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I 


D 


THE 


POETS   AND   POETRY 


ETJEOPE. 


J 


i 


THE 


POETS   AND   POETRY 


OP 


EUEOPE. 


INTRODUCTIONS  AND  BIOGRAPHICa!l  NOTICES. 


BT 


/ 
/ 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  U)NGF^LLOW. 


--  -  :r 

■  *•*    - 

PROM 

eauooN's  HAiufoinovB  spbinos 

A  THOUSAHD 

6rat. 

/ 

PHILADELPHIA: 
CAREY  AND  HA>T;  CHfiS'I^NUT  STREET. 


K  OCCC  XI.T, 


1 

' 

i 

i 

THE  MEW  YORK 

PUBLIC  LIBRARY 

AtTM,  LENOX  AMD 
TJLD^N  FOUNDATIONS 

■ 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  yeir  1845,  by 
in  th€  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Coun  of  the  Eii^tem  District  of  PemisylTUua* 

CAMBHlt>6E: 

ST^EOTTPEH  *PiD  PaiHTRD  Br 

MXTCALP    ANO    COMPANY, 

Miunrafis  w>  th»  vhivsmitt. 


PREFACE. 


"  The  art  of  poetry,"  says  the  old  Spanish  Jew,  Alfonso  de  Baena, "  the  gay 
science,  is  a  most  subtle  and  most  delightful  sort  of  writing  or  composition. 
It  is  sweet  and  pleasurable  to  those  who  propound  and  to  those  who  reply ;  to 
utterers  and  to  hearers.  This  science,  or  the  wisdom  or  knowledge  dependent 
on  it,  can  only  be  possessed,  received,  and  acquired  by  the  inspired  spirit  of  the 
Lord  Grod ;  who  communicates  it,  sends  it,  and  influences  by  it,  those  alone,  who 
well  and  wisely,  and  discreetly  and  correctly,  can  create  and  arrange,  and  compose 
and  polish,  and  scan  and  measure  feet,  and  pauses,  and  rhymes,  and  syllables,  and 
accents,  by  dextrous  art,  by  varied  and  by  novel  arrangement  of  words.  And 
even  then,  so  sublime  is  the  understanding  of  this  art,  and  so  difiicuU  its  attainment, 
that  it  can  only  be  learned,  possessed,  reached,  and  known  to  the  man  who  is  of 
noble  and  of  ready  invention,  elevated  and  pure  discretion,  sound  and  steady 
judgment;  who  has  seen,  and  heard,  and  read  many  and  divers  books  and  writ- 
ings ;  who  undeistands  all  languages ;  who  has,  moreover,  dwelt  in  the  courts  of 
kings  and  nobles  ;  and  who  has  witnessed  and  practised  many  heroic  feats. 
Finally,  he  must  be  of  high  birth,  courteous,  calm,  chivalric,  gracious ;  he  must 
be  polite  and  graceful ;  he  must  possess  honey,  and  sugar,  and  salt,  and  facility 
and  gayety  in  his  discourse." 

Tried  by  this  standard,  many  of  the  poets  in  this  volume  would  occupy  a  smaller 
space  than  has  been  allotted  to  them ;  and  others  would  have  been  rejected  alto- 
gether, as  being  neither  "  of  ready  invention,  elevated  and  pure  discretion,  nor« 
sound  and  steady  judgment"     But  it  has  not  been  my  purpose  to  illustrate  any 
poetic  definition,  or  establish  any  theory  of  art.     I  have  attempted  only  to  bring 
together,  into  a  compact  and  convenient  form,  as  large  an  amount  as  possible  of 
English  translations  which  are  scattered  through  many  volumes,  and  are 
not  easily  accessible  to  the  general  reader.     In  doing  this,  it  has  been  thought 
idvisable  to  treat  the  subject  historically,  rather  than  critically.     The  materials 
lave  in  consequence  been  arranged  according  to  their  dates ;  and  in  order  to  render 
literary  history  of  the  various  countries  as  complete  as  these  materials  and 
the  limits  of  a  single  volume  would  allow,  an  author  of  no  great  note  has  some- 
times been  admitted,  or  a  poem  which  a  severer  taste  would  have  excluded.     The 
work  is  to  be  regarded  as  a  collection,  rather  than  as  a  selection ;  and  in  judging 
author,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  translations  do  not  always  preserve  the 


} 


PREFACE. 


rhythm  and  melody  of  the  original,  but  often  resemble  soldiers  moving  onward  whei> 
the  music  has  ceased  and  the  time  is  marked  only  by  the  tap  of  the  drum.     \ 

The  languages  from  which  translations  are  here  presented  are  ten.  They  arej 
the  six  Gothic  languages  of  the  North  of  Europe,  —  Anglo-Saxon,  Icelandic,  Dan- 
ish, Swedish,  Grerman,  and  Dutch ;  and  the  four  Latin  languages  of  the  South  of 
Europe, — French,  Italian,  Spanish,  and  Portuguese.  In  order  to  make  the  work 
fulfil  entirely  the  promise  of  its  title,  the  Celtic  and  Sclavonic,  as  likewise  the 
Turkish  and  Romaic,  should  have  been  introduced;  but  with  these  I  am  not 
acquainted,  and  I  therefore  leave  them  to  some  other  hand,  hoping  that  ere  long 
a  volume  may  be  added  to  this  which  shall  embrace  all  the  remaining  European 
tongue^. 

The  authors  upon  whom  I  have  chiefly  relied,  and  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for 
the  greatest  number  of  translations,  are  Bowring,  Herbert,  Costello,  Taylor, 
Jamieson,  Brooks,  Adamson,  and  Thorpe.*  Some  of  these  are  already  beyond 
the  reach  of  praise  or  thanks.  To  the  rest,  and  to  all  the  translators  by  whose 
labors  I  have  profited,  I  wish  to  express  my  sincere  acknowledgments.  I  need 
not  repeat  thei"-  names ;  they  will,  for  the  most  part,  be  found  in  the  Table  of 
Contents,  and  in  the  list  entitled  "Translators  and  Sources.^' 

In  the  preparation  of  this  work  I  have  been  assisted  by  Mr.  C.  C.  Felton, 
who  has  furnished  me  with  a  large  portion  of  the  biographical  sketches  prefixed 
to  the  translations.  I  have  also  received  much  valuable  aid  from  the  critical  taste 
and  judgment  of  Mr.  George  Nichols,  during  the  progress  of  the  work  through 
the  press. 

CAHBRmGE,  May,  1845. 

*  Since  the  Anglo-Saxon  portion  of  this  book  was  printed,  a  copy  of  the  *'  Codex  ExonieDsiB," 

spoken  of  on  pages  6, 7,  as  **  the  Exeter  Manuscript,"  has  been  received.    The  work  has  been 

^published  by  Mr.  Thorpe,  with  the  following  title :   '*  Codex  Exoniensis  ;   a  Collection  of 

Anglo-Saxon  Poetry,  from  a  Manuscript  in  the  Library  of  the  Dean  and  Chapter  of  Exeter, 

with  an  English  Translation  and  Notes,  by  Benjamin  Thorpe,  F.  S.  A."  London.  1842.  8to. 

The  following  translations  may  also  be  mentioned :  '*  Master  Wage  his  Chronicle   of 
THE  NoRHAN  CoN^UEST,  from  the  RoMAN  Du  Rou,"  by  Edgar  Taylor,  London,  8vo. ;  an< 
"  Retnard  the  Fox,  a  renowned  Apologue  of  the  Middle  Age,  reproduced  in  Rhyme,*'  by 
8.  Natlor,  London,  1845,  8vo. 

f 


CONTENTS. 


ANGLO-SAXON. 

NOLO-BAXON  LANQUIGB  AND  POETRT **! 

I 

.    W.Taflor.    .     • 

.    .    A.     ...     I 

jr.  W.  Umt/$aom.  • 

-     -  10 

10 

10 

10 

11 

11 

M 

IT 

» 


PEM  OP  BEOWULP  .... 

BMvair  Um  Bbyld 

Th«  Sailing  of  Bsowulf  .  .  . 
BaownlpB  ExpcdtUoo  to  Hmci 
,  An  Old  Man's  Boirov  .... 


-    OoodNtfhi A.     . 

JCCDMON 

TboPintDKj 7%orp9. 

ThoFalloftlMBobdABiolB A.     . 

BoUa'tSpoock A.     . 

TboToap«alMaef£T«     .../....    A.     . 

ThtPligMorikolmoliCo* A.     . 

Tht  Dntraccioo  of  Phanok A.     . 

BiBTOaiC  ODES It 

Th«B«tU«ofBnm«abaib Imgrmm.     .    .    If 

TkoDootkefKiarEdgu A.     .    .    .    » 

Tho  Death  of  KiafEdwaid A.     ...    81 

FOEM  FROM  THE  POETIC  CALENDAR  .   Tmntr.       .    .    SI 

VSQ  ALFRED'S  METRES  OP  BOETH1U8  f\ts.      ...» 

rOCM  OP  JUDITH M 

TlMBoTolefBoiofoniM       JSmtr.       .    .    M 

ThoDoathefBoIofomco A.      .    .    .    S7 

UttCELLANBOUB  POEMS ST 

Tbo  Bsil«*s  Complaiat CoiqAMrt.       .    97 

TtMBearkCoaplaiat M.W.Long/lMem.  » 

TlMdnrt A.      .    .    .    9B 

TboRaiaedWaU-MOM Oom§6mr$.       .    9i 

ThoSoBf  ofSaounor IPorCoN.     .    .    90 

ICELANDIC. 

ICELANDIC  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRT 90 

IfMUND-S  EDDA    .... 

TbeYoloapa 

Tte  HavaHBal 

VarthrodBi:»-aMl     .... 

Tki7a*«  dtttda 

•kiraia-for 

Brjabikia'*  Rido  to  Holl  .    . 

OratU-aavBgr 

Toftam'a  Q,Tida      .... 

Ottalaof  and  Rafen     .    .    . 
MlCBLLANEOUS  POEMS    . 

Tho  Biarkacaaal 

Tho  Death-aonr  of  Resatr  Ledbreck 

Th«  Batila  of  Hafitr*«  Baj    .    . 

Dcatb'wof  ofHakon   .... 

The  Btmg  of  Hanld  tho  Hanlj  . 

Sonf  of  the  Beiaerks     .... 

The  Coabat  of  Hialnar  and  Oddur 
.     The  Djiag  Bang  ot  Aabiora  .    . 

The  Sens  of  Brake  the  Black  . 
.<39toJLaaientatioo  of  StaAader . 
Gfymor  and  Bialmar   .    .    »    . 

DANISH. 

iniVB  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRT 

LLAD8 

I  SUrfc  Tideiick  and  OXgn  Daneka  .    . 

hLadyGriaUd'aWiaek 

iTka  Euin  LaaKBhanka 

)  Hofan  and  tha  Qnaaa  ofDanBuek 

BirOaaealin 

Ribolt  and  OaMboiv 

fToung  Child  Djrinf 

hildAzeWold 

ha  Waaaal  Danea 

blafPant 

Roamar  Hafnumd 

I  Vru  at  Need 

I  Tha  Mar-man  and  Maiatig'a  Daaghter 
lElfarHUl 


W.  T^lpr. 

.    A.      .  . 

Ar«ar«.  . 

.    A.      .  . 

.    A.     .  . 
./oMfaeon. 
Pigott. 

Btrhtrt.  . 


PigoU. 


lb. 


W.  Tttf/lar. 

W.  Taglor', 
Htrhtrt.  . 
.  A.  .  . 
.  A.  .  . 
.  A.  .  . 
•    A.      .    . 


Paf« 

Kiar  Oiaf  tba Saint F^.Q^mt.Mtm.n 

Aagar  and  Elita A.      ...    II 

Tha  Elaeced  Knight H.W.  LomgftUvm.  m 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 03 

THOMAS  KINGO OS 

MorniafSong #br.  Qnart.  Jfaa.  Oi 

CBRISTUN  BRAUMAN  TULLIN IB 

Eatraet  from  Ma7-da7 iUrktrt.      .    .    II 

JOHANNES  EVALD IS 

XingChriatian m,W. Longftll^.  H 

TheWiabaa Watktr.      .    .    M 

Soag ibrhtrt.     .    .    H 

EDWARD  STORM 04 

Tha  Ballad  of  Staelair ITatter.      .    .    OB 

ThorraJd Far.  ^larf .  An.  OB 

THOMAS  THAARUP M 

The  Love  of  o«ur  Coaatxy IPotter.      .    .    M 

To  Spring A.     ...    IT 

KNUD  LTNB  RAHBEK       V 

Peter  Colbienaan Far.  <^Mr«.  Aw.  17 

PETER  ANDREAS  HEIBERO II 

Norwegian  Lovo-aang ITaller.     .    .    n 

Tyebo  Braba.  or  the  Raina  of  Uianlankaiv    For.  i^tri.  Rn.  ■ 

JENS  BAOOESEN m 

Childhood Mi.W.Ijomg/tilom,90 

To  my  Native  Land IPbttar.     .    .    00 

ADAM  OOTTLOB  OEHLENSCHLAGER M 

From  Aladdio,  or  the  Wonderful  Lamp 10 

From  the  Dedication ailliu.       .    .    ■ 

Nouxaddin  and  Aladdin A.      .    .    .    N 

Aladdin  at  the  Gate*  of  lapahan     ....    A.     ...    01 

Aladdin  in  Prtoon A.      ...    01 

Aladdin  in  bia  Motbar'a  Chamber  ....    A.     ...    07 

Aladdin  at  baa  Motbar'a  OraTa A.      ...    00 

From  Hakon  Jarl 00 

Hakon  and  Thorar,  In  tha  Saerad  Grove  .    .    A.      .    .    .    |^ 
Hakon  diaeloeea  bia  Daeigna  to  Thorar     .    .    A.      ...  100 

Hakoa  and  Maaeengar A.      ...  10^ 

Hakon  and  bia  Son  Eriiag,  in  the  Sacred  OroTa  A.     .    .    .  lOtt 

Defeat  and  Death  of  Hakon A.     .    .    .  109 

SoliloqajrofTbora A.      ...  110 

From  tbeTiagadjofCofteggio ,110 

Antonio  da  Coireggio,  and  Maria  bia  Wilb  .A.      ...  110 

Aatonio  and  Giulio  Romano  ......    A.      ...  113 

Michael  Angela,  Maria,  aad  OioTannl    .    .    A.      ...  115 

Antonio  in  the  Gallery  of  Count  Ocuvian   .    A..     .    .    .117 

Soliloquy  of  Corrtggio A.      ...  118 

Thor'a  Fiabing PigoU.       .    .  118 

The  Dwarfa A.      ...  110 

The  Bard Walker.       .    .  ISS 

Linea  on  leaving  lUl J Fur.QHarl.  Jfaarl29 

The  Mominir  Walk A.      ...  ISO 

BERNHARD  BEVBRIN  INGEMANN 123 

ProgmaaofAxelHwida A.      .    .    .  108 

From  Maaaaiello 104 

Maaaniello,  Mad,  in  the  Church-yard     Bladheootf**  Mag.  101 

The  Aapen For.  Qtwirl.  Rto.     195 

Dame  Martba'a  Fountain .A.      ...  195 

SWEDISH. 

SWEDISH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRT 191 

BALLADS US 

Tha  Menntain-takan  Maid Far.  QusrX.  ibo.  183 

Hillebrand       A.      ...  188 

The  Dance  in  the  Grove  of  Roaaa A.      ...  184 

Tha  Maiden  that  waa  aold A.     ...  134 

The  Little  Seaman A.      ...  188 

Bir  Carl,  or  the  Clolater  Robbed A.      ...  188 

Roaegrove-aide N.A.MUm,       .  137 

SirOloPaBridal A.      .    .    .  188 

Duke  Magnua A.      ...  138 

The  Power  of  the  Harp >  .    .    .    A 130 

Little  Karin'a  Death lb.     .    .    .  188 


CONTENTS. 


MIBCELLANE0U8  POEMS 140 

JOHAN  HENRIK  KELLOREN 140 

The  Nev  Cnaiion For.  Em,   .    .  140 

TtatPoetofLifbt th,     ...  141 

FollybnoProororOMlM Fvr,  i^trt.  JBw.  148 

ANNA  MARIA  LENNOREN 144 

Faallr  Porttaiu A.     ...  144 

CARL  GD8TAF  AF  LEOPOLD 14S 

OdtoD  ihoOeiiraofDaathltHFuD*     ...    A.      .    .    .  145 

ESA1A8  TBONER 140 

From  FrithiofB  Sagm 154 

Canto  I.    Prithiof  and  lagaborf  • .    .    .    Strmg.       .    .  154 
HI.    Frithtof '•  HomeMtad  B.  W.  LtrnfftUim.  ISB 

IV.    FriihiortSait Strong,       .    .  ISB 

TI.    FriihiofatCbaH A.      .    .    .  168 

X.    Frithtof  at  Sea A.     ...  180 

XI.    Prithiof  at  the  Coart  of  Aofantyr  A.      .    .    .  ISO 

XIX.    FrithioPa  Tomptation    .       H.W. Long/Mom.  188 

TheCbildroBof  tfa«Lord*«Bopp«r    ....    A.      .    .    .  164 

From  Axel       « 188 

ThaVetoraa     .    .    .    t Lailumk,      .    .  lli 

Kinf  Chariee'aGaard A.     ...  170 

LoTo A.     ...  170 

PER  DANIEL  AMADEU6  ATTERBOM       170 

From  the  Island  of  the  Blest For.  Hf.      .171 

The  Hyacinth #br.  Q/tart,  Rn.  173 

ERIC  JOHAN  BTAONELIUB 173 

From  the  Tngtdj  of  the  Maitjn 178 

Emilia  and  Perpetua F»r.  Qiivl.  Rm.  173 

Biarelon  and  Enbolaa For.  Htm.  .    .  178 

Tha  Birde  of  Paanfe A.      ...  178 

Amanda A.      ...  177 

ERIC  SJOGREN  (VITALIS) 177 

Totha  MeoQ.  — ADadicatioB A.     .    .    .  178 

Bprioff  Fancy A.     ...  178 

LifeandDMth A.     ...  178 

GERMAN. 

GERMAN  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY 188 

FIRST  PERIOD. -CENTURIBB  Till. -XI. 

MISCELLANB0D8 188 

Bonf  ofOIdHildebrand Wthor.       .    .188 

FTa|r">«otof^i>*Bonf  of  Loaie  the  Third  .  W.  T^flar.  .188 
From  the  Rh  J  me  of  St.  Anno A.     .    .    .  188 

SECOND  PERIOD. -CENTURIES  XH.,  XHI. 

MINNESINGERS 180 

CONRAD  TON  KIRCHBERO 180 

May,  iveet  May B.  TVqrlor.      .  180 

HEINRICH  VON  RI8PACH 180 

The  wood  lands  with  mj  songa  neovnd   ...    A.     ...  181 
WOLFRAM  VON  ESCRENBACH 191 

Woald  1  the  loftj  spirit  m«U A.     ...  188 

THE  EMPEROR  HENRY 188 

I  great  in  song  that  aveetast  one A.     ...  193 

WALTHER  VON  DER  VOGELWEIDE 188 

When  from  the  sod  tha  flowenu  spring     .    .    A.     ...  184 

*T  was  summer A.      ...  184 

HEINRICH  VON  MORUNG 185 

My  lady  dcariy  loves  a  pratty  bird     ....    A.     ...  IBS 

Hast  thou  seen A.     .    .    .  I8S 

BURKHART  VON  H0HENFEL8 186 

Lilte  the  son's  uprising  light A.      ...  196 

GOTTFRIED  VON  NIFEN IBS 

Up,  up  I  let  us  greet A.      ...  186 

DIETMAR  VON  AST 186 

By  the  heath  stood  a  lady A.     ...  186 

There  sat  upon  the  Iinden«trae     .....    A.      ...  186 
CHRISTIAN  VON  HAMLB 186 

Would  that  the  meadow  eonld  speak     ...    A.     ...  186 
RUDOLPH  VON  ROTHENBERO 107 

A  stranger  pilgrim  spoke  to  me A.     ...  187 

HEINRICH,  HERZOG  VON  ANHALT 187 

Stay  I  let  the  breexa  still  blow  on  me      ...    A.     ...  197 
COUNT  KRAFT  OF  TOGGENBUBG 197 

Do«e  any  one  seek  the  sonl  of  mirth  ....    A.      ...  197 
8TEINMAR 197 

With  the  graeefal  eon  apepringiaf  ....    A.     ...  197 
CONRAD  VON  WURTZBURG 198 

See  hew  from  the  meadows  pass    .....    A.      ...  188 
OTHO,  MARGRAVE  OF  BRANDENBURG 188 

Again  appears  the  eheerful  May A.      ...  198 

Make  room  unto  my  lot ed  lady  bright   .    .    ITefrer.  ...  188 
THE  CHANCELLOR 188 

Who  woald  summsr  pleasures  try      ,    .    ,    B.  T\tiflor.      .  188 


HEINRICH,  HERZOG  VON  BRE8LAU 

To  thee,  O  May,  I  Aiaet  complain      .    ,    ,    B.  Tajflor,      .  IH 
iXBRECHT  VON  RAPRECHTSWEIL 

Once  mora  mounts  my  spirit  gay A.     .    . 

ULRICH  VON  LICHTEN8TEIN 

Lady  baautaoua,  lady  pore A.     .    .    .  il^ 

00E8L1  VON  EHENHEIM l| 

Now  will  the  lb*  of  every  flowar A. 

THE  THURINGIAN 

The  pleaaantseason  mast  away      .....    A. 
WINCESLAUS,  KINO  OF  BOHEMIA       .... 

Now  that  stem  winter  each  bloseom  is  Uifbtiaf  A. 
LUTOLT  VON  SEVEN S^ 

In  the  woods  and  meadows  grean       ....    A. 
JOHANN  BADLOUB 

Far  as  I  Journey  from  my  lady  fair     ....    A.     .    .    .  8*f 

I  saw  yon  infant  in  her  anas  carassad     ...    A. 
WATCH-SONGS Sl 

The  sun  is  gone  down       A.     ...  $4 

I  heard  before  the  dawn  of  day  ......    A.      . 

THE  HELDENBUCH,  OR  BOOK  OF  THE  HEROES  . 
I.  — Ouit       

Sir  Otait  and  Dwarf  Elborich WAtr.   . 

n.— Wolfdietrich       

Wolfdietrich's  Infancy A.     . 

Wolfdietrich  and  the  Gianta A.     . 

Wolfdietrich  and  Wild  Else A.     . 

The  Fountain  of  Yoath A.     . 

Wolfdietrich  and  the  Stag  with  Golden  Honu    A.     . 

Wolfdietrich  in  the  Giant's  Castle     ....    A.     . 

Wolfdietiieh  and  Sir  Balligan A.     . 

Wolfdietrich  and  the  Fiends A.     . 

The  Tournament A.     . 

Wolfdietrich's  Psnance A.     . 

III.  — The  Garden  of  Roses fli| 

Friar  Ilsan  in  the  Garden  of  Roees     ....    A. 

Friar  Ilaan's  Return  to  tbs  Convent  .    ...    A.      .    .    .  tl4| 

IV.  — The  Little  Garden  of  Roaaa     .    .    . 

King  Laurin  the  Dwarf A.     .    .    .  tUl| 

The  Court  of  Little  KinfLaarin A. 

THE  NIBELUNGENLIED 117  J 

The  Nibelungen       A. 

Chrimhild A.     .    .    .94i 

Siegfried  at  the  Fountain A.      ... 

Bagen  at  the  Danube A.      .    .    . 

Hagen  and  Volker  the  Fiddler A.      .    . 

Death  of  Gunther,  Hafen,  and  Chrimhild  .    .    A.      .    .    , 

THIRD  PERIOD. -CENTURIES  XIV.,  XV. 
HALB  BUTER , 

The  Battle  of  Bam paeh Ao«.     .    .    , 

ULRICH  BONER , 

The  Tng  and  the  Steer CttrtffU.      .    . 

VEIT  WEBER 

The  Battle  of  MurUn C.  C.  FtUon. 

ANONYMOUS  POEMS  OF  UNCERTAIN  DATE     .    .    .    .  Ol 

Sonf  ofHildebrand ITcter.   .    . 

Jhe  Noble  Moringer Scott.     .    . 

The  Lay  of  tha  Young  Coant N.A.Rto. 

Bong  of  the  Three  Tailors A. 

The  Wandering  Lover A.     .    . 

The  Castle  in  Austria A.      .    . 

The  Dead  Bridegroom A.      .    . 

The  Nightingale B.  Taylor. 

Abeenca A.     .    . 

The  Falthlcm  One A.     .    . 

The  Niffhtingale A.     .    . 

The  Hemlock-trsa B.W.  LomgftUom.  i% 

Silent  Love A.      .    .    .  £l| 

The  German  Night- Watchman *e  Bong  .    .    ilfionynio* 

FOURTH  PERIOD CENTURY  XVL 

MARTIN  LUTHER 

Psalm CcTl^lo. 

HEINRICH  KNAU8T 

Dignity  of  the  Clarke C.  C.  Alton. 

FIFTH  PERIOD.  —CENTURY  XVII. 

8IM0N  DACH 

Annie  of  Tharaw    .    .    ,    .  ^.    ,    ,    .  B.W. Long/Mot  j 
Bleseed  are  the  Dead A. 

ABRAHAM  A  SANCTA  CLARA 

Saint  Anthony's  Bamon  to  tha  Fiahaa   . 

SIXTH  PERIOD.  — FROM  1700  TO  1770. 
JOHANN  JACOB  BODMER 

The  Deluge W.  Tofflor. 

FREDERIC  HAGEDORN 

The  Merry  Soap-boiler W.  Taylor.     ^  tf^ 


CONTENTS. 


BRBCHT  TON  HALLER ai3 

Extract  from  Doris W.  3Vy<or.    .  SI3 

JIRISTIAN  FDRCHTBaOTT  GfilXERT M4 

[Th«  Widow C.T.Br99k».    M4 

ITALO  CBRISTUN  TOM  KLEI8T MS 

jigb^lotRtat HT.  TVylor.     .MB 

ifiANN  WILHELM  LUDWIG  QLUM M« 

|W«IWMB« A.      .    .    .  Mt 

ilnviutioa Ai!r.1FUlnM.M7 

I  Waadaivr Mmt^.     •    .  M7 

DRICH  GOTTLIEB  KL0F8T0CK MT 

4«  to  God     .    .    .    « /v.  Jb».  .    .  M8 

•  LaktofZofkb W.  TavUir,    .  M8 

To  ToBBf        A.     .    .    .  n> 

ISj  RoeoYtij A.     ...  MO 

•  Chotra A.     .    .    .  MD 

I^RL  WILHELM  RAMLER Ml 

do  to  Wiator A.     ...  Ml 

do  to  Cooeord A.     ...  Mi 

HOLD  EPHRAIM  LEUINO Mi 

Fioa  Nathan  tiM  WiM Ml 

Situh,  Saladin,  and  Nathan A.     .    .    .  M8 

SALOMON  OEBSNER MB 

i  Scons  from  iho  Delafo J.  A.  BtrmkL    MB 

JQHANN  GBORG  JACOBI   .\ MO 

Boaf Dtrt^ord,       .  MO 

BETENTH  PERIOD.  — FROM  1710  TO  18M. 

OIIUSTOPH  BIARTIN  WIELAND 901 

Ixtract  froiB  Obonn A»lMy.      .    .  SO 

GOTTLIEB  CONRAD  PFEFFEL      ..'....:..  AM 

Iho  Tofaaceo-ptpo   . C.  T.  Bro9k».    SB7 

HiTTBIAB  CLAUDIUS 987 

Bhiao-wtao Mkcrmg.     .    .  9M 

Wiator a  r.  Brwtks.   9H 

The  Ben .    iV.  T.  /bo.     .  9H 

XifhUnar ar.Breoi*.    9H 

JOBANN  GOTTFRIED  TOM  BXRDER 9M 

TeicoofaSon W.T^Utr.    .971 

Iithoaiaa  Bzidal  BoBf A.     .    .    .  871 

Ckanca A.     ...  871 

TbcDrafoo-l^ A.     .    .    .  871 

Iho  Oifan C.T.  Brook»,   971 

i  Lc^adaiy  Ballad MaryHo»«l.   879 

CiEL  LUDWIG  TON  KNEBEL 978 

Moaaticht Fsr.  4uarf .  Ac*.  ST8 

AdnKM A.     ...  978 

GOTTFRIED  AUGUST  BURGER 974 

nicnon  W.  Vsfhr.     .  878 

n«  Bravo  Man N.Bmg.Mag.   977 

CBRiniAN  GRAF  ZU  BTOLBERO 978 

Tb  mj  Brother ^or.  Htm.    .    .  978 

LUDWIG  HEINRICH  CHRUTOPB  BCa.Tr 970 

DMbefthcNiffhtii^alo CT.Brook*.   MO 

Barvnt  Boaf A.     ...  980 

Winter  Boaf A.     ...  9B0 

E1«g7«tthoGTaTeermyFtth«r A.     .    .    .  9B0 

CooatcyLife fVu«r'oJir«f.  9B1 

XHANN  WOLFGANG  TON  GOETBB 981 

From  Faaet 9B8 

Dcdicatkm BalUck.     .    .  9B8 

The  Cathedial Ba^mard.  .    .  988 

Maj^ay  Night Ae//«y.       .    .  980 

Tbe  LoTodOneeTtrooar J.S.Dmliht,    904 

lolaee  in  Toatt A.     ...  904 

rho  Salatatioa  of  a  Bpirtt O,  A«icrq/lr.  .  904 

To  tbe  Moon J.SLDmiglit.    904 

^Tenitao A.     ...  905 

'eSonf A.      .    .    .  9W 

af  oftheSptrite A.      .    .    .  9M 

n A.     .    .    .SM 

klEDRTCB  LEOPOLD  GRAF  ZU  8TOLBERO   ....  907 

«f  of  Proodoa W.  T^tor.     .  997 

e  Stream  of  the  Rock  .......     W.  W.  Storf.    9SS 

%To  tbo  Soa C.T.  Brookt,    9M 

9  tbo  Ereniaf  Star For.MUm,   .    .  9M 

e  Soae A.      ...  990 

Michaol  Aafclo A.      ...  800 

bHANN  HEINRICH  T08B ;.    ...  800 

|Tho  Bojr^T.    An  Idjl Fr^ih^g  Mag.  802 

|Ext<aetfiomLaiee       A.    V    .    .  808 

aRUTOPH  AUGUST  TIEDGS .<    .    .  808 

stbeHometyofKoracr CT.Brooht,   804 

iTho  Wave  of  Life ir.ir.Lea«/!r//ow.  304 

IjDWIO  TBROBUL  KOSEGARTEN 804 

I  Anon  of  the  Stooee C.T.  Brooka.    304 

V^ia  Croeie,  Tla  Loci* A.     ...  806 

b 


.  4M 
.  454 

.  489 

Sir 

810 
810 


iOQANN  CHRI8TOPH  FRIEDRICH  TON  8CHILLP.R     .  800 

SoofofthoBell S.  A.  Etiot.    .100 

The  Eatruico  of  the  Nev  Cemtniy     .     M  L.  Protktmgkam,  819 

Kar^ht  Togxcabuif £dimbmrgK  Rtw.  018 

Indian  Deelh-aoaf  .  .  .  .  ,^  .  iV.  L.  t^iMtngUm.  313 
The  DiTlefen  of  u%  Jl.  Ji  .  .^■MBl*^  C.  p.  Cnuttk.  814 
EBtaet  fran  Walloaeuln'e  Caaip     .....   ^.     ...  814 

TheGloToi  aTato       ^ 818 

Tho  Daaco      ,,    Co«uU^  •   '    %I8 

From  Maiy  Btaait ,    .    .  V^. '  L- 

Fmb  Dea  Carloe O-  A.    T**"** 

FtoB  tho  Death  of  WalloaMoii     ....    CeW.  > 

JOBANN  PETER  BEBBL -^    | 

Bonday  Moraior f  .  Orvtitr 

FRIEDRICH  VON  MATTHtSSON 

Elofjr Kniektrh.' 

Tho  Sprlaf  Bvoaiaf Anonfmoi: 

For  over  tbino Maem^. 

AUGUST  FRIEDRICH  FERDINAND  TON  KOTZKBUE 

From  the  TngBdj  of  Bago  Grotioa 

The  Flifbt  fhtm  Ptieon IF.  T^lor. 

From  the  Tiagedy  of  GoeUwe  Warn 8S 

The  Arreet  and  Eeeape A.     ...  828 

JOBANN  GAUDENZ  TON  8ALI8       3M 

Chcerfulneee ilmmymow.    .  8M 

Song  of  the  Silent  Lasd B.  W.  Long/eliom.  am 

Barreet  Sonf C.T.  Brook*.    8M 

Tho  Grevo       GoMrr.        .    .  897 

TALERIUS  WILBBLM  NEUBBCK 887 

Tho  Pniee  of  Iron Btrt^ord.      .  8B7 

FRIEDRICB  LUDWIG  ZACBARIAB  WERNER     .    .    .  8M 

From  the  Teaplati  In  Cyprae  .    ., SM 

Adalbert  in  the  Cbaieh  of  the  Toaptan  .  Cbr/yilt.  .  .  8M 
Adalbert  ia  the  Cometoiy A.      ...  880 

ERNST  MORITZ  ARNDT 8» 

The  Oeraao  Fatherland Maentf.      .    .  333 

Field-Manhal  Bluehor C.  C.  Atten.     8BB 

LUDWIG  TIECK 838 

Spring • C.T.  Brooka.    334 

Sonf  from  Bluebeaid Bte«h»ood'«  Mag.  884 

LUDOLF  ADALBERT  TON  CBAMBSO 884 

The  Laat  Sonnote ilRo«tymo«e.    .  338 

JOBANN  LUDWIG  UBLAND 330 

The  Luck  of  Edenball Hi^  IF.  Long/tllnia.  887 

The  Mountain  Boy Anonymoua.    .  337 

On  the  Death  of  a  Country  Clergyman  .    .    W.  W.  Story.    107 

Tho  Cattle  by  the  Son B.W.  Lonf/,lUna.  SStf 

Tbo  Black  Knif  ht \    ,    ,    ,    .    lb.      .    .    .  3B8 

The  Dream Edinkta-gkBn.iaB 

Tho  Paaaaf* A.      ...  338 

The  Nan For.  Quart.  Bm.  8» 

The  Serenade A.      ...  BBS 

The  Wreath A.      .    .    .  SM 

To A.      .    .    .  8M 

ERNST  CONRAD  FRIEDRICH  8CBULZB 89 

Song IF.  Taylor.     .  840 

Tbo  Buntnaaa  Death A.     ...  840 

May  Llliea A.      ...  840 

Extract  from  Cecilia A.      ...  840 

FRIEDRICH  RUCKBRT  .' 841 

Strang  Pearle IT.  L,  Frotkingkam.  Ml 

Tho  San  and  tbo  Brook J.&Dwigki.     848 

Nature  more  than  Scienc*    .^  .    .    .       DukHn  Uni*.  Mag.  848 

Tbo  Patriot'*  Lament C.C.  Paltom.     848 

Cbriatkindlein Gmnon  IFrwalk.  8H 

JOSEPB  CBRISTIAN  TON  ZEDLITZ 845 

Tbe  Midnight  Review ilnoirymoiM.    .  845 

EARL  TBBODOR  KORNER 840 

My  Fatherland    . Mekardaom.    .  848 

Good  Night A.     .    ,    .  84i 

Sword-eong     ...........    CkorUy,     .    .  848 

Tho  Oak-treeo A.      ...  847 

ADOLF  LUDWIG  POLLEN       .'    ...  847 

Blttcbor'a  Ball C.CF^Uon.     848 

WILBELM  MULLBR 848 

Tho  Bird  and  the  Ship B.W.  LongftlUm.  848 

Whitherl A.     ...  849 

AUGUST  GBAF  TON  PLATEN-HALLBRMUNDB  ...  848 
Sonneta ibienymoiie.    .  840 

BEINRICB  BEINB 848 

.  The  Toyago AHaftiirgA  Jlro.  850 

Tbe  Tear A.      ...  SOD 

The  Evening  Goealp ..A.     .    .    .  3S0 

.    Tho  Lore-lei A.      ...  861 

The  Hoatile  Biolbeia A.      ...  861 

The  Sea  bath  its  Pearh If .  IT.  Longfalloia.  851 

The  Fir-tree  and  the  Palm IF.  W.  Story.   851 


CONTENTS. 


HEINRICH  AVQ.  BOFFMAKN  YON  FALLERBLEBKN 

Oa  the  Walhalla Lond.  AUuit<aitm. 

LamcnUtion  for  tb«  Ooldcn  Agt /ft.      ... 

German  National  Wealth /ft.      ... 

DIETRICH  CHRIBT'^'  '  'tA2ht. 

Bxtraeifron^^-,—     ....    :  BUuk^od-. Ma,. 

KAKLf  »L|_.,_  

,<rf,  GD8TAP  AP  '^ 
Ode  on  the  D««r^^  iha  C^th'edml  D^tt '    \  B.  W.' UmgftUoii. 

E3AlASTEOIJf„f4^,Cro«bill       ik      .    .    . 

From  rnt*iLEXANDER  VON  AUER8FERO 

^"*«n8cen Land.  Alhtntmmt. 

?*»«' 'S-     .    •    • 

'uatoma-cordon lb,      ... 

^^MPoel N.  L.  ProMngham. 

Frauenlob Edinbttrgh  Rn. 

STAY  PFIZER 

The  Two  Loeka  of  Hair H.W.LongftlUm. 

FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH 

The  Mooriah  Prine* CT.  Brook*. 

The  Emigranta /ft.      ... 

The  Lion'a  Rida Dublin  Utdv.  Mag. 

lealaod-moaa  Tea /ft.     ... 

The  Sheik  of  MoantSiaai /ft.      .    .    . 

To  a  Skatinf  Nefn Jb.      .    .    . 

The  Alexandrine  Metre /ft.      ... 

The  KInf  of  Congo  and  hia  Bvndrad  Wivea  .    /ft.     ... 

Band-aonga /ft.      ... 

MjThemea /ft.     .    .    . 

Grabbe'e  Death Jb.     .    .    . 

FRANZ  DINGBLBTBDT 

The  Watchman        Lotid.  Athmumm. 

The  Gei^^n  Princa Jb.      .    .    . 

OEORO  HERWBOH 

The  FatheHand Por.Qiuart.IUw. 

TheBoagofHaUed Jb.     .    .    . 

The  Protect Jb.      .    .    . 

ToaPoeteae Jb,      .    .    . 

BBNEDIKT  DALEI 

Enriable  Peverty Lenrf.  Athmmim. 

The  Walk       /ft.    .    •    . 


DUTCH. 

DUTCH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY 871 

BALLADS 817 

The  Hunter  from  Greece Bowring.    .    .  8T7 

The  Fettered  Nightingale Jb.     .    .    .  WI 

The  Knifht  and  hie  Bqaiia Jb,      ...  378 

The  Three  Maidena For.  Qfurt.  Bt9.  SIS 

Day  in  the  eaat  ie  dawning Jb.     ...  878 

MISCELLANEOUS  P0EM8 STQ 

JACOB  CAT8 8» 

The  Irj BowHmg.    .    .  879 

The  Statue  of  Memnon Jb.      ...  379 

PIETER  CORNELIB  HOOFT 879 

Anacreontic /*•      ...  880 

MARIA  TESSEL8CHADE  YTS8CHER SBO 

The  Nightingale Jb.      ...  880 

HUIG  DE  GROOT 881 

Bonnet /».     ...  881 

JAN  DE  BRUNE 881 

Bong       Jb.     ...  881 

OERBRAND  BREDERODB       388 

Bong /ft.      ...  888 

DIRK  RAFAEL  KAMPHUYZEN 889 

pMlm  CXXXIII Jb.     ...  883 

JOOST  VAN  DEN  YONDEL 883 

ToGeeraerl  VoeBioa,en  the  LoeeofhiaBon  .  Jb,  .  .  .  883 
Chonsa  from  07*brccht  van  Aematel        ...    /ft.      ...  884 

Choraa  from  Palamedea /ft.      ...  884 

Chonia  of  Batavian  Women Jb,     ...  889 

C0N8TANTIJN  HUUGEN8 888 

AXIng Jb.     ...  887 

JACOB  WESTERBAEN 887 

Song       /ft.     ...  887 

Song Jb.     ...  888 

JEREM1A8  DE  DECKER 888 

ToaBrotherwhediedatBalaTia  ....  /ft.  .  .  .  888 
Ode  to  my  Mother Jb.     ...  889 

REINIBR  AN8L0 890 

From  the  Plague  of  Naplea /*.     .    .    .  800 

JOANNES  ANTONIDES  VAN  DER  GOES 891 

Overthrow  of  the  Tiuke /ft.     ...  891 


JAN  VAN  BROEKHUIZEN 

Song Aowriiif. 

Soniiet /ft.     . 

Morning Jb.      . 

DIRK  BM1T8 

On  the  Death  of  an  InCanl VonDyJb. 

WILLBM  BILDERDUK 

Ode  to  Beauty     .    .    .    .  - WntmingtarJUvJ 

TheRoeee ¥mJ>fi, 

JACOB  BELLABfIT 

Ode  to  God Bowring. 

H.  T0LLEN8 

Bummer  Moming'e  Bong Wntminsttr  Hen .] 

Winter  Even ing'e  Song For.  Quart.  Hem  \ 

John  a'  Scbaflelaar Foii  Dyk. 

Birthday  Yeraea Jb.     . 

ELIAS  ANNE  BORGER 

Ode  to  the  Rhine For.  Quart.  R*9.^ 

DA  COSTA 

IntrodaetioD  to  a  Hyma  on  ProTidenoo  .    WntndnaUr  JUr., 

The  Sabbath For.  Quart.  Hev. 

KINKEB       

Yinaa  and  Trath '  Wtttmintttr  He;  \ 

LOOTS     

The  Nigfatingmla /ft. 

WITHUIB 

OdatoTimn ,Ft>r.  Quorf. /2tV4-4 

FRENCH. 

FRENCH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY Ǥ 

FIRST  PERIOD.  — CENTURIES  XII.,  XIII. 
JONGLEURS,  TROUYEREB,  AND  TROUBADOURS       .    .  lU 

L— CHANSONS  DE  GE8TE,  ETC 4H 

Death  of  ArchbiahopTarpin     ....  B.W.  iMngftllo^  «lk 


From  the  Roman  da  Ron 
Duke  William  at  Rouen 
Richard 'a  Eaeapa      .    . 

The  Lay  of  the  Little  Bird 

Paradiae 

The  Gentle  Bachelor    .    . 

The  Prleat  who  ate  MiUbarriea 


.  Blaekmtod'tMng.Vt 
.    .    .    Jb.     .    .    .4» 

.  .   waf.    .  .  .m 

Blaekttood't  Mag.  W 
,    .     Way.      .     .    .49 
Jb.      .     .    .<» 


ThaLandofCokaigne Jb. 

The  Lay  of  BiaelaTeret ComuUo.     .    .  A 

Fmm  the  RomauntoftheRoea      ....    Ckauetr.      .    .  tfl 

IL— LYRIC  POEMS  OF  THE  TROUYEREB fli 

LE  CHATELAIN  DE  COUCY «' 

My  wandering  thonghta  awake  to  lore  anew  CotttUo.     .    .  IK 

The  flrat  approach  of  the  aweat  epring    .    .    JB.  Taylor,     .  IK; 
HUGUE6  D'ATHIEB fll 

Fool  I  who  from  choice  can  apand  hia  boaia     .    Jb.     .    .    .  «ft 
TRIBAUD  DE  BLAZON m 

I  am  to  blame  f  —  Why  ehould  I  aing?    .    .     CotUUo.    .    .  !• 
THTBAUD,  KING  OF  NAVARRE 

Lady,  the  fatea  command,  and  I  muat  go    .    B.  T^ior. 
OACEBRULEZ 

The  Mrda,  the  birde  of  mine  own  land    ...    /ft.     . 
RAOUL,  COMTE  DE  B01SB0N8      .........    ^W 

Ah  t  beauteoaa  maid Jb.      .    .   U  M 

JAaUES  DE  CHISON i.flf 

When  theaweet  dayaof  aammereomeat  laat  .    Jb.     .    .  f.tf 
DOETE  DE  TROIE8 \.il$\ 

When  cornea  the  beauteoue  aammer  time   .    .    Jb. 
BARBE  DE  YERRUB 

The  wiae  man  aeea  hia  winter  cloae    ....    /ft.      .    .    «.  i 
THE  AUTHOR  OP  THE  PARADISE  OF  LOVE   ...     .1 

Hark  I  hark  I       Jb.     . 

in.— LYRIC  POEMS  OP  THE  TROUBADOURS     . 
OUILLAUME,  COMTE  DE  POITOU 

Anew  I  tune  my  lute  to  love OotttOo. 

PIERRE  ROGIER8 

Who  haa  not  looked  apon  her  brow    ....    /ft.     . 
6E0FFR0I  RUDEL 

Around,  aboTe,  on  eTeiyepray /ft.     . 

GAUCELM  FAIDIT 

And  muat  thy  ehoide,  my  Inte,  be  etmng    ,    .    Jb.     , 
GUILLAUME  DB  CABESTAING 

No,  never  ainca  the  iatal  time Jb.     . 

LA  C0MTE8SE  DE  PROVENCE 

I  fain  would  think  thou  haat  a  heart  ....    /ft.     . 
THE  MONK  OP  MONTAUDON       

I  love  the  court  by  wit  and  worth  adomtd  .    .    /ft.     . 
CLAIRE  D'ANDUZE 

They  who  may  blame  my  tendemaea      .    ,    .    Jb.     . 


CONTENTS. 


flNAUD  DANIEL 4M 

¥h»n  laavM  ud  flewtn  an  acwlj  ■priafinf  Gbato/le.   .    .  tti 

^RNARD  DB  VSNTADOUB I» 

I  Whao  1  iMhoM  tb«  Uik  opspriof      .    .    .    S.  Ta^imr.      .  I» 

[>irLQ.U£S  DE  MARSEILLE !» 

iwiMiymaaahoaldkMr       ....    Ik     .    .    .  OB 

^RTRAND  DE  BORN 40 

J.  MBM  tboB  haai  drivca  m*  bnh    ...    A.  *    ...  MS 
■  beanttfal  mpring  daligku  m»  wall    ...    A.     .    .    .  IM 

PlNAUD  DE  MARTEIL «M 

t>,  how  ■vaallhabratia  of  April ift.      .    .    .  4M 

^BRRE  YIDAL OB 

1  Bwaat  birda,  I  leva  tba  moat     ....    A.     ...  485 

BRRE  D'AUVERONB 4S5 

fo,  nirlitiafala,  aad  iad  Um  baaatj  I  adasa  .A.      ...  485 

^AUD  DE  BORNEIL 488 

npanieadaarl  aralaepisf  arawakiaf  .    .A.     .    .    .  488 

ifllERS 438 

I 'ilmakaaaaiif  AallaUtrfonh Aw      .    .    .  488 

U  ;HARD  C(EUR-DE-L10N 487 

lo  capUva  knifbt,  wham  chaint  eoaCaa    .    Anonfmrnm.    .  487 

SECOND  PERIOD. -CENTURIES  ZIY.,  XT. 

niN  PROISSART 497 

l-riolat QuttUo,     .    .  487 

Tirtlaj A.      ...  488 

Boodel B.W.  LmgAUom.  488 

CBRISTINE  DE  PISAN 488 

Imdel CmUUo.     .    .  438 

OatbeDaathafharPathar A     .    .    .  438 

AUIN  CHARTIER       ....    % 488 

From  La  Bailt  Daaa  ■ana  Mncf  ....    Ckme^.     .    .  488 

COARLES  D'ORLEANS 440 

Boadcl B.W. Long/tUom.  440 

Icnoavaaa A.      ...  440 

BcDouTaaa A.      ...  440 

8in; Cb«f«Ua.     .    .  441 

8m; A.      .    .    .441 

fcar -.    .    A.      .    .    .441 

a«nr A.      ...  441 

CLOTILDB  DE  SURYILLE 441 

Tka  Child  Aalaap If.lT.LoRxA'low.  441 

FBANC0I8  CORBUEIL*  DIT  VILLON 449 

TheLadiaaorLoBvAgo CotUUo.     .    .448 

MAKTIAL  DE  PARIS,  DIT  D'AUTBRGNE 44S 

Th«  AdTaotagaa  af  AdTaiaity A.      .    .    .  44S 

8aoc A.      .    .    .443 

OmLLAlTlIE  CRETIN 443 

8p.; A.      .    .    .443 

aSMENCE  ISAURB 448 

a^g A.      .    .    .448 

Boar A.      .    .    .443 

THIRD  PERIOD. -FROM  UOO  TO  1888. 

MELLIN  DB  BAINT-GELAIB 444 

Oiiiaia CotMlo.     .    .  444 

MARGUERITE  DE  YALOIS,  REINE  DE  NAVARRE  .  .  444 
Oa  tha  Death  of  har  Brotbar,  Fimacta  tha  Pint  CotUUo.      >.  444 

FRANCOIS  1 444 

Epitaph  oa  Franeoiae  da  Foix A.      ...  444 

Spiupbaa  AgaeaSoral A.      .    .    .  444 

CLEMENT  MAROT 445 

Priar  Labia B.W.LongftUom.  4M 

To  Anaa CoaUlto.     .     .  445 

Tba  Portrail A.      ...  445 

Buitaia '  .    A.      ...  445 

To  Diana  da  Poilian A.      ...  446 

feNRI  IT 445 

f'o  Diaaa  da  Poitian A.      ...  448 

llCRRE  DE  R0N8ARD 448 

To  hta  Ljre A.      ...  448 

A.      .    .*  .  44T 

lo  Mai7  Btoait       A.      ...  447 

f  ACHIM  DU  BELLAT 447 

Prom  the  Viaioaa Sp0Utr.      .     .  447 

fAN  DORAT 448 

To  Cathariaa  da  Madleia,  Regaat      .    .    .    CobUIIo,    .    .  449 

^UldB  LABE 449 

Roat  • A.      ...  449 

EIaK7 ^'      ...  449 

BMI  BBLL5AU 450 

i  Pasil A      ...  480 

Upril A.      ...  460 

^AN  ANTOINE  DE  BAIP  .    .* 461 

fie  CalcalatioB  of  Ltfa A.      ...  451 

^piuph  oa  Rabalaia A      ...  451 


ETIENNE  JODELLE 

To  Madame  da  Priowdia 
AMADI8  JAMYN      .    . 

Cailiraa A. 

MARIE  STUART ^ 

Oa  iha  Death  af  har  Haabaad,  Praada  II.      iUoayMoiuK 

Farewell  lo  Fraaea       A.     .    . 

PHILIPPE  DBSPORTBB ^ 

Diaaa CeeleiA*    ' 

JEAN  BERTAUT wIL 

Loaelinea A.  ^R^' 

HENRI  lY 

Charmiaf  Oabriella A. 

D'HUXATIMB , 

RepeaUaee A     .    .    . 

FOURTH  PERIOD.  — FROM  liBO  TO  1700. 
PIERRE  CORN EILLE ' 

Pron  the  Tra^dy  of  the  Cid ColU^  dh^tr* 

JEAN-BAPT18TE  POC^UELIN  DE  MOLIERE    .     .    .     . 

From  the  Mieanthrope Lady't  Atm.  Rtg. 

JEAN  DE  LA  PONTAINE 

Tha  Couacil  held  by  the  Rata E.  Wright.     . 

Tha  Cat  and  the  Old  Rat A.      .    .    . 

The  Cock  aad  the  Fox A.      .    .    . 

The  Wolfaad  the  Doff A.      .    .    . 

The  Crow  and  tha  Pox AaoMyMOiie.    . 

NICHOLAS  BOILEAU  DESPREAUX 

Ninih  Satire N.  A.  it«9.      . 

JEAN  RACINE 

FcDffl  ibe  Traffcdj  9f  Aadromaqoa     .    .     AmAroM  Pkilif. 


468     I 

468 


470 


FIFTH  PERIOD.  — CENTURY  XYUI. 

ANONYMOUS «TB 

Malbroiick       JFVoeer'e  Mag.   47S 

FRANCOIS-MARIE  AROUET  DE  VOLTAIRE     ....  479 

From  the  Tnfrcdy  of  Aliira 474 

Alzira'e  Soliloquy Aaron  Bill.    .  474 

Don  AWarei,  Don  Outmaa,  and  Altira   .    .    A.      ...  474 

JEAN-BAPTISTE-LOUIS  ORESSET 478 

Vcr-Vert,  the  Parrot 477 

Hie  Original  Innoceaea Fruter'g  Mag.  477 

Hie  Fatal  Renowa A.      ...  477 

Hie  Evil  Voyage A.      ...  478 

The  Awfnl  DiecoTery A.      ...  479 

JOSEPH  ROCGET-DE-L'ISLB 481 

The  Maraeillee  Hyma       AnonymouM.    .  481 

SIXTH  PERIOD FROM  1800  TO   1844. 

FRANCOIS-AUOUSTE,  VICOMTE  DE  CHATEAUBRIAND  481 

Jenne  Fille  et  Jeaoe  Fleur Anonymoue. '  .  483 

Home A.      ...  T79 

CHARLES  DE  CHENEDOLLB 489 

Ode  to  the  Sea London  Mag.    489 

The  Young  Matron  among  the  Ruloe  of  Rome  lb.  ...  483 
Regret A.      ...  483 

CHARLES.HUBERT  MILLEVOYE 484 

•  The  Fell  of  the  Learee FraM«r'»  Mag.  484 

Pray  for  me A.      ...  484 

PIERRE-JEAN  DE  BERANGER 485 

Tbe  Little  Brown  Man TWX'e  Mag.    .  485 

TbeOldVagabead A.      .    .    .  483 

Tbe  Garret Frattr't  Mag.  486 

The  Shooting  Stan Anonymotu.    .  488 

Loala  the  Eleventh Fraser'a  Mag.   487 

Tbe  Sohga  of  (be  People A.      ...  487 

ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE 487 

On  leaving  France  for  tbe  Eaet      .    .    .      For.  Quart.  Bn.  488 

Tbe  Gnaxdian  Aftgel Knickerbocktr.  489 

Hyma     .    .    .    .  > A.      ...  480 

JEAN-FRANCOIS  CASIMIR  DELAVIGNE 481 

Battle  of  Waterloo London  Mag.    491 

Partheaopa  aad  tha  Straagar A.      ...  499 

La  Parieienne JteynoUU.   .    .  498 

VICTOR-MARIE  HUGO 494 

lafaney For.  Quart.  Av.  494 

Her  Name Dublin  Univ.  Mag.  495 

Tbe  Veil Dtmocraiie  Rev.  495 

The  Djinna A.     .    .    .  4S6 

Moonlight       A      ...  497 

The  Sack  of  the  City A.     .    .    .  497 

Expectation A.      ...  497 

AMABLE  TA8TU 407 

LeavaaoftheWillow-tTaa JVoMf-'e  Afag.  497 

Death A.      ...  498 

Tbe  Echo  of  the  Harp A.      .    .    .  489 

AUGUSTE  BARBIER 499 

Tbe  Bronze  Statae  of  Napoleon  .  .  .  For.  Quorf.  iba.  499 
Sonnet  to  Madame  Roland .A.      ...  600 


CONTENTS. 


HEINRICH  AU' 


ITALIAN. 


On  the  Wal\ 


LarocBt* 


1.ANGUAOE  AND  POETRY 601 


Otrma-   FIRST  PERIOD.  —  CENTURIES  XIII.,  HV. 
DIETV0O  OUINICELLI 

ExTh«  Nature  of  Lov« H,W. LongftlUm. 

KARL    ODITTONE  D*  AREZZO 

London  Mag. 


Ode  on  the  7 


^^^^Tte  ALIGHIERI 

Bonnets  rrom  the  Tita  Noora    ........ 

What  ia  Love} £ye/I. 

Lovelineaa  or  Beatrice Jb. 

Beatrica'i  Salutation ...    lb. 

The  Annivaraarf ,    ...    lb. 

The  Pilgrim tb. 

Bonneta  from  the  Cansoniera 

The  Catae lb. 

The  Farewell lb, 

Beautjr  and  Virtue .    A. 

The  Lover Jb. 

To  Ouido  CaTaleanti lb. 

