Part 6
"Woman's soothing grief to lighten hath a mystic healing power, And their sympathy can brighten man's most dark and destined hour. Let the holy words be spoken that bind soul to soul for life; Let me place the symbol token on this hand--my wedded wife!" Oh! never yet did an angel breathe diviner words of bliss, Never mortal heard evangel of a joy like unto this; In my gladness, smiling, weeping, knelt I down before him there, Blessing God with wild words leaping from my full heart's inward prayer;
XV.
And a glory, ruddy, golden-hued, streamed down on me from high, As with lifted hands enfolden gazed I up into the sky-- Ever brighter, flashing downward, till my pained eyes ached with light, And I turned from gazing sunward back to earth's more calm delight. But--was it spell, or was it charm?--when I turned meto the room, Fading seem'd the loved one's form, half in light and half in gloom-- Throbb'd my brain in wild confusion, slowly died his words in air, All around me seemed illusion, save that streaming golden glare.
XVI.
On my fevered eyelids aching, madly press'd my hands I keep-- Then arose like one awaking from a strange and magic sleep; Round I gazed in wild amazement for the glorious light that shone, Was morn streaming through my casement, but it shone on me alone! The last cold words he had written still lay there beside my bed; The last flowers he had given lay beside them, faded, dead; Life's lonely bitter desolation was true, for aye, I deem, But, joy's blessed revelations, that--oh, that--was but a dream!
Wanderings through European Literature.
LE RÉVEILLE.
It was the lark--not the nightingale-- Poured forth her notes of warning; Upwards she flew from the sun-lit vale, Awoke by the light of the morning. The day, the day is bright! The night Hath fled that in darkness bound ye; Fling ye the myrtle of love aside, And grasp the sword whate'er may betide-- For the Foemen are gathering round ye!
It was the lark--not the nightingale-- Arouse ye from apathy's slumber! Few and dull do your watchfires pale, But they soon shall the stars outnumber. Awake, awake to life! The strife For God and your right advances; Leave the white arms of weeping beauty, The van of the battle's your post of duty, Where glitter the Foeman's lances!
It was the lark--not the nightingale-- The gate of the morning uncloses; She sings of the thundering cannon's hail-- She sings of the battle's roses; On the warrior's breast They rest-- The crimson roses that free the world! Up, then, in Liberty's cause ye are sent-- Let the wide heavens be but one warrior's tent When the banner of Freedom's unfurled.
It was the lark--not the nightingale-- Leave, then, O youth, thy dreaming! As dashes the torrent adown the vale, O'er all barriers wildly streaming, So of thy young heart's blood, The flood Pour down on the thirsty land; And Liberty's cause, that would else have died, Will bloom afresh from that crimson tide; So pledge ye your heart and hand.
It was the lark--not the nightingale-- Who chanted a Nation's rise; Borne on the wings of the morning gale, It peals through the azure skies. Liberty's torch is bright! The light May mock our tyrant's scorning, For millions of hearts will be kindled ere noon; And the freedom we dream'd of in darkness, full soon We'll achieve in the light of the morning!
OUR FATHERLAND.
I.
Why pour the ruby wine, For glad carousal, brothers mine, In the sparkling glass that flashes In your hand, When, mourning, sits in dust and ashes Our Fatherland?
II.
What means the joyous song Of the festive bridal throng? Oh! let music no more waken The echoes of our strand, For the bridegroom hath forsaken Our Fatherland!
III.
No more your masses falter, Trembling priests, before the altar. Can prayer avail the dead or dying? Oh! vain demand! Prostrate, trodden on the ground, is lying Our Fatherland!
IV.
Ye princes, fling ye down Your blood-bought jewelled crown-- Bear the circlet on your brow no more, Nor signet on your hand; For, shivering, stands before your door Our Fatherland!
V.
Woe to ye rich; in gloom Hath toll'd your hour of doom-- There, reck'ning up your gold, ye sit in state In palace grand, While Lazarus is dying at your gate, Our Fatherland!
VI.
And woe to you, ye poor-- Want and scorn ye must endure; Yet before ye many noble jewels shine In the sand. Ah! they are patriots' tears--even mine-- For Fatherland!
VII.
But the Poet's mission Is but prophetic vision; To him the daring heart is granted-- Not the hand. He may cease--the death-song has been chanted For Fatherland!
