Chapter XXXII: Canto XXV (1)

If it e’er happen that the Poem Sacred,[96]
To which both heaven and earth have set their hand
Till it hath made me meagre many a year,
O’ercome the cruelty that bars me out
From the fair sheepfold where a lamb I slumbered,[97]
Obnoxious to the wolves that war upon it,
With other voice henceforth, with other fleece
Will I return as poet, and at my font[98]
Baptismal will I take the laurel crown;
Because into the faith that maketh known
All souls to God there entered I, and then
Peter for her sake so my brow encircled.
Thereafterward towards us moved a light
Out of that band whence issued the first fruits
Which of his vicars Christ behind him left,
And then my Lady, full of ecstasy,
Said unto me: “Look, look! behold the Baron,[99]
For whom below Galicia is frequented.”
In the same way as, when a dove alights
Near his companion, both of them pour forth,
Circling about and murmuring, their affection,
So I beheld one by the other grand
Prince glorified to be with welcome greeted,
Lauding the food that there above is eaten.
But when their gratulations were completed,
Silently _coram me_ each one stood still,
So incandescent it o’ercame my sight.
Smiling thereafterwards, said Beatrice:
“Spirit august, by whom the benefactions
Of our Basilica[100] have been described,
Make Hope reverberate in this altitude;
Thou knowest as oft thou dost personify it
As Jesus to the three[101] gave greater light.”—
“Lift up thy head, and make thyself assured;
For what comes hither from the mortal world
Must needs be ripened in our radiance.”
This exhortation from the second fire[102]
Came; and mine eyes I lifted to the hills,[103]
Which bent them down before with too great weight.[104]
“Since through his grace, our Emperor decrees
Thou shouldst confronted be, before thy death,
In the most secret chamber, with his Counts,[105]
So that, the truth beholding of this court,
Hope, which below there rightly fascinates
In thee, and others may thereby be strengthened;
Say what it is, and how is flowering with it
Thy mind, and say from whence it came to thee;”
Thus did the second light continue still
And the Compassionate,[106] who piloted
The plumage of my wings in such high flight,
In the reply did thus anticipate me;
“No child whatever the Church Militant
Of greater hope possesses, as is written
In that Sun[107] which irradiates all our band;
Therefore it is conceded him from Egypt
To come into Jerusalem to see,[108]
Or ever yet his warfare is completed.
The other points, that not for knowledge’ sake
Have been demanded,[109] but that he report
How much this virtue unto thee is pleasing,
To him I leave; for hard he will not find them,
Nor to be boasted of; them let him answer;
And may the Grace of God in this assist him!”
As a disciple, who obeys his teacher,
Ready and willing, where he is expert,
So that his excellence may be revealed,
“Hope,”[110] said I, “is the certain expectation
Of glory in the hereafter, which proceedeth
From grace divine and merit precedent.
From many stars this light comes unto me;
But he instilled it first into my heart,
Who was chief singer[111] unto the Chief Captain,
_Hope they in thee_, in the high Theody
He says, _all those who recognise thy name_;[112]
And who does not if he my faith possesses?
Thou didst instil me, then, with his instilling
In the Epistle, so that I am full,
And upon others rain again your rain.”[113]
While I was speaking, in the living bosom
Of that effulgence quivered a sharp flash,
Sudden and frequent, in the guise of lightning.
Then breathed: “The love wherewith I am inflamed
Towards the virtue still, which followed me
Unto the palm and issue of the field,
Wills that I whisper thee, thou take delight
In her; and grateful to me is thy saying
Whatever things Hope promises to thee.”
And I: “The ancient Scriptures and the new
The mark establish,[114] and this shows it me,
Of all the souls whom God has made His friends,
Isaiah saith, that each one garmented
In his own land shall be with twofold garments,[115]
And his own land is this delicious life.
Thy brother,[116] too, far more explicitly,
There where he treateth of the robes of white,
This revelation manifests to us.”
And first, and near the ending of these words,
_Sperent in te_ from over us was heard,
To which responsive answered all the carols.[117]
Thereafterward among them gleamed a light,[118]
So that, if Cancer such a crystal had,
Winter would have a month of one sole day,[119]
And as uprises, goes, and enters the dance
A joyous maiden, only to do honour
To the new bride, and not from any failing,[120]
So saw I the illuminated splendour
Approach the two,[121] who in a wheel revolved,
As was beseeming to their ardent love.
It joined itself there in the song and music;
And fixed on them my Lady kept her look,
Even as a bride, silent and motionless.
“This is the one who lay upon the breast
Of him[122] our Pelican; and this is he
To the great office[123] from the cross elected.”
My Lady thus; but therefore none the more
Removed her sight from its fixed contemplation.
Before or afterward, these words of hers.
Even as a man who gazes, and endeavours
To see the eclipsing of the sun a little,
And who, by seeing, sightless doth become,
So I became before that latest fire,[124]
While it was said, “Why dost thou daze thyself
To see a thing which here has no existence?
Earth upon earth my body is,[125] and shall be
With all the others there, until our number
With the eternal proposition tallies;[126]
With the two garments[127] in the blessed cloister
Are the two lights[128] alone that have ascended:
And this shalt thou take back into your world.”[129]
And at this utterance the flaming circle
Grew quiet, with the dulcet intermingling
Of sound that by the trinal[130] breath was made,
As to escape from danger or fatigue
The oars that erst were in the water beaten
Are all suspended at a whistle’s sound.
Ah, how much in my mind was I disturbed,
When I turned round to look on Beatrice,
At not beholding her, although I was
Close at her side and in the Happy World.

