto the yearning buds that Spring is come ; More beautiful than Eos rosy-brow'd, Or than the arrow-bearing Artemis, — Thou Dawn of my existence, Promiser Of glorious days ! thou pure Light-bearing One Chasing the shadows from across my path When night hung darkly o'er my clouded thought ! Thou spirit of my potent lyre, now mute ! Thou Genius of my life ! thou Life ! thou Song ! Eurydice ! my own Eurydice ! " She is not dead : this death is but a dream. Where art thou gone ? Eurydice ! — Return, Ere doubt hath grown to madness ! — It is not. The serpent did but coil around my sleep. Eurydice ! — Sweet Echo ! she will come, Prank'd in thy guise, out of the forest depth, And smile on me with that deep-hearted smile. More radiant than Persephone's when closed Her welcoming arras around Demeter's head Bow'd with its sheaf of joy upon her breast. — Alas ! the mourning friends, the solemn priests. go EARLY POEMS. The virgin train, the sobs that hid the cry Of painful steps toward the funeral pyre, — Alas ! this little urn elasp'd to my heart, This empty husk of life, this loneliness, This death of life, — attest that thou art not ; That Sorrow lives, but not Eurydice. "Thou shalt not die ! Son of Zeus, who brought Alcestis to this upper air, attend My dearer quest ! I will descend to her, And with my fervent song require from Dis My own Eurydice. She shall return Unto this pleasant earth. Persephone Will listen as my words shall fill her lap With Enna's flowers, and in her eyes shall look Demeter's mother-glances till her own O'erflow with riith, and she shall wind her arms Around the gloomy king and him conjure To give me the Belovfed to my song. Or my whole life shall stand amid the shades. Before the Fates, and with its chaunt enweave Her thread of life anew. I will bring back Her beauty to the earth, and live again. Strong in the sunlight of her summer love : Even as a tree that lifteth up its head EARLY POEMS. 91 After a storm, and, shaking off the weight Of passed tears, laughs freshly in the sun. And yet again, her hand upon my heart. My lyre shall speak unto the Life of things ; And the fair Nymphs crowd round us as of old ; And even Satyr shapes look beautiful ; And the dumb Spirit of the Inanimate Be stirr'd into expression ; and the Earth, Hearing the music of thy thoughts, Belovfed ! Grow beautiful as thou art, till the world Resume the glory of the olden gods. " Eurydice ! my own Eurydice ! My grief is at my feet. My will is strong. My soul hath pass'd the ferry of despair ; My song pours forth resistless eloquence ; My voice is firm ; the Inexorable Three Relent. Persephone amid her tears Clingeth iinpassion'd to the knees of Power : Thou canst not hold the Loved j she shall return. There is no deed impossible to prayer. To faithful will. — I hear thy following feet, Most musical of echoes ; step by step I count those dearest of dear promises, Conquering the steep ascent ; I see the light 92 EARLY POEMS. Of our old life ; I hear thy eager pants Closer and closer ; now thy fragrant breath Kisses my neck, thy passion-parted lips Lean forward, and the music of thy curls Touches my cheek, — Mine own Beloved One ! Eurydice ! mine own Eurydice O God ! O Sorrow !— " Life is all a dream. The Past returns not. Look no more behind ! It is a phantom. Rather let thy song Mount as a pyre-flame up into the heavens. O Constellated Beauty ! thou art there. Not on the earth, nor with the buried Past, Lo, thy Eurydice awaiteth thee. Eurydice ! Eurydice ! EARLY POEMS. 93 IPHIGENIA AT AULIS. I AM Achilles. Thou wast hither brought To be my wife, not for a sacrifice. Greece and her kings may stand aside as nought To what Thou art in my expectant eyes. Or kings or gods. I too am heaven-born. I trample on their auguries and needs. Where the foreboding dares to front ray scorn Or break the promise from my heart proceeds ? But thou, Beloved ! smilest down my wrath So able to protect thee. Who should harm Achilles' Bride ? — Thou pointest to the path Of sacrifice, yet leaning on my arm. There is no need of words ; from me reply As little requisite : Thy lightest hand ^ Guideth me, as the helm the ship ; Thine eye Doth more than all the Atridse could command 94 EARLY POEMS. Thou givest life and love for Greece and Right : I will stand by thee lest thou shouldst be weak— Not weak of soul. — I will but hold in sight Thy marvelous beauty. Here is She you seek EARLY POEMS. 95 HARRY MARTEN'S DUNGEON THOUGHTS. 'T~^HOU flowest, Stream ! beside old Chepstow's -*- walls, Hence to the Severn, and the Severn falls To the wide ocean. I have ceased to flow. And yet thou listenest to the stagnant Woe That overhangs thy banks, like- some vain weed Rooted in Chepstow's hoariness. ' liideed, — Save that the veriest weed its hope may fling Upon the winds, there as on certain wing Borne to the mainland, — I but weed-like seem. And yet my memory loves to watch the dream Of Harry Marten's triumphs, — those brave days When Vane outshone me with his steady rays, Wh^n gravest Milton scorn'd not Harry's wit, And fierce-will'd Cromwell had some heed of it j When we stood in the breach against the world. And from his folly's wall the Stuart hurl'd 95 EARLY POEMS. Into the tide of ruin. By this tower, If all those glorious days were in my power, I would not reconsider them again, But shout njy battle-song to the same high strain Take. the same odds, the same gay daring strife. And the same forfeit of a prison'd life Past even the natural riddance of the gravel- Not for himself, O Freedom ! would thy knave Ask some poor wages. Let my life be shent, And this worn tomb be all- my monument. Dear Freedom ! have we vainly toil'd for thee ? Our Rachel lost — and our apprentice-fee This Leah, the Evil-favour'd. Shall I laugh, .Write on her lips my jesting epitaph, And hug Misfortune for another term ? Alas ! if hope might set the slowest germ In these old chinks. But England's soil is dead As Chepstow' stones. The blue sky overhead Is all the prisoner's hope in these wall'd years. I need not wet this, dungeon-mould with tears ; I will not tame my spirit to its cage ; As little would I stoop me to assuage Captivity with foolish querulousness. EARLY POEMS. 97 And yet my courage mourneth none the less Our ruin'd cause, and that nor sword nor voice Of mine may lead the time to worthier choice : While I rust here like a forgotten blade, And Scot and Vane in bloody tombs are laid. And yet not so, friend Scot ! — thy better doom To wait by God until new chance may bloom Out of the barren land men call thy grave : This England which thy virtues could not save. Nor pious Vane lift heavenward from the slough. For me hard penance but atoneth now My many a youthful folly : though the worst Left me a patriot. Wassails quench'd no thirst For the full cup of England's liberty. I never squander'd my great love for thee ; And though men call'd me loose of life and speech. There was no public act they could impeach. And my loose tongue was first which dared to say What hindrance 'twas stood in the nation's way. Or loose or not, it wagg'd to no ill tune Nor out of time. 'Troth, I'll forswear no boon Of this frank life ; and now in living grave Am thankful that I had. And that I have : While memory traces back the flow of mirth, H 98 EARLY POEMS. From here where it is driven under earth — As if the Wye had dived 'neath Chepstow's base. God give the stream some outlet of his grace ! — There is some reach of joy in looking back On the lost river's current. I can track Its merry laughing gush among the reeds, And how its ripplmgs lipp'd the blossomy weeds In shallow passages, its songful strife Swift bounding o'er the rocks of active life, And see again the glorious forms whose worth Its sometime deeper water imaged forth. No idle image was reflected there : Not in the stream but on the rock I bear The impress of the Gods who stood by me. Nor was I all unmeriting to be Their chosen companion. Arrows may hang loose The bowofan yet be staunch and mind their use. My England ! never one of all thy brave Whose love o'erpass'd my love. I could be grave Whene'er thy need required a solemn brow. What was my task ? To give thee room to grow : To give thee sober freedom, godly growth : Freedom and sanctifying worship : both. Milton and Vane and Scot and I at one EARLY POEMS. 99 Were in this work. And I am here alone. And Milton in his darkness if he lives. O English hearts ! are ye but Danaid sieves Wherethrough like water noblest blood is pour'd ? English sense ! what is this word Restored ? Restore Heroic Virtue, Holy Strength, Now, Agonistes-like, through all the length Of this great England prostrate ! Gyved you lie, Mock'd at by Dalila, your Royalty. 