To  Boeeona  d*  Afobio lb. 

Caatoni  from  the  Vita  NooTa '......... 

Viaion  of  Beatrice's  Deatk Jh. 

Dirge  of  Beatrice lb. 

Canaonl  froa  the  Cannniara 

Beatrice lb. 

Farewell lb. 

Caaione  fVom  the  ConTito 

Philoeophy lb. 

From  the  DtTinaComaedi«.—Iarenio      .... 

Franeaaca  da  Rimini Byrvn 

FarinaU       T.  W. 

From  the  DiTina.Commcdia.  —  Pargaterio 

The  CelaaUal  Pilot H.W.  Long/allow. 

The  Terrestrial  Panuliaa Ih.     ... 

Beatrice lb.      ... 

From  the  Divina  Comroedia.  —  Paradiao 

SpiriU  in  the  Planet  Marcniy    .    .    .    .    J.  C  Wright. 

Spirits  in  the  Sun Jb.      ... 

HeaTonly  Juetica Jb.     ... 

Beatriea F.COmp.     . 

FRANCESCO  PETRARCA 

Bonneta \    .    .    .    . 

The  palmer  bent,  with  locka  of  ailver.graj  Ladp  Daert.  . 
Poor,  solitary  bird,  that  pour'st  thy  laj  .  .  Jb.  .  .  .  e» 
Alone  and  penaiTe,  the  deeertad  strand  .  O.  W.  Or$m$.  638 
Thesoft  west  wind,  return  in;»  brings  a^n  Jb.  .  .  .  628 
Swift  currant,  that  from  rocky  Alpine  tcio  .  Jb.  .  .  .  588 
In  teara  I  trace  the  memory  of  the  days  .  .  Jb.  ....  6S8 
In  what  ideal  worid  or  part  of  heaTea  .  T.  Jtooeoe.  .  688 
Creatnrea  there  be,  of  eight  ao  keen  and  high  Jb.  .  .  .  8BB 
WaTod  to  the  winds  were  thoee  long  locka  .  Jb.  ...  698 
Thoee  eyes,  my  bright  and  glowing  theme  .  Jb.  ...  699 
I  feel  the  well  known  breese Jb,     ...  620 

Canioni       ' 699 

In  the  stiU  evening,  when  with  rapid  flight   Lad^  Jiaert.   .639 

Te  waters  clear  and  fresh Jb.      .    .    .699 

From  hill  to  hill  I  roam Jb.     ...  680 

0  my  own  Italy  I  though  words  are  vain      .    Jb,     ...  631 
Viaiona SptnMr.      .    ,  689 

GIOVANNI  BOCCACCIO 633 

Dante P,  C.  Grttg.     .  694 

Songs  from  the  Deeameroaa 634 

Cupid,  the  eharma  that  erown  my  fair     .    ifnonymoiie.    .  634 
Go,  Love,  and  to  my  lord  declare    .    ,    .    .    Jb.     ...  634 
SECOND  PERIOD.  — CENTURY  XVi 

LUIGI  PULCI 696 

From  the  Aforganta  Maggiort 636 

Orlando  and  the  Giant Bjfron.   ...  806 

Morgante  at  the  Convent Jb.      ...  687 

MATTEO  MARIA  BOJARDO 639 

Sonnets 638 

Beautiful  gift,  and  dearest  pledge  of  love  For.  Qfiart.  Rn.  639 

1  saw  that  lovely  cheek  grow  wan  and  pale  .    Jb.     ...  630 
LORENZO  DE*  MEDICI 639 

Stancas London  Mag,     540 

Sonnet Jb.     ...  540 

Orations IT.  Rotcot.     .  641 

ANOELO  POLIZIANO 541 

From  the  Stanse  aopra  la  Gioetra  ...   IT.  Parr  Grtttnll.  541 

The  Mountain  Maid Jb.      ...  649 

Europa T.  Itoteot.      .  543 

ANTONIO  TIBALDEO 643 

Sonnets       643 


From  Cyprus*  isle     .    .    ^ lAtmiom  Mixg.i 

Lord  of  my  love  I  my  soul's  far  dearer  part  .    lb. 

ANDREA  DEL  BASSO 

Ode  to  a  Dead  Body IMghHttnU 

JACOPO  SANNAZZARO 

Elegy  from  the  Arcadia T.  Booeom. 

Bonnets 

B«lo*ed,weIl  thou  know'at  how  many  a  year     7ft.       .     . 

O  thou,  ao  long  the  Mnaa'a  favorite  theme   W.  Rooeo*, 
Btanse Mro.  Hot 


THIRD  PERIOD CENTURY  XVI. 

PIETRO  BEMBO 

Sonnets 

To  Italy U.S.  Lit. 

Turning  to  God Jb, 

Bolilude London  Mag 

I>B»»h Mrt.Ht 

Politiani  Tumnlua W.  Jto»eo€» 

LODOVICO  ARI08T0 

Sonnet London  Mag\ 

From  the  Capitoli  Araonai '.    .     . 

The  Laurel jj. 

From  the  Orlando  F>irioao 

Oriando's  Madness Bom, 

MICHEL  ANGELO  BUONAROTTI 

Bonneta       

Tea  I  hope  may  with  my  strong  desire     .     Wordtwortl 
No  morulebjectdid  these  eyes  behold    .    .    fb. 
The  prayera  I  make  will  then  be  sweet  indeed    Jb. 

My  wave-worn  bark       Ixmdim  Ma^ 

If  it  be  true  that  any  beauteous  thing  .  /.  E.  TV^/oi 
0„  blessed  ye  who  find  in  heaven  the  |oy  .  Jb.  ,  . 
Bow,  lady,  can  it  be, —  which  yet  is  shown  .  Jb,  .  . 
Thou  high-bom  spirit,  on  whose  countenance  /ft.  .  . 
Return  me  to  the  time  when  looae  the  curb  /ft.  .  . 
Already  full  of  years  and  heavineee  ...  /ft.  .  . 
If  much  delay  doth  oft  lead  the  desire  .  .  Jb.  .  ^ 
I  scarce  beheld  on  earth  those  beabteous  ayes  Jb.      .    . 

On  Danu /ft.      .    , 

Canzone /ft.      .    . 

floof Jb.     .    . 

OALEAZZO  DI  TARSIA 

Sonnet London  Mag. 

GIROLAMO  FRACABTORO 

Sonnets      .    .    , 

To  a  Lady U.S.  Lit. 

Homer London  Mog. 

VITTORIA  COLONNA 

Sonnets 

Father  of  heaven  f  If  by  thy  mercy'a  grace  .  Jb.  .  . 
Blest  union,  that  in  heiven  waa  ordained     J.  E.  Taylor. 

CLAUDIO  TOLOMEI        

Sonnet — To  the  Evening  Star     ....    London  Mag. 

BERNARDO  TASSO 

Bonnet ,    ,    Jb.     .    , 

AGNOLO  FIRENZUOLA       

Sonnet Jb.     .    . 

LUIGI  ALAMANNI       

Sonneu 

^    To  Italy U.S.Jtet.  .     JM 

Petrarea'a  Rstreat Jb.     .    .     ,Jg 

GIOVANNI  GUIDICCIONI p 

Sonneu jp 

To  Rom U.S.IAt.CaM,m 

Toluly Jb.    ^    .     .m 

FRANCESCO  BERNI  DA  BIBBIENA  .... 

From  the  Oriando  Innamorato 

The  Author's  own  Portrait Rom. 

The  Two  Fountains  in  the  Forest  of  Arden  .    /ft. 

Microeoemoe /ft. 

BENEDETTO  VARCHT    

Sonnet.  —  On  the  Tomb  of  Petrarea  .    .    .    U.&  Lit.  Ot 

gioVanni  DELLA  CABA 

Bonnets 

Sweet  lonely  wood,  that  like  a  friend       .    london  Mag. 

Venice Mrt.  Hman*. 

ANGELO  DI  C08TANZ0 

Sonnet London  Mag. 

BERNARDINO  ROTA       

Sonnet.  —  On  the  Death  of  Portia  Capeee  .     U.  S.  lit.  Gi 

LUIGI  TANSILLO 

From  La  Balia 

.  The  Mother W.  Ro$eot. 

The  Hireling  Nurse      Jb.     .    , 

GIOVANNI  BATTI8TA  GUARINI 

From  11  Pastor  Fido Fanthat. 


CONTENTS. 


i 

1 


>RQ.nATO  TAB80 

ron  AmioU 

TlMOoid«aAc« Lri§k 

La  GamwtoBMM     .    .    . ' 

^9Lnival  of  tb*  CnmUm  at  J«i«mI«b 

^'^"^nimU  Fligkt A.  .    .    .  Wl 

i«.-.T«tk«PriMMm«rPmum    .    Wltft.  .    .    .  Sri 

iDoia .....'..  174 

IfLovvkbMptiTeMftdvkkdMMdMr     Ltmitm  Mmg.   874 

Th7«ajip*]ro«tkM«B«dUlntlMpuplai«H  A.  .    .    .  174 

Im«  tk««Ackondb«rkwitbilnaM«nf«j      A.  ...874 

Thi««hi(li-bomdaaMU«uaylotM*M  WIMib  ...874 

While  of  tk««(«  in  which  the  b««itbMiU      A.  .    ,    .  874 

Till  Lannieoam,  — who  ••«,al«a     ...    A.  .    .    .  878 

TohMLady,  th*4poaM«f  UMilh«r      ...    A.  .    .    .  878 

TeUi«DQeh««orF«cnM A.  .    .    .  878 

OntwoB«aaUr«lLadi*«,oMf^aBdMMMfd  A.  .    .    .  878 

TethaCoaBWMorScaadia   ......    A.  .    .    .  818 

To  an  Uacntofttl  Friaad A.  ...878 

To  Lamborto,  «fainat  •  Calaowj    ....    A.  ...  878 

Ho  eomparMhiBMirtoUIjMOt      ....    A.  .    .    .  878 

To  Alphenae,  Dako  of  Pomra A.  ...  678 

AhalloftonMatiothiaUroofaiiBO    ...    A.  .    .    .  878 

To  th«  Duko  AlphoMO A.  ...  878 

ToUMDukoAIphMMD.odtiaCtob«Ub««tod   A.  .    .    .  878 

TothoPriacoHMof  Fonam A.  .    .    .  878 

•  TothoMoocIllaMnoQoaBdBomoLofdDaki  A.  .    .    .  877 

To  aeipio  OoBsaga A.  ...  877 

FOURTH  PERIOD.  — FROM  MB8  TO  UM. 

8ASRIELLO  CHIABRERA Wn 

TehisMiainM'oLiyo .    Ltmdam  M^.   BH 

Kpiupha ir« 

USaSANDRO  TAB80N1 

FraiB  La  Socchia  Raplta 

Tho  Atudr  on  Modona 

The  Bnekel  ofBolofaa A.     ...  881 

mAM&ATTiaTA  MARINl 88S 

Fadiaf  Boantj DmUL      .    .  888 

Ihi— SapplcMoaUiyflUDBM Amam^fmam,    .778 

FRINCESCO  RKDI 883 

Fmn  Bacchno  in  Tuoeaajr 888 

Hm  Opiaioa  of  Wino  oad  olhox  Bovoiafw  ZM§k  Burnt.  .  888 

Im  aacowaiy  to  Wino A.     .    .    .  SB4 

Buchao  grow*  maoical  in  kio  Capo     ...    A.     ...  888 

Qeod  Wiao  a  Ooatloman A.     ...  688 

Tho  Prawo  of  ChiuiU  Wiao A.     ...  888 

ATaaooB  tho  Water A.     .    .    .  888 

Hantapuleiaao  Inaofttiatod A.      ...  888 

T1NCENZO  15a  FILICAJA   .    .    .    .    t 888 

Coatoae.  — TboSioga  ^Yiaaaa      .    .    .     U.  8.  Lit.  Oas.  BBS 

Soooctt 688 

Toltalf A.      ...  688 

OathoEaithqaakoofSicily Aw     .    .    .  688 

Tiao 

BENEDETTO  MEmiNI 

Copid**  BoTongo     .    .    . 

ALEB8ANDRO  OUIDX 888 

Ciasooi 888 

FsrtBBO MilmBt,    .    .  888 

TothoTiboT Fnimr*t  Mmg.  Bi\ 

OORNEUO  BENTITOOLIO S8B 

BoQBot Jtfro.  AiSMnt.    889 

GTOTINNI  COTTA 889 

Sonatt LondimMag,    888 

CJOTANNl  BARTOLOBSMEO  CA8ARB01 689 

jBeaact A.      ...6n 

RETBO  METABTAnO 888 

'Pnm  tho  Drama  of  Ticoa 888 

!    Titna,  PaUtoa,  Aaains,  aad  Soxtaa     .    .    HooU,  .    .    .  SH 
'   AaainaaadSorrUia A.     .    .    .  688 

Carlo  ooldoni 688 

CoeUia'B  Draam Far.  Mt0,  .    .  888 

[aRLO  OOZZI 888 

Prom  Tnrandot iMaa«ood'«Mif.  888 

UBEPPB  PARINI 889 

iPren  II  Oioreo A.     ...  800 

IGI  VITTORIO  8AVI0U 800 

*o8oUtad l7.&X«.Oa«.6Dl 

ITTORIO  ALFlfcRI 801 

Ptoib  the  Pint  Bratiu 804 

BratoaandCollatimu ZIofd.    .    .    .  804 

Bratoa,  CoUaliaaa,  and  People A.     ...  80S 

INCENZO  MONTI '.    .    .  807 

tho  BMHOTilliaaa 008 

TboSsoPeDooa       Par. Quart. Rn.  $n 

The  Bool'a  Arrival  in  Paria A.     ...  008 

PaarioBOfChriat JV^mt**  ATof.  808 


fPPOUTO  PINDBaiONTR 810 

Fioai  tho  Tragedy  of  Anaiaio 818 

LaaoatoftheAfedBeMB  ....  PW.  QMrt.  Aw.  818 
Lameat  on  Iha  Death  of  BaMar      .    .  Hai>aii8'#  Mug.  811 

Niffht jM.QnM.AM.774 

HICCOLO  UOO  FOBGOU) 819 

To  Lalgia  PhNaTiciai PW.  Mm.  .    .  819 

The  Bopukhree 4m.  i^arl.  Mm.  TH 

ALEBBANDRO  MANEONI 81J 

II  Cinqae  iiaggto r.a  Oi^.     .  614 

ChenwfMBi  the  Genu  diChmngnok  »  .  MJrw.  Nmtmt.  814 
eiOTANNI  BATT18TA  MIOOOUNI 8M 

Fronthol^agodporNahMOO  .  .  .  .  #Vr.  ^arf.  A*.  818 
BILYIO  PBLLICO 817 

Caaioao,  written  la  Priaea  ......    KM«km*etktr.  818 

TOMMA80  BGRICCI 818 

From  La  Motto  di  Carlo  L Fbr.  (^rf.  Ito.  018 

MnCELLANEOUB  POEBIB  IM  TBI  ITAUiM  DULBCTB  818 
CALABRIAN 818 

Popular  Bong ff.  A.  Mm.     .  818 

NEAPOLITAN 818 

Chriatmaa  Carol A.     ...  818 

Boldier'eBoar A*     .    .    .  818 

Boag       A.     .    .    .880 

FLORENTINE 818 

ProatbeTnaciaofMieholAacelo  ....  A.  .  .  .  818 
MILANESE 898 

FfomtheFaggitiTeofToaiaaeoarairi  .  .  A.  .  .  .  880 
OENOEBE 080 

Boaf.— By  Cicala  Caeera A.     ...  888 

SPANISH. 

BPANIBH  LANOnAGB  AND  POETRY 8n 

FIRST  PERIOD FROM  11»  TO  1808. 

FROM  THE  POEMA  DEL  CID 889 

Arganeat 8>8 

The  Cid  and  the  Infaatee  dc  Carrfea      .    .    Prm.     ...  839 

ALFONSO  THE  SECOND,  KINO  OF  ARAOON  ....  834 
8oag *.    .    .    «.7\iylor.      .  834 

OONZALO  DE  BERCEO 888 

From  the  Tide  de  San  Millaa N.  A.  Mm.    .  638 

Pium  the  Milagraa  de  Naeain  SoMfa 830 

latrodnetion A.     ...83S 

Baa  Miguel  de  la  Tomba A.     ...  888 

ALFONSO  THE  TENTH,  KINO  OF  CASTILE  ....  837 
Prom  tho  Libre  del  Teeoio MttrvspmUm  Mm.  837 

JUAN  LORENZO  DE  ASTOROA 838 

From  the  Poema  i0  Aleaaadre A.      ...  838 

MOSBEN  lORDI  DE  SAN  JORDI 838 

SeogofCoBtmriee .A.      ...  838 

DON  JUAN  MANUEL 838 

Ballad JBowring .    .    .  838 

JUAN  RUIZ  DE  BITA 840 

Praiee  of  Little  Women H.A.Mm.      .848 

Hymn  to  the  Virgin MttrMftcttt  Mm.  841 

Love       .A.      ...  841 

RABBI  DON  SANTOB,  OR  SANTO 841 

The  Dcneo  of  Death A.     .    .    .  841 

BALLADS 849 

I HISTORICAL  BALLADS 848 

Lamentation  of  Don  Roderiek   .    .    .  *.    .    LoctAart.  .    .648 

March  of  Beraacdo  del  Carpio A.     ...  849 

Bafieea A.      ...  848 

The  Poaader A.      ...  843 

The  Death  of  Don  Pedro A.     .    .    .  844 

IL- ROMANTIC  BALLADS 844 

Coaat  Araaldoe A.      ...  844 

The  Admiral  Oaarinoe 7b.      ...  844 

Coant  Alarcoa  and  the  Infanta  Bollaa     ...    A.     ...  848 

ID — MOORISH  BALLADS       818 

The  Lameatation  for  Celia A.     ...  848 

The  Ball-flgfat  of  Oanil A.      ...  868 

The  Bridal  of  AndalU A.     .    .    .  861 

Woe  ieme,  Albama B^roa.   .    .    .  861 

POETS  OF  THE  CANaONEROS 888 

JUAN  II.,  KINO  OF  CASTILE 8B8 

I  never  knew  it,  Loto,  till  bow      ....    Bowring.   .    .  858 

LOPE  DE  MENDOZA,  MARQUES  DE  8ANTILLANA     .  888 

SoBg Wifm.       .    .  863 

Berrana T.  Mctcoe.      .  863 

JUAN  DE  MENA 864 

Prom  the  Laberinto 854 

Maclaa  el  Enamorado IPi^m.  ...  854 

Lorenso  Devaloe For.  Mm.  .    .  864 


CONTENTS. 


ALONitO  IJ£  CAllTAG£NA .  t3S 

Pain  ia  PleiMira BowHng.    .    .  «65 

No,  ihat  can  ntter  b« Jh.      ...  <66 

JORGE  MANRIftUE «5 

Od«  on  lb«  Death  of  bi«  Fathir     .    .    .  H.W.  Long/tllov.  655 

RODRIOOEZ  DEL  PADRON MO 

Prajer BowHug.    .    .  6(0 

JUAN  DE  LA  ENZINA 660 

Don't  abut  jour  door A<     ...  660 

••  Latai  eat  and  drink,  for  to>mono««0di«"   /k.      .    .    .  681 

ANONTMODS  POEMS  FROM  THE  CANC10NER08,  ETC.  661 

What  will  thay  mj  ofjoa  and  m«  7  .    .    .    Bottring.    .    .  681 

Fount  offrcahnea Ih»      ...  661 

The  two  StraamlaU Ih.      ...  669 

Bh«  cornea  to  father  flowen Ih.      ...  669 

Dear  maid  of  base!  brow Ih.     ...  689 

Emblem /&•      ...  669 

Who  Ml  buy  a,  beam il.      .    .    .  669 

The  Maiden  waitinf  her  Lover lb.      ...  663 

The  Thraah A.      ...  663 

*T  ia  time  to  riae Ih.     ...  663 

Bweet  were  the  boun Ih.     ...  668 

The  Prieoner'a  Romanca Ih.      ...  664 

Yield,  thou  caatle Ih.     ...  664 

Amaryllu Ih,     ...  664 

Sharply  I  repant  of  it Ih.     ...  664 

The  SicBla       Bryant.      '    .  664 

The  Sonf  of  the  Galley Loekkart.       .665 

The  Wanderinf  Kniffat'a  Sonf Ih.     ...  665 

Serenade Ih.     ...  665 

Bonf       Bdir^urgh  Rn.nS 

SECOND  PERIOD. -CENTURIES  ZYI.,  XYII. 

JUAN  BOSCAN  ALMOGAYER     . 668 

On  tbeDeatborOarcilaeo     ......     Wiftn.       .    .666 

From  bia  Epiaile  to  Mendota Amonymout.    .  686 

DIEGO  HURTADO  DE  MENDOZA 668 

From  hie  Epietle  to  buia  de  Zuaifa  .  .  .  T.  Ro»co».  .  688 
Bonnet Ih,      ...  688 

GARCILASO  DE  LA  YEGA       688 

From  the  Pint  Eclogue Wiffm.  ...  688 

From  the  Third  Eclogue Ih,      ...  671 

Ode  to  the  Flower  of  Gnido Ih.     .    .    .  679 

Sonneu 679 

Aa  the  fond  mother,  when  her  aaflerinf  child  Boitring.  ,  679 
Lady,  thy  face  ie  written  in  my  ioal    .    .     W\fm.  .    .    .  673 

FERNANDO  DE  HERRERA 678 

Ode  on  the  Battle  of  Lepanto /Voeer'*  Mag.  673 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  Don  Sebaatiaa  .  .  .  Utrhart.  .  .  674 
From  an  Ode  to  Don  John  of  AuaLria  .../&.  ...  675 
Ode  to  Sleep T.  Rotcot.       .  675 

JUAN  FERNANDEZ  DE  HEREDIA 676 

Parting Bomring,    .    .  676 

BALTA8AR  DEL  ALCAZAR 676 

Bleep .    Ih,      ...  676 

BANTA  TERESA  DE  AYILA 676 

Bonnet Ih.      ...  677 

GASPAR  GIL  POLO 677 

From  the  Diana  Enamerada 677 

Lore  and  Hate A.      ...  677 

I  cannot  eeaea  to  love Ih.      ...  677 

OREGORIO  BILYE8TRB 6n 

Tell  me,  lady!  tell  me  l—yeal Ih.     .    .    .  6n 

Inea  aent  a  kirn  to  aB Ih,      ...  678 

JORGE  DE  MONTEMATOR 678 

From  the  Diana  Enamorada 678 

Diana'i  Song Fmtar'a  Mag.  678 

Sireno'aSong Okr  Pldltp  Sidnty.  tn 

CRI8TOYAL  DE  CASTILLBJO     .    .    •    ^ *" 

Women Bomring,   .    .  678 

LUIS  PONCE  DE  LEON       680 

Noche  Serena Ih.      ...  681 

Yirgin  borne  by  Angela Ih.      ...  689 

The  LifeoftbcBleaeed Bryant,       .    .689 

Retirement Edinhurgk  Bm.  9Bi 

ANTONIO  DE  Y1LLEGAB 683 

Sleep  and  Dreama    .    .    .    .  - Bomimg.    .    .  688 

Love'e  Eztremee Ih.      ...  683 

PEDRO  DE  PADILLA       .' 684 

The  Chaina  of  Love Ih.      ...  684 

The  Wandering  Knight Ih.      ...  084 

«FRANCISCO  DE  FIGUEROA 684 

Bonnet  on  the  Death  of  Garcilaao  .    .    .    .    Htrhart,      ,    .684 

AL0N80  DE  ERCILLA  Y  ZUNIGA 6M 

From  the  Araucana 666 

A  Battle  with  the  Araacaniana  .  .  .  For.  Quart.  Rn.  686 
A  Storm  at  Sea Ih.      ...  686 


Bomring.    . 
Qftort.  Rko, 


VICENTE  ESriN£L 

Faint  Heart  never  won  Fair  Lady      .    . 
MIGUEL  DE  CERYANTE8  SAAYEDRA 

From  the  Tragedy  of  Numaneia     .    .    . 

Poema  from  Don  Q,alzota 

Cardeaio'a  Song 

Bong 
Bonnet 
Bong 
LOPEZ  MALDONADO 

Bong 
JUAN  DE  TIMONEDA 

Nay,  abepberd  I  nay 
ALONSO  DE  LEDESMA 

Bleep 
LUIS  DE  GONGORA  T  ARGOTE 

The  Song  of  Catharine  of  Aragon Ih, 

Come,  wandering  aheep  I    O,  come   ....    A. 

Not  all  Bweet  Nigbtingalea Ih. 

Let  me  go  warm N.  Bng.  Ma^, 

HIERONIMO  DE  CONTRERAB 

Bigha Bowring, 

FRANasCO  DE  OCANA 

Open  the  door Ih.      . 

LOPE  FELIX  DE  YEGA  CARPIO 

From  the  Eatrella  de  Bevilla 

The  King  and  Sanchu  Ortis Lord  HoU 

Buatoa  Tabera  and  Sancho  OttU      ....    A. 
Eatrella  and  Theodora Ih. 

Bonnete 

The  Good  Shepherd       B.W.LongftlU 

To-morrow Ih, 

Country  Life  . Jlfrw. 

LUPERCIO  LEONARDO  AROENSOLA  .... 

Mary  Magdalen       Bryant, 

BARTOLOME  LEONARDO  ARGENSOLA m 

Bonnet Htrhwt,      .    .m 

JUAN  DE  RIBERA "m 

The  good  old  count  in  aadneee  etrayed    .    .    Bomring.    .    .  m 

Romance /&.     .    .    .  M 

FRANCISCO  DE  YELASCO xm 

The  Worid  and  lU  Flowera Ih.      .     .    .  nl 

I  told  thee  eb       B,.      .    .    .  TS 

ALONSO  DE  BONILLA :« 

Let  'a  hold  iwcet  convene Ih.     .    .    ."^ 

ALYARO  DE  HINOJOSA  T  CARBAJAL TB 

The  Yirgin  and  her  Babe A.      .     .    .  "nt 

FRANCISCO  DE  BQRJA  T  ESaUILACHE       TQl 

Bylvia'aSmil Ih.      .     .    .  T»4 

Epitaph lb.      .    .    .  TM 

FRANCISCO  DE  Q,UEYEDO  T  YILLEGAS t* 

Bonnete       im 

Rome       Mrt.  Htmnna.   "M 

RuthleeaTimc Herbert.      .    .  ^ 

My  Fortune T.  Roecoe.       .  W 

ESTEYAN  MANUEL  DE  YILLEGAB ?!« 

Ode Bryant.       ,    .  "M 

The  Nightingale T.  Roteoa.       .  IV 

To  the  Zephyr Wiffen.  .    .     .  ^ 

FRANCISCO  DE  RIOJA iV 

Epiatle  to  Fabio For.  Rn.  .    .  ^ 

PEDRO  CALDERON  DE  LA  BARCA :< 

From  El  Magieo  Prodigioeo Shettty. 

PEDRO  DE  CASTRO  Y  ANAYA       

The  Rivulet Bryant. 

THIRD  PERIOD FROM  1700  TO  1844. 

IGNACIO  DE  LUZAN 

From  the  Addreea  to  La  Aeadeaia,  etc«      .... 

Yirtue       For.  Q^iart.Rawl^ 

Painting       .    .    .    .  ■ ■  .    .    Ih,      . 

NICOLAS  FERNANDEZ  DE  MORATIN 

From  an  Ode  to  Pedro  Romero      ....    For.  Re9, 

JOBE  DE  CADAL80 ^ 

Anacreontic Fraeer*9  Mag 

Imitation  of  Gongora Ih.     ... 

GASPAR  MELCHIOR  DE  JOYELLANOS 

To  the  Sun For.  Quart.  Ret> 

TOM  AS  DE  YRIARTE 
From  the  Fabalaa  Literarias 


I'f-    I 


The  Aaa  and  the  Flute T.  Roteo*. 

The  Bear  and  tbe  Monkey A.      . 

JOSE  IGLEBIA8  DE  LA  CABA 

Bong Bryant. 

JUAN  MELENDEZ  YALDES 

BacredOde Fraeer'e  Magi 


CONTENTS. 


tMag.m 
'o  Don  Oavpar  Mdehior  JovcUanM  .    .    .    F»r.  Bm.  .    .  TB 

BJ^NDRO  FERNANDEZ  MORATIN »« 

El  Viejo  y  la  Niaa A.      ...  794 

from  th«  EpistI*  to  Law lb,      .    .    .  7S 

▲N  BAUTI8T1  DB  ARRIAIA  T  BUPfiRVIELA  .    .    .  W 

'  [bo  Vain  RtaoUtmi AMam^/mam.    .  191 

CISCO  MARTIMBX  DB  LA  B08A 7» 

Alkaabim i)>>r.<^MH.  A*.  TV 

\SL  DE  BAAYEDRA.  DUftUB  DB  RITAB     .    ,    .    .  7W 
to  tha  Lifktbeiua  at  MalU    ....    ulaMfiMM.    .  T0 

E  MARIA  BEREDU 7» 

U,S.Rg9,       .798 

PORTUGUESE. 

fOUESE  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY 7SB 

FIRST  PERIOD.  —  CENTURIES  XII.  -XY. 

'JIrONTMOUS WB 

FraciMateraaOldHiatocioPoom    .    .    .    T.  Ao«co«.      .788 

BERNARDIM  RIBEYRO 798 

Fma  tlM  Ttod  Eclogao Ih-      ...  798 

F&ANCISCO  DB  PORTUGAL,  CONDE  DO  YIMI080      .  788 

Lova  ami  Deain Bomring,    .    .  198 

FERNANDO  DB  ALMBYDA W 

TteTlabnl i».     ...  798 

6ECOND  PERIOD.- CENTUmES  XY1.,  XYII. 

OIL  Vicente ▼■ 

aaaff £r.ir.Loi«^iloi».798 

Bav&irtkaawadoa Boairiaf.     .    .788 

Tka  Niefctiagftlo ■»•      •    •    •  TW 

FRANCISCO  DE  8AA  DE  MIRANDA 797 

Soiuiau W 

I  kaow  Bot,  lad  J,  by  what  samtlaHchanD  T.  Rostot.  .  787 
Ai  a«v  iha  aoa  ^eva  broadar  in  tht  waat    .    Ih.     ...  797 

The  Mn  ia  hl^h Alanaon.       .  787 

That  apiril  para    . i*.      ...  738 

FnaktaEptatUUKinf  John  .    .    .    .     #br.  Qiuarf.  ib«.  798 

O  baM  Galietan Bomring.    .    .  798 

LUIS  DE  CAMOENB ^8 

Fraai  tha  Luiad 740 

Ignes  da  Caatre MiekU.      .    .  T40 

Tha  Spirit  of  tha  Capo n.     .    .    .  749 

Caacao  .............    Stnutg/ori*    .  744 

lb,     ...  744 
A.     ...  744 

lb.     ...  748 

A.      .    .    .748 

Btauaa.-TeN]cht A.      .    .    .  T48 

Caasonat    . A.      ...  748 

Caasanal ■»•     ...  748 

Caacao ^>  Boteoe.      .  748 

Sanaau       •748 

Pawfaanlanmbar,— jtaxaeranzioiueart  A.  .  .  •  748 
Ah,  Tain  dcairaa,  arcak  wiabaa,  hopca*  that  fada  A.  ...  748 
WWliatharalaft  in  thia  Tain  world  to  eim^t  A.  .  .  .  748 
Swtattywaa  hoard  tha  aathara'eeboial  attain  ara^c/brd.  .  748 
Siltnt  and  cool,  now  fradMniaf  braaxes  blow  A.  ...  747 
OntbeDsathorCathnrinadaAttajda  .  .  A.  .  .  .  747 
Bifh  in  tha  gtowinf  haavaoa  ....  Mrt.  HtmoMt.  747 
FUrTtJol  thoOfWhoaacatmljIewinf  tido  A.  .  .  .747 
Spirit  botovod  I  whoaa  winr*oaaon  bath  flown  tb.  ...  747 
Saved  ffoni  tha  poxila  of  thoatormywafo  .A.  .  .  .  747 
Wav«aofMondog«,hrilli«ntandMnn8     .A.      .    .    .  747 

ANTONIO  FERREIRA 748 

Sennau 748 

0  ipirit  para,  farar  in  raalma  abova  .  .  Aiamgon,  .  748 
To  thy  clear  atnama,  Mondogo,  I  retam     .A.      ...  748 

P^HntheTnfBdJorIgBaldaCaatrB 748 

Semi-ekonia Ar.  Quart.  Aio.  748 

Second  Soai^hora A.     ...  748 

DoaiPadre*a  Lament BJaeliMod'e  Jfi^.  748 

PEDRO  DE  ANDRADE  CAMINBA 780 

■oanet Aiamton.       .  780 

DIOGO  BERNARDES 751 

8onnata       781 

O  Lima !  thou  that  in  thia  valley'e  awaep  .A.  ...  781 
rribee,  my  friend,  ehoald  Love,  of  nature  kind  A.  ...  781 
Since,  now  that  Laaitanin*e  king  benign      .A.     ...  751 

riom  the  Firat  Eclofoa T.  iZOaeec.      .  781 

rremtheEclofvaofMarirm     ....     /\»r.QHarf.Jtfr.  781 

AGOSTINHO  DA  CRUZ 788 

nnata 788 


To  hia  Senowfal  StaU 

To  hia  Brother,  Diofo  Bemaidae    ....    A.     .    .    .  1SI 

FERNAO  ALYARES  DO  ORIENTE TBI 

Sonnet A.     ...  TBI 

riLANClSCO  RODRIGOBS  LOBO 7S> 

Bonnet! 789 

Watera,  which,  pondont  from  yonr  airy  hei(h(  A.  ...  788 
Bow,  lovely  TkcnOfdiferant  to  oar  Tiow     .A.     .    .    .  788 

MANOEL  DB  FARIA  B  BOUIA 788 

Sonnet A.     ...  788 

YIOLANTB  DO  CEO 798 

Sonnet A.      ...  784 

While  to  Bethlam  wa  arc  ffoinf   ....    Bo*fia#.    .    .  784 

NifhtofMarveU A.      .    .    .  7S4 

ANTONIO  BARBOSA  BACBLLAR 764 

Bennet Admmfom,        .  784 

THIRD  PBRIOb.-PROM  ITBO  TO  1844. 
FRANCISCO  DB  YASCONCBLLOS  COUTINHO      .  "l    .  788 

Bonneta T88 

To  Mil  of  eomwa  doth  the  panga  Inooaae  Jdamaen.  .  788 
O  thonghtlam  bird,  thatthna,  with  carol  Bwaet  A.      .    .    .  788 

ToaNifhtingala A.      .    .    .  788 

PEDRO  ANTONIO  CORRBA  OARCAO 788 

Bonneta       788 

The  gentle  yonth,  who  reada  my  haplam  atnin  A.  ...  788 
In  Moorieh  ftXUj  chained,  onhappy  alave  .A.     ...  788 

Dido.  —  A  CanUU JPor.  QhotI.  ibo.  168 

DOMINOOS  DOS  REU  ftUITA im 

Bonnau ., 787 

The  wratehea,  Love  ........    Adomeon.        .  787 

*T  waa  en  a  time A.      ...  797 

AmidatthaatormawhichchillinrwiDtorbfinceA.     .    .    .  T87 

CLAUDIO  MANOEL  DA  COSTA  ,    ,    ,    .    , TBT 

Bonnet A.     ...  787 

The  Lyre T.  itoaeee.      .  7S8 

JOAO  XAYIER  DB  MAT08 788 

Bonnet Adnaieon.        .  788 

PAULINO  CABRAL  DE  YASCONCBLLOS 788 

Sonnet A.      ...  788 

J.  A.  DA  CUNHA 758 

Line*  written  during  Severe  lUnem  ...     7*.  Rottot.      .  TtS 
JOAftUlM  FORTUNATO  DB  YALADARES  GAMDOA      .  788 

Sonnele       788 

My  gentle  love,  —  to  bid  tbie  valley  amile  Adameen.  .  788 
Bow  calm  and  how  aerene  yon  river  glidae  .A.  ...  788 
Adien,  ye  Nine  I  O,  how  much  woe  1  prove     A.      .    .    .  7M 

ANTONIO  DINIZ  DA  CRUZ TBO 

Sonneta 780 

One  time,  when  Love A.     ...  780 

Beta,  lonely  in  thie  cool  and  verdant  aeat     .A.      .    .    .  780 

From  O  Byaopa For.  Qnaf-I.  Rf.  780 

FRANCKCO  MANOEL  DO  NA8CIMBNT0 781 

SonneM       781 

On  aaeending  a  Bill  laading  to  a  Convent    Afra.  Bwmwk*.  TBI 

Deaeend,  O  Joy  I  deecend  in  brighteet  gviee  AdaoMon.       .  TBI 

Aayetnnpractiaedin  the  wayeofLova    .    .    A.      .    .    .  181 

Ode.— Neptune  to  the  Portugueea     .    .     f^.  Qiiort.  Aio.  789 

MANOEL  MARIA  DE  BARBOSA  DU  BOCAGE   ....  788 

SonneU 788 

Scarce  waa  put  off  my  infant  ewathing.band  Adamaon.  .  7BS 
Ifitiaaweet,  ineammar'agladaomeday      .A.      .    .    .  TBI 

The  Fall  of  Ooa #\>r.  QiHirl.  Jbo.  783 

TheWolfandtheBm A.     .    .    .  768 

OONDE  DA  BARCA TB3 

Sennet Adaaieon.        .  788 

ANTONIO  RIBBIRO  DOB  BANTOS 784 

Sonnet A.     ...  764 

DOMINGOB  MAXIMIANO  TORRES 784 

Bonnet A.     .    .    .  TM 

BELCBIOR  MANOEL  CURYO  BEMEDO 784 

Sonnet Bryant,       ,    .  784 

JOAM  BAPTISTA  GOMEZ 784 

Prom  the  Tragedy  of  Ignet  do  Caatio     .  Blaciwood'*  Afaig.  784 

JOSE  AOOSTINHO  DE  MACEDO / .  788 

AMeditaUon       JVr.  Qiaart. ifco.  788 

JOAO  BYANGEUSTA  DE  MORAES  BARMENTO      .    .  788 

Ode  on  War A.     ...  788 

J.  B.  LEITAO  DE  ALMEIDA  GARRETT 788 

Prom  Adoainda A.     ...  788 

APPENDIX 787 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS TH 


h 
^ 


TRANSLATORS  AND  SOURCES. 


:  NoiicM  on  tlis  Rlitory, 
Antiquitiei,  Litontmv,  ftc,  of  Pwui«»L  Utonry  Do- 
IiuunMit,  Fm  L  SoIaeUoo  of  Soniiou,  wHb  Biognph- 
IcalSkBCchMofUkBAutbora.  B7  John  Adunaoo.  New- 
caAle-upoa-Tyno.    1848.    8vo. 

BAXCBoyr,  O.  In  Dwigbt'a  Salea  Minor  Poenw  of  CkMtbo 
and  SehiUor. 

Bbbbbfow.  SlKclmaaioftlisGeimfta  Lyric  Poeu.  Lon- 
don.   1323.    8to.   . 

BowBiaa.  Mailno  and  Yeipora,  with  Hjmm  ud  Oeca- 
■kxMl  Devotional  Pleeaa.  Bf  John  Bowrinf .  Booton. 
16M.    aSmo. 

.    BateTian  Anlhologr ,  or  Speeimena  of  the  Dntch 

Pbala,  wtth  a  Hisiory  of  the  Poetical  Literatnre  of  Hot 
land.  By  John  Bowrinf  and  Harry  &  Van  Dyk.  Lon- 
don.   1824.    18dw. 

.  Ancient  Poetry  and  Romancea  of  Spain.  Se- 
lected and  tranaiated  by  John  Bowring.  London.  1821 
6vo.— Alao  in  the  London  Magazine. 

Bbbuh  Drama  ;  a  CoUection  of  the  moet  eeteemed  Tng- 
ediaa,  OomedleB,  Opens,  and  Farcaa  In  the  EngUah  LiB- 
guage.    2  Tola.    Philadelphia.    1837.    8?o. 

Baooxaw  Songe  and  Ballade,  tranaUted  ftom  UUand,  S3lr> 
ner,  Bilrger,  and  other  Gennan  Lyric  Poete.  By  Chariee 
T.  Bnmks.    Boaton.    1842.    12nio.  — Aleolnthe  DIaL 

Bbtakt.  Pbeme  by  William  Cullan  Bryant.  New  York. 
1838.    I2mo. 

Bdlwb.  TtePbeme  and  Ballade  of  SehiUer.  Tranaiated 
by  Sir  Edward  Bolwar  Lyttoo,  Bart.  With  a  brief  Sketch 
oftheAnthoeeUA.  London.  1844.  8to.  New  York. 
1841.    12mo. 

Braoir.  Ttw  Wocka  of  Loid  Byron,  with  hie  Letten  and 
Joomala,  and  hie  Ule,  by  Thomas  Moore,  Eni.  17  Tola. 
London.    1833.    12mo. 

Caltsbt,  G.  H.  Don  Ouloe;  a  Dramatic  Poem,  by  Frad- 
erkk  Schiller.  Tmnelaied  from  the  German.  Bdtlmora. 
i83C    Itmo. 

Cabltlb.  Critical  and  IfiaceDanaoQs  Eaeaya.  ByThomae 
Cariyla.    4  Tob.    1838-3B.    12mo. 

CBAUcn.  The  Poetical  Worka  of  GeofR«y  Chancer,  with 
an  Enay,  Notes,  and  a  Gloemry.  By  Thomaa  l^rwhitt. 
LoodoB.  1843.  8?o.  —  Aleo  in  Chalmen'a  English  Poets, 
ToLL    Londoou    18ia    8to. 

CaoKunr.  The  Lyra  and  Sword  of  Chariee  Theodora  Kitr- 
ner.  With  a  Life,  ftc  Tranaiated  from  the  German,  by 
W.  RChoriey.    London  and  Liverpool.    183&    24mo. 

Cuan.  Ximena,  or  the  Heroic  Dangbter ;  a  Tragedy,  In 
FITS  Acts.  By  OoUey  Gibber,  Esq.  [Tranaiated  ftom  the 
Cid  of  Oomeille].    In  the  British  Drama,  YoL  II. 

CoLmuDOB.  The  PbeUeal  Worka  of  a  T.  Coleridge.  8 
Tola.    London  and  BoBlon.    1836.    ICmx 

CoBTBBABB.  IIlBalratlons  of  Anglo-Skzon  Pbetry.  By 
John  J.  Conybears.    London.    1826.    8ro. 

CoBTBUo.  Specimens  of  the  Eariy  Poetry  of  Frsnce,  from 
the  Time  of  the  Troabadoori  and  ThniTiree  to  the  Beign 
of  Henri  Qnatra.  By  I^niaa  Stnart  CoeteOo.  London. 
1836k    8to. 

Cbabcb,  a  P.  In  Dwlght'e  Select  Minor  Poems  of  Goethe 
and  SchiUer. 

Dacbb.  Tranalatlons  from  PetniclL  By  Barbarina  Lady 
Dacra.  Forming  Appendix  VII.  to  Eaaaya  on  Petrareli, 
t^  Ugo  Foecolo.    London.    1882.    8to. 

Dabib.,  a    In  Anderson'a  Britlah  Poets,  ToL  IV.    Edin- 
17931    8to. 

Select  Minor  Poems,  tranaiated  from  the  German 
of  Goethe  and  Schiller,  with  Notee.  By  John  S.  DwIghU 
Boeton.    1839.     12roo. 

&J0*.    Schiller's  Song  of  the  BelL     Tranaiated  for  the 
Boeton  Academy  of  Music    By  a  A.  ElioU 
1837.    8vo. 


Faibfaz.  Oodfray  of  Ballolgne ;  or  the  RecoTery  of  Jen- 
ealem.  DooehitoEngllehHerolcal  Verse,  from  the  Italian 
of  Ihaeo.  By  Edward  Fairiax.  2  role.  WIndMjr.  1817.  8to. 

Fabbbaw,  R.  Extract  from  hie  Translatloo  of  the  Paetor 
Fido,  In  the  LIree  of  the  meet  eminent  Literary  and  Sci- 
entific Men  of  Italy,  Spain,  and  Portogal.  3  toIs.  Lon- 
don.   1836.    16mo. 

Fbltob.  German  Llteratora.  Tranaiated  from  the  German 
of  WoUipng  MenaaL  By  C.  C.  Felton.  3  role.  Boston. 
I84a    12mo.— AkoMa 

Fox.  EIng  Alfred's  Anglo-Shxon  Version  of  the  Metres  of 
BoCthlos,  with  an  English  Translation  and  Noiss.  By 
the  BoT.  Samuel  Fox.    London.    1836.    8to. 

Fbbbb.  InSottlbey'sChranlcleoftheCld.  London.  1808. 
4ta 

Fbotbwobam,  N.  L.  In  the  Collections  of  Bnoks  and 
Dwight,  and  the  Chrietlan  Examiner. 

Gbbmam  Wbbatb.  Tnnslatioas  In  Poetry  and  Proee,  fttNB 
celebrated  German  Writera.  Selected  by  Herman  Bokum. 
Boeton,  1836.    16mo. 

Gnxm.    In  Btackwood'e  Magaslne. 

GowBB.  Tranaktions  from  the  German;  and  Original  Po- 
eme.  ByLordFruiclsLeTeeonGower.  London.  1824.  8to. 

Gbabibb,  F.    In  the  Juvenile  Mieceliany. 

Gbat.F.  C.    Bia 

Gbbbnb,  G.  W.    In  the  North  American  RoTlew. 

Gbbswbll,  W.  Pabb.  Memoln  of  PoUtian,  quoted  in 
Roecoe'e  SIsmondl. 

Haluok.  Ahkwick  ObmIs,  with  other  Pbems.  By  Flti- 
Graene  Ralleck.    New  York.    1845.    12mo. 

Hatwabo.  Fanst;  a  Dramatic  Poem,  by  Goethe.  Trana- 
iated Into  Engllah  Proee,  with  Remarks  on  former  Tranala- 
tiona,  and  Notee.  By  A  Hay  ward,  Eeq.  Second  Edition. 
London.    1834.    8Tn. 

HBWAiia.  The  Poetical  Worka  of  Mrs.  Felicia  Hemane, 
complate  In  one  ToluoM.    Philadelphia.    1844.   8vo. 

Hbhdbbbob.  Iceland ;  or  the  Journal  of  a  Realdence  In  that 
Island.    Edinborsb.    1819.    8vo. 

Hbbauo,  J.  A.    In  Fraser'e  Magazine. 

Hbbbbbt,  W.  Select  Icetandic  Poetry.  Translated  from 
the  Origlnala,  with  Notee.    London.    1804.    8vo. 

.    Ibid.    Put  Second.    London.    1806.    8vo. 

.    Tranalatlons  from  the  German,  Danish,  ftc. 

London.    1804.    8vo. 

.    Translations  from  the  Italian,  Spanish,  Porta- 

gneee,  German,  Ac.    London,  1806.    8vo. 

Hixx.  Alzira;  a  Tragedy,  in  Five  Acts.  By  Aaron  Hill, 
Esq.  [Translated  from  the  Fnnch  of  Volulre.]  In  the 
Britleh  Drama,  VoL  H. 

HoLLAim.  Some  Account  of  the  Lives  and  Writinga  of 
Lope  Felix  de  Vega  Carplo  and  Guillen  de  Castro.  By 
Henry  Richard  Lord  Holtand.  2  vols.  London.  1817.  8vo. 

HooLB.  The  Works  of  Metastasio.  Translated  from  the 
Italian,  by  John  Hoole.    2  vole.    London.    1767.    8vo. 

Howrrr.  The  Poetical  Works  of  Mary  Howltt.  Philadel- 
phia.   1844.    8to. 

HuBT.  Bacchne  In  Tuacany;  a  Ditbyrambic  Fbem,  from 
the  Italian  of  Franceoco  Redl,  with  Notee,  Original  and 
Select.    By  Leigh  Hunt.    London.    1825.    12mo. 

.    The  Pbetlcal  Works  of  Leigh  HunL  London.  1832. 

8to. 

Ibobam.  The  Saxon  Chronicle,  with  an  English  Transla- 
tion.   By  the  Rot.  J.  Ingram.    London.    1323.    4to. 

jAMXBaoM.  Popular  Ballads  and  Songs.  By  Robert  Jamie- 
aon.    2  vols.    Edinburgh.    8vo. 

.    Pbpnlar  Heroic  and  Romantic  Ballads,  translated 

from  the  Northern  Languages.  In  the  Dlustrations  of 
Northern  Antlquitiee,  from  the  earlier  Teutonic  and 
ScandinaTlan  Romancee.    Edinburgh.    1814.    4to. 

Jabtib.    Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha.    Tranaiated  from  the 


XVlll 


TRANSLATORS  AND   SOURCES. 


Spaniih  of  Miguel  da  Cerrantoa  SBavedra.    Bj  ChariM 
Jarvia,  Eaq.    2  toIb.    London.    1842.    8to. 
Kkmblk.    a  Translation  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  Poem  of  Beo- 
wulf.   By  John  M.  KemUe,  Esq.   London.   1837.  12mo. 
Lathah.    AzeL   From  the  Swedish  of  Eaaias  Tegn^r.   Bj 

R.  G.  Latham,  M.  A.    London.    1838.    Sro. 
Llotd.    The  Tragedies  of  VittorioAlfieri.  Translated  from 

the  Italian,  by  Charles  Lloyd.  3  toIs.  London.  1816.  12mo. 
LocKHART.    Ancient  Spanish  BaUads,  Historical  and  Ro- 
mantic.   Translated,  with  Notes,  by  J.  O.  Lockhart,  Esq. 

London.    1841.    4u>.    New  York.    1842.    8?o. 
Ltbll.    The  Canzoniere  of  Dante  Allghieri,  including  the 

Poems  of  the  Vita  Nuora  and  Convito;  Italian  and  Eng- 
lish. Translated  by  Charles  Lyell,  Esq.  London.  1840. 8?o. 
Macray.    Stray  Leares,  including  Translations  from  the 

Lyric  Poets  of  Germany.    London.    1827.    12mo. 
Mbrivalb.    The  Minor  Poems  of  Schiller.    By  John  He^ 

man  Merirale,  Esq.,  F.  S.  A.    London.    1844.    12mo. 
MicKLB.    The  Lusiad ;  or  the  Discovery  of  India ;  an  Epic 

Poem.    Translated  from  Camoens.    By  William  Julius 

Mickle.    London.    1809.    24mo. 
MiLMAM.    The  Poetical  Works  of  Qeniy  Hart  MUman. 

Philadelphia.    1840.    8to. 
MoiK.    Wallensteln's  Camp.    Translated  from  the  German 

of  Schiller,  by  George  Moir.    With  a  Memoir  of  Albert 

Wallenstein,  by  G.  WaUis  Haren.    Boston.   1837.   12mo. 
OzsLb    The  Trophy  Bucket;  a  Mock  Heroic  Poem,  done 

from  the  Italian  into  English  Rhyme.    By  Mr.  OselL 

London.    1710.    870. 
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1843.    8to. 
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The  Democratic  Reriew. 

The  Dial. 

The  Juvenile  Miscellany. 

The  Knickerbockw. 

The  Lady's  Annual  Register. 

The  New  England  Magazine. 

The  New  York  Review. 

The  North  American  Review. 

The  United  Sutes  Literary  Gazette. 

The  United  Stales  Review  and  Literary  Gazette. 
*    European. 

The  AthentBum. 

Blackwood's  Magazine. 

The  Dublin  Univenity  Magadoe. 

The  Edinburgh  Review. 

The  Foreign  Quarterly  Review. 

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Fraser's  Magazine. 

The  London  Magazine. 

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William  Stewart  Rooe.    8  vols.    London.    1823.    Svo. 

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Strono.  Frithiof's  Saga.  Translated  from  the  Swedish 
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POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  EUROPE. 


ANGLO-SAXON  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


Wx  read  in  history,  that  the  beauty  of 
an  ancient  mannacript  tempted  King  Alfred, 
when  a  boj  at  hia  mother'a  knee,  to  learn 
the  letters  of  the  Saxon  tongue.  A  rolume, 
which  that  monarch  minatrei  wrote  in  after 
jeara,  now  lies  beibre  me,  so  beautifully 
printed,  that  it  might  tempt  any  one  to  learn 
not  only  the  lettota  of  the  Saxon  language,  but 
the  language  also.  The  monarch  himaelf  is 
looking  from  the  ornamented  initial  letter  of 
the  first  chapter.  He  is  crowned  and  care- 
worn ;  having  a  beard,  and  long,  flowing  locks, 
and  a  fice  of  majesty.  He  seems  to  have  just 
uttered  those  remarkable  words,  with  which 
his  Preftee  doaes :  '*  And  now  he  prays,  and 
for  God*s  name  implores,  every  one  of  those 
whom  it  lists  to  read  this  book,  that  he  would 
pray  for  him,  and  not  blame  him,  if  he  more 
rightly  understand  it  than  he  could ;  for  every 
man  must,  according  to  the  measure  of  his  un- 
derstanding, and  according  to  his  leisure,  speak 
that  which  he  apeaks,  and  do  that  which  he 
does." 

I  would  fain  hope,  that  the  beauty  of  thia 
and  other  Anglo-Saxon  booka  may  lead  many 
to  the  atudy  of  that  venerable  language.  Through 
sDch  gateways  will  they  pass,  it  is  true,  into 
no  gay  palace  of  song ;  but  among  the  dark 
chamben  and  mouldering  walls  of  an  old  na^ 
tional  literature,  all  weather-stained  and  in 
mina.  They  will  find,  however,  venerable 
namea  recorded  on  thoae  walls;  and  inscrip- 
tions, worth  the  trouble  of  deciphering.  To 
point  out  the  most  curious  and  important  of 
these  is  my  present  purpose  ;  and  according  to 
the  measure  of  my  understanding,  and  accord- 
ing to  my  leisure,  I  speak  that  which  I  speak. 

The  Anglo-Saxon  language  was  the  language 
of  our  Saxon  forefiohers  in  England,  though 
they  never  gave  it  that  name.  They  called  it 
English.  Thus  King  Alfivd  speaks  of  trans- 
lating '*  fit>m  book-latin  into  English  "  (of  bee 
Ledene  an  EnglUe) ;  Abbot  lEiftic  was  request- 
ed by  Athelward  «*to  translate  the  book  of 
Genesis  from  Latin  into  English  "  (anwendan 
of  Ledene  on  Engliee  tha  hoc  Geneeie) ;  and 
Bishop  Leofiic,  speaking  of  the  manuscript  he 
gave  to  the  Exeter  Cathedral,  calls  it  ^  a  great 
English  book  "  (myed  Englise  hoe).  In  other 
words,  it  is  the  old  Saxon,  a  Gothic  tongue,  as 
spoken  and  developed  in  England.  That  it 
was  spoken  and  written  uniformly  throughout 
the  land  is  not  to  be  imagined,  when  we  know 
that  Jutes  and  Anglea  were  in  the  country  as 
well  as  Saxons.  But  that  it  was  essentially 
the  aame  language  everywhere  is  not  to  be 
doubted,  when  we  compare  pure  Weat  Saxon 


texts  with  Northumbrian  glosses  and  books  of 
Durham.  Hickes  speaka  of  a  Haii^&ixoii  Pe- 
riod  in  the  history  of  the  language.  The  Saxon 
kings  reigned  six  hundred  years ;  the  Danish 
dynaaty,  twenty  only.  And  neither  the  Danish 
boors,  who  were  earthlings  (yrtkUngae)  in  the 
countiy,  nor  the  Danish  soldiers,  who  were 
dandiea  at  the  court  of  King  Canute,  could,  in 
the  brief  space  of  twenty  years,  have  so  over- 
laid or  interlarded  the  pure  Anglo-Saxon  with 
their  provincialisms,  aa  to  give  it  a  new  char- 
acter, and  thus  form  a  new  period  in  its  history, 
aa  waa  afterwarda  done  by  the  Normana. 

The  Dano-Saxon  is  a  dialect  of  the  language, 
not  a  period  which  waa  paaaed  through  in  its 
history.  Down  to  the  time  of  the  Norman 
Conqueat,  it  existed  in  the  form  of  two  princi- 
pal dialects ;  namely,  the  Anglo-Saxon  in  the 
South ;  and  the  Dano-Saxon,  or  Northumbrian, 
in  the  North.  After  the  Norman  Conquest, 
the  language  assumed  a  new  form,  which  haa 
been  cidled,  properly  enough,  Norman-Saxon 
and  Semi-Saxon. 

