Part 8

There was an opening in the common wall That made their houses two, long unobserved, But (what does not love see?) by them discerned. Of this they made a passage for the voice, And, safe from notice, murmured loving words. As oftentimes they stood, the wall between, Whispering and catching soft replies in turn, “O envious wall, that standest in our way, Who love each other!” they would, vexed, exclaim, “If thou would’st let us meet full face to face, Or e’en enough to touch each other’s lips! And yet we are not thankless; ’tis to thee We owe this pleasure of exchanging words.”

Thus oft conversing, at approach of night, They said “farewell,” and kissed with longing lips, That never met, the wall that stood between; And when Aurora quenched the fires of night, And Phœbus dried the dew upon the grass, They came again unto the trysting place.

Once, having come and many plaints exchanged Of their sad lot, they each with each agreed To leave their homes, and in the silent night Baffling their guardians, through the quiet streets, Pass to the fields, and meet at Ninus’ tomb. There stood a tree with snow-white fruit adorned-- A lofty mulberry--a cool fount close by; This was to be their trysting-place.

That day Was slow to vanish in the western sea. Then in the darkness Thisbe issued forth, With stealthy footsteps, and with close-veiled face. She reached the tomb, and ’neath the trysting-tree Sat down (love made her confident); when, lo! A lioness, her mouth all froth and blood, From recent slaughter, came to quench her thirst At the near fountain.

Thisbe saw her come, (For the moon shone) and fled with frightened feet Into a cave, and, running, dropt her veil; Which, having quenched her thirst, the lioness, Returning, found, and tore with bloody mouth.

Just then, came Pyramus with later feet, Who saw the lion’s tracks deep in the soil, And paled with sudden fear. But when he found His Thisbe’s garment stained with blood, he cried, “One fatal night two lovers shall destroy, Of whom she was the worthier of life! My soul is guilty, O dear perished love, Who bade thee come at night to scenes of dread, And let thee come the first. O lions! rush From where you have your dens beneath the rock, And tear these cursed limbs with ruthless teeth! But--’tis a coward’s part to wish for death.”

Then with the veil he seeks the trysting-tree, And to its cherished folds gives kisses, tears, And to his sword, “Drink now my blood,” he cries, And sinks it in his heart, and draws it forth, And falling, lies at length with upturned face. The blood spurts forth, as when a pipe that’s burst Throws from the hissing gap a slender jet, Beating the obstant air with watery blows. The trysting-tree is sprinkled with his blood, Till its fair fruit is changed to gloomy black.

Then Thisbe, half afraid e’en yet, returns, Lest Pyramus should miss her. Eagerly, With eyes and heart, she looks for her beloved, Burning to tell him of the danger past. But when she gained the place and saw the tree Sadly discoloured, she was sore in doubt Whether or no it was the very spot; Till, all aghast, she saw the blood-stained ground And quivering limbs, and started, horror-struck, Trembling as does the sea beneath a breeze. And when she recognized her dear one’s face, She threw her tender arms above her head, And tore her hair, and the dear form embraced, Filling the wound with tears, and with her lips Touched the cold face, and called him by his name; “Pyramus, answer, thine own Thisbe calls! Oh! hear me, Pyramus, look up once more!” Touched by the voice, he oped his dying eyes, Then closed them on the world for evermore.

She now saw all--her veil--the empty sheath. “Ah! hapless love,” she said, “hath slain my love, But love will make me strong like him to die, Fearing no wounds; for I will follow him, The wretched cause--his comrade, too, in death: And death that parted us shall re-unite. O wretched parents of a wretched pair, Whom true love bound together to the last, Hear this, my dying voice, and not refuse To let our ashes mingle in one urn. O trysting-tree, whose funeral branches shade The corse of one, and soon shall wave o’er two, Henceforth forever be our mark of fate,-- Bear in thy fruit the memory of our death!” She spake these words, and fell upon the sword, And the point entered deep within her breast. His blood, yet warm, was mingled with her own.

Her dying prayer the gods in heaven heard, Her dying prayer touched the lone parents’ hearts, And both their ashes mingle in one urn.

THE WITHERED LEAF.

(_From the French of A. V. Arnault._)

“De ta tige détachée.”

“From thy branchlet torn away, Whither, whither dost thou stray, Poor dry leaf?”--“I cannot say. Late, the tempest struck the oak, Which was hitherto my stay. Ever since that fatal stroke, To the faithless winds a prey, Not a moment’s rest I gain. From the forest to the plain, I am carried by the gale. Yet I only go the way That the rose-leaf shuns in vain, And where laurel-leaves grow pale.”

ANDRÉ CHÉNIER’S DEATH-SONG.

André Chénier, for having dared to write against the excesses of his countrymen, was summoned before the Revolutional Tribunal, condemned and executed, in the year 1794. The first eight stanzas (in the translation) he composed in prison, after his condemnation; the two last he wrote at the foot of the scaffold, while waiting to be dragged to execution. He had just finished the line, “Le sommeil du tombeau pressera ma paupière,” when his turn came, and his words had their fulfillment. In the translation, the spirit, not the letter, has been regarded.

When one lone lamb is bleating in the shambles, And gleams the ruthless knife, His yester playmates pause not in their gambols, Their wild, free joy of life,

To think of him; the little ones that played With him in sunny hours, In bright green fields, and his fair form arrayed With ribbons gay and flowers, Mark not his absence from the fleecy throng; Unwept he sheds his blood; And this sad destiny is mine. Ere long From this grim solitude

I pass to death. But let me bear my fate, And calmly be forgot; A thousand others in the self-same state Await the self-same lot.