1 set this dungeon-gloom against the May Of all your Restoration. I will say Against it. I, a pleasure -loving man. Place every pleasure under Honour's ban, And bid you give your country life, and death. Rather than foul the land with slavish breath. Am I a prisoner ? Difference between Chepstow and England is not much, I ween : 'Tis but a cell a few more paces wide. Year after year, and under Chepstow' side The muddied Wye still flows. My hair is grey ; My old bones cramp'd ; my heart this many a day O'ermoss'd with sorrow, like an ancient tomb. Now the old man is harmless, he may roam So far as falls the shadow of his jail. JOo EARLY POEMS. Jail'd for his life. I have not learn'd to quail. Thou askest me — " Were it to do again ? " I tell thee — Yes ! the tyrant should be slain. Scot's word is mine : " Not only was my hand But my heart in it." Here I take my stand ; Nor twenty years of solitude can move My conscience from its keep. And so this love, Your pity proffer'd me, must be withdrawn ? Well, Harry Marten never cared to fawn. I am alone again, on my grave's edge. And my long-suffering shall be as a wedge To rive this tyranny. I climb thy height. Old feudal fastness ! with my feeble might, And see from thee, for all my age is dim. The beautiful rich woods beyond the rim Of Wye and Severn, and the meadows fair Stretching into the distance ; and the air Is charged with fragrance ; and the uncaged birds Say blithely in the sun their liberal words, Which yet shall wake the tillers of the ground. And lo ! the harvestmen are gathering round The banner of God. They put their sickles in ; The day of a new trial doth begin. EARLY POEMS. loi Thou saidst aright, my Vane ! it had to be. Nor jail nor scaffold stays futurity. The twenty years have pass'd even as a mist ; And now the dying prisoner's brow is kiss'd By his old comrades : Hampden, Pym, and Vane, Fairfax, and Scot, and Ludlow, Cromwell fain To hide old scars and holding Milton's hand, Bradshaw and Ireton. At my side they stand, And the old cheerful smile illumes my cell. " There is no death norjjondage : we, who dwell In higher realms of faith, assure thee this." — Friends ! ye say SQOth ; this cell no longer is A prison ; Englailjcl only is my bound, This coward England all unworthy found. Still you can smile. — " The resurrection morn Riseth o'er England's grave ; and we forlorn Shall be triumphant. Look thou forth and see Our merry England, kingless, bold and free. We ha^fe not lived, we have not died, for nought. The.Victory we have lost shall yet be wrought : We have not sown high deeds and hopes in vain.'' Bright lightning-flash of death ! speed through my brain, 102 EARLY POEMS. And sink into the grave my sacrifice : A grave unhonour'd until England rise To avenge the Regicide O Martyr Tomb t Thou bear'st the seed of Triumph in thy womb EARLY POEMS. 103 GRENVILLE'S LAST FIGHT. OUR ships lay under Florez. You will mind 'Twas three years after Effingham had chased The Pope's Armada from our English side. We had been cruising in the Western Main, Singeing some Spanish beards ; and now we lay, Light-ballasted, with empty water-casks. And half our crews disabled ; our six sail — Beside two pinnaces and victualers — Pester'd and rommaging, all out of sorts. My ship was Richard Grenville's, The Revenge. They knew Sir Richard in the Spanish seas, And told wild stories of him ; their brown dames Frighted the babes with fancies of his deeds. So hard-complexion'd was he (they would say) That, when a health was drunk, he crush'd the glass Between his teeth and swallow'd cup and all. And then his blood-draughts. — Tush ! such idle tales ! We only knew a gallant gentleman Who never tum'd his back on friend or foe. 104 EARLY POEMS. . Well, lying by Florez — as I told you now, The Spanish force unlook'd for hove in sight : A force of fifty-three great men-of-war. Lord Thomas, taking note of their array. Deeming it vain to grapple with such odds, Signall'd his company to weigh or cut ; And so all did except our Grenville's ship. You see, we anchor'd nearest to the town, And half our men were sick on shore. Beside, Sir Richard never hurried from a fight. We got our sick on board and safely stow'd Upon the ballast ; and, that done, we weigh'd. By this the Spaniard's on our weather-bow ; And some would fain the captain should be led To back his mainsail, cast about, and trust Our sailing. Nothing of that mind was he. He would not so — he said — for any fear Disgrace his flag, his country, or himself j But pass their squadrons through despite of all, Forcing the Seville ships to give him way. And thus he did on divers of the first, So — as we mariners say — they sprang their luff. And fell under our lee. But windward bore A huge high-cargbd ship — the Spaniards call'd San Philip, took the breeze out of our sails, EARLY POEMS. 105 And ran aboard us. Then, entangled so, Four others, two upon our starboard bow. And two on the larboard, up and boarded us. We help'd San Philip from our lower tier. And flung her back ; the other four closed in, — Drove on us like so many hornet-nests, Thinking their multitudes could swarm us down. We brush'd them off and brush'd them off again. The fight began at three o' the afternoon ; And all the night through we kept up the game : Darkening the stars and the full harvest-moon With the incessant vomit of our smoke. Ship after ship came on at our Revenge, Ne'er less than two big galleons on her side. Boarding her, as the tides wash up a rock. To fall off broken and foaming 'mid the roar Of their own thunder. They so ill approved Our entertainment, that by break of day They had lost appetite for new assaults ; And slunk far from us, like a ring of dogs About a crippled lion, out of reach Of daring that has taught them due respect. Watching till his last agony spends itself. Some fifteen of them grappled us in vain. Two we had sunk, and finely maul'd the rest. io6 EARLY POEMS. "But, as day broaden'd out, it show'd our plight : No sail in view — but the foes that hemm'd us round, Save one of the pinnaces, which had hover'd near To mark our chance, and now, like hare with hounds, Was hunted by the Spaniards, — but escaped. A bare one hundred men was our first count; And each slew his fifteen. But by this time Our powder was all used, and not a pike Left us unbroken. All our rigging spoil'd ; Our masts gone by the side ; our upper works Shatter'd to pieces ; and the ship herself Began to settle slowly in the sea. It was computed that eight hundred shot Of great artillery had pierced through her sides. Full forty of our men lay dead on deck ; And blood enough, be sure, the living miss'd. Sir Richard, badly hurt at the very first. Would never stand aside till mid of dark : When, as they dress'd his wounds, he was shot through. The surgeon falling on him. Still he lived, — Nor blench'd his courage when all hope was gone ; But, as the morning wore, he call'd to him The master-gunner, a most resolute man. EARLY POEMS. 107 And bade him split and sink the unconquer'd "Ship, Trusting God's mercy, leaving to the foe Not even a plank to bear their victory. What worth a few more hours of empty life, To stint full-handed Death of English fame ? Brave Gentleman ! I think we had no heart To sink so rare a treasure. Some of us Were stiffening in our pain, and faintly cared For loftier carriage ; cowards were there none ; But so it was, that we among us chose An honourable surrender, — the first time Our captain's word refusing. I must own The Spaniard bore him very handsomely. Well-pleased he was to give us soldier terms Rather than tempt the touch of our last throe ; And courteously were the conditions kept. The Spanish Admiral sent his own state-barge To fetch our dying hero, — for our ship Was marvelously unsavoury ; and round The Southern warriors reverently throng'd To look upon the mighty in his death : So much his worth compell'd acknowledgment. And well nigh a new battle had burst out io8 EARL V POEMS. 'Twixt the Biscayans and the Portugals, Disputing which had boarded The Revenge. ' For him, he bade them do even as they would With his unvalued body. A few hours, And Death bow'd down to crown him. Never sign Of faintness show'd he ; but in Spanish said These words, so they might be well heard by all. " Here with a joyful and a quiet mind I Richard Grenville die. My life is closed As a good soldier's should be, who hath fought For country's sake, and for his faith and fame. Whereby from this body gladly parts my soul, Leaving behind the everlasting name Of a true soldier and right-valiant man Who did the work that duty bade him do.'' When he had finish'd these and other words Of such-like grandeur, he gave up the ghost With stoutest courage. No man on his face Could see the shade of any heaviness. So He and Death went proudly on their way Upon the errand of Almighty God ; And God's smile was the gladness of that path. EARLY POEMS. 