[96] This “Divina Commedia,” in which human science or Philosophy is symbolized in Virgil, and divine science or Theology in Beatrice.

[97] “Fiorenza la Bella,” Florence the Fair. In one of his canzoni Dante says:—

“O mountain song of mine, thou goest thy way;
Florence my town thou shalt perchance behold,
Which bars me from itself,
Devoid of love and naked of compassion.”

[98] This allusion to the Church of San Giovanni: “Il mio bel San Giovanni,” as Dante calls it elsewhere (Inf. xix. 17), is a fitting prelude to the canto in which St. John is to appear. Like the “laughing of the grass” in canto xxx. 77, it is a foreshadowing preface, _ombrifero prefazio_ of what follows.

[99] St. James. Pilgrimages were made to his tomb at Compostella, in Galicia.

[100] The general epistle of St. James, called the Epistola Cattolica, i. 17: “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of Lights.” Our Basilica; the Church Triumphant, Paradise.

[101] Peter, James, and John, representing the three theological virtues, Faith, Hope, and Charity, and distinguished above the other Apostles by clearer manifestations of their Master’s favour.

[102] St. James speaks.

[103] “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.”—Psalm cxxi. I.

[104] The three Apostles, luminous above him overwhelming him with light.

[105] The most august spirits of the celestial city.

[106] Beatrice.

[107] In God,

“Where everything beholds itself depicted.”

Canto xxiv. 42.

[108] To come from earth to heaven.

[109] “Say what it is,” and “whence it cometh to thee.”

[110] “_Est spes certa expectatio futuræ beatitudinis, veniens ex Dei gratia et meritis præcedentibus._” Petrus Lombardus, _Magister Sententiarum_.

[111] The Psalmist David.

[112] The Book of Psalms or songs of God:—

“And they that know thy name will put their trust in thee.”
Psalm ix. 10.

[113] Your rain: that is, of David and yourself.

[114] “The mark of the high calling and election sure.”

[115] The twofold garments are the glorified spirit and the glorified body.

[116] St. John in the Apocalypse, vii. 9: “A great multitude, which no man could number ... clothed with white robes.”

[117] Dances and songs commingled; the circling choirs, the celestial choristers.

[118] St. John the Evangelist.

[119] In winter the constellation Cancer rises at sunset; and if it had one star as bright as this, it would turn night into day.

[120] Such as vanity, ostentation, or the like.

[121] St. Peter and St. James are joined by St. John.

[122] Christ.

[123] Then saith he to that disciple, “Behold thy mother! and from that hour that disciple took her unto his own house.”—St. John xix. 27.

[124] St. John.

[125] “If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?”

[126] Till the predestined number of the elect is complete.

[127] The two garments: the glorified spirit, and the glorified body.

[128] The two lights: Christ and the Virgin Mary.

[129] Carry back these tidings.

[130] The sacred trio of St. Peter, St. James, and St. John.

THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE.]

THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE.

Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old;
Five centuries old. I plant my foot of stone
Upon the Arno, as St. Michael’s own
Was planted on the dragon. Fold by fold
Beneath me, as it struggles, I behold
Its glistening scales. Twice hath it overthrown
My kindred and companions. Me alone
It moveth not, but is by me controlled.
I can remember when the Medici
Were driven from Florence; longer still ago
The final wars of Ghibelline and Guelf.
Florence adorns me with her jewelry;
And when I think that Michael Angelo
Hath leaned on me, I glory in myself.

THE NATURE OF LOVE.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

To noble heart Love doth for shelter fly,
As seeks the bird the forest’s leafy shade;
Love was not felt till noble heart beat high,
Nor before love the noble heart was made.
Soon as the sun’s broad flame
Was formed, so soon the clear light filled the air;
Yet was not till he came:
So love springs up in noble breasts, and there
Has its appointed space,
As heat in the bright flame finds its allotted place.

Kindles in noble heart the fire of love,
As hidden virtue in the precious stone:
This virtue comes not from the stars above,
Till round it the ennobling sun has shone;
But when his powerful blaze
Has drawn forth what was vile, the stars impar
Strange virtue in their rays:
And thus when Nature doth create the heart
Noble and pure and high,
Like virtue from the star, love comes from woman’s eye.

TO ITALY.

FROM FILICAJA.

Italy! Italy! thou who’rt doomed to wear
The fatal gift of beauty, and possess
The dower funest[131] of infinite wretchedness,
Written upon thy forehead by despair;
Ah! would that thou wert stronger, or less fair,
That they might fear thee more, or love thee less,
Who in the splendour of thy loveliness
Seem wasting, yet to mortal combat dare!
Then from the Alps I should not see descending
Such torrents of armed men, nor Gallic horde
Drinking the wave of Po, distained with gore,
For should I see thee girded with a sword
Not thine, and with the stranger’s arm contending,
Victor or vanquished, slave for evermore.

[131] Fatal.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FRENCH.

SPRING.

FROM CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS.

XV. CENTURY.

Gentle Spring!—in sunshine clad,
Well dost thou thy power display!
For Winter maketh the light heart sad,
And thou,—thou makest the sad heart gay.
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain,
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,
When thy merry step draws near.

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,
Their beards of icicles and snow;
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,
We must cower over the embers low;
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,
When thy merry step draws near.

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud;
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,
Who has toiled for nought both late and early,
Is banished afar by the new-born year,
When thy merry step draws near.

THE CHILD ASLEEP.

Sweet babe! true portrait of thy father’s face,
Sleep on the bosom, that thy lips have pressed!
Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother’s breast.

