CANTO II.
But once upon a certain time, Ere Winter visited that clime, Two idle geese were babbling by, And little recked the frog was nigh. They talked of climes so far away, Where Summer holds eternal sway. They talked of pearly skies serene, Of woods forever robed in green, Of sunny ponds and fairy bogs,-- The paradise of singing frogs. Then talked they of their journey thither, And prayed that they might have fair weather. The frog all meekly sat the while, Then deigned to ask with winning smile, While visions of those tempting skies Floated before his dazzled eyes: “Where is that land, most potent bird? Of it, good faith, I’ve never heard. Pray, let me follow, when once more You bend your course to that fair shore Where Winter never dare intrude To cast his spell of solitude.” At this the geese laughed loud and long, A hissing laugh that checked the song The frog had formed deep in his throat,-- That song died in one gurgling note. And then the elder of the birds Addressed the frog the following words: “Thou silly elf, pray understand ’Tis many a league unto that land, And should’st thou e’er presume to go By single jumps and hops so slow, Why, sure old age would overtake Thee ere thou’d reach the fairy brake.” At this the frog at once began: “I’ve hit upon a novel plan. We’ll pluck some grass from yonder slope, And firmly twist it in a rope, ’Twill do, I think, with single fold, Then at each end you may take hold, And I will grasp the middle tight, A goose at both my left and right, We’ll cleave the upper air so light.” The frog scarce finished ere ’twould seem The geese consented to the scheme. They both affirmed with one accord Such wisdom they had never heard; Fitting the action to the word, They soon were sailing through the skies, Bound for the southern paradise. The frog swung on the grassy rope, And did not deign his mouth to ope. They travelled over many a rood Of bush and brake and solitude. At length a farmer, half amazed, Spied them aloft in mid-air raised, And much he wondered as he gazed, And loud the wise device he praised, And asked whose wisdom ’twas had planned The wondrous scheme his vision scanned. The frog, in whose own estimation, Centred the wisdom of creation, Could not the rustic’s praise pass by, Opened his mouth and shouted “I!”-- Scarce had he risked his mouth to ope, When slipped his jaws from off the rope, And, like an arrow from a bow, He dashed upon the rocks below. Thus died the frog--was ever fate so dread? And to the realm of shades his spirit sped.
MORAL.
All ye who read, whatever be your state, Bear well in mind the frog’s unhappy fate. How wise you deem yourself, how great a seer, ’Tis vain to boast, the world cares not to hear. There’s danger oft in speech, be well aware-- The cloak of wisdom is not hard to bear.
IMPROMPTU.
(Suggested on seeing a vain lady gazing at herself in a mirror.)
Gaze fondly on thy mirrored face, And there thine imaged beauty trace; But if, perchance by magic art, That mirror could portray thy heart, Down to the dust the glass thou’dst fling, That could portray so vile a thing!
TRANSLATIONS
HORACE; ODE IX., BOOK III.
HORACE.
While I could thy soul inflame, And no other dared thee claim, Persia’s monarch could not be Half so blest as I with thee.
LYDIA.
While I flamed thy soul’s first fire, Ere Chloe could thy soul inspire, Such heavenly glory then was mine, As Ilia’s fame could not outshine.
HORACE.
True, Chloe now does claim a part, And with her lyre sways my heart; For her, my soul’s loved consort--mine, All to death would I resign!
LYDIA.
For me sweet Calai’s spirit burns, And love for love _my_ soul returns, Twice would I death’s grim terrors dare, That fates my gentle youth should spare!
HORACE.
Should love’s delicious dream again, Fling round our souls that golden chain, And Chloe hence depart fore’er, That chain again would Lydia wear?
LYDIA.
Thou, fair as Hesperus of heaven; Thou, light as is the breath of even, Yet rasher than the impetuous sea, I would live and die with thee!
HORACE, ODE XVI., BOOK III.