109 And now immediately on this great fight So terrible a tempest there ensued As never any saw or heard the like. Nigh on a hundred sail of merchantmen Join'd their Armada when the fight was done, — Rich Indian argosies. Of all the host But thirty-two e'er reach'd a Spanish port. Their men-of-war, so riddled by our shot, Sank one by one ; and our Revenge herself, Disdaining any foreign mastery, Regarding else her captain's foil'd intent, Went down, as soon as she was newly mann'd. Under Saint Michael's Rocks, with all her crew. The Spaniards said the Devil wrought their loss. Helping the heretics. But we know well How God- stands by the true man in his work ; And, if he helps not, surely will revenge The boldly dutiful. My tale is done. Sir Walter Raleigh — Grenville's cousin, he — Has given the tale in fitter words than mine. My story looks like shabby beggar's rags About a hero. But you see the Man. The diamond shines however meanly set. Sir Walter laid his cloak before the Queen ; no EARLY POEMS. But Grenville threw his life upon that deck For Honour's Self to walk on. 'Twas well done For fifteen hours our hundred kept at bay Ten thousand : one poor ship 'gainst fifty-three. The Spaniard proved that day our English pith. No new Armada on our cliffs shall look While English Valour echoes Grenville's fame. I have some strength left. I will hence to sail With Master Davis. Home is very calm ; But Honour rideth on the crested wave. 1854. EARLY POEMS. A REQUIEM. "^ZET fresh petals of dropt blossom -'- Strew upon her loveliest bosom ! Heap dark pansies at her feet ! Thyme and briar-roses sweet, And the snow-flakes of the May, If still lingering, softly lay All about her garment neat. Broidery fit for winding-sheet ! Water-lilies round her head .Wreathe ! So white regrets the dead Attend. Whatever of most fair Wild or garden hath be there : Keeping Her, since she must die. Fragrant in our memory ! TRANSLATIONS. FAIR EREMBOR. 12/ A Century. (Quant vient en mat que Von dit as lonsjors.) WJ HEN comes in May, with what we call long • • hours, When Franks of France are met the King before, Reynaut was there among the foremost powers. He, passing by the house of Erembor, Deign'd not to 'raise his head unto the tower. Eh, Reynaut, my friend !. Fair Erembor, who at the window there Held on her knees a stuff of colour'd thread. Saw how the Franks did to the Court repair. And Reynaut who so haughtily him bare. She lifted up her voice and these words said : — " Eh, Reynaut, my friend I I 114 TRANSLATIONS. " Friend Reynaut ! I ere this have seen the hour That, passing underneath my father's tower, Thou wast in dole except I spoke to thee." " Thou hast ill done, daughter of the Emperor ! Another -thou hast loved, forgotten me." Eh, Reynaut, my friend ! "Sire Reynaut ! I will make me clear of this : Unto a hundred virgins I will swear, And thirty dames bring with me to declare Before the Saints none else my lover is. Take the amend, and I your lips will kiss." Eh, Reynaut, my friend ! The county Reynaut mounted up the stair. Broad-shouldei^d he, but by the bauldric slim, Blond-featured, all in little curls his hair. In no land was a bachelor so fair ; And Erembor 'gan weep beholding him. Eh, Reynaut, my friend ! The county Reynaut is within her bower. And seated on a bed with many a flower Be-painted ; the fair Erembor is fain : ****** Then did their early loves begin again. Eh, ReynaUt, my friend ! TRANSLA TIONS. 1 1 S THE MARGUERITE. JEHAN FrOISSART, 1335-1410. {Sus toutes flours tient on la rose h belle.') /'~\ F all the flowers some deem the rose the best, ^-^ And after that, I trow, the violet ; The lily and the corn-flower in blue vest Are fair, nor may we the wild flag forget ; Many the columbine in honour hold ; The lily of the valley, marigold, And peony, in turn some praise may meet : But for my part, it may be freely told. Above all flowers, I love the Marguerite. For in all weathers, rain or hail or snow. And be the season fresh, or dull, or bright. This gracious flower is seen to newly blow. Pleasant and lovely in its red and white. Closed sometimes, sometimes open and outspread. It fades not, and seems never to be dead. All excellences in its circle meet. And for my part, well studied, when all's said. Above all flowers I love the Marguerite. ii6 TRANSLATIONS. But my great sorrow groweth with new power When I bethink me of my floweret dear, For that she is enclosed within a tower And hedged around against my coming near, Both night and day adversely hindered. But Love will surely come to be my aid, In spite of battlements and watcher's feet ; Nor will I lose occasion to have said — Above all flowers I love the Marguerite. TRANSLATIONS. 117 VIRELAY. J EUAN FrOISSART. (On dit que fay Hen manisre.) 'T~^HEY say that I am very apt -*- To be a little proud : That this becomes a youngling maid May be allow'd. But yestermorning I arose Right at the break of day, And to a garden through the dew I took my way. I thought that I would be the first In that so green repair, But my sweet friend before me was Flower-gathering there. They say that I am very apt To be a little proud : That this becomes a youngling maid May be allow'd. ii8 TRANSLATIONS. A chaplet I gave unto him, Made at the eventide : He took it with a right good will, Then to me cried — " Fairest and sweetest Maiden ! deign To hear my prayer to thee : A little more than you becomes You are hard to me." They say that I am very apt To be a little proud : That this becomes a youngling maid May be allow'd. TKANSLATIONS. 119 TO HIS NOSE. Olivier Basselin, d. 1418. (Beau nen dont les rubis ont couitS mainte pipe.) I "'INE Nose ! whose ruby gems so many a pipe -*■ have cost Of white wine and of red, Whose colour richly shared, nor red nor violet lost, Hath both hues fairly spread. Big Nose ! who thee beholds across a bumper glass Judges thee yet more fine : Thou art not like the nose of that most wretched ass Who water takes for wine. A turkey-cock's red throat the most resembles thee. How many richest folk Have not so rich a nose ! To paint thee needs must be Very much time bespoke. 1 20 TRANSLA TIONS. The glass the pencil was which thee illumined ; The colouring was wine : So thou wast painted, cherries not so red, During that thirst of mine. Some say wine hurts the eyes, but who gives heed to those ? * - Wine is a curious Good medicine for my ills ; both windows I would lose Rather than all the house. TRANSLA TIONS. VAU DE VIRE. Olivier Basselin. (Adam, c'est chose tris notoire.) \ DAM (notorious this, I think) -^ ^ Had not been in such sorry state If when so fatally he ate He rather taken had to drink. Which is the cause why I avoid To be a gourmand in my food ; 'Tis true that I know what is good In wine, when' wine is unalloy'd. So that whenever I may sit In some repast-expecting nook, I far more curiously look At the buffet than at the spit. The eye marks what the heart holds dear ; Too much I may have look'd upon A full glass : if not emptied soon It will riot be a glass of Vire. TRANSLATIONS. SPRING. Charles d'Orl^ans, 1391-1465. {Le temps a laissie son manteau. ) 'T^HE time has dofFd its robe of cold, -*- Of wind and winter-frost and rain, And wears rich broidery again Of the clear sunshine, bright as gold. Nor bird nor beast, in wood or wold, But in its jargon chaunts amain : Since time has doff' d its robe of cold. Of wind and winter^frost and rain. Fountains and rivers manifold Bear fragments of their icy chain [Such winter memories remain]. But everything is newly stoled : The time has doff'd its robe of cold. TRANSLATIONS. 123 WINTER. Charles d'Orl£ans. ( Yver! vous n'estes qu'un villain. ) WINTER ! you but a villain are ; Summer pleasant and gentle is, May and April can witness this, Night and day who with her fare. Fields and woods and flowers she Clotheth with her livery green, And colours many to be seen. By Nature order'd so to be. But Winter ! you, too full of rain And hail and snow and tempest wild. Ought to be banish'd and exiled. Flattering not, I speak you plain. Winter ! you but a villain are. 1 24 TRANSLA TIONS. OUR VICAR. Mellin de Saint-Gelais, 1491-1558. (Noire vicaire, unjour defeste.) /^AUR Vicar, on a high feast day, ^-^ Sang out the Agnus with full voice. Well warbling it in manner choice, Thinking Annette would hear his lay. Annette outside was listening there ; Attentive to the chant, she wept : Of whom the Vicar, as he stept, Ask'd — " Wherefore weepest thou ? my fair ! " " Ah, messire Jean ! " Annette replied, " My weeping is for a dead ass Whose voice might even yours surpass. Had he like you his utmost tried." TRANSLATIONS. 125 FRERE LUBIN. Clement Marot, 1495 (?)