But soon the clouds that veil
The eye of Love, when glowing, Betray the long unwhispered tale Of thoughts in darkness flowing!
WITH what a hollow dirge its voice did fill
The vast and empty hollow of the night! -
It had perched itself upon a tall old tree,
That hung its tufted and thick clustering leaves
Midway across the brook; and sung most sweetly,
In all the merry and heart-broken sadness
Of those that love hath crazed. Clearly it ran
Through all the delicate compass of its voice: -
And then again, as from a distant hollow,
I heard its sweet tones like an echo sounding,
And coming, like the memory of a friend
From a far distant country -or the silent land
Of the mourned and the dead, to which we all are pass
It seemed the song of some poor broken heart,
Haunted forever with love's cruel fancies! -
Of one that has loved much yet never known
The luxury of being loved again!
But when the morning broke, and the green woods
Were all alive with birds with what a clear
And ravishing sweetness sung the plaintive thrush;
I love to hear its delicate rich voice,
Chanting through all the gloomy day, when loud
Amid the trees is dropping the big rain,
And gray mists wrap the hills; -for aye the sweeter [ts song is, when the day is sad and dark. And thus, When the bright fountains of a woman's love
Are gently running over, if a cloud
But darken, with its melancholy shadow,
The bright flowers round our way, her heart
Doth learn new sweetness, and her rich voice falls
With more delicious music on our ears.
II. UNACKNOWLEDGED AND UNCOLLECTED TRANSLATIONS
THE history of Mr. Longfellow's work in translation has been given in the Introductory Note to the Translations in the present volume. As indicated there, a number of poems were contributed by Mr. Longfellow to periodicals as well as to his two collections, The Poets and Poetry of Europe and Poems of Places, which were signed by him, but for some reason were not included in any of the volumes of poetry which he put forth from time to time. Such poems have been recovered and placed in their proper groups. Besides these signed poems, however, there are a number which may be traced without question to Mr. Longfellow's pen, and in accordance with the plan of this edition they have been reserved for the Appendix, and are here given.
BY LUIS DE GÓNGORA Y ARGOTE
Published in The New England Magazine, July, 1831, and afterwards in The Poets and Poetry of Europe.
LET me go warm and merry still;
And let the world laugh, an' it will.
Let others muse on earthly things,
The fall of thrones, the fate of kings,
And those whose fame the world doth fill;
Whilst muffins sit enthroned in trays,
And orange-punch in winter sways
The merry sceptre of my days; -
And let the world laugh, an' it will.
He that the royal purple wears
From golden plate a thousand cares
Doth swallow as a gilded pill:
On feasts like these I turn my back,
Whilst puddings in my roasting-jack
Beside the chimney hiss and crack; -
And let the world laugh, an' it will.
And when the wintry tempest blows,
And January's sleets and snows
Are spread o'er every vale and hill,
With one to tell a merry tale
O'er roasted nuts and humming ale,
I sit, and care not for the gale; ·
And let the world laugh, an' it will.
Let merchants traverse seas and lands,
For silver mines and golden sands;
Whilst I beside some shadowy rill,
Just where its bubbling fountain swells,
Do sit and gather stones and shells,
And hear the tale the blackbird tells;-
And let the world laugh, an' it will.
For Hero's sake the Grecian lover
The stormy Hellespont swam over :
I cross, without the fear of ill,
The wooden bridge that slow bestrides
The Madrigal's enchanting sides,
Or barefoot wade through Yepes' tides;
And let the world laugh, an' it will.
But since the Fates so cruel prove,
That Pyramus should die of love,
And love should gentle Thisbe kill;
My Thisbe be an apple-tart,
The sword I plunge into her heart
The tooth that bites the crust apart,
And let the world laugh, an' it will.
THE NATIVITY OF CHRIST
BY LUIS DE GÓNGORA Y ARGOTE
TO-DAY from the Aurora's bosom
A pink has fallen, - a crimson blossom:
And oh, how glorious rests the hay
On which the fallen blossom lay.
When silence gently had unfurled
Her mantle over all below,
And, crowned with winter's frost and snow,
Night swayed the sceptre of the world,
Amid the gloom descending slow,
Upon the monarch's frozen bosom
A pink has fallen, -a crimson blossom.