Upon that tender eye, my little friend,
Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me!
I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend;—
’Tis sweet to watch for thee, alone for thee!

His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow;
His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm.
Wore not his cheek the apple’s ruddy glow,
Would you not say he slept on Death’s cold arm?

Awake, my boy!—I tremble with affright!
Awake, and chase this fatal thought!—Unclose
Thine eye but for one moment on the light!
Even at the price of thine, give me repose!

Sweet error! he but slept, I breathe again;
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile!
O when shall he for whom I sigh in vain,
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?

RONDEL.

FROM FROISSARD.

Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Nought see I fixed or sure in thee!
I do not know thee,—nor what deeds are thine:
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Nought see I fixed or sure in thee!

Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine?
Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me:
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine
Nought see I permanent or sure in thee!

RONDEL.

FROM THE DUKE OF ORLEANS.

Hence away, begone, begone,
Carking care and melancholy!
Think ye thus to govern me
All my life long, as ye have done?
That shall ye not, I promise ye:
Reason shall have the mastery.
So hence away, begone, begone,
Carking care and melancholy!
If ever ye return this way,
With your mournful company,
A curse be on ye, and the day
That brings ye moping back to me!
Hence away, begone, I say,
Carking care and melancholy!

RENOUVEAU.

Now Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain,
And clothes him in the embroidery
Of glittering sun and clear blue sky.

With beast and bird the forest rings,
Each in his jargon cries or sings;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.

River, and fount, and tinkling brook
Wear in their dainty livery
Drops of silver jewelry;
In new-made suit they merry look;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.

FRIAR LUBIN.

To gallop off to town post-haste
So oft, the times I cannot tell;
To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced,—
Friar Lubin will do it well.
But a sober life to lead,
To honour virtue, and pursue it,
That’s a pious, Christian deed,—
Friar Lubin cannot do it.

To mingle with a knowing smile,
The goods of others with his own,
And leave you without cross or pile,
Friar Lubin stands alone.
To say ’tis yours is all in vain,
If once he lays his finger to it;
For as to giving back again,
Friar Lubin cannot do it.

With flattering words and gentle tone,
To woo and win some guileless maid,
Cunning pander need you none,—
Friar Lubin knows the trade.
Loud preacheth he sobriety,
But as for water, doth eschew it;
Your dog may drink it,—but not he;
Friar Lubin cannot do it.

ENVOI.

When an evil deed’s to do,
Friar Lubin’s stout and true;
Glimmers a ray of goodness through it,
Friar Lubin cannot do it.

DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN.

The archbishop, whom God loved in high degree,
Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free;
And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan,
And a faint shudder through his members ran.
Upon the battle-field his knee was bent;
Brave Roland saw, and to his succour went,
Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced,
And tore the shining hauberk from his breast;
Then raising in his arms the man of God,
Gently he laid him on the verdant sod.
“Rest, Sire,” he cried,—“for rest thy suffering needs.”
The priest replied, “Think but of warlike deeds!
The field is ours; well may we boast with strife!
But death steals on,—there is no hope of life;
In Paradise, where the almoners live again,
There are our couches spread,—there shall we rest from pain.”
Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel I, alas!
That thrice he swooned upon the thick, green grass.
When he revived, with a loud voice cried he,
“O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie!
Why lingers death to lay me in my grave?
Beloved France! how have the good and brave
Been torn from thee and left thee weak and poor!”
Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o’er
His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow,
“My gentle friend!—what parting full of woe!
Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see;—
Whate’er my fate, Christ’s benison on thee;
Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath
The Hebrew prophets from the second death.”

Then to the paladins, whom well he knew,
He went, and one by one unaided drew
To Turpin’s side, well skilled in ghostly lore;—
No heart had he to smile,—but, weeping sore,
He blessed them in God’s name, with faith that he
Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity.

The archbishop, then,—on whom God’s benison rest!—
Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast;—
His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore,
And many a wound his swollen visage bore.
Slow beats his heart,—his panting bosom heaves,—
Death comes apace, no hope of cure relieves.
Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed
That God, who for our sins was mortal made,—
Born of the Virgin,—scorned and crucified,—
In paradise would place him by his side.

Then Turpin died in service of Charlon,
In battle great and eke great orison;
’Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion;—
God grant to him his holy benison!

TO CARDINAL RICHELIEU.

FROM MALHERBE.

Thou mighty Prince of Church and State,
Richelieu! until the hour of death,
Whatever road man chooses, Fate
Still holds him subject to her breath.
Spun of all silks, our days and nights
Have sorrows woven with delights;
And of this intermingled shade
Our various destiny appears,
Even as one sees the course of years
Of summers and of winters made.

Sometimes the soft, deceitful hours
Let us enjoy the halcyon wave;
Something impending peril lowers
Beyond the seaman’s skill to save.
The Wisdom, infinitely wise,
That gives to human destinies
Their foreordained necessity,
Has made no law more fixed below,
Than the alternate ebb and flow
Of Fortune and Adversity.

CONSOLATION.

TO M. DU PERRIER, GENTLEMAN, OF AIX IN PROVENCE, ON THE DEATH OF HIS DAUGHTER.

FROM THE FRENCH OF FRANÇOIS DE MALHERBE.

Will then, Du Perrier, thy sorrow be eternal?
And shall the sad discourse
Whispered within thy heart, by tenderness paternal,
Only augment its force?

Thy daughter’s mournful fate, into the tomb descending
By death’s frequented ways,
Has it become to thee a labyrinth never ending,
Where thy lost reason strays?

