Chapter 6

I cannot deem but God has pitied me; Else why with painful care have I been saved, Whenever tossed and drenched in the fierce tide Of Saladin's victories by the walls profaned Of Jaffa, on the sands of far Daroum, Or in the battle thundering on the downs Of Ramlah, or the bloody day that shed Red horrors on high Gaza's parapets? For never a storm of fatal fight has raged In Islam's track of rout and ruin swept From Egypt to Gebail, but when the ebb Of battle came I and my host have lain, Scarred, scorched, safe somewhere on its fiery shore. At Marcab's lingering siege, where day by day We told the Moslem legions toiling slow, Planting their engines, delving in their mines To quench in our destruction this last light Of Christendom, our fortress in the crags, God's beacon swung defiant from the stars; One thunderous night I knew their miners groped Below, and thought ere morn to die, in crush And tumult of the falling citadel. And pondering of my fate--the broken storm Sobbing its life away--I was aware There grew between me and the quieting skies A face and form I knew,--not as in dreams, The sad dishevelled loveliness of earth, But lighter than the thin air where she swayed,-- Gold hair flame-fluttered, eyes and mouth aglow With lambent light of spiritual joy. With sweet command she beckoned me away And led me vaguely dreaming, till I saw Where the wild flood in sudden fury had burst A passage through the rocks: and thence I led My host unharmed, following her luminous eyes, Until the east was grey, and with a smile Wooing me heavenward still she passed away Into the rosy trouble of the dawn.

And I believe my love is shrived in heaven, And I believe that I shall soon be free.

For ever, as I journey on, to me Waking or sleeping come faint whisperings And fancies not of earth, as if the gates Of near eternity stood for me ajar, And ghostly gales come blowing o'er my soul Fraught with the amaranth odours of the skies. I go to join the Lion-Heart at Acre, And there, after due homage to my liege, And after patient penance of the Church, And after final devoir in the fight, If that my God be gracious, I shall die. And so I pray--Lord, pardon if I sin!-- That I may lose in death's embittered wave The stain of sinful loving, and may find In glory again the love I lost below, With all of fair and bright and unattained, Beautiful in the cherishing smile of God, By the glad waters of the River of Life!

Night hangs above the valley; dies the day In peace, casting his last glance on my cross, And warns me to my prayers. Ave Maria!

Mother of God! the evening fades On wave and hill and lea, And in the twilight's deepening shades We lift our souls to thee! In passion's stress--the battle's strife, The desert's lurking harms, Maid-Mother of the Lord of Life Protect thy men-at-arms!

TRANSLATIONS.

THE WAY TO HEAVEN.

FROM THE GERMAN.

One day the Sultan, grand and grim, Ordered the Mufti brought to him. "Now let thy wisdom solve for me The question I shall put to thee.

"The different tribes beneath my sway Four several sects of priests obey; Now tell me which of all the four Is on the path to Heaven's door."

The Sultan spake, and then was dumb. The Mufti looked about the room, And straight made answer to his lord, Fearing the bowstring at each word:

"Thou, godlike in thy lofty birth, Who art our Allah upon earth, Illume me with thy favouring ray, And I will answer as I may.

"Here, where thou thronest in thy hall, I see there are four doors in all; And through all four thy slaves may gaze Upon the brightness of thy face.

"That I came hither safely through Was to thy gracious message due, And, blinded by thy splendour's flame, I cannot tell the way I came."

COUNTESS JUTTA.

FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH HEINE.

The Countess Jutta passed over the Rhine In a light canoe by the moon's pale shine. The handmaid rows and the Countess speaks: "Seest thou not there where the water breaks Seven corpses swim In the moonlight dim? So sorrowful swim the dead!

"They were seven knights full of fire and youth, They sank on my heart and swore me truth. I trusted them; but for Truth's sweet sake, Lest they should be tempted their oaths to break, I had them bound, And tenderly drowned! So sorrowful swim the dead!"

The merry Countess laughed outright! It rang so wild in the startled night! Up to the waist the dead men rise And stretch lean fingers to the skies. They nod and stare With a glassy glare! So sorrowful swim the dead!

A BLESSING.

AFTER HEINE.

When I look on thee and feel how dear, How pure, and how fair thou art, Into my eyes there steals a tear, And a shadow mingled of love and fear Creeps slowly over my heart.