-i544- {,Pour courir en paste b. la ville. ) "pOST-HASTE into the town to run -^ More often than I care to tell, To do or get some vile thing done, Lubin will do that very well : But honest talk and truth to tell And healthy life to lead also, As a good Christian should do, — well ! That Lubin can not do. An able and a crafty one Another's goods to buy or sell, Ne'er in his trade to be outdone, — Lubin does all that very well : But if a certain loss befel, Certes ! the loss would fall on you ; To give you back a portion, — well ! That Lubin can not do. 1 26 TRANS LA TIONS. No wile or subtlety he'll shun Some honest maiden to compel, Till by his guile she may be won : Lubin can do that very well. He'll glibly preach you too a spell ; And^Drink the pure clear water ? No ! Your dog may drink from out the well ; That Lubin can not do. Envoi. In any ill of choice to excel, Lubin will do that very well ; ■ But any work that's good and true, That Lubin can not do. TRANSLATIONS. 127 IN PARIS. Clement Marot, (Dedans Paris, villejolie.) T T ERE in Paris, city free, ■*■ -*■ One day, passing melancholy, I into alliance fell With the gayest damosel That e'er came from Italy. She is seized of honesty, And I think (my fantasy) Is no fairer damosel Here in Paris. I'll not name her here to thee ; Only my sweet friend is she : For the alliance thus befel, — A kiss I had of the damosel. Without thought of infamy, Here in Paris. 1 28 TRANS LA TIONS. TO A LADY, (who loved him before she had seen him.) Clement Marot. (Ains que me voir, en lisant mes escHpiz.) "NT OT seeing me, on reading words I wrote, ■'- ^ She loved me, then desired to see my face ; And were I black, a grey-beard, or what not, I should not be for that less in her grace. O gentle heart ! nymph of a noble race ! You are right : for this poor husk, already old, Is not myself, it only doth me hold ; And in my works, which reading you approved, Your bright eyes, if I dare to be so bold. More clearly see the poet to be loved. TRANSLA TIONS. 1 29 THE ROSE. Pierre de Ronsard. 1524-1585. (Mignonne ! allons voir si la rose.) "\ /r Y Darling ! here behold : the Rose, -'■*-*- Which but this morning did unclose Its robe of purple to the sun, Has lost, ere yet 'tis eventide, Its richest folds so purple-dyed. Its bloom too, rare as yours, Sweet One ! Alas ! see in what little space, Darling ! for all its pride of place, Its beauty hath been struck with blight : Stepmother, Nature ! sure thou wast. Since such a flower might not last Only from morning unto night. Then, if you trust me, Dearest Dear ! The while your flower life is here In the fresh newness of its day, Gather, O gather youth's glad wage. Since, as this Rose, the doom of age Will make your beauty to decay ! K 130 TRANSLATIONS. I WOULD BE. Pierre de Ronsard. (Plusieurs de leurs corps desnuez.) MANY have seen themselves estranged, In divers lands, from their own form, And so miraculously changed : One to a stone, one to a worm. One to a flower, one to a tree, One to a wolf, one to a dove ; One finds himself a stream to be, A swallow is one's strange remove. So I would be for thy dear sake The mirror you should daily view. The inner garment you should take To bring me closer unto you. Willingly I were water, so To b& the water for thy bath ; TRANSLATIONS. A mere perfume, if I could know The fragrance might perfume thy path. Or would I were the ribbon rich That winds about thy lovely breast, Or would I were the jewel which Upon thy ivory throat may rest. Or would I had the perfect bliss Of coral, of thy red lips' growth. That I both night and day might kiss Thy sweet lips and thy mouth. 132 TRANSLATIONS. TO MARGARET. Joachim du Bellay, 1524-1560. (En ce mois dilicieux,') T N this month delicious, -^ When to love all things are set, One of love's most duteous Shares the season's softness, yet Is by hardest harshness met. Made to weep, hurt past reUef : Fair and most frank Margaret ! For you I have this grief. In your eyes so gracious Mildness should be without let, But their look despiteous Mildness seemeth to forget. So the adder may be met Under fairest flower leaf : Fair and most frank Margaret ! For you I have this grief. TRANSLATIONS. 133 So, since years pass over us And love will not pay my debt, With despair grown serious, To a hermit's cell I'll get. To a hermit's cell I'll get, There to weep without retrief : Fair and most frank Margaret ! For you I have this grief. If the Gods, less rigorous. To the woods should bring you yet Where, despair incurious, Fain the hermit would forget. You perchance may then regret Former scorn of love's belief, Fair and most frank Margaret ! For you I have this grief. 1 34 TRANS LA TIONS. TO THE SUNFLOWER. GiLLES DURANT, 1550-1615. (faimela belle violette.) T LOVE the fair sweet violet, -^ I love the pink, the pansy small, I love the vermeil rose, but yet I love the sunflower more than all. Fair flower whose love lay at the gate Of him who brmgeth in the day ! Shall I call thee unfortunate, So true unto thy love alway ? The God who changed thee to a flower, He did not change thy loving will : Thy golden petals own his power, Thou worshipest his beauty still. Ever thy down-droop'd face uplifts A welcome to his radiant glow ; TRANSLATIONS. 135 And when his light to shadow drifts Thy brightness vanisheth also. I love thee, Sunflower ! though thou be Unhappy, and I love thee so. Since thou therein art like to me. Like both in constahcy and woe. I love the fair sweet violet, I love the pink, the pansy small, I love the vermeil rose, — but yet I love the sunflower more than all. '36 TRANSLATIONS. THE SHEPHERDESS. Charles Riviere Dufresny 1648-1724. (Philis, plus avare que tendre. ) "PHILLIS, more sordid than in love, -^ With nothing by- repulse to gain, One day exacted for a kiss Just thirty sheep for kissing-pain. The next day was a new affair ; The shepherds' bargain was more cheap : For he from Phillis did obtain Thirty good kisses for one sheep. The next day, Phillis, more in love, Fearing her lover now to miss. Was glad enough to give him back Her thirty sheep for but one kiss. The next day, Phillis, little wise, Both sheep and dog had given to get A single kiss the fickle one Gave all for nothing to Lisette. TRANSLATIONS. 137 A PRAISE OF WATER. Armand GOUFFfi, 1775-1845. (II fleut, il pleut enfin 1 ) T T rains at last ! the Vine, -*- Now freshen'd by the rain, Sees a new life again, Thanks to the boon divine ! Well then of Water think, Nor to contempt incline ! 'Tis water makes us drink Of wine, of wine, of wine. Of water, be it so ! The Deluge was composed ; But the high Judge proposed That good with ill should flow. The Flood, historians think, Gave birth unto the Vine. 'Twas water made us drink Of wine, of wine, of wine. 1 38 TRANSLA TIONS. What joy was mine that time When the fair river bore Almost unto my door, The wines of every clime. Cellar and cupboard — think ! Both full : what joy was mine ! 'Twas water made me drink Of wine, of wine, of wine. The weather dry and fair, The village miller goes Gloomily ; well he knows Water nor work is there. When the dam o'erflows its brink He greets the welcome sign : 'Tis water makes him drink Of wine, of wine, of wine. If farther proof must be. My friends ! I can but win : Here at our little inn My water-carrier see ! He ceases here to think O' the morning's toil and tine : 'Tis water makes him drink Of wine, of wine, of wine. TRANSLATIONS. 139 But singing water's use, I feel my spirit pass : Quick, help me to a glass Full of the cask's rich juice ! All you who with me think Join this refrain of mine : 'Tis water makes us drink Of wine, of wine, of wine. 140 TRANSLATIONS. MY VOCATION. Pierre Jean de BfiRANGER, 1780-1857. (Jetl sur cette boule.) THROWN ailing' on this mud, Ugly, and weak withal And stifling in the crowd Because I am so small, — While idly murmuring, Bewailing my mishap, The good God bids me sing : Sing, poor little chap ! The chariot of the rich May splash me, passing by ; Power spurns me to the ditch : Who cares for such as I ? Their pride has lost its sting. And I my fingers snap, — The good God bids me sing : Sing, poor little chap ! TRANSLA TJONS. 1 4 1 O, happy heedless folk Who care for to-morrow shirk ! I flinch beneath the yoke O' the very lightest work. O, liberty's the thing, But appetite will rap, — The good God bids me sing : Sing, poor little chap ! Even Love, that once had ruth And deign'd to assuage my pain. Is passing, with my youth, Never to come again. In vain my prayers I fling In witching Beauty's lap, — The good God bids me sing : Sing, poor little chap ! How then shall I disuse To sing, my sole task here ? They whom I thus amuse. Will they not hold me dear ? When the wine, in friendship's ring, Flows like the rising sap, The good God bids me sing : Sing, poor little chap ! 