THE KNIGHT'S PLEDGE.
The tedious night at length hath pass'd; To horse! to horse! we'll ride as fast As ever bird did fly. Ha! but the morning air is chill; Frau Wirthin, one last goblet fill, We'll drain it ere we die!
Thou youthful grass, why look'st so green? Soon dyed in blood of mine I ween, With damask rose thou'lt vie. The goblet here! with sword in hand I pledge thee first, my Fatherland, Oh! blessed for thee to die!
Again our mailed hands raise the cup: Freedom, to thee we drink it up. Low may that coward lie Who fails to pledge, with heart and hand, The freedom of our glorious Land-- Her Freedom, ere we die!
Our wives--but, ah! the glass is clear, The cannon thunders--grasp the spear, We'll pledge them in a sigh. Now, on the Foe like thunder crash! We'll scathe them as a lightning flash, And conquer, though we die!
OPPORTUNITY.[8]
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MACHIAVELLI.
"Chi sei tu, che non par Donna mortale?"
Who art thou, glorious Form, flashing by me, So beautiful, so Godlike--wilt thou fly me? Why o'er thy face and bosom fall thy tresses streaming? And why the airy pinions on thy white feet gleaming? My name is Opportunity. Pause or rest I never: Mortals rarely know me till I'm gone for ever. To seize me passing on to few is granted; Therefore one foot upon a wheel is planted-- Therefore the light wings bound on them, to make me So quick in flight that none shall overtake me. Down fall my tresses, face and bosom veiling, That none may know me 'till to know be unavailing; Then, mockingly, I fling aside the veil, and please me With their vain hope, and vainer haste to seize me.
And who is this dark form that follows thee with weeping, Ever as a shadow on thy bright track keeping? Her name's Repentance. When I fleet quickly by them, She stoppeth weeping, vainly weeping nigh them. But thou, poor mortal, precious moments wasting, Idly thou dreamest while I'm onwards hasting. Wilt thou not wake? Alas! weep now, I've passed for ever. Weep, for Repentance henceforth leaves thee never.
KING ERICK'S FAITH.
I.
In Upsal's stately Minster, before the altar, stands The Swedish King, brave Erick, with high uplifted hands-- His royal robes are round him, the crown upon his head, And thus, before his people, right sovranly he said:--
II.
"God! whoso trusteth in Thee will never rue his trust; If God the Lord be with us, our foes shall flee like dust." He spake--from priests and people rose up the answering cry-- "If God the Lord be with us, all danger we defy!"
II.
Scarce through the aisles is dying their mingled voices' din, A pallid slave, disordered, comes rushing wildly in. "Now God us aid!--Skalater, the Dane, has come again, Fast pouring down the mountains with seven hundred men!"
IV.
King Erick heard him calmly, then strong in faith replied-- "What man can fight against us, with God upon our side?" A second slave comes rushing all breathless as the first-- "The gate is down--Skalater each bar and bolt hath burst!"
V.
King Erick's brow grew paler, but still he looked on high-- "If God the Lord be with us, no danger need we fly!" In comes another, trembling, but ere he uttered sound The Danish axes glisten--they cleave him to the ground.
VI.
Then rose a fearful tumult--then rose a wildered cry-- Skalater comes in fury--defenceless we must die-- Skalater comes in fury, with all his pagan hordes, And Priest, and King, and Altar must fall beneath their swords.
VII.
King Erick's glance grew prouder; he grasp'd the golden rood-- He held it high to Heaven, as on Skalater strode: Lo! from each wound, the seven, pours forth a thousand rays, And down to earth Skalater sinks dazzled by the blaze.
VIII.
They're prostrate on their foreheads, the seven hundred Danes, Praying the God to spare them who guards the Christian fanes; But Erick and his people lift up the joyful cry-- Our God, the Lord, has conquered; all praise to Him on high!
"FOR NORGE!"
FROM THE DANISH.
I.
For Norway, Freedom's fatherland, Fill up the wine-cup flowing, And pledge it, brothers, hand in hand, To keep the hot blood glowing. By gyves and fetters rent we swear, No tyrant's hand shall ever dare To chain our souls, while swords we bear To guard old Norway's Freedom!
II.
Again the wine-cup passes round; We'll drain it to the glory Of all the Chiefs and names renowned In Norway's ancient story. Across our gloomy northern night Their clashing arms flashed the light, And won for us, in hero fight, The prize of Norway's Freedom.