This  form  of  the  language,  ever  flowing  and 
filtering  through  the  roots  of  national  feeling, 
custom,  and  prejudice,  prevailed  about  two 
hundred  years ;  that  is,  fW>m  the  middle  of  the 
eleventh  to  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, when  it  became  English.  It  is  impossible 
to  fix  the  landmarks  of  a  language  with  any 
great  precision ;  but  only  floating  beacons,  here 
and  there.  Perhaps,  however,  it  may  be  well, 
while  upon  this  subject,  to  say  more  than  I 
have  yet  said.  I  therefore  subjoin,  in  a  note, 
a  very  lucid  and  brief  account  of  the  language ; 
perhaps  the  clearest  and  briefest  that  can  be 
given.     It  is  by  Mr.  Cardale.* 

*  "Noa  OH  ma  Sazoit  Dialicts. 

HiOKBB,  In  c  19  of  the  Anglo-Suon  Gruunar  Id  his 
•tatas,  thst  then  are  three  dUlecte  of  the 
S&xon  language,  diethtgalehable  ftom  the  pure  and  ngnlar 
language  of  which  he  haa  alreadj  treated,  namdj,  that 
found  in  the  authon  who  llouriahed  In  the  aouthern  and 
western  parte  of  Britain.  These  dialects  he  arrangea,  ac- 
cording to  certain  periode  of  blatory,  ae  followa:  1.  The 
BrUtamo-SamHt  which,  he  aaje,  wae  apoken  bj  our  ancee* 
ton,  from  their  original  Inraalon  of  Britain  tiU  the  entrance 
of  the  Danea,  being  about  337  jean.— 9.  The  JDano-Saxonf 
which,  he  aaya,  waa  need  from  the  entrance  of  the  Danea 
till  the  Norman  Invaaion,  being  274  jean,  and  mora  eepe- 
elallj  in  the  northern  parts  of  England  and  the  south  of 
Scotland.— a.  The  Normanno-Dano'Skuon,  epoken  from 
the  hivaslon  bj  the  Normans  till  the  time  of  Hen.  IL, 
which  towards  the  end  of  that  time,  he  saja,  might  be 
termed  Semi-Saxon,  ^"WriUn  of  considerable  eminence 
appear  to  have  coneldersd  this  amngement  of  tha  dialects 
aa  a  complete  hletorj  of  the  language,  without  adrening 
to  the  clrcumatanoe  of  Hickaa'e  diatingulehing  them  all 
A 


ANGLO-SAXON  LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


It  is  oftentimes  curious  to  consider  the  far-off 
beginnings  of  great  events,  and  to  study  the 
aspect  of  the  cloud  no  bigger  than  one's  hand. 
The  British  peasant  looked  seaward  from  his 
harvestpfield,  and  saw,  with  wondering  eyes, 
the  piratical  schooner  of  a  Saxon  Viking  mak- 
ing for  the  mouth  of  the  Thames.  A  few 
years  —  only  a  few  years  —  afterward,  while 
the  same  peasant,  driven  from  his  homestead 
north  or  west,  still  lives  to  tell  the  story  to  his 
grandchildren,  another  race  lords  it  over  the 
land,  speaking  a  different  language  and  living 
under  different  laws.  This  important  event  in 
his  history  is  more  important  in  the  world's 
history.  Thus  began  the  reign  of  the  Saxons 
in  England ;  and  the  downfall  of  one  nation, 
and  the  rise  of  another,  seem  to  us  at  this  dis- 
tance only  the  catastrophe  of  a  stage-play. 

The  Saxons  came  into  England  about  the 
middle  of  the  fifth  century.  They  were  pagans ; 
they  were  a  wild  and  warlike  people  ;  brave, 

from  <  the  pan  and  rogular  langua^/  which  Is  the  primary 
subject  of  his  work.  From  this  partial  view,  a  nothm  has 
become  cuneot,  that  the  Dano-Skzoa  dialect,  preriouely  to 
or  during  the  reigns  or  the  Canutes,  became  the  general 
language  of  this  country,  and  that  our  present  language 
was  formed  by  gradual  alterations  superinduced  upon  the 
Dano-Sazon.  This  being  taken  for  granted,  It  has  appeared 
easy  to  decide  upon  the  antiquity  of  some  of  the  existing 
remsins.  POems  written  in  Dano-Saxon  hare  been  of 
courae  ascribed  to '  the  Dano-Sazon  peridd ' ;  and '  Beowulf,' 
and  the  poema  of  Cndmon,  hare  been  deprived  of  that 
high  antiquity  which  a  perusal  of  the  writings  ttiemselves 
inclines  us  to  attribute  to  them,  and  reforred  to  a  compara- 
tWely  modem  era. 

"  With  all  due  respect  for  the  learning  of  the  author  of 
the  Thetaurtu,  it  may  be  said,  that  hs  has  Introduoed  an 
unnecessary  degree  of  complexity  on  the  aubjea  of  the 
dialects.  His  first  dialect,  the  Britanno-Saxon,  may  tn 
iairiy  laid  out  of  the  question.  The  only  IndispuUble 
specimen  of  it,  according  to  hie  account,  is  what  he  caUs 
'a  fragment  of  the  true  CiBdmon,'  praserred  in  Alfred's 
▼enion  of  Bede,— a  poem  which  has  nothing  in  language 
or  style  to  distinguish  it  from  the  admitted  productions  of 
Alfred.  Dismissing  the  supposed  Britanno-Saxon  as  un- 
worthy of  consideration,  the  principal  remains  of  the  Saxon 
language  may  be  arranged  in  two  claosea,  viz.,  those  which 
are  written  in  jmn  Anglo-Saxon,  and  those  which  are 
written  in  Demo-Saxon.  These,  in  Act,  wars  the  two 
great  dialects  of  the  Isnguage.  The  former  was  used  (as 
Hidces  obserres)  In  the  southsm  and  western  parts  of 
England ;  sod  ths  latter  In  the  northsni  parts  of  England 
and  the  south  of  Scotland.  It  Is  entirely  a  gniuitoas 
supposition,  to  Imsgine  that  either  of  these  dialects  com- 
menced at  a  much  later  period  than  ths  other.  Esch  was 
probably  as  old  as  ths  beginning  of  the  lieptarchy.  We 
know,  that,  among  the  various  nations  which  composed  it, 
the  Saxons  became  predominant  in  the  southern  and  wes^ 
em  parts,  and  the  Angles  In  the  noitiiero.  As  these  nations 
were  distinct  In  their  original  seats  on  the  continent,  so 
tliey  arrived  at  diflbrent  times,  snd  brought  with  them 
different  dialects.  This  variety  of  speech  continued  till 
the  Normsn  cooqusst,  snd  even  afterwards.  It  is  not 
affirmed,  that  the  dialects  wsre  absolutely  invariaUs.  Each 
would  he  more  or  less  changed  by  time,  and  by  interooarss 
with  iMeigners.  Ths  mutual  oonoexion,  also,  which  sub- 
sisted between  ths  dlftrant  nations  of  the  heptarchy  would 
necessarily  lead  to  soms  Intermixture.  But  we  may  with 
safety  assert,  that  ths  two  great  dialects  of  the  Saxon  lan- 
guage continued  substantially  distinct  as  long  ss  the  Ian- 
gusge  Itsslf  was  in  ass, —that  the  Dano-Sknm,  in  short, 


rejoicing  in  sea-storms,  and  beautiful  in  person, 
with  blue  eyes,  and  long,  fiowing  hair.  Their 
warriors  wore  their  shields  suspended  from 
their  necks  by  chains.  Their  horsemen  were 
armed  with  iron  sledge-hammers.  Their  priests 
rode  upon  mares,  and  carried  into  the  battle- 
field an  image  of  the  god  Irminsula ;  in  figure 
like  an  armed  man ;  his  helmet  crested  with  a 
cock ;  in  his  right  hand  a  banner,  emblazoned 
with  a  red  rose ;  a  bear  carved  upon  his  breast ; 
and,  hanging  from  his  shoulders,  a  shield,  on 
which  was  a  lion  in  a  field  of  flowers. 

Not  two  centuries  elapsed  before  this  whole 
people  was  converted  to  Christianity.  JClfric, 
in  his  homily  on  the  birthday  of  St.  Gregory, 
informs  us,  that  this  conversion  was  accom- 
plished by  the  holy  wishes  of  that  good  man, 
and  the  holy  works  of  St.  Augustine  and  other 
monks.  St.  Gregory  beholding  one  day  certain 
slaves  set  for  sale  in  the  market-place  of  Rome, 
who  were  **  men  of  fiur  countenance  and  nobly- 

nerer  supenedsd  the  Anglo-Saxon.  In  a  formal  dissertation 
oa  this  subject,  citations  might  be  made  iirom  the  'Saxon 
Laws'  fiom  Etholbert  to  Oanute,  from  the  'Saxon  Chroni- 
cle,' from  charten,  and  from  worica  coofesaedly  written  filler 
the  Norman  conquest,  to  show,  that,  whatever  changes 
took  place  in  the  dialect  of  the  southern  and  western  parts 
of  Britain,  It  never  lost  its  distinctire  character,  or  became 
what  can  with  any  propriety  be  termed  Dano-SSzon.  Afttf 
the  Norman  conquest,  both  the  dialects  were  gradually 
corrupted,  till  they  terminated  in  modem  English.  During 
this  period  of  the  declension  of  the  Sazon  language,  noth- 
ing was  permanent ;  and  whether  we  call  the  mixed  and 
changeable  language  ' Normanno-Dano-Saxon,'  or  'Semi- 
Saxon,'  or  leave  It  without  any  particular  appellation,  Is 
not  very  ImportsnU^An  additional  proof  that  the  two 
great  dialects  wen  not  consecutire,  but  contemporary, 
might  be  drawn  from  early  writings  In  Englioh,  and  even 
from  such  as  were  composed  long  after  the  eatablishment 
of  the  Normans.  We  find  traces  of  the  pure  Anglo-Saxon 
dialect  In  Bobert  of  Gloucester,  who  wrote  In  the  time  of 
Edward  ths  First,  snd  whose  worics  are  now  understood 
almost  without  ths  aid  of  a  glosiary;  whsreas  ths  language 
of  Bobort  Lsn^and,  who  wrote  neariy  a  century  later,  is 
more  closely  connected  with  the  Dano-Saxon,  and  so  diflbr- 
ent fh>m  modem  English  as  to  be  sometimes  almost  unin- 
telligible.— Though  these  diflbrences  have  been  gradually 
wearing  away,  our  provincial  glosssries  sllbrd  evldenca, 
that,  even  at  the  present  day,  they  are  not  entirely  obUtsr- 
ated. 

"AlfM's  Isagusgs  Is  ssteemed  pure  Anglo-Saxon;  yei 
we  find  in  his  poetical  compositions  some  words,  which, 
sccordjng  to  Hlckes,  belong  to  the  Dano-Saxon  dialect. 
This  may  be  readily  accounted  for.  It  is  extremely  prob- 
able that  the  works  of  the  poets  who  flourished  in  ths  north 
of  England  and  the  adjoining  parts  of  Scotland,  and  who 
compossd  thsir  poems  in  Dano-Sucon,  wei^  circulated.  If 
not  in  writing,  at  least  by  Itinerant  recitera,  in  all  ths 
nations  of  ths  heptarohy ;  that  they  were  imitated  by  the 
southem  poets ;  and  that  some  particular  words  and  phrases 
were  at  length  considered  ss  a  soit  of  poetical  language, 
and  Indispenssbis  to  that  species  of  composition.  Some 
wordi  which  occur  In  the  poems  of  Alfred,  ss  well  ss  In 
'Beowulf,'  Caadmon,  dec,  sre  ssldom  or  nsvsr  met  with  in 
prose.  Of  Alfred's  esriy  sttsntion  to  poeticsl  reciutions  ws 
have  a  remarkable  testimony  in  Asser:  '  Saxordea  poemr 
ata  die  noetuque  tolen  auditor  relatu  aliorum  otqnosimt 
audieno,  doeibUia  memoriter  nHnebat.*  Wise's  ^sser, 
p.  16."— Eing  Alftsd*s  Anglo-Saxon  Version  of  BoCthius; 
with  an  English  Tnmslatlon  and  Notss.  By  T.  SL  Cabsau. 
18S9.    8to. 


ANGLO-SAXON   LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


haired,"  and  learnings  that  they  were  heathens, 
and  called  Angles,  heaved  a  long  aif  h,  and  Miid  : 
*^  Well-away !  that  men  of  ao  fiiir  a  hue  should 
he  sabjected  to  the  awarthy  devil !  Rightly 
are  they  called  Angles,  for  they  have  angela' 
beauty ;  and  therefore  it  is  fit  that  they  in  hea- 
ven should  be  companions  of  angels.**  As  soon, 
therefore,  aa  he  undertook  the  popehood  (f«- 
ptmkad  vmderfeng)^  the  monks  were  sent  to 
their  beloved  work.  In  the  Wittma  Otmot^  or 
Assembly  of  the  Wise,  convened  by  King  Ed- 
win of  Northumbria  to  consider  the  propriety 
of  receiving  the  Christian  ftith,  a  Saxon  Eal- 
dorman  arose,  and  spoke  these  noble  words : 
M  Thus  aeemeth  to  me,  O  king,  this  present  life 
of  man  upon  earth,  compared  with  the  time 
which  ia  unknown  to  us  ;  even  aa  if  you  were 
sitting  at  a  foast,  amid  your  Ealdormen  and 
Thegns  in  winter  time.  And  the  fire  is  lighted, 
and  the  hall  warmed,  and  it  rains,  and  snowa, 
and  storms  without.  Then  cometh  a  sparrow, 
and  flieth  about  the  hall.  It  oometh  in  at  one 
door,  and  goeth  out  at  another.  While  it  is 
within,  it  is  not  touched  by  the  winter's  storm ; 
but  that  is  only  for  a  moment,  only  for  the  least 
space.  Out  of  the  winter  it  cometh,  to  return 
again  into  the  winter  eAsoon.  So  also  this  iifo 
of  man  endureth  for  a  little  apace.  What  goeth 
before  it  and  what  foUoweth  after,  we  know 
not.  Wherefore,  if  this  new  lore  bring  aught 
more  certain  and  more  advantageous,  then  is  it 
worthy  that  we  should  follow  it.*' 

Thus  the  Anglo-Saxons  became  Christiana. 
For  the  good  of  their  souls  they  built  monaste- 
ries and  went  on  pilgrimages  to  Rome.  The 
whole  country,  to  use  Malmesbury's  phrase, 
was  ^  glorious  and  refiilgent  with  relics.*'  The 
priests  sang  psalms  night  and  day ;  and  so  great 
was  the  piety  of  St.  Cuthbert,  that,  according 
to  Bede,  he  forgot  to  take  off  his  shoes  for 
months  together, — sometimes  the  whole  year 
round; — from  which  Mr.  Turner  infers,  that 
he  had  no  stockings.*  They  alao  copied  the 
Evangelists,  and  illustrated  them  with  illumin- 
ationa;  in  one  of  which  St.  John  is  represented 
in  a  peapgreen  dress  with  red  stripes.  They 
also  drank  ale  out  of  bufialo  horns  and  wooden- 
knobbed  goblets.  A  Mercian  king  gave  to  the 
Monastery  of  Croyland  his  great  dnnking-hom, 
that  the  elder  monks  might  drink  therefrom  at 
festivals,  and  ^  in  their  benedictions  remember 
sometimes  the  soulof  the  donor,  Witlaf"  They 
drank  his  health,  with  that  of  Christ,  the  Virgin 
Mary,  the  Apostles,  and  other  saints.  Malmes- 
bury  says,  that  excessive  drinking  was  the  com- 
mon vice  of  all  ranks  of  people.  We  know 
that  King  Hardicanute  died  in  a  revel;  and 
King  Edmund,  in  a  drunken  brawl  at  Pnckle- 
church,  being,  with  all  his  court,  much  over- 
taken by  liquor,  at  the  festival  of  St.  Augustine. 
Thns  did  mankind  go  reeling  through  the  Dark 
Ages ;  quarrelling,  drinking,  hunting,  hawking, 
singing  psalms,  wearing  breeches,!  grinding  in 


*  Hutory  of  the  Anglo-Suooi,  Vol.  11.  p.  61. 

t  la  an  old  Anglo-Saxon  dtaloguo,  a  slweinakar  Mjt,  that 


mills,  eating  hot  bread,  rocked  in  cradles,  buried 
in  coffins,  —  weak,  suffering,  sublime.  Well 
might  King  Alfred  exclaim,  ^«  Maker  of  all 
creatures  !  help  now  thy  miserable  mankind." 
A  national  literature  is  a  subject  which  should 
always  be  approached  with  reverence.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  comprehend  fuUy  the  mind  of  a  nation ; 
even  when  that  nation  still  lives,  and  we  can 
visit  it,  and  its  present  history,  and  the  lives  of 
men  we  know,  help  us  to  a  comment  on  the  writp 
ten  text.  But  here  the  dead  alone  speak.  Voices, 
half  understood;  fragments  of  song,  ending 
abruptly,  as  if  the  poet  had  sung  no  fiirther, 
but  died  with  these  last  words  upon  his  lips ; 
homilies,  preached  to  congregations  that  have 
been  asleep  for  many  centuries;  lives  of  saints, 
who  went  to  their  reward  long  before  the 
world  began  to  scoff  at  sainthood ;  and  won- 
derftil  legends,  once  believed  by  men,  and  now, 
in  this  age  of  wise  children,  hardly  credible 
enough  for  a  nurse's  tale ;  nothing  entire,  noth- 
ing wholly  understood,  and  no  ferther  comment 
or  illustration  than  may  be  drawn  from  an  iso- 
lated fiict  found  in  an  old  chronicle,  or  per- 
chance a  rude  illumination  in  an  old  manu- 
script !  Such  is  the  literature  we  have  now  to 
consider.  Such  fragments,  and  mutilated  re- 
mains, has  the  human  mind  left  of  itself,  com- 
ing down  through  the  times  of  old,  step  by 
step,  and  every  step  a  century.  Old  men  and 
venerable  accompany  us  through  the  Past; 
and,  pausing  at  the  threshold  of  the  Present, 
they  put  into  our  hands,  at  parting,  such  written 
records  of  themselves  as  they  have.  We  should 
receive  these  things  with  reverence.  We  should 
respect  old  age. 

"  Thii  leaf,  ii  it  not  blown  about  by  the  wind  f 
Woe  to  it  for  iu  &te  I 
Alas !  it  is  old." 

What  an  Anglo-Saxon  glee-man  was,  we 
know  from  such  commentaries  as  are  mentioned 
above.  King  Edgar  forbade  the  monks  to  be 
ale-poets  (talii-seopas) ;  and  one  of  his  accusa- 
tions against  the  clergy  of  his  day  was,  that 
they  entertained  glee-men  in  their  monasteries, 
where  they  had  dicing,  dancing,  and  singing, 
till  midnight.  The  illumination  of  an  old  man- 
uscript shows  how  a  glee-man  looked.  It  is  a 
frontispiece  to  the  Psalms  of  David.  The  great 
psalmut  sits  upon  his  throne,  with  a  harp  in 
his  hand,  and  his  masters  of  sacred  song  around 
him.  Below  stands  the  glee-man ;  throwing 
three  balls  and  three  knives  alternately  into 
the  air,  and  catching  them  as  they  fell,  like  a 
modem  juggler.  But  all  the  Anglo-Saxon  poets 
were  not  glee-men.  All  the  harpers  were  not 
kappetUrts^  or  dancers.  The  sceop,  the  creator, 
the  poet,  rose,  at  times,  to  higher  things.  He 
sang  the  deeds  of  heroes,  victorious  odes, 
death-songs,  epic  poems ;  or  sitting  in  clois- 
ters, and  afiir  from  these  things,  converted  holy 
writ  into  Saxon  chimes. 

The  first  thing  which  strikes  the  reader  of 

be  makes  "elippera,  ehoea,  and  leather  breeches"  (jnpyft- 
lera§,  eeeM,  and  l^her-hom). 


ANGLO-SAXON   LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


Anglo-Saxon  poetry  is  the  stnicture  of  the 
verse}  the  short  exclamatory  lines,  whose 
rhythm  depends  on  alliteration  in  the  emphatic 
syllables,  and  to  which  the  general  omission 
of  the  particles  gives  great  energy  and  vivacity. 
Though  alliteration  predominates  in  all  Anglo- 
Saxon  poetry,  rhyme  is  not  wholly  wanting. 
It  had  line-rhymes  and  final  rhymes ;  which, 
being  added  to  the  alliteration,  and  brought  so 
near  together  in  the  short,  emphatic  lines,  pro- 
duce a  singular  effect  upon  the  ear.  They  ring 
like  blows  of  hammers  on  an  anvil.  For  ex- 
ample : 

"  Fifth  mah  /litetb,  The  atroDg  dart  Jlitteth, 

JPlan  man  hwitoth,  The  spear  man  whettath, 

Burg  soig  Mteth,  Gu«  the  eltj  hiteth, 

fiald  aid  ihwileth,  Age  the  bold  quelleUiy 

ITrsc-fiBC  wriihelh,  Yengeance  preraileth, 

Wmh  ath  emiieth."  Wrath  a  city  aamilelh. 

Other  peculiarities  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry, 
which  cannot  escape  the  reader's  attention,  are 
its  frequent  inversions,  its  bold  transitions,  and 
abundant  metaphors.  These  are  the  things 
which  render  Anglo-Saxon  poetry  so  much  more 
difficult  than  Anglo-Saxon  prose.  But  upon 
these  points  I  need  not  enlarge.  It  is  enough 
to  have  thus  alluded  to  them. 

One  of  the  oldest  and  most  important  re- 
mains of  Anglo-Saxon  literature  is  the  epic  po- 
em of"  Beowulf"  Its  age  is  unknown ;  but  it 
comes  from  a  very  distant  and  hoar  antiquity ; 
somewhere  between  the  seventh  and  tenth  cen- 
turies. It  is  like  a  piece  of  ancient  armor; 
rusty  and  battered,  and  yet  strong.  From  witlu 
in  comes  a  voice  sepulchral,  as  if  the  ancienQw  ^ 
armor  spoke,  telling  a  simple,  straight-forward 
narrative ;  with  here  and  there  the  boastful 
speech  of  a  rough  old  Dane,  reminding  one  of 
those  made  by  the  heroes  of  Homer.  The  style, 
likewise,  is  simple, — perhaps  one  should  say, 
austere.  The  bold  metaphors,  which  charac- 
terize nearly  all  the  Anglo-Saxon  poems  we 
have  read,  are  for  the  most  part  wanting  in  this. 
The  author  seems  mainly  bent  upon  telling  us, 
how  his  Sea- Goth  slew  the  Grendel  and  the 
Fire-drake.  He  is  too  much  in  earnest  to  mul- 
tiply epithets  and  gorgeous  figures.  At  times 
he  is  tedious  ;*  at  times  obscure ',  and  he  who 
undertakes  to  read  the  original  will  find  it  no 
easy  task. 

The  poem  begins  with  a  description  of  King 
Hrothgar  the  Scylding,  in  his  great  hall  of  He- 
ort,  which  reechoed  with  the  sound  of  harp  and 
song.  But  not  far  off,  in  the  fens  and  marshes 
of  Jutland,  dwelt  a  grim  and  monstrous  giant, 
called  Grendel,  a  descendant  of  Cain.  This 
troublesome  individual  was  in  the  habit  of  occa- 
sionally visiting  the  Scylding's  palace  by  night, 
to  see,  as  the  author  rather  quaintly  says,  **  how 
the  doughty  Danes  found  themselves  after  their 
beer-carouse."  On  his  first  visit,  he  destroyed 
some  thirty  inmates,  all  asleep,  with  beer  in 
their  brains  ;  and  ever  afterwards  kept  the 
whole  land  in  fear  of  death.  At  length  the 
fame  of  these  evil  deeds  reached  the  ears  of 


Beowulf^  the  Thane  of  Higelac,  a  fhmous  Vi- 
king in  Uiose  days,  who  had  slain  sea-monsters, 
and  wor^  a  wild-boar  for  his  crest.  Straight- 
way he  sailed  with  fifteen  followers  for  the 
court  of  Heort ;  unarmed,  in  the  great  mead- 
hall,  and  at  midnight,  fought  the  Grendel,  tore 
off  one  of  his  arms,  and  hung  it  up  on  the  pal- 
ace wall  as  a  curiosity ;  the  fiend's  fingers  being 
armed  with  long  nails,  which  the  author  calls  the 
hand-spurs  of  the  heathen  hero  (hathents  hondr 
sparu  kUd&rinces).  Retreating  to  his  cave,  the 
grim  ghost  (jgrima  gast)  departed  this  life; 
whereat  there  was  great  carousing  at  Heort 
But  at  night  came  the  Grendel's  mother,  and 
carried  away  one  of  the  beer-drunken  heroes  of 
the  ale-wassail  (heort  dnmcnA  cfer  eol'Wmge), 
Beowulf,  with  a  great  escort,  pursued  her  to  the 
fen-lands  of  the  Grendel ;  plunged,  all  armed, 
into  a  dark-rolling  and  dreary  river,  that  flowed 
firom  the  monster's  cavern;  slew  worms  and 
dragons  manifold ;  was  dragged  to  the  bottom 
by  the  old-wife;  and  seizing  a  magic  sword, 
which  lay  among  the  treasures  of  that  realm  ^ 
wonders,  with  one  fell  blow,  let  her  heathen 
soul  out  of  its  bone-house  (ban-kus.)  '  Having 
thus  freed  the  land  firom  the  giants,  Beowulf^ 
laden  with  gifts  and  treasures,  departed  home- 
ward, as  if  nothing  special  had  happened ;  and, 
after  the  death  of  King  Higelac,  ascended  the 
throne  of  the  Scylfings.  Here  the  poem  should 
end,  and,  we  doubt  not,  did  originally  end.  But, 
as  it  has  come  down  to  us,  eleven  more  cantos 
follow,  containing  a  new  series  of  adventures. 
Beowulf  has  grown  old.  He  has  reigned  fifty 
years ;  and  now,  in  his  gray  old  age,  is  troubled 
0^  the  devastations  of  a  monstrous  Fire-drake, 
so  that  his  metropolis  is  beleaguered,  and  he  can 
no  longer  fiy  his  hawks  and  merles  in  the  open 
country.  He  resolves,  at  length,  to  fight  with 
this  Fire-drake ;  and,  with  the  help  of  his  at- 
tendant, Wigla^  overcomes  him.  "The  land  is 
made  rich  by  the  treasures  found  in  the  dragon's 
cave;  but  Beowulf  dies  of  his  wounds. 

Thus  departs  Beowulf,  the  Sea-Goth;  of  the 
world-kings  the  mildest  to  men,  the  strongest 
of  hand,  the  most  element  to  his  people,  the 
most  desirous  of  glory.  And  thus  closes  the 
oldest  epic  in  any  modem  language ;  written  in 
forty-three  cantos  and  some  six  thousand  linea. 
The  outline,  here  given,  is  filled  up  with  abun- 
dant episodes  and  warlike  details.  We  have 
ale-revels,  and  giving  of  bracelets,  and  presents 
of  mares,  and  songs  of  bards.  The  battles  with 
the  Grendel  and  the  Fire-drake  are  minutely 
described;  as  likewise  are  the  dwellings  and 
rich  treasure-houses  of  these  monsters.  The 
fire-stream  flows  with  lurid  light ;  the  dragon 
breathes  out  flame  and  pestilential  breath  ;  the 
gigantic  sword,  forged  by  the  Jutes  of  old,  dis- 
solves and  thaws  like  an  icicle  in  the  hero's 
grasp ;  and  the  swart  raven  tells  the  eagle  how 
he  fiired  with  the  fell  wolf  at  the  death-feast. 
Such  is,  in  brief^  the  machinery  of  the  poem. 
It  possesses  great  epic  merit,  and  in  parts  is 
strikingly  graphic  in  its  descriptions.     As  we 


ANGLO-SAXON  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


read,  we  can  almost  smell  the  brine,  and  hear 
the  sea-breeze  blow,  and  see  the  main-land 
stretch  out  its  jutting  promontories,  those  sea- 
noees  (ms-iubshu),  as  the  poet  calls  them,  into 
the  blue  waters  of  the  solemn  main. 

In  the  words  of  Mr.  Kemble,  I  exhort  the 
reader  **  to  judge  this  poem  not  by  the  measure 
of  our  times  and  creeds,  but  by  those  of  the  times 
which  it  describes ;  as  a  rude,  but  very  faithful 
picture  of  an  age,  wanting  indeed  in  scientific 
knowledge,  in  mechanical  expertness,  even  in 
refinement;  but  brave,  generous,  and  right-prin- 
cipled ;  assuring  him  of  what  I  well  know,  that 
theee  echoes  firom  the  deserted  temples  of  the 
pest,  if  listened  to  in  a  sober  and  understanding 
spirit,  bring  with  them  matter  both  strengthen- 
ing and  purifying  the  heart."  * 

The  next  work  to  which  I  would  call  the 
attention  of  my  readen  is  very  remarkable, 
both  in  a  philological  and  in  a  poetical  point  of 
view ;  being  written  in  a  more  ambitious  style 
than  "  Beowulf."  It  is  Caedmon's  "  Paraphrase 
of  Portions  of  Holy  Writ"  CsBdmon  was  a 
monk  in  the  Minster  of  Whitby.  He  died  in  the 
year  680.  The  only  account  we  have  of  his 
life  is  that  given  by  the  Venerable  Bede  in  his 
«*  Ecclesiastical  History." 

By  some  he  b  called  the  Father  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  Poetry,  because  his  name  stands  first  in 
the  history  of  Saxon  song-crafl ;  by  others,  the 
Milton  of  our  Forefathers  ;  because  he  sang  of 
Luciler  and  the  Loss  of  Paradise. 

The  poem  is  divided  into  two  books.  The 
first  is  nearly  complete,  and  contains  a  para- 
phrase of  parts  of  the  Old  Testament  and  the 
Apocrypha.  The  second  is  so  mutilated  as  to 
be  only  a  series  of  unconnected  fragments.  It 
contains  scenes  firom  the  New  Testament,  and 
u  chiefly  occupied  with  Christ's  descent  into 
the  lower  regions ',  a  favorite  theme  in  old 
times,  and  well  known  in  the  history  of  mira- 
cle-plays, as  the  "  Harrowing  of  Hell."  The 
author  is  a  pious,  prayerful  monk  ;  "  an  awful, 
reverend,  and  religious  man."  He  has  all  the 
simplicity  of  a  child.  He  calls  his  Creator  the 
Blithe-heart  King ;  the  patriarchs.  Earls ;  and 
their  children,  Noblemen.  Abraham  is  a  wise- 
heedy  man,  a  guardian  of  bracelets,  a  mighty 
earl ;  and  his  wife  Sarah,  a  woman  of  elfin- 
beauty.  The  sons  of  Reuben  are  called  Sea- 
Pirates.  A  laugher  is  a  laughter-smith  (hUah- 
t4fr'Smitk) ',  the  Ethiopians,  a  people  brown  with 
the  hot  coals  of  heaven  (krune  Uode  JuUvm  heo- 
fan-coimm). 

Striking  poetic  epithets  and  passages  are  not, 
however,  wanting.  They  are  sprinkled  here 
and  there  throughout  the  narrative.  The  sky 
is  called  the  roof  of  nations,  the  roof  adorned 

*  The  Angk^SuEon  Poems  of  Beowulf  the  Traveller's 
SDDg^  and  the  BatUe  of  FioDeebaryh,  edited,  together  with 
a  Qioamry  of  the  more  Difficult  Words,  and  an  Historical 
Preface,  by  Jobh  AL  Rbmbls,  Esq.,  M.  A.     London: 


A  Tinsnaiation  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  Poem  of  Beowulf.    By 
JoBX  SL  KmBLB,  Esq.,  M.  A.    London:  1837.    12mo. 


with  Stan.  After  the  overthrow  of  Pharaoh  and 
his  iblk,  he  says,  the  blue  air  was  with  corrup- 
tion tainted,  and  lAs  burtting  ocean  wkooped  « 
Uoody  Mtorm.  Nebuchadnezxar  is  described  as 
«  nakedj  unwiUing  wcmiersr,  a  wondrous  wreUk 
mnd  wedl€99.  Horrid  ghosts,  swart  and  sinfiil, 
"  Wide  through  windy  h^Is 
Wail  woftiL" 
And,  in  the  sack  of  Sodom,  we  are  told  how 
many  a  fearfiil,  pale-fiused  damsel  mhcjC  trsm- 
Uing  go  into  a  8tranger*s  embrace  ;  and  how  fell 
the  defenders  of  brides  and  bracelets,  tick  with 
wounds.  Indeed,  whenever  the  author  has  a 
battle  to  describe,  and  hosts  of  arm-bearing  and 
war-jfaring  men  draw  fit>m  their  sheaths  the  ring- 
hilted  sword  of  edges  doughty  (hrtng-meded 
eweord  eegum  dihtig),  he  enters  into  the  matter 
with  so  much  spirit,  that  one  almost  imagines 
he  sees,  looking  from  under  that  monkish  cowl, 
the  visage  of  no  parish  priest,  but  of  a  grim 
war-wolf,  as  the  brave  were  called,  in  the  days 
when  Cadmon  wrote. 

The  genuioeness  of  these  remains  has  been 
called  in  question,  or,  perhaps  I  should  say, 
denied,  by  Hickes  and  others.  They  suppose 
the  work  to  belong  to  as  late  a  period  as  the 
tenth  century,  on  account  of  its  similarity  in 
style  and  dialect  to  other  poems  of  that  age. 
Besides,  the  fragment  of  the  ancient  Casdmon, 
given  by  Bede,  describing  the  Creation,  does 
not  correspond  exactly  with  the  passage  on  the 
same  subject  in  the  Junian  or  Pseudo  C»dmon ; 
and,  moreover,  Hickes  says  he  has  detected  so 
many  Dano-Saxon  words  and  phrases  in  it,  that 
he  ^<  cannot  but  think  it  was  written  by  some 
Northymbrian  (in  the  Saxon  sense  of  the  word), 
afler  the  Danes  had  corrupted  their  language." 
Mr.  Thorpe  *  replies  very  conclusively  to  all 
this ;  that  the  language  of  the  poem  is  as  pure 
Anglo-Saxon  as  that  of  Alfred  himself;  that  the 
Danisms  exist  only  in  the  "  imagination  of  the 
learned  author  of  the  Thesaurus  " ;  and  that,  if 
they  were  really  to  be  found  in  the  work  under 
consideration,  it  would  prove  no  more  than  that 
the  manuscript  was  a  copy  made  by  a  Northum- 
brian scribe,  at  a  period  when  the  language  had 
become  corrupted.  As  to  the  passage  in  Bede, 
the  original  of  Cedmon  was  not  given  ;  only  a 
Latin  translation  by  Bede,  which  Alfred,  in  his 
version  of  the  venerable  historian,  has  retrans- 
lated into  Anglo-Saxon.  Hence  the  difference 
between  these  lines  and  the  opening  lines  of 
the  poem.  In  its  themes  the  poem  corresponds 
exactly  with  that  which  Bede  infi)rms  us  Ced- 
mon  .wrote ;  and  its  claim  to  genuineness  can 
hardly  be  destroyed  by  such  objections  as  have 
been  brought  against  it. 

Such  are  the  two  great  narrative  poems  of 
the  Anglo-Saxon  tongue.  Of  a  third,  a  short 
fragment  remains.  It  is  a  mutilated  thing ;  a 
mere  torso.    Judith  of  the  Apocrypha  is  the  he- 

*  GBBdmon's  Metrical  Paraphrase  of  Parts  of  the  Holy 
Scriptures  in  Anglo-Staocon ;  with  an  English  Translation, 
Notes,  and  a  Verbal  Index,  bj  BmtSAMVx  Thorps,  F.  S.  A. 
London :    183S2.    8to. 

a2 


6 


ANGLO-SAXON   LANGUAGE   AND   POETRY. 


roine.  The  part  preaorvcd  deAcribci  the  death 
of  Holuftirned  in  a  fine,  brilljant  style,  de- 
lighting tJie  hearta  of  all  Anglo-Sax^on  mhoiars. 
The  original  will  he  fliund  in  Mr,  Thotpe's 
^nalutit  *  ;  and  LranaUtions  of  some  paflsages  m 
Turner's  "  HiBtory/'  But  a  more  important  frag- 
ment ts  that  on  the  *^  D^ath  oFByrhtnoth  ^'  at  the 
battle  of  Maldon,  This,  likewise,  h  in  Thorpe  ■, 
9nd  a  pro«e  tranBlatioEi  is  given  by  Conybeure 
in  hi»  "  nit]stmltons/'t  I L  say  on  of  rustaiid  of 
andquity^  like  ^^Old  Hiidebrand  "  in  German. 
What  a.  fine  pa^aage  i§  thia,  spoken  hy  an  aged 
Tits§al  over  the  dead  body  of  the  hejro,  in  the 
thickest  of  the  fight  * 

"BfrhtirpM  vpoka ;  iia  wim  nn  agfd  TsmiJ;  he  nilsed 
Ills  chield  ^  be  brand kitiet}  hii  uh£fi  ^p^^v;  he  full  baldly 
flKhort«d  the  wuTion.  *  Our  spJHt  aluJl  ti«  ilu  banjier,  our 
hoari  ahait  ba  ih«  Iteejur,  our  h\i1  shail  be  Lbn  gTcBl«r,  tba 
tnora  our  £m:uu  diminish.  Ubr  Lioth  our  chief  all  mangled ; 
the  bnre  on*  in.  the  Juat ;  ii?er  nwy  h*  laRi(<nt  hifl  ihame 
ihat  ibiiikolh  Ut  rty  rtiim  tbis  pla/  o/  iveaponn!  Old  nip  1 
ia  life^  fet  will  I  not  allr  hcnc* ;  but  Ublnt  lo  lie  by  Iha 
aldo  of  mjr  lord,  by  ibnl  much  Jorod  niftti ! '  '^ 

Shorter  than  cither  of  thc^  fragments  is  ft 
third  on  the  "  Fight  of  Finsborougb/*  Its  thief 
value  see  ma  to  be,  that  il  relates  to  the  same 
attion  which  formed  the  theme  of  one  of 
Ilrothgar's  bards  in  "  Beowulf"  Mt.  Cony- 
beare  has  given  it  a  place  in  hia  work.  In  ad- 
dition 10  these  nanntive  poems  and  frngm^nts, 
two  others,  founded  on  Lives  of  Saints,  are 
mentioned,  though  they  have  never  been  pub- 
lished. They  axe  the  *^  Life  and  Passion  of 
St.  Juliana  "  j  and  the  "  Visions  of  tli©  Hermit 
Guthlac.'* 

There  \s  another  narrative  poem,  which  I 
must  mention  here  on  account  of  its  subject, 
thiiugh  of  a  much  later  date  than  the  forego^ 
ing.  It  ia  the  **  Chronicle  of  King  Lear  and 
his  Daughters,*'  in  Norman -Siiion  j  not  rhymed 
throughout,  but  with  rhymes  too  ofren  recurring 
to  be  aocidental.  As  a  poem,  it  has  no  merit, 
but  shows  that  the  story  of  Lear  ia  very  old  ; 
for,  in  speaking  of  the  old  King^a  death  and 
burial,  it  refers  to  a  previous  account,  "  aa  the 
book  telleth"  (bjb  the  hotk  tcUcth),  Cordalia 
is  married  to  Aganippus,  king  of  France  ;  and, 
n{[eT  his  death,  reigns  over  England,  though 
MttglauduB,  king  of  Scotland,  declares,  that  it  is 
a  "  muckle  shame,  that  a  qvecn  should  be  king 
over  the  land/*  t 

Besides  these  long,  elaborate  poems,  the  An- 
glo-Saxons had  their  odes  and  hallada.  Thus, 
when  King  Canute  was  sailing  by  the  abbey  of 
Ely,  he  hoard  the  voices  of  the  monks  chanting 
their  vesper  hymn.     Whereupon   be  sang,   in 

♦  Analeeta  Anglo- Sa^ttniea,  A  Selsctlon,  In  ProsB  sod 
V«rw,  froin  An^Saxoa  Authors  of  Vnriom  Kg«§,  with 
m.  GifirtKj.  I>»igngd  ihiaflj  m  a  Finn  Book  for  Studttals. 
By  BswjAJUK  Thorps.     Loiuion  :   1S34.     Sto. 

T  III  miraiioiut  of  An  gh^  SftJHm  Pxirj .  By  Sobs  Josus 
CorttmiiJJL    Ijcmdoh:   t^as.    8*o. 

t  For  hit  mw  iwiibii  mochel  smw, 
and  eke  hit  WW  mochfll  ^rmoie, 
thai  s  twtim  nkla 
bo  king  in  tbifli«  IiumL 


the  best  Anglo-Saxon  he  was  tnastor  of,  the  M- 

1  owing  rhyme : 

*'  Merry  rang  the  monks  Id  Ely, 
Aa  Kins  Cwmte  was  auwriivg  by^ 
RoWj  ye  knighu^  near  ihe  Uiid, 
And  bejLt  we  ibese  monks'  tanf/'  * 

The  best,  and,  properly  speaking,  pethap^a  the 
only,  Anglo-Saxon  odes  we  have,  ar«  those  pre- 
served in  the  "Saxon  Chronic b,"  in  recording 
the  events  they  celebrate.  They  are  five  in 
number.  ^^£thclstan'sVictoryatBrunanhurh,^' 
A.  D.  938;  the  *^  Victories  of  Edmund  Xlhe- 
ling,"  A.  D.  942^  the  "  Coronation  of  King  Ed- 
gar/' A.  D.  973;  the  "Death  of  King  Edgar," 
A.  D.  i*75  ;  and  the  "  Death  of  King  Edward," 
A.  D,  1065.  The  ^'Battle  of  Brunanburh  ''  ia 
already  pretty  well  known  hy  tlio  numerous 
English  versions,  and  attempts  thereat^  which 
have  been  given  of  it*  This  ode  is  one  of  the 
most  characteristic  specimens  of  Anglo-Saxon 
poetiy.  What  a  striking  picture  is  that  of  the 
lad  with  flaxen  hair,  mangled  with  wounds ; 
and  of  the  seven  earls  of  Anlaf,  and  the  five 
young  kings,  lying  on  the  battle-field,  lulled 
asleep  by  the  aword  !  Indeed,  the  whole  ode  ia 
striking,  hold,  graphic.  The  furious  onslaught ; 
the  cleaving  of  the  wall  of  shields ;  the  hewing 
down  of  banners ;  the  din  of  the  fight ;  the  hard 
hand-play  ;  the  retreat  of  the  Northmen,  in 
nailed  ships,  over  the  stormy  sea;  and  the  de- 
serted d»ad,  on  the  battle-ground,  left  to  the 
awsrt  rave II,. the  war-hawk,  and  the  wolf;  — 
ati  theac  images  appeal  strongly  to  the  imagina- 
tion. The  bard  has  nobly  described  this  victo- 
ry of  the  illustrious  war-smiths  (wlance  wig- 
smitkas}^  the  most  signal  victory  since  the  com- 
ing of  the  Saxons  into  England;  so  say  the 
books  of  the  old  wise  men. 

And  here  I  would  make  due  and  honorable 
mention  of  the  "  Poetic  Calendar,"  and  of  King 
Alfred's  "  Version  of  the  Metres  of  Boethius.** 
The  "  Poetic  Calendar  "  is  a  chronicle  of  great 
events  in  the  lives  of  saints,  martyrs,  and  apoe- 
tlea,  refbrTt<d  to  the  days  on  which  they  took 
place.  At  the  end  is  a  strange  poem,  consisting 
of  a  series  of  aphorisms,  not  unlike  those  that 
adorn  a  modern  almanac. 

In  addition  to  these  narratives  and  odes  and 
didactic  poems  there  is  a  vast  number  of  minor 
poems  on  various  subjects,  some  of  which  have 
been  published,  though  for  the  moat  part  they 
still  lie  asleep  in  manuscripts,  —  hymns,  allego- 
ries, doiologies,  proverbs,  enigmas,  paraphrases 
of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  poems  on  Death  and  the 
Day  of  Judgment,  and  the  like.  A  great  quan- 
tity of  them  is  contained  in  the  celebrated  Exe- 
ter JVInnuscript ;  a  folio  given  by  Bishop  Leo- 
fric  to  the  Cathedral  of  Exeter  in  tlie  eleventh 
century,  and  called  by  the  donor,  a  "  mycel 
EnglUc  hoc  he  gehtoyUum  thingum  on  leothwi' 
^H  geiDifrktj"  a  great  English  book  about  every 


*   Mcrie  sungen  the  muneches  binnen  Ely, 
Tba  Cnul  chin;  reatber  bj ; 
Koweth,  cnihtas,  noer  the  land, 
And  here  we  thee  monechee  eaog. 


ANGLO. SAXON  LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


thing,  composed  in  Tene.  A  minute  accoant 
of  the  content!  of  this  manuscript,  with  numer- 
ous extracts,  is  given  by  Conjbeare  in  his  •<  Il> 
lustrations."  Among  these  is  the  beginning  of 
a  reiy  singular  and  striking  poem,  entitled, 
«The  Soul's  Complaint  against  the  Bodj." 
But  perhaps  the  most  curious  poem  in  the  Exe- 
ter Manuscript  is  the  Rhyming  Poem,  to  which 
I  have  before  alluded. 

I  will  close  this  introduction  with  a  few 
remarks  on  Anglo-Saxon  Prose.  At  the  very 
boundary  stand  two  great  works,  like  land- 
marks. These  are  the  '*  Saxon  Laws,"  pro- 
mulgated by  the  Tarious  kings  that  ruled  the 
land  ',  and  the  **  Saxon  Chronicle,"  *  in  which 
all  great  historic  eyents,  from  the  middle  of  the 
fifth  to  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century,  ara 
recorded  by  contemporary  writers,  mainly,  it 
would  seem,  the  monks  of  Winchester,  Peter- 
borough, and  Canterbury.  Setting  these  aside, 
doubtless  the  most  important  remains  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  prose  ara  the  writings  of  King  Alfted 
the  Great. 

What  a  sublime  old  character  was  King  Al- 
fred !  Alfred,  the  Truth-teller !  Thus  the  an- 
cient historian  sumamed  him,  as  others  were 
sumamed  the  Unready,  Ironade,  Harefoot.  The 
principal  eyents  of  his  life  ara  known  to  all 
men ;  —  the  nine  battles  fought  in  the  first  year 
of  his  reign  ;  his  flight  to  the  marshes  and  for- 
ests of  Somersetshire  ;  his  poverty  and  suffer- 
ing, wherein  was  fulfilled  the  prophecy  of  St. 
Neot,  that  he  should  **  be  bruised  like  the  ean 
of  wheat " ;  his  life  with  the  swineherd,  whose 
wife  bade  him  turn  the  cakes,  that  they  might 
not  be  burnt,  for  she  saw  daily  that  he  was  a 
great  eater ;  t  his  successful  rally ;  his  victories, 
and  his  future  glorious  reign ;  these  things  are 
known  to  all  men.  And  not  only  these,  which 
ara  events  in  his  life,  but  also  many  more, 
which  ara  traits  in  his  character,  and  controlled 
events;  as,  for  example,  that  he  was  a  wise 
and  virtuous  man,  a  religious  man,  a  learned 
man  fbr  that  age.  Perhaps  they  know,  even, 
how  he  measurad  time  with  his  six  horn  lan- 
terns ;  also,  that  he  was  an  author  and  wrote 
many  books.  But  of  these  books  how  few 
persons  hare  read  even  a  single  line !  And 
yet  it  is  well  worth  one's  while,  if  he  wish  to 
see  all  the  calm  dignity  of  that  great  man's 
character,  and  how  in  him  the  scholar  and  the 
man  outshone  the  king.  For  example,  do  we 
not  know  him  better,  and  honor  him  more, 
when  we  hear  from  his  own  lips,  as  it  were, 

*  The  style  of  this  Chrcmicle  rises  at  timss  lar  above 
thai  of  moat  monkish  hlaioriana.  For  instance,  in  fBCord- 
ing  the  death  of  William  the  Conqueror,  the  writer  >ajs : 
"  Sharp  death,  that  paaaea  hj  neither  rich  men  nor  poor, 
seized  him  also.  Alas !  how  lUee  and  how  uncertain  is 
this  world's  weal  I  He  that  was  before  a  rich  king,  and 
lord  of  many  lands,  had  not  then  of  all  his  land  more  than  a 
•pace  of  seven  iMt !  and  he  that  was  wliilom  enshrouded  in 
gold  and  gems  lay  then  covered  with  mould.'*  A.  D.  1067. 

t  "  Wend  tha  thao  Uafea,  tha  he  ne  forbeornen,  fortham 
ie  geeeo  deighSAilce  tha  thu  mycel  eta  eait.''— Asaer, 
"Ufeof  AUied."  See  Tuner. 


such  sentiments  as  these  ?  «<  God  has  made 
all  men  equally  noble  in  their  original  nature. 
True  nobility  is  in  the  mind,  not  in  the  flesh. 
I  wished  to  live  honorably  whilst  I  lived,  and, 
afUr  my  life,  to  leave  to  the  men  who  were 
after  me  my  memory  in  good  works !  ** 

The  chief  writings  of  this  Royal  Author  ara 
his  translations  of  Gregory's  **  Pastorelis,"  BoO- 
thius's  "Consolations  of  Philosophy,"  Bede's 
<«  Ecclesiastical  History,**  and  the  **  History  of 
Orosius,"  known  in  manuscripts  by  the  mys- 
terious title  of  ^  Hormesta."  Of  these  works 
the  most  remarkable  is  the  Bo€thius  ;  so  much 
of  his  own  mind  has  Alfred  infused  into  it. 
Properly  speaking,  it  is  not  so  much  a  transla- 
tion as  a  gloss  or  paraphrase ;  for  the  Saxon 
King,  upon  his  throne,  had  a  soul  which  was 
near  akin  to  that  of  the  last  of  the  Roman  phi- 
losophen  in  his  prison.  He  had  suffered,  and 
could  sympathize  with  suffering  humanity.  He 
adorned  and  carried  out  still  fkrther  the  reflec- 
tions of  Boethius.  He  begins  his  task,  how- 
ever, with  an  apology,  saying,  *^  Alfred,  king, 
was  translator  of  this  book,  and  turned  it  from 
book-latin  into  English,  as  he  most  plainly  and 
clearly  could,  amid  the  various  and  manifold 
worldly  occupations  which  often  busied  him 
in  mind  and  body  *' ;  and  ends  with  a  prayer, 
beseeching  God,  '*  by  the  sign  of  the  holy  cross, 
and  by  the  virginity  of  the  blessed  Mary,  and 
by  the  obedience  of  the  blessed  Michael,  and 
by  the  love  of  all  the  saints  and  their  merits," 
that  his  mind  might  be  made  steadfast  to  the 
divine  will  and  his  own  soul's  need. 

Other  remains  of  Anglo-Saxon  prose  exist  in 
the  tale  of  "  Apollonius  of  Tyre  " ;  the  "  Bible- 
translations  "  and  "  Colloquies  **  of  Abbot  JEl- 
fiic ;  «*  Glosses  of  the  Gospels,"  at  the  close  of 
one  of  which,  the  conscientious  scribe  has  writ- 
ten, "  Aldred,  an  unworthy  and  miserable  priest, 
with  the  help  of  God  and  St.  Cuthbert,  over- 
glossed  it  in  English  " ;  and,  finally,  various 
miscellaneous  treatises,  among  which  the  most 
curious  is  a  "Dialogue  between  Saturn  and 
Solomon." 

Hardly  less  curious,  and  infinitely  more  val- 
uable, is  a  "  Colloquy  "  of  iElfric,  composed  fbr 
the  purpose  of  teaching  boys  to  speak  Latin. 
The  Saxon  is  an  interlinear  translation  of  the 
Latin.  In  this  "Colloquy**  various  laborers 
and  handicraftsmen  ara  introduced,  —  plough- 
men, herdsmen,  huntsmen,  shoemakers,  and 
others;  and  each  has  his  say,  even  to  the 
blacksmith,  who  dwells  in  his  smithy  amid 
iron  fire-sparks  and  the  sound  of  beating  sledge- 
hammera  and  blowing  bellows  (isenne  fyr- 
spsarcany  amd  noegincga  heatendra  dtcgea^  and 
hlawauLra  byliga). 

To  speak  farther  of  Anglo-Saxon  prose  would 
lead  me  beyond  my  plan.  I  have  only  to  re- 
mark, that,  in  the  selections  from  Anglo-Saxon 
poetry  which  follow,  I  have,  fbr  the  most  part, 
selected  simple  prose  translations,  as  best  cal- 
culated to  convey  a  clear  idea  of  the  rhythmic 
but  unrhymed  originals. 


POEM  OF  BEOWULF. 

BEOWULF  THE   SHYLD. 

THE  SAILING  OF  BEOWULF. 

Theh  dwelt  in  the  cities 

Famous  was  Beowulf; 

Beowulf  the  Shyld, 

Wide  sprang  the  blood 

A  king  dear  to  the  people  : 

Which  the  heir  of  the  Shylds 

Long  did  he  live 

Shed  on  the  lands. 

His  country's  father. 

So  shall  the  bracelets 

To  him  was  bom 

Purchase  endeavour. 

Healfden  the  high ; 

Freely  presented, 
As  by  thy  fathers ; 

He,  while  he  lived. 

Reigned  and  grew  old. 

And  all  the  young  men. 

The  delight  of  the  Shylds. 

As  is  their  custom. 

To  him  four  children 

Cling  round  their  leader 

Grew  up  in  the  world, 

Soon  as  the  war  comes. 

Leaders  of  hosts. 

Lastly  thy  people 

Weorgar  and  Rothgar, 

The  deeds  shall  bepraise 

And  Halga  the  good. 

Which  their  men  have  performed. 

And  I  have  heard 

When  the  Shyld  had  awaited 

That  Helen  his  queen 

The  time  he  should  stay. 

Was  born  of  the  Shefings. 

Came  many  to  fare 

Then  was  to  Rothgar 

On  the  billows  so  free. 

Speedily  given 

His  ship  they  bore  out 

The  command  of  the  army ; 

To  the  brim  of  the  ocean, 

Him  his  fiiends 

And  his  comrades  sat  down 

Heard  most  willingly. 

At  their  oars  as  he  bade  : 

When  to  the  youth 

A  word  could  control 

Was  grown  up  a  family. 

His  good  fellows,  the  Shylds. 

It  came  to  his  mind 

There,  at  the  Hythe, 

He  would  build  them  a  hall. 

Stood  his  old  fiither 

Much  was  there  to  earn. 

Long  to  look  after  him.                            1 

And  men  wrought  at  it, 

The  band  of  his  comrades,                       1 

And  brought  it  to  bear. 

Eager  for  outfit. 

And  there  within 

Forward  the  Atheling. 

He  dealt  out  ale 

Then  all  the  people 

To  young  and  to  old. 

Cheered  their  loved  lord, 

As  (}od  sent  them  ; 

The  giver  of  bracelets. 

Without  stood  the  people 

On  the  deck  of  the  ship                           1 

And  sported  aftr. 

He  stood  by  the  mast. 

And,  as  I  have  inquired. 

There  was  treasure 

The  work  was  praised 

Won  from  afar 

In  many  a  place 

Laden  on  board. 

Amid  the  earth. 

Ne'er  did  I  hear 

To  found  a  folkstead 

Of  a  vessel  appointed 

He  first  contrived 

Better  for  battle. 

Among  his  liegemen ; 

With  weapons  of  war. 

And  when  this  was  finished, 

And  waistcoats  of  wool, 

The  first  of  halls. 

And  axes  and  swords. 

Earth  gave  him  a  name, 

So  that  his  words 

— i — 

Had  power  afar. 

He  received  guests, 

BEOWULF'S  EXPEDITION  TO  HEORT. 

And  gave  bracelets 

To  the  firiends  of  the  feast ; 

Thus  then,  much  care-worn. 

And  the  ceilings  echoed 

The  son  of  Healfden 

To  the  sound  of  the  bom  ; 

Sorrowed  evermore. 