The only flower the Virgin bore
(Aurora fair,) within her breast,
She gave to earth, yet still possessed
Her virgin blossom as before :
The hay that colored drop caressed, —
Received upon its faithful bosom
That single flower, - a crimson blossom.
The manger, unto which 't was given,
Even amid wintry snows and cold,
Within its fostering arms to fold
BY HERNANDO DE HERRERA
BRIGHT Sun! that, flaming through the mid-day sky,
Fillest with light heaven's blue, deep-vaulted arch,
Say, hast thou seen in thy celestial march
One hue to rival this blue, tranquil eye?
Thou Summer Wind, of soft and delicate touch,
Fanning me gently with thy cool, fresh pinion,
Say, hast thou found, in all thy wide dominion,
Tresses of gold, that can delight so much?
Moon, honor of the night! Thou glorious choir
Of wandering Planets and eternal Stars!
Say, have ye seen two peerless orbs like these?
Answer me, Sun, Air, Moon, and Stars of fire —
Hear ye my woes, that know no bounds nor bars?
See ye these cruel stars, that brighten and yet freeze?
BY FRANCISCO DE MEDRANO
THE works of human artifice soon tire
The curious eye; the fountain's sparkling rill,
And gardens, when adorned by human skill,
Reproach the feeble hand, the vain desire.
But oh the free and wild magnificence
Of Nature, in her lavish hours, doth steal,
In admiration silent and intense,
The soul of him who hath a soul to feel.
The river moving on its ceaseless way,
The verdant reach of meadows fair and green, And the blue hills, that bound the sylvan scene, These speak of grandeur, that defies decay,— Proclaim the Eternal Architect on high, Who stamps on all his works his own eternity.
PURE Spirit! that within a form of clay
Once veiled the brightness of thy native sky;
In dreamless slumber sealed thy burning eye,
Nor heavenward sought to wing thy flight away!
He that chastised thee did at length unclose
Thy prison doors, and give thee sweet release ; —
Unloosed the mortal coil, eternal peace
Received thee to its stillness and repose.
Look down once more from thy celestial dwelling,
Help me to rise and be immortal there,-
An earthly vapor melting into air ; —
For my whole soul, with secret ardor swelling,
From earth's dark mansion struggles to be free, And longs to soar away and be at rest with thee.
BY FRANCISCO DE MEDRANO
BUT yesterday these few and hoary sheaves
Waved in the golden harvest; from the plain
I saw the blade shoot upward, and the grain
Put forth the unripe ear and tender leaves.
Then the glad upland smiled upon the view,
And to the air the broad green leaves unrolled.
A peerless emerald in each silken fold,
And on each palm a pearl of morning dew.
And thus sprang up and ripened in brief space
All that beneath the reaper's sickle died,
All that smiled beauteous in the summer-tide.
And what are we? a copy of that race,
The later harvest of a longer year!
And oh how many fall before the ripened ear!
O LIGHT serene! present in him who breathes
That love divine, which kindles yet restrains
The high-born soul—that in its mortal chains
Heavenward aspires for love's immortal wreaths!
Rich golden locks, within whose clustered curls
Celestial and eternal treasures lie!
A voice that breathes angelic harmony
Among bright coral and unspotted pearls!
What marvellous beauty! Of the high estate
Of immortality, within this light
Transparent veil of flesh, a glimpse is given;
And in the glorious form, I contemplate,
(Although its brightness blinds my feeble sight,) The immortal still I seek and follow on to Heaven!
CLEAR HONOR OF THE LIQUID ELEMENT
BY LUIS DE GÓNGORA Y ARGOTE
CLEAR honor of the liquid element,
Sweet rivulet of shining silver sheen!
Whose waters steal along the meadows green,
With gentle step, and murmur of content!
When she, for whom I bear each fierce extreme,
Beholds herself in thee, — then Love doth trace
The snow and crimson of that lovely face
In the soft gentle movement of thy stream.
Then smoothly flow as now; and set not free
The crystal curb and undulating rein
Which now thy current's headlong speed restrain;
Lest broken and confused the image rest
Of such rare charms on the deep-heaving breast
Of him who holds and sways the trident of the sea.