I know the charms that made her youth a benediction:
Nor should I be content,
As a censorious friend, to solace thine affliction,
By her disparagement.

But she was of the world, which fairest things exposes
To fates the most forlorn;
A rose, she too hath lived as long as live the roses,
The space of one brief morn.

* * * * *

Death hath his rigorous laws, unparalleled, unfeeling;
All prayers to him are vain;
Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf to our appealing,
He leaves us to complain.

The poor man in his hut, with only thatch for cover,
Unto these laws must bend;
The sentinel that guards the barriers of the Louvre
Cannot our Kings defend.

To murmur against death, in petulant defiance,
Is never for the best;
To will what God doth will, that is the only science
That gives us any rest.

THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD.

FROM THE FRENCH OF JEAN REBOUL.[132]

An angel with a radiant face
Above a cradle bent to look,
Seemed his own image there to trace
As in the waters of a brook.

“Dear child! who me resemblest so,”
It whispered, “come, O come with me!
Happy together let us go,
The earth unworthy is of thee!

“Here none to perfect bliss attain;
The soul in pleasure suffering lies;
Joy hath an undertone of pain,
And even the happiest hours their sighs.

“Fear doth at every portal knock;
Never a day serene and pure
From the o’ershadowing tempest’s shock
Has made the morrow’s dawn secure.

“What, then, shall sorrows and shall fears
Come to disturb so pure a brow?
And with the bitterness of tears
Those eyes of azure troubled grow?

“Ah no! into the fields of space,
Away shalt thou escape with me;
And Providence will grant thee grace
Of all the days that were to be.

“Let no one in thy dwelling cower
In sombre vestments draped and veiled;
But let them welcome thy last hour,
As thy first moments once they hailed.

“Without a cloud be there each brow;
There let the grave no shadow cast;
When one is pure as thou art now,
The fairest day is still the last.”

And waving wide his wings of white,
The angel, at these words, had sped
Towards the eternal realms of light!—
Poor mother! see, thy son is dead.

[132] The Baker of Nismes.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

FROM THE NOEL BOURGUIGNON DE GUI BARÔZAI.

I hear along our street
Pass the minstrel throngs;
Hark! they play so sweet,
On their hautboys, Christmas songs!
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!

In December ring
Every day the chimes;
Loud the gleemen sing
In the streets their merry rhymes.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!

Shepherds at the grange,
Where the Babe was born
Sang, with many a change,
Christmas carols until morn.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire.

These good people sang
Songs devout and sweet
While the rafters rang,
There they stood with freezing feet.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!

Nuns in frigid cells
At this holy tide,
For want of something else,
Christmas songs at times have tried.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!

Washerwomen old,
To the sound they beat,
Sing by rivers cold,
With uncovered heads and feet.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!

Who by the fireside stands
Stamps his feet and sings;
But he who blows his hands
Not so gay a carol brings.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!

THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTÈL-CUILLÈ.

FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN.

Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might
Rehearse this little tragedy aright:
Let me attempt it with an English quill:
And take, O reader, for the deed the will.

JASMIN, the author of this beautiful poem, is to the South of France what Burns is to the South of Scotland,—the representative of the heart of the people,—one of those happy bards who are born with their mouths full of birds (_la bouco pleno d’aouzelous_). He has written his own biography in a poetic form, and the simple narrative of his poverty, his struggles and his triumphs, is very touching. His home was at Agen on the Garonne.

Those who may feel interested in knowing something about “Jasmin, Coiffeur”—for such is his calling—will find a description of his person and mode of life in the graphic pages of _Béarn and the Pyrenees_ (Vol. i. p. 369, _et seq._), by Louisa Stuart Costello, whose charming pen has done so much to illustrate the French provinces and their literature.

I.

At the foot of the mountain height
Where is perched Castèl-Cuillè,
When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree
In the plain below were growing white,
This is the song one might perceive
On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph’s Eve:

“The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!”

This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending,
Seemed from the clouds descending;
When lo! a merry company
Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye,
Each one with her attendant swain,
Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain:
Resembling there, so near unto the sky,
Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent
For their delight and our encouragement.
Together blending,
And soon descending
The narrow sweep
Of the hill-side steep,
They wind aslant
Toward Saint Amant
Through leafy alleys
Of verdurous valleys,
With merry sallies,
Singing their chant:
“The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!”

It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden,
With garlands for the bridal laden!

The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom,
The sun of March was shining brightly,
And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly
Its breathings of perfume.

When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom,
A rustic bridal, ah! how sweet it is!
To sounds of joyous melodies,
That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom,
A band of maidens
Gaily frolicking,
A band of youngsters
Wildly rollicking!
Kissing,
Caressing,
With fingers pressing,
Till in the veriest
Madness of mirth, as they dance,
They retreat and advance,
Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest;
While the bride, with roguish eyes,
Sporting with them, now escapes and cries:
“Those who catch me
Married verily
This year shall be!”

And all pursue with eager haste,
And all attain what they pursue,
And touch her pretty apron fresh and new,
And the linen kirtle round her waist.

“Meanwhile, whence comes it that among
These youthful maidens fresh and fair,
So joyous, with such laughing air,
Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue?
And yet the bride is fair and young!
Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all,
That love, o’er-hasty, precedeth a fall?
O, no! for a maiden frail, I trow,
Never bore so lofty a brow!
What lovers! they give not a single caress!
To see them so careless and cold to-day,
These are grand people, one would say.
What ails Baptiste? what grief doth him oppress?
It is, that, half way up the hill
In yon cottage, by whose walls
Stand the cart-house and the stalls,
Dwelleth the blind orphan still,
Daughter of a veteran old;
And you must know, one year ago,
That Margaret, the young and tender,
Was the village pride and splendour,
And Baptiste her lover bold.
Love, the deceiver, them ensnared;
For them the altar was prepared;

But alas! the summer’s blight,
The dread disease that none can stay,
The pestilence that walks by night,
Took the young bride’s sight away.