And  healths  were  given 

Nor  might  the  pradent  hero 

In  strong  drink. 

His  woes  avert. 

r 

BEOWULF.                                                              9  1 

The  WW  was  too  hard. 

And  broad  sea-noses.                               1 

Too  loath  and  longiome, 

Then  was  the  sea-sailing                         | 

That  on  the  people  came. 

Of  the  Earl  at  an  end. 

Dire  wrath  and  grim, 

Then  up  speedily 

Of  night-woes  the  woivt. 

The  Weather  people 

This  from  home  heard 

On  the  land  went. 

Higelac*!  Thane, 

Good  among  the  Gotha, 

Their  mail-sarks  shook. 

Grendela  deeds. 

Their  war-weeds. 

He  was  of  mankind 

God  thanked  they. 

In  might  the  strongest. 

That  to  them  the  sea-joumey 

At  that  daj 

Easy  had  been. 

Of  this  lift. 

Then  ftom  tbe  wall  beheld 

Noble  and  stalwart. 

The  warden  of  the  Scyldings, 

He  bade  him  a  sea^ship. 

He  who  the  sea-cliffa 

A  goodly  one,  prepare. 

Had  in  his  keeping. 

Quoth  he,  the  war-king, 

Bear  o'er  the  balks 

Over  the  swan's  road. 

The  bright  shields, 

Seek  he  would 

The  mightj  monarch. 

Him  the  doubt  disturbed 

Since  he  wanted  men. 

In  his  mind's  thought. 

For  him  that  journey 

What  these  men  might  be. 

His  prudent  fellows 

Went  then  to  the  shore, 

Straight  made  ready, 

On  his  steed  riding, 

Those  that  loved  him. 

The  Thane  of  Hrothgar. 

They  excited  their  souls, 

Before  the  host  he  shook 

The  omen  they  beheld. 

His  warden's-staff  in  hand. 

Had  the  good-man 

Of  the  Gothic  people 

*«  What  men  are  ye 

Champions  chosen, 

War-gear  wearing, 

Of  those  that  keenest 

Host  in  harness, 

He  might  find, 

Who  thus  the  brown  keel 

Some  fifteen  men. 

Over  the  water-street 

The  sea-wood  sought  he. 

Leading  come 

The  warrior  showed, 

Hither  over  the  sea? 

Sea-crafty  man ! 

The  land-marks. 

As  shore-warden  hold ; 

And  first  went  forth. 

That  in  the  Land  of  the  Danes 
Nothing  loathsome 
With  a  ship-crew 

The  ship  was  on  the  waves. 

Boat  under  the  cliffs. 

The  barons  ready 

Scathe  us  might.  .  .  . 

To  the  prow  mounted. 

Ne'er  saw  I  mightier 

The  streams  they  whirled 

Earl  upon  earth 

The  sea  against  the  sands. 

Than  is  your  own, 
Hero  in  harness. 

On  the  naked  breast 

Not  seldom  this  warrior                           y 

Bright  ornaments, 

Is  in  weapons  distinguished  ; 

War-gear,  Goth-like. 

Never  his  beauty  belies  him. 

The  men  shoved  off, 

His  peerless  countenance ! 

Men  on  their  willing  way, 

Now  would  I  fain 

The  bonnden  wood. 

Your  origin  know. 

Then  went  over  the  sea-waves. 

Ere  ye  forth 

Hurried  by  the  wind. 

As  false  spies 

The  ship  with  foamy  neck, 

Into  the  Land  of  the  Danes 

Most  Uke  a  sea-fi>wl. 

Farther  fere. 

Till  about  one  hour 

Now,  ye  dwellers  afkr-off ! 

Of  the  second  day 

Te  sailors  of  the  sea ! 

The  curved  prow 

Listen  to  my 

Had  passed  onward 

One-fold  thought. 

So  that  the  sailors 

Quickest  is  best 

The  land  saw, 

To  make  known 

The  shore-cliffs  shinmg, 

Whence  your  coming  may  be." 

Mountains  steep. 

3 

10 


ANGLO-BAXON   POETRY. 


AN  OLD  MAN'S   SORROW. 

Caret UL,  Borrowing, 

He  sceth  in  hi§  son 'a  bower 

The  wine- hull  deserted. 

The  reaort  of  the  wiad  m»lBe1e»i ; 

Tbe  Knigbi  deepcih, 

The  Warrior,  in  darkneaH ; 

Tliero  U  not  there 

Noise  of  the  hdrp, 

Joy  in  tho  dweUings, 

As  there  ViOB  before  ; 

Then  departeth  he  into  songs, 

SiDgcth  a  lay  of  aorrow. 

One  ailer  one ; 

All  deemed  to  him  too  wide, 

Tbo  pLtuuM  and  the  dwelling-pUce. 


GOOD  NIGHT. 

The  night-belm  gmw  dusky, 
Dark  over  tite  vassal b  ; 


The  court  fill  rose, 

The  mingled- haired 

Old  Scylding 

Would  visit  hift  bed  y 

The  Geit  i^ished  the 

Renowned  Warrior  to  re  it 

Immeasurably  well. 

Boon  him  the  foreigner, 

Weary  of  his  journey » 

The  halL-tJiane  guided  forth, 

Who,  after  a  fitting  manner. 

Provided  all  that 

The  thane  needed, 

Wliattoover  thai  day 

The  fioilere  over  the  deep 

Should  have. 

The  magnanimoUEi  warrior  revted  ; 

The  house  roae  alefl 

Curved  and  variegated  with  gold ; 

The  stranger  slept  therein, 

Until  the  palti  raveo, 

Blithe  of  heart, 

Announced  the  joy  of  heaven , 

The  bright  Bun,  to  be  conae  . 


C^DMON. 


THE  FIRST  DAY, 

TuKitE  had  not  here  u  yet, 

gave  cavern -shade, 
Aught  been ; 
But  this  wide  abyu 
Stood  deep  and  dim, 
Strange  to  ita  Lord, 
Idle  and  useless  ^ 
On  which  looked  with  hU  eyes 
The  iLing  firm  of  mind, 
And  beheld  those  ploees 
Void  of  joys; 
Saw  the  dark  cloud 
Lower  in  eternal  night. 
Swart  under  heaven. 
Dark  and  waste, 
UntiJ  this  worldly  creation 
Through  the  word  existed 
Of  the  Glory  King. 
Here  first  shaped 
The  Lord  eternal, 
Chief  of  all  creatures, 
Heaven  and  earth ; 
The  firmament  upreared, 
And  this  apaeioua  land 
Establiahed, 
By  hiff  Btrong  powers^ 
The  Lord  almighty. 
The  earth  a«  yet  waa 


Not  green  with  graaa  i 
Ocean  covered, 
8wart  in  eternal  night, 
Far  and  wide, 
The  dusky  ways. 

Then  wae  the  glory-bright 
Spirit  of  heaven 'a  Guardian 
Borne  over  the  deep 
With  utmost  speed  : 
The  Creator  of  angels  bade, 
The  Lord  of  life, 
Light  to  come  forth 
Over  the  spacious  deep. 
Quickly  was  fulfilled 
The  high  King's  heheat ; 
For  him  waa  holy  light 
Over  the  waste. 
As  the  Maker  bade. 

Then  sundered 
The  Lord  of  triumpha 
Over  tlie  ocean-flood 
Light  from  darkness. 
Shade  fi^m  brightness, 
Then  gave  names  to  both 
The  Lord  of  life. 
Light  was  first 
Through  the  Lord's  word 
Named  day  - 

Beauteous,  bright  creation  1   - 
Well  pleased 


CiEDMON. 


11 


The  Lord  at  the  beginDing 
The  procreatiye  time. 

The  first  day  saw 
The  dark  ahade 
Swart  prevailing 
Over  the  wide  abyw. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  REBEL  ANGELS. 

Thx  All-powerful  had 

Angel-tribes, 

Throogh  might  of  hand, 

The  ho(y  Lord, 

Ten  established. 

In  whom  he  trasted  well 

That  they  his  service 

Would  follow, 

Work  his  will ; 

Therefbre  gave  he  them  wit. 

And  ahaped  them  with  his  hands. 

The  holy  Lord. 

He  had  placed  them  so  happily. 

One  he  had  made  so  powerful. 

So  mighty  in  his  mind's  thought. 

He  let  him  sway  over  so  much. 

Highest  after  himself  in  heaven's  king- 

dom. 
He  had  made  him  so  fiur. 
So  beauteous  was  his  form  in  heaven. 
That  came  to  him  from  the  Lord  of  hosts, 
He  was  like  to  the  light  stars. 
It  was  his  to  work  the  praise  of  the  Lord, 
It  was  his  to  hold  dear  his  joys  in  heaven. 
And  to  thank  his  Lord 
For  the  reward  that  he  had  bestowed  on 

him  in  that  light ; 
Then  had  he  let  him  long  possess  it ; 
But  he  turned  it  for  himself  to  a  worse 

thing. 
Began  to  raise  war  upon  him. 
Against  the  highest  Ruler  of  heaven. 
Who  sitteth  in  the  holy  seat. 
Dear  was  he  to  our  Lord, 
But  it  might  not  be  hidden  from  him 
That  his  angel  began 
To  be  presumptuous. 
Raised  himself  against  his  Master, 
Sought  speech  of  hate. 
Words  of  pride  towards  him, 
Would  not  serve  God, 
Said  that  his  body  was 
Light  and  beauteous. 
Fair  and  bright  of  hue : 
He  might  not  find  in  his  mind 
That  he  would  God 
In  subjection. 
His  Lord,  serve : 
Seemed  to  himself 
That  he  a  power  and  force 
Had  greater 
Than  the  holy  God 
Could  have 
Of  adherents. 


Many  words  spake 

The  angel  of  presumption  : 

Thought,  through  his  own  power, 

How  he  for  himself  a  stronger 

Seat  might  make, 

Higher  in  heaven : 

Said  that  him  his  mind  impelled. 

That  he  west  and  north 

Would  begin  to  work. 

Would  prepare  structures : 

Said  it  to  him  seemed  doubtful 

That  he  to  God  would 

Be  a  vassal. 

«'  Why  shall  I  toil  ?  "  said  he  ; 

^*  To  me  it  is  no  whit  needfbl 

To  have  a  superior  ; 

I  can  with  my  hands  as  many 

Wonders  work ; 

I  have  great  power 

To  form 

A  diviner  throne, 

A  higher  in  heaven. 

Why  shall  I  for  his  favor  serve. 

Bend  to  him  in  such  vassalage  ? 

I  may  be  a  god  as  he. 

Stand  by  me  strong  associates. 

Who  will  not  fail  me  in  the  strife. 

Heroes  stem  of  mood. 

They  have  chosen  me  for  chief, 

Renowned  warriors ! 

With  such  may  one  devise  counsel, 

With  such  capture  his  adherents ; 

They  are  my  zealous  friends. 

Faithful  in  their  thoughts ; 

I  may  be  their  chieftain. 

Sway  in  this  realm : 

Thus  to  me  it  seemeth  not  right 

That  I  in  aught 

Need  cringe 

To  God  for  any  good ; 

I  will  no  longer  be  his  vassal." 

When  the  All-powerful  it 
All  had  heard. 
That  his  angel  devised 
Great  presumption 
To  raise  up  against  his  Master, 
And  spake  proud  words 
Foolishly  against  his  Lord, 
Then  must  he  expiate  the  deed. 
Share  the  work  of  war. 
And  for  hisj^unishment  must  have 
Of  all  deadly  ills  the  greatest. 
So  doth  every  man 
Who  against  his  Lord 
Devised]  to  war. 

With  crime  against  the  great  Ruler. 
Then  was  the  Mighty  angry, 
The  highest  Ruler  of  heaven. 
Hurled  him  from  the  lofty  seat ; 
Hate  had  he  gained  at  his  Lord,* 
His  fiivor  he  had  lost, 
Incensed  with  him  was  the  Good  in  his 

mind,  * 

Therefore  must  he  seek  the  gulf 
Of  hard  hell-torment. 


IS 


ANGLO-SAXON   POETRY. 


Wot  thai  he  had  warred  with  hwnven's 

Ruler. 
He  rejected  liini  then  from  Kit  favor. 
And  cttit  him  into  hell. 
Into  the  deep  porta, 
Whore  he  hecome  a  devil  : 
The  fiend  with  ell  hii  comradee 
Fell  then  from  heaven  above ^ 
Through  as  long  as  thre^  nights  and  days, 
The  angeU  from  heaven  into  hell  - 
And  them  all  the  Lord  IranRformed  to 

devil§. 
Because  they  his  deed  aad  wo;d 
Would  net  revere ; 
Therefore  them  in  a  worse  light. 
Under  the  earth  heneath. 
Almighty  God 
Had  placed  triumphle» 
In  the  awon  hell ; 
There  tliey  have  at  even, 
Immeasurabty  long, 
Ench  of  all  the  iieudet^ 
A  renewal  of  fire  ; 
Then  cometh  ere  dawn 
The  eaitem  wind, 
Froit  bitter-cold, 
Ever  fire  or  dart ; 
Some  hard  torment 
The  J  must  have, 

It  was  wrought  for  them  iti  pyniehment, 
Their  world  (life)  waa  changed  : 
For  their  sin  rill  courae 
He  filled  hell 
WJih  the  apoetates* 

The  angels  continued  to  hold 
The  heights  of  heaven's  kingdom. 
Those  who  ere  God's  pleasure  executed  j 
The  others  lay  fiends  in  the  Gre, 
Who  ere  had  had  &o  much 
Strife  with  their  Ruler  ^ 
Torment  they  suffer. 
Burning  heat  intense ^ 
In  midflt  of  hell, 
Fire  and  broad  flames  ; 
So  aleo  the  hi  tier  reeks 
Smoke  and  darkness ; 
For  that  they  the  service 
Of  God  neglected, 
Them  their  folly  deceived, 
The  angel's  pride, 
They  would  not  the  All-powerfhrs 
Word  revere, 
They  had  great  torment ; 
Then  were  they  fallen 
To  the  fiery  abyss, 
Into  the  hot  hell, 
Through  frenzy 
And  through  pride ; 
'  They  sought  another  land. 
That  was  void  of  light, 
And  was  full  of  flame, 
A  great  receptacle  of  fire. 


8ATANS  SPEECH. 

Satan  harangued, 

Sorrowing  epake. 

He  who  hell  henceforth 

Should  rule. 

Govern  the  abyss. 

He  waa  erst  God's  angel. 

Fair  in  heaven. 

Until  him  his  mind  urged, 

And  his  pride 

Most  of  all, 

That  he  would  not 

The  Lord  of  hosts* 

Word  revere  j, 

Boiled  within  him 

His  thought  about  his  heart, 

Hot  was  without  hjm 

His  dire  punishment. 

Then  spake  he  the  words : 

*^  This  narrow  place  is  moat  unlike 

That  other  that  we  ore  knew, 

High  in  heaven's  kingdom. 

Which  my  Master  begtowed  on  m«, 

Though  we  it,  for  the  All-powerfii], 

May  not  possese. 

Must  cede  our  realm  ; 

Yet  hath  he  not  done  rightly. 

That  he  hath  struck  us.  down 

To  the  fiery  abyss 

Of  the  hot  hell. 

Bereft  us  of  heaven's  kingdom. 

Hath  it  decreed 

With  mankind 

To  people. 

That  of  sorrows  is  to  me  the  greatest, 

That  Adam  ihall. 

Who  of  eartli  was  wrought, 

Mj  strong 

Seat  po«scgg. 

Be  to  him  in  delight, 

And  we  endure  this  torment, 

Misery  in  this  hell. 

Oh,  had  I  power  of  my  hands. 
And  might  one  aea»on 

Be  without, 

Be  one  winter's  space. 

Then  with  this  ho«t  I 

But  around  Die  lie 

Iron  bonds, 

Presseth  this  cord  of  chain  : 

I  am  powerless  * 

Me  have  so  hard 

The  clasps  of  hell. 

So  firmly  grasped  ! 

Here  is  a  va^t  fira 

Above  and  underneath. 

Never  did  I  see 

A  loathlier  londskip ; 

The  flame  abate  th  not, 

Hot  over  helL 

Me  hath  the  clasping  of  these  rings. 

This  hard-poli«hed  band. 

Impeded  in  my  course, 

Debarred  me  from  my  way  *, 


CJEDMON.                                                            13  1 

My  feet  are  bound, 

Begin  we  now  about  the  warfare  to  con- 

My  hands  manacled. 

suit:  — 

OfthesehelMoonare 

If  to  any  follower  I                                        1 

The  ways  obatnicted, 

Princely  treasures 

So  that  with  aught  I  cannot 

Gave  of  old, 

From  theee  limUbonda  eicape : 

While  we  in  that  good  realm 

About  me  lie 

Happy  sat 

Of  hard  iron 

And  in  our  seats  had  sway. 

Forged  with  heat 

Huge  gratings. 

With  which  me  God 

My  gift  ropay. 

Hath  fastened  by  the  neck. 

If  in  return  for  it  he  would 

Thus  perceiye  I  that  he  knoweth  my 

(Any  of  my  followers) 
Be  my  supporter ; 

And  that  knew  also 

So  that  up  from  hence  he 

The  Lord  of  hosts. 

Forth  might 

That  should  ns  through  Adam 

Pass  through  these  barriers, 

Eril  beMl, 

And  had  power  with  him. 

About  the  reaUn  of  heayen. 

That  he  with  wings 

Where  I  had  power  of  my  hands. 

Might  fly. 

Revolve  in  cloud, 

Which  is  darkness  and  heat, 

To  where  stand  wrought 

Grim,  bottomless ', 

Adam  and  Eve, 

God  hath  ns  himself 

On  earth's  kingdom. 

With  weal  encircled. 

Thus  he  cannot  ns  accuse  of  any  sin. 

And  we  are  hither  cast 

That  we  against  him  in  the  land  framed 

Into  this  deep  den.  — 

evU? 

Now  with  the  Lord  are  they 

Tet  hath  he  depriyed  us  of  the  light. 

Far  higher  in  esteem. 

Cast  us  into  the  greatest  of  all  torments  : 

And  may  for  themselves  that  weal  possess 

We  may  not  for  this  execute  yengeance, 

That  we  in  heaven's  kingdom 

Reward  him  with  aught  of  hostility. 

Should  have. 

Because  he  hath  beroft  us  of  the  light 

Our  realm  by  right : 

He  hath  now  deyised  a  world 

Where  he  hath  wrought  man 

For  mankind. 

Afler  his  own  likeness. 

That  to  me  is  in  my  mind  so  painfhl, 

With  whom  he  will  repeople 
Therefore  must  we  striye  zealously, 

Rueth  in  my  thought. 

That  they  heaven's  kingdom 

For  ever  shall  possess. 

That  we  on  Adam,  if  we  eyer  may. 

If  any  of  you  may 

And  likewise  on  his  ofipring,  our  wrongs 

With  aught  so  turn  it. 

repair. 

That  they  God's  word 

Corrupt  him  there  in  his  will. 

Through  guile  forsake. 

If  we  may  it  in  any  way  deyise. 

Soon  shall  they  be  the  more  hateful  to  him: 

Now  I  haye  no  confidence  fiirther  in  this 

If  they  break  his  commandment. 

bright  state, 

Then  will  he  be  incensed  against  them  ; 

That  which  he  seems  long  destined  to 

Afterwards  will  the  weal  be  turned  from 

enjoy, 

^®™» 

That  bliss  with  his  angels'  power. 

We  cannot  that  eyer  obtain. 

pared. 

That  we  the  mighty  God's  mind  weaken ; 

Some  hard  lot  of  evil. " 

Let  us  avert  it  now  from  the  children  of 

men, 
That  heavenly  kingdom  now  we  may  not 

have  It ; 

THE  TEMPTATION  OF  EVE. 

Let  us  so  do  that  they  forfeit  his  fevor, 

That  they  pervert  that  which  he  with 

Began  then  himself  equip 

his  word  commanded ; 

The  aposUte  from  God, 

Then  with  them  will  he  be  wroth  in  mind, 

Prompt  in  arms  > 

Will  cast  them  from  his  favor  ; 

He  had  a  crafty  soul. 

Then  shall  they  seek  this  hell. 

On  his  head  the  chief  his  helmet  set. 

And  these  grim  depths ; 

And  it  fbll  strongly  bound. 

Then  may  we  them  have  to  ourselves  as 

Braced  it  with  clasps  : 

vassals. 

The  children  of  men,  in  this  fast  durance. 

Of  guileful  words: 

B 

14 


ANGLO-SAXON  POETRY, 


L 


Wheeled  up  froni  ttience, 
Departed  through  the  door^f  of  hell  : 

ills  Imd  n  Btnmg  mbd) 
^ion-lik^  m  air. 
In  hostile  mood, 
Dashed  tlie  fire  asLdQ 
"With  tL  fiend's  power  : 
Would  secretly 
The  fiiihjectA  of  the  Lord, 
"With  wicked  deeds, 
Men  deceive. 
Mislead  and  porr ert, 
Tbnt  they  might  hecome  hatefbl  to  God, 
He  journeyed  then. 
Through  his  fiend's  mighty 
Until  he  Adam^ 
On  earth's  kingdom. 
The  ercRturo  of  God's  hand, 
Found  ready. 
Wisely  wrought, 
And  his  wift?  ilIao, 
Fairest  woman  j 
Just  a^  Ihey  knew  many  thinfa 
Of  good  to  fjatne. 
Which  to  them,  his  discipteR, 
The  Creator  of  mankind 
Had  bitnself  pointed  out ; 
And  by  them  two 
Trees  stood, 
That  were  without 
Laden  with  fruit, 
With  produce  covered. 
As  thetn  the  powerful  God, 
High  King  of  heaven, 
With  hid  hands  had  eet^ 
That  tliere  the  child  of  man 
Might  choose 
Of  good  and  evil, 
Every  mfln^ 
Of  weal  and  woe. 
The  fruit  was  not  alike  i . , , 
The  one  so  pleasant  was, 
Fair  and  beautiful, 
Soft  and  delicate  ; 
That  was  life's  tree  : 
He  might  for  ever 
After  live. 
Be  in  the  world. 
Who  of  this  fruit  tasted, 
So  that  him  after  that 
Age  might  not  impair. 
Nor  grievous  sickness  j 
But  he  might  ever  be 
Forthwith  in  joys, 
And  fiis  life  hold; 
The  favor  of  heaven's  K.ing 
Here  in  the  world  have, 
To  him  should  be  decreed 
Honors  in  the  high  heaven 
When  he  gocth  hence  t 
Then  WHS  the  other 
Utterly  blnck. 
Dim  and  dark  ; 
That  was  dentil's  tree. 
Which  much  of  bitter  bore  t 


Both  must  know 

Every  mortul, 

Evil  and  good  : 

Waned  in  this  world, 

He  in  pain  must  ever. 

With  sweat  and  with  sorrows. 

After  live, 

Whoe'er  should  tnsie 

Of  what  on  this  tree  grew  j 

Age  should  from  him  take 

or  bold  deeds 

The  joya  and  of  dominion. 

And  death  he  him  allotted  : 

A  little  while  he  should 

His  life  enjoy, 

Then  seek  of  lands 

With  £re  the  ewartest, 

To  fiends  should  minister, 

Where  of  all  perils  is  the  greatest 

To  people  for  a  Long  season. 

That  the  foe  well  knew. 

The  devil's  dark  messenger. 

Who  warred  with  God* 

Caat  him  then  into  a  worm's  body, 

And  then  twined  about 

The  tree  of  death  j 

Through  devil's  craft : 

There  took  of  the  fruit, 

And  again  turned  him  thence 

To  where  he  knew  the  handiwork 

Of  heaven's  King  to  be. 

Began  then  ask  him, 

With  his  first  word. 

The  enemy  with  lies  : 

"  OrnTeat  thou  aught, 

Adam,  up  with  God? 

I  on  his  errand  hither  have 

Journeyed  from  far, 

Nor  was  it  now  long  since 

That  wjlh  himself  I  sat. 

When  he  me  bade  to  travel  on  this  jouiv 

ney  ; 
Bade  that  of  this  fruit  thou  eat, 
Said  that  thy  power  and  slrengih 
And  I  bine  understanding 
Would  become  greater, 
And  thy  body 
Brighter  far, 

Thy  form  more  beauteoua  : 
Said  that  to  thee  of  any  treasure  need 
Would  not  be  in  the  world, 
^ow  thnu  hast  willingly 
Wrought  the  favor 
Of  heaven's  King, 
Gratefully  served 
Thy  Master, 

Hast  made  thee  dear  with  thy  Lord. 
1  heard  him  thy  deedei  and  wordi 
Fmise  in  his  brightnea^t. 
And  speak  about  thy  life  : 
So  must  thou  execute 
What  hither,  into  this  land, 
His  angeld  bring. 
In  the  world  are  broad 
Green  places, 


C£DMON.                                                              15  1 

And  God  ruleth 

I  have  firm  trust 

In  the  highest 

Realm  of  heaven 

Who  wrought  me  with  his  arms, 

The  All-powerful  above 

Here  with  his  hands  : 

Will  not  the  trouble 

He  can  me,  from  his  high  realm, 

Have  himself. 

Gift  with  each  good. 

That  on  this  journey  he  should  come. 

Though  he  send  not  his  vassal." 

The  Lord  of  men ; 

He  turned  him,  wroth  of  m4k>d. 

Bat  he  his  vassal  sendeth 

To  where  he  saw  the  woman. 

To  thy  speech : 

On  earth's  realm, 

Now  biddeth  he  thee,  by  messages, 

Eve  standing. 

Science  to  learn  :  — 

Beautifully  formed ; 

Perform  thou  zealously 

Baid  that  the  greatest  ills 

His  message. 

To  all  their  offspring 

Take  thee  this  fruit  in  hand ; 

From  thenceforth 

Bite  it,  and  taste ; 

In  the  world  would  be. — 

In  thy  breast  thou  shalt  be  expanded, 

**  I  know  the  supreme  God  with  you 

Thy  form  the  fidrer ; 

Will  be  incensed. 

To  thee  hath  sent  the  powerful  God, 

As  I  to  him  this  message 

Thy  Lord,  this  help 

Myself  relate. 

From  heaven's  kingdom." 

When  I  ftom  this  journey  come 

Adam  spake, 

Over  a  long  way ; 

Where  on  earth  he  stood. 

That  ye  will  not  well  execute 

A  self-created  man : 

Whatsoever  errand  he 

"  When  I  the  Lord  of  triumph, 

From  the  east  hither 

The  mighty  God, 

At  this  time  sendeth. 

Heard  speak 

Now  must  he  come  himself 

With  strong  voice ; 

For  your  answer, 

And  he  me  here  standing  bade 

His  errand  may  not 

His  messenger  command ; 

And  me  gave  this  bride. 

Therefore  know  I  that  he  with  you  will 

This  wifo  of  beauteous  mien ; 

be  angry. 

And  me  bade  beware 

The  Mighty,  in  his  mind. 

That  in  the  tree  of  death 

If  thou  nathless  wilt. 

I  were  not  deceived. 

A  willing  woman. 

Too  much  seduced : 

My  words  obey. 

He  said  that  the  swart  hell 

Then  for  this  mayest  thou  amply 

Should  inhabit 

Counsel  devise : 

He  who  in  his  heart  aught 

Consider  in  thy  breast. 

Should  admit  of  sin. 

That  from  you  both  thou  mayest 

I  know  not  (for  thou  mayest  come  with 

Ward  off  punishment. 

lies. 

As  I  shall  show  thee. 

Through  dark  design) 

Eat  of  this  fruit; 

That  thou  art  the  Lord's 

Then  will  thine  eyes  become  so  clear. 

Messenger  from  heaven. 

That  thou  mayest  so  widely 

Nay,  I  cannot  of  thy  orders. 

Over  all  the  world 

Of  thy  words,  nor  courses. 

See  afterwards, 

And  the  throne  of  himself 

Of  thy  journey,  nor  of  thy  sayings. 

Thy  Lord,  and  have 

I  know  what  he  himself  commanded  me. 

His  grace  henceforward. 

Our  Preserver, 

Thou  mightest  Adam 

When  him  last  I  saw  : 

Afterwards  rule. 

He  bade  me  his  words  revere 

If  thou  his  affection  have, 

And  well  observe. 

And  he  trust  in  thy  words ; 

Execute  his  instructions. 

If  thou  soothly  say  to  him 

Thou  art  not  like 

What  monitions  thou  thyself 

To  any  of  his  angels 

Hast  in  thy  breast. 

That  I  before  have  seen. 

Wherefore  thou  God's  mandate 

Nor  showest  thou  me 

Any  token 

He  the  hateful  strife. 

Which  he  to  me  in  pledge 

The  evil  answer. 

Hath  sent. 

Will  abandon 

My  Lord,  through  favor ; 

In  his  breast's  recess ; 

Therefore  I  thee  cannot  obey  : 

So  we  both  to  him 

But  thou  mayest  take  thee  hence. 

One  purpose  speak : 

16                                            ANGLO-SAXON  POETRY.                                                   I 

Urge  thou  him  zealously, 

With  bliss  encircled. 

That  he  may  follow  thy  instruction ; 

Him  who  formed  this  world. 

Lest  ye  hateful  to  God 

I  see  his  angels 

Your  Lord 

Encompass  him 

Should  become. 

With  feathery  wings, 

If  thou  perfect  this  attempt, 

Of  all  folks  greatest. 

Best  of  women. 

Of  bands  most  joyous. 

I  will  conceal  from  your  Lord 

Who  could  to  me 

That  to  me  so  much  calumny 

Such  perception  give. 

Adam  spake. 

If  now  it 

Evil  words, 

God  did  not  send. 

Accuseth  me  of  untruths, 

Heaven's  Ruler? 

Sayeth  that  I  am  anxious  for  mischiefi, 

I  can  hear  from  far,                                     n 

A  servant  to  the  malignant, 

And  so  widely  see. 

Not  God's  angel : 

Through  the  whole  world, 

But  I  so  readily  know  all 

Over  5ie  broad  creation ; 

The  angels'  origins. 

I  can  the  joy  of  the  firmament 

The  roofs  of  the  high  heavens. 

Hear  in  heaven ; 

So  long  was  the  wUle 

It  became  light  to  me  in  mind, 

That  I  diligentiy 

From  without  and  within. 

Served  God, 

Afler  the  fruit  I  tasted : 

Through  faithfbl  mind, 

I  now  have  of  it                                           1 

My  Master, 

Here  in  my  hand,                                       1 

My  good  lord,                                             || 

I  am  not  like  a  devil." 

I  will  fiun  give  it  thee ; 

He  led  her  thus  with  lies. 

I  believe  that  it 

And  with  wiles  instigated 

Came  from  God, 

The  woman  to  that  evil. 

Brought  by  his  command. 

Until  began  within  her 

The  serpent's  counsel  boil : 

With  cautious  words. 

(To  her  a  weaker  mind  had 
The  Creator  assigned) 

It  is  not  like  to  aught 

Else  on  earth; 

So  that  she  her  mood 

But,  so  this  messenger  sayeth. 
That  it  directly 
Came  from  God." 

Began  relax,  after  those  dlurements ; 

Therefore  she  of  the  enemy  received. 

Against  the  Lord's  word, 

She  spake  to  him  of^ 

Of  death's  tree 

And  all  day  urged  him 

The  noxious  fruit.  .  .  . 

To  that  dark  deed, 

Then  to  her  spouse  she  spake : 

That  they  their  Lord's 

"  Adam,  my  lord, 

Will  break. 

This  fruit  is  so  sweet, 

The  fell  envoy  stood  by. 

Mild  in  the  breast. 

Excited  his  desires, 

And  with  wiles  urged  him. 

GkNl's  angel  good ; 

Dangerously  followed  him : 

I  by  his  habit  see 

The  foe  was  full  near 

That  he  is  the  envoy 

Who  on  that  dire  journey 

Of  our  Lord, 

Had  fared 

Heaven's  King. 

Over  a  long  way ; 

His  &vor  it  is  tor  us 

Nations  he  studied. 

Better  to  gain 

Into  that  great  perdition 

Than  his  aversion. 

Men  to  cast. 

If  thou  to  him  this  day 

To  corrupt  and  to  mislead. 

Spake  aught  of  harm. 

That  they  God's  loan, 

Yet  will  he  it  forgive. 

The  Almighty's  gift. 

If  we  to  him  obedience 

Might  forfeit. 

Will  show. 

The  power  of  heaven's  kingdom ; 

What  shall  profit  thee  such  hateful  fltrife 

For  the  hell-miscreant 

Well  knew 

To  us  is  his  favor  needful ; 

That  they  God's  ire 

He  may  bear  our  errands 

Must  have 

To  the  all-powerful 

And  hell-torment. 

Heavenly  King. 

The  torturing  punishment 

I  can  see  from  hence 

Needs  receive. 

Where  he  himself  sitteth, 

Since  they  God's  command 

That  is  south-east, 

Had  broken, 

CiEDMON.                                                              17  j 

What  time  he  (the  fiend)  seduced 

Pale  stood 

With  lying  words 

Over  the  archers 

To  that  evil  counsel 

The  clear  beams. 

The  beauteoos  woman, 

The  bucklers  shone. 

Of  females  ftirest, 

The  shades  prevailed ; 

That  she  after  his  will  spake, 

Yet  the  falling  nightly  shadows 

Ws^  as  a  help  to  him 

Might  not  near 

To  seduce  God's  handiwork. 

Shroud  the  gloom. 

Then  she  to  Adam  spake, 

The  heavenly  candle  burnt. 

Fairest  of  women, 

The  new  night-ward 

Full  oft, 

Must  by  compulsion 

1^11  in  the  man  began 

Rest  over  the  hosts. 

His  mind  to  turn ; 

Lest  them  horror  of  the  waste, 

So  that  he  trusted  to  the  promise 

The  hoar  heath 

Which  to  him  the  woman 

With  its  raging  storms, 

Said  in  words : 

Should  overwhelm. 

Yet  did  she  it  through  &ithfti]  mind. 

Their  souls  fail. 

Knew  not  that  hence  so  many  ills. 

Had  their  harbinger 

Sinful  woes. 

Fiery  locks. 

Must  follow 

Pale  beams ; 

To  mankind. 

Because  she  took  in  mind 

In  the  martial  host. 

That  she  the  hostile  enroy's 

At  the  hot  flame. 

Suggestions  would  obey ; 

That  it  in  the  waste 

But  weened  that  she  the  fiivor 

Would  bum  up  the  host. 

Of  heayen's  King 

Unless  they  zealously 

Wrought  with  the  words 

Moses  obeyed. 

Which  she  to  the  man 

Shone  the  bright  host. 

Reyealed,  as  it  were  a  token. 

The  shields  gleamed ; 

And  Towed  them  true, 

The  bucklered  warriors  saw 

Till  that  to  Adam 

In  a  straight  course 

Within  his  breast 

The  sign  over  the  bands. 

His  mind  was  changed, 

Till  that  the  sea-barrier. 

And  his  heart  began 

At  the  land's  end. 

Turn  to  her  will. 

The  people's  force  withstood. 

He  from  the  woman  took 

Suddenly,  on  their  onward  way. 

Hell  and  death. 

A  camp  arose ;  — 

Though  it  was  not  so  called. 

They  cast  them  weary  down ; 

But  it  the  name  of  fiuit 

Must  have : 

The  bold  sewers ; 

Tet  was  it  death's  dream, 

They  their  strength  repaired. 

And  the  devil's  artifice, 

Spread  themselves  about. 

Hell  and  death, 

After  the  trumpet  sang. 

And  men's  perdition, 

The  sailors  in  the  tento. 

The  destruction  of  human  kind, 

Then  was  the  fourth  station. 

That  they  made  for  food 

The  shielded  warriors'  rest. 

Unholy  fruit ! 

By  the  Red  Sea.  .  .  . 

Thus  it  came  within  him. 

Then  of  his  men  the  mind 

Touched  at  his  heart. 

Became  despondent. 

Laughed  then  and  played 

After  that  they  saw. 

The  bitter-purposed  messenger. 

From  the  south  ways, 

The  host  of  Pharaoh 

^ 

Coming  fbrth. 

Moving  over  the  holt. 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  ISRAELITES. 

The  band  glittering. 

They  prepared  their  anns, 

Loud  was  the  shout  of  the  host. 

The  war  advanced. 

The  heavenly  beacon  rose 

Bucklers  glittered, 

Each  evening. 

Trumpets  sang. 

Another  stupendous  wonder  !  — 

Standards  rattled. 

After  the  sun's 

They  trod  the  nation's  firontier. 

Around  them  screamed 

Over  &e  people 

The  fowls  of  war. 

A  flame  to  shine, 

Greedy  of  battle. 

A  burning  pillar ; 

Dewy.feathered; 

3 

b2 

18 


ANGLO-SAXON  POETEY. 


Over  Ibe  bodiei  oF  the  host 
(The  dark  chooser  of  llie  «Soin) 
The  wolves  ^utig 
Their  horrid  even  gong, 
Id  hopes  of  food, 
The  reckless  beast^^ 
Threatening  death  to  the  valltuil : 
On  the  foes'  truck  flew 
The  army- fowl* 

The  march-wandB  cried 
At  midnight; 
Flew  the  spirit  of  de^ith  j 
The  people  were  heuimed  in. 

At  length  of  that  hoet 
The  proud  Ihanea 
Met  *mid  the  paths. 
In  bendingB  of  thu  boundariea  } 
To  them  there  the  baaner^klng 
Marched  with  the  standard, 
The  prtni:e  of  men 
Rode  the  marches  with  hit  band  ; 
The  warlitce  guardian  of  the  people 
Cln^ped  hiii  gHm  helm, 
The  kiug^  his  visor. 
The  banncna  glittered 
In  hopes  of  hitttle ; 
Blaughter  shook  the  proud. 
He  bade  hi&  warlike  bond 
Bear  ihem  boldlf , 
The  firm  bodj. 
The  enemy  saw 
With  hostile  eyea 
The  coming  of  the  nalivea : 
About  him  moved 
Fearless  warriorfl. 
The  hoar  nrmy  wolves 
The  battle  hailed, 
Thirsty  for  the  brunt  of  war. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  PHAEAOH. 

Trt£  folk  was  aflrlghted, 
The  flood- dread  seized  on 
Their  sad  ftauh  ; 
Ocean  wailed  with  deaths 
The  mountain  heights  were 
W4tb  blood  besteamedf 
The  sea  foamed  gore^ 
Crying  was  ia  the  waves, 
The  water  full  of  weapons, 
A  death-miit  rose ; 
The  Egyptiani  were 
Turned  back ; 
Trembling  they  fled. 
They  felt  fear ; 
Would  that  hoHt  gladly 
Find  tFieir  homes; 
Their  vaunt  grew  sadder* 
Against  them,  as  a  eloud,  rose 
The  fell  rolling  of  the  wavea ; 
There  came  not  any 
Of  tliat  host  to  home, 


But  from  behind  inclosed  them 

Fate  with  tlje  wave. 

Where  ways  ere  lay. 

Sea  raged. 

Their  tnight  was  merged. 

The  stream  stood, 

The  utoTTO  rose 

High  to  heaven ; 

The  loudest  army-cry 

The  hostile  uttered  ; 

The  air  above  waa  thickened 

With  dying  voices  j 

Blood  pervaded  the  flood, 

The  shield- walla  were  riven, 

Shook  the  firmament 

That  greatest  ofsea'deaths : 

The  proud  died. 

Kings  in  a  body; 

The  return  prevailed 

Of  Ihe  sea  at  length  ] 

Their  bucklers  ghone 

High  over  the  ^Idiera; 

The  sea-wall  rose. 

The  proud  ocean-stream. 

Their  might  in  death  waa 

Fastly  lettered. 

The  tide^s  neap, 

WiUi  the  war-enginery  obatrucied, 

Laid  bare  the  sand 

To  the  iated  host, 

When  the  wandering  stream. 

The  ever  told  sea, 

With  it9  ever  aalt  wavea, 

Its  eternal  stations, 

A  naked,  involuntarf  messenger, 

Came  to  viutt. 

Hoaiile  was  tlje  spirit  of  deatb 

Who  the  foes  overwhelmed  ; 

The  blue  air  was 

With  corruption  tainted  j 

The  bursting  ocean 

Whooped  a  bloody  storm, 

The  seamen's  way^ 

Till  that  the  true  God, 

Through  Moses'  h&nd. 

Enlarged  its  force. 

Widely  drove  it. 

It  swept  death  In  its  embnee ; 

The  flood  foamed. 

The  fiited  died. 

Water  deluged  the  land. 

The  air  was  agitated, 

Yielded  the  rampart  holds. 

The  waves  burst  over  them. 

The  sea^towers  meUed. 

When  the  Mighty  struck. 

With  holy  hand. 

The  Guardian  of  heaven's  kingdom. 

The  lofty  warrioni, 

The  proud  nation: 

They  might  not  have 

A  safer  path, 

For  the  sea'Stream'e^  force. 

But  it  o'er  many  ahed 

Yelling  horror. 


HISTORIC  ODES. 


19 


Ocean  raged, 

Drew  itself  up  on  higb, 

The  ■torms  rose, 

The  corpses  rolled ; 

Fated  fell 

High  from  heaven 

The  hand. work  of  God : 

Ofthe  foamy  gulfi 

The  Guardian  of  the  flood  struck 

The  unsheltering  waye 

With  an  ancient  falchion, 

That  in  the  swoon  of  death 


Thoee  armies  slept, 
Those  bands  of  sinAil 
Sunk  with  their  souls 
Fast  encompassed, 
The  flood-pale  host. 
After  that  them  in  its  gnl& 
The  brown  expanse. 
Of  proud  waves  greatest. 
All  their  power  o*erthrew ; 
When  was  drowned 
The  flower  of  Egypt, 
Pharaoh  with  his  folk. 


HISTORIC  ODES. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BRUNANBURH. 
A.  D.  938. 

HxRs  Athebtan  king, 
Of  earls  the  lord, 
Rewarder  of  heroes, 
And  his  brother  eke, 
Edmund  atheling. 
Elder  of  ancient  race, 
Slew  in  the  fight, 
With  the  edge  of  their  swords. 
The  foe  at  Brumby ! 
The  sons  of  Edward 
Their  board-walls  cloye. 
And  hewed  their  banners, 
With  the  wrecks  of  their  hammers. 
So  were  they  taught 
By  kindred  zeal. 
That  they  at  camp  oft 
*  Gainst  any  robber 
Their  land  should  defend. 
Their  hoards  and  homes. 
^Pursuing  foil 
The  Scottish  clans ; 
The  men  of  the  fleet 
In  numbers  foil ; 
'Midst  the  din  of  the  field 
The  warrior  swate. 
Since  the  sun  was  up 
In  moming-tide, 
Gigantic  light ! 
Glad  over  grounds, 
God's  candle  bright. 
Eternal  Lord!  — 
Till  the  noble  creature 
Set  in  the  western  main  : 
There  lay  many 
Of  the  Northern  heroes 
Under  a  shower  of  arrows, 
Shot  over  shields ; 
And  Scotland's  boast, 
A  Scythian  race, 


The  mighty  seed  of  Mars  ! 

With  chosen  troops. 

Throughout  the  day, 

The  West-Saxons  fierce 

Pressed  on  the  loathed  bands ; 

Hewed  down  the  fogitives, 

And  scattered  the  rear. 

With  strong  mill-sharpened  blades. 

The  Mercians,  too. 

The  hard  hand-play 

Spared  not  to  any 

Of  those  that  with  Anlaf 

Over  the  briny  deep, 

In  the  ship's  bosom, 

Sought  this  land 

For  the  hardy  fight. 

Five  kings  lay 

On  the  field  of  battle. 

In  bloom  of  youth, 

Pierced  with  swords; 

So  seven  eke 

Of  the  earls  of  Anlaf; 

And  of  the  ship's  crew 

Unnumbered  crowds. 

There  was  dispersed 

The  little  band 

Of  hardy  Scots, 

The  dread  of  Northern  hordes ; 

Urged  to  the  noisy  deep 

By  unrelenting  fote ! 

The  king  of  the  fleet. 

With  his  slender  craft. 

Escaped  with  his  life 

On  the  felon  flood  ;  — 

And  so,  too,  Constantino, 

The  valiant  chief. 

Returned  to  the  North 

In  hasty  flight. 

The  hoary  Hildrino 

Cared  not  to  boast 

Among  his  kindred. 

Here  was  his  remnant 

Of  relations  and  firiends 


Sliun  with  the  swcird 

In  the  crowdf?d  fight. 

HiB  uon,  too,  he  left 

On  I  ho  fiuld  of  battle. 

Mangled  with  wouiid£i. 

Young  at  the  fight. 

The  fair-haired  youth 

Had  no  rcoiiou  to  boaai 

Of  the  elaugluering  strifij. 

Nor  olJ  In  wood 

And  Anlaf  the  more, 

With  the  wrecks  of  their  artnj, 

Could  laugh  and  oay, 

That  they  on  the  field 

Of  stem  command 

Bettt^r  workmen  were, 

In  tiie  conflict  of  bannen, 

The  clash  of  apcars, 

Tho  me G ting  of  heroea, 

And  the  rustling  of  weapons, 

Whicli  they  on  the  fieJd 

Of  slaughter  played 

"Willi  tho  aona  of  Edward. 

Thf»  Northtaen  sailed 

In  their  nailed  sliJpSj 

A  dreary  remnant, 

On  the  roaring  sea  ^ 

OFer  deep  water  ' 

Dublin  they  sought, 

And  Ireland's  shoreo, 

In  great  disgrace. 

Such  then  the  brothera. 

Bo  Lb  together. 

King  and  atlieling^ 

Sought  their  country, 

Weat-Saion  land, 

In  light  triumphant. 

They  left  hehind  them, 

Raw  to  devour, 

The  sallow  kite. 

The  Rwarthy  raven 

With  borny  nib. 

And  the  hottrBe  vultm^. 

With  tho  eagle  awift 

To  consume  bb  prey ; 

Tlio  greedy  goshawk. 

And  that  gray  beast, 

Tho  wolf  of  the  weald. 

No  slaughter  yet 

Was  greater  made 

E'er  in  this  island. 

Of  people  slain, 

Before  this  same. 

With  the  edge  of  the  sword ; 

As  the  books  inform  us 

Of  tbe  old  historians  I 

Since  hither  came 

From  the  eastern  shores 

The  Angles  and  Saxons, 

Over  the  hrond  sea. 

And  Britain  avught, — 

Fierce  battle-smiths, 

O'ercnme  the  Welsh, 

Most  valiant  earls. 

And  gained  the  land. 


THE  DEATH  OF  KING  EDGAR, 
A.  D,  975. 

Heui:  ended 
His  earthly  djeama 
Edgor^  of  Angles  king; 
Chose  him  other  light. 
Serene  and  lovely, 
Spuming  this  frail  abode, 
A  life  that  mortals 
Here  call  lean 
Me  quilted  with  diidain. 
July  the  month, 
By  oil  agreed 
In  this  our  land, 
Whoever  were 
In  chronic  lore 
Correctly  taught ; 
_    Tbe  day  the  eighth. 
When  Edgar  young, 
Rewarder  of  heroes, 
His  life^ — his  throne  —  resigned. 
Edward  Kis  son, 
Unwajien  child, 
Of  earls  the  prince, 
Succeeded  then 
To  England's  throne. 
Of  royal  race, 
Teii  nights  before, 
Departed  bencs 
Cyneward  the  good, — 
Prelate  of  manners  luild.    * 
Well  known  to  me 
In  Mercia  then, 
How  low  on  earth 
God's  glory  fell 
On  every  side  : 
Chased  from  tbe  land, 
His  servants  fied, — 
Their  wisdom  scorned } 
Much  grief  to  him 
Whose  bosom  glowed 
With  fervent  love 
Of  great  Creation's  Lord  I 
Neglected  llien 
The  God  of  wonders, 
Victor  of  victors, 
Monarch  of  heaven, — ^ 
His  laws  by  man  transgressed  ! 
Then,  too,  was  driven 
Oslac  beloved 
An  eitlc  Jiu- 
From  liis  native  land 
Over  tbe  rolling  wnvei, — 
Over  the  ganet-bath, 
0\'er  the  water- throng, 
Tbe  abode  of  the  whale,  ^ — 
Fair- haired  hero. 
Wise  and  eloiiuentj 
Of  home  he  re  ft ! 
Then,  too,  was  seen. 
High  in  the  heavens^ 
The  star  on  his  station, 
Tliat  far  and  wide 
Wise  men  call — 


POEM  FROM  THE  POETIC  CALENDAR. 


81 


Loven  of  truth 

And  heavenly  Jore  — 

Conuta  by  name. 

Widely  waa  spread 

6od*8  Tengeance  then 

Throughoat  the  land, 

And  fiunine  Koared  the  hills. 

May  heaven's  Guardian, 

The  glory  of  angels. 

Avert  these  ills, 

And  give  ns  bliss  again ; 

That  bliss  to  all 

Abundance  yields 

From  earth's  choice  fruits. 

Throughout  this  happy  isle. 


THE  DEATH  OF  KING   EDWARD. 
A.  D.  1065. 

Hbrx  Edward  king, 

Of  Angles  lord. 

Sent  his  stead&st 

Soul  to  Christ. 

In  the  kingdom  of  God 

A  holy  spirit ! 

He  in  the  world  here 

Abode  awhile, 

In  the  kingly  throng  ^ 

Of  counsel  sage. 

Four  and  twenty 

Winters  wielding 

The  sceptre  freely, 

Wealth  he  dispensed. 

In  the  tide  of  health, 

The  youthful  monarch. 

Offspring  of  Ethelred ! 

Ruled  well  his  subjects ; 

The  Welsh  and  the  Scots, 

And  the  Britons  also. 

Angles  and  Saxons, — 

Relations  of  old. 

So  apprehend 


The  first  in  rank, 
That  to  Edward  all, 
The  noble  king. 
Were  firmly  held 
High-seated  men. 
Blithe-minded  aye 
Was  the  harmless  king ; 
Though  he  long  ere, 
Of  land  bereft. 
Abode  in  exile 
Wide  on  the  earth ; 
When  Knute  overcame 
The  kin  of  Ethelred, 
And  the  Danes  wielded 
The  dear  kingdom 
Of  Engle-land. 
Eight  and  twenty 
Winters'  rounds 
They  wealth  dispensed. 
Then  came  fi>rth 
Free  in  his  chambers. 
In  royal  array. 
Good,  pure,  and  mild, 
Edward  the  noble ; 
By  his  country  defended,  - 
By  land  and  people. 
Until  suddenly  came 
The  bitter  Death, 
And  this  king  so  dear 
Snatched  from  the  earth. 
Angels  carried 
His  soul  sincere 
Into  the  light  of  heaven. 
But  the  prudent  king 
Had  settled  the  realm 
On  high-bom  men, — 
On  Harold  himself. 
The  noble  earl ; 
Who  in  every  season 
Faithfully  heard 
And  obeyed  his  lord. 
In  word  and  deed  ; 
Nor  gave  to  any 
What  might  be  wanted 
By  the  nation's  king. 


POEM  FROM  THE  POETIC  CALENDAR. 


Thx  King  shall  hold  the  Kingdom ; 
Castles  shall  be  seen  afar. 
The  work  of  the  minds  of  giants, 
That  are  on  this  earth  ; 
The  wonderful  work  of  wallstones. 

The  wind  is  the  swiftest  in  the  sky  ; 
Thunder  is  the  loudest  of  noises ; 
Great  is  the  majesty  of  Christ ; 
Fortune  is  the  strongest ; 


Winter  is  the  coldest ; 

Spring  has  the  most  hoar-firost ; 

He  is  the  longest  cold ; 

Summer  sun  is  most  beautiful ; 

The  air  is  then  hottest ; 

Fierce  harvest  is  the  happiest ; 

It  bringeth  to  men 

The  tribute-iruito 

That  to  them  God  sendeth. 


SS                                             ANGLO-SAXON   POETRY.                                                    || 

Truth  is  most  deceiving ; 

Will  roll  with  the  skate  ; 

The  shower  in  the  heavens, 

Gold,  to  every  man  ; 

Mingled  with  wind, 

And  age  is  the  wisest, 

Will  come  on  the  world. 

Sagacious  from  ancient  days, 

The  thief  will  go  out 

From  having  before  endured  much. 

In  dark  weather. 

Woe  is  a  wonderful  burden  ; 

The  Thyrs  i  will  remain  in  the  ibn. 

Clouds  roam  about ; 

Alone  in  the  land. 

The  young  Etheling 

A  maiden  with  secret  arts. 

Good  companions  shall 

A  woman,  her  fiiend  will  seek,                       | 

Animate  to  war. 

And  to  the  giving  of  bracelets. 

In  public  grow  up. 

Strength  in  the  earl. 

So  that  men  may  buy  her  with  bracelets. 

The  sword  with  the  helm, 

The  salt  ocean  will  rage  ; 

Shall  abide  battle. 

The  clouds  of  the  supreme  Ruler, 

The  hawk  in  the  sea-cliff 

And  the  water -floods, 

Shall  live  wild ; 

About  every  land 

The  wolf  in  the  grove  ; 

Will  flow  in  expansive  streams. 

The  eagle  in  the  meadow  ; 

Cattle  in  the  earth 

The  boar  in  the  wood, 

Will  multiply  and  be  reared. 

Powerful  with  the  strength  of  his  tusk. 

Stars  will  in  the  heavens 

The  good  man  in  his  country 

Shine  brightly, 

Will  do  justice. 

As  their  Creator  commanded  them. 

With  the  dart  in  the  hand. 

God  against  evil. 

The  spear  adorned  with  gold. 

Youth  against  age, 

The  gem  in  the  ring 

Life  against  death, 

Will  stand  pendent  and  curved. 

Light  against  darkness, 

The  stream  in  the  waves 

Army  against  army, 

Will  make  a  great  flood. 

Enemy  against  enemies, 

The  mast  in  the  keel 

Hate  against  hate, 

Will  groan  with  the  sail-yards. 

^   Shall  everywhere  contend ; 

The  sword  will  be  in  the  bosom. 

Sin  will  steal  on. 

The  lordly  iron. 

Always  will  the  prudent  strive 

The  dragon  will  rest  on  his  hillock. 

About  this  world*s  labor 

Crafty,  proud  with  his  ornaments. 

To  hang  the  thief; 

The  fish  will  in  the  water 

And  compensate  the  more  honest 

Produce  a  progeny. 

For  crime  committed 

The  king  will  in  the  hall 

Against  mankind. 

Distribute  bracelets. 

The  Creator  alone  knows 

The  bear  will  be  on  the  heath 

Whither  the  soul 

Old  and  terrible. 

Shall  afterwards  roam. 

The  water  will  firom  the  hill 

And  all  the  spirits 

Bring  down  the  gray  earth. 

That  depart  in  God. 

The  army  will  be  together 

After  their  death-day 

Strong  with  the  bravest 

They  will  abide  their  judgment 

Fidelity  in  the  earl  -, 

In  their  Father's  bosom. 

Wisdom  in  man ! 

Their  future  condition 

The  woods  will  on  the  ground 

Is  hidden  and  secret : 

Blow  with  fruit ; 

God  only  knows  it. 

The  mountains  in  the  earth 

The  preserving  Father ! 

Will  stand  green. 

None  again  return 

God  will  be  in  heaven 

Hither  to  our  bouses, 

The  judge  of  de§ds. 

That  any  truth 

The  door  will  be  to  the  hall 

May  reveal  to  man. 

The  mouth  of  the  roomy  mansion. 

About  the  nature  of  the  Creator, 

The  round  will  be  on  the  shield. 

Or  the  people's  habitations  of  glory 

The  fast  fortress  of  the  fingers. 

Which  he  himself  inhabits. 

Fowl  aloft 
Will  sport  in  the  air ;     . 
Salmon  in  the  whirlpool 

1  A  Thjn  wu  among  the  Northerns  a  giant,  or  wild 

moanuin  aarage,  a  sort  of  evil  being,  somewhat  mper 
nattuaL 

1 

KING  ALFRED'S  METRES  OF  BOETHIUS. 


93 


KING  ALFRED'S  METRES  OF  BOETHIUS. 


METRE   III. 