And what were friends to me? Oh! one kind voice Heard through those prison-bars, Did it not make my drooping heart rejoice, Though from my murderers

’Twas bought, perhaps? Alas! how soon life ends! And yet why should my death Make any one unhappy? Live, my friends. Nor think my fleeting breath

Calls you to come. Mayhap, in days gone by, I, too, from sight of sorrow Turned, careless, with self-wrapt unpitying eye, Not dreaming of the morrow.

And now misfortune presses on my heart, Erewhile so strong and free, ’Twere craven to ask you to bear its smart-- Farewell, nor think of me!

* * * * *

As a faint ray or zephyr’s latest breath Revives the dying day, Beneath the scaffold, that stern throne of death, I sing my parting lay.

Before an hour, with wakeful foot and loud, Has marked its journey’s close On yon bright disc, the sleep of death shall shroud Mine eyes from worldly woes!

THE LAKE.

(_From Lamartine._)

I.

For ever drifting towards shores unknown, In endless night, returnless, borne away, We never, in Time’s sea our anchor thrown, Pause for a single day!

II.

O Lake, I come alone to sit by thee, Upon the stone where thou didst see her rest, Hardly a year ago, it seems, when she Looked on thy wavy breast!

III.

Thus didst thou threaten to those stooping rocks, Thus on their wave-worn sides thou then didst beat, Thus did thy foam, aroused by windy shocks, Play round my darling’s feet!

IV.

One evening, as we floated on the calm, And not a sound was heard afar or near, Save oary music mingling firm and clear, With thy soft rippling psalm,--

V.

Then, all at once, sweet tones, too sweet for earth, Awoke the sleeping echoes into bliss, The waves grew hushed, the voice I loved gave birth To such a strain as this:

1.

“O Time, suspend thy flight, and happy hours, Linger upon your ways! Oh! let us know the fleeting joy that’s ours These brightest of our days!

2.

For the unhappy ones who thee implore, Flow swiftly as thou canst, With all their cares; but leave us, pass us o’er In happiness entranced!

3.

Alas! in vain I ask some moments more, For Time escapes and flies! I ask this night to linger; lo, the power Of darkness quickly dies!

4.

But let us love, and, while we may, be blest, Before our hour is gone! Nor time, nor man has any point of rest, _It_ flows, and _we_ float on!”

VI.

O jealous Time! those moments of delight, When Love pours bliss in streams upon the heart, Must they fly from us with as swift a flight As days of ill depart?

VII.

Alas! can we not even mark the track? _Forever lost!_ like all that went before! And Time that gave them and then took them back Shall give them back no more!

VIII.

O Lake, mute rocks and caves and forest shade, Whose beauty Time is powerless to blight, Dear nature, suffer not the thought to fade Of that sweet, happy night!

IX.

Still let it live in all thy scene, fair Lake, In calm and storm, and make thy smiles more bright, And every tree and rock new meaning take From that sweet, happy night.

X.

Let it be heard in every passing breeze, And in the sound of shore to shore replying, Let it be seen in every star that sees Its image in thee lying!

XI.

And let the moaning wind and sighing reed, And the light perfume of the balmy air, All that is heard or seen or felt declare, “_They loved--they loved, indeed_!”

THE WANDERING JEW.

(_From Beranger._)

I.

Christian, a pilgrim craves from you A glass of water at your door! I am--I am--the Wandering Jew-- Chained to a whirlwind evermore! Though ever young, weighed down with years, The end of Time my one glad dream; Each night I hope the end appears, Each morning brings its cursed gleam. Never, never, Till this earth its race has run, Shall my goal of death be won.

II.

For eighteen centuries, alas! Over the dust of Greece and Rome, I’ve seen a thousand kingdoms pass,-- And yet the end delays to come. I’ve seen the good spring up in vain, I’ve seen the ill wax strong and bold, And from the bosom of the main I’ve seen twin worlds succeed the old. Never, never, Till this earth its race has run, Shall my goal of death be won.

III.

God gives me life to punish me; I cling to all that hopes for death, But ere my soul’s desire I see, I feel the whirlwind’s vengeful breath. How many a poor, sad man of grief Has asked from me the means to live! But none from me has gained relief,-- My hand has never time to give! Never, never, Till this earth its race has run, Shall my goal of death be won.

IV.

Alone, in shade of downing trees, Upon the turf, where water flows, If I enjoy a moment’s ease, The whirlwind breaks my short repose. Oh! might not angry heaven allow One moment stolen from the sun! Is less than endlessness enow? Or shall this journey ne’er be done? Never, never, Till this earth its race has run, Shall my goal of death be won.

V.

If e’er I see a child’s sweet face, And in its pretty, joyous pride, My own lost innocents’ retrace, The Hoarse Voice grumbles at my side. Oh! you, who lust for length of days, Dare not to envy my career! That sweet child-face on which I gaze Shall long be dust while I am here! Never, never, Till this earth its race has run, Shall my goal of death be won.

VI.

I find some trace of those old walls, Where I was born long, long ago; I fain would stay, the whirlwind calls-- “Pass on! thy fathers sleep below, But in their tombs no place is kept For thee; thou still must wander on, Nor sleep till all thy race has slept, And all the pride of man is gone.” Never, never, Till this earth its race has run, Shall my goal of death be won.

VII.

I outraged with a laugh of scorn The God-man in His hour of woe-- But from my feet the way is torn-- _I feel the whirlwind_--I must go. You, who feel not another’s pain, Tremble--and help him while you can; The crime I dared was foul disdain Not of God only, but of Man. Never, never, Till this earth its race has run, Shall my goal of death be won.

FINIS.