All at the father’s stern command was changed;
Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged;
Wearied at home, ere long the lover fled;
Returned but three short days ago,
The golden chain they round him throw,
He is enticed, and onward led
To marry Angela, and yet
Is thinking ever of Margaret.

Then suddenly a maiden cried,
“Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate!
Here comes the cripple Jane!” And by a fountain’s side
A woman, bent and grey with years,
Under the mulberry-trees appears,
And all towards her run, as fleet
As had they wings upon their feet.

It is that Jane, the cripple Jane,
Is a soothsayer, wary and kind.
She telleth fortunes, and none complain.
She promises one a village swain,
Another a happy wedding-day,
And the bride a lovely boy straightway.
All comes to pass as she avers;
She never deceives, she never errs.

But for this once the village seer
Wears a countenance severe,
And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white
Her two eyes flash like cannons bright
Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue,
Who, like a statue, stands in view;
Changing colour, as well he might,
When the beldame, wrinkled and grey,
Takes the young bride by the hand,
And, with the tip of her reedy wand,
Making the sign of the cross, doth say:—
“Thoughtless Angela, beware!
Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom,
Thou diggest for thyself a tomb!”

And she was silent; and the maidens fair
Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear;
But on a little streamlet silver-clear,
What are two drops of turbid rain?
Saddened a moment, the bridal train
Resumed the dance and song again;
The bridegroom only was pale with fear;
And down green alleys
Of verdurous valleys,
With merry sallies,
They sang the refrain:—

“The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!”

II.

And by suffering worn and weary,
But beautiful as some fair angel yet,
Thus lamented Margaret,
In her cottage lone and dreary:—

“He has arrived! arrived at last!
Yet Jane has named him not these three days past;
Arrived! yet keeps aloof so far!
And knows that of my night he is the star!
Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted,
And count the moments since he went away!
Come! keep the promise of that happier day,
That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted!
What joy have I without thee? what delight?
Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery;
Day for the others ever, but for me
For ever night! for ever night!
When he is gone ’tis dark! my soul is sad!
I suffer! O my God! come, make me glad.
When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude;
Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes
Within them shines for me a heaven of love,
A heaven all happiness, like that above,
No more of grief! no more of lassitude!
Earth I forget,—and heaven, and all distresses,
When seated by my side my hand he presses;
But when alone, remember all!
Where is Baptiste? he hears not when I call!
A branch of ivy, dying on the ground,
I need some bough to twine around!
In pity come! be to my suffering kind!
True love, they say, in grief doth more abound!
What then, when one is blind?
“Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken!
Ah! woe is me! then bear me to my grave!
O God! what thoughts within me waken!
Away! he will return! I do but rave!
He will return! I need not fear!
He swore it by our Saviour dear;
He could not come at his own will;
Is weary, or perhaps is ill!
Perhaps his heart, in this disguise,
Prepares for me some sweet surprise.
But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see!
And that deceives me not! ’tis he! ’tis he!”
And the door ajar is set,
And poor, confiding Margaret
Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes;
’Tis only Paul, her brother, who thus cries:—
“Angela the bride has passed!
I saw the wedding guests go by;
Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked?
For all are there but you and I!”

“Angela married! and not send
To tell her secret unto me!
O, speak! who may the bridegroom be?”
“My sister, ’tis Baptiste, thy friend!”

A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said;
A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks;
An icy hand, as heavy as lead,
Descending, as her brother speaks,
Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat,
Suspends awhile its life and heat.
She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed,
A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed.

At length the bridal song again
Brings her back to her sorrow and pain.

“Hark! the joyous airs are ringing!
Sister, dost thou hear them singing?
How merrily they laugh and jest!
Would we were bidden with the rest!
I would don my hose of homespun grey,
And my doublet of linen striped and gay;
Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed
Till to-morrow at seven o’clock, it is said!”
“I know it!” answered Margaret;
Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet,
Mastered again; and its hand of ice
Held her heart crushed, as in a vice!

“Paul, be not sad! ’Tis a holiday;
To-morrow put on thy doublet gay!
But leave me now for a while alone.”
Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul,
And, as he whistled along the hall,
Entered Jane, the crippled crone.

“Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat!
I am faint, and weary, and out of breath!
But thou art cold,—art chill as death!
My little friend! what ails thee, sweet?”
“Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride;
And, as I listened to the song,
I thought my turn would come ere long,
Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide.
Thy cards forsooth can never lie,
To me such joy they prophesy,
Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide
When they behold him at my side.
And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou?
It must seem long to him;—methinks I see him now!”
Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press:
“Thy love I cannot all approve;
We must not trust too much to happiness;
Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less!”
“The more I pray, the more I love!
It is no sin, for God is on my side!”
It was enough; and Jane no more replied.

Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold;
But to deceive the beldame old
She takes a sweet, contented air;
Speaks of foul weather or of fair,
At every word the maiden smiles.
Thus the beguiler she beguiles;
So that, departing at the evening’s close,
She says, “She may be saved! she nothing knows!”

Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress!
Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess!
This morning, in the fulness of thy heart,
Thou wast so, far beyond thine art!