Alas  !  in  how  grim 
And  how  bottomless 
A  gulf  labors 
The  darkling  mind, 
When  it  the  strong 
Storms  lash 
Of  worldly  cares ; 
When  it,  thus  contending, 
Its  proper  light 
Once  fonakes, 
And  in  woe  forgets 
The  everlasting  joy. 
And  rashes  into  the  darkness 
Of  this  world, 
Afflicted  with  cares ! 
Thus  has  it  now  be&llen 
This  my  mind ; 
Now  it  no  more  knows 
Of  good  for  God, 
But  lamentations 
For  the  external  world : 
To  it  is  need  of  comlbrt. 


METRE  VI. 

Tnxir  Wisdom  again 

His  treasury  of  words  unlocked. 

Sung  Tarious  maxims, 

And  thus  expressed  himself. 

When  the  sun 

Clearest  shines, 

Serenest  in  the  heayen. 

Quickly  are  obscured 

Over  the  earth 

All  other  stars : 

Because  their  brightness  is  not 

Brightness  at  all. 

Compared  with 

The  sun*B  light. 

When  mild  blows 

The  south  and  western  wind 

Under  the  clouds. 

Then  quickly  grow 

The  flowers  of  the  field. 

Joyful  that  they  may. 

But  the.  stark  storm. 

When  it  strong  comes 

From  north  and  east. 

It  quickly  takes  away 

The  beauty  of  the  rose. 

And  also  the  northern  storm. 

Constrained  by  necessity, 

That  it  is  strongly  agitated. 


Jjashes  the  spacious  sea 
Against  the  shore. 
Alas  !  that  on  earth 
Aught  of  permanent 
Work  in  the  world 
Does  not  ever  remain ! 


METRE  XIII. 


I  WILL  with  songs 

Still  declare. 

How  th^  Almighty 

All  creatures 

Governs  with  his  bridle. 

Bends  where  he  will,  — 

With  his  well  ordered 

Power 

Wonderfully 

Well  moderates. 

The  Ruler  of  the  heavens 

Has  so  controlled 

And  encompassed 

All  creatures. 

And  bound  them  with  his  chains. 

That  they  cannot  find  out 

That  they  ever  from  them 

May  slip : 

And  yet  every  thing. 

Of  various  creatures, 

Tends  with  proneness. 

Strongly  inclined. 

To  that  nature 

Which  the  King  of  angels. 

The  Father,  at  the  beginning 

Firmly  appointed  them. 

Thus  every  one  of  things, 

Of  various  creatures. 

Thitherward  aspires. 

Except  some  angels, . 

And  mankind ; 

Of  whom  much  too  many. 

Dwellers  in  the  world. 

Strive  against  their  nature. 

Though  now  on  land, 

A  docile  lion, 

A  pleasing  creature. 

Well  tamed. 

Her  master 

Much  love. 

And  also  fear. 

Every  day ; 

If  it  ever  happen 

That  she  any 

Blood  should  taste. 

No  man  need 


24 


ANGLO-SAXON  POETRY. 


Expect  the  chance, 

That  she  well  afterwards 

Her  tameness  will  keep : 

But  I  think 

That  she  this  new  tamenese 

Will  naught  regard ; 

But  will  remember 

The  wild  habits 

Of  her  parents. 

She  will  begin  in  earnest 

Her  chains  to  sever, 

To  roar, 

And  first  will  bite 

Her  own 

Master ; 

And  quickly  afterwards, 

Every  man 

Whom  she  can  seize. 

She  will  not  let  go 

Any  living  thing. 

Of  cattle  or  men  : 

She  will  seize  all  she  finds. 

So  do  the  wood  birds. 

Though  they  are 

Well  tamed : 

If  they  are  among  trees 

In  the  midst  of  the  wood. 

Immediately  their  teachers 

Are  despised. 

Though  they  long  before 

Taught  and  tamed  them. 

They,  wild  in  the  trees, 

In  their  old  nature 

Ever  afterwards 

Willingly  remain ; 

Though  to  them  would 

Each  of  their  teachers 

Skilfiilly  offer 

The  same  meat 

That  he  before 

Tamed  them  with ; 

The  branches  seem  to  them 

Even  so  merry, 

That  they  for  meat  care  not : 

It  seems  to  them  so  pleasant, 

That  to  them  the  forest  echoes ; 

When  they  hear 

Other  birds 

Spread  their  sound. 

They  their  own 

Voice  raise : 

They  stun  the  ears  altogetlier 

With  their  joyful  song. 

The  wood  all  resounds. 

So  is  it  with  all  trees 

Which  are  in  their  own  soil. 

That  each  in  the  wood 

Highest  shall  grow. 

Though  thou  any  bough 

Bendest  towards  the  earth. 

It  is  upwards. 

As  soon  as  thou  lettest  it  go  : 

Wide  at  will. 

It  turns  to  its  nature. 

So  does  also  the  sun. 


When  she  is  declining, 

After  mid-day,  — 

The  great  candle 

Verges  to  her  setting. 

The  unknown  way 

Of  night  subdues : 

Again  north  and  east 

Appears  to  men. 

Brings  to  earth's  inhabitants   ^ 

Morning  greatly  splendid. 

She  over  mankind  goes 

Continually  upwards. 

Until  she  again  comes 

Where  her  highest 

Natural  station  is. 

So  every  creature. 

With  all  its  might. 

Throughout  this  wide  world. 

Strives  and  hastens. 

With  all  its  might, 

Again  ever  inclines 

Towards  its  nature. 

And  comes  to  it  when  it  may. 

There  ia'not  now  over  the  earth 

Any  creature 

Which  does  not  desire 

That  it  should  come 

To  that  region 

Which  it  came  firom, 

That  is,  security 

And  eternal  rest ; 

Which  is  clearly 

Almighty  God. 

There  is  not  now  over  the  earth 

Any  creature 

Which  does  not  revolve, 

As  a  wheel  does, 

On  itself; 

For  it  so  turns 

That  it  again  comes 

Where  it  before  waa. 

When  it  is  first 

Put  in  circular  motion. 

Then  it  altogether  is 

Turned  round ; 

It  must  again  do 

That  which  before  it  did. 

And  also  be 

What  it  before 


METRE  XXI. 

Well,  O  children  of  men. 

Throughout  the  middle  earth  ! 

Let  every  one  of  the  free 

Aspire  to  the 

Eternal  good 

Which  we  are  speaking  about. 

And  to  the  felicities 

That  we  are  telling  of. 

Let  him,  who  is  now 

Straitly  bound 

With  the  vain  love 


KING  ALFRED'S  METRES  OF  BOETHIUS. 


35 


Of  this  great 

Middle  earth, 

Also  quickly  seek  for  himaelf 

Full  freedom. 

That  he  may  arrive 

At  the  felicities. 

For  the  good  of  soals. 

For  that  is  the  only  rest 

Of  all  labors, 

The  desirable  hayen 

To  the  lofty  ships 

Of  our  mind ; 

A  great  tranquil  station  ; 

That  is  the  only  haven 

Which  ever  is. 

After  the  waves 

Of  our  labors, 

And  every  storm, 

Always  calm. 

That  is  the  refuge 

And  the  only  comfort 

Of  all  the  wretched, 

After  these 

Worldly  labors. 

That  is  a  pleasant  place, 

After  these  miseries, 

To  possess. 

But  I  well  know. 

That  neither  golden  vessels. 

Nor  heaps  of  silver. 

Nor  precious  stones. 

Nor  the  wealth  of  the  middle  earth. 

The  eyes  of  the  mind 

Ever  enlighten. 

Nor  aught  improve 

Their  sharpness 

To  the  contemplation 

Of  true  felicities ; 

But  they  rather 

The  mind's  eyes 

Of  every  man 

Make  blind  in  their  breasts, 

Than  make  them  clearerj 

For  everything 

That  in  this  present 

Life  delights 

Are  poor 

Earthly  things, 

Ever  fleeting. 

But  wonderftil  is  that 

Splendor  and  brightness, 

Which  every  one  of  things 

With  splendor  enlightens. 

And  afterwards 

Entirely  rules. 

The  Ruler  wills  not 

That  our  souls 

Shall  perish ; 

But  he  himself  will  them 

With  a  ray  illumine, 

The  Ruler  of  lifb  ! 

If,  then,  any  man. 

With  the  clear  eyes 

Of  his  mind,  may 

Ever  behold 

4 


The  clear  brightness 

Of  heaven's  light. 

Then  will  he  say, 

That  the  brightness  of  the  sun 

Is  darkness 

To  every  man. 

Compared  with 

That  great  light 

Of  God  Almighty, 

That  is  to  every  soul 

Eternal  without  end. 

To  blessed  souls. 


METRE   XXIII. 

Lo  !  now  on  earth  is  he 

In  every  thing 

A  happy  man. 

If  he  may  see 

The  clearest 

Heaven-shining  stream, 

The  noble  fountain 

Of  all  good; 

And  of  himself 

The  swarthy  mist. 

The  darkness  of  the  mind, 

Can  dispel ! 

We  will  as  yet. 

With  God's  help. 

With  old  and  fabulous 

Stories  instruct 

Thy  mind ; 

That  thou  the  better  mayest 

Discover  to  the  skies 

The  right  path, 

To  the  eternal  region 

Of  our  souls. 


METRE   XXVII. 

Wht  will  ye  ever 
With  unjust  hatred 
Tour  mind  trouble. 
As  the  ocean's 
Waves  lift  up 
The  ice-cold  sea. 
And  agitate  it  through  the  wind  ? 
Why  upbraid  ye 
Tour  fortune. 

That  she  no  power  possesses  ? 
Why  cannot  ye  now  wait 
For  the  bitter  state 
Of  that  death 

Which  for  you  the  Lord  ordained. 
Now  he  each  day 
Hastens  towards  you  ? 
Cannot  ye  see 
That  he  is  always  seeking 
Afier  every 
Earthly  offspring. 
Beasts  and  birds  ? 
Death  also  in  like  manner 
C 


m                                            ANGLO-SAXON   POETRY.                                                     1 

Afte|-  mnnkitid  eeeks. 

That  he  another 

Throaghout  this  middle  earth. 

With  his  thoughts 

Terrific  hunter! 

Should  hate  in  hia  breast, 

And  devours  in  pursuit. 

Like  a  bird  or  beast. 

He  will  not  any  track 

But  it  would  be  most  fight. 

Ever  forsake, 

That  every  man 

Until  he  haa  seized 

1              Should  render  to  other 

That  which  h©  before 

DwelleiB  in  the  world 

Sought  after. 

Reward  proportionable 

It  JB  a  wretched  thing. 

To  his  deserts. 

Thai  cjtiiena 

1              Ju  every  thing: 

Cannot  wait  for  hbn  ; 

That  is,  that  he  should  Ioyo 

Unhappy  men 

1              Every  one  of  the  good. 

Are  rather  desirona 

As  he  best  may  j 

To  anticipate  him : 

And  have  mercy  on  the  wicked, 
As  we  before  said. 

Aft  birds. 

Or  wild  beasts. 

He  should  the  man 

When  they  contend, 

With  his  mind  lovs, 

Each  one  weuld 

And  his  vices 

The  other  deBlJOy. 

All  hate. 

But  it  ifl  wicked 

And  destroy, 

In  every  man. 

As  he  soonest  may. 

POEM  OF 

JUDITH. 

THE  REVEL  OF  HOLOFERNES. 

Over  all  the  day, 

The  lord  and  hie  men, 

Thkt  then  to  the  feaat 

Drank  with  wine, 

Went  to  ait. 

The  stem  dispenser  of  wealth  j 

JIager  to  drink  wine; 

Till  that  they  swimming  lay 

All  his  6cTco  chiefs. 

Over-drunk, 

Bold,  raail-dad  warriors  ! 

All  his  nobility, 

There  were  often  carried 

As  they  were  death-slain  ; 

The  deep  bowls 

Their  property  poured  about 

Behind  the  benches; 

Bo  commanded  the  Baldor  of  men 

So  likewise  vessels 

To  fill  to  them  sitting  at  the  feosi. 

And  orcas  full 

Till  that  to  the  children  of  men 

To  those  sitting  ai  supper. 

The  dark  night  approached. 

They  received  him,  soon  about  to  die. 

Then  commanded  he, 

The  illustrious  shield^wairiort: 

The  man  so  overpowered. 

Though  of  this  the  powerful  one 

The  bleB«ed  virgin 

Thought  not ;  the  fearful 

With  speed  to  fetch 

Lord  of  earls. 

To  his  bed-rest. 

Then  was  Holofernea 

With  bracelets  laden, 

Exhilarated  with  wine  j 

With  rings  adorned. 

In  the  halls  of  his  guests, 

Then  quickly  hurried 

He  laughed  and  ehou ted. 

The  subjected  servnnu. 

He  roared  and  dinned ; 

As  their  elder  bade  them  : 

Then  might  the  children  of  men 

The  mailed  warriors                                      j 

Afar  off  hear 

Of  the  illustrious  lord 

How  the  stern  one 

Stepped  to  the  great  place* 

Stormed  and  clamored, 

There  they  found  Judith, 

Animated  and  eUtcd  with  wine. 

Prudent  in  mind  ; 

He  admonished  amply 

And  then,  firmly. 

That  Ihey  should  bear  it  well 

The  bannered  soldiers 

To  those  silling  on  the  bench. 

Began  to  lead 

So  was  ihe  wicked  one, 

The  illustrious  virgin 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.                                           97  1 

To  the  high  tent. 

She  with  the  twisted  locka 

There  the  poweHliI  one 

Struck  the  hateful  enemy. 

His  rest  on  the  feast-night 

Meditating  hate. 

Within  was  enjojing. 

With  the  red  sword. 

The  odious  Holoferaes. 

TUI  she  had  half  cut  off  his  neck ; 

There  was  the  &ir, 

So  that  he  lay  in  a  swoon. 

The  golden  flj-net 

Drunk  and  mortally  wounded. 

About  the  chief's  bed  hung, 

He  was  not  then  dead. 

That  the  mischief-full 

Not  entirely  lifeless; 

Might  look  through, 

Sbe  struck  then  earnest. 

The  Baldor  of  the  soldiers. 

The  woman  illustrious  in  strength. 

On  every  one 

Another  time. 

That  there  within  came 

The  heathen  hound ; 

Of  the  children  of  men ; 

Till  that  his  head 

And  on  him  no  one 

Rolled  forth  upon  the  fkrar. 

Of  man-kind ; 

The  foul  one  lay  without  a  eoffer ; 

Unless  the  prood  one 

Backward  his  spirit  turned 

Any  man  of  his  illustrious  soldiers 

Under  the  abyss, 

Commanded  to  come 

And  there  was  plunged  below, 

Near  him  to  council. 

With  sulphur  ftstened ; 

For  ever  afterwards  wounded  by  wonns. 

Bound  in  torments, 

Hard  imprisoned. 

THE  DEATH  OF  HOLOFERNES. 

In  hell  he  bums. 

After  his  course. 

Sbe  took  the  heathen  man 

He  need  not  hope. 

Fast  b  J  his  hair ; 

With  darkness  overwhelmed. 

She  drew  him  by  his  limbs 

That  be  may  escape 

Towards  her  disgracefhlly ; 

From  that  mansion  of  worms ; 

And  the  mischief-full, 

But  there  he  shall  remain 

Odious  man 

Ever  and  ever. 

At  her  pleasure  laid, 

Without  end,  henceforth. 

So  as  the  wretch 

She  might  the  easiest  well  command. 

Void  of  the  joys  of  hope. 

MISCELLAN] 

GOUS  POEMS. 

THE  EXILES  COMPLAINT. 

Then  I  departed  on  my  journey. 

To  seek  my  following  (my  chieftain). 

A  friendless  exile's  travel. 

I  SET  forth  this  lay 

The  necessities  of  my  sorrows  began. 

Concerning  myself,  full  sad. 

Because  this  man's 

And  my  own  joumeyings. 

Kindred  plotted 

I  may  declare 

Through  malevolent  counsel 

What  calamities  I  haye  abode 

Since  I  grew  up, 

That  we,  far  remote 

Recently  or  of  old. 

In  the  regions  of  the  world. 

No  man  hath  experience  the  like ; 

Should  live  most  afflicted. 

But  I  reckon  the  privations 

This  weary  state 

Of  my  own  exiled  wanderings  the  first. 

My  lord  hath  ordained  me 

My  lord  departed 

Here  in  hardship  to  endure ', 

Hence  from  his  people 

1  have  fow  dear  to  me 

Over  the  expanse  of  the  waves ; 

In  this  country. 

I  had  some  care 

Few  foithful  friends. 

Where  my  chieftain 

Therefore  is  my  mind  sad : 

So  that,  as  a  perfoct  mate  to  me. 

m                                           ANGLO-SAXON    POETRY. 

I  can  find  ro  man 

Great  sorrow  of  mind. 

So  uobflppy,                                                    1 

And  remembereth  too  often                      I 

Sad  in  mind. 

His  happier  home. 

Debilitated  in  spirit, 

Woe  shall  be  to  them 

And  intent  on  thoughts  of  death. 

That  shall  lo  length                                i 

Blithe  in  our  beuring, 

Of  life  abide. 

Full  oft  we  two  proiuiaed 

' 

That  nothing  should  separate  ub^ 

Save  death  alooo. 

But  tliia  is  reversed  ; 

THE  SOUL'S  COMPLAmr  AGAINST 

And  now  aa  though  it  hod  never  beea 

THE   BODY. 

Is  our  friond^jip  become. 

" 

Afar  oiTia  it  the  loi 

McrcH  it  behoveth 

Of  tny  well-heloved 

Each  one  of  mortals. 

To  endure  enmity. 

That  he  his  sours  journey 

1                  I  am  compelled  to  eojoura 

In  himself  ponder, 

'                  la  woodland  bowers, 

How  deep  it  may  be. 

Beneath  the  oak-tree, 

When  Death  comoth. 

In  thb  earthy  cavern. 

The  bonds  he  breaketh 

CoJd  IB  thi§  earthy  maneion ; 

By  which  united 

I  tun  all  wearied  out; 

Were  body  and  souL 

Dark  are  the  del  la. 

And  ateep  the  mountains ; 

Long  it  is  thenceforth 

A  horrid  dweHing  among  branchea. 

Ere  the  eoni  takeih 

Overgrown  with  briera ; 

From  God  himself 

A  joyless  abode* 

Its  woe  or  its  weal  ;                                      1 
Afl  in  the  world  erst, 

Here  full  oft  adversity 

Hath  overtaken  me  from  the  joamey  of 

Even  in  ita  earth- vessel, 

my  lord  : 

It  wrought  before-                                       | 

My  friend*  are  in  the  earth  j 

Thoae  beloved  in  life 

The  soul  shall  come 

The  sepulchre  guardeth ; 

Wailing  with  loud  voice. 

Then  I  around 

After  a  sennight, 

In  solitude  wander 

The  soul,  to  find 

Under  the  oak-tree 

The  body 

By  thi^  earth-cave  : 

That  it  enit  dwelt  in ;  — 

There  must  I  sit                                             ! 

Three  hundred  wintem, 

The  summer- long  day  ;                                J 

^                 Unless  ere  that  workeili 

There  may  I  weep 

I                   The  Eternal  Lord, 

My  exiled  wanderings 

The  Almighty  God^ 

Of  many  tioublea  j 

The  end  of  the  world. 

Therefore  I  can  never 

From  the  care 

Crieth  then,  BO  care- worn. 

Of  ray  mind  rest, 

With  cold  utterance, 

From  all  the  wearinew 

And  speaketh  grimly, 

That  hath  come  upon  me  tn  tbia  life. 

The  ghost  to  the  dust : 

Let  the  young  man  strip  off 

"  Dry  dust !  thou  dreary  one  I 

To  be  sad  of  mind, 

How  little  didst  thou  labor  for  mc ! 

Hardhearted  thoughts ; 

In  the  foulness  of  earth 

The  same  that  shall  now  have 

Thou  all  wcarest  away 

A  blithe  bearing 

Like  to  the  loam  i 

Shall  hereafter  also  have  in  the  cni«  of 

Uttle  didAi  thou  think 

hh  breast 

How  thy  Boul's  journey 

Would  be  thereafter, 

Although  long  may  abide  with  him 

When  from  the  body                                   , 

All  his  worldly  joy. 

It  should  be  led  forth." 

And  dintajit  be  the  foe 

Of  the  far  country  ; 

In  which  my  friend  sitteth 

^ 

Beneath  the  stony  mouniain, 

THE  GRAVK 

Hoary  with  the  storm, 

(My  companion  weary  in  his  spirit) 
The  wafers  streaming 

FoH  tliee  was  a  house  built 

Ere  thou  wert  bom  ■                                   , 

Around  his  dreary  abode  j 

For  thee  was  a  mould  meant 

This  my  friend  su0ereth 

Ere  thou  of  mother  comesl. 

- 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


89 


Bat  it  is  not  made  readj. 
Nor  its  depth  measured, 
Nor  is  i|  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  side-ways  unhigh ; 
The  roof  is  built 
Thy  breast  full  nigh. 
So  thou  shalt  in  mould 
Dwell  lull  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. 


THE  RUINED  WALL-STONE. 

RxARED  and  wrought  full  workmanly 
By  earth's  old  giant  progeny, 
The  wall-stone  proudly  stood.     It  fell 
When  bower,  and  hall,  and  citadel. 
And  lofty  roof,  and  barrier  gate, 
And  tower,  and  turret  bow^d  to  fiite, 
And,  wrapt  in  flame  and  drenched  in  gore. 
The  lofty  burgh  might  stand  no  more. 
Beneath  the  Jutes'  long  vanished  reign. 
Her  masters  ruled  the  subject  plain ; 


But  they  have  mouldered  side  by  side,  ^ 
The  vassal  crowd,  the  chieftain's  pride  ; 
And  bard  the  grasp  of  earth's  embrace, 
That  shrouds  for  ever  all  the  race. 
So  &de  they,  countless  and  unknown, 
The  generations  that  are  gone. 


Fair  rose  her  towers  in  spiry  height. 
From  bower  of  pride  and  palace  bright, 
Echoing  with  shout  of  warriors  free. 
And  the  gay  mead-hairs  revelry  ; 
Till  Fate's  stem  hour  and  Slaughter's  day 
Swept  in  one  ruin  all  away. 
And  hushed  in  common  silence  all. 
War-shout  and  voice  of  festival. 
Their  towers  of  strength  are  humbled  low. 
Their  halls  of  mirth  waste  ruins  now, 
That  seem  to  mourn,  so  sad  and  drear. 
Their  masters'  blood-stained  sepulchre. 
The  purple  bower  of  regal  state. 
Roofless  and  stained  and  desolate. 
Is  scarce  from  meaner  relics  known. 
The  fiiigments  of  the  shattered  town. 
There  store  of  heroes,  rich  as  bold. 
Elate  of  soul,  and  bright  with  gold. 
Donned  the  proud  garb  of  war,  that  shone 
With  silvery  band  and  precious  stone  : 
So  marched  they  once,  in  gorgeous  train. 
In  that  high  seat  of  wide  domain. 
How  firmly  stood  in  massy  proof 
The  marble  vaults  and  fretted  roof. 
Till,  all-resistless  in  its  force. 
The  fiery  torrent  rolled  its  course. 
And  the  red  wave  and  glowing  flood 
Wrapt  all  beneath  its  bosom  broad  ! 


THE  SONG  OF  SUMMER, 

Summer  is  a  coming  in, 

Loud  sing,  cHokow ; 
Groweth.  seed,  and  bloweth  mead, 

And  springeth  the  wood  now. 

Sing,  cuckow,  cuckow. 

Ewe  'bleateth  after  lamb, 

Loweth  calf  after  cow, 
Bullock  Btarteth,  buck  departeth  ', 

Merry  sing,  cuckow, 

Cuckow,  cuckow. 
Well  singeth  the  cuckow. 
Nor  cease  to  sing  now ; 

Sing,  cuckow,  now. 

Sing,  cuckow. 


c2 


ICELANDIC  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


Thx  Icelandic  language  is  that  form  of  the 
Gothic  which  was  once  spoken  in  Denmark, 
Norway,  Sweden,  and  Iceland.  It  is  called  in 
literarj  history  the  Donsk  Tanga;  NorraBna 
Tunga;  Norrant  MAI;  Saeo- Gothic;  Norse; 
old  Scandinavian . 

The  name  Icelandic  has  been  giyen  to  it  in 
modem  times,  becaose  in  Iceland  the  language 
has  been  preserved,  unchanged,  to  the  present 
day.  As  Pnrchas  says,  in  his  **  Pilgrims  ":  * 
''  Concerning  the  language  of  the  Islanders,  the 
matter  itself  speaketh,  that  it  is  the  Norwegian ; 
I  say,  that  old  and  naturall  speech,  derived 
from  the  ancient  Gottish,  which  onely  the 
Islanders  now  use  uncomipted ;  and  therefore 
we  call  it  Islandish."  The  written  alphabet 
was  called  the  Runic ;  the  letters,  Runes.  The 
most  ancient  specimens  of  the  language  arc  the 
Rune  Stones ;  rings  and  wooden  tablets,  with 
inscriptions  in  the  old  Runic  character.! 

Iceland  was  peopled  in  874.  A  few  years 
previous  to  this,  old  Norse  pirates',  from  time 
to  time,  had  hovered  about  the  island  like 
birds  of  prey,  and  then  one  by  one  settled 
down,  and  built  themselves  nests  for  a  season 
among  its  icebergs.  But  in  this  year  multitudes 
of  the  Norwegians,  fleeing  from  the  tyranny  of 
Harald  Har&ger,  took  refuge  here.  The  de- 
scendants of  these  people  became  poets  and 
historians.  In  their  sea-girt  home  they  had 
leisure  to  record  the  achievements  of  their  an- 
cestors. The  long,  sunless  winter  was  cheered 
by  the  Saga  and  the  Song,  and  we  are  indebted 
to  Iceland  for  the  most  remarkable  remains  of 
Norse  poetry. 

The  Northern  Skalds,  or  Minstrels,  accom- 
panied the  armies  in  war,  and  were  with  the 
king  in  battle,  that  they  might  witness  his 
prowess,  and  describe  it  more  truly  in  their 
songs.  Thus,  in  the  battle  of  Stiklastad,  1030, 
King  Olaf  had  his  Skalds  beside  him,  within 
his  body-guard  (SkiAlldborg,  or  Citadel  of 
Shields).  «« Te  shall  be  here,"  said  he, «« that 
ye  may  see  with  your  own  eyes  what  is 
achieved  this  day,  and  have  no  occasion,  when 
ye  shall  afterwards  celebrate  these  actions  in 
song,  to  depend  upon  the  reports  of  others."  t 
As  the  battle  was  about  to  begin,  one  of  them, 
by  the  name  of  Thormod,  ^  sang  the  ancient 
Biarkemaal,  in  so  loud  a  voice,*'  says  one  of 

«  Vol.  m.  p.  668.  See  alM  Petersen,  Duske,  Noreke 
Off  Srenake  Sproge  Hieiorie,  Vd.  I.  p.  M. 

t  See  RunUn,  af  J.  O.  LHejgren  :  Stockholm:  1833; 
and  Ran  Urkunder,  by  the  eeme :  Stockholm :  1833. 

t  Hendenon'a  Iceland,  p.  633. 


the  old  Sagas,*  "that  all  the  army  heard  it." 
During  the  battle,  he  was  shot  down  by  an  ar- 
row, and  died  with  songs  upon  his  lips.t 

Harald  Harfager  had  at  his  court  four  principal 
Skalds,  who  were  his  friends  and  counsellors,  and 
to  whom  he  assigned  the  highest  seats  at  his  ta- 
ble.  Canute  the  Great  had,  also,  several  Skalds 
among  his  retainers ;  and,  on  one  occasion,  when 
Thoraren,  having  composed  a  short  poem  in  his 
praise,  craved  an  audience  of  the  king  in  order 
to  recite  it,  assuring  him  it  was  very  short, 
Canute  replied,  in  anger, "  Are  you  not  ashamed 
to  do  what  none  but  yourself  has  dared,  —  to 
write  a  short  poem  upon  me .'  Unless,  by  the  H 
hour  of  dinner  to-morrow,  you  produce  a  Drapa^ 
above  thirty  strophes  long,  on  the  same  subject, 
your  life  shall  pay  the  penalty."  The  poet 
having  produced  the  song,  the  king  rewarded 
him  with  fifty  marks  of  silver. 

Among  the  Skalds  were  many  crowned  heads 
and  distinguished  warriors,  as,  for  example,  Reg- 
ner  Lodbrok,  and  Starkother  the  Old.  There 
were  also  female  Skalds,  who,  like  Miriam, 
sang  the  achievements  of  heroes,  and  the  pro- 
phetic mysteries  of  religion. 

The  memory  of  the  Skalds  was  the  great  re- 
pository of  the  poetic  lore  of  the  North,  when 
oral  tradition  held  the  place  of  written  records. 
One  of  them  having  sung  before  King  Harald 
Sigurdson  sixty  different  songs  in  one  evening, 
the  king  asked  him  if  he  knew  any  others,  to 
which  he  replied,  that  he  could  sing  as  many 
more.t 

The  most  prominent  feature  in  the  Ice- 
landic versification,  as  in  the  Anglo-Saxon,  is 
alliteration.  There  are,  also,  other  striking 
analogies  in  the  poetry  of  the  two  nations. 
The  Icelandic  is  as  remarkable  as  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  for  its  abruptness,  its  obscurity,  and  the 
boldness  of  its  metaphors.  Poets  are  called 
Songsmiths;  —  poetry,  the  Language  of  the 
Gods ;  —  gold,  the  Daylight  of  Dwarfs;  —  the 
heavens,  the  Skull  of  Tmer;  —  the  runbow, 
the  Bridge  of  the  Gods ;  —  a  battle,  a  Bath  of 
Blood,  the  Hail  of  Odin,  the  Meeting  of 
Shields ;  —  the  tongue,  the  Sword  of  Words ; 

*  Foetbrodraaaga.    MflUer,  Sagabibllothek,  L  p.  67. 
t  Robert  Wace,  in  the  Romance  of  Le  Brui  dPAngielemj 
speaking  of  the  army  of  William  the  Oonqueror,  aaya : 
"Tallleier,  who  aang  fiiU  well,  I  wot, 

Mounted  on  ateed  that  was  awlft  of  foot, 

Went  forth  before  the  armed  train, 

Singing  of  Rotand  and  Charlemain, 

Of  Olivire,  and  the  brare  vaaiali 

Who  died  at  the  Paaa  of  Ronceevala." 
t  Wheaton,  Hlatory  of  the  Northmen,  chap.  IV. 


ICELANDIC  LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


31 


—  riven,  the  Sweat  of  the  EUuth,  the  Blood 
of  the  Vallejg;  —  arrows,  the  Daughter!  of 
Miafbrtune,  the  Hailstones  of  Helmets ;  —  the 
earth,  the  Vessel  that  floats  on  the  Ages ;  —  the 
sea,  the  Field  of  Pirates ;  —  a  ship,  the  Skate 
of  Piratea,  the  Horae  of  the  Waves.  The  an- 
cient Skald  smote  the  strings  of  his  harp  with 
as  bold  a  hand  as  the  Berserk  smote  his  Ibe. 
When  heroes  fell  in  battle,  he  sang  of  them  in 
his  Drapa,  or  death-song,  that  they  had  gone  to 
drink  *'  divine  mead  in  th»  secure  and  tranquil 
palaces  of  the  gods,'*  in  that  Valhalla,  upon 
whose  walls  stood  the  watchman  Heimdal, 
whose  ear  was  so  acute,  that  he  could  hear  the 
grass  grow  in  the  meadows  of  earth,  and  the  wool 
on  the  backs  of  sheep.  He  lived  in  a  credulous 
age  ;  in  the  dim  twilight  of  the  past.  He  was 
"  The  sky-laik  ia  the  dawa  of  yeira, 
The  poet  of  ihe  mom." 
In  the  vast  solitudes  around  him,  the  heart  of 
Nature  beat  against  his  own.  From  the  mid- 
night gloom  of  groves,  the  deep-voiced  pines 
answered  the  deeper-voiced  and  neighbouring 
sea.  To  his  ear,  these  were  not  the  voicea  of 
dead,  but  of  living  things.  Demons  rode  the 
ocean  like  a  weary  steed,  and  the  gigantic  pines 
flapped  their  sounding  wings  to  smite  the  spirit 
of  the  storm. 

Still  wilder  and  fiercer  were  these  influences 
of  Nature  in  desolate  Iceland,  than  on  the  main- 
land of  Scandinavia.  Fields  of  lava,  icebergs, 
geysers,  and  volcanoes  were  fiuniliar  sights. 
When  the  long  winter  came,  and  snowy  Hecla 
roared  through  the  sunless  air,  and  the  flames 
of  the  Northern  Aurora  flashed  along  the  sky, 
like  phantoms  from  Valhalla,  the  soul  of  the 
poet  was  filled  with  images  of  terror  and  dis- 
may. He  bewailed  the  death  of  Balder,  the 
sun ;  and  saw  in  each  eclipse  the  horrid  form 
of  the  wolf  Managamer,  who  swallowed  the 
moon,  and  stained  the  sky  with  blood. 

The  most  important  collection  of  Icelandic 
poetry  is  the  **  Edda  Semundar  hinns  Frdda  " 
(the  Edda  of  Ssemund  the  Learned).*-  This  is 
usnally  called  the  Elder,  or  Poetic  Edda,  and 
contains  thirty-eight  poems  on  various  subjects 
connected  with  the  Northern  Mythology.  It 
was  partly  written  and  partly  collected  by  Se- 
mund  Sigfiisson,  an  Icelander  by  birth,  who 
flourished  in  the  latter  half  of  the  eleventh  cen- 
tury. Of  the  name  Edda,  Mallet  says :  ''  The 
most  probable  conjecture  is  that  it  is  derived 
fit>m  an  old  Gothic  word,  signifying  Grand- 
mother." t  This  conjecture,  however,  seems 
rather  improbable.  That  of  Rohs  is  better : 
M  Edda  is  the  feminine  form  of  Otkry  which 
signifies  Reason  and  Poetry,  and  is  therefore 
called  Poetics,  or  a  Guide  to  the  Art  of  Poetry."t 
Olafien  derives   the  name  from  the  obsolete 


*  Edda  Semundar  him  Fr6da.  Com  laterpretatione  La- 
lina,  Ac  3  rols.  4to.  Copenhagen :  1787,  1818-28.— Edda 
SaBmimdar  hlnna  Fi6da.  Ex  Receofltooe  Eraamf  Chriatlanl 
BLuk.    Stoekhohn:  1818.    8to. 

t  Northern  Antiquitlee,  Introduction  to  YoLlI.  p.  xx\r. 

I  Die  Edda,  nebai  einer  Einleitang,  too  F.  BJUha,  p.  131. 


verb  tfds,  to  teach,  which  seems  the  most  prob- 
able etymology.*  Of  these  poems  numerous 
specimens  will  be  given ;  though,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  the  reader  will  find  them  too  often  like 
the  songs  of  the  Bards  in  the  old  Romance,  who 
**  came  and  recited  verses  before  Arthur,  and  no 
man  understood  those  verses  but  Kadyriaith 
only,  save  that  they  were  in  Arthur's  praise." 

At  the  commencement  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, Snorro  Sturleson,  another  Icelandic  schol- 
ar, author  of  the  «'  Heimakringla,"  or  History 
of  Norway,  who  came  to  a  bloody  death  by 
the  hand  of  an  assassin,  wrote  a  new  Edda,  in 
a  simple  prose  Ibrm.  He  represents  Gylfe,  an 
ancient  lung  in  Sweden,  fiimoos  lor  skill  in 
magic,  aa  visiting  Asgard  to  question  the  gods 
on  certain  important  subjects.  These  questions 
and  the  answers  to  them  form  the  Mythological 
Fables  of  the  Prose  Edda.t  Appended  to  these, 
are  the  **  ScAlda,"  or  Scandinavian  JSrs  Pottiea^ 
and  several  other  treatises,  on  Grammar,  Rhet- 
oric, &c.  As  a  specimen  of  this  curious  work, 
I  subjoin,  from  Bishop  Percy's  Translation  of 
Mallet,  a  few  of  the  fables,  containing  an  ac- 
count of  the  god  Thor's  adventures  among  the 
Jotuns. 

OF  THE  GOD  THOR. 

Gaholxb  proceeds  and  says :  **  Did  it  never 
happen  to  Thor,  in  his  expeditions,  to  be  over- 
come, either  by  enchantment  or  downright 
force  ?  "  Har  replied  to  him :  *'  Few  can  take 
upon  them  to  affirm  that  ever  any  such  acci- 
dent befel  this  god;  nay,  hfid  he  in  reality 
been  worsted  in  any  rencounter,  it  would  not 
be  allowable  to  make  mention  of  it,  since  all 
the  world  ought  to  believe  that  nothing  can 
resist  his  power."  ^  I  have  put  a  question, 
then,"  says  Gangler,  **  to  which  none  of  you 
can  give  any  answer."  Then  Jaihhar  took  up 
the  discourse  and  said  :  ''  True  indeed,  there  are 
some  such  rumors  current  among  us ;  but  they 
are  hardly  credible ;  yet  there  is  one  present  who 
can  impart  them  to  you ;  and  you  ought  the  rath- 
er to  believe  him,  in  that  having  never  yet  told 
you  a  lie,  he  will  not  now  begin  to  deceive  you 
with  fiilse  stories."  *'  Come,  then,"  says  Gan- 
gler, interrupting  him,  **  I  await  your  explica- 
tion ;  but,  if  you  do  not  give  satisfiictory  answers 
to  the  questions  I  have  proposed,  be  assured  I 
shall  look  upon  you  .as  vanquished."  *^  Here, 
then,"  says  Har,  **  begins  the  history  you  desire 
me  to  relate : 

<<  One  day  the  god  Thor  set  out  with  Loke, 
in  his  own  chariot,  drawn  by  two  he-goats ;  but, 
night  coming  on,  they  were  obliged  to  put  up 
at  a  peasant's  cottage.  The  god  Thor  imme- 
diately slew  his  two  he-goats,  and,  having  skin- 
ned them,  ordered  them  to  be  dressed  for  sup- 
per. When  this  was  done,  he  sat  down  to 
table,  and  invited  the  peasant  and  his  children 

*  Henderson's  Iceland,  p.  639. 

t  Snorra-Edda.  Uigefin  af  R.  Kr.  Rask.  Stockholm : 
18ia    8?o. 


32 


ICELANDIC   LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


to  partake  with  him.  The  son  of  his  host  was 
named  Thialfe,  the  daughter  Raaka.  Thor  bade 
them  throw  all  the  bones  into  the  skins  of  the 
goats,  which  he  held  extended  near  the  table ; 
but  young  Thialfe,  to  come  at  the  marrow, 
broke,  with  his  knife,  one  of  the  shank-bones  of 
the  goats.  Haying  passed  the  night  in  this 
place,  Thor  arose  early  in  the  morning,  and, 
dressing  himself,  reared  the  handle  of  his  ham- 
mer ;  which  he  had  no  sooner  done,  than  the 
two  goats  reassumed  their  wonted  form,  only  that 
one  of  them  now  halted  upon  one  of  his  hind 
legs.  The  god,  seeing  this,  immediately  judged 
that  the  peasant,  or  one  of  hb  family,  had  han- 
dled the  bones  of  this  goat  too  roughly.  En- 
raged at  their  folly,  he  knit  his  eyebrows,  roll- 
ed his  eyes,  and,  seizing  his  hammer,  grasped  it 
with  such  force,  that  the  very  joints  of  his  fin- 
gers were  white  again.  The  peasant,  trembling, 
was  afraid  of  being  struck  down  by  one  of  his 
looks ;  he  therefore,  with  his  children,  made 
joint  suit  for  pardon,  offering  whatever  they 
possessed  in  recompense  of  any  damage  that 
had  been  done.  Thor  at  last  suffered  himself 
to  be  appeased,  and  was  content  to  carry  away 
with  him  Thialfe  and  Raska.  Leaving,  then, 
his  he-goats  in  that  place,  he  set  out  on  his 
road  for  the  country  of  the  Giants ;  and,  com- 
ing to  the  margin  of  the  sea,  swam  across  it, 
accompanied  by  Thialfe,  Raska,  and  Loke. 
The  first  of  these  was  an  excellent  runner,  and 
carried  Thor's  wallet  or  bag.  When  they  had 
made  some  advance,  they  found  themselves  in 
a  vast  plain,  through  which  they  marched  all 
day,  till  they  were  reduced  to  great  want  of 
provisions.  When  night  approached,  they 
searched  on  all  sides  for  a  place  to  sleep  in, 
and  at  last,  in  the  dark,  found  the  house  of  a 
certain  giant ;  the  gate  of  which  was  so  large, 
that  it  took  up  one  whole  side  of  the  mansion. 
Here  they  passed  the  night ;  but  about  the  mid- 
dle of  it  were  alarmed  by  an  earthquake,  which 
violently  shook  the  whole  fabric.  Thor,  rising 
up,  called  upon  his  companions  to  seek  along 
with  him  some  place  of  safety.  On  the  right 
they  met  with  an  adjoining  chamber,  into  which 
they  entered ;  but  Thor  remained  at  the  entry ; 
and  whilst  the  others,  terrified  with  fear,  crept 
to  the  farthest  comer  of  their  retreat,  he  armed 
himself  with  his  hammer,  to  be  in  readiness  to 
defend  himself  at  all  events.  Meanwhile  they 
heard  a  terrible  noise ;  and  when  the  morning 
was  come,  Thor  went  out,  and  observed  near 
him  a  man  of  enormous  bulk,  who  snored 
pretty  loud.  Thor  found  that  this  was  the  noiae 
which  had  so  disturbed  him.  He  immediately 
girded  on  his  belt  of  prowess,  which  hath  the 
virtue  of  increasing  strength ;  but  the  giant 
awaking,  Thor,  affrighted,  durst  not  launch  his 
hammer,  but  contented  himself  with  asking  his 
name.  *  My  name  is  Skrymner,*  replied  the 
other ;  <  as  for  you,  I  need  not  inquire  whether 
you  are  the  god  Thor ;  pray,  tell  me,  have  not 
you  picked  up  my  glove?*  Then  presently 
stretching  forth  his  hand  to  take  it  up,  Thor 


perceived  that  the  house  whereinr  they  had 
passed  the  night  was  that  very  glove ;  and  the 
chamber  was  only  one  of  its  fingers.  Here- 
upon Skrymner  asked  whether  they  might  not 
join  companies ;  and  Thor  consenting,  the  gi- 
ant opened  his  cloak-bag,  and  took  out  some- 
thing to  eat.  Thor  and  his  companions  having 
done  tlie  same,  Skrymner  would  put  both  their 
wallets  together,  and,  laying  them  on  his  shoul- 
der, began  to  march  at  a  great  rate.  At  night, 
when  the  others  were  come  up,  the  giant  went 
to  repose  himself  under  an  oak,  showing  Thor 
where  he  intended  to  lie,  and  bidding  him  help 
himself  to  victuals  out  of  the  wallet.  Mean- 
while he  fell  to  snore  strongly.  But,  what  ia 
very  incredible,  when  Thor  came  to  open  the 
wallet,  he  could  not  untie  one  single  knot.  Vex- 
ed at  this,  he  seized  his  hammer,  and  launched 
it  at  the  giant's  hw^.  He,  awaking,  asks,  what 
leaf  had  fidlen  upon  his  head,  or  what  other 
trifle  it  could  be.  Thor  pretended  to  go  to 
sleep  under  another  oak ;  but  observing  about 
midnight  that  Skrymner  snored  again,  he  took 
his  hammer  and  drove  it  into  the  hinder  part 
of  his  head.  The  giant,  awaking,  demands  of 
Thor,  whether  some  small  grain  of  dust  had 
not  fkllen  upon  his  head,  and  why  he  did  not 
go  to  sleep.  Thor  answered,  he  was  going ; 
but,  presently  afler,  resolving  to  have  a  third 
blow  at  his  enemy,  he  collects  all  his  force,  and 
launches  his  hammer  with  so  much  violence 
against  the  giant's  cheek,  that  it  forced  its  way 
into  it  up  to  the  handle.  Skrymner,  awaking, 
slightly  raises  his  hand  to  his  cheek,  saying, 
*  Are  there  any  birds  perched  upon  this  tree  f 
I  thought  one  of  their  feathers  had  fallen  upon 
me.'  Then  he  added,  *■  What  keeps  you  awake, 
Thor  ?  I  fimcy  it  is  now  time  for  us  to  get  up, 
and  dress  ourselves.  Tou  are  now  not  very  fkr 
fVom  the  city  of  Utgard.  I  have  heard  you 
whisper  to  one  another,  that  I  was  of  very  tall 
stature;  but  you  will  see  many  there  much 
larger  than  myself  Wherefore  I  advbe  you, 
when  you  come  thither,  not  to  take  upon  yon 
too  much ;  for  in  that  place  they  will  not  bear 
with  it  firom  such  little  men  as  you.  Nay,  I 
even  believe  that  your  best  way  is  to  turn  back 
again ;  but  if  you  still  persist  in  your  resolu- 
tion, take  the  road  that  leads  eastward ;  for,  as 
for  me,  mine  lies  to  the  north.'  Hereupon  he 
threw  his  wallet  over  his  shoulder,  and  entered 
a  forest.  I  never  could  hear  that  the  god  Thor 
wished  him  a  good  journey  ;  but  proceeding  on 
his  way,  along  with  his  companions,  he  per- 
ceived, about  noon,  a  city  situated  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  vast  plain.  This  city  was  so  lofty, 
that  one  could  not  look  up  to  the  top  of  it, 
without  throwing  one's  head  quite  back  upon 
the  shoulders.  The  gate-way  was  closed  with 
a  grate,  which  Thor  never  could  have  opened ; 
but  he  and  his  companions  crept  through  the 
bars.  Entering  in,  they  saw  a  large  palace, 
and  men  of  a  prodigious  stature.  Then  ad- 
dressing themselves  to  the  king,  who  was  nam- 
ed Utgarda-Loke,  they  saluted  him  with  great 


ICELANDIC  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


33 


respect.  The  king,  haring  at  last  diacerned 
tbem,  broke  out  into  auch  a  bunt  of  laughter 
as  diacompoaed  every  feature  of  his  ftce.  « It 
would  take  up  too  much  time/  sajs  he, « to  ask 
you  coneemiDg  the  long  journey  you  haye  per- 
ftrmed ;  yet,  if  I  do  not  mistake,  that  little  man 
whom  I  see  there  should  be  Thor:  perhaps, 
indeed,  he  is  larger  than  he  appears  to  me  to 
be ;  but  in  order  to  judge  of  this,*  added  be, 
addressing  his  discourse  to  Thor,  *  let  me  see  a 
specimen  of  those  arts  by  which  you  are  distin- 
guiahed,  yon  and  your  companions ;  lor  no  body 
is  permitted  to  remain  here,  unless  he  under- 
stand some  art,  and  excel  in  it  all  other  men/ 
Loke  then  said,  that  his  art  consisted  in  eating 
more  than  any  other  man  in  the  world,  and 
that  he  would  challenge  any  one  at  that  kind 
of  combat.  '  It  must,  indeed,  be  owned,'  repU- 
ed  the  king,  *  that  you  are  not  wanting  in  dex- 
terity, if  you  are  able  to  perform  what  you 
promise.  Come,  then,  let  us  put  it  to  the  proof 
At  the  same  time  he  ordered  one  of  his  cour- 
tiers, who  was  sitting  on  a  side-bench,  and 
whose  name  was  Lo^  (i.  e.  Flame),  to  come 
forward,  and  try  his  skill  with  Loke  in  the  art 
tbej  were  speaking  of.  Then  he  caused  a  great 
tub  or  trough  full  of  proyisions  to  be  placed 
upon  the  bar,  and  the  two  champions  at  each 
end  of  it;  who  immediately  fell  to  devour  the 
victuals  with  so  much  eagerness,  that  they  pres- 
ently met  in  the  middle  of  the  trough,  and  were 
obliged  to  desist.  But  Loke  had  only  eat  the 
flesh  of  his  portion  ;  whereas  the  other  had  de- 
voured both  flesh  and  bones.  All  the  company 
therefore  adjudged  that  Loke  was  vanquished.'* 

**  Then  the  king  asked  what  that  young  man 
conld  do,  who  accompanied  Thor.  Thialfe  an- 
swered, that,  in  running  upon  skates,  he  would 
dispute  the  prize  with  any  of  the  courtiers. 
The  king  owned  that  the  talent  he  spoke  of 
was  a  very  fine  one ;  but  that  he  must  exert 
himself^  if  he  would  come  off  conqueror.  He 
then  arose  and  conducted  Thialfe  to  a  *  snowy ' 
plain,  giving  him  a  young  man,  named  Hugo, 
(Spirit  or  Tbonght)  to  dispute  the  prize  of  swift- 
ness with  him.  But  this  Hugo  so  much  out- 
stripped Thialfe,  that,  in  returning  to  the  barrier 
whence  they  set  out,  they  met  fluse  to  face. 
Then  says  the  king,  « Another  trial,  and  yon 
may  perhaps  exert  yourself  better.'  They  there- 
fore ran  a  second  course,  and  Thialfe  was  a  fbll 
bow-shot  from  the  boundary  when  Hugo  ar- 
rived at  it.  They  ran  a  third  time ;  but  Hugo 
had  already  reached  the  goal  before  "Thialfe  had 
got  half  way.  Hereupon  all  who  were  present 
cried  out,  that  there  had  been  a  sufficient  trial 
of  skill  in  this  kind  of  exercise." 

**  Then  the  king  asked  Thor,  in  what  art  he 
wcmld  choose  to  give  proof  of  that  dexterity  fbr 
which  he  was  so  famous.  Thor  replied,  that 
he  would  contest  the  prize  of  drinking  with 
any  person  belonging  to  his  court.  The  king 
consented,  and  immediately  went  into  his  pal- 
6 


ace  to  look  for  a  large  horn,  out  of  which  his 
courtiers  were  obliged  to  drink  when  they  had 
committed  any  trespass  against  the  customs  of 
the  court  This  the  cup-bearer  filled  to  the 
brim,  and  presented  to  Thor,  whilst  the  king 
spake  thus :  *  Whoever  is  a  good  drinker  will 
empty  that  bom  at  a  single  dnught ;  some  per- 
sons make  two  of  it ;  but  the  most  puny  drink- 
er of  all  can  do  it  at  three.'  Thor  looked  at  the 
horn,  and  was  astonished  at  its  length ;  howev- 
er, as  he  was  very  thirsty,  he  set  it  to  his  mouth, 
and,  without  drawing  breath,  pulled  as  long  and 
as  deeply  as  he  could,  that  he  might  not  be 
obliged  to  make  a  second  draught  of  it ;  but 
when  he  withdrew  the  cup  from  his  mouth,  in 
order  to  look  in,  he  could  scarcely  perceive  any 
of  the  liquor  gone.  To  it  he  went  again  with 
all  his  might,  but  succeeded  no  better  than  be- 
fore. At  last,  fbll  of  indignation,  he  again  set 
the  horn  to  his  lips,  and  exerted  himself  to  the 
utmost  to  empty  it  entirely ;  then  looking  in, 
be  found  that  the  liquor  was  a  little  lowered  ; 
upon  this,  he  resolved  to  attempt  it  no  more, 
but 'gave  back  the  bom.  *I  now  see  plainly,' 
says  the  king,  *  that  thou  art  not  quite  so  stout 
as  we  thought  thee ;  but  art  thou  willing  to 
make  any  more  trials  V  *  I  am  sure,'  says  Thor, 
*■  such  draughts  as  I  have  been  drinking  would 
not  have  been  reckoned  small  among  the  gods : 
but  what  new  trial  have  you  to  propose  ? '  *  We 
have  a  very  trifling  game,  here,'  replied  the 
king,  *  in  which  we  exercise  none  but  children  : 
it  consists  in  only  lifting  my  cat  from  the  ground ; 
nor  should  I  have  mentioned  it,  if  I  had  not 
already  observed  that  you  are  by  no  means 
what  we  took  you  for.'  Immediately  a  large 
iron-colored  cat  leaped  into  the  middle  of  the 
hall.  Thor,  advancing,  put  his  hand  under  the 
cat's  belly  and  did  his  utmost  to  raise  him  from 
the  ground ;  but  the  cat,  bending  his  back,  had 
only  one  of  bis  fbet  lifUd  up.  *  The  event,' 
says  the  king,  *  is  just  what  I  foresaw ;  the  cat 
is  large,  but  Thor  is  little  in  comparison  of  the 
men  here.'  *  Little  as  I  am,'  says  Thor, '  let  me 
see  who  will  wrestle  with  me.'  The  king,  look- 
ing round  him,  says,  *  I  see  nobody  here  who 
would  not  think  it  beneath  him  to  enter  the 
lists  with  you;  let  somebody,  however,  call 
hither  my  nurse  Hela  ri.  e.  Death)  to  wrestle 
with  this  god  Thor;  she  hath  thrown  to  the 
ground  many  a  better  man  than  he.'  Immedi- 
ately a  toothless  old  woman  entered  the  hall. 
« This  is  she,'  says  the  king,  « with  whom  you 
must  wrestle.'  —  I  cannot,  says  Jafhhar,  give 
you  all  the  particulars  of  this  contest,  only,  in 
general,  that  the  more  vigorously  Thor  assail- 
ed her,  the  more  immovable  she  stood.  At 
length  the  old  woman  had  recourse  to  strata- 
gems, and  Thor  could  not  keep  his  feet  so 
steadily,  but  that  she,  by  a  violent  struggle, 
brought  him  upon  one  knee.  Then  the  king 
came  to  them  and  ordered  them  to  desist ;  add- 
ing, there  now  remained  nobody  in  his  court, 
whom  he  could  ask  with  honor  to  condescend 
to  fight  with  Thor." 


34 


ICELANDIC   LANGUAGE   AND   POETRY. 


**  Thor  passed  the  night  in  that  place  with 
his  companions,  and  was  preparing  to  depart 
thence  early  the  next  morning,  when  the  king 
ordered  him  to  be  sent  for,  and  gave  him  a 
magnificent  entertainment  After  thb  he  ac- 
companied him  out  of  the  city.  When  they 
were  just  going  to  bid  adieu  to  each  other,*  the 
king  asked  Thor  what  he  thought  of  the  success 
of  his  expedition.  Thor  told  him,  he  could 
not  but  own  that  he  went  away  very  much 
ashamed  and  disappointed.  *  It  behooves  me, 
then,'  says  the  king,  *  to  discover  now  the  truth 
to  you,  since  you  are  out  of  my  city ;  which 
you  shall  iiever  reenter  whilst  I  live  and  reign. 
And  I  assure  you,  that,  had  I  known  before- 
hand you  had  been  so  strong  and  mighty,  I 
would  not  have  suffered  you  to  enter  now. 
But  I  enchanted  you  by  my  illusions ;  first  of 
all  in  the  forest,  where  I  arrived  before  you. 
And  there  you  were  not  able  to  untie  your  wal- 
let, because  I  had  fiistened  it  with  a  magic 
chain.  You  afterwards  aimed  three  blows  at 
me  with  your  hammer  :  the  first  stroke,  though 
slight,  would  have  brought  me  to  the  ground, 
had  I  received  it :  but  when  you  are  gone  hence, 
you  will  meet  with  an  immense  rock,  in  which 
are  three  narrow  valleys  of  a  ,  square  form, 
one  of  them  in  particular  remarkably  deep  : 
these  are  the  breaches  made  by  your  hammer ; 
for  I  at  that  time  lay  concealed  behind  the  rock, 
which  you  did  not  perceive.  I  have  used  the 
same  illusions  in  the  contests  you  have  had 
with  the  people  of  my  court.  In  the  first,  Loke, 
like  hunger  itself,  devoured  all  that  was  set  be- 
fore him  :  but  his  opponent,  Loge,  was  nothing 
else  but  a  wandering  Fire,  which  instantly  con- 
sumed not  only  the  meat,  but  the  bones,  and 
the  very  trough  itself.  Hugo,  with  whom  Thi- 
alfo  disputed  the  prize  of  swiftness,  was  no 
other  than  Thought  or  Spirit ;  and  it  was  impos- 
sible for  Thialfe  to  keep  pace  with  that.  When 
you  attempted  to  empty  the  bom,  you  perform- 
ed, upon  my  word,  a  deed  so  marvellous,  that 
I  should  never  have  believed  it,  if  I  had  not 
seen  it  myself;  for  one  end  of  the  horn  reached 
to  the  sea,  a  circumstance  you  did  not  observe : 
but,  the  first  time  you  go  to  the  sea-side,  you 
will  see  how  much  it  is  diminished.  You  per- 
formed no  less  a  miracle  in  lifting  the  cat ;  and, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  when  we  saw  that  one  of 
her  paws  had  quitted  the  earth,  we  were  all 
extremely  surprised  and  terrified ;  for  what  you 
took  for  a  cat  was  in  reality  the  great  Serpent 
of  Midgard,  which  encompasses  the  earth  ;  and 
he  was  then  scarce  long  enough  to  touch  the 
earth  with  his  head  and  tail ;  so  high  had  your 
hand  raised  him  up  towards  heaven.  As  to 
your  wrestling  with  an  old  woman,  it  is  very 
astonishing  that  she  could  only  bring  you  down 
upon  one  of  your  knees ;  for  it  was  Death  you 
wrestled  with,  who,  first  or  last,  will  bring  every 
one  low.  But  now,  as  we  are  going  to  part, 
let  me  tell  you,  that  it  will  be  equally  for  your 
advantage  and  mine,  that  you  never  come  near 
me  again ;  for,  should  yon  do  so,  I  shall  again 


defend  myself  by  other  illusions  and  enchant^ 
ments,  so  that  you  will  never  prevail  against 
me.'  —  As  he  uttered  these  words,  Thor,  in  a 
rage,  laid  hold  of  his  hammer,  and  would  have 
launched  it  at  the  king,  but  he  suddenly  disap- 
peared ;  and  when  the  god  would  have  return- 
ed to  the  city  to  destroy  it,  he  found  nothing 
all  around  him  but  vast  plains  covered  with 
verdure.  Continuing,  therefore,  his  course,  he 
returned,  without  ever  stopping,  to  his  palace." 