And as within the little rose you find the richest dyes,
And in a little grain of gold much price and value lies,
As from a little balsam much odor doth arise,
So in a little woman there's a taste of paradise.
Even as the little ruby its secret worth betrays,
Color, and price, and virtue, in the clearness of its
rays,-
Just so a little woman much excellence displays,
Beauty, and grace, and love, and fidelity always.
The skylark and the nightingale, though small and light of wing,
Yet warble sweeter in the grove than all the birds that sing:
And so a little woman, though a very little thing, Is sweeter far than sugar, and flowers that bloom in spring.
The magpie and the golden thrush have many a thrilling note,
Each as a gay musician doth strain his little throat,
A merry little songster in his green and yellow coat:
And such a little woman is, when Love doth make her
dote.
SILENT, in the veil of evening twilight,
Rests the plain; the woodland song is still,
Save that here, amid these mouldering ruins,
Chirps a cricket, mournfully and shrill.
Silence sinks from skies without a shadow,
Slowly wind the herds from field and meadow,
And the weary hind to the repose
Of his father's lowly cottage goes.
Here, upon this hill, by forests bounded,
'Mid the ruins of departed days,
By the awful shapes of Eld surrounded,
Sadness! unto thee my song I raise !
Sadly think I what in gray old ages
Were these wrecks of lordly heritages:
A majestic castle, like a crown,
Placed upon the mountain's brow of stone.
There, where round the column's gloomy ruins,
Sadly whispering, clings the ivy green,
And the evening twilight's mournful shimmer
Blinks the empty window-space between,
Blessed, perhaps, a father's tearful eye
Once the noblest son of Germany;
One whose heart, with high ambition rife,
Warmly swelled to meet the coming strife.
"Go in peace!" thus spake the hoary warrior,
As he girded on his sword of fame;
"Come not back again, or come as victor:
Oh, be worthy of thy father's name!" And the noble youth's bright eyes were throwing Deadly flashes forth; his cheeks were glowing, As with full-blown branches the red rose In the purple light of morning glows.
Then, a cloud of thunder, flew the champion,
Even as Richard Lion-Heart, to fight;
Like a wood of pines in storm and tempest,
Bowed before his path the hostile might.
Gently, as a brook through flowers descendeth.
Homeward to the castle-crag he wendeth,-
To his father's glad, yet tearful face, ---
To the modest maiden's chaste embrace.
Oh, with anxious longing, looks the fair one From her turret down the valley drear! Shield and breastplate glow in gold of evening, Steeds fly forward, the beloved draws near! Him the faithful right-hand mute extending, Stands she, pallid looks with blushes blending.
Oh, but what that soft, soft eye doth say,
Sings not Petrarch's, nor e'en Sappho's lay!
Merrily echoed there the sound of goblets,
Where the rank grass, waving in the gale,
O'er the nests of owls is blackly spreading,
Till the silver glance of stars grew pale.
Tales of hard-won battle fought afar,
Wild adventures in the Holy War,
Wakened in the breast of hardy knight
The remembrance of his fierce delight.
Oh, what changes! Awe and night o'ershadow
Now the scene of all that proud array;
Winds of evening, full of sadness, whisper,
Where the strong ones revelled and were gay;
Thistles lonely nod, in places seated
Where for shield and spear the boy entreated,
When aloud the war-horn's summons rang,
And to horse in speed the father sprang.
Ashes are the bones of these, the mighty! Deep they lie within earth's gloomy breast; Hardly the half-sunken funeral tablets
Now point out the places where they rest!
Many to the winds were long since scattered,
Like their tombs, their memories sunk and shattered
O'er the brilliant deeds of ages gone
Sweep the cloud-folds of Oblivion !
Thus depart life's pageantry and glory!
Thus flit by the visions of vain might!
Thus sinks, in the rapid lapse of ages,
All that earth doth bear, to empty night!
Laurels, that the victor's brow encircle,
High deeds, that in brass and marble sparkle,
Ürns devoted unto Memory,
And the songs of Immortality!
All, all, that with longing and with rapture
Here on earth a noble heart doth warm,
Vanishes like sunshine in the autumn,
When the horizon's verge is veiled in storm.