The brazen tower on Argo’s shore, With turret high and bolted door, And watchful dogs in ambuscade, Had well secured the enamored maid, But Jupiter--as fates foretold-- Descending in a shower of gold, Allured the guards such sight to see, And thus fulfilled the dread decree; For well ’twas known no human power Could e’er withstand the tempting shower. Oh gold! whate’er be thy delight, Must yield to thy resistless might; Even faithful guards for thee retire, And, perjured, own their base desire; And walls of stone that have defied The wrath of Jove, are hurled aside. ’Tis known by thy resistless sway, The charms of beauty melt away, And gates divide, and tyrants fall, And shattered yields the embattled wall, Kingdoms to endless night are hurled, And Ruin rages o’er the world. The insatiate thirst for gaining more, But adds to wealth’s increasing store,-- Then, oh, Mæcenas, pride of Rome, Whose banners wave o’er Freedom’s home,-- Care not for pomp and splendor great, For gold can give--but cannot sate; He who temptation’s power defies, Shall gain from heaven what earth denies. Far from this vain and idle show, In humble guise I love to go, Escaping all the toil and pain Of those who care for naught but gain, And in some simple, rustic cell, In sweet contentment seek to dwell; What more to me could Fate consign, If all Apulia’s stores were mine? The silver stream, the silent grove, With myrtle bowers interwove, The yellow corn-field’s golden sheen, The gardens fair, the meadows green,-- These, these are pleasures all unknown To him who holds a jewelled throne. Happy am I, though not for me Sweet nectar hives the laboring bee. Nor can I claim the clustering vine, Or Formian casks of ripening wine, Nor e’en the verdant Gallic mead, Where flocks in snowy whiteness feed; Yet what can gilded wealth impart?-- It yields but flattery to the heart. He whose desire is e’er for more, Feels worse the pang of being poor,-- But blest is he whom God has given With sparing hand the gifts of heaven.
HOMERIC GARLANDS[F]
ILIAD I. 43-52.
Thus spake the old man, praying, and Phœbus Apollo did hear him,-- Down from the heights of Olympus the god, in anger, descended; Over his shoulders were flung the dreadful bow and the quiver Bristling with arrows, that rattled as onward he moved in his anger: Gloomy as night he went, and aloof from the Greeks’ broad encampment Sat down in silence,--then forth flashed the bow and swift sped the arrow-- Loud thereupon rose the twang of the silver bow’s dreadful rebounding-- Far sped the death-bearing darts; first perished the mules and the fleet dogs, Then at the Greeks did the angered god straightway aim his arrows-- Dismal by night flared the gleaming red of the funeral pyres.
ILIAD I. 528-539.
Spake the son of Kronos, the while with his dark brows nodding assent-- Straightway ambrosial locks did stream from the head of the Sovereign, How at that nod did mighty Olympus shake to its centre! Then they did part there, these two having secretly counciled together, She from the heights of shining Olympus plunged into the deep sea Zeus to his palace went, and the gods all at one accord moving, Rose from their seats together, and stood at sight of their great Sire-- None durst abide his coming--then Zeus in their midst, going straightway, Sat on his throne: but Heré had seen all, and knew what had happened, Knew that silver-foot Thetis had been with her husband entreating-- Thetis, that child of the old Sea Man, had held with him council-- With heart-cutting words she spake, the son of Kronos addressing.
ILIAD III. 1-14.
Now, when drawn up by its leaders each army was marshalled for battle, Forth moved the Trojan host with clangor of arms and with shouting, Like to the crying and clamor of cranes from on high when escaping Wintry storms they fly southward over the streams of the ocean-- Fighting and mingling aloft in the air in dire contention-- Bringing bloodshed and death to the pigmy races of mankind: But silently went the Greeks, breathing destruction and hatred, Mindful, each in the pending combat to aid one another. Like when Notos, the south wind, pours down a mist o’er the mountain Dreadful to shepherds but always more pleasing to thieves than the nightfall, And one can see as far as a stone may be hurled, in the darkness,-- Thus then the turbulent dust arose ’neath the feet of the warriors Rose in the air from the earth, as through the vast plain they swept onward.
ILIAD VI. 146-149.