Other  important  remains  of  old  Noise  poetry 
are  the  Odes  and  Death-Songs,  interspersed 
through  the  Sagas  or  Chronicles.  These  Sagas 
are  very  numerous.  Mailer,  in  his  Sagabiblio- 
thek,*  gives  an  analysis  of  sixty  of  them ;  and 
the  Ame  Magnusen  collection  in  Copenha- 
gen contains  1554  manuscripts.  They  were 
mainly  written  by  Icelanders ;  and  conspicuous 
among  the  lovers  and  preservers  of  this  lore 
are  Abbot  Karl  and  the  Benedictine  monks  of 
the  monastery  of  Thingeyre.  Many  of  these 
old  chronicles  perished  in  the  overthrow  of  the 
convents,  at  the  time  of  the  Lutheran  Reforma- 
tion ;  so  that  what  had  been  their  asylum  for 
a  season  became  at  length  their  grave.  Many, 
however,  have  been  published  by  the  Society 
of  Northern  Antiquaries,  and  some  of  them 
translated  into  Danish  by  its  Secretary,  the 
learned  and  excellent  Rafh.t 

From  the  days  of  Regner  Lodbrok  to  those 
of  Snorro  Sturleson,  that  is  to  say,  from  the 
close  of  the  eighth  to  the  beginning  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  flourished  more  than  two 
hundred  Skalds,  whose  names  have  come  down 
to  us,  with  fragments  of  their  songs.  From  this 
time  their  numbers  seem  to  have  diminished  rap- 
idly. Some  relics  of  the  fifteenth  century  have 
been  published,  under  the  title  of  **  Rimur," 
consisting  mostly  of  rhymed  versions,  or  para- 
phrases, of  romances  of  chivalry ',  and  we  have  a 
collection  of  poems  of  the  seventeenth  century 
by  Stephen  Olaison  (published  in  1823),  under 
the  title  of  **  Liodmasli."  During  the  last  century 
flourished  Paul  Vidalin,  Eggert  Olafson,  and  some 
others ;  and  the  best  known  poets  of  the  present 
are,  Jon  Thorlakson,  who  has  translated  into  his 
native  tongue  Milton's  "Paradise  Lost"  and 
Pope's  "  Essay  on  Man  " ;  Thorvald  Bodvar. 
son,  the  translator  of  Pope's  ^*  Messiah  " ;  Pro- 
fessor Magnusen,  Benedict  Grondal,  Jon  Jonson, 
and  Sigurd  Peterson.^ 

Such  is  in  brief  the  Poetry  of  Iceland.   Since 


*  SagaUbliothek,  af  Peter  Erumus  MflUer.  3  roll.  12aM>. 
Copenhsgen:  1817-13-20. 

t  The  Royal  Society  of  Northern  Antiqultiee  to  Oopen- 
hagen  hare  published  the  following  Sagas:  "Formanoa 
S6gur,"  12  rols.  8to.  ;  the  same  in  Latin,  under  the  title 
of  "Scrlpta  Historica  Islandonim,"  8  rols.  8to.  (four  more 
remain  to  be  pobllshed),  and  In  modem  Danish,  under  the 
title  of  "  Oldnordiske  Si^nr,"  12  rols.  8ro. ;  "  lalendinga 
SBfur,"  2  vols.  8vo.  ;  "FiBreyinga  Saga,"  3  rols.  8to  ,  and 
a  German  translation  of  the  same ;  "Fomaldar  Slgur  Nor- 
delanda."  3  rols.  8ro.,  and  the  same  in  modem  Danish,  3 
rols.  8ro. 

t  Henderson,  p.  644. 


ICELANDIC   LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


35 


its  palm  J  days  in  the  Middle  Ages,  "  few  are 
the  memorials  of  the  dead  standing  by  the  way- 
side." The  Skalds  have  disappeared,  like  the 
forests  of  their  native  land ;  the  modem  Ice- 
lander, as  he  warms  his  hands  at  the  fire  of 
drift-wood  from  the  shores  of  Greenland,  may, 
in  the  pride  of  his  heart,  repeat  the  o|a  national 
proTorb  :  **  Island  er  hinn  biesta  land  sem  solinn 
skinnar  uppA"  (Iceland  is  the  best  land  which 
the  son  shines  upon)  ;  but  he  no  longer  sings 
the  dirge  of  the  Berserk,  nor  records  the  achieve- 
ments of  a  Harald  Blue-tooth  or  a  Hakon  Jar!. 
The  Skald  and  the  Sagaman  hare  departed. 

As  a  still  further  introduction  to  the  pieces 
that  follow,  I  will  here  give  an  extract  from 
Carlyle's  ^  Lectures  on  Heroes  and  Hero- Wor- 
ship." 

M  In  that  strange  island,  Iceland,  —  burst  up, 
the  geologists  say,  by  fire,  from  the  bottom  of 
the  sea ;  a  wild  land  of  barrenness  and  lava ; 
swallowed  many  months  of  every  yesr  in  black 
tempests,  yet  with  a  wild  gleaming  beauty  in 
sommer-time;  towering  up  there,  stem  and 
grim,  in  the  North  Cicean;  with  its  snow- 
jokuls,  roaring  geysers,  sulphur  pools,  and  hor- 
rid volcanic  chssms,  like  the  waste,  chaotic 
battle-field  of  Frost  and  Fire,  —  where,  of  all 
places,  we  least  looked  for  literature  or  written 
memorials,  the  record  of  these  things  was  writ- 
ten down.  On  the  seaboard  of  this  wild  land 
is  a  rim  of  grassy  country,  where  cattle  can 
subsist,  and  men  by  means  of  them  and  of  what 
the  sea  yields ;  and  it  seems  they  were  poetic 
men  these,  men  who  had  deep  thoughts  in 
them,  and  uttered  musically  their  thoughts. 
Much  would  be  lost,  had  Iceland  not  been  burst 
up  from  the  sea,  not  been  discovered  by  the 
Northmen  !  The  old  Norse  poets  were  many 
of  them  natives  of  Iceland. 

(<  Ssmund,  one  of  the  early  Christian  priests 
there,  who  perhaps  had  a  lingering  fondness  for 
Paganism,  collected  certain  of  their  old  Pagan 
songs,  just  about  becoming  obsolete  then, — 
Poems,  or  Chants,  of  a  mythic,  prophetic,  mostly 
all  of  a  religious  character :  this  is  what  Norse 
critics  call  the  Elder  or  Poetic  Edda.  Edda^  a 
word  of  uncertain  etymology,  is  thought  to  sig- 
nify Ancestress.  Snorro  Sturleson,  an  Iceland 
gentleman,  an  extremely  notable  personage, 
educated  by  this  Ssmund*s  grandson,  took  in 
hand  next,  near  a  century  afterwards,  to  put 
togetfier,  among  several  other  books  he  wrote, 
a  kind  of  Prose  Synopsis  of  the  whole  mythol- 
ogy, elucidated  by  new  fiagments  of  tradition^ 
ary  verse,  —  a  work  constracted  really  with 
great  ingenuity,  native  talent,  what  one  might 
call  unconscious  art ;  altogether  a  perspicuous, 
clear  work,  pleasant  reading  still :  this  is  the 
Younger  or  Prose  Edda,  By  these  and  the 
numerous  other  SagaSy  mostly  Icelandic,  with 
the  commentaries,  Icelandic  or  not,  which  go 
on  zealously  in  the  North  to  this  day,  it  is  pos- 
sible to  gain  some  direct  insight  even  yet,  and 
see  that  old  Norse  system  of  belief,  as  it  were, 
fiice  to  face.     Let  us  forget  that  it  is  erroneous 


Religion  ;  let  us  look  at  it  as  old  Thought,  and 
try  if  we  cannot  sympathize  with  it  somewhat 

**  The  primary  characteristie  of  this  old  North- 
land mythology  I  find  to  be  Impersonation  of 
the  visible  workings  of  Nature,-— earnest,  sim- 
ple recognition  of  the  workings  of  Physical 
Nature,  as  a  thing  wholly  miraculous,  stupen- 
dous, and  divine.  What  we  now  lecture  of,  as 
Science,  they  wondered  at,  and  fell  down  in 
awe  before,  as  Religion.  The  dsrk,  hostile 
Powers  of  Nature  they  figured  to  themselves  as 
JotunSy  Giants,  —  huge,  shaggy  beings,  of  a  de- 
monic character.  Frost,  Fire,  Sea,  Tempest ; 
these  are  Jotuns.  The  friendly  Powers  again, 
as  Summer-heat,  the  Sun,  are  Gods.  The  em- 
pire of  this  Universe  is  divided  between  those 
two ;  they  dwell  apart,  in  perennial  intemecine 
feud.  The  Gods  dwell  above  in  Asgerdj  the 
Garden  of  the  Asen  or  Divinities ;  Jotunkeim^ 
a  distant,  dark,  chaotic  land,  is  the  Home  of 
the  Jotuns. 

*«  Curious  all  this ;  and  not  idle  or  inane,  if 
we  will  look  at  the  foundation  of  it!  The 
power  of  FirBy  or  FUtme^  fer  instance,  which 
we  designate  by  some  trivial  chemical  name, 
thereby  hiding  from  ourselves  the  essential 
character  of  wonder  that  dwells  in  it,  as  in  all 
things,  is,  with  these  old  Northmen,  Loge^  a 
most  swift,  subtle  Demon,  of  the  brood  of  the 
Jotuns.  The  savages  of  the  Ladrones  Islands, 
too  (say  some  Spanish  voyagers),  thought  Fire, 
which  they  never  had  seen  before,  was  a  Devil 
or  God,  that  bit  you  sharply  when  you  touched 
it,  and  lived  there  upon  dry  wood.  From  us, 
too,  no  chemistry,  if  it  had  not  stupidity  to  help 
it,  would  hide  that  Flame  is  a  wonder.  What 
is  Flame .'  —  Frost  the  old  Norse  seer  discerns  to 
be  a  monstrous,  hoary  Jotun,  the  Giant  7%rym, 
Hrym ;  or  tUme^  the  old  word  now  nearly  ob- 
solete here,  but  still  used  in  Scotland  to  signify 
hoar-frost.  Bime  was  not  then,  as  now,  a  dead, 
chemical  thing,  but  a  living  Jotun  or  Devil ; 
the  monstrous  Jotun  Rime  drove  home  his 
horses  at  night,  sat  *  combing  their  manes,'  — 
which  horses  were  HaU-^ouds^  or  fleet  Frost- 
winds.  His  Cows  —  No,  not  his,  but  a  kins- 
man's, the  Giant Hymir's  Cows — are  Icebergs: 
this  Hymir  '  looks  at  the  rocks '  with  his  devil- 
eye,  and  they  split  in  the  glance  of  it. 

**  Thunder  was  not  then  mere  Electricity, 
vitreous  or  resinous ;  it  was  the  God  Donner 
(Thunder)  or  Thor,  —  God  also  of  beneficent 
Summer-heat.  The  thunder  was  his  wrath ; 
the  gathering  of  the  black  clouds  is  the  drawing 
down  of  Thor's  angry  brows;  the  fire-bolt 
bursting  out  of  heaven  is  the  all-rending  Ham- 
mer flung  from  the  hand  of  Thor :  he  urges  his 
loud  chariot  over  the  mountain-tops,  —  that  is 
the  peal :  wrathful  he  *■  blows  in  his  red  beard,' 
—  that  is  the  rustling  storm-blast  before  the 
thunder  begin.  Balder  again,  the  White  God, 
the  beautifol,  the  just  and  benignant  (whom  the 
early  Christian  missionaries  found  to  resemble 
Christ),  is  the  Sun,  —  beautifliUest  of  visible 
things ;  wondrous,  too,  and  divine  still,  after  all 


36 


ICELANDIC   LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


our  Astronomies  and  Almanacs  !  Bat  perhaps 
the  notablest  god  we  hear  tell  of  is  one  of  whom 
Grimm,  the  German  Etymologist,  finds  trace  : 
the  God  Wunsch,  or  Wish.  The  God  WUh; 
who  could  give  us  all  that  we  toished !  Is  not 
this  the  sincerest  and  yet  rudest  Yoice  of  the 
spirit  of  man .'  The  rudest  ideal  that  man  ever 
formed ;  which  still  shows  itself  in  the  latest 
forms  of  our  spiritual  culture.  Higher  consid- 
erations have  to  teach  us  that  the  God  Wish  is 
not  the  true  God. 

**  Of  the  other  Gx>d8  or  Jotuns,  I  will  mention 
only  for  etymology's  sake,  that  Sea^tempest  is 
the  Jotun  Aegir^  a  very  dangerous  Jotun;  — 
and  now  to  this  day,  on  our  river  Trent,  as  I 
learn,  the  Nottingham  bargemen,  when  the 
river  is  in  a  certain  flooded  state  (a  kind  of 
backwater  or  eddying  swirl  it  has,  very  dan- 
gerous to  them),  call  it  Eager ;  they  cry  out, 
*  Have  a  care,  there  is  the  Eager  coming ! ' 
Curious ;  that  word  surviving,  like  the  peak  of 
a  submerged  world  !  The  oldest  Nottingham 
bargemen  had  believed  in  the  God  Aegir.  In- 
deed, our  English  blood,  too,  in  good  part,  is 
Danish,  Norse ;  or  rather,  at  bottom,  Danish 
and  Norse  and  Saxon  have  no  distinction,  ex- 
cept ft  superficial  one,  —  as  of  Heathen  and 
Christian,  or  the  like.  But  all  over  our  island 
we  are  mingled  largely  with  Danes  proper,  — 
firom  the  incessant  invasions  there  were :  and 
this,  of  course,  in  a  greater  proportion  along 
the  east  coast ;  and  greatest  of  all,  as  I  find,  in 
the  North  Country.  From  the  Humber  up- 
wards, all  over  Scotland,  the  speech  of  the 
common  people  is  still  in  a  singular  degree  Ice- 
landic ;  its  Germanism  has  still  a  peculiar  Norse 
tinge.  They,  too,  are  *  Normans,'  Northmen, — 
if  that  be  any  great  beauty ! 

<*  Of  the  chief  God,  Odin,  we  shall  speak  by 
and  by.  Mark  at  present  so  much  ;  what  the 
essence  of  Scandinavian,  and,  indeed,  of  all  Pa- 
ganism is :  a  recognition  of  the  forces  of  Nature 
as  godlike,  stupendous,  personal  Agencies, — 
as  Gods  and  Demons.  Not  inconceivable  to  us. 
It  is  the  infant  Thought  of  man  opening  itself, 
with  awe  and  wonder,  on  this  ever-stupendous 
Universe.  To  me  there  is  in  the  Norse  system 
something  very  genuine,  very  great  and  man- 
like. A  broad  simplicity,  rusticity,  so  very 
diflferent  fi'om  the  light  gracefulness  of  the  old 
Greek  Paganism,  distinguishes  this  Scandina- 
vian system.  It  is  Thought;  the  genuine 
thought  of  deep,  rude,  earnest  minds,  fiiirly 
opened  to  the  things  about  them ;  a  fiu;e-to-face 
and  heart-to-heart  inspection  of  the  things,  — 
the  first  characteristic  of  all  good  thought  in 
all  times.  Not  gracefiil  lightness,  half-sport,  as 
in  the  Greek  Paganism ;  a  certain  homely 
truthfiilness  and  rustic  strength,  a  great  rude 
sincerity,  discloses  itself  here.  It  is  strange, 
after  our  beautifiil  Apollo  statues  and  clear 
smiling  mythnses,  to  come  down  upon  the  Norse 
Croda  *  brewing  ale '  to  hold  their  feast  with 
Aegir,  the  Sear  Jotun  ;  sending  out  Thor  to  get 
the  caldron   for  them  in  the  Jotun  country; 


Thor,  after  many  adventures,  clapping  the  pot 
on  his  head,  like  a  huge  hat,  and  walking  ofiT 
with  it, — quite  lost  in  it,  the  ears  of  the  pot 
reaching  down  to  his  heels  !  A  kind  of  vacant 
hugeness,  large,  awkward  gianthood,  character- 
izes that  Norse  system ;  enormous  fi>rce,  as  yet 
altogether  untutored,  stalking,  helpless,  with 
large,  uncertain  strides.  Consider  only  their 
primary  mythus  of  the  Creation.  The  Gods, 
having  got  the  Giant  Tmer  slain, — a  giant  made 
by  *  warm  winds '  and  much  confused  work  out 
of  the  conflict  of  Frost  and  Fire,  —  determined 
on  constructing  a  world  with  him.  His  blood 
made  the  Sea;  his  flesh  was  the  Land,  the 
Rocks  his  bones ;  of  his  eyebrows  they  formed 
Asgard,  their  Gods'-dwelling ;  his  skull  was  the 
great  blue  vault  of  Immensity,  and  the  brains 
of  it  became  the  Clouds.  What  a  Hyper-Brob- 
dignagian  business !  Untamed  Thought,  great, 
giantlike,  enormous ;  —  to  be  tamed  in  due  time 
into  the  compact  greatness,  not  giantlike,  but 
godlike  and  stronger  than  gianthood,  of  the 
Shakspeares,  the  Goethes !  —  Spiritually,  as 
well  as  bodily,  these  men  are  our  progenitors. 

"  I  like,  too,  that  representation  they  have 
of  the  Tree  Igdrasil.  All  Life  is  figured  by 
them  as  a  Tree.  Igdrasil,  the  Ash-tree  of  Ex- 
istence, has  its  roots  deep  down  in  the  king- 
dom of  Hela  or  Death ;  its  trunk  reaches  up 
heaven-high,  spreads  its  boughs  over  the  whole 
Universe :  it  is  the  Tree  of  Existence.  At  the 
foot  of  it,  in  the  Death-kingdom,  sit  Three 
Jfomas^  Fates,  —  the  Past,  Present,  Future; 
watering  its  roots  ftom  the  Sacred  Well.     Its 

*  boughs,*  with  their  buddings  and  disleafings, 
—  events,  things  suflTered,  things  done,  catas- 
trophes, •— stretch  through  all  lands  and  times. 
Is  not  every  leaf  of  it  a  biography,  every  fibre 
there  an  act  or  word  ?  Its  boughs  are  Histories 
of  Nations.  The  rustle  of  it  is  the  Noise  of 
Human  Existence,  onwards  firom  of  old.  It 
grows  there,  the  breath  of  Human  Passion 
rustling  through  it ;  —  or  storm-tost,  the  storm- 
wind  howling  through  it  like  the  voice  of  all 
the  Gods.  It  is  Igdrasil,  the  Tree  of  Existence. 
It  is  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future ;  what 
was  done,  what  is  doing,  what  will  be  done ; 
*the  infinite  conjugation  of  the  verb  To  do.* 
Considering  how  human  things  circulate,  each 
inextricably  in  communion  with  all,  —  how  the 
word  I  speak  to  you  to-day  is  borrowed,  not 
from  Ulfila  the  Moesogoth  only,  but  firom  all 
men  since  the  first  man  began  to  speak,  —  I 
find  no  similitude  so  true  as  this  of  a  Tree. 
Beautiful ;  altogether  beautiful  and  great.    The 

*  Maekine  of  the  Universe,' —  alas,  do  but  think 
of  that  in  contrast !  " 

For  a  more  elaborate  account  of  the  Skalds 
and  the  Eddaic  poems  the  reader  is  referred  to 
a  work,  entitled  **  Saggio  Istorico  su  gli  Scaldi 
o  Antichi  Poeti  Scandinavi,"  di  Jacopo  Gr&berg 
di  Hermso  :  Pisa :  1811 ;  —  and  to  the  "  History 
of  the  Northmen,"  by  Henry  Wheaton  :  Phila- 
delphia: 1831. 


SiEMUND'S  EDDA. 


THE   VOLUSpA: 
OR  THE  ORACLE  OF  THE  PROPHETESS  VOUL 

Thk  Prophet088,  having  imposed  ailenoe  oo 
all  intellectaal  beings,  declares  that  ibe  is  go- 
ing to  reveal  the  decrees  of  the  Father  of  Nar 
tare,  the  actions  and  operations  of  the  gods, 
which  no  person  ever  knew  before  herself.  She 
then  begins  with  a  description  of  the  chaos ; 
and  proceeds  to  the  formation  of  ihe  world,  and 
of  that  of  its  various  species  of  inhabitants,  gi- 
ants, men,  and  dwarfr.  She  then  explains  the 
emplojrments  of  the  fairies,  or  destinies ;  the 
functions  of  the  gods ;  their  most  remarkable 
adventnres ;  their  quarrels  with  Loke,  and  the 
vengeance  that  ensued.  At  last  she  concludes 
with  a  long  description  of  the  final  state  of  the 
nuiverse,  its  dissolution  and  conflagration ;  the 
battle  of  the  inferior  deities  and  the  evil  beings ; 
the  renoration  of  the  world ;  the  happy  lot  of 
the  good,  and  the  punishment  of  the  wicked. 

Give  silence,  all 
Te  sacred  race. 
Both  great  and  small. 
Of  Heimdal  sprung : 
Vol-fiither's  deeds 
I  will  relate. 
The  ancient  t^es 
Which  first  I  learned. 

I  know  giants 
Early  bom, 
My  ancestors 
Of  former  times; 
Nine  worlds  I  know, 
With  their  nine  poles 
Of  tender  wood, 
Beneath  the  earth. 

In  early  times. 
When  Ymer  lived. 
Was  sand,  nor  sea. 
Nor  cooling  wave ; 
No  earth  was  found. 
Nor  heaven  above ; 
One  chaos  all. 
And  nowhere  grass : 

Until  B5r'8  sons 
Th'  expanse  did  raise. 
By  whom  Midgard 
The  great  was  made. 
From  th'  south  the  sun 
Shone  on  the  walls ; 
Then  did  the  earth 
Green  herbs  produce. 


The  son  turned  south ; 
The  moon  did  shine ; 
Her  right  hand  held 
The  horse  of  heaven. 
The  sun  knew  not 
His  proper  sphere ; 
The  stars  knew  not 
Their  proper  place ; 
The  moon  knew  not 
Her  proper  power. 

Then  all  the  powers 
Went  to  the  throne. 
The  holy  gods. 
And  held  consult : 
Night  and  cock-crowing 
Their  names  they  gave, 
Morning  also. 
And  noon-day  tide, 
And  afternoon. 
The  years  to  tell. 

The  Asas  met 

On  Ida's  plains. 
Who  altars  raised 
And  temples  built ; 
Anvils  they  laid. 
And  money  coined ; 
Their  strength  they  tried 
In  various  ways. 
When  making  songs. 
And  fbrming  toob. 

On  th'  green  they  played 
In  joyful  mood. 
Nor  knew  at  all 
The  want  of  gold. 
Until  there  came 
Three  Thnrsa  maids. 
Exceeding  strong. 
From  Jotunheim : 


Until  there  came 
Out  of  the  ranks. 
Powerful  and  fair. 
Three  Asas  home. 
And  found  on  shore. 
In  helpless  plight, 
Ask  and  Embla 
Without  their  fiite. 

They  had  not  yet 
Spirit  or  mind, 
Blood,  or  beauty. 
Or  lovely  hue. 
Odin  gave  spirit, 
Heinir  gave  mind, 
D 


38 


ICELANDIC    POETRY. 


Lothur  gave  blood 
And  lovely  hue. 


I  know  an  ash, 
Named  Ygg-drasiU^ 
A  stately  tree, 
With  white  duBt  strewed. 
Thence  come  the  dews 
That  wet  the  dales ; 
It  stands  aye  green 
O'er  Urda's  well. 

Thence  come  the  maids 
Who  much  do  know  ; 
Three  from  the  hall 
Beneath  the  tree ; 
One  they  named  fVas^ 
And  Being  next, 
The  third,  Shall  6e, 
On  the  shield  they  cut. 

She  sat  without 
When  th*  Ancient  came, 
The  awful  god, 
And  viewed  his  eye. 

What  ask  ye  me  ? 
Why  tempt  ye  me  .? 
Full  well  I  know, 
Great  Odin,  where 
Thine  eye  thou  lost ; 
In  Mimi's  well, 
The  fountain  pure, 
Mead  Mimir  drinks 
Each  morning  new, 
With  Odin*s  pledge. 
Conceive  ye  this  ? 

To  her  the  god 
Of  battles  gave 
Both  costly  rings 
And  shining  gold. 
The  art  of  wealth. 
And  witchcraft  wise. 
By  which  she  saw 
Through  every  world. 

She  saw  Valkyries 
Come  from  afkr. 
Ready  to  ride 
To  th*  tribes  of  god  ; 
Skuld  held  the  shield, 
Skaugul  came  next, 
Gunnr,  Hildr,  Oaundul, 
And  Geir-skaugui. 
Thus  now  are  told 
The  Warrior's  Norns, 
Ready  to  ride 
The  Valkyries. 

Heith  she  was  named 
Where'er  she  came ; 
The  prophetess 
Of  cunning  arts. 
She  knew  right  well 


Bad  luck  to  seethe. 
And  mischief  was 
Her  only  sport. 

She  murder  saw. 
The  first  that  e'er 
Was  in  the  world. 
When  Gullveig  was 
Placed  on  the  spear. 
When  in  Harr's  hall 
They  did  her  burn  : 
Thrice  she  was  burnt, 
Thrice  she  was  born, 
Oft,  not  seldom. 
And  yet  she  lives. 

When  all  the  powers 
Went  to  the  throne. 
The  holy  gods. 
And  held  consult : 
What  punishment 
They  should  inflict 
On  th'  Asas  now 
For  bad  advice  > 
Or  whether  all 
The  gods  should  hold 
Convivial  feasts : 

Were  broken  now 
The  castle-walls 
Of  Asaborg, 
By  murderous  Vanes 
Who  took  the  field : 
Forth  Odin  flew 
And  shot  around : 
This  murder  was 
The  first  that  e'er 
Was  in  the  world. 

When  all  the  powers 
Went  to  the  throne. 
The  holy  gods. 
And  held  consult : 
Who  had  the  air 
Involved  in  flames. 
Or  Odder's  maid 
To  giants  given : 

There  Thor  alone 
Was  in  ill  mood  ; 
He  seldom  sits 
When  told  the  like  ; 
Broken  were  oaths 
And  promises 
And  all  contracts 
That  had  been  made. 

She  knows  where  hid 
Lies  Heimdal's  horn, 
Full  deep  beneath 
The  sacred  tree : 
She  sees  a  flood 
Rush  down  the  fall 
From  Odin's  pledge  : 
Conceive  ye  yet  ? 


fi ll 

SfMUND'S  EDDA.                                                 39 



Wisdom  he  needs  who  goes  abroad: 

The  sun  tumt  pale ; 

A  ehurl  has  his  own  sway  at  home  \ 

The  epaciouB  earth 

But  they  must  bend  to  others*  ways 

The  aea  ingulfi ; 

Who  aim  to  sit  with  polished  men. 

From  heaven  fidl 

The  lucid  stars : 

At  the  end  of  time. 

Should  rarely  and  should  lowly  speak: 

The  Tapors  rage, 

The  humble  listener  learns  of  all, 

And  playful  flames 

And  wins  their  welcome  and  their  praise. 

Involve  the  skies. 

Happy  is  he  whom  others  love. 

She  sees  arise. 

The  second  time, 

For  all  that  mortals  undertake 

From  th*  sea,  the  earth 

Requires  the  helping  hand  of  man. 

Completely  green : 
Cascades  do  fall ; 

He  best  is  armed  to  journey  far 

The  eagle  soars. 
That  on  the  hills 

Who  carries  counsel  in  his  head  : 

More  than  the  metal  in  the  purse 

Pursues  his  prey. 

The  mighty  heed  the  marks  of  mind. 

The  gods  convene 

Beware  of  swallowing  too  much  ale ; 

On  Ida's  plains, 
And  talk  of  man. 

The  more  you  drink,  the  worse  you  think : 

The  bird  fbrgetfulness  shall  spread 

The  worm  of  dust : 

Her  wings  across  the  drunkard's  brow. 

They  call  to  mind 
Their  former  might. 
And  th'  ancient  runes 

Voracity  but  swallows  death  : 

The  wise  despise  the  greedy  man : 

Of  Fimbultyr. 

Flocks  know  the  time  to  quit  the  field  ; 
But  human  gluttons  feast  and  choke. 

The  fields  unsown 
Shall  yield  their  growth  ; 
All  ills  shall  cease  ; 
Balder  flhall  come 

The  coward  thinks  to  live  for  ever, 
If  he  avoids  the  weapon's  reach  ; 
But  age,  which  overtakes  at  last, 

And  dwell  with  Hauthr 

Twitaes  hb  gray  hair  with  pain  and  shame. 

In  Hropt's  abodes. 
Say,  warrior^gods. 
Conceive  ye  yet  ? 

The  merry  man,  who  jeers  at  all, 
Becomes  himself  a  laughing-stock : 
Let  him  beware  of  taunts  and  gibes 

A  hall  she  sees 

Who  has  not  learned  to  curb  himself 

Outshine  the  sun. 
Of  gold  its  roof. 
It  stands  in  heaven  : 
1                       The  virtuous  there 
Shall  always  dwell. 
And  evermore 
Delights  enjoy. 

The  senseless,  indecisive  man 

Ponders  and  re-resolves  all  night ; 
But  when  the  morning  breaks  on  high. 
Has  still  to  choose  his  doubtful  course  : 
Tet  he  believes  the  caution  wise 

Which  bafiles  action  by  delay, 

And  has  a  string  of  reasons  ready 

On  every  question  men  devise. 

THE   HAVA-MAL- 

Many  seem  knit  by  ties  of  love. 

A  m  mm  m        AAAm   v   Am    A^m*rmAM    • 

Who  fiiil  each  other  at  the  proof 

THE  SUBLIME  DISCOURSE  OP  ODIN. 

TouiroLivo,  ere  you  rove  abroad. 
Fasten  well  the  doors  behind  : 

To  slander  idle  men  are  prone  ; 
The  host  backbites  the  parting  guest. 

m  sped  he,  at  whose  return 

Home  still  is  home,  however  homely. 

Ambushed  foes  beset  his  home. 

And  sweet  the  crust  our  kin  partake  ; 

But  he  who  feasts  at  others'  boards 

On  guests  who  come  with  frozen  knees 

Must  often  bite  a  writhing  lip. 

Bestow  the  genial  warmth  of  fire  : 

Who  far  haTwalked,  and  waded  streams, 

None  give  so  fireely  but  they  count 

Needs  cheering  food  and  drier  clothes. 

Their  givings  as  a  secret  loan ; 

Nor  with  o'erflowing  soul  reject 

To  him,  about  to  join  your  board. 

The  present  brought  them  in  return. 

Clear  water  bring,  to  cleanse  his  hands ; 

And  treat  him  fireely,  would  you  win 
1           The  kindly  word,  the  thankful  heart. 

The  interchange  of  gifts  is  good  ; 

For  clothing,  arms ;  fi>r  bacon,  ale : 

40 


ICELANDIC   POETRY. 


Who  give  and  take  each  other's  feast, 
Each  other's  booty,  long  are  friends. 

Love  your  own  friends,  and  a]so  theirs ; 
But  fiiTor  not  your  foeman's  friend  : 
Peace  with  perfidious  men  may  last 
Four  days  or  five,  but  not  a  week. 

When  young,  I  often  strolled  alone. 
And  gladly  joined  the  chance- way  stranger : 
To  human  hearts,  the  heart  is  dear ; 
To  human  eyes,  the  human  face. 

AfTect  not  to  be  over-wise ; 
Nor  seek  to  know  the  doom  of  fate : 
The  prying  man  has  little  sleep. 
And  alters  not  the  will  of  gods. 

Rise  early,  would  you  fill  your  store ; 
Rise  early,  would  you  smite  your  foe  : 
The  sleepy  wolf  foregoes  his  prey ; 
The  drowsy  man,  his  victory. 

They  ask  me  to  a  pompous  meal, 
A  breakfast  were  enough  for  me ; 
He  is  the  fidthfiil  friend  who  spares 
Out  of  his  pair  of  loaves  the  one. 

Let  us  live  well,  while  life  endures : 
The  hoarder  lights  a  sparing  fire ; 
But  death  steals  in,  perhaps,  before 
The  gathered  sticks  are  burnt  to  ashes. 

Have  children ;  better  late  than  never : 
Who  but  our  oiSspring  will  inscribe 
Our  deeds  on  the  sepulchral  stone  ? 

Riches  have  wings ;  the  cattle  stray ; 
Friends  may  forsake ;  and  we  must  die  : 
This  only  mocks  the  arm  of  fiite. 
The  judgment  which  our  deeds  deserve. 

Who  dictates  is  not  truly  wise : 
Each  in  his  turn  must  bend  to  power ; 
And  oft  the  modest  man  is  found 
To  sway  the  scomers  of  the  proud. 

Praise  the  day  at  set  of  sun  ; 
Praise  the  woman  you  have  won  ; 
Praise  the  sword  you  *ve  tried  in  fight ; 
Praise  a  girl  her  wedding-night ', 
Praise  the  ice  you  've  stept  upon ; 
Praise  the  ale  you  've  slept  upon. 

Trust  not  to  a  maiden's  word ; 
Trust  not  what  a  woman  utters  : 
Lightness  in  their  bosom  dwells ; 
Like  spinning-wheels,  their   hearts  turn 
round. 

Trust  not  the  ice  of  yesternight ; 
Trust  not  the  serpent  that 's  asleep ; 
Trust  not  the  fondness  of  a  bride ; 
Trust  not  the  sword  that  has  a  flaw ; 
Trust  not  the  sons  of  mighty  men  ; 
Trust  not  the  field  that 's  newly  sown. 


Trust  not  the  friendliness  of  scolds. 
The  horse  on  ice,  who  's  not  rough-shod, 
The  vessel  which  has  lost  her  helm, 
The  lame  man  who  pursues  a  goat. 

Let  him  who  wooes  be  full  of  chat, 
And  full  of  flattery  and  all  that. 
And  carry  presents  in  his  hat : 
Skill  may  supplant  the  worthier  man. 

No  sore  so  sad  as  discontent 

The  heart  alone  can  buy  the  heart ; 
The  soul  alone  discern  the  soul. 

If  to  your  will  you  wish  to  bend 
Tour  mistress,  see  her  but  by  stealth. 
By  night,  and  always  by  yourself: 
What  a  third  knows  of  ever  fails. 

Forbear  to  woo  another's  wife. 

Whoso  you  meet  on  land  or  sea. 
Be  kind  and  gentle  while  you  may. 

Whose  wallet  holds  a  hearty  supper 
Sees  evening  come  without  dismay. 

Tell  not  your  sorrows  to  the  unkind ; 
They  comfort  not,  they  give  no  help. 

If  you  've  a  friend,  take  care  to  keep  him. 
And  often  to  his  threshold  pace  ; 
Bushes  and  grass  soon  choke  the  path 
On  which  a  man  neglects  to  walk. 

Be  not  first  to  drop  a  friend  ; 
Sorrow  seeks  the  lonely  man : 
Courtesy  prepares  for  kindness ; 
Arrogance  shall  dwell  alone. 

With  wicked  men  avoid  dispute  ; 

The  good  will  yield  what 's  fit  and  fair : 

Tet  't  is  not  seemly  to  be  silent. 

When  charged  with  woman-heartedness. 

Do  not  be  wary  overmuch ; 
Tet  be  so,  when  you  swallow  ale. 
When  sitting  by  another's  wife. 
When  sorting  with  a  robber-band. 

Accustom  not  yourself  to  mock. 
And  least  at  any  stranger-guest : 
Who  stays  at  home  oft  undervalues 
The  wanderer  coming  to  his  gate. 

What  worthy  man  without  a  blemish  ? 
What  wicked  man  without  a  merit  ? 

Jeer  not  at  age  :  from  mumbling  lips 
The  words  of  wisdom  oft  descend. 

Fire  chases  plague  ;  the  mistletoe 
Cures  rank  disease ;  straws  scatter  spells ; 
The  poet's  runes  revoke  a  curse ; 
Earth  drinks  up  floods ;  death,  enmities. 


S£MUND'S  £DDA. 


41 


VAFTHRUDNI'S-MAL : 
THE  DISOOUBSE  OF  YAFIHRUBNL 

ODiir. 
Frioa,  oounael  thou  thy  lord, 
Whote  noquiet  botom  broods 
A  jonrney  to  Vafthradoi**  hall, 
With  the  wise  and  crafty  Jute 
To  contend  in  runic  lore. 


Father  of  a  hero  race, 
In  the  dwelling-place  of  Goths 
Let  me  counsel  thee  to  stay ; 
For  to  none  among  the  Jutes 
Is  Vafthrudni's  wiidom  given. 


Far  I  We  wandered,  much  sojourned, 
In  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth ; 
But  Vafthrudni's  royal  hall 
I  have  still  the  wish  to  know. 


Safe  departnro,  safe  rotnm. 
May  the  fttal  aisters  grant ! 
The  &ther  of  the  years  that  roll 
Shield  my  daring  traveller's  head ! 

Odin  rose  with  speed,  and  went 
To  contend  in  runic  lore 
With  the  wise  and  crafty  Jute. 
To  Vafthrudni's  royal  hall 
Came  the  mighty  king  of  spells. 


Hail,  Vafthrudni,  king  of  men ! 
To  thy  lofty  hall  I  come, 
Beckoned  by  thy  wisdom's  fame. 
Art  thou,  I  aspire  to  learn. 
First  of  Jutes  in  runic  lore  ? 

TAFTHRUDHI. 

Who  art  thou,  whose  daring  lip 
Doubts  Vafthrudni's  just  renown  ? 
Know  that  to  thy  parting  step 
Never  shall  these  doon  unfold. 
If  thy  tongue  excel  not  mine 
In  the  strife  of  mystic  lore. 


Crangrath,  monarch,  is  my  name. 
Needing  hospitality. 
To  thy  palace-gate  I  come  ; 
Long  and  rugged  is  the  way 
Which  my  weary  feet  have  trodden. 

VArTHRUDFI. 

Oangrath,  on  the  stool  beneath 
Let  thy  loitering  limbs  repose ; 
Then  begin  our  strife  of  speech. 

ODIF. 

When  a  son  of  meanness  comes 
To  the  presence  of  the  great. 


Let  him  speak  the  needfUI  word. 
But  forbear  each  idle  phrase, 
If  he  seek  a  listening  ear. 


TAFTHKUDVI. 


Since  upon  thy  lowly  seat 
Still  thou  court  the  learned  strife, — 
Tell  me  how  u  named  the  steed 
On  whose  back  the  morning  comes. 


Skin-fiuu  b  the  skyey  steed 
Who  bean  aloft  the  smiling  day 
To  all  the  regions  of  manlund  : 
Hu  the  ever^shining  i 


VAFTHBUDHI. 

Since  upon  thy  lowly  leat 
Still  thou  court  the  learned  strife,  — 
Tell  me  how  is  named  the  steed. 
From  the  east  who  bean  the  night, 
Fraught  with  showering  joys  of  love. 


Hrim-fiuti  u  the  sable  steed. 
From  the  east  who  brings  the  night. 
Fraught  with  showering  joys  of  love  : 
As  he  champs  the  foamy  bit. 
Drops  of  dew  are  scattered  round 
To  adorn  the  vales  of  earth. 

TArTBnuDiri. 

Since  upon  thy  lowly  leat 
Still  thou  court  the  learned  strife,  — 
Tell  me  how  is  named  the  flood. 
From  the  dwellings  of  the  Jutes, 
That  divides  the  haunt  of  Goths. 


Ifing's  deep  and  murky  wave 
Parts  the  ancient  sons  of  earth 
From  the  dweUings  of  the  Goths : 
Open  flows  the  mighty  flood. 
Nor  shall  ice  arrest  its  course 
While  the  wheel  of  ages  rolls. 

VAFTHRUDNI. 

Since  upon  thy  lowly  seat 
Still  thou  court  the  learned  strife,  — 
Tell  me  how  is  named  the  field 
Where  the  Goths  shall  strive  in  vain 
With  the  flame-clad  Surtur's  might. 


Vigrith  is  the  fetal  field 
Where  the  Goths  to  Surtur  bend : 
He  who  rides  a  hundred  leagues 
Has  not  crossed  the  ample  plain. 

VAFTHRUDHI. 

Gangrath,  truly  thou  art  wise ; 
Mount  the  footstep  of  my  throne. 
And,  on  equal  cushion  placed. 
Thence  renew  the  strife  of  tongues. 
Big  with  danger,  big  with  death. 


42 


ICELANDIC   POETRY. 


PART  II. 

ODIN. 


First,  if  thou  can  tell,  declare 
Whence  the  earth,  and  whence  the  sky. 


▼AFTHRUDNI. 


Tmer's  flesh  produced  the  earth  ; 
Tmer's  bones,  its  rocky  ribs ; 
Tmer*8  skull,  the  skyey  vault ; 
Tmer's  teeth,  the  mountain  ice  ; 
Ymer's  sweat,  the  ocean  salt. 


Next,  if  thou  can  tell,  declare 
Who  was  parent  to  the  moon, 
That  shines  upon  the  sleep  of  man ; 
And  who  is  parent  to  the  sun. 

▼AFTHR17DNI. 

Know  that  Mundilfter  is  hight 

Father  to  the  moon  and  sun  : 

Age  on  age  shall  roll  away 

While  they  mark  the  months  and  years. 


If  so  far  thy  wisdom  reach. 
Tell  me  whence  arose  the  day. 
That  smiles  upon  the  toil  of  man  ; 
And  who  is  parent  to  the  night. 

▼AFTHRUDFI. 

Delling  is  the  sire  of  day  ; 
But  from  Naurri  sprang  the  night. 
Fraught  with  showering  joys  of  love, 
Who  bids  the  moon  to  wax  and  wane. 
Marking  months  and  years  to  man. 


If  so  far  thy  wisdom  reach, 
Tell  me  whence  the  winter  comes  ; 
Whence  the  soothing  summer's  birth. 
Showers  of  fruitage  who  bestows. 

TAFTHRUDHI. 

Vindsual  is  the  name  of  him 
Who  begat  the  winter's  god ; 
Summer  from  Suasuthur  sprang : 
Both  shall  walk  the  way  of  years 
Till  the  twilight  of  the  gods. 


Once  again,  if  thou  can  tell. 
Name  the  first  of  Ymer's  sons. 
Eldest  of  the  Asa-race. 

TAFTHRPDHI. 

While  the  yet  unshapen  earth 
Lay  concealed  in  wintry  womb, 
Bergelmer  had  long  been  bom  : 
He  from  Thrugelmer  descends, 
Aurgelmer's  unbrothered  son. 

ODIN. 

Once  again,  if  thou  can  tell. 


Whence,  the  first  of  all  the  Jutes, 
Father  Aurgelmer  is  sprung. 


TAFTBRUDNI. 


From  the  arm  of  Vagom  fell 
The  curdled  drops  of  teeming  blood 
That  grew  and  formed  the  first  of  Jutes; 
Sparks  that  spurted  from  the  south 
Informed  with  life  the  crimson  dew. 


Tet  a  seventh  time  declare, 
If  so  far  thy  wisdom  reach. 
How  the  Jute  begat  his  brood. 
Though  denied  a  female's  love. 

YAFTHRUDNI. 

Within  the  hollow  of  his  hands 

To  the  water-giant  grew 

Both  a  male  and  female  seed  ; 

Also  foot  with  foot  begat 

A  son  in  whom  the  Jute  might  joy. 


I  conjure  thee,  tell  me,  now, 
What,  within  the  bounds  of  space. 
First  befell  of  all  that 's  known. 

YAFTHRUDHI. 

While  the  yet  unshapen  earth 
Lay  concealed  in  wintry  womb, 
Bergelmer  had  long  been  bom : 
First  of  all  recorded  things 
Is,  that  his  gigantic  length 
Floated  on  the  ocean-wave. 


Once  again,  if  thou  can  say, 
And  so  far  thy  wisdom  reach, 
Tell  me  whence  proceeds  the  wind, 
O'er  the  earth  and  o'er  the  sea 
That  journeys,  vfewless  to  mankind. 

VAFTHRUDFI. 

Hrssvelger  is  the  name  of  him 
Who  sits  beyond  the  ends  of  heaven. 
And  winnows  wide  his  eagle-wings. 
Whence  the  sweeping  blasts  have  birth. 


If  thy  all-embracing  mind 
Know  the  whole  lineage  of  the  gods. 
Tell  me  whence  is  Niord  sprung : 
Holy  hills  and  halls  hath  he, 
Though  not  bom  of  Asa-race. 

VAFTHRUDNI. 

For  him  the  defUy  delving  showers 
In  Vaunheim  scooped  a  watery  home. 
And  pledged  it  to  the  upper  gods  : 
But  when  the  smoke  of  ages  climbs. 
He  with  his  Vauns  shall  stride  abroad. 
Nor  spare  the  long-respected  shore. 


SJEMUND'S   EDDA. 


43 


If  thjr  all-embracing  mind 
Know  the  whole  of  mystic  lore. 
Tell  me  how  the  cho«en  heroes 
Live  in  Odin's  shield-decked  hall 
Till  the  rush  of  ruined  gods. 

TAFTHKVDNI. 

All  the  chosen  guests  of  Odin 
Daily  ply  the  trade  of  war  ; 
From  the  fields  of  festal  fight 
Swift  they  ride  in  gleaming  arms. 
And  gayly,  at  the  board  of  gods, 
Quafif  the  cap  of  sparkling  ale, 
And  eat  SaBhrimni's  vaunted  flesh. 


Twelfthly,  tell  me,  king  of  Jutes, 
What  of  all  thy  runic  lore 
Is  most  certain,  sure,  and  true. 

TAFTBRVOm. 

I  am  versed  in  runic  lore 

And  the  counsels  of  the  gods ; 

For  I  're  wandered  far  and  wide  : 

Nine  the  nations  I  have  known ; 

And,  in  all  that  overarch 

The  murky  mists  and  chills  of  hell. 

Men  are  daily  seen  to  die. 

ODIH. 

Far  I  've  wandered,  much  sojourned, 
In  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  ; 
But  I  've  still  a  wish  to  know 
How  the  sons  of  men  shall  live, 
When  the  iron  winter  comes. 

VArTHHUDiri. 

Life  and  warmth  shall  hidden  lie 
In  the  well-head  that  Mimis  feeds 
With  dews  of  morn  and  thaws  of  eve : 
These  again  shall  wake  mankind. 

ODIH. 

Far  I  *ve  wandered,  much  sojourned. 
In  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  ', 
But  I  've  still  a  wish  to  know 
Whence,  to  deck  the  empty  skies, 
Shall  another  sun  be  drawn, 
When  the  jaws  of  Fenrir  ope 
To  ingorge  the  lamp  of  day. 

VAFTBRUDHI. 

Ere  the  throat  of  Fenrir  yawn 
Shall  the  sun  a  daughter  bear. 
Who,  in  spite  of  shower  and  sleet. 
Rides  the  road  her  mother  rode. 

ODIH. 

I  have  still  a  wish  to  know 
Who  the  guardian-maidens  are. 
That  hover  round  the  haunts  of  men. 

VArTHBUDKI. 

Races  three  of  elfin  maids 


Wander  through  the  peopled  earth  : 
One  to  guard  the  hours  of  love  ; 
One  to  haunt  the  homely  hearth ; 
One  to  cheer  the  festal  board. 


I  have  still  a  wish  to  know 
Who  shall  sway  the  Asa-realms, 
When  the  flame  of  Surtur  fiules. 

VAFTHKUDiri. 

Vithar's  then  and  Voli's  force 
Heirs  the  empty  realm  of  gods ; 
Mothi's  then  and  Magni's  might 
Sways  the  massy  mallet's  weight. 
Won  from  Thor,  when  Thor  must  &11. 


I  have  yet  the  wish  to  know 
Who  shall  end  the  life  of  Odin, 
When  the  gods  to  ruin  rush. 

VAFTHRUDNI. 

Fenrir  shall  with  impious  tooth 
Slay  the  sire  of  rolling  years : 
Vitbar  shall  avenge  his  fall. 
And,  struggling  with  the  shaggy  wolf. 
Shall  cleave  his  cold  and  gory  jaw. 


Lastly,  monarch,  I  inquire. 
What  did  Odin's  lip  pronounce 
To  his  Raider's  hearkening  ear. 
As  he  climbed  the  pyre  of  death .' 

VAFTHRUDIfl. 

Not  the  man  of  mortal  race 

Knows  the  words  which  thou  hast  spoken 

To  thy  son  in  days  of  yore. 

I  hear  the  coming  tread  of  death ; 

He  soon  shall  raze  the  runic  lore, 

And  knowledge  of  the  rise  of  gods, 

From  his  ill-fated  soul  who  strove 

With  Odin's  self  the  strife  of  wit. 

Wisest  of  the  wise  that  breathe, 

Our  stake  was  life,  and  thou  hast  won. 


THRYM'S  QUIDA: 

THE  SONO  OP  THRTM,  OR  THE  RECOYERT  OF 

THE  HAMMER. 

Wroth  waxed  Thor,  when  his  sleep  was  flown. 
And  he  found  his  trusty  hammer  gone  ; 
He  smote  his  brow,  his  beard  he  shook. 
The  son  of  earth  'gan  round  him  look  ; 
And  this  the  first  word  that  he  spoke  : 
**  Now  listen  what  I  tell  thee,  Loke ', 
Which  neither  on  earth  below  is  known, 
Nor  in  heaven  above :  my  hammer  's  gone." 
Their  way  to  Freyia's  bower  they  took. 
And  this  the  first  word  that  he  spoke  : 
*'  Thou,  Freyia,  must  lend  a  winged  robe. 
To  seek  my  hammer  round  the  gfobe." 


44 


ICELANDIC    POETRY. 


FRETIA  sang. 
"  That  shouldflt  thoa  have,  though 't  were  of  gold, 
And  that,  thoagh  't  were  of  eilver,  hold." 

Away  flew  Loke  ;  the  winged  robe  sounds, 

Ere  he  has  left  the  Asgard  grounds, 

And  ere  he  has  reached  the  Jotunheim  bounds. 

High  on  a  mound,  in  haughty  state, 

Thrym,  the  king  of  the  Thursi,  sat ; 

For  his  dogs  he  was  twisting  collars  of  gold. 

And  trimming  the  manes  of  his  coursers  bold. 

THRTM  sang. 
«  How  fare  the  Asi .'  the  Alii  how  ? 
Why  com'st  thou  alone  to  Jotunheim  now  ?  " 

LOKE  aang. 
**  111  fare  the  Asi ;  the  Alfi  mourn ; 
Thor*s  hammer  from  him  thou  hast  torn." 

THRTM  mag. 
"  I  have  the  Thunderer's  hammer  bound 
Fathoms  eight  beneath  the  ground ; 
With  it  shall  no  one  homeward  tread. 
Till  he  bring  me  Freyia  to  share  my  bed." 

Away  flew  Loke  ;  the  winged  robe  sounds. 
Ere  he  has  left  the  Jotunheim  bounds, 
And  ere  he  has  reached  the  Asgard  grounds. 
At  Mitgard  Thor  met  crafty  Loke, 
And  this  the  first  word  that  he  spoke  : 
**  Have  you  your  errand  and  labor  done  ? 
Tell  from  aloft  the  course  you  run  : 
For,  setting  oft,  the  story  ftils ; 
And,  lying  oft,  the  lie  prevails." 

LOKE  sang. 
**  My  labor  is  past,  mine  errand  I  bring ; 
Thrym  has  thine  hammer,  the  giant  king  : 
With  it  shall  no  one  homeward  tread. 
Till  he  bear  him  Freyia  to  share  his  bed." 

Their  way  to  lovely  Freyia  they  took. 
And  this  the  first  word  that  he  spoke : 
*'  Now,  Freyia,  busk,  as  a  blooming  bride ; 
Together  we  must  to  Jotunheim  ride." 
Wroth  waxed  Freyia  with  ireful  look ; 
All  Asgard*s  hall  with  wonder  shook  ; 
Her  great  bright  necklace  started  wide : 
"  Well  may  ye  call  me  a  wanton  bride, 
If  I  with  ye  to  Jotunheim  ride." 
The  Asi  did  all  to  council  crowd. 
The  AsinisB  all  talked  fast  and  loud ; 
This  they  debated,  and  this  they  sought, 
How  the  hammer  of  Thor  should  home  be 

brought. 
Up  then  and  spoke  Heimdallar  Sree^ 
Like  the  Vani,  wise  was  he : 
"  Now  busk  we  Thor,  as  a  bride  so  fair ; 
Let  him  that  great  bright  necklace  wear ; 
Round  him  let  ring  the  spousal  keys. 
And  a  maiden  kirtle  hang  to  his  knees. 
And  on  his  bosom  jewels  rare  ; 
And  high  and  quaintly  braid  his  hair." 
Wroth  waxed  Thor  with  godlike  pride  : 
**  Well  may  the  Asi  me  deride. 
If  I  let  me  be  dight  as  a  blooming  bride." 
Then  up  spoke  Loke,  Laufeyia's  son  : 


^*  Now  hush  thee,  Thor ;  this  must  be  done : 

The  giants  will  strait  in  Asgard  reign, 

If  thou  thy  hammer  dost  not  regain." 

Then  busked  they  Thor,  as  a  bride  so  fair, 

And  the  great  bright  necklace  gave  him  to  wear ; 

Round  him  let  ring  the  spousal  keys. 

And  a  maiden  kirtle  hang  to  his  knees. 

And  on  his  bosom  jewels  rare ; 

And  high  and  quaintly  braided  his  hair. 

Up  then  arose  the  crafty  Loke, 

Laufeyia's  son,  and  thus  he  spoke  : 

**  A  servant  I  thy  steps  will  tend. 

Together  we  must  to  Jotunheim  wend." 

Now  home  the  goats  together  hie ; 

Yoked  to  the  axle  they  swiftly  fly. 

The  mountains  shook,  the  earth  burned  red. 

As  Odin's  son  to  Jotunheim  sped. 

Then  Thrym,  the  king  of  the  Thursi,  said  : 

**  Giants,  stand  up ;  let  the  seats  be  spread  : 

Bring  Freyia,  Niorder's  daughter,  down, 

To  share  my  bed,  from  Noatun. 

With  horns  all  gilt  each  coal-black  beast 

Is  led  to  deck  the  giants'  feast ; 

Large  wealth  and  jewels  have  I  stored  ; 

I  lack  but  Freyia  to  grace  my  board." 

Betimes  at  evening  they  approached. 

And  the  mantling  ale  the  giants  broached. 

The  spouse  of  Sifia  ate  alone 

Eight  salmons,  and  an  ox  full-grown. 

And  all  the  cates,  on  which  women  feed ; 

And  drank  three  firkins  of  sparkling  mead. 

Then  Thrym,  the  king  of  the  Thursi,  said  : 

"  Where  have  ye  beheld  such  a  hungry  maid  ? 

