Part 11

GÉRARD DE NERVAL.

OF all that were thy prisons—ah, untamed, Ah, light and sacred soul!—none holds thee now; No wall, no bar, no body of flesh, but thou Art free and happy in the lands unnamed, Within whose gates, on weary wings and maimed, Thou still would’st bear that mystic golden bough The Sibyl doth to singing men allow, Yet thy report folk heeded not, but blamed. And they would smile and wonder, seeing where Thou stood’st, to watch light leaves, or clouds, or wind, Dreamily murmuring a ballad air, Caught from the Valois peasants; dost thou find A new life gladder than the old times were, A love more fair than Sylvie, and as kind?

RONSARD.

MASTER, I see thee with the locks of grey, Crowned by the Muses with the laurel-wreath; I see the roses hiding underneath, Cassandra’s gift; she was less dear than they. Thou, Master, first hast roused the lyric lay, The sleeping song that the dead years bequeath, Hast sung thine answer to the lays that breathe Through ages, and through ages far away.

And thou hast heard the pulse of Pindar beat, Known Horace by the fount Bandusian! Their deathless line thy living strains repeat, But ah, thy voice is sad, thy roses wan, But ah, thy honey is not honey-sweet, Thy bees have fed on yews Sardinian!

LOVE’S MIRACLE.

WITH other helpless folk about the gate, The gate called Beautiful, with weary eyes That take no pleasure in the summer skies, Nor all things that are fairest, does she wait; So bleak a time, so sad a changeless fate Makes her with dull experience early wise, And in the dawning and the sunset, sighs That all hath been, and shall be, desolate.

Ah, if Love come not soon, and bid her live, And know herself the fairest of fair things, Ah, if he have no healing gift to give, Warm from his breast, and holy from his wings, Or if at least Love’s shadow in passing by Touch not and heal her, surely she must die.

DREAMS.

HE spake not truth, however wise, who said That happy, and that hapless men in sleep Have equal fortune, fallen from care as deep As countless, careless, races of the dead. Not so, for alien paths of dreams we tread, And one beholds the faces that he sighs In vain to bring before his daylit eyes, And waking, he remembers on his bed;

And one with fainting heart and feeble hand Fights a dim battle in a doubtful land Where strength and courage were of no avail; And one is borne on fairy breezes far To the bright harbours of a golden star Down fragrant fleeting waters rosy pale.

TWO SONNETS OF THE SIRENS.

‘Les Sirènes estoient tant intimes amies et fidelles compagnes de Proserpine, qu’elles estoient toujours ensemble. Esmues du juste deul de la perte de leur chère compagne, et enuyées jusques au desepoir, elles s’arrestèrent à la mer Sicilienne, où par leurs chants elles attiroient les navigans, mais l’unique fin de la volupté de leur musique est la Mort.’

PONTUS DE TYARD, 1570

THE Sirens once were maidens innocent That through the water-meads with Proserpine Plucked no fire-hearted flowers, but were content Cool fritillaries and flag-flowers to twine, With lilies woven and with wet woodbine; Till once they sought the bright Ætnæan flowers, And their glad mistress fled from summer hours With Hades, far from olive, corn, and vine. And they have sought her all the wide world through Till many years, and wisdom, and much wrong Have filled and changed their song, and o’er the blue Rings deadly sweet the magic of the song, And whoso hears must listen till he die Far on the flowery shores of Sicily.

So is it with this singing art of ours, That once with maids went maidenlike, and played With woven dances in the poplar-shade, And all her song was but of lady’s bowers And the returning swallows, and spring flowers, Till forth to seek a shadow-queen she strayed, A shadowy land; and now hath overweighed Her singing chaplet with the snow and showers. Yes, fair well-water for the bitter brine She left, and by the margin of life’s sea Sings, and her song is full of the sea’s moan, And wild with dread, and love of Proserpine; And whoso once has listened to her, he His whole life long is slave to her alone.

TRANSLATIONS

HYMN TO THE WINDS.

THE WINDS ARE INVOKED BY THE WINNOWERS OF CORN.

DU BELLAY, 1550.

TO you, troop so fleet, That with winged wandering feet, Through the wide world pass, And with soft murmuring Toss the green shades of spring In woods and grass, Lily and violet I give, and blossoms wet, Roses and dew; This branch of blushing roses, Whose fresh bud uncloses, Wind-flowers too.

Ah, winnow with sweet breath, Winnow the holt and heath, Round this retreat; Where all the golden mom We fan the gold o’ the corn, In the sun’s heat.

MOONLIGHT.

JACQUES TAHUREAU.

THE high Midnight was garlanding her head With many a shining star in shining skies, And, of her grace, a slumber on mine eyes, And, after sorrow, quietness was shed. Far in dim fields cicalas jargonèd A thin shrill clamour of complaints and cries; And all the woods were pallid, in strange wise, With pallor of the sad moon overspread.

Then came my lady to that lonely place, And, from her palfrey stooping, did embrace And hang upon my neck, and kissed me over; Wherefore the day is far less dear than night, And sweeter is the shadow than the light, Since night has made me such a happy lover.

THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE.

VICTOR HUGO.