III.
And now to all the brave ones here, And to the maids that love us-- To men who never knew a fear, Maids pure as saints above us. The Norway maidens! fill on high-- The Norsemen, brave to do and die! And shame to him who passes by The pledge to Love and Freedom!
IV.
And yet one cup to Norway's land, Her snow and icy fountains, The rocks that guard her stormy strand, The pines upon her mountains! Aye--three times three fill up the wine, Pledge mountain, torrent, rock, and pine-- Pledge all that marks the snowy line Where Norsemen guard their Freedom!
THE FOUNTAIN IN THE FOREST.
FROM LAMARTINE.
I.
Lonely stream of rushing water, From the rock that gave thee birth, Hast thou fallen, O Naiad's daughter! Mingling with the common earth? Shall Carrara's snowy marble Never more thy waves inurn; That with wild and plaintive warble, By their broken temple mourn?
II.
Nor thy dolphins lying shattered, Fling their columns up again, That in radiant glory scattered, Fell to the earth a jewelled rain. Must the bending beeches only, Veil thy desolate decay, Spreading solemnly and lonely O'er thy waters, dark as they?
III.
Pallid Autumn-leaves are lying On thy hollow marble tomb, And the willows round it sighing, Wave their bannerets of gloom. Still thou flowest ever, ever-- Like a loving heart that gives Smiles and blessings, though it never Meeteth smile from one who lives.
IV.
Roughest rocks to polished beauty Changing as thou flowest on; Such the Poet's heaven-taught duty, Mid the stony-hearted throng! Thus thy voice to me hath spoken, Falling, falling from on high, As a chord in music, broken By a gently-murmured sigh.
V.
Ah! what sad yet glorious vision Of my youth thy scenes unroll, When I felt the Poet's mission Kindling first within my soul; When the passion and the glory Of the far-off future years, Shone in radiant light before me, Through the present dimm'd by tears.
VI.
Can thy stream recall the shadow Of the spirit-haunted boy, Who in sunlight, through the meadow, Roamed in deep and woundrous joy? Yet bright memory still reaches, All athwart thy glistening beams, Where, beneath the shading beeches, Lay the sunny child of dreams;
VII.
Weaving fancies bright as morning, With its purple and its gold; Strong to trample down earth's scorning With the faith of men of old. Ready life itself to render At the shrine to which he bowed, Knowing not the transient splendour Gilded but the tempest-cloud.
VIII.
On my heart was still'd the laughter, Cold the clay around the dead, When I came in years long after Here to rest my weary head. Waked the sad tears fast and warm, Once again the ancient place, Till, like droppings of the storm, They fell heavy on thy face.
IX.
Human voice was none to hear me In that silence of the tomb; But thy waters, sobbing near me, Seemed responsive to the gloom; And I flung my thoughts all idly On thy current in a dream, Like the pale leaves scattered widely On thy autumn-drifted stream.
X.
Yet 'twas in that mournful hour Rose the spirit's mighty words; Never soul could know its power Until sorrow swept the chords-- Blended with each solemn feature Of the lonely scenes I trod, For the sacred love of Nature Is the Poet's hymn to God.
XI.
Did He hear the words imploring Of a strong heard tempest-riven? Did the tears of sorrow pouring Rise like incense up to Heaven? Ah! the heart that mutely prayeth From the ashes of the past, Finds the strength that ever stayeth, Of the Holy, round it cast!
XII.
But the leaf in winter fadeth, And the cygnet drops her plumes: Time in passing ever shadeth Human life in deeper glooms; So, perchance, with white hair streaming, In my age to thee I'll turn-- Muse on life, with softened dreaming, By thy broken marble urn.
XIII.
While thy murmuring waters falling Drop by drop upon the plain, Seem like spirit-voices calling-- Spirit-voices not in vain; For life's fleeting course they teach me, With life's endless source on high, Past and future thus may reach me, While I learn from thee to die.
XIV.
O stream! hath thy lonely torrent Many ages yet to run? O life! will thy mournful current See many a setting sun? I know not; but both are passing From the sunlight into gloom-- Yet the light we left will meet us Once again beyond the tomb!
SALVATION.