142 TRANSLATIONS. FORTUNE. B^RANGER. (Pan I fan ! est-ce ma brunt?) T^ AP ! rap ! — Is that my lass — -*■ *- Rap ! rap ! — is rapping there ? It is Fortune. Let her pass, I'll not open the door to her. All of my friends are making gay My little room, with lips wine-wet : We only wait for you, Lisette ! Fortune ! you may go your way. Rap ! rap ! — If we might credit half her boast, What wonders gold has in its gift. Well, we have twenty bottles left. And still some credit with our host. Rap ! rap ! — TRANSLATIONS. 143 Her pearls, and rubies too, she quotes. And mantles more than sumptuous : Lord ! but the purple's nought to us, — We're just now taking off our coats. Rap ! rap ! — She treats us as the rawest youths. With talk of genius and of fame : Thank calumny, alas, for shame ! Our faith is spoil'd in laurel growths. Rap ! rap ! — Far from our pleasures, we care not Her highest heavens to attain ; She fills her big balloons in vain Till we have swamp'd our little boat. Rap ! rap ! — Yet all our neighbours crowd to be Within her ring of promises : Ah ! surely, friends ! our mistresses Will cheat us more agreeably. Rap ! rap ! — 144 TRANSLATIONS. THE LAND OF COKAYNE. B^RANGER. (Ah ! vers une rive.) A H ! tow'rd a shore -^ *■ Where life's labour is o'er : I steer gaily before ; Follow, all who love me ! Well drunk with champagne, I go gladly insane, And see of Cokayne The charming country. Land of great glee ! Be my country : Here verily I may laugh at mishap. O, change most sweet ! For me what a treat ! I drink and I eat Without paying a rap. TRANSLATIONS. 145 How my appetite comes As discovery roams O'er Louvre-like domes All raised in pastry : At each gate a plump guard In cuirass of lard, Each with his halbard Of sugar-candy. Lord ! how I esteem This sweetness extreme : The cannons' selves seem To be sugar also ; And the sculptures rare, And the pictures fair, In confection there, For a side-walk show. BuiiFoon and clown, Best wits about town, Charm up and down The people amazed, For whom fountains flow, A hundred or so, Not with water, O, no ! With wines, the most praised. L 146 TRANSLATIONS. Some attend to the bake, And some a turn take At the spit : for the sake Of the meats all must look. For all other must Our tabled laws just "An offender out thrust To be scullion to cook. A palace stands pat : I am in, seated flat 'Twixt two grandees, whose fat Is a challenge, no doubt. I find on this ground. Where grease doth abound. Even Venus is round, And Love well blown out No wrinkling cares ; Even the pedant forbears ; Ministerial airs Our state forefends. This table will do ; Here is famous cheer too ; Let us get fu' ! Drink, drink, my friends ! TRANSLATIONS. 147 But talk of our loves ! No beauty reproves, At the later removes When comes the dessert, If we sing a droll song, Or rattle along In some tale, perhaps wrong, But the fun doesn't hurt. While the wine is in froth. On the fair table-cloth. Will the husband not loath Take his quite timely sleep ; Of a girl not unkind, O mother not blind ! What want you to find, 'Neath the table to peep ? O fond lustihed ! How the nose getteth red. And the paunch overspread ! Every one has a throne. And when the hours come For seeking our home. Each slips into some — Any one but his own. 148 TRANSLATIONS. What sallies of joke ! No too-loving yoke ! No creditor folk ! And no holding tie ! Between drunkenness And pleasant idlesse Our youth lasts to bless Us a century. Cokayne ! in thy realm Delight holds the helm : Sweet dream ! who would whelm Thy enchantments in ill ? My friends ! I'm ashamed : May the fellow be lamed ! 'Tis one not to be named, With the tavern bill. TRANS LA TIONS. 1 49 JAMES. B^RANGER. (Jacque ! il mefaut iroubler ton somme. ) JAMES ! you must wake. From door to door A fat man goes the village through ; The constable is with him, too : 'Tis for the taxes. And we are so poor. Get up, James ! up, dear ! The tax-collector's here. You do not use to sleep so well ; Look, dear ! the day begins to break. They're early come : they have to take The things they seize so far to sell. Get up, James ! up, dear ! The tax-collector's here. The dog barks at them at the gate. And not a penny. My poor soul ! Ask for a month to pay the whole ! ISO TRANSLATIONS. Ah, if the Government could wait. Get up, James ! up, dear ! The tax-collector's here. It is a robbery, taxes paid By poor like us. How can they be ? Your father, these six babes, and we, Have but my distaff and your spade. Get up, James ! up, dear ! The tax-collector's here. And just this place above one's head. And this poor quarter-acre bit : Misery puts the till on it, By usury it is harvested. Get up, James ! up, dear ! The tax-collector's here. So little gain for all our work ; And food, all kinds, now costs so much ; Our sugar, salt, we scarcely touch ; And when had we a bit of pork ? Get up, James ! up, dear ! The tax-collector's here. TRANSLATIONS. 151 A sup of wine would help you on, But then the dues make it so dear. Only my wedding ring is here ; Buy wine with it, my dearest one ! Get up, James ! up, dear ! - The tax-collector's here. You're dreaming of some wealthy change From your good angel, some repose : Taxes to rich men are, one knows, But some rats more in a full grange. Get up, James ! up, dear ! The tax-collector's here. They're coming in. My heart is faint, You do not speak ; and you are pale. Last eve you said you seem'd to fail. You who bear all without complaint. Get up, James ! up, dear! The tax-collector's here. , She calls in vain. There is no life. — For him whom toil out-wearieth Soft is the pillow smoothed by death. Pray, honest folk ! for the poor wife ! Get up, James ! up, dear ! The tax-collector's here. 152 TRANSLA TIONS. ROSETTE. B^RANGER. (Sans respect pour voire printemps.) ATT" HAT ! can you so respectless be ' * Of your life's spring to tdk, in sooth, Of tenderness and love to me Whose forty years o'erweight my youth ? Then had my heart a ready vow For even the lowliest grisette : Ah ! if I could but love you now As in those days I loved Rosette ! Your splendid carriage may display Your rich adornments,— well they suit : Rosette, but neat and fresh and gay, Tripp'd lightly, jauntily, on foot. Her eyes, despite my jealous brow, Provoked replies from all we met : Ah ! if I could but love you now As in those days I loved Rosette ! In this boudoir, so satin-soft, Your smiles are mirror-multiplied : TRANSLATIONS. 153 Rosette one glass had, wherein oft One of the Graces I espied. No curtains shadow'd o'er her brow, The dawn her merry glances met : Ah ! if I could but love you-now As in those days I loved Rosette ! Your gifted mind, so brightly shown. The poet chorus well may lead : I do not blush the while I own Rosette knew hardly how to read. She had no words to tell me how She loved, — love told her meaning yet : Ah ! if I could but love you now As in those days I loved Rosette ! Than yours indeed her charms were less, Even her heart less loving seem'd. Nor had her eyes your passionateness When they upon her lover beam'd. But then she had, I must allow. My youth, which I so much regret : Ah ! that I cannot love you now As in those days I loved Rosette ! 154 TRANSLATIONS. THE POOR WOMAN. BfiRANGER. (// neigel il ndget et li, devant Feglise.) T T snows, it snows, — and yonder at God's porch -^ Upon her knees a woman old doth pray, While through her rags the north-east cold doth scorch : It is for bread she prayeth, day by day. Groping along through the cathedral yard, Winter and summer season cometh she. Poor woman ! she is blind. O fortune hard ! Let us bestow on her our charity ! You recollect what this old wretch has been. With her poor cheeks so meagre and so white ? Once was she of our theatres the queen ; Her songs the town enraptured with delight. The young amid their laughter or their tears Of her great beauty raved enthusiastly ; And all their charmed dreams reflected hers. Let us bestow on her our charity ! TRANSLATIONS. 155 How many tdmes along the homeward street Her chariot's speed could scarce outrun the crowd : Above the clatter of her horses' feet She heard the echoes of applauses loud. To hand her from her carriage to her door, To tend her every pace voluptuously, How many rivals watch'd her steps before ! Let us bestow on her our charity ! When all the arts were wreathing crowns for her, How full of pomp was her high dwelling-place ! How many crystals, bronzes, columns, were As loving tribute brought, her love to grace ! How many poet-lovers at her feasts Quaff'd of the cup of her prosperity ! Your palaces have all their swallow-nests. Let us bestow on her our charity ! O sad reverse ! a sickness bow'd her head, Broke her sweet voice, and dimm'd her beauty's sheen ; And soon, alone and poor, she begg'd her bread Where for these twenty years her place has been. iS5 TRANSLATIONS. No hand knew better how to scatter gold, Or with more goodness, than this hand which she So hesitatingly to us doth hold. Let us bestow on her lour charity ! The cold grows colder ; woe and misery ! And now the cold is stiffening every limb ; Her fingers scarcely lift the rosary That blesses her wan lips, with smiles so dim. Under so many ills if her poor heart Finds yet some nourishment in piety. That her last trust, in heaven, may not depart, Let us bestow on her our charity ! TRANSLATIONS. 