As bloom the leaves of the trees, so spring the races of mankind-- Scattered for aye are the leaves by the blasts of one autumn, Yet do the trees bloom anew when spring-time returns in her glory,-- Budding anew, but to wither and fall with the blasts of the autumn; Thus are the races of man--now bloom they, and now they lie scattered.
ILIAD VI. 466-580.
Thus spake illustrious Hector, and stretched forth his arms to take fondly His son; but the boy, seized with dread, shrank back to his fair nurse’s bosom, Crying, shrank back, scared thus at the sight of his helmeted father, Fearful was he of the horse-hair plume o’er the dread helmet waving. Then did the fond parents smile at the babe, and illustrious Hector Quickly removed from his head the glittering helmet, and placed it Gleaming upon the ground, then received he his dear child and kissed him. Playfully tossing him up, he prayed thus to all the immortals: “Hear me, O Zeus, and ye other gods, grant that my son may be honored, Honored for valorous deeds as I ’mong the Trojans am honored! Grant him to rule with might over Troy, and may he hereafter Greater be called than his father! Grant, that he when returning Homeward from battles well fought, may bear rich spoil from the conquered, Cheering the heart of his mother with deeds of valor and glory!”
THE DYING SLAVE[G]
(From the introduction to a Greek prize ode.)
I.
Leave thy gates of darkness, Death, Come to take my fleeting breath; Haste, oh, haste to set me free!-- Fettered thus to misery.
II.
Thou shalt not be greeted here With pallid cheek and gushing tear-- Here no funeral ululation, Sound of woe or lamentation.
III.
Gloomy Genius though thou be, Yet thou dwellest with Liberty; Here but the encircling dance shall greet thee, Nought but songs of joy shall meet thee.
IV.
Thine no gloomy, lone dominion,-- Haste thee on thine ebon pinion; O’er the swelling ocean speed me-- To my long lost home, oh, lead me!
V.
There ’neath the shady citron grove, By limpid fountains lovers rove, And there, to loved ones tell again The heartless deeds of fellow men.
THE LORELEI.
(From the German of Heine.)
I.
I know not what it presages, This sadness of my heart;-- A tale of bygone ages From my mind will not depart.
II.
The air is cool and is darkling, And softly flows the Rhine; The crest of the mountain is sparkling In the evening’s calm sunshine.
III.
Yonder at ease reclining Sits a maiden wondrous fair, Her golden jewels shining, As she combs her golden hair.
IV.
With a golden comb she is combing, And she sings a sad, sweet song, That through the quiet gloaming, So strangely floats along!
V.
The doomed in his shallop speeding, Is seized with a pang of woe;-- He drifts on the rocks, naught heeding, Save the mountain crest aglow.
VI.
Alas! ’neath the waves in their madness, The sailor and boat are gone;-- And this, with her song of sadness, The Lorelei has done.
THE TWO STREAMS.
(Adapted from the Italian of Metastasio.)
_Quella onda che ruina._
I.
Yon stream that dashes down the Alpine height, Complains its fate, and struggles in its course, Till dashed to spray by its impetuous force, It sparkles like a diamond-shower bright.
II.
Another stream, in hidden vale apart, Courses its slumbrous way, and ne’er may know The lustre bright--the full-tide diamond glow, Its depths might yield to glad the aching heart.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] This belief is current among the Indian tribes of North America.
[B] It is commonly believed among the Indians that the spirits of the dead turn into doves.
[C] It is said somewhere in the Talmud, I believe, that King Solomon had a certain ring, which, when he would turn so that its rays would flash full upon any one, that person was compelled to tell what he was thinking about.
[D] The Ottawa and St. Lawrence rivers were thus referred to by the Indians.
[E] similar story has been told by Francois Coppee in a French poem bearing the same title.
[F] This is but a feeble attempt to reproduce Homer in his own majestic Hexameter. Our language contains too many monosyllables to be cast successfully in this rhythm; hence we can give but a faint echo of the dash and roar of old Homer’s lines. The passages here reproduced, like most literary gems, lose much of their luster when taken from the settings in which the master has placed them.
[G] The slaves of the West Indies considered death as a passport to their native country.
End of Project Gutenberg's Canadian Melodies and Poems, by George E. Merkley