III.

Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating,
And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky,
Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting,
How differently!
Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed,
The one puts on her cross and crown,
Decks with a huge bouquet her breast,
And flaunting, fluttering up and down,
Looks at herself, and cannot rest.

The other, blind, within her little room,
Has neither crown nor flower’s perfume;
But in their stead for something gropes apart
That in a drawer’s recess doth lie,
And, ’neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye,
Convulsive clasps it to her heart.

The one, fantastic, light as air,
’Mid kisses ringing,
And joyous singing,
Forgets to say her morning prayer!

The other, with cold drops upon her brow,
Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor,
And whispers, as her brother opes the door,
“O God! forgive me now!”

And then the orphan, young and blind,
Conducted by her brother’s hand,
Towards the church, through paths unscanned,
With tranquil air, her way doth wind.
Odours of laurel, making her faint and pale,
Round her at times exhale,
And in the sky as yet no sunny ray,
But brumal vapours grey.

Near that castle, fair to see,
Crowded with sculptures old, in every part,
Marvels of nature and of art,
And proud of its name of high degree,
A little chapel, almost bare,
At the base of the rock is builded there;
All glorious that it lifts aloof,
Above each jealous cottage roof,
Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales,
And its blackened steeple high in air,
Round which the osprey screams and sails.

“Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!”
Thus Margaret said. “Where are we? we ascend!”
“Yes; seest thou not our journey’s end?
Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry?
The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know!
Dost thou remember when our father said,
The night we watched beside his bed,
’O daughter, I am weak and low;
Take care of Paul; I feel that I am dying!’
And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying?
Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud;
And here they brought our father in his shroud.
There is his grave; there stands the cross we set;
Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret?
Come in! The bride will be here soon:
Thou tremblest! O my God! thou art going to swoon!”
She could no more,—the blind girl, weak and weary!
A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary,
“What wouldst thou do, my daughter?”—and she started;
And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted;
But Paul, impatient, urges ever more
Her steps towards the open door;
And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid
Crushes the laurel near the house immortal,
And with her head, as Paul talks on again,
Touches the crown of filigrane
Suspended from the low-arched portal,
No more restrained, no more afraid,
She walks, as for a feast arrayed,
And in the ancient chapel’s sombre night
They both are lost to sight.

At length the bell,
With booming sound,
Sends forth, resounding round,
Its hymeneal peal o’er rock and down the dell.
It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain;
And yet the guests delay not long,
For soon arrives the bridal train,
And with it brings the village throng.

In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay,
For lo! Baptiste on this triumphant day,
Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning,
Thinks only of the beldame’s words of warning.

And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis;
To be a bride is all! The pretty lisper
Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whisper,
“How beautiful! how beautiful she is!”

But she must calm that giddy head,
For already the Mass is said;
At the holy table stands the priest;
The wedding ring is blessed; Baptiste receives it;
Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it,
He must pronounce one word at least!
’Tis spoken; and sudden at the groomsman’s side
“’Tis he!” a well-known voice has cried.

And while the wedding-guests all hold their breath,
Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see!
“Baptiste,” she said, “since thou hast wished my death,
As holy water be my blood for thee!”
And calmly in the air a knife suspended!
Doubtless her guardian angel near attended,
For anguish did its work so well,
That, ere the fatal stroke descended,
Lifeless she fell!

At eve, instead of bridal verse,
The De Profundis filled the air;
Decked with flowers a single hearse
To the churchyard forth they bear;
Village girls in robes of snow
Follow, weeping as they go;
Nowhere was a smile that day,
No, ah no! for each one seemed to say:—

“The roads shall mourn and be veiled in gloom,
So fair a corpse shall leave its home!
Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away,
So fair a corpse shall pass to-day!”

MY SECRET.

FROM THE FRENCH OF FÉLIX ARVERS.

My soul its secret hath, my life too hath its mystery,
A love eternal in a moment’s space conceived;
Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history,
And she who was the cause nor knew it nor believed.
Alas! I shall have passed close by her unperceived,
For ever at her side and yet for ever lonely,
I shall unto the end have made life’s journey, only
Daring to ask for nought, and having nought received.

For her, though God hath made her gentle and endearing,
She will go on her way distraught and without hearing
These murmurings of love that round her steps ascend,
Piously faithful still unto her austere duty,
Will say, when she shall read these lines full of her beauty,
“Who can this woman be?” and will not comprehend.

BARRÉGES.

FROM THE FRENCH OF JEAN-JACQUES LEFRANC DE POMPIGNAN.

I leave you, ye cold mountain chains,
Dwelling of warriors stark and frore!
You, may these eyes behold no more,
Save on the horizon of our plains.

Vanish, ye frightful, gloomy views!
Ye rocks that mount up to the clouds!
Of skies, enwrapped in misty shrouds,
Impracticable avenues!

Ye torrents, that with might and main
Break pathways through the rocky walls,
With your terrific waterfalls
Fatigue no more my weary brain!

Arise, ye landscapes full of charms,
Arise, ye pictures of delight!
Ye brooks, that water in your flight
The flowers and harvests of our farms!

You I perceive, ye meadows green,
Where the Garonne the lowland fills,
Not far from that long chain of hills,
With intermingled vales between.

Yon wreath of smoke, that mounts so high,
Methinks from my own hearth must come;
With speed to that belovèd home,
Fly, ye too lazy coursers, fly!

And bear me thither, where the soul
In quiet may itself possess,
Where all things soothe the mind’s distress,
Where all things teach me and console.

ON THE TERRACE OF THE AIGALADES.