When the gloom is deepest round thee; When the bands of grief have bound thee, And in loneliness and sorrow, By the poisoned springs of life Thou sittest, yearning for a morrow, That will free thee from the strife;
Look not upwards, for above thee; Never sun or star is gleaming; Look not round for one to love thee; Put not faith in mortal seeming; Lightly would they scorn, then leave thee. Trust not man--he will deceive thee.
But in the depths of thy own soul Descend; mysterious powers unroll-- Energies that long had slumbered In its mystic depths unnumbered. Speak the word!--the power divinest Will awake, if thou inclinest.
Thou art lord in thine own kingdom; Rule thyself--thou rulest all! Smile, when from its proud dominion Earthly joy will rudely fall. Be true unto thyself and hear not Evil thoughts, that would enslave thee. God is in thee! Mortal, fear not; Trust in Him, and He will save thee!
MISERY IS MYSTERY.
I.
Misery his heart hath broken-- Misery is mystery! Let the sad one lonely be; As the Ancients shunned the token Of a lightning-blasted tree.
II.
Breathe no word, his doom is spoken-- Misery is mystery! By its scathing lightning fated, Human hearts are consecrated, For a higher destiny.
FAREWELL!
Let mine eyes the parting take, Which my faint lips never can; Moments such as these might break Even the sternest heart of man.
Mournfully doth Joy's eclipse, Shroud in grief Love's sweetest sign; Cold the pressure of thy lips, Cold the hand that rests in mine.
Once the slightest stolen kiss-- O, what rapture did it bring! Like a violet's loveliness, Found and plucked in early spring.
Now, no more my hand shall twine, Rose wreaths, sweetest love, for thee; Without, is summer's glorious prime, Within, weird autumn's misery.
CATARINA.
FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS.
"Um mover d'olhos brando e piadoso."
A movement of the soft eyes, slow and eloquent, A smile of sweet, yet of such chastened joy, 'Twere easy to transform it to a tear. A gentle, timid motion, like young flowers Beneath the murmuring west wind undulating. A graceful, modest ardour--yet at times Most grave and quiet majesty, as one Who knows--that rarest knowledge--her own worth.
A childlike nature, index of a soul Where goodness is intuitive--not put on To gain false praises for a falser virtue. A bashful softness when she tells her love-- A tremour as of guilt, with low-drooped eyes And red-rose cheek, did not her brow serene, Like to a temple of all holy things, Forbid the thought. A patient power of sufferance, Enduring all with angel smiles of love. This, the celestial beauty of my Circé-- This is the magic potion which has changed Earth and all earthly sorrows to a Heaven!
THE POET AT COURT.
I.
He stands alone in the lordly hall-- He, with the high, pale brow; But never a one at the festival Was half so great, I trow. They kiss the hand, and they bend the knee, Slaves to an earthly king! But the heir of a loftier dynasty May scorn that courtly ring.
II.
They press, with false and flattering words, Around the blood-bought throne; But the homage never yet won by swords Is his--the Anointed One! His sway over every nation Extendeth from zone to zone; He reigns as a god o'er creation-- The universe is his own.
III.
No star on his breast is beaming, But the light of his flashing eye Reveals, in its haughtier gleaming, The conscious majesty. For the Poet's crown is the godlike brow-- Away with that golden thing! Your fealty was never yet due till now-- Kneel to the God-made King!
THE MYSTIC TREE.
FROM ÖLENSCHLÄGER.
Its branches up to Heaven a tree is sending, Rare to see, For with flowers, fruit, and seed at once is bending That mystic tree.
Round the giant stem, all rugged, rude, and mossy, Roses twine, And the young flowers veil it with their glossy Hues divine.
The leaves rustle thickly, many-formed, So green and bright; The branches spread out broadly to be warmed In Heaven's light.
Now curve they down, all drooping, to the meadows And cool springs; Now upwards on the blue air fling their shadows Like seraphs' wings.
Pause ye beneath its golden avalanches-- Well it's worth; For when the breath of Heaven stirs the branches The fruit falls to earth.
Mocking apes all day there, in their folly, Play antic wiles; All night rest the branches, still and holy As cathedral aisles.
The nightingale, soft in the moonlight singing, Stops her grief; For the magic tones of Oreads seem ringing From every leaf.
The tree is loved by all, but comprehended Scarce by one; Yet each basketh in its glory, many-blended, As 'neath a sun.