And my very hands feel as if they would lay Themselves on thy fair young head, And pray the good God to keep thee alway As good and lovely, as pure and gay,-- When I and my wild love are dead.

TO THE YOUNG.

AFTER HEINE.

Let your feet not falter, your course not alter By golden apples, till victory's won! The sword's sharp clangour, the dart's shrill anger, Swerve not the hero thundering on.

A bold beginning is half the winning, An Alexander makes worlds his fee. No long debating! The Queens are waiting In his pavilion on beaded knee.

Thus swift pursuing his wars and wooing, He mounts old Darius' bed and throne. O glorious ruin! O blithe undoing! O drunk death-triumph in Babylon!

THE GOLDEN CALF.

AFTER HEINE.

Double flutes and horns resound As they dance the idol round; Jacob's daughters, madly reeling, Whirl about the golden calf. Hear them laugh! Kettledrums and laughter pealing.

Dresses tucked above their knees, Maids of noblest families, In the swift dance blindly wheeling, Circle in their wild career Round the steer,-- Kettledrums and laughter pealing.

Aaron's self, the guardian grey Of the faith, at last gives way, Madness all his senses stealing; Prances in his high priest's coat Like a goat,-- Kettledrums and laughter pealing.

THE AZRA.

AFTER HEINE.

Daily walked the fair and lovely Sultan's daughter in the twilight,-- In the twilight by the fountain, Where the sparkling waters plash.

Daily stood the young slave silent In the twilight by the fountain, Where the plashing waters sparkle, Pale and paler every day.

Once by twilight came the princess Up to him with rapid questions: "I would know thy name, thy nation, Whence thou comest, who thou art."

And the young slave said, "My name is Mahomet, I come from Yemmen. I am of the sons of Azra, Men who perish if they love."

GOOD AND BAD LUCK.

AFTER HEINE.

Good luck is the gayest of all gay girls, Long in one place she will not stay; Back from your brow she strokes the curls, Kisses you quick and flies away.

But Madame Bad Luck soberly comes And stays,--no fancy has she for flitting,-- Snatches of true love-songs she hums, And sits by your bed, and brings her knitting.

L'AMOUR DU MENSONGE.

AFTER CHARLES BAUDELAIRE.

When I behold thee, O my indolent love, To the sound of ringing brazen melodies, Through garish halls harmoniously move, Scattering a scornful light from languid eyes;

When I see, smitten by the blazing lights, Thy pale front, beauteous in its bloodless glow As the faint fires that deck the Northern nights, And eyes that draw me wheresoe'er I go;

I say, She is fair, too coldly strange for speech; A crown of memories, her calm brow above, Shines; and her heart is like a bruised red peach, Ripe as her body for intelligent love.

Art thou late fruit of spicy savour and scent? A funeral vase awaiting tearful showers? An Eastern odour, waste and oasis blent? A silken cushion or a bank of flowers?

I know there are eyes of melancholy sheen To which no passionate secrets e'er were given; Shrines where no god or saint has ever been, As deep and empty as the vault of Heaven.

But what care I if this be all pretence? 'Twill serve a heart that seeks for truth no more. All one thy folly or indifference,-- Hail, lovely mask, thy beauty I adore!

AMOR MYSTICUS.

FROM THE SPANISH OF SOR MARCELA DE CARPIO.

Let them say to my Lover That here I lie! The thing of His pleasure, His slave am I.

Say that I seek Him Only for love, And welcome are tortures My passion to prove.

Love giving gifts Is suspicious and cold; I have all, my Beloved, When Thee I hold.

Hope and devotion The good may gain; I am but worthy Of passion and pain.

So noble a Lord None serves in vain, For the pay of my love Is my love's sweet pain.

I love Thee, to love Thee,-- No more I desire; By faith is nourished My love's strong fire.

I kiss Thy hands When I feel their blows; In the place of caresses Thou givest me woes.

But in Thy chastising Is joy and peace. O Master and Love, Let Thy blows not cease.

Thy beauty, Beloved, With scorn is rife, But I know that Thou lovest me, Better than life.

And because thou lovest me, Lover of mine, Death can but make me Utterly Thine.

I die with longing Thy face to see; Oh! sweet is the anguish Of death to me!

End of Project Gutenberg's Pike County Ballads and Other Poems, by John Hay