Friends at evening part with warm embraces, —
Morning looks upon the death-pale faces;
Even the joys that Love and Friendship find
Leave on earth no lasting trace behind.
Gentle Love! how all thy fields of roses
Bounded close by thorny deserts lie!
And a sudden tempest's awful shadow
Oft doth darken Friendship's brightest sky!
Vain are titles, honor, might, and glory!
On the monarch's temples proud and hoary,
And the way-worn pilgrim's trembling head,
Doth the grave one common darkness spread!
NIGHT Comes stealing from the East, Frees from labor man and beast, Brings to all the wished-for rest,
And the sorrow to my breast.
Shines the moonlight clear and cold,
Shine the little stars of gold;
Glad are all things far and wide; -
I alone in grief abide.
Two are missing, two in vain
Seek I in the starry train;
And these stars that do not rise
Are my darling's lovely eyes.
Naught I heed the moonlight clear,
Dim to me the stars appear.
Since is hidden from my sight
Kunigund, my heaven of light.
But when in their splendor shine
Over me those suns divine,
Then it seemeth best to me
Neither moon nor stars should be.
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 !
BY ANTOINE-MARIN LE MIÈRRE
In that province of our France
Proud of being called its garden,
In those fields where once by chance
Pepin's father with his lance
Made the Saracen sue for pardon;
There between the old château
Which two hundred years ago
Was the centre of the League,
Whose infernal, black intrigue
Almost fatal was, 't is reckoned,
To young Francis, called the Second,
And that pleasant city's wall
Of this canton capital,
City memorable in story,
And whose fruits preserved with care
Make the riches and the glory
Of the gourmands everywhere!-
Now, a more prosaic head
Without verbiage might have said,
There between Tours and Amboise
In the province of Touraine ;
But the poet, and with cause,
Loves to ponder and to pause;
Ever more his soul delighteth
In the language that he writeth,
Finer far than other people's;
So, while he describes the steeples,
One might travel through Touraine,
Far as Tours and back again.
On the borders of the Cher
Is a valley green and fair,
Where the eye, that travels fast,
Tires with the horizon vast;
There, since five and forty lustres,
From the bosom of the stream,
Like the castle of a dream,
High into the fields of air
The château of Chenonceaux
Lifts its glittering vanes in clusters.
Six stone arches of a bridge
Into channels six divide
The swift river in its flow,
And upon their granite ridge
Hold this beautiful château,
Flanked with turrets on each side.
Time, that grand old man with wings,
Who destroys all earthly things,
Hath not tarnished yet one stone,
White as ermine is alone,
Of this palace of dead kings.
One in speechless wonder sees
In the rampart-walls of Blois,
To the shame of the Valois,
Marble stained with blood of Guise;
By the crimes that it can show,
By its war-beleaguered gates,
Famous be that black château;
Thou art famous for thy fêtes
And thy feastings, Chenonceaux !
Ah, most beautiful of places,
With what pleasure thee I see ;
Everywhere the selfsame traces,
Residence of all the Graces
And Love's inn and hostelry!
Here that second Agrippina,
The imperious Catharina,
Jealous of all pleasant things,
To her cruel purpose still
Subjugating every will,
Kept her sons as underlings
Fastened to her apron-strings.
Here, divested of his armor,
As gallant as he was brave,
Francis First to some fair charmer
Many an hour of dalliance gave.
Here, beneath these ceilings florid,
Chose Diana her retreat,
Not Diana of the groves
With the crescent on her forehead,
Who, as swiftest arrow fleet,
Flies before all earthly loves;
But that charming mortal dame,
She the Poiterine alone,
She the Second Henry's flame,
Who with her celestial zone
Loves and Laughters made secure
From banks of Cher to banks of Eure.
Cher, whose stream, obscure and troubled
Flowed before with many a halt,
By this palace is ennobled,
Since it bathes its noble vault.
Even the boatman, hurrying fast,
Pauses, mute with admiration
To behold a pile so vast
Rising like an exhalation
From the stream; and with his mast
Lowered salutes it, gliding past.
STRETCHED in thy shadows I rehearse,
Gastine, thy solitudes,
Even as the Grecians in their verse
The Erymanthian woods.
For I, alas! cannot conceal
From any future race
The pleasure, the delight, I feel In thy green dwelling-place.
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