Ne'er  saw  I  bride  so  keenly  feed. 

Nor  drink  so  deep  of  the  sparkling  mead." 

Then  forward  leaned  the  crafty  Loke, 

And  thus  the  giant  he  bespoke  : 

"  Naught  has  she  eaten  for  eight  long  nights. 

So  did  she  long  for  the  nuptial  rites." 

He  stooped  beneath  her  veil  to  kiss. 

But  he  started  the  length  of  the  hall,  I  wiss : 

**  Why  are  the  looks  of  Freyia  so  dire  ? 

It  seems  as  her  eyeballs  glistened  with  fire." 

Then  forward  leaned  the  crafly  Loke, 

And  thus  the  giant  he  bespoke  : 

"  Naught  has  she  slept  fi>r  eight  long  nights. 

So  did  she  long  for  the  nuptial  rites." 

Then  in  the  giant's  sister  came, 

Who  dared  a  bridal  gift  to  claim  : 

^*  Those  rings  of  gold  from  thee  I  crave. 

If  thou  wilt  all  my  fondness  have. 

All  my  love  and  fondness  have." 

Then  Thrym,  the  king  of  the  Thursi,  said  : 

**  Bear  in  the  hammer  to  plight  the  maid  ; 

Upon  her  lap  the  bruiser  lay. 

And  firmly  plight  our  hands  and  fiiy." 

The  Thunderer's  soul  smiled  in  his  breast, 

When  the  hammer  hard  on  his  lap  was  placed. 

Thrym  first,  tli^  king  of  the  Thursi,  he  slew. 

And  slaughtered  all  the  giant  crew. 

He  slew  that  giant's  sister  old. 

Who  prayed  for  bridal  gifts  so  bold  ; 

Instead  of  money  and  rings,  I  wot. 

The  hammer's  bruises  were  her  lot. 

Thus  Odin's  son  his  hammer  got. 


SAMUND'S  EDDA. 


46 


SKIRNIS-FOR: 
SKIRXER'S  EXPEDITION. 

Frbtr,  ton  of  Niorder,  dwelt  in  Hlidakial^ 
and  discerned  the  whole  world.  He  looked 
towards  Jotanheim,  and  there  he  saw  a  beanti- 
ibl  Tirgin  going  to  her  bower  from  the  hall  of 
her  fiither.  Hence  was  his  mind  grieTonsly 
affected.  His  attendant  was  named  Skimer. 
Niorder  bade  him  ask  for  a  conference  with 
Freyr.     Then  Scada  sang  : 

**  Skimer,  arise  !  and  swiftly  run, 
Where  lonely  sits  oar  pensive  son  : 
Bid  him  to  parley,  and  inquire 
'Gainst  whom  he  teems  with  sullen  ire." 


««  HI  words,  I  fear,  my  lot  will  prore. 

If  I  thy  son  attempt  to  move ; 

If  I  bid  parley,  and  inquire 

Why  teems  his  soul  with  savage  ire." 

sxiBNxm  wmg. 
M  Prince  of  the  gods  and  first  in  fight. 
Speak,  honored  Freyr,  and  tell  me  right : 
Why  spends  my  lord  the  tedious  day 
In  hh  lone  hall,  to  grief  a  prey  ?  " 


*«  O,  how  shall  I,  fond  youth,  disclose 
To  thee  my  bosom's  heavy  woes  ? 
The  ruddy  god  shines  every  day. 
But  dull  to  me  his  cheerful  ray." 


*'  Thy  sorrows  deem  not  I  so  great. 
That  thou  the  tale  shouldst  not  relate : 
Together  sported  we  in  youth. 
And  well  may  trust  each  other's  truth." 

ruTR  sang. 
^  In  6ymer*s  court  I  saw  her  move. 
The  maid  who  fires  my  breast  with  love ; 
Her  snow-white  arms  and  bosom  fiur 
Shone  lovely,  kindling  sea  and  air. 
Dear  is  she  to  my  wishes  more 
Than  e*er  was  maid  to  youth  before  : 
But  gods  and  elfi,  I  wot  it  well. 
Forbid  that  we  together  dwell." 

SKiRHXR  asng. 
**  Give  me  that  horse  of  wondrous  breed 
To  cross  the  nightly  flame  with,  speed ; 
And  that  self-brandished  sword  to  smite 
The  giant  race  with  strange  affright." 

FRXTR  Mmg. 

**  To  thee  I  give  this  wondrous  steed 
To  pass  the  watchfiil  fire  with  speed ; 
And  this,  which,  borne  by  valiant  wight, 
Self-brandished,  will  his  foemen  smite." 

SKlRZf  XR  addrened  his  hoise. 
*^  Dark  night  is  spread ;  't  is  time,  I  trow, 


To  climb  the  moontains  hoar  with  snow : 
Both  shall  return,  or  both  remain 
In  durance,  by  the  giant  tm'en." 

Skimer  rode  into  Jotanheim,  to  the  court  of 
Gymer:  furious  dogs  were  tied  there  before 
the  door  of  the  wooden  enclosure  which  sur- 
rounded Gerda's  bower.  He  rode  towards  a 
shepherd  who  was  sitting  on  a  mound,  and  ad- 
dressed him  : 

^*  Shepherd,  who  sittest  on  the  mound, 
And  tum'st  thy  watchfiil  eyes  around. 
How  may  I  lull  these  bloodhounds  ?  say ; 
How  speak  unharmed  with  Gymer's  may  ?  "  * 

TBS  SHXPHXRO   SMIg. 

«  Whence  and  what  art  thou  ?  doomed  to  die  ? 

Or  dead  revisitest  the  sky  ? 

For,  ride  by  night,  or  ride  by  day, 

Thou  ne'er  shdl  come  to  Gymer's  may." 

SKIRXXR  sng. 
**  I  grieve  not,  I ;  a  better  part 
Fits  him  who  boasts  a  ready  heart : 
At  hour  of  birth  our  lives  were  shaped  ; 
The  doom  of  Fate  can  ne'er  be  'scaped." 


**  What  sounds  unknown  mine  ears  invade. 
Frighting  this  mansion's  peaceful  shade  ? 
The  earth's  foundation  rocks  withal. 
And  trembling  shakes  all  Gymer's  hall." 

THX  ATTXlTDAirT  nog. 

M  Dismounted  stands  a  warrior  sheen  ; 
His  courser  crops  the  herbage  green." 

GXRDA  stng. 
**  Haste,  bid  him  to  my  bower  with  speed. 
To  quaff  unmixed  the  pleasant  mead : 
And  good  betide  us !  for  I  fear 
My  brother's  murderer  is  near.  — 

»'  What  art  thou  ?  Elf,  or  Asian  son  ? 
Or  from  the  wiser  Vanians  sprung .' 
Alone,  to  visit  our  abode, 
O'er  bickering  flames  why  hast  thou  rode  f  " 

8XIRNKR  sang. 
*^  Nor  elf  am  I,  nor  Asian  son  ; 
Nor  from  the  wiser  Vanians  sprung : 
Tet  o'er  the  bickering  flames  I  rode 
Alone  to  visit  your  abode. 
Eleven  apples  here  I  hold, 
Gerda,  for  thee,  of  purest  gold  ; 
Let  this  fair  gift  thy  bosom  move 
To  grant  young  Freyr  thy  precious  love." 

OXRDA  aanf. 
^*  Eleven  apples  take  not  I 
From  man,  as  price  of  chastity : 
While  life  remains,  no  tongue  shall  tell, 
That  Freyr  and  I  together  dwell." 

>  Mdjft  maid. 


46 


ICELANDIC    POETRY. 


SKIRirER  Mng. 

*«  (rerda,  for  tbee  this  wondrous  ring, 
Burnt  on  young  Balder's  pile,  I  bring ; 
On  each  ninth  night  shall  other  eight 
Drop  from  it,  all  of  equal  weight." 

GXRDA  sang. 
*'  I  take  not,  I,  that  wondrous  ring. 
Though  it  from  Haider's  pile  you  bring : 
Gold  lack  not  I,  in  Gymer*s  bower ; 
Enough  for  me  my  father's  dower." 

SXIRNER  Mng. 

«  Behold  this  bright  and  slender  brand, 
Unsheathed  and  glittering  in  my  hand ; 
Deny  not,  maiden !  lest  thine  head 
Be  severed  by  the  trenchant  blade." 

OXROA  aang. 
"  Gerda  will  ne'er  by  force  be  led 
To  grace  a  conqueror's  hateful  bed : 
But  this  I  trow,  with  main  and  might 
Gymer  shall  meet  thy  boast  in  fight." 

SKIRKXR  sang. 
"•  Behold  this  bright  and  slender  brand. 
Unsheathed  and  glittering  in  my  hand  ! 
Slain  by  its  edge  thy  sire  shall  lie ; 
That  giant  old  is  doomed  to  die. 

"  E'en  as  I  list,  the  magic  wand 
Shall  tame  thee !  Lo,  with  charmed  hand 
I  touch  thee,  maid  !  There  shalt  thou  go, 
Where  never  man  shall  learn  thy  woe. 
On  some  high  pointed  rock,  forlorn, 
Like  eagle,  shalt  thou  sit  at  mom ; 
Turn  from  the  world's  all-cheering  light, 
And  seek  the  deep  abyss  of  night. 
Food  shall  to  thee  more  loathly  show 
Than  slimy  serpent  creeping  slow. 
When  forth  thou  com'st,  a  hideous  sight. 
Each  wondering  eye  shall  stare  with  fright ; 
By  all  observed,  yet  sad  and  lone ; 
'Mongst  shivering  Thursians  wider  known 
Than  him,  who  sits  unmoved  on  high, 
The  Guard  of  heaven  with  sleepless  eye. 
'Mid  charms,  and  chains,  and  restless  woe, 
Thy  tears  with  double  grief  shall  flow. 
Now  seat  thee,  maid,  while  I  declare 
Thy  tide  of  sorrow  and  despair. 
Thy  bower  shall  be  some  giant's  cell. 
Where  phantoms  pale  shall  with  thee  dwell ; 
Each  day,  to  the  cold  Thursian's  hall. 
Comfortless,  wretched,  shalt  thou  crawl ; 
Instead  of  joy  and  pleasure  gay. 
Sorrow,  and  tears,  and  sad  dismay ; 
With  some  three-headed  Thursian  wed. 
Or  pine  upon  a  lonely  bed ; 
From  mom  till  mom  love's  secret  fire 
Shall  gnaw  thine  heart  with  vain  desire ; 
Like  barren  root  of  thistle  pent 
In  some  high,  ruined  battlement. 

"  O'er  shady  hill,  through  greenwood  round, 
I  sought  this  wand ;  the  wand  I  found. 
Odin  is  wroth,  and  mighty  Thor ; 
E'en  Freyr  shall  now  thy  name  abhor. 


But  ere  o'er  thine  ill-fated  head 
The  last  dread  curse  of  Heaven  be  spread, 
Giants  and  Thursians  far  and  near, 
Suttungur's  sons,  and  Asians,  hear, 
How  I  forbid  with  &tal  ban 
This  maid  the  joys,  the  fruit  of  man  ! 
Cold  Grimmer  is  that  giant  hight, 
Who  thee  shall  hold  in  realms  of  night ; 
Where  slaves  in  cups  of  twisted  roots 
Shall  bring  foul  beverage  from  the  goats ; 
Nor  sweeter  draught,  nor  blither  fare, 
Shalt  thou,  sad  virgin,  ever  share. 

"  'T  is  done  !  I  wind  the  mystic  charm ; 
Thus,  thus,  I  trace  the  giant  form  ', 
And  three  fell  characters  below. 
Fury,  and  Lust,  and  restless  Woe. 
E'en  as  I  wound,  I  strait  unwind 
This  fiital  spell,  if  thou  art  kind." 

OXROA  sang. 
"  Now  hail,  now  hail,  thou  warrior  bold ! 
Take,  take  this  cup  of  crystal  cold. 
And  quaff  the  pure  metheglin  old. 
Tet  deemed  I  ne'er  that  love  could  bind 
To  Vanian  youth  my  hostile  mind." 

SKIRNER  MDg. 

**  I  turn  not  home  to  bower  or  hall, 
Till  I  have  learnt  mine  errand  all ; 
Where  thou  wilt  yield  the  night  of  joy 
To  brave  Niorder's  gallant  boy." 

OERDA  sang. 
*^  Barri  is  hight  the  seat  of  love ; 
Nine  nights  elapsed,  in  that  known  grove 
Shall  brave  Niorder's  gallant  boy 
From  Gerda  take  the  kiss  of  joy." 

Then  rode  Skimer  home.     Freyr  stood  forth 
and  hailed  him,  and  asked,  what  tidings. 

^*  Speak,  Skimer,  speak,  and  tell  with  speed ! 
Take  not  the  hamess  from  thy  steed. 
Nor  stir  thy  foot,  till  thou  hast  said. 
How  fores  my  love  with  Gymer 's  maid !  " 

SKIRFXR  aang. 
**  Barri  is  hight  the  seat  of  love ; 
Nine  nights  elapsed,  in  that  known  grove 
To  brave  Niorder's  gallant  boy 
Will  Gerda  yield  the  kiss  of  joy." 

FRXTR  aang. 
*t  Long  is  one  night,  and  longer  twain  ; 
But  how  for  three  endure  my  pain .' 
A  month  of  rapture  sooner  flies 
Than  half  one  night  of  wishful  sighs." 


BRYNHILDA'S  RIDE  TO  HELL. 

After  the  death  of  Brynhilda,  two  funeral 
piles  were  constmcted;  one  for  Sigurd,  and 
that  was  bumt  first  -,  but  Brynhilda  was  burnt 


SJEMUND'S  EDDA. 


47 


on  the  other,  and  she  wai  borne  on  a  vehicle 
tented  with  precious  cloth.  It  is  said,  that 
Brjnhilda  went  in  this  Tehicle  along  the  road 
to  Hell,  and  passed  by  a  habitation  where 
dwelt  a  certain  giantess.    The  giantess  sang : 

"  Hxircx,  ayaont !  nor  dare  invade 
This  pillared  mansion^s  rocky  shade ; 
Better  at  home  thy  needle  ply, 
Than  thus  oar  secret  dwelling  spy : 

0  fidthlesB  head  of  Valland's  race, 
Dar'st  thou  approach  this  charmed  place  ? 
Many  a  wolf,  that  howled  for  food. 
Thou  didst  sate  with  human  blood  !*' 

BRTRHILDA  sang. 

'<  Maid  of  the  rock,  upbraid  not  me. 
Though  pirate-like  I  ploughed  the  sea  : 
Those  who  kenned  my  early  merit 
Shall  ever  praise  my  lofty  spirit." 

GIANTX8S  «mg. 

^  I  know  thee  well,  ill-fated  dame  ! 
Thy  sire  was  Budla,  Brynhilda  thy  name  : 
Thou  didst  Giuka's  race  destroy. 
And  turn  to  plaint  his  kingdom's  joy." 

BRTHHILDA  mng. 

■«  Hateful  head,  if  thou  wouldst  know, 

1  will  tell  my  tsle  of  woe ; 
How  the  heirs  of  Giuka's  realm 
Did  my  perjured  love  overwhelm. 
Beneath  an  oak,  by  mournfiil  spell. 
The  angry  monarch  garred  me  dwell. 
Twelve  years  I  counted,  and  no  more. 
When  futh  to  Sigurd  young  I  swore. 
*Mongst  Hlyndale's  warriors  was  I  hight 
Hilda  clad  in  helmet  bright. 
Helmgunnar  old  this  arm  did  fell ; 
This  &lchion  sent  his  soul  to  hell : 
Glory  I  gave  Audbrodur  young ; 

But  Odin's  wrath  waxed  fierce  and  strong  : 

His  powerful  wand  my  senses  bound. 

And  burnished  shields  were  piled  around ; 

And  he  should  break  my  sleep  alone, 

Who  ne'er  the  breath  of  fear  had  known. 

Wide  around  my  strange  abode 

With  blazing  fire  the  forest  glowed ; 

And  none  might  pass,  though  wise  and  bold. 

Save  who  should  bring  stem  Fofner's  gold. 

The  generous  lord  stout  Grana  bore. 

Whose  might  had  won  that  precious  store. 

My  ibster-fiither  bade  me  wed 

The  stranger  to  my  lonely  bed ; 

And  seemed  that  youth  sJone  more  bold 

Than  all  the  chiefi  that  Denmark  told. 

Darkling  we  slept  fix»m  eve  till  mom. 

As  he  had  been  my  brother  bom  ; 

Eight  nights  the  peaceful  couch  we  shared. 

Nor  hand  was  stirred,  nor  touch  was  dsred. 

Tet  hence  did  proud  Gudruna  say, 

In  Sigurd's  arms  Brynhilda  lay  : 

This  well  I  wot,  Brynhilda  ne'er 

Would  brook  their  foul,  disloyal  snare. 


Women  and  men  were  bora  in  strifo 
To  spend  the  anxious  hours  of  lifo ; 
Now,  joined  by  death's  all-healing  power, 
Sigurd  and  I  shall  part  no  more.  — 
Giantess,  avaunt ! " 

Afier  this  (says  Noma  Gests  Saga)  the  gi- 
antess howled  fiightfiiUy,  and  rushed  into  the 
caverns  of  the  mountain. 


GROTTA-SAVNGR: 
THE  QUERN-SONO. 

Gold  is  called  by  the  poets  the  maal  qf  Fr(h 
tMi;  the  origin  of  which  is  found  in  this  story. 
Odin  had  a  son  called  Skioldr  (ih>m  whom  the 
Skioldvngar  are  descended),  who  settled  and 
reigned  in  the  land  which  is  now  called  Dan- 
maurk,  but  was  then  called  Gotland.  Skidldr 
had  a  son  named  Frithleif,  who  reigued  after 
him.  Frithleif 's  son  was  called  Frothi,  and  suc- 
ceeded him  on  the  throne.  At  the  time  that  the 
Emperor  Augustus  made  peace  over  the  whole 
world,  Christ  was  bora.  But,  as  Frothi  was  the 
most  powerful  of  all  the  monarchs  of  the  North, 
that  peace,  wherever  the  Danish  language  was 
spoken,  was  imputed  to  him ;  and  the  Northmen 
called  it  Frothi's  peace. 

At  this  time  no  man  hurt  another,  even  if  he 
found  the  murderer  of  his  father  or  brother, 
loose  or  bound.  Theft  and  robbery  were  then 
unknown,  insomuch  that  a  gold  ring  lay  for  a 
long  time  untouched  in  Jalangursheath. 

iVothi  chanced  to  go  on  a  firiendly  visit  to  a 
certain  king  in  Sweden,  named  Fiolnir;  and 
there  purchased  two  fomale  slaves,  called  Fenia 
and  Menia,  equally  distinguished  for  their  stature 
and  strength.  In  those  days  there  were  found  in 
Danmaurk  two  Quernstones  of  such  a  size  that 
no  one  was  able  to  move  them ;  and  these  mill- 
stones were  endued  with  such  virtue,  that  the 
Quem  in  grinding  produced  whatever  the  grind- 
er wished  for.  The  quem  was  called  Grotti ;  he 
who  presented  this  quem  to  Frothi  was  called 
Hengikioptr  (Hanging-chops).  The  king  caused 
these  slaves  to  be  brought  to  the  quem,  and  or- 
dered  them  to  grind  gold,  peace,  and  prosperity 
for  Frothi ;  allowing  them  no  longer  rest  or  sleep 
than  while  the  cuckow  was  silent,  or  a  verse 
could  be  recited.  Then  they  are  said  to  have 
sung  the  lay  which  is  called  Grotta-Savngr ; 
and,  before  they  ended  their  song,  to  have  ground 
a  hostile  army  against  Frothi,  insomuch,  that  a 
certain  sea-king,  called  Mysingr,  arriving  the 
same  night,  slew  Frothi,  taking  great  spoil,  and 
so  ended  Frothi's  Peace.  Mysingr  took  with 
him  the  quem  Grotti,  with  Fenia  and  Menia, 
and  ordered  them  to  grind  salt.  About  midnight, 
they  asked  Mysingr  whether  he  had  salt  enough. 
On  his  ordering  them  to  go  on  grinding,  they 
went  on  a  little  longer,  till  the  ship  sunk  under 
the  weight  of  the  ult.     A  whirlpool  was  pro- 


48 


ICELANDIC   POETRY. 


duced  where  the  waves  are  sucked  up  by  the 
mill-eye,  and  the  waters  of  the  sea  have  been 
salt  ever  since ! 

FXRIA    AND    MXNIA. 

Now  are  We  come 
To  the  king*s  house, 
Two  foreseers, 
Fenia  and  Menia. 

These  were  at  Frothi's  house, 
Frithleif 's  son, 
(Mighty  maidens) 
Held  as  thralls. 

They  to  the  Quem-eye 
Were  led. 

And  the  gray  millstone 
Were  bid  set  a  going. 
He  promised  to  neither 
Rest  nor  relief. 
Ere  he  heard 
The  maidens'  lay. 

They  made  to  rumble, 

Ceasing  silence. 

With  their  arms,  the  Quern's 

Light  stones. 

He  bade  again  the  maidens, 

That  they  should  grind. 

They  sang,  and  whirled 

The  grumbling  stone. 

So  that  Frothi's  folk 

Mostly  slept. 

Then  thus  sang  Menia, 

Who  had  come  to  the  grinding : 

MXFIA. 

Let  us  grind  riches  to^Frothi ! 
Let  us  grind  him,  happy 
In  plenty  of  substance. 
On  our  gladdening  Quern ! 

Let  him  brood  over  treasures ! 
Let  him  sleep  on  down  ! 
Let  him  wake  to  his  will ! 
There  is  well  ground  ! 
Here  shall  no  one 
Hurt  another, 
To  plot  mischief, 
Or  to  work  bane. 
Nor  strike  therefore 
With  sharp  sword. 
Though  Yob  brother's  murderer 
Bound  he  found. 


But  he  spake  no 

Word  before  this : 

**  Sleep  not  ye, 

Nor  the  cuckows  without, 

Longer  than  while 

I  sing  one  strain." 


Thou  wast  not,  Frothi, 
Sufficiently  provident. 
Though  persuasively  eloquent. 
When  thou  boughtest  slaves. 
Thou  boughtest  for  strength, 
And  for  outward  looks ', 
But  of  their  ancestry 
Didst  nothing  ask. 

MENIA. 

Hardy  was  Hrungnir 
And  his  &ther ; 
Yet  was  Thiassi 
Stouter  than  they. 
Ithi  and  Amir, 
Our  relations, 

Mountain-ettin's  brethren,  — 
Of  them  are  we  bom. 

FENIA. 

The  Quem  had  not  come 
From  the  gray  fell. 
Nor  thus  the  hard 
Stone  from  the  earth. 
Nor  thus  had  ground 
The  mountain-ettin  maiden, 
If  her  race  known 
Had  not  been  to  her. 

MENIA. 

We,  nine  winters, 

Playful  weird- women. 

Were  reared  to  strength. 

Under  the  earth. 

We  maidens  stood 

To  our  great  work ; 

We  ourselves  moved 

The  set  mountain  from  its  place. 

We  whirled  the  Quem 

At  the  giant's  house. 

So  that  the  earth 

Therewith  quaked: 

So  swung  we 

The  whirling  stone, 

The  heavy  rock. 

That  the  subterraneans  heard  it. 


But  we  since  then, 
In  Sweden, 
Two  foreseen, 
Have  fought. 
We  have  fod  bears, 
And  cleft  shields ; 
Encountered 
Gray-shirted  men. 

We  've  cast  down  one  prince  ; 
Stayed  up  another : 
We  gave  the  good 
Guttormi  help: 
Unstably  we  sat, 
Till  the  heroes  fell. 


SiBMUND 

I 

»S  EDDA.                                                     49 

Forward  held  we 

Prop  (from  the  quern-eye) 

These  six  monthji  80 

Of  iron  to  a  distance.  — 

That  we  in  conflicta 

Tet  let  us  grind  on  ! 

Were  known. 

There  scored  we 

rxiriA. 

With  sharp  spears 

Tet  let  us  grind  on ! 

Blood  from  wounds. 

Yrsu's  son  must 

And  reddened  brands. 

With  the  Kalfaani 

Revenge  Frothi. 

Now  are  we  come 

So  must  he  of  his  mother 

To  the  king's  house, 

Be  called 

Unpitied, 

Son  and  brother  :  — 

And  held  as  thralls. 

We  both  know  that. 

The  earth  bites  our  feet  beneath, 

The  maidens  ground. 

And  the  cold  above  ; 

And  bestowed  their  strength. 

We  drive  an  enemy's  Quern ; 

The  young  women  were  in 

Sad  is  it  at  Frothi's  house  ! 

Ettin  mood. 

The  spindle  flew  wide  ; 

Hands  shall  rest; 

The  hopper  fell  off  j 

The  stone  must  stand ; 

Burst  the  heavy 

I  've  ground  for  mj  part 

Nether  millstone  in  two ! 

With  diligence. 

But  the  mountain-gianten 

MBNIA. 

Now  must  not  to  hands 

«<  We  have  ground,  Frothi ! 

Rest  well  be  given, 

Now  mutt  we  finish : 

"nil  enough  ground 

Full  long  stood 

Frothi  thinks. 

We  maidens  at  the  grinding.'* 

Hands  of  men  shall 

Harden  swords, 

Blood-dropping  weapons. 

VEGTAM'S   QVIDA: 

FXNIA. 

THE  SONG  OF  YEGTAM,  OR  THE  DESCENT 
OF  ODIN. 

Awake  thou,  Frothi ! 

Awake  thou,  Frothi ! 

Odih  resolved  to  visit  the  tomb  of  a  cele- 

If thou  wilt  listen  to 

brated  Vala,  or  prophetess,  and  to  learn  firom 

Our  song 

her  the  secrets  of  the  dead.     Gray's  beautiful 

And  prophetic  sayings. 

version  of  his  journey  is  well  known  j  but,  as  it 

was  taken  from  Bartholin's  Latin  translation. 

I  see  fire  burn 

and  as  no  literal  one  has  ever  been  published  in 

East  of  the  town  ; 

English,  the  following  may  not  be  deemed  su- 

The  war-heralds  wake ; 

perfluouB. 

It  must  be  called  the  beacon. 

An  army  must  come 

Up  rose  Odin, 

Hither  forthwith. 

The  watcher  of  time, 

And  bum  the  town 

And  upon  Sleipner 

For  the  prince. 

Laid  the  saddle : 

Downwards  he  rode 

Thou  must  no  more  hold 

To  death's  spectre-realm ; 

The  throne  of  state. 

He  met  a  hound 

Nor  red  rings. 

Coming  from  Hela. 

Nor  stone  edifice. 

Let  us  drive  the  Quern, 

Clotted  blood 

Maiden,  more  sharply  ! 

Was  on  its  breast. 

We  shall  not  be  armed 

Round  its  savage  ftngs. 

In  the  bloody  fray. 

And  its  jowl  beneath. 

Against  the  father  of  song 

MXHIA. 

It  bayed  fearfully. 

My  Other's  daughter 

Opened  wide  its  jaws. 

Ground  more  furiously. 

And  howled  aloud. 

Because  the  near  deaAs  she 

Of  many  men  saw. 

On  rode  Odin ; 

Wide  sprung  the  large 

The  earth  shook ; 
E 

50 


ICELANDIC    POETRY. 


He  came  to  Hela's 

Drear  abode : 

Then  he  rode 

Eastwards  before  the  gate, 

Where  a  Vala 

Lay  interred. 

He  sang  for  the  wise  one 
Dead  men's  songs ; 
Then  towards  north 
Laid  the  magic  letters. 
Muttered  incantations. 
Summoned  wizard  words. 
Till  he  forced  the  dead 
To  rise  and  speak. 


Who  is  the  man, 
Unknown  to  me. 
Who  disturbs 
My  spirit's  rest  ? 
Enwrapped  in  snow. 
Drenched  with  rain, 
Moistened  by  dew, 
Long  have  I  lain  in  death. 

WANPXRSR. 

Wanderer  is  my  name, 
Valtam's  son  am  I ; 
Tell  me  of  Hela'a  realm, 
I  will  tell  thee  of  earth  : 
For  whom  are  prepared 
The  decorated  seats. 
The  lordly  couch 
Radiant  with  gold  P 

TALA. 

Here  standeth  mead. 

For  Balder  brewed ; 

A  shield  coyera 

The  clear  liquor ; 

The  race  of  Aser 

Yield  to  despair. 

Force  hath  made  me  speak ; 

Now  will  I  be  silent. 

WANDERER. 

Be  not  silent,  Vala ! 
I  will  question  thee 
Until  I  have  learned  all ; 
More  I  must  know. 
Who  shall  compass 
Balder's  death  ? 
Who  Odin's  son 
Deprive  of  lift  ? 

TALA. 

Hodur  beareth 

The  fated  plant; 

He  shall  be  cause 

Of  Balder's  death. 

And  Odin's  son 

Deprive  of  life. 

Force  hath  made  me  speak ; 

Now  will  I  be  silent. 


WANDERER. 

Be  not  silent,  Vala ! 
I  will  question  thee 
Until  I  learn  all ; 
More  I  must  know. 
Who  shall  on  Hodur 
Pour  out  vengeance. 
And  Balder's  bane 
Lay  on  the  bier  ? 

TALA. 

Rinda  bears  a  son 

In  the  western  halls : 

On  the  day  of  his  birth. 

He  shall  lay  low  the  son  of  Odin : 

His  hand  he  shall  not  lave. 

Nor  comb  his  hair. 

Ere  that  he  placeth  on  the  bier 

The  adversary  of  Balder. 

Force  hath  made  me  speak ; 

Now  will  I  be  silent. 

WANDERER. 

Be  not  silent,  Vala ! 
I  will  question  thee. 
Who  are  the  maids 
Who  will  not  weep. 
But  suffer  their  veils 
To  float  towards  heaven  ? 
Tell  me  this  only ; 
Thou  sleepest  not  befere. 


Thou  art  no  wanderer. 
As  I  believed ; 
Surely  art  thou  Odin, 
The  watcher  of  time. 

ODIN. 

Thou  art  not  a  Vala, 
Nor  a  wise  woman ; 
But  rather  the  mother 
Of  three  giants. 

VALA. 

Ride  home,  Odin, 
And  boast  of  thy  journey  : 
For  never  again 
Shall  another  disturb  me. 
Until  Loke  shall  break 
Loose  from  his  chains, 
And  the  last  twilight 
Fall  on  the  gods. 


GUNLAUG  AND  RAFEN. 
Fsox  THE  "bolar-uod":  tbb  lat  of  ni  em. 

The  rich  delights  of  love 

To  many  fttal  prove ; 
From  women  oft  does  sorrow  spring : 

Much  evil  do  they  bear. 

Though  fashioned  purely  fair 
And  chaste  by  heaven's  almighty  King. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


51 


To  Gunlaog  fondly  joined 
In  peace  waa  Raftn's  mind ; 

Each  waa  the  other's  dearest  joj  : 
Ere  they,  to' fury  moTed, 
One  beanteous  woman  loved. 

Whose  peerless  charms  did  both  destroy. 

Nor  after  heeded  they 

Or  sports  or  light  of  day, 
AH  for  that  blooming  maiden  bright ; 

Nor  any  other  form 

Their  wildered  thoughts  could 
Sare  that  fiur  body's  loTely  light 


Moumfiil  and  sad  to  them 
Each  night's  dark  shadow  came. 

Nor  ever  found  they  slumbers  sweet ; 
But  from  their  hapless  fate 
Waxed  quickly  savage  hate 

Between  true  fHends  with  deadly  heat. 

Passions  of  strange  excess 

Beget  severe  distress. 
And  punishment  of  keenest  woe : 

The  single  fight  they  tried, 

For  that  delightful  bride, 
And  each  received  the  &tal  blow. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  BL4RKEMAAL, 
OR  BATILB-SONO  OF  BIARKE.—A  FRAOMSNT. 

This  song  was  composed  in  the  sixth  centu- 
ry, by  Bodvar  Biarke,  one  of  Hrolf  Krake's 
warriors.  The  following  lines  are  but  the  com- 
mencement of  it ;  the  remainder  is  lost.  The 
original  may^be  found  in  Sturleson's  **  Heims- 
kringla,"  and  a  Latin  version  in  Sazo-Oram- 
maticus. 

Thx  bird  of  mom  has  risen, 

The  rosy  dawn  'gins  break; 
"Us  time  from  sleepy  prison 

Vil's  sons  to  toil  should  wake. 
Wake  from  inglorious  slumber ! 

The  warrior's  rest  is  short,  — 
Wake !  whom  our  chieft  we  number,  — 

The  lords  of  Adil's  court 

Har,  strong  of  arm,  come  forth  ! 

Rolf,  matchless  for  the  bow ! 
Both  Northmen,  of  good  birth, 

Who  ne'er  turned  face  from  foe ! 
Wake  not  for  foaming  cup, 

Wake  not  for  maiden's  smile, 
Men  of  the  North  !  wake  up. 

For  iron  Hilda's  toil ! 


THE  DEATH-SONG  OF  REGNER 
LODBROCK. 

RxoirxR  Lodbrock,  king  of  Denmark,  being 
taken  in  battle  by  Ella,  king  of  Northumber- 
land,  was  thrown  into  a  dungeon  to  be  stung  to 
death  by  serpents.  While  dying,  he  composed 
this  song;  though  it  is  conjectured  that  a  great 
part  of  it  was  the  work  of  some  other  Skald. 
Regner  Lodbrock  died  about  the  close  of  the 


eighth  century.  The  original  may  be  found  in 
'*  Literatur.  Runic.  Olaj  Wormij  " ;  and  in  Per- 
cy's ^  Five  Pieces  of  Runic  Poetry,"  London  : 
1763. 

Wx  smote  with  swords  ;  nor  long,  before 
In  arms  I  reached  the  Gothic  shore. 
To  work  the  loathly  serpent's  death. 
I  slew  the  reptile  of  the  heath ; 
My  prize  was  Thora ;  from  that  fight, 
'Moogst  warriors  am  I  Lodbrock  hight. 
I  pierced  the  monster's  scaly  side 
With  steel,  the  soldier's  wealth  and  pride. 

We  smote  with  swords ;  in  early  youth 
I  fought  by  Eyra's  billowy  mouth. 
Where  high  the  echoing  basnites  rung 
To  the  hard  javelin's  iron  tongue. 
The  wolf  and  golden-footed  bird 
Gleaned  plenteous  harvest  of  the  sword. 
Dark  grew  the  ocean's  swollen  water ; 
The  raven  waded  deep  in  slaughter. 

We  smote  with  swords ;  ere  twenty  years 
Were  numbered,  in  the  din  of  spears 
I  reared  my  armed  hand,  and  spread 
The  tide  of  battle  fierce  and  red. 
Eight  earls  my  weighty  arm  subdued, 
Eastward  by  Dwina's  icy  flood ; 
There  the  gaunt  falcon  lacked  not  food. 
The  sweat  of  death  distained  the  wave ; 
The  army  tined  >  its  warriors  brave. 

We  smote  with  swords ;  fierce  Hedin's  cjneen 
'Mid  the  hot  storm  of  war  was  seen, 
Wheti  Helsing's  youths  to  Odin's  hall 
We  bade,  and  garred  her  prowess  fall. 
Our  vessels  ploughed  through  Ifa's  flood ; 
The  arrows  stung ;  the  stream  was  blood. 

1  Lost. 


53 


ICELANDIC   POETRY. 


Brands  grated  on  the  mail,  and  through 
Cleft  shielda  the  death-fraught  lancei  flew. 

We  smote  with  swords ;  none  fled,  I  trow. 
Ere  on  the  masted  galley's  prow 
Bold  Herraud  fell :  no  fairer  earl 
Did  e'er  his  bellying  sail  unfurl 
On  winged  steediB,  that  spurn  the  main, 
Cleaving  the  seafowl's  lonely  reign  ; 
No  lord  in  stour'  more  widely  feared 
To  distant  port  his  vessel  steered. 
That  glorious  chieftain's  glowing  heart 
In  fight  aye  sought  the  foremost  part 

We  smote  with  swords ;  in  fierce  afifray 
The  warriors  cast  their  shields  away  : 
By  rifling  steel  with  fury  driven 
Many  a  fearless  breast  was  riven  ; 
And,  'midst  the  din,  from  Skarpa's  rock 
Echoed  the  falchion's  sounding  shock. 
The  iron  orbs  with  blood  were  dyed,  i 

Ere  sunk  King  Rafen's  youthful  pride. 
Hot  streaming  from  each  valiant  head 
Sweat  on  coats  of  mail  wa«  shed. 

We  smote  with  swords ;  near  Inder's  shore 
A  sumptuous  meal  the  ravens  tore ; 
Nor  carnage  lacked  to  glut  those  steeds 
On  which  the  sorceress  Vala  speeds. 
'T  was  hard  to  'scape  unharmed  that  day : 
When  peered  the  sun's  first  dawning  ray. 
Shafts  saw  I  starting  from  the  string ; 
The  bent  bow  made  the  metal  ring. 

We  smote  with  swords;   loud  clanged  the 

plain. 
Ere  Ulla's  field  saw  Eysteinn  slain. 
With  gold  adorned,  our  conquering  band 
Strode  o'er  the  desolated  land  ; 
And  swift  to  meet  each  helmed  head 
The  pointed  flames  of  arrows  sped  : 
Down  many  a  neck  the  purple  gore 
Trickled  from  the  burning  sore. 


We  smote  with  swords ;  near  Hadning's  bay 
(Hilda's  sport  and  Hilda's  fray) 
Every  noble  warrior  held 
High  in  air  his  charmed  shield. 
Bucklers  brast,'  and  men  were  slain ; 
Stoutest  skulls  were  cleft  in  twain. 
'T  was  not,  I  trow,  like  wooing  rest 
On  gentle  maiden's  snowy  breast. 

We  smote  with  swords ;  the  iron  sleet 
Against  the  shields  with  fiiry  beat. 
On  Northumbria's  hostile  shore 
Heroes  weltered  in  their  gore  : 
Our  foes  at  early  dawn  of  light 
Fled  not  from  the  sport  of  fight, 
Hilda's  sport,  where  falchions  keen 
Bit  the  helmet's  surface  sheen. 
'T  was  not  like  kissing  widow  sweet 
Reclining  in  the  highest  seat. 


•War. 


9  Broke  wlih  noiM. 


We  smote  with  swords ;  at  dawn  of  day 

Hundred  spearmen  gasping  lay. 

Bent  beneath  the  arrowy  strife. 

Egill  reft  my  son  of  life  ; 

Too  soon  my  Agnar's  youth  was  spent, 

The  scabbard-thorn  his  bosom  rent : 

The  whiles  each  warrior's  clashing  steel 

Contentious  rung  a  dreadful  peal 

On  the  gray  hauberks,  Hamder's  pride ; 

And  our  bright  standards  glittered  wide. 


We  smote  with  swords ;  at  morn  I  viewed 
The  fair-haired  prince  by  fate  subdued ; 
Gay  Aum  (whose  voice  the  widows  loved. 
Whose  charms  the  blooming  virgins  moved) 
Fainting,  waning  to  his  end  : 
In  Ila's  sound  that  day  he  kenned 
Other  sport ;  't  was  not,  I  ween. 
Like  quaffing  from  the  goblet  sheen 
Fuming  wine  by  maidens  poured  : 
Tet,  ere  he  fell,  the  battle  roared. 
The  fulgent  orbs  in  twain  were  cleft, 
And  lifeless  many  a  kemp  *  was  left. 


We  smote  with  swords  ;  the  sounding  blades. 

Ruddy  with  gold,  assailed  our  heads. 

In  after-times  on  Anglesey 

Shall  mortals  trace  the  bloody  fray. 

Where  Hilda's  iron  vesture  rung. 

Where  kings  marched  forth,  and  spean  were 

flung. 
Like  winged  dragons,  red  with  gore 
Our  lances  hissed  along  the  shore. 

We  smote  with  swords ;  what  fairer  fate 
Can  e'er  the  sons  of  men  await. 
Than  long  amid  the  battle's  blast 
To  front  the  storm,  and  fall  at  last .' 
Who  basely  shuns  the  gallant  strife 
Nathless  must  lose  his  dastard  life. 
When  waves  of  war  conflicting  roll, 
'T  is  hard  to  whet  the  coward  soul 
To  deeds  of  worth  ;  the  timid  heart 
Will  never  act  a  warrior's  part. 

We  smote  with  swords ;  this  deem  I  right, 
Touth  to  youth  in  sturdy  fight 
Each  his  meeting  felchion  wield  ; 
Thane  to  thane  should  never  yield. 
Such  was  aye  the  soldier's  boast, 
Firm  to  fece  the  adverse  host. 
Boldest,  who  prize  feir  maidens'  love. 
Must  in  the  din  of  battle  move. 

We  smote  with  swords ;  I  hold,  that  all 
By  destiny  or  live  or  fall : 
Each  his  certain  hour  awaits ; 
Few  can  'scape  the  ruling  Fates. 
When  I  scattered  slaughter  wide. 
And  launched  my  vessels  to  the  tide, 
I  deemed  not,  I,  that  Ella's  blade 
Was  doomed  at  last  to  bow  my  head ; 
But  hewed  in  every  Scottish  bay 
Fresh  banquets  for  the  beasts  of  prey. 

<  Warrior. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


53 


We  smote  with  swonb ;  mjr  paitiiig  breath 
Rejoices  in  the  pang  of  death. 
Where  dwells  fiur  Balder's  &ther  dread. 
The  board  is  decked,  the  seats  are  spread  ! 
In  Fiolner'a  coart,  with  costly  cheer, 
Soon  shall  I  quaff  the  foaming  beer, 
From  hollow  skulls  of  warriors  slain  ! 
Heroes  ne'er  in  death  complain ; 
To  Vider*s  hall  I  will  not  bear 
The  dastard  words  of  weak  despair. 

We  smote  with  swords ;  their  falchions  bright 
(If  well  they  kenned  their  father's  plight. 
How,  venom-filled,  a  viperous  brood 
Have  gnawed  his  flesh  and  lapped  his  blood) 
Thy  sons  would  grasp,  Aslauga  dear, 
And  vengeful  wake  the  battle  here. 
A  mother  to  my  bairns  I  gave 
Of  sterling  worth,  to  make  them  brave. 
• 

We  smote  with  swords ;  cold  death  is  near. 

My  rights  are  passing  to  my  heir. 

Grim  stings  the  adder's  forked  dart ; 

The  vipers  nestle  in  my  heart. 

Bat  soon,  I  wot,  shall  Vider's  wand 

Fixed  in  Ella's  bosom  stand. 

My  youthful  sons  with  rage  will  swell. 

Listening  how  their  father  fell : 

Those  gallant  boys  in  peace  unbroken 

Will  never  rest,  till  I  be  wroken. 

We  smote  with  swords ;  where  javelins  fly. 

Where  lances  meet,  and  warriors  die. 

Fifty  times  and  one  I  stood 

Foremost  on  the  field  of  blood. 

Full  young  I  'gan  distain  my  sword. 

Nor  feared  I  force  of  adverse  lord ; 

Nor  deemed  I  then  that  any  arm 

By  might  or  guile  could  work  me  harm. 

Me  to  their  feast  the  gods  must  call ; 

The  brave  man  wails  not  o'er  his  Ml, 

Cease,  my  strain  \  I  hear  a  voice 
From  realms  where  martial  souls  rejoice  : 
I  hear  the  maids  of  slaughter  call. 
Who  bid  me  hence  to  Odin's  hall : 
High-seated  in  their  blest  abodes 
I  soon  shall  quaff  the  drink  of  gods. 
The  hours  of  life  have  glided  by ; 
I  &11 ;  but  smiling  shall  I  die. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  HAFUR'S  BAY. 

This  poem  was  written  by  Thorbiom  Hom- 
klove,  one  of  the  Skalds  of  Harald  HaHager. 
Gyda,  daughter  of  Eric,  prince  of  Hordaland, 
would  not  consent  to  become  the  bride  of  Har- 
ald, until,  for  her  sake,  he  had  conquered  all 
Norway.  Whereupon  he  made  a  solemn  vow 
neither  to  cut  nor  comb  his  'hair  until  he  had 
subdued  the  land.  The  battle  of  Hafur's  Bay, 
in  885,  in  which  he  gained  the  victory  over 
Kiotva  and  his  son  Haklang,  established  his 


empire,  and  made  him  the  first  king  of  Norway. 
This  victory  is  the  subject  of  the  song.  The 
original  may  be  found  in  Sturleson's  **  Heims- 
kringla." 

Loud  in  Hafur's  echoing  bay 
Heard  ye  the  battle  fiercely  bray, 
"Twixt  Kiotva  rich  and  Harald  bold  ? 
Eastward  sail  the  ships  of  war ; 
The  graven  bucklers  gleam  afar. 
And  monstrons  heads  adorn  the  prows  of  gold. 

Glittering  shields  of  purest  white. 
And  swords,  and  Celtic  falchions  bright. 
And  western  chieft  the  vessels  bring : 
Loudly  scream  the  savage  rout. 
The  maddening  champions  wildly  shout. 
And  long  and  loud  the  twisted  hauberks  ring. 

firm  in  fight  they  proudly  vie 
With  him,  whose  might  will  gar  them  fly. 
Imperial  Utstein's  warlike  head : 
Forth  his  gallant  fleet  he  drew. 
Soon  as  the  hope  of  battle  grew ; 
But  many  a  buckler  brast,  ere  Haklang  bled. 

Flea  the  lusty  Kiotva  then 
Before  the  fair-haired  king  of  men. 
And  bade  the  islands  shield  his  flight. 
Warriors,  wounded  in  the  fray, 
Beneath  the  thwarts  all  gasping  lay. 
Where,  headlong  cast,  they  mourned  the  loss 
of  light. 

Galled  by  many  a  missive  stone 
(Their  golden  shields  behind  them  thrown), 
Homeward  the  grieving  soldiers  speed : 
Fast  from  I^afur's  bay  they  hie, 
East-mountaineers  o'er  Jadar  fly. 
And  thirst  for  goblets  of  the  sparkling  mead. 


DEATH-SONG  OF  HAKON. 

This  song  was  written  by  Eyvind  Skaldaspil- 
lar,  the  most  celebrated  of  all  the  Skalds.  He 
flourished  in  the  latter  half  of  the  tenth  century, 
at  the  court  of  Hakon  the  Good.  The  original 
may  be  found  in  Sturleson's  **  Heimskringla," 
and  in  Percy. 

Skogul  and  Gondula 
The  god  Tyr  sent 
To  choose  a  king 
Of  the  race  of  Ingva, 
To  dwell  with  Odin 
In  roomy  Valhalla. 

The  brother  of  Biom 
They  found  unmailed ; 
Arrows  were  sailing. 
Foes  were  falling, 
Hoisted  was  the  banner, 
The  hider  of  heaven. 
J »g 


54 


ICELANDIC  POETRT. 


The  wicked  sea-king 
Had  summoned  Haleyg ; 
The  slayer  of  earls 
With  a  gang  of  Norsemen 
Against  the  islanders 
Was  come  in  his  helmet. 


The  father  of  the  people. 
Bare  of  his  armure, 
Sported  in  the  field ; 
And  was  hurling  coita 
With  the  sons  of  the  nobles. 

Glad  was  he  to  hear 
A  shouting  for  battle  : 
And  soon  he  stood 
In  his  helmet  of  gold ; 
Soon  was  the  sword 
A  sickle  in  his  hand. 

The  blades  glittered. 
The  hauberks  were  clefl ; 
Blows  of  weapons 
Dinned  on  the  skulls : 
Trodden  were  the  shields 
Of  the  death-doomed  of  Tyr, 
Their  rings  and  their  crests, 
By  the  hard-footed  Norsemen. 

The  kings  broke  through 

The  hedges  of  shields. 

And  stained  them  with  blood : 

Red  and  reeking. 

As  if  on  fire, 

The  hot  swords  leaped 

From  wound  to  wound  : 

Curdling  gore 

Trickled  dong  the  spears 

On  to  the  shore  of  Storda ; 

Into  the  wayes  fell 

Corses  of  the  slain. 

The  care  of  plunder 
Was  busy  in  the  fight : 
For  rings  they  strove, 
Amid  the  storm  of  Odin, 
And  strove  the  fiercer. 
Men  of  marrow  bent 
Before  the  stream  of  blades. 
And  lay  bleeding 
Behind  their  shields. 

Their  swords  blunted. 
Their  actons  pierced, 
The  chieftains  sat  down  ; 
And  the  host  no  more 
Struggled  to  reach 
The  halls  of  the  dead. 

When,  lo !  Gondnla, 
Pointing  with  her  spear, 
Said  to  her  sister  : 
"  Soon  shall  increase 
The  band  of  the  gods : 
To  Odin's  feast 
Hakon  is  bidden." 


The  king  beheld 
The  beautiful  maids 
Sitting  on  their  horses 
In  shining  armure. 
Their  shields  before  them. 
Solemnly  thoughtfiil. 

The  king  heard 
The  words  of  their  lips, 
Saw  them  beckon 
With  pale  hands, 
And  thus  bespake  them  : 
"  Mighty  goddesses. 
Were  we  not  worthy 
Tou  should  choose  us 
A  better  doom  ? " 

Skogul  answered : 
*<  Thy  foes  have  fiUIen, 
Thy  land  is  firee, 
Thy  fiime  is  pure  ; 
Now  we  must  ride 
To  greener  worlds, 
To  tell  Odin 
That  Hakon  comes." 

The  father  of  battles 
Heard  the  tidings. 
And  said  to  his  sons  : 
««  Hermode  and  Braga, 
Greet  the  chieftain 
Who  comes  to  our  hall." 

They  rose  fix>m  their  seats; 

They  led  Hakon, 

Bright  in  his  arms, 

Red  in  his  blood. 

To  Odin*s  board. 

*<  Stern  are  the  gods," 

Hakon  said, 

"  Not  on  my  soul 

Doth  Odin  smile." 

Braga  replied : 

"  Here  thou  shalt  find 

Peace  with  the  heroes. 

Eight  of  thy  brothers 

Quaff  already 

The  ale  of  gods." 

t*  Like  them  I  will  wear 
The  arms  I  loved," 
Answered  the  king ; 
»*  'T  is  well  to  keep 
One's  armure  on ; 
'T  is  well  to  keep 
One's  sword  at  hand." 

Now  it  was  seen 
How  duly  Hakon 
Had  paid  his  offerings ; 
For  the  lesser  gods 
All  came  to  welcome 
The  guest  of  Valhalla. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


56 


"  Hallowed  be  the  day, 

Praised  the  year, 

When  a  king  is  bom 

Whom  the  gods  k>Te ! 

By  him,  his  time 

And  his  land  shall  be  known. 

«» The  wolf  Fenrir, 
Freed  from  the  chain, 
Shall  range  the  earth. 
Ere  on  this  shore 
His  like  shall  rule. 

»  Wealth  b  wasted. 
Kinsmen  are  mortal, 
Kingdoms  are  parted ; 
Bnt  Hakon  remains 
High  among  the  gods. 
Till  the  trumpet  shall  sound.'* 


THE  SONG  OF  HARALD  THE  HARDT. 

Harald  the  Hardy  reigned  in  Norway  the 
latter  half  of  the  eleventh  century.  The  Rus- 
sian maiden,  alluded  to  in  the  following  poem, 
was  the  daughter  of  Jarisleif^  king  of  Garda- 
rike  (a  part  of  Russia).  In  this  song  he  vaunts 
his  own  prowess,  as  was  the  custom  of  the 
Northern  sea-rovers;  though,  in  his  feats  of 
dexterity,  he  hardly  equalled  his  predecessor, 
Olaf  Ti^ggvason,  of  whom  it  is  said,  that  he 
oonld  walk  on  the  oars  outside  of  his  boat  while 
the  men  were  rowing.  The  original  may  be 
found  in  Baitholinus's  *^  De  Causis  Contempts 
a  Danis  Mortis,"  and  in  Percy. 

Mt  bark  around  Sicilia  sailed ; 
Then  were  we  gallant,  proud,  and  strong : 
The  winged  ship,  by  youths  impelled. 
Skimmed  (as  we  hoped)  the  waves  along. 
My  prowess,  tried  in  martial  field. 
Like  fruit  to  maiden  fair  shall  yield. 
With  golden  ring  in  Russia's  land 
To  me  the  virgin  plights  her  hand. 

Fierce  was  the  fight  on  Trondhiem's  heath  *, 

I  saw  her  sons  to  battle  move ; 

Though  few,  upon  that  field  of  death. 

Long,  long,  our  desperate  warriors  strove. 

Toung  firom  my  king  in  battle  slain 

I  parted  on  that  bloody  plain. 

With  golden  ring  in  Russia's  land 
To  me  the  virgin  plights  her  hand. 

With  vigorous  arms  the  pump  we  plied, 
Sixteen  (no  more)  my  dauptless  crew, 
And  high  and  fiirious  waxed  the  tide  ^ 
O'er  the  deep  bark  its  billows  flew. 
My  prowess,  tried  in  hour  of  need. 
Alike  with  maiden  fair  shall  speed. 
With  golden  ring  in  Russia's  land 
To  me  the  virgin  plights  her  band. 


Eight  feats  I  ken  :  the  sportive  game, 

The  war  array,  the  fabrile  art ; 

With  fearless  breast  the  waves  I  stem ; 

I  press  the  steed  ;  I  cast  the  dart ; 

O'er  ice  on  slippery  skates  I  glide ; 

My  dexterous  oar  defies  the  tide. 
With  golden  ring  in  Russia's  land 
To  me  the  virgin  plights  her  hand. 

Let  blooming  maid  and  widow  say, 
'Mid  proud  Byzantium's  southern  walk 
What  deeds  we  wrought  at  dawn  of  day ! 
What  falchions  sounded  through  their  halls  ! 
What  blood  distained  each  weighty  spear  ! 
Those  feats  are  famous  far  and  near  ! 
With  golden  ring  in  Russia's  land 
To  me  the  virgin  plights  her  hand. 

Where  snow-clad  Uplands  rear  their  head, 
My  breath  I  drew  'mid  bowmen  strong ; 
But  now  my  bark,  the  peasant's  diead, 
Kiases  the  sea  its  rocks  among. 
'Midst  barren  isles,  where  ocean  foamed, 
Far  from  the  tread  of  man  I  roamed. 
With  golden  ring  in  Russia's  land 
To  me  the  virgin  plights  her  hand. 


SONG  OF  THE  BERSERKS. 

FSOM  ma  nnvAaAE  saoa. 

**  The  wind  was  brisk,  and  lifted  the  stream- 
ers;  the  sun  was  bright ;  and  the  ship,  with  its 
twelve  heroes,  scudded  hissing  along  the  waves 
toward  Samsey,  while  the  crew  thus  sang  "  : 

Browh  are  our  ships, 
But  the  Vauns  admire 
The  haunts  of  the  brave  ; 
Horses  of  the  sea. 
They  carry  the  warrior 
To  the  winning  of  plunder. 

The  wandering  home 
Enriches  the  fixed  one  ; 
Welcome  to  woman 
Is  the  crosser  of  ocean  ; 
Merry  are  children 
In  strange  attire. 

Narrow  are  our  beds, 

As  graves  of  the  nameless ', 

But  mighty  our  rising. 

As  the  storms  of  Thor ; 

He  fears  not  man. 

Who  laughs  at  the  tempest. 

Who  feeds  with  cones 
The  whales  of  £ger 
Shall  deck  bis  hall 
With  far-fetched  booty. 
And  quaff  at  will 
The  wine  of  the  South. 


56 


ICELANDIC  POETRY. 


THE    COMBAT   OF   HIALMAR   AND 
ODDUR. 

PKOM  THB  HRRVAKAB  SAGA. 
ODDUR. 

HiALMAR,  what  does  thee  betide  ? 
Has  thy  color  waxed  pale  ? 
Mighty  wounds  have  wrought  thee  woe ', 
Sad  I  sing  the  mournful  tale. 
Furious  blows  have  cleft  thine  helm, 
On  thy  side  have  rent  thy  mail ; 
Now  thy  life  is  nearly  spent ; 
Sad  I  sing  the  mournful  tale. 

HIALMAR. 

Sixteen  wounds  my  body  bears, 
And  my  mail  is  rent  in  twain ; 
'  Darkness  hangs  before  my  sight ;' 
111  my  limbs  their  weight  sustain. 
Angantyr's  enchanted  blade 
Stings  my  heart  with  fatal  pain  ; 
Keenly  piercing  is  the  point. 
Hard,  and  steeped  in  deadly  bane. 