FROM THE FRENCH OF J. MÉRY.

From this high portal, where upsprings
The rose to touch our hands in play,
We at a glance behold three things,—
The Sea, the Town, and the Highway.

And the Sea says: My shipwrecks fear;
I drown my best friends in the deep;
And those who braved my tempests, here
Among my sea-weeds lie asleep!

The Town says: I am filled and fraught
With tumult and with smoke and care;
My days with toil are overwrought,
And in my nights I gasp for air.

The Highway says: My wheel-tracks guide
To the pale climates of the North;
Where my last milestone stands abide
The people to their death gone forth.

Here, in the shade, this life of ours,
Full of delicious air, glides by
Amid a multitude of flowers
As countless as the stars on high;

These red-tiled roofs, this fruitful soil,
Bathed with an azure all divine,
Where springs the tree that gives us oil,
The grape that giveth us the wine;

Beneath these mountains stripped of trees,
Whose tops with flowers are covered o’er,
Where springtime of the Hesperides
Begins, but endeth nevermore;

Under these leafy vaults and walls,
That unto gentle sleep persuade
This rainbow of the waterfalls,
Of mingled mist and sunshine made;

Upon these shores, where all invites,
We live our languid life apart;
This air is that of life’s delights,
The festival of sense and heart;

This limpid space of time prolong,
Forget to-morrow in to-day,
And leave unto the passing throng
The Sea, the Town, and the Highway.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON.

THE GRAVE.

For thee was a house built
Ere thou wast born,
For thee was a mould meant
Ere thou of mother camest.
But it is not made ready,
Nor its depth measured,
Nor is it seen
How long it shall be.
Now I bring thee
Where thou shalt be;
Now I shall measure thee,
And the mould afterwards.

Thy house is not
Highly timbered,
It is unhigh and low;
When thou art therein,
The heel-ways are low,
The sideways unhigh.
The roof is built
Thy breast full nigh,
So thou shalt in mould
Dwell full cold,
Dimly and dark.

Doorless is that house,
And dark it is within;
There thou art fast detained,
And death hath the key.
Loathsome is that earth-house,
And grim within to dwell.
There thou shalt dwell,
And worms shall divide thee.

Thus thou art laid,
And leavest thy friends;
Thou hast no friend
Who will come to thee,
Who will ever see
How that house pleaseth thee;
Who will ever open
The door for thee,
And descend after thee,
For soon thou art loathsome
And hateful to see.

BEOWULF’S EXPEDITION TO HEORT.

Thus then, much care-worn,
The son of Healfden
Sorrowed evermore,
Nor might the prudent hero
His woes avert.
The war was too hard,
Too loath and longsome,
That on the people came,
Dire wrath and grim,
Of night-woes the worst.
This from home heard
Higelac’s Thane,
Good among the Goths,
Grendel’s deeds.
He was of mankind
In might the strongest,
At that day
Of this life,
Noble and stalwart.
He bade him a sea-ship,
A goodly one, prepare.
Quoth he, the war-king,
Over the swan’s road,
Seek he would
The mighty monarch,
Since he wanted men.
For him that journey
His prudent fellows
Straight made ready,
Those that loved him.
They excited their souls,
The omen they beheld.
Had the good-man
Of the Gothic people
Champions chosen,
Of those that keenest
He might find,
Some fifteen men.
The sea-wood sought he,
The warrior showed,
Sea-crafty man!
The landmarks,
And first went forth.
The ship was on the waves,
Boat under the cliffs.
The barons ready
To the prow mounted.
The streams they whirled
The sea against the sands.
The chieftains bore
On the naked breast
Bright ornaments,
War-gear, Goth-like.
The men shoved off,
Men on their willing way,
The bounden wood.
Then went over the sea-waves,
Hurried by the wind,
The ship with foamy neck
Most like a sea-fowl,
Till about one hour
Of the second day
The curved prow
Had passed onward,
So that the sailors
The land saw,
The shore-cliffs shining,
Mountains steep,
And broad sea-noses.
Then was the sea-sailing
Of the earl at an end.
Then up speedily
The Weather people
On the land went,
The sea-bark moored,
Their mail-sarks shook,
Their war-weeds.
God thanked they,
That to them the sea journey
Easy had been.
Then from the wall beheld
The warden of the Scyldings,
He who the sea-cliffs
Had in his keeping,
Bear o’er the balks
The bright shields,
The war-weapons speedily.
Him the doubt disturbed
In his mind’s thought,
What these men might be.
Went then to the shore,
On his steed riding,
The Thane of Hrothgar.
Before the host he shook
His warden’s staff in hand,
In measured words demanded:
“What men are ye
War-gear wearing,
Host in harness,
Who thus the brown keel
Over the water-street
Leading come
Hither over the sea?
I these boundaries
As shore-warden hold;
That in the Land of the Danes
Nothing loathsome
With a ship-crew
Scathe us might....
Ne’er saw I mightier
Earl upon earth
Than is your own,
Hero in harness.
Not seldom this warrior
Is in weapons distinguished;
Never his beauty belies him,
His peerless countenance!
Now would I fain
Your origin know,
Ere ye forth
As false spies
Into the Land of the Danes
Farther fare.
Now, ye dwellers afar off!
Ye sailors of the sea!
Listen to my
One-fold thought.
Quickest is best
To make known
Whence your coming may be.”

THE SOUL’S COMPLAINT AGAINST THE BODY.

Much it behoveth
Each one of mortals,
That he his soul’s journey
In himself ponder,
How deep it may be.
When death cometh,
The bonds he breaketh
By which united
Were body and soul.