157 THE OLD VAGABOND. BfiRANGER. (Dans cefossi cessans de vivre. ) T EAVE me in this ditch to die ! -' — ' I am old, infirm, and worn. " He is drunk " — the passers cry : Lightly my complaints are borne. Gaily turn their heads away ; Some chance half-pence at me thrown ; " Quick, quick, to our holiday ! " Old Vagabond, I can die here alone. Yes ! I am dying of old age : None of hunger ever die. O, might some hospital assuage The death-bed of this misery ! No place remaineth anywhere. The people everywhere forlorn : Nursed in the streets, what should I care ? Old Vagabond, let me die where I was born ! iS8 TRANSLATIONS. To our artisans, when young, Have I sued : teach me a trade ! " Go, beg, and learn to use your tongue ! We have not too much work,'' they said. Rich ones who bade me labour, well ! Your generous bones are not forgot ; Nor the sweet straw where I slept well. Old Vagabond, indeed I curse you not. I might have stolen, I was poor ; Rather did I ask charity : The fruit that hung the road-side o'er Was my most heinous larceny. Yet twenty times I've been the prey Of jail-glooms, the Law's Majesty Sweeping my little wealth away. Old Vagabond, sunlight belong'd to me. What country can be call'd the poor's ? What is your corn and wine to me ? Your parHament, your orators. Your glory and your industry ? When in your homes as conquerors The foreign foe lived lustily, I like an idiot have shed tears. Old Vagabond, their bounty nourish'd me. TRANSLATIONS. 159 Why crush'd ye not my poverty, As ye tread out a vermin's brood ? Rather should you have abled me To labour for the general good. Screen'd from the biting storms of want, A brother would have cared for ye : The grub would have become an ant. Old Vagabond, I die your enemy. l6o TRANSLATIONS. MY CONTEMPORARY. (written in an album.) BSranger. ( Vous vous vantez d' avoir mon Age.) T N vain you say you have my age : -*■ Love may not to assent incline, Although the Fates, I dare engage. Tangled your thread of life with mine. Those daraes, as they unroll'd their ball. Two strands of life abroad to fling, Gave me the winter and the fall, And you the summer and the spring. TRANSLATIONS. i6i HAD HE KNOWN. Marceline Desbordes Valmore, I787-I850. ( j"2? avait su quelle dme il a blessh. ) T F he had known the soul he was to wound, -^ Heart-tears ! had he been able you to see, Ah ! if this heart wherein his thought is throned Had of expression kept some mastery, Such change as this had not been possible ; Proud to sustain the hope he has o'erthrown. Of so much love he had been sensible. If he had known. If he had known all that he might have had From a clear soul, ardent, without remove, He would have wish'd for mine to make him glad, Nor only have inspired but known of love. My downcast eyes did not confess the whole : Saw he in them my modesty alone ? Their secret had been worth his very soul, If he had known. M i62 TRANSLATIONS. If I had known to what imperious sway One was abandon'd looking in his eyes, Not seeking for it as the light of day, I would have borne myself 'neath other skies. It is too late my life now to renew ; My life was a delightful hope, o'erthrown ; Thou who o'erthrewest, wilt not thou say too — If I had known ? TRANSLATIONS. 163 AN OLD SONG OF YOUNG TIME. Victor Marie Hugo, 1802-1885. (Je ne songeais pas A Rose.) T ITTLE thought had I for Rose, ■' — ' Going to the woods with her : Some things said by us, no doubt ; But I mind not what they were. I was as the marble cold, Pacing on my listless way ; I talk'd of the flowers, the trees : "Nought else?" her eyes seem'd to say. The dew offer'd her its pearls. The low branches were as veils ; Going, I the blackbirds heard. And Rose heard the nightingales. I sixteen, with air morose ; Brilliant-eyed and twenty she : i64 TRANSLATIONS. Sang the nightingales for Rose, Blackbirds whistled unto me. A ripe berry to reach down, Standing at her fullest height. Rose stretch'd up her trembling arm ; I saw not that it was white. In the hollow the fresh brook O'er the velvet mosses flow'd ; And all nature amorous Slumber'd in the great dull wood. And when Rose took ofiF her shoe, Putting, with the simplest air, In the water her bare foot, I saw not that it was bare. I knew not what I should say, Following her, unknowing why. Seeing now and then her smile. Hearing now and then a sigh. I saw not that she was fair. Till, in leaving the dull wood, « I'll not think of it," she said. Since then I have understood. TRANSLATIONS. 165 HER GRIEF. Victor Hugo. ( Madame I pourquoi le chagrin qui vous suit ? ) /""X MADAM ! wherefore should this grief hold ^-^ you in sight? Wherefore be so forlorn ? You, with your charming heart, as sombre as the night. Who should be bright as morn. What matters it that life, unequal here below, Man, woman, both in dole. Gives way and may have soon under your feet to go? Have you not still your soul ? Your soul which soon will fly, far, far perhaps else- where, Tow'rd regions pure as new, And carry you away beyond the griefs we bear. Beyond our murmurs too. i66 TRANSLATIONS. Be as the bird, a bird upon a twig too frail - Who for an instant springs, Who sings though feeling how the branch begins to fail. Knowing that he has wings. TRANSLA TIONS. 1 67 SINCE. Victor Hugo. {Puis qiiej'ai mis ma livre a ta coupe encore pleine.) O INCE I have put my lip unto thy cup yet full, ^^ Since I have on thy hands laid down my throbbing head, Since I have sometime breathed the sweet breath of thy soul, The fragrance of thy soul now on the darkness shed; Since it was given me to hear thee say erewhile The words in which the heart reveals its mysteries, Since I have seen thee weep, since I have known the smile Of thy mouth on my mouth and thine eyps on my eyes ; Since I have seen to shine upon my ravish'd brow But one ray from thy star, alas! now veil'd always, i68 TRANSLATIONS. Since I have seen to fall upon my life's dull flow Only a rose-leaflet upgather'd from thy days : I can now say to Time — With all your rapid hours Pass on ! pass ever on ! I may not be more grey ; Pass on ! begone from me with all your faded flowers ! I have in my soul a flower that none can pluck away. Your wing in striking it does nothing to o'erthrow The vase froni which I drink, whose fulness I possess ; My soul has more of fire than you of ashes know, My heart has more of love than you forgetfulness. TRANSLA TIONS. 1 69 WHY? Victor Hugo. (Si vous tCalKz rien h me dire.) T F you have nothing to say to me -^ Why are you near me loitering ? Why are you making me to see A smile would turn the head of a king ? If you have nothing to say to me Why are you near me loitering ? If you have nothing for me to guess, Why do you press my hand to-day? Of all the angelic tenderness — Were you not dreaming it on your way ? If there is nothing for me to guess, Why do you press my hand to-day ? Would you rather that I should go, Tell me, why are you lingering here ? When I see you I tremble so It is at once both joy and fear. Would you rather that I should go, Wherefore then are you lingering here ? 1 70 TRANSLA TIONS. THE TOMB AND THE ROSE. Victor Hugo. (Xa Tonibe dit h la Rose. ) 'T^HE Tomb said to the Rose — -*- " Of tears the dawn bestows What makest thou ? lovers' flower ! " The Rose said to the Tomb — " What makest thou in thy gloom With what falls there every hour ? " The Rose said — " Tomb so drear ! Of these flowers I make i' the sere Perfume of sweetness rare.'' The Tomb said — " Plaintive flower ! Of the souls come in my power I fashion the angels fair." TRANSLA TIONS. 1 7 1 THE WALTZ OF THE LEAVES. Victor Hugo. (Z« vent (tAutomne passe.) 'T^^HE winds of Autumn bear -■- Along in rapid mood The wild birds of the air, The leaves of the stripp'd wood. The warm days, soft and sad, For a long time are gone : Waltz, waltz as you were mad ! Waltz on, poor leaves ! waltz on. Adown the highway side, At the South as at the North, Behold how, far and wide. This waltz of death goes forth ! Never they find too strong The wind they are borne upon : Turn yet more fast along ! Waltz on, poor leaves ! waltz on. 172 TRANSLATIONS. Yes ! every leaf doth fall, Or oak, or lime, or elm ; So, child as grand-sire, all Man's common tomb must whelm. The dreams of this our world Are soon effaced and gone : Keep on your mad way whirl'd ! Waltz on, poor leaves ! waltz on. TRANSLATIONS. 173 THE ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC. Victor Hugo. (0 soldats de Tan deux ! O guerres ! ifopies!^ QOLDIERS of our Year Two !