Many pause, the bright fruit harvest reaping, Of golden gleam; But he who loveth shadow saith in weeping-- Here let me dream.
Lighter spirits, passing, stop where glisten Brightest flowers; While others pause, enchanted, but to listen The music of its bowers.
And he who nothing loveth goes his way, Unheeding all; But they who love the universe will say-- Sing on, JEAN PAUL!
'TIS NOT UPON EARTH.
Why comest thou here, so pale and clear, Thou lone and shadowy child? "I come from a clime of eternal sun, Tho' my mother's home is a dreary one; But Love hath stolen my heart away, And to seek it through the world I stray."
Oh, turn thee back to thy native land-- Turn, ere thy heart is blighted; For, alas! upon this desert strand True love has never alighted.
"My native land is beyond the skies, Where the perfumed bowers of Eden rise. But my mother's home is the spectral tomb; Yet I'll back and rest in its shadowy gloom, For the grave is still and Heaven is fair, And the myrtle of love fadeth never there!"
THE ITINERANT SINGING GIRL.
FROM THE DANISH.
Fatherless and motherless, no brothers have I, And all my little sisters in the cold grave lie; Wasted with hunger I saw them falling dead-- Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed.
Friendless and loverless, I wander to and fro, Singing while my faint heart is breaking fast with woe, Smiling in my sorrow, and singing for my bread-- Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed.
Harp clang and merry song by stranger door and board, None ask wherefore tremble my pale lips at each word; None care why the colour from my wan cheek has fled-- Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed.
Smiling and singing still, tho' hunger, want, and woe, Freeze the young life-current in my veins as I go; Begging for my living, yet wishing I were dead-- Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed.
IGNEZ DE CASTRO.
FROM THE PORTUGUESE.
"Longe de caro esposo Ignez formosa."
I.
Far from her Royal lover, by Mondego's sunny tide, Does the Lady Inez wander, Don Pedro's lovely bride; Her long hair fell around her, like a veil of a golden light, And the jewelled zone that bound her in the noontide sparkled bright.
II.
But heavy showers are falling fast adown her azure eyes, As on Heaven with anguish calling, she lifts them to the skies. Where is her princely lover? Is there none to save her nigh? Does he know that King Alonzo hath sworn that she shall die?
III.
She trembles at each murmured sound that's wafted on the breeze: It is the murderer's footstep that rustles through the trees; But wearily, all wearily, with watching and with weeping, She sank in troubled slumber, while her maidens guard were keeping.
IV.
She dream'd that in the palace, by her Royal lover's side, She sat upon the high throne, as his crownéd Queen and bride; And words of love he murmured, and the crowd knelt down to praise, And she proudly took their homage, but blushed beneath his gaze.
V.
Fair cloth of silver brighter than the sunbeam's woven light, And marble pillars whiter than the pale queen of night-- Flowers and odours blending, all lovliest things were there, Incense-clouds upsending, for her--the beautiful, the fair!
VI.
Her robes of tissue golden outvied her golden tresses, As she lay enfolden in her lover's soft caresses; But brighter than the diamonds that circled round her brow, Were the flashing eyes beneath them--he murmured with a vow.
VII.
And redder than the rubies that enclasped her jewelled zone, Were the roses on her cheek when he whispered--Thou'rt mine own. And he stooped his plumed head gently to kiss her--so she dreamed-- But his lips were icy cold, like the touch of death it seemed.
VIII.
And she started from her slumber all tearfully and pale, For hurrying steps and voices were heard, and woman's wail-- "O God! the hour has come," they cried--"the murderers are near!" Why weep ye so, my maidens, now?--your cheeks are blanched with fear.
IX.
"I see--I see their shadows--down the marble steps they run; I see their daggers gleaming in the red light of the sun-- O Pedro! Pedro! save me!"--help from God nor man is nigh: All vainly to her murderers for mercy did she cry.
X.
Then she raised her eyes to Heaven, and threw back her golden hair, And in the streaming sunlight calm and saintly stood she there; While upon her snowy bosom she meekly crossed her hands-- You'd take her for an Angel as she there in beauty stands.
XI.
What! shrink ye now, false cravens!--do ye fear yon pale-faced girl? Tigers, traitors, as ye are, dare ye touch one golden curl? King Alonzo's gold is tempting, yet fain ye now would fly From the calm and holy glance of that tearful azure eye.
XII.