Long it is henceforth
Ere the soul taketh
From God himself
Its woe or its weal;
As in the world erst,
Even in its earth-vessel,
It wrought before.

The soul shall come
Wailing with loud voice,
After a sennight,
The soul, to find
The body
That it erst dwelt in;—
Three hundred winters,
Unless ere that worketh
The eternal Lord,
The Almighty God,
The end of the world.

Crieth then, so care-worn,
With cold utterance,
And speaketh grimly,
The ghost to the dust:
“Dry dust! thou dreary one!
How little didst thou labour for me!
In the foulness of earth
Thou all wearest away
Like to the loam!
Little didst thou think
How thy soul’s journey
Would be thereafter,
When from the body
It should be led forth.”

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE SWEDISH.

FRITHIOF’S HOMESTEAD.

Three miles extended around the fields of the homestead; on three
sides
Valleys, and mountains, and hills, but on the fourth side was the
ocean.
Birch-woods crowned the summits, but over the down-sloping
hillsides
Flourished the golden corn, and man-high was waving the rye-field.
Lakes, full many in number, their mirror held up for the mountains,
Held for the forests up, in whose depths the high-antlered reindeer
Had their kingly walk, and drank of a hundred brooklets.
But in the valleys, full widely around, there fed on the greensward
Herds with sleek, shining sides, and udders that longed for the
milk-pail;
’Mid these were scattered, now here and now there, a vast countless
number
Of white-wooled sheep, as thou seest the white-looking stray clouds,
Flock-wise, spread o’er the heavenly vault, when it bloweth in
springtime.

Twice twelve swift-footed coursers, mettlesome, fast-fettered
storm-winds,
Stamping stood in the line of stalls, all champing their fodder,
Knotted with red their manes, and their hoofs all whitened with
steel shoes.
The banquet-hall, a house by itself, was timbered of hard fir.
Not five hundred men (at ten times twelve to the hundred)
Filled up the roomy hall, when assembled for drinking at Yule-tide.
Thorough the hall, as long as it was, went a table of holm-oak,
Polished and white, as of steel; the columns twain of the high-seat
Stood at the end thereof, two gods carved out of an elm-tree;
Odin with lordly look, and Frey with the sun on his frontlet.
Lately between the two, on a bear-skin (the skin it was coal-black,
Scarlet-red was the throat, but the paws were shodden with silver),
Thorsten sat with his friends, Hospitality sitting with Gladness.
Oft, when the moon among the night-clouds flew, related the old man
Wonders from far-distant lands he had seen, and cruises of Vikings
Far on the Baltic and Sea of the West, and the North Sea.
Hush sat the listening bench, and their glances hung on the
gray-beard’s
Lips, as a bee on the rose; but the Skald was thinking of Bragé,
Where, with silver beard, and runes on his tongue, he is seated
Under the leafy beech, and tells a tradition by Mimer’s
Ever-murmuring wave, himself a living tradition.
Midway the floor (with thatch was it strewn), burned for ever the
fire-flame
Glad on its stone-built hearth; and through the wide-mouthed
smoke-flue
Looked the stars, those heavenly friends, down into the great hall,
But round the walls, upon nails of steel, were hanging in order
Breastplate and helm with each other, and here and there in among
them
Downward lightened a sword, as in winter evening a star shoots.
More than helmets and swords, the shields in the banquet-hall
glisten,
White as the orb of the sun, or white as the moon’s disc of silver.
Ever and anon went a maid round the board and filled up the
drink-horns;
Ever she cast down her eyes and blushed; in the shield her
reflection
Blushed too, even as she;—this gladdened the hard-drinking
champions.

FRITHIOF’S TEMPTATION.

Spring is coming, birds are twittering, forests leaf, and smiles
the sun,
And the loosened torrents downward singing to the ocean run;
Glowing like the cheek of Freya, peeping rosebuds ’gin to ope,
And in human hearts awaken love of life, and joy, and hope.

Now will hunt the ancient monarch, and the queen shall join the
sport;
Swarming in its gorgeous splendour is assembled all the court;
Bows ring loud, and quivers rattle, stallions paw the ground alway,
And, with hoods upon their eyelids, falcons scream aloud for prey.

See, the queen of the chase advances! Frithiof, gaze not on the
sight!
Like a star upon a spring-cloud sits she on her palfrey white,
Half of Freya, half of Rota, yet more beauteous than these two,
And from her light hat of purple wave aloft the feathers blue.

Now the huntsman’s band is ready. Hurrah! over hill and dale!
Morns ring, and the hawks right upward to the hall of Odin sail.
All the dwellers in the forest seek in fear their cavern homes,
But with spear outstretched before her, after them Valkyria comes.

* * * * *

Then threw Frithiof down his mantle, and upon the greensward spread,
And the ancient king so trustful laid on Frithiof’s knees his head;
Slept, as calmly as the hero sleepeth after war’s alarms
On his shield, calm as an infant sleepeth in its mother’s arms.
As he slumbers, hark! there sings a coal-black bird upon a bough:
“Hasten, Frithiof, slay the old man, close your quarrel at a blow;
Take his queen, for she is thine, and once the bridal kiss she gave;
Now no human eye beholds thee; deep and silent is the grave.”
Frithiof listens; hark! there sings a snow-white bird upon the bough:
“Though no human eye beholds thee, Odin’s eye beholds thee now.
Coward, wilt thou murder slumber? a defenceless old man slay?
Whatsoe’er thou winn’st, thou canst not win a hero’s fame this way.”