— O wars ! O epic '^ songs ! — Drawing their swords at once against all Crowned Wrongs, In Prussian, Austrian bounds, And against all the Tyres and Sodoms of the earth, And him the man-hunter, the Tzar o' the icy North, FoUow'd by all his hounds, And against Europe all, with all its captains proud, With all its foot-soldiers whose might the plains did crowd. With all its horsemen fleet, All risen against France, with many a hydra head, — They sang the while they march'd, their spirits without dread, And without shoes their feet. 174 TRANSLATIONS. At early dawn, at eve, South, North, and every- where. With their old muskets on their shoulders, tattling there. Passing both rock and flood, Without Or sleep or rest, foodless and ragged too, Joyous and. proud they went, and their shrill trumpets blew As only demons could. Sublimest Liberty fiU'd evermore their thought ; Fleets taken sword in hand, and frontiers set at nought. So sovereignly they go ; O France ! on every day some prodigy they dare, — Encounters, combats, shocks, — on Adige' side Joubert, And on the Rhine Marceau. The vanguard they o'ercame, the centre they o'er- threw ; In the snow and in the rain, water their middles to. On went they, ever on ; TRANSLATIONS. 175 And one sued them for peace, and one flung wide his gate ; And thrones were scatter'd then, like dead leaves, — here of late, Now at the wind's breath gone. O Soldiers ! you were grand, in the midst of battle- shocks, With your lightning-flashing eyes, and wild dis- hevel'd locks There in the whirlwind black : Impetuous, ardent, radiant, tossing back your heads. Like lions snuffing up the north-wind when he treads Upon his tempest track. Drunken and madly rapt in their great epic deeds, They savour'd all the mirth of most heroic needs, Steel clashing here and there, The winged Marseillaise flying amid the balls. The grenades and the drums, the bombshells and cymbals, And thy clear laugh, Kleber ! 176 TRANSLATIONS. The Revolution cried — Die, O my volunteers ! Die to deliver now the peoples from their fears ! Their answering hands they raised. Go, my old soldiers ! go, my beardless generals ! And victory proudly march'd to the sound of bare- foot falls Over the world amazed. Disheartening and fear to them were all unknown, They had without a doubt over the high clouds gone, If their audacity In its Olympic race one moment had look'd back And seen the Republic point, over their glorious track, Her finger to the sky. TRANSLATIONS. L77 THE BLACK HUNTSMAN. Victor Hugo, ( Qiies tu ? passant ! Le bois est sombre. ) WHO passeth by ? The wood is black with night, The ravens crowd each other in their flight, The rain-drops fall. I am who goeth in the shadow's might, Men the Black Huntsman call. The forest boughs are tempest-whirl'd. And shriek, as if a rout Of sabbath witches through the wild wood hurl'd Their hootings all about ; And now beneath a corner cloud unfurl'd Dimly the moon peers out. Hunt the buck and hunt the doe ! Course the woods and fallows through ! It is night. 1 78 TRANSLA TIONS. Hunt the Tzar, hunt Austria too, Black Huntsman ! The forest boughs — Don thy gaiters, wind thy horn, Hunt the deer that in the com Come to feed ! Hunt both king and priest till morn, Black Huntsman ! The forest boughs — Thunder torrents flood the sky, The wily fox in vain would fly, Hope is none : Hunt the judge, and hunt the spy, Black Huntsman ! The forest boughs — All Saint Anthony's fiend crew. The bearded oat fields leaping through. Move thee not : Hunt the monk, the abbd too, Black Huntsman ! The forest boughs — TRANSLATIONS. 179 Slip thy hounds with the bear to cope, No wild boar to escape thee hope, — Do thy work ! Hunt the Caesar, hunt the Pope, Black Huntsman ! The forest boughs — The wolf from out thy path may start, Thy pack upon his trail depart ! Run him down ! Hunt the brigand Bonaparte, Black Huntsman ! The forest leaves fall, tempest-whirl'd ; Still'd is the sabbath rout That through the forest late their hootings hurl'd ; The cock's shrill clarion shout Pierceth the clouds. The storm is all upfurl'd, Broadly the dawn shines out. All resumes its aspect right. Thou again art France, so bright And fair to see : The Dawn-white Angel clothed in light. Black Huntsman ! i8o TRANSLATIONS. LAMENT. Victor Hugo. (Sentiers oil I'herbe se balance. ) T) ATHS over which long grasses wave ! -*- Valleys, hill-sides, and woods leaf d o'er ! Why are you silent as the grave ? " For One who came and comes no more." Why no one at thy windows seen ? And why thy flower-garden bare ? O house ! where hath thy master been ? " I do not know, he is elsewhere." Watch, dog ! " And why around a home Now empty ? In the house is none." Whom weep'st thou ? child ! " My father." Whom Sad woman ! weepest thou ? " The gone." Where is he gone ? " Into the dark." Wild waves heard breaking in the gloom ! Whence come you ? " From the convict bark." And what is it you bear ? "A tomb." TRANSLATIONS. i8i LIGHT. Victor Hugo. (Ne doutonspas! crayons! la fin, c'est le mysth-e.) T ET US not doubt, but trust ! the end is -^ — ' ^ mystery. Bide we ! Of Nero-kings as of the panther He, Our Godj can break the teeth. God trieth us, my friends ! Let us have faith and calm, And work ! O desert sands ! hath not Go^ sown the palm Your fiery dust beneath? Because he doth not end his work even when we list. But gives Rome to the priest, and to the Jesuit Christ, And to the knave the true. Should we despair? Of Him, the Just in very deed? No ! no ! He only knows the name of every seed ' He for his harvest threw. t82 TRANSLATIONS. Is not all certainty within His vision furl'd? From the nadir to the zenith God doth fill our world. We are but scholars here. Our wisdom unto His is errant foolishness ; And is it not first with Him light hath its luminous- ness, And the dark can disappear? Doth He not see the snake trailing on belly round ? Doth not His glance pierce down, to their roots deep underground, Pelion and Atlas through ? Knows He not, stork ! the hour thy migratings begin ? Knows He not, tiger ! both thy goings out and in ? Thy den, O lion ! too ? Answer, O swallow. ! and thou, eagle on sounding wing! Speak ! have you nests of which the Eternal knows no thing? Stag ! canst thou from Him flee ? TRANSLATIONS. 183 Seest thou not, O fox ! His eyes amid the brake ? Wolf! when at night thou feel'st some blade of grass to quake, Sayest thou not — 'Tis He ? Since He knows all of that ; since He can every- thing, Since from the cause His hands the vast effects can ' bring, Like fruit from the kerjiel stone ; Since in the apple He knows when to house the worm, And how strong marble columns shall be by the storm In one short night o'erthrown ; Since He the bellowing ocean lashes with his wind, Since He alone is the Seeing, and man so wholly blind, Since He is midst of all. Since His arm bears us up, and when He passeth by The comet trembleth, as the flax that tremblingly Into the flames doth fall ; i84 TRANSLATIONS. Since the obscurest night knows Him, since even the dark Sees Him, at His good pleasure, save the founder- ing bark, Why should we doubtful be ? We who, firm, pure and proud, in our worst agonies. Remain upright before all of their tyrannies. Keeping for Him our knee. Think also, though our days are days of bitterness. When we stretch through this fog our arms we feel no less The hand that guides the day ; And when, bow'd down, we tread the martyrs' vale of death. We hear behind us One whose cheering whisper saith — Be sure this is the way. The future, O Proscribed 1 is ours. Great Liberty, Glory, and Peace, come back in cars of victory On thundering axle-treesi ; This crime, triumphant now, passeth like smoke away, A passing smoke, a lie. So he may boldly say Who the high heaven sees. TRANS LA TIONS. 1 85 Fiercer the Caesars are than waves with foamy mane, , But God saith — Through their nostrils I will put my rein, And in their mouths a bit ; And verily I will lead them, yield they or resist, Them, their buifoons, their flute-players, even as I list. To the shades where phantoms sit. God saith: and the granite base whereon they stand so well Crumbleth away, and lo ! they disappear pell-mell. Their fortunes falling through. North Wind ! North Wind ! that comest to beat against our doors, O tell us, is it thou scatterest these emperors ? Where hast thou flung them to ? i86 TRANSLATIONS. LEAVE ME! GERARD LaBRUNIE (DE NERVAL), 1808-1855. {Non I laisse moi, je fen supplie. ) "XT O ! leave me, I entreat of you ! -'- ^ In vain, so young, so lovely too, You would reanimate my heart : See you not in my sadness how This youthlessness with pallid brow In happiness can have no part ? When Winter, with its icy breath Athwart our fields, the frost of death Brings to the flower-hearts outspread, Who can restore to the dead flower Its fragrance which the winds devour And all its splendour vanished ? Ah ! if I had but met with you What time my soul enraptured knew The throb of life in love's sweet ways. TRANSLA TIONS. 1 87 With what a madness of delight I welcomed had your smile whose might Had been the charm to light my days. But now, O young and lovely maid ! Your smile is as a star displa/d Before the sailor's troubled sight, One moment as the storm is check'd : The next his broken bark is wreck'd And sinks beneath the water's might. No ! leave me, I entreat of you ! In vain, so young, so lovely too, You would reanimate my heart : See you not in my sadness how This youthlessness with pallid brow In happiness can have no part ? TRANSLATIONS. FORTUNIO'S SONG. Louis Charles Alfred de Musset, 1810-1857. (Si vous croyez queje vais dire.) THINK not I will the name declare Of her I love ! I would not for an empire dare Her veil remove. Yet we'll go singing everywhere, From morn to morn, That I adore and she is fair As ripen'd corn. I do whate'er her fantasy May bid me do ; I would, her servant so to be, Give my life too. The evil that a love unknown Makes us to bear — TRANSLATIONS. 189 I bear it in my heart alone Till death comes there. But too well do I love, to say How high I aim ; Nor even in death will I betray My Lady's name. 190 TRANSLATIONS. HOPE. Alfred de Musset (Lorsque la coquette Esflrance.') WJ HEN Hope, that loveliest coquette, • * Touches our elbow, passing by. Then flieth off from us, and yet Returns toward us smilingly, Where goes the man ? Where calls his heart. The swallow followeth the wind ; And less light is the swallow's part Than that of the desiring mind. Ah, fleet enchantress ! can it be Thou dost indeed know thine own path. Or is it the old Destiny Who thee for his young mistress hath ? TRANSLATIONS. 191 CHINA-WARE. THfiOPHILE GAUTIER, 181I-1872. (Ce rC est pas vozis, non, Madame t quefaime.) "nr^IS not on you, no, Madam ! that I set -*- My heart ; nor, Juliet ! on you ; nor you Ophelia, nor Beatrice, nor yet Laura the blonde with her great eyes of blue. My present Love is in the Flowery Land ; She with her parents lives, an aged pair ; Their home a tower of porcelain fine and grand By the Yellow River, where the cormorants are. Her eyes toward her temples are turn'd up ; A little foot for holding in the hand She has ; complexion like a copper cup ; And long long nails, the same with carmine stain'd. Out of her lattice she her head puts forth ; The swallow flying by she'll almost reach ; And every night, no poet with more worth, Sings of the willow and the bloom o' the peach. 1 92 7RANSLA TIONS. SERENADE. THfiOPHILE GAUTIER. (Sur U balcon oil tu te penches.) T T P to the window where she stands ^-' I fain would climb : endeavour vain ! It is too high, and her white hands May not my outstretch'd arms attain. Your old duenna send afar ! Some ribbon drop, some carcanet ! Or of the strings of youi: guitar A ladder plait j or, better yet, Take off your flowers, your comb undo, Lean to me till your hair I meet : Torrent of jet that floweth to Your rounded instep and your feet ! So, aided by that strangest stair, How lightly I shall reach my bliss, Although no angel, climbing where Through the perfumes my heaven is. TRANSLATIONS. 193 MY OXEN. Pierre Dhpont, 1821-1871. (fai deux grands baufs dans man Stable. ) TV /r Y stable holds two oxen good, -'■•-'- Two great white oxen mark'd with red ; My plough is of the maple wood, For goad a holly branch instead. 'Tis through their care we see the plain In winter green, in summer gold ; And in one week they bring more gain Than all I for their purchase told. Were I forced them to sell, You might hang me as well. I love Jean, my wife, — ah, well ! rather would I See her dead than have my great oxen die. Look at them both, the bonny twain, Making the furrow deep and true, Braving the tempest and the rain, Working summer and winter through. o 194 TRANSLATIONS. When that, to take a drink, I slack, Out of their nostrils comes a mist, And I see on their horns of black The small birds perching as they list. Were I forced them to sell. You might hang me as well. I love Jean, my wife, — ah, well ! rather would I See her dead than have my great oxen die. They are strong as an oil-press is, And yet mild as the sheep are they ; Year by year from the town, I wis. Come the dealers to have their say, Wanting them for the Tuileries, For the Mardi-Gras before the King : And then unto the butcheries. They're mine : I will have no such thing. Were I forced them to sell. You might hang me as well. I love Jean, my wife, — ah, well ! rather would I See her dead than have my great oxen die. When our daughter is fully grown. If that a royal wooer would Ask for the girl to be his own, I would dower her all I could. TRANSLATIONS. 195 But if he for her dower would fain Have my white oxen mark'd with red, We would just bring them home again, And let His Majesty stay unwed. Were I forced them to sell. You might hang me as well. I love Jean, my wife, — ah, well ! rather would I See her dead than have my great oxen die. 196 TRANSLATIONS. TRE FILA D'ORO. Charles Marie Ren^ Lecomte DE Lisle. i8i8 — . (Lh-has, sur la mer, comme Fhirondelle. ) FAR off, with the swallow, over the sea. Fain would I fly, or to some distant wold ; But vainly I wish, since so cruelly she Has chained my heart with three threads of gold. One is her look, another is her smile ; The third, at last, did her s\veet lips unfold : But too well I love her, a martyr the while, — She has captived my heart with three threads of gold. O if I could but unravel my chain. Adieu, tears ! torments ! my flight would be bold : But no ! no ! 'twere better die of the pain Than to break from you, O my three threads of gold! TRANSLATIONS. 197 THE SONG OF MY DEAR. THfiODORE FAULLAIN DE BaNVILLE, 1823 — . (L'eau dans les grands lacs bletis. ) 'T~*HE great blue lake that lies -^ Calm and clear Is the mirror of the skies r I better love the eyes Of my Dear. The twilight may rejoice But to hear Yon wood-bird sing its choice ; I better love the voice Of my Dear. The dew unto the flower Growing sere Its colour may restore : One tear-drop I love more Of my Dear. 1 98 TRANS LA TIONS. Time, ruiner of bliss, Hasting near, I all forget with this, — I do but ask a kiss Of my Dear. Poor gather'd rose ! thou art Wilting here : Mine is the better part, On the fond lips and heart Of my Dear. Change comes to all, they say ; Foolish fear ! For until the Last Day I hold the love alway Of my Dear. TRANSLATIONS. 199 IN DISPRAISE OF A WOMAN. Catullus. (NuUi se dicit mulier mea nubere malle.) LOVE you so, great Jove himself would seek My love in vain : " so whispers my fond girl. Well said, but yet, for all that blossomy cheek, We part. With how slight wind a wave will curl ! I " None but thyself, though Jove himself might sue. Could own my love ! " Such oath her firm lips made t Between our eager kisses : words as true As forms of wind on hasting waters laid. I ask'd— If others woo thee ? " Not great Jove Himself should tempt me to forsake thy love." A wind-touch'd wave took up the waiting word And bore it on till newer lovers heard. 200 TRANSLATIONS. With none, that woman tells me, would she wed Except with me : No ! not with Jove himself. Believe her ? take a summer wind to bed ; Or keep your running water on a shelf. Write on the sand and print upon the wave ! When that is done, despair In woman's shiftier nature to engrave The love she says is there. A woman's vow : none else she loves. So blows the wind : The wind which every ripple moves No vow can bind. "Were Jove himself to seek me for his bride I should prefer thee : " that is what she says. O Wind and AVater ! I am satisfied : I know so little of a woman's ways. Wae 's me ! I trusted her. She said She loved me mair than Jupiter. She said ; and then — the fickle jade ! Ane ither cam' an' roupit her. TRANSLATIONS. Sweet to be told that I am loved the best, Sweet in a pleasant haven to abide : But winds must veer, and water hateth rest, And Venus is but sea-foam deified. Me first, she says, Though Jove had sought her : A woman's phrase, Mere scriptured water. EPILOGUE. TN the days when Earth was young ■* Beauty had not found a tongue : For the Gods forbade her speech, Lest her voice too soon should teach All the joy that Love bestows, All the lore that heaven knows. Through the bleak world wandering, Silent Beauty yet could bring Unto many an anxious thought Dreams of heaven, else untaught : Everywhere that she might come She of heaven spoke, though dumb. Waited all the Gods the event, — Love alone impatient : Unto Beauty then he led. Blushing as he whispered, One who kiss'd her. So her tongue Was freed ; and the first poefs song. CHISWICK I'RESS:— C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, Cornell University Library PR 4889.L6P6 1889 Poems and translations, 3 1924 013 517 051