Proud  domains  and  palaces 
Five  I  ruled  with  puissant  hand  ; 
Yet  I  never  could  abide 
Peaceful  in  my  native  land. 
Hopeless  now  of  light  and  life. 
Rest  I  on  a  foreign  strand. 
Here  on  Samsey's  joyless  shore. 
Wounded  by  the  piercing  brand. 

Seated  at  the  royal  board, 

Many  lords  of  high  degree 

In  the  court  of  Upsala 

Quaff  the  ale  with  mirth  and  glee ; 

Many  with  the  liquor  filled 

On  the  ground  lie  heavily  : 

Me  the  sword's  keen  wounds  afflict. 

Circled  by  the  lonely  sea. 

Youthful  beauty's  fairest  flower 
Me,  the  monarch's  daughter,  led 
To  the  shore  of  Agnafit, 
Soon  a  foreign  coast  to  tread. 
True  I  find  the  fatal  words 
Which  the  parting  damsel  said  : 
That  I  never  should  return 
Blithe  to  claim  her  promised  bed. 

Thence  unwilling  did  I  wend, 
Severed  firom  the  festive  lay 
Which  the  lovely  women  sing 
East  of  Sota's  spacious  bay. 
In  the  swiftly  sailing  bark 
O'er  the  waves  I  took  my  way ; 
Faithful  ftriends  the  vessel  trimmed ; 
Here  we  sped  with  short  delay. 

From  my  finger  draw  the  ring. 
E'en  in  death  my  dearest  pride  ; 
To  the  blooming  Ingebiorg 
Bear  it  o'er  the  billows  wide. 
In  her  bosom  &ir  and  young 
Constant  sorrow  shall  abide. 


When  she  hears  I  ne'er  return 
Blithe  to  claim  my  promised  bride. 

O'er  the  rugged  desert  wild 
East  the  hungry  raven  flies ; 
And  behind  on  stronger  wing 
Swift  the  lordly  eagle  hies : 
Soon  to  glut  his  hasty  rage 
Here  my  feeble  body  lies ; 
He  will  gorge  the  welling  blood, 
As  I  close  my  dying  eyes. 


THE  DYING  SONG  OF  ASBIORN. 

FBOK  OHMS  STOaOLFSSMB  SAOA. 

Know,  gentle  mother,  know. 
Thou  wilt  not  comb  my  flowing  hair, 

When  summer  sweets  return 
In  Denmark's  valleys,  Svanvhide  fisur ! 

O,  whilom  had  I  fondly  vowed 
To  hie  me  to  my  native  land  '. 

Now  must  my  panting  side  be  torn 
By  my  keen  foe's  relentless  brand ! 

Not  such  those  days  of  yore. 
When  blithe  we  quidfed  the  foaming  ale ; 

Or  urged  across  the  waves 
From  Hordaland  the  flying  sail ; 

Or  gladly  drank  the  sparkling  mead. 
While  social  mirth  beguiled  the  hour. 

Now,  lonely  in  the  narrow  den, 
I  mourn  the  giant's  savage  power. 

Not  such  those  days  of  yore. 
When  forth  we  went  in  warlike  show : 

Storolf 's  all-glorious  son 
Stood  foremost  on  the  armed  prow, 

As,  sailing  fast  to  Oresound, 
The  long-keeled  vessels  cleft  the  wave. 

Now,  tolled  into  the  fatal  snare, 
I  mourn  beneath  the  sorcerer's  cave. 

Not  such  those  days  of  yore, 
When  conquest  marked  proud  Ormur's  way. 

Stirring  the  storm  of  war. 
To  glut  the  greedy  beasts  of  prey  : 

Beneath  his  thundering  falchion's  stroke 
Flowed  the  deep  waters  red  with  gore. 

And  many  a  gallant  warrior  fell 
To  feed  the  wolves  on  Ifa's  shore. 

Not  such  those  days  of  yore. 
When,  south  on  Elfa's  rocky  coast, 

Warring  with  weapons  keen, 
I  fiercely  smote  the  aidverse  host : 

Oft  from  the  loudly  sounding  bow 
Ormur's  unerring  arrows  flew. 

Deadly,  whene'er  his  wrath  pursued 
The  bold  sea-rover's  trusty  crew. 


Not  such  those  days  of  yore. 
When,  swift  to  meet  the  haughty  foe, 

We  roused  the  strife  of  swords, 
Nor  e'er  declined  the  hostile  blow : 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


67 


Seldom  did  I  the  iteel  withhold, 
Or  let  to  Bting  the  warrior's  nde ; 

But  aye  did  Onniur*8  mthleaa  arm 
Humble  our  fbemen's  sturdy  pride. 

O,  did  thy  generona  aoul 
Thy  dying  fere's  ^  last  anguish  know, 

Ormnr,  thine  heart  would  rise, 
Thy  warlike  eyes  with  fiiry  glow ! 

Friendship,  to  renge  my  iktal  wrongs 
(If  power  remain),  will  point  the  way ; 

And  soon  benei^  thy  biting  glaive 
My  torturer  rue  this  cruel  day ! 


THE  SONG  OF  HROKE  THE  BLACK. 

WmOM  KALn  SAOA* 

Bt  Hamund*s  son  now  be  it  told, 
That  two  we  were  in  battle  bold ; 
Greater  was  our  frther's  fiune. 
Mightier  than  thy  Haco's  name. 
Let  Vifill  be  to  none  preferred. 
Of  those  who  wait  on  Hamund's  herd  ! 
Never  swine-herd  saw  I  there 
Mean  of  soul  as  Hiedin's  heir. 

Happier  was  my  active  fate, 
When  I  followed  Alfur  great. 
In  war  united  did  we  stand. 
And  harried  each  surrounding  land. 
Dauntless  warriors  then  we  led. 
Where  glory  crowns  the  valiant  head ; 
In  polished  helmets  did  we  shine. 
Roaming  through  mighty  regions  nine. 
In  either  hand,  without  his  shield. 
The  sword  I  Ve  seen  the  monarch  wield  ; 
Nor  warrior  lived,  or  near,  or  wide. 
With  stouter  heart  and  nobler  pride. 

Tet  some  have  said,  who  little  wissed, 
Haleyga's  lord  all  reason  missed. 
I  never  saw  the  valiant  king 
Lack  what  prudent  counsels  bring. 
He  bade  his  warriors  never  quail, 
Nor  in  pain  of  death  bewail ; 
None  beneath  his  banners  wait. 
Save  who  embraced  their  leader's  &te  ; 
None  groan  upon  the  battle's  ground. 
Though  pierced  and  galled  by  many 

wound ; 
Nor  pause  to  bind  the  sores  that  bum. 
Before  the  morning  sun's  return  ; 
None  afflict  the  captive  foe. 
Nor  work  the  matron's  shame  and  woe ; 
Maidens  chaste  their  honor  hold. 
Ransomed  by  their  parents'  gold. 
Never  bark,  though  stoutly  manned, 
Garred  us  fly  the  hostile  band  ; 
Small  our  force,  but  firm  and  good. 
One  against  eleven  stood. 
Where'er  we  moved  in  armed  array, 
To  conquest  still  he  led  the  way ; 
No  chief  so  swifl  to  wield  the  sword, 
Save  Sigurd  &med  at  Giuka's  board. 

1  Oompanioa. 
8 


Warriors  many,  good  and  proud, 
Did  to  the  monarch's  vessel  crowd  : 
Bork,  and  Bryniulf 's  hardy  might ; 
Bolverk,  Haco  fierce  in  fight ; 
Eigill  was  there,  and  Erling  young, 
Wighty  ^  sons  of  Aslac  strong. 
Foremost  of  the  martial  crew 
Alf  and  my  brother  Hroke  I  knew ; 
Styr  and  Steinar  did  I  ken. 
Sons  of  Gunlad,  warlike  men. 
Hring  and  Halfdan  bravely  stood. 
Right-judging  Danes,  and  Dag  the  proud  ; 
Stare,  and  Steingrim,  Stafe,  and  Gaut  -, 
Doughtier  would  be  vainly  sought; 
Vale,  and  Hauk,  sea-rovers  bold, 
Did  to  our  monarch  firmly  hold  ; 
Champions  more  sturdy  than  the  twain, 
Few  lived  in  Haco's  wide  domain. 
Nor  I  amid  that  warlike  race 
Did  e'er  my  frther's  aim  disgrace; 
They  said,  none  earned  a  higher  name, 
For  each  upheld  his  comrade's  fame. 
Woe  worth  Vemund,  who  did  slay 
Bers6  and  Biom  upon  a  day, 
Before  the  king,  who  boldly  trained 
His  dauntless  troops,  while  life  remained  ! 
That  precious  life  was  not  preserved 
Long,  as  fearless  deeds  deserved  ; 
Scarce  twelve  years  old  he  first  'gan  fight. 
Just  thirty  on  the  fttal  night. 
"T  is  this  which  gars  me  Bttle  sleep. 
And  watchfhl  bids  me  nightly  weep ; 
Still  mindful  of  my  brother*s  &te, 
Burnt  alive  with  Alfur  great. 
Of  all  the  hours  that  mortals  know, 
This  caused  me  heaviest,  deepest  woe  ; 
Taught  since  then  by  angry  Heaven 
To  follow  fiiendly  counsel  given. 
Vengeance  for  my  fallen  king 
Alone  can  joy  and  comfort  bring ; 
If  I  through  Asmund's  recreant  heart 
Might  drive  the  sword  or  piercing  dart. 
Vengeance  for  Alfur  brave  be  ta'en, 
Deceived  in  peace,  and  foully  slain  ! 
Murder  was  wrought  in  evil  hour 
By  treacherous  Asmund's  banefol  power. 

Mine  the  task  in  arms  to  prove, 
When  Swein  and  I  to  battle  move, 
Which  is  most  in  combat  brave, 
Hamnnd's  son,  or  Haco's  slave. 
Thus  have  I  sung  to  maiden  foir ; 
Thus  to  Brynhilda  love  declare  : 
If  Hroke,  great  Hamund's  son,  might  know 
That  she  to  him  would  favor  show. 
Hope  should  I  have,  if  we  were  joined. 
Warriors  wise  and  bold  to  find  ; 
For  maid  more  peerless,  well  I  ween, 
Than  Haco's  daughter,  ne'er  was  seen ; 
With  every  charm  and  virtue  fivught. 
That  e'er  my  youthful  wishes  sought. 
Now  seem  I  here  unknown  to  stand 
A  nameless  wight  in  Haco's  land ; 
Higher  rank  his  vassals  hold 
Than  the  kemps  of  Alfiir  bold, 
t  Stout,  actire. 


58 


ICELANDIC  POETRY. 


THE  LAMENTATION  OF  STARKADER. 

ORIOIMAL  IN  BAKmOLINna.  .    . 

That  chief  I  followed  whom  I  kenned 

Mightiest  in  battle's  strife  ; 
Those  were  the  happiest,  fairest  days 

Of  all  my  varied  life  : 

Before  (as  angry  fate  decreed), 

Where  eyil  spirits  led, 
For  the  last  time  in  joyfiil  trim 

To  Hordaland  I  sped  : 

There,  by  each  hateful  curse  pursued. 

To  work  a  deed  of  shame  ; 
And  (such,  alas  !  my  bitter  lot) 

To  gain  a  traitor's  name. 

Vikar  my  king  (stout  Geirthiof 's  bane. 

And  famed  in  deadly  stour) 
Alof^  sad  victim  to  the  gods, 

I  hung  in  evil  hour. 

My  weapon  to  the  chieflain's  heart 
Thrust  deep  the  deadly  blow ; 

Of  all  the  works  my  hand  hath  wrought. 
This  caused  me  keenest  woe. 

Thence  hapless  have  I  wandered  on 

A  wild,  ill-fated  road  ; 
Abhorred  of  every  Hordian  boor. 

And  bent  by  sorrow's  load  : 

Without  or  wealth  to  soothe  my  cares. 

Or  joy  of  honest  fame ; 
No  king  to  guide  my  pathless  way, 

No  thought,  but  woe  and  shame. 


GRTMUR  AND   HIALMAR. 

VBOif  ma  BHTm  of  kakl  and  oktmub  im  BiAaim's 

aiKua. 

Grtmuk  stands  on  Gothic  land  ; 

Wolves  shall  lick  the  bloody  strand. 

If  the  sturdy  warriors  fight 

Proudly  for  the  virgin  bright. 

On  the  shore  each  eye  was  bent ; 

The  land  was  decked  with  many  a  tent ; 

Bright  the  host  with  princely  show  ; 

Hidmar  ruled  that  host,  I  trow. 

Loud  he  cried,  "  Ye  strangers  flree, 

Whose  yon  fleet  that  stems  the  sea  ?  " 

Forth  stepped,  and  named  him,Grymnr  strong: 

^'Thee  have  I  sought  this  summer  long."  — 

**  Now  welcome,  Grymur  !  good  thy  fhre. 

Health  and  honor  be  thy  share  ! 

Gold,  and  wine  of  fairest  hue. 

Will  I  give  thee,  not  untrue." — 

^  I  take  not,  I,  thy  bidding  fair ; 

This  heart  is  bent  on  savage  war. 

Gird  thee,  gird  thee,  for  the  fight ! 

We  must  feed  the  wolves  to-night ! "  — 

^  Rather  be  our  thoughts  of  peace  " 

(Hialmar  spoke  with  courteous  phrase)  ; 

'*  Let  us  dwell,  like  brothers  sworn. 

Joined  in  sweet  friendship  night  and  mom  ! 

Wake  we  not  the  strife  of  shields  ! 

Well  this  arm  the  falchion  wields ; 


But  the  lovely  virgin's  hand 
Now  I  woo  from  Swedish  land." 

Fierce  and  furious  waxed  the  knight ; 
Loud  he  cried,  with  wounded  spite, 
**  Bowne  '  thee  quick  to  smite  my  shield  ; 
Shrink  not  from  the  martial  field  !  "  — 
*(  Costly  rings  I  give  to  thee 
With  my  sister  fair  to  see, 
Biarmaland  and  princely  sway. 
So  we  feed  not  birds  of  prey."  — 
**  I  thy  sister  will  not  see ; 
Bid  not  thou  such  gifis  to  me  ! 
Cowards  linger,  slow  from  fear ; 
This  the  noble  maid  will  hear." 
Hialmar  cries,  with  passion  sore, 
**  Youth,  I  scorn  to  soothe  thee  more ! 
Stand  the  fight !  on  bucklers  sheen 
Prove  we  straight  our  weapons  keen  !  " 

He  has  ta'en  his  hauberk  white. 
Trusty  blade,  and  helmet  bright ; 
And  his  buckler  gleams  afar ; 
Stouter  ne'er  was  held  in  war. 
First  by  lot  must  Grymur  smite  ; 
Armed  he  was  to  stir  the  fight. 
He  clove  the  buckler  with  his  brand. 
And  struck  to  ground  Hialmar's  hand. 
But  never  flinched  that  warrior  true. 
Nor  deigned,  though  maimed,  for  peace  to  sue. 
His  glaive,  upraised  with  dauntless  main, 
Split  Grymur 's  helm  and  mail  in  twain. 
Streaming  flowed  apace  the  gore ; 
The  sharp-edged  sword  had  smote  bim  sore  : 
His  breast  and  entrails  felt  the  wound. 
And  the  blade  shivered  on  the  ground. 
Hialmar  cried,  **  The  stroke  is  light ; 
My  trusty  falchion  failed  to  bite : 
Had  both  mine  arms  discharged  the  blow. 
Warrior,  thou  hadst  now  been  low." 
Grymur  fierce,  with  either  hand. 
Reckless  upheaved  his  deadly  brand ; 
He  smote  the  helm  ;  his  weapon's  point 
Cleft  head  and  brain  with  dreadful  dint. 
Clanged  in  the  steel  the  ringing  sword  ; 
The  host  beheld  their  prostrate  lord. 
Nor  long  the  fainting  Grymur  stood. 
For  gushing  welled  the  stream  of  blood. 
Hialmar  good  lies  buried  there  ; 
Grymur  home  his  soldiers  bare. 
As  he  neared  the  Swedish  ground. 
Swelled  apace  his  burning  wound ; 
Strength  and  life  began  to  fiiil : 
The  Idng,  the  maiden,  heard  the  tale. 
Whence,  but  from  her,  the  leech's  aid  ? 
And  who,  but  Grymur,  claimed  the  maid .' 

Wassail  was  kept  in  the  monarch's  hall, 
And  proudly  dight  were  the  courtiers  all. 
Each  heart  was  brisk,  as  the  wine  did  flow ; 
No  goblet  of  water  was  poured,  I  trow. 
The  nuptial  feast  was  blithe  and  gay ; 
The  gifts  of  the  king  were  large  that  day : 
Bracelet,  or  necklace,  or  ring  of  gold. 
Must  every  trusty  liegeman  hold. 
The  virgin  blessed  the  youth  of  her  choice. 
And  bridegroom  and  bride  did  both  rejoice. 


>  Make  rasdy. 


DANISH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


The  Danish  language  is  a  daughter  of  the 
old  None,  or  Icelandic.  It  began  to  aasume 
new  forms,  and  to  take  the  character  of  a  sepa- 
rate language,  about  the  beginning  of  the  twelfth 
century.  Peterwn,  in  his  history  of  the  Ian- 
gnage,  dirides  the  various  changes  it  has  under- 
gone into  four  periods:*  1.  Oldest  Danish, 
from  1100  till  1250;  2.  Older  Danish,  from 
1250  tiU  1400;  3.  Old  Danish,  from  1400  tiU 
1530;  4.  Modem  Danish,  from  1530  till  1700. 
Through  these  changes  the  old  Icelandic  pass- 
ed into  the  Danish  of  the  present  day. 

The  Danish  language  is  not  confined  to  Den« 
mark  only,  but  is  3ie  language  of  literature  and 
of  cultivated  society  in  Norway  also.  The  Norw, 
or  Norwegian,  exists  only  in  the  form  of  disp 
lects,  of  which  the  principal  are :  1.  The  Guld- 
braodsdaiske ;  2.  The  HardangerdLO ;  3.  The 
Nordalske;  4.  The  Sogns  dialect;  5.  Dialect 
of  the  Orkney  Islands;  6.  Dialect  of  the  Faroe 
Islands.! 

In  these  dialects,  spoken  by  the  peasantry 
in  the  mountains  of  Norway,  are  found  many 
words  of  the  ancient  mother  tongue,  no  longer 
in  use  in  towns ;  as  snow  and  ice  remain  un- 
melted  in  the  mountain  ravines,  long  after  they 
have  disappeared  from  the  thoroughfares  and 
cultivated  fields.  **  The  remains  of  the  old 
Norwegian  language,*'  says  Hallagor,  **  are  not 
to  be  sought  for  in  the  commercial  towns  of 
Norway,  nor  in  their  environs,  where  the  lan- 
guage, like  the  manners,  is  Danish ;  but  in  the 
interior  of  the  country,  in  the  highlands,  and 
particularly  among  the  peasantry,  who  have 
little  or  no  communication  with  the  sea-port 
towns.  This  language,  then,  is  nothing  more 
than  what  it  is  generally  called,  —  a  peasant 
language  (ef  B&ndemaal ) ;  but  it  contains  a 
great  number  of  very  significant  expressions, 
and  so  many  ancient  Danish  words,  no  longer 
in  use  elsewhere,  that,  on  this  account  even,  it 
merits  the  attention  of  linguists.  The  Norwe- 
gian is  distinguished  from  the  other  two  North- 
em  (Scandinavian)  languages,  not  only  by  a 
rich  vocabulary  of  words  peculiar  to  itself,  its 
own  pronunciation  and  inflections,  but  also  by 
a  peculiar  combination  of  words,  or  syntax  ;  so 
that  we  may  say,  that  only  literary  cultivation 
is  wanting  to  render  it  an  independent  lan- 
guage, like  the  others."  t 


*  Det  DUMkB,  Nocsks  og  Sreosks  Spiogi  Historle,  af  H. 
M.  Psmsas,  S  vols.  Oopeaba^n:  1899.    Iftno. 

t  Nonks  Ordmnlf ng ;  ndglvot  Tad  LAsasMTS  Hit.t.4SB1 
GopeahafBot  IBOBL    8ro. 

I  NoBika  OrdMmliog;  Pre&cs,  p.  i. 


The  first  name  on  the  records  of  Danish  po- 
etry is  that  of  Peder  Laale.  Who  he  was,  and 
when  he  lived,  have  not  been  very  clearly  made 
out ;  though,  as  near  as  can  be  ascertained,  he 
flourished  during  the  first  half  of  the  fifteenth 
eentnry.  His  only  work  is  a  volume  of  popu- 
lar proverbs  in  rather  uncouth  rhymes.  In  the 
days  of  old,  the  Danish  Muse  stammered  in 
these  proverbs,  says  Ole  Borch  (BaltutUboHi 
oUiM  vertutatU  immeri  m  Petri  LaiUi  yroverki' 
is).  Resting  on  so  slight  a  fiwndation,  Peder*s 
chance  for  immortality  would  seem  to  be  but 
small ;  but  they  have  placed  him  at  the  head  of 
the  poetic  catalogue,  and,  on  the  title-page  of 
the  first  edition  of  his  book,  he  is  called  the 
light  of  the  Danes,  and  the  bright  exemplar 
and  specimen  of  men  (Danorum  lux  et  dodO" 
Twn  vtfOTum  cvtasns  sxsntjMitiii  ciyus  tpecfMCH). 
In  the  latter  half  of  the  same  century  lived 
Broder  Niels  (Friar  Nicholas),  a  monk  in  the 
Cistercian  convent  of  Soroe,  and  author  of  the 
old  Danish  **  Rhyme-Chronicle,"  in  which  he 
has  versified  some  of  the  wonderftil  fables  of 
Saxo-Grammaticus.  At  the  same  period  flour- 
ished, likewise,  a  better  poet  than  either  of  the 
foregoing,  Herr  Mikkel  of  Odense,  a  priest  who 
wrote  poems  upon  the  *«  Rosary  of  the  Virgin 
Mary,"  the  "  Creation  of  the  Worid,"  "  Human 
Lifo,"  and  a  fow  psalms. 

The  sixteenth  century  commences  with  Gott- 
fried of  Gemen*s  publication  of  the  romance 
of  **  Flores  og  Biantzeflor,"  which,  in  some  fiirm 
or  other,  had  been  current  in  Denmark  for  two 
centuries  previous.  Euphemia,  Queen  of  Nor^ 
way,  at  the  commencement  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  being  much  addicted  to  novel-reading, 
caused  this  romance  to  be  translated  into  the 
Northern  tongue ;  but  the  text  of  Gottfiied's  edi- 
tion is  of  later  date,  so  that  the  romance  be- 
longs, properly  speaking,  to  the  beginning  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  To  the  same  period  belong 
the  «*  History  of  Broder  Rus  "  (Friar  Rush)  ; 
the  »<  Famthen  Teghn  "  (the  Fifteen  Signs  of 
Christ's  Coming)  ;  and  the  ^  Sjels  KjaBremaal 
over  Kroppen  "  (Uie  Soul's  Complaint  of  the 
Body),  being  a  translation  from  the  Latin,  and 
not  unlike  the  Anglo-Saxon  poem  on  the  same 
subject. 

In  the  first  half  of  this  century,  appears  the 
earliest  of  the  Danish  dramatic  writers.  Chris- 
ten Hansen,  schoolmaster  in  Odense.  He  is 
the  author  of  three  dramatic  pieces,  belonging 
to  that  class  known  in  the  Middle  Ages  as 

♦  See  Deo  Dsiwke  Digtekunsta  Hiatorie,  Ted  R.  Ntsbvp 
og  K.  L.  Rahbkk.    8  Tola.    Oopenhagen :  1898.    8to. 


60 


DANISH   LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


Mysteries  and  Moralities.  These  pieces  are 
entitled,  "  The  Tale  of  the  Old  Woman,  who, 
with  the  Help  of  her  Dog,  seduced  a  Damsel  to 
her  Undoing,"  in  which  the  characters  are  Ma- 
ritus,  Uxor,  Vir  Rusticus,  Bagnio-Keeper,  Mu- 
lier,  Monachus,  Aulicus,  Vetula,  Diabolus,  and 
PrsBco  or  Prologue ;  "  The  Judgment  of  Par- 
is " ;  and  **  The  Corned/  of  Saint  Dorothea,  a 
Mystery,"  in  which  the  author,  to  use  the 
words  of  Boileau, 

"  Sottement  mH€  en  aa  simplicitA, 
Joua  lei  SaiDta,  la  Yierge  et  Dieu  par  pl^lA." 

The  same  subject  has  been  treated  by  some  of 
the  old  French  playwrights,  and  later  by  Mas- 
singer,  in  his  beautiful  play  of  **  The  Virgin- 
Martyr." 

To  the  same  period  belong  "  A  Dialogue  on 
the  Popish  Mass  "  ;  ««A  Book  of  Vigils,  or  Sat- 
ires against  the  Catholic  Clergy  "  ;  **  A  Dia- 
logue between  Peder  Smid  and  Adger  Bonde, 
on   certain    Dogmas   of  the  Church  "  ;  ^  7*1,0 
Dance  of  Death,"  in  the  spirit  of  the  Spanuh, 
German,  and  other  death-dances  of  the  time  ; 
and  twenty-two  writers  of  psalms,  whose  names 
I  will  not  repeat  here,  but  whose  labors  may 
be  found  in  the  psalm-books  of  the  day.     In 
the  same  century  occur  the  names  of  Herman 
Weigere,  translator  of  **  ^sop's  Fables,"  and 
the  renowned  German  satire  of  **Reineke  Fos," 
called  in  Danish,  **  R«yebog  or  Mikkel  Rmy  " 
(the  Book  of  the  Fox,  or  Michael  Fox) ;  —  Niels 
Jensen,  who  translated  from  the  German  of  Hans 
Sachs  a  piece  entitled  **  The  Bagnio  of  Hell, 
a   merry  Story,  in  which  the  Devil   laments 
that  his  Realm  is  growing  too  small  for  him, 
and  sends  for  Workmen  to  make  it  larger,  and 
how  Matters  went  on  there  " ; — Henrich  Chris- 
tensen,  translator  of  the  rhymed  novel  of  **  King 
Persenober   and    Queen   Constantianobis,"   to 
whom  probably  belong,  also,  a  translation  of  the 
"Alphabetum  Aulicum,"  in  which  the  life  of  the 
court  is  described  in  a  series  of  lines,  beginning 
with  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  in  succession, 
and  *'The  Chronicle  of  Bergen"  in  rhyme;  — 
Rasmus  Hansen  Reravius,  author  of  the  **(Eeo- 
nomia^  or  how  the  Father  of  a  Family  should 
behave  himself,"  and  **  The  Coronation  and  Bri- 
dal of  King  Frederick  the  Second  and  Queen 
Sophia  ";  —  and  Anders  Sorensen  Vedel,  a  man 
of  much  distinction,  who  remodelled  Herr  Mik- 
kel's  poem  on  "  Human  Life,"  wrote  a  poetical 
history  of  the  Popes,  under  the  title  of  «» Anti- 
christus  Romanns,"  and,  what  is  of  far  greater 
importance  to  the  literary  history  of  his  coun- 
try, made  two  collections  of  old  Danish  ballads, 
one  of  heroic  ballads,  under  the  title  of  ^  Kjem- 
peviser,"  published  in  1591,  another  of  bal- 
lads of  love  (ElMkovsviser)j  which  he  entitled 
"  Tragica,"  and  which  was  ndt  published  until 
after  his  death. 

I  must  here  interrupt,  for  a  moment,  the 
chronological  order  of  writers,  to  say  a  word  of 
these  popular  ballads.  Their  dates  are  vari- 
ous and  uncertain,  extending  over  a  period  of 
several  centuries,  from  the  thirteenth  to  the 


eighteenth.  A  few  years  ago,  a  new  collection 
was  published  by  Abrahamson,  Nyerup,  and 
Rahbek,  containing  two  hundred  and  twenty- 
two  ballads  and  songs ',  and,  still  later,  two  ad- 
ditional volumes  by  Nyerup,  containing  one 
hundred  and  thirty-nine.*  These  ballads  con- 
stitute one  of  the  most  interesting  portions  of 
Danish  literature.  Some  of  them  celebrate  the 
achievements  of  historic  characters,  and  others 
the  more  wonderful  deeds  of  the  heroes  of  ro- 
mance. Olger,  the  Dane,  and  Tidrick  of  Bern 
(Theodoric  of  Verona),  occupy  the  foreground ; 
and  various  giants,  dwarft,  and  elves  fill  up  the 
picture.  The  fierce  old  champion  quafis  the 
blood  of  his  foe  ; 

"  Up  he  struck  his  helmet, 

He  drank  of  human  Uood ; 
'  In  nomine  Domini  I  * 

Was  Hero  Hogen's  woni."t 

The  sea-rovers  hoist  their   silken   sails   upon 

yards  of  gold ;  the  maiden  sits  in  her  bower, 

white  as  a  lily,  and  slim  as  a  reed  ; 

"  Her  mouth  is,  like  the  roaes,  red, 

Her  eyea,  like  a  ftlcon's,  graj ; 

And  ererj  word  aha  uttera 
lalikeaminatrel'alay."! 
The  little  foot-page  leads  forth  the  palfrey  gray, 
with  his  saddle  of  silver  and  bridle  of  gold ;  the 
knight  grasps  his  sword  so  firmly  that  the  blood 
starts  fiiom  his  nails ;  his  armor  flashes  through 
the  darkness  ;  his  drinking-horn  is  silver  with- 
in and  gold  without ;  the  damsel  is  changed,  by 
magic,  to  a  sword,  hanging  at  her  hero's  side 
by  day,  and  sleeping  under  his  pillow  by  night ; 
the  dead  mother  in  the  grave  hears  her  chil- 
dren cry ;  she  comes  back  to  earth  to  comfort 
them,  and  the  dogs  howl  as  she  passes  through 
the  streets  of  the  village.  ' 

In  these  ballads,  the  old  popular  traditions, 
so  numerous  in  the  North,  §  fbund  an  expression. 

*  Udvalgte  Danake  Tiser  fta  Middelalderen.  6  rola. 
Iftno.  Oopenbagen :  1812  - 1814.  —  Udralg  af  Danake  Yl* 
aar,  fta  Midten  af  det  16da  Aarhundrade  til  henimod  Mid. 
ten  af  dat  18de,  nwd  Melodler.  8  rots.  12mo.  Copenhagen : 
18S1. 

t  Second  ballad  of  "  GrimhUd'a  Hem."  Danake  Tlaer. 
L  182. 

1  BaUad  of  "  Edmund  og  Banedikt."  Danake  Viaer.  IIL 
896. 

«  Thiele,  in  hia  «  Duiake  Folkeaagn,"  4  Tola.,  Copenha- 
gen, 1820-1883,  givea  more  than  fire  hundred  of  Ihaae. 
Those  who  are  curloua  in  nuraerj  lore  will  find  in  the  aune 
work  many  of  thoae  magic  rhjmea  bjr  which  children  are 
made  happy,  and  which  boya  repeat  so  fluently  in  their 
aporta ;  aa,  for  example : 

"  Ikkede,  rikkede  aukkede  a». 

Abel,  dabel,  dommer  nS, 

Ia,aa, 

Olefta, 

Fhnte  ni, 

Fante  ti, 

Stikkum,  atakkum  aU, 

Du  ataaer  og  er  reent,  akjaer,  Uar  fri."  —Vol.  IV.  p.  183. 
Here,  too,  la  the  lamooa  "  Houae  that  Jack  buUt " : 

"  Der  har  du  det  Huua,  aom  Jacob  t»ygde ! 

Der  har  du  der  Malt,  aom  laae  1  det  Huoa,  aom  Jacob 
bygdel 

Der  har  du  den  Mnua,  aom  gnared'  det  Malt,  aom,  ftc 

Der  har  du  den  Ka^  aom  beed  den  Muna,  aom,  ftc. 


DANISH  LANOUAQE  AND  POETRY. 


61 


The  ease  with  which  the  knight  looki  oyer  the 
tree-tops  in  the  forest,  or  leaps  his  steed  over 
the  castle  wall,  is  equalled  by  the  unheaitating 
manner  in  which  the  minstrel  repeats  the  story, 
as  if  he  expected  it  to  be  believed.  This  sim- 
plicity runs  through  most  of  the  ballads ;  through 
many  of  them,  also,  sounds  a  strange,  wild  bur- 
den, repeated  after  every  stanza,  and  having, 
often,  no  very  close  connexion  with  the  subject 
of  the  ballad  ;  as,  for  example ;  **>  There  stands 
a  fortress  bight  Bern,  and  therein  dwelleth  King 
Tidrick  '* ;  "  Up,  up  before  day,  so  come  we 
well  over  the  heath  " ;  *'  There  make  they  peace 
on  the  salt  sea,  where  sail  the  Northmen,**  and 
the  like.  In  this  point,  as  well  as  in  many 
others,  they  resemble  the  old  Scottish  ballads. 
The  affinity  between  the  Danish  snd  the  Low- 
land Scotch  is  BO  great,  that  the  ballads  of  the 
one  may  be  rendered  in  the  other  with  the  ut- 
most fidelity.  On  this  account  Mr.  Jamieson*s 
translations  are  to  be  preferred  to  any  others. 

Let  us  now  return  to  the  chronological  order 
of  writers.  During  the  latter  half  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  flourished  two  more  dramatists, 
Peder  Jensen  Hegeland,  author  of  six  plays : 
the  tragi-comedy  of  **  Susanna,"  *<  Cain*  and 
Abel,** «« Abraham,"  ^  The  Resurrection  of  Laz- 
arus,*' "^  The  Leper,**  and  <«  Tbe  Rich  Man  and 
Lazarus,'*  of  which  the  first  alone  remains ;  — 
and  Hieronymos  Justesen  Ranch,  author  of 
*<  King  Solomon's  Glory,*'  **  Samson*8  Impris- 
onment," and  **  Karrig  Nidding  "  (the  Niggardly 
Miser).  In  ^  Samson's  Imprisonment,"  Deli- 
lab's  maidens  sing  Samson  asleep  with  a  song 
about  Vulcan  and  Mars ;  and,  when  he  is  grind- 
ing at  the  mill,  the  miller's  men  sing  a  ditty, 
commencing, 

"  Tarn  about !  turn  aboat ! 

TiU  the  asck  Is  out, 

Turn  about  I  turn  about  f 

"  Although  tt  nwjr  eonw 
From  the  Pope  In  Rome, 

Turn  about  1  turn  about ! " 
**  Karrig  Nidding  **  holds  the  same  place  in  the 
Danish  drama  that  **  Gammer  Gnrton's  Nee- 
dle "  does  in  the. English,  and  **  La  Farce  de 
Pathelin  "  in  the  French. 

To  close  the  literary  history  of  this  century, 

Bar  har  dn  den  Hund,  aom  jog  den  Kat,  som,  &c. 

Der  har  du  den  Koe,  aom  stanged'  den  Hund,  aom,  kc. 

Dec  har  dn  den  Pige,  aom  var  ferloran,  der  mnlked*  den 
Koe  med  de  krummeHom,  som  atanged'  den  Hund, 
aom,  ftc 

Der  har  dn  den  SkriTer  med  Pen  og  Blakbom, 

Som  ngted  den  PIga,  aom  var  ferloren, 

Som  malked'  den  Koe  med  de  krumme  Horn, 

Som  Slanged'  den  Hund, 

Som  jog  den  Kat, 

Som  beed  den  Muua, 

Som  gnared'  del  Malt, 

Som  laae  i  det  Huua, 

Sbm  Jacob  Irygde."  —  VoL  IE.  p.  146. 

For  an  account  of  popular  tales  and  romaneea  of  the 
North,  the  reader  is  rsferred  to  Njerup'e  "Almindelig 
Monkabalssning  i  Denmark  og  Norge,"  Copenhagen,  1816, 
where  he  will  find  due  mention  made  of  WhitUngton  and 
his  Cat,  Tom  Thumb,  and  Bobinaon  Cruaoe. 


we  find  the  names  of  Hans  Christenson  Stheni- 
us,  author  of  •«  Fortune's  Wheel,"  and  a  book 
of  songs ;  Ole  Pedersen  Kongstad,  or  Regiosta- 
danus,  whose  name  is  the  longest  thing  he 
has  left  behind  him ;  Jacob  Madsen  Kioben- 
harn,  who  translated  into  Danish  the  poems 
of  Dayid  Lindsay,  the  Scotch  poet ;  and,  final- 
ly, Thomas  Willumsen,  author  of  a  rhymed 
paraphrase  of  the  Psalms.  Two  anonymous 
productions,  «*A  Dialogue  between  our  Lord 
and  Saint  Peter,"  and  «« The  Life  of  Margaret 
Vestenie,"  whose  death  is  described  with  sim- 
ple pathos,  conclude  the  catalogue. 

In  the  seventeenth  century,  the  taste  for 
dramatic  writing  seems  to  have  increased.  At 
the  beginning  of  the  century,  we  find  two  an- 
onymous plays,  ^*  Kortrending  "  (Vicissitude), 
snd  a  translation  of  Terence's  ^  Eunuch," — both 
pieces  in  verse.  The  first  author  mentioned  is 
Peder  Thogersen,  who  translated  from  the  Latin 
Rudolph  Walter's  sacred  comedy  of  «« Nabal," 
and  wrote  a  play  in  three  acts,  called  **  De  Mun. 
do  et  Paupere,"  in  which,  for  the  sake  of  earthly 
vanities,  a  poor  man  sells  himself  to  the  world, 
as  Dr.  Faustns,  the  Duke  of  Luxembourg,  and 
sundry  other  individuals  did  to  the  Devil.  In 
the  same  manuscript  are  two  anonymous  plays, 
the  comedy  of  **  'Tobias,'*  and  the  comedy  of 
^  Hecastus,"  and  one  or  two  others  that  have 
been  mentioned  before.  Other  dramatic  wri- 
ters of  the  same  period  are  Hans  Thomes5n 
Stege,  author  of  the  tragedy  of  "  Cleopatra  *'; 
Anders  Kjeldson  Tybo,  author  of  the  historic 
drama  of  *«  Absalom  '* ;  Jens  Kjeldsen,  author 
of  *«  Joseph's  History  ";  and  Erik  Pontoppidan, 
author  of  «<The  Bridal  of  Tobias.*' 

To  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth  century 
belong,  also,  Jacob  Jacobsen  Volf^  who  com- 
piled a  *'  Chronicle  of  the  Jews,"  from  the  Sa^ 
cred  Scriptures  and  Josephus;  Claus  Chris- 
tophersen  Lyschander,  called  by  some  the  En- 
nius  of  Denmark,  and  author  of  the  **  Green- 
land Chronicles,"  the  **  Triumphus  Calmarien- 
sis,  or  the  Union  of  Calmar,"  and  a  poem  on 
Christian  the  Fifth ;  and  Anders  Arrebo,  a 
voluminous  writer  of  psalms  and  other  sacred 
songs,  the  most  fiunous  of  which  is  the  **  Hexa- 
emeron,"  or  a  paraphrase  of  the  six  days  of  the 
creation,  fit>m  Genesis.  The  latter  half  of  the 
seventeenth  century  presents  but  few  names, 
and  none  of  great  distinction.  The  most  prom- 
inent are,  Anders  Bording,  better  known  as  the 
editor  of  the  ^<  Danish  Mercury,"  than  as  a 
poet;  and  Thomas  Kingo,  author  of  (*The  Spir- 
itusi  Choir,"  and  editor  of  the  old  *<  Danish 
Psalmbook." 

With  the  eighteenth  century,  begins  a  more 
glorious  epoch  in  the  annals  of  Danish  poetry  ; 
for  now  appears  upon  their  pages  the  name  of 
Ludvig  Holberg,  who  is  to  his  country  what 
Moli^re  is  to  France,  and  Cervantes  to  Spain. 
He  was  born  in  Bergen  in  1684,  and  in  1702 
entered  the  University  of  Copenhagen  ss  a 
theological  student.  On  leaving  the  University, 
he  travelled  in  Holland  ;  and  afterwards  visited 
F 


62 


DANISH   LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


England,  paBsing  nearly  two  yean  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Oxford.  On  his  return,  he  established 
himself  in  Copenhagen,  as  a  teacher  of  lan- 
guages. In  17]  4,  he  was  made  Professor  Ex- 
traordinary ;  and,  after  a  few  years,  again  trar- 
elled  on  the  continent,  visiting  Holland,  France, 
and  Italy.  In  1716,  he  returned  to  Copenhagen, 
and,  in  1718,  became  Professor  of  Metaphysics ; 
in  1720,  of  Eloquence;  in  1730,  of  History  and 
Geography ;  and  in  1737,  QusBstor  of  the  Uni- 
versity. He  was  created  Baron  in  1747,  and 
died  in  1754. 

His  principal  works  are  his  historical  writ- 
ings ;  the  mock-heroic  poem  of**  Peder  Paars  '*; 
thirty-four  comedies ;  **  Nicholas  Klimm's  Jour- 
ney to  the  World  under  Ground,*'  an  imitation 
of  «*  Gulliver's  Travels,"  originally  written  in 
Latin  ;  and  an  autobiography,  which  is  not  the 
least  interesting  and  amusing  of  his  productions. 
It  was  written  chiefly  in  1726. 

**  Peder  Paars  "  is  a  poem  in  four  books,  re- 
lating the  adventures  of  the  hero  on  his  voyage 
from  Callundborg  to  Aars : 

"  I  slag  here  of  a  hero,  the  mighty  Pedor  Paan, 
Who  undertook  a  Jooraey  from  Oallondborg  to  Aan  " : 
and  is  a  satire  upon  those  who  in  their  writings 
magnify  trifles  into  great  events  and  make 
much  ado  about  nothing.  In  his  autobiography, 
he  says  of  it: — **This  poem  was  difi*erently 
received  according  to  the  difi*erent  character  and 
disposition  of  its  readers.  Some  were  secretly 
displeased  with  it ;  others  openly  avowed  the 
indignation  it  excited;  some  imagined  them- 
selves to  be  attacked  under  fictitious  names; 
and  others,  feeling  equally  guilty,  and  expecting 
similar  treatment,  joined  in  the  abuse  of  the  au- 
thor. Some,  whose  reading  had  never  extend- 
ed beyond  epithalamiums,  epitaphs,  and  pane- 
gyrics, were  alarmed  at  the  novelty  of  this  pro- 
duction, and  condemned  the  audacity  of  the 
satirist ;  others,  conceiving  their  enemies  to  be' 
the  objects  of  attack,  read  the  poem  with  laugh- 
ter and  delight,  and  took  every  opportunity  of 
repeating  what  they  considered  the  severest 
passages  in  the  hearing  of  those  to  whom  the 
satire  was  supposed  to  apply.  The  vulgar, 
whose  opinions  are  commonly  superficial,  deem- 
ed it  the  work  of  an  idler ;  and  some  literary 
characters,  in  their  excessive  anxiety  to  show 
their  penetration,  were  equally  at  fault  with  the 
vulgar.  There  were  some,  however,  who  form- 
ed a  more  fiivorable  judgment  of  the  merits  of  this 
production,  and  who  applauded  me,  when  my 
name  became  known,  for  my  attempt  to  combine 
satire  with  pleasantry,  and  to  temper  the  severi- 
ty of  reproof  by  the  graces  of  poetical  embel- 
lishment. In  Uieir  opinion,  my  poem  was  so 
fiur  from  meriting  the  light  estimation  in  which 
some  critics  held  it,  that  they  considered  its  ap- 
pearance an  era  in  the  literature  of  the  country. 
« The  Danes,'  said  they, « have  at  length  a  poem 
in  their  native  language,  which  they  need  not 
be  ashamed  to  show  to  Frenchmen  and  to  Eng- 
lishmen.' By  their  persuasions  I  was  induced 
to  continue  this  poem  till  it  reached  four  books. 


and  formed  a  considerable  volume,  of  which 
not  leas  than  three  editions  were  sold  in  the 
space  of  a  year  and  a  half;  a  degree  of  success 
which  had  never  before  attended  any  book  writ- 
ten in  the  Danish  language."  * 

Of  his  plays  he  says :  —  **  Weary  of  continn- 
ing  pursuits  from  which  I  derived  but  little 
profit,  and  which  exposed  me  to  so  much  cal- 
umny and  misconstruction,  I  abandoned  poetry, 
and  betook  myself  to  my  former  studies,  deter- 
mining to  complete  a  work  which  I  had  begun 
some  years  before,  comprehending  a  succinct 
account  of  the  civil  and  ecclesiastical  state  of 
both  kingdoms.  But  while  I  was  engaged  in 
this  work,  some  of  my  friends  —  among  whom 
were  many  persons  of  the  first  distinction,  who 
wished  to  introduce  into  this  country  regular 
plays,  like  those  of  other  nations,  written  in  the 
Danish  language,  and  who,  judging  firom  the 
success  of  my  poem  and  satires,  thought  me 
capable  of  succeeding  equally  in  the  drama  — 
solicited  me  to  turn  my  attention  to  this  branch 
of  writing.  It  was  not  easy  for  me  to  resist 
these  solicitations,  on  the  one  hand ;  but,  on  the 
other,  I  was  afraid  of  adding  fiiel  to  the  malice 
of  my  enemies,  from  which  I  had  already  suf> 
fored  enough  to  convince  me  how  dangerous  an 
enterprise  it  is  to  make  war  against  the  follies 
and  prejudices  of  mankind.  I  was  at  length, 
however,  prevailed  upon  to  undertake  the  task, 
and  I  wrote  those  plays  which  have  since  been 
collected  into  several  volumes,  and  which  are 
now  in  every  body's  hands.  I  made  it  my  chief 
object,  in  these  comedies,  to  attack  follies  and 
vices  which  had  escaped  other  dramatic  writers, 
and  which,  in  some  instances,  were  peculiar  to 
the  people  of  this  country.  I  at  first  contented 
myself  with  reading  these  plays  to  my  firiends, 
and  was  for  some  time  in  doubt  whether  I 
should  suffer  them  to  be  exhibited  on  the  stage ; 
but  I  yielded  to  continued  importunity,  and 
gave  the  first  five  to  the  company  of  comedians." 

In  the  continuation  of  his  autobiography, 
in  1737,  he  speaks  thus  of  **  Nicholas  Klimm's 
Journey  " :  —  "  There  are  many  persons  of  both 
sexes  in  my  country  who  speak  confidently  of 
their  intercourse  with  fairies  and  supernatural 
beings,  and  who  are  ready  to  take  their  corporal 
oaths  that  they  have  been  carried  away  by  sub- 
terranean spirits  to  hills  and  mountain-caves. 
This  foolish  superstition,  which  suggested  ma- 
terials for  the  fiction,  is  ridiculed  in  Klimius, 
the  hero  of  the  tale.  The  characters  interspersed 
through  the  work  are  so  numerous  and  various, 
that  they  may  be  said  to  illustrate  a  complete 
system  of  ethics ;  hence  a  key  would  be  required 
for  almost  every  page.  I  confoss  that  the  way 
in  which  vices  are  animadverted  upon  may  give 
this  production  the  air  of  a  satire ;  but,  as  man- 
kind generally  is  the  object  of  these  animad- 


*  Memoin  of  Lewto  Holberg.  Written  hj  himaeir  in 
Latin,  and  now  flrrt  tranalated  Into  Englleh.  London: 
18S7.  Forming  Vol.  HI.  of  Hunt  and  Clarke's  Autobiog- 
raphy, in  33  role.    ISoio. 


DANISH   LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


63 


Teraioiis,  it  is  a  satire  not  unworthy  of  a  philoa- 
opher.  To  manj,  on  the  other  hand,  the  style 
may  eeem  too  feeble,  cautions,  and  restrained ; 
for  it  is  necessary,  in  works  of  this  kind,  so  to 
temper  the  poi|^ancy  of  the  satire  as  to  com- 
bine instruction  with  amusement.  Above  all, 
it  is  necessary  that  authors  should  confine  them- 
selres  within  prudent  limits,  and  cautiously  ab- 
stain from  directing  their  shafts  against  indiyid- 
oals.  If  this  rule  be  obeerred,  they  may  make 
satire,  which  when  it  is  general  is  deprived  of 
all  its  malignity,  the  vehicle  of  solid  instruction, 
instead  of  an  instrument  of  torture.  Thus,  there 
is  leas  danger  in  attacking  mankind  generally 
than  a  whole  nation,  and  a  whole  nation  than  a 
particiilar  &mily ;  and  even  a  particular  &mily 
may  be  more  safely  made  the  subject  of  animad- 
version than  a  single  individual.  The  *  Journey 
to  the  World  under  Ground '  is  to  be  considered 
as  a  philosophical  romance,  and  the  characters 
exhibited  in  it  will  suit  any  nation.  There  is 
no  occasion  for  a  key,  therefore,  where  the  door 
stands  open,  or  for  a  solution,  where  there  is  no 
knot  to  untie.  Nevertheless,  for  the  benefit  of 
key-searchers,  I  will  proceed  to  give  an  ezpUi- 
nation  of  the  whole  matter. 

"  The  story,  which  is  only  a  vehicle  for  mor- 
al precepts  and  reflections,  is  a  mere  trifle. 
The  materials,  as  I  have  just  stated,  are  derived 
from  a  popular  sopeistition,  prevalent  among 
my  countrymen.  The  hero  of  the  story  is  sup- 
posed to  be  conveyed  into  the  world  under 
ground,  where  he  meets  with  a  number  of  sur- 
prising adventures,  calculated  to  astonish  and 
delight  the  reader.  Many  wonderfol  creatures, 
such  as  nobody  ever  imagined  before,  are  suf- 
fered to  be  inhabitants  of  this  new  world ;  trees, 
for  instance,  are  introduced  endowed  with  the 
pit  of  speech,  and  musical  instruments  are  here 
capable  of  discussing  questions  of  philosophy  or 
finance.  The  catastrophe  of  the  story  is  as 
striking  as  the  incidents  which  delight  the  read- 
er in  the  course  of  the  narrative ;  for  in  the 
space  of  half  an  hour  the  founder  of  a  great 
monarchy  is  transformed  into  a  poor  bachelor 
of  arts.  Such  being  the  nature  of  the  work, 
many  persons  have  read  the  *  Journey  to  the 
World  under  Ground,'  as  a  mere  book  of 
amosement  It  is  true  that  this  production  is 
a  literary  trifle,  but  it  is  not  altogether  a  useless 
trifle  >  since  instruction  may  in  this  way  be  in- 
sinuated into  many  readers  who  would  shrink 
fivm  a  regular  didactic  treatise ;  and  as  Trimal- 
chio  had  his  epitaph  written  upon  a  sun-dial, 
that  every  body  who  consulted  it  might  read  his 
name,  so  a  work  of  pleasantry  may  be  made  the 
medium  of  instruction  to  those  who  will  read 
nothing  but  books  of  amusement.  A  fisherman 
must  bait  his  hook  to  the  taste  of  the  little  fish- 
es,  if  he  expects  to  catch  them ;  and,  in  like 
manner,  philosophers  of  the  greatest  note  have 
fix>m  time  to  time  conveyed  instruction  through 
the  medium  of  apologues  and  entertaining  tales.'* 

The  other  most  distinguished  names  of  the 


eighteenth  century  are  Christian  Falster,  a  writ- 
er of  satires,  and  translator  of  parts  of  Ovid 
and  Juvenal ;  —  Jens  Schelderup  Sneedorf,  au- 
thor of  several  allegorical  poems,  and  his  son, 
Hans  Christian,  who  wrote  the  well  known 
ballad  on  Herr  Heniik,  the  improver  of  the 
Copenhagen  docks;  —  Johan  Clemens  Tode, 
a  very  voluminous  writer,  translator  of  Smol- 
lett's novels,  and  author  of  several  lyrical  dra- 
mas ;  —  Johan  Herman  Weasel,  a  comic  writer 
of  great  merit,  author  of  the  tragi-comedy, 
•«Love  without  Stockings"  {KUriigked  uden 
StrOn^er)^  and  the  •^Tale  of  the  Fork"  (Gafs- 
2e»),  in  which  an  old  woman  and  her  husband 
having  three  wishes  allowed  them  by  the  gorls, 
she  instantly  wishes  for  a  fork,  he  wishes  it 
were  stuck  into  her  body,  and  she  wishes  it 
were  out  again  ;  —  Ole  Johan  Samsoe,  author 
of  the  tragedy  of  *«  Dyveke,"  and  translator  of 
Florian's  plays;  —  Johan  Nordal  Brun,  author 
of  **  Zarine,"  the  first  original  Danish  tragedy 
ever  brought  upon  the  stage ;  —  Clans  Friman, 
and  his  brother,  Peder  Harboe,  both  lyric  writ- 
era  of  note;  —  Peter  Magnus  Troiel,  celebrated 
for  his  wtires;  —  and  Christen  Pram,  author 
of**  Stsrkodder,"  a  poem  in  fifteen  cantos.  In 
addition  to  these  may  be  mentioned  Christian 
Brauman  TuUin,  Johannes  Evald,  Edward 
Storm,  and  Thomas  Thaarup,  all  of  whom  will 
be  mora  particularly  noticed  hereafter. 

The  principal  poetic  names  of  the  present 
century  ara  Knud  Lyne  Rahbek,  Peter  Andraas 
Heiberg,  Jens  Baggesen,  Adam  Gottlob  Oehlen- 
schlAger,  and  Bemhard  Severin  Ingemann,  of 
whom  biographical  sketches  will  be  given  in 
connection  with  the  extracts  firom  their  writings. 
To  these  may  be  added  Christian  Levin  Sander, 
a  successfol  dramatic  writer ;  —  Nicolai  F.  S. 
Grundtvig,  author  of  **Bjowul&  Drape,"  a 
rhymed  paraphrase  of  the  old  Anglo-Saxon 
*<  Beowulf" ;  —  Christian  Hertz,  author  of  the 
**  Journey  to  Helicon,"  a  heroic  poem  in  four 
cantos ;  —  his  brother,  Jens  Michael,  author  of 
*« Israel  Delivered,"  an  epic  poem;  —  and  a 
crowd  of  lyric  writere  of  less  distinction,  though 
not  unknown  to  feme,  specimens  of  whose 
poems  may  be  found  in  the  various  collections 
aud  anthologies  of  Danish  poetry.  For  a  more 
particular  account  of  the  whole  series  of  Dan- 
ish poets  from  Ambo  to  the  present  time,  the 
reader  is  referred  to  Nyerup  and  Kraft's 
<*  Almindeligt  Litteratur-lexicon  for  Danmark, 
Norge  og  Island,"  2  vols.,  Copenhagen,  1820, 
4to.;  —  Rahbek  and  Nyerup's  "Danske  Dig- 
tekunsts  Middelalder  fia  Arrebo  til  Tullin," 
2  vols.,  Copenhagen,  1805, 12mo.;  —  Molbech's 
«  Dansk  Poetisk  Anthologie,"  2  vols.,  Copen- 
hagen, 1830,  12mo. ;  —  ^'Poesier,"  published 
by  Schultz,  4  vols.,  Copenhagen,  1786-90, 
12mo.;  —  the  two  collections  of  **  Selskabs- 
sange,"  published  by  Pulsen,  Copenhagen, 
1793-1801,  16mo.,  and  that  of  Schaldemose, 
Copenhagen,  1816,  16mo.  See  also  Flor's 
«  Dansk  Lesebog,"  Kiel,  1835,  8vo. 


BALLADS. 


STARK   TIDERICK    AND    OLGER 
DANSKE. 

Stark  Tidrick  bides  him  intill  Bern, 

Wi'  his  bald  brithers  acht ;  ^ 
Twall  *  stalwart  sons  had  they  ilk  ane, 
O'  manhead  and  great  macht. 

(Now  the  strife  it  stands  northward 
under  Jutland.) 

And  he  had  fifteen  sisters, 

And  twall  sons  ilk  ane  had ; 

The  youngest  she  had  thirteen  ;  — 

Their  life  they  downa  redd.' 

(Now  the  strife  it  stands  northward 
under  Jutland.) 

Afere  the  Bemers  they  can  stand 
Fiel  ^  stalwart  kempis  *  Strang  : 
The  sooth  to  say,  they  kythit*  o'er 
The  beech-tree  taps  sae  lang. 

(Now  the  strife  it  stands  northward 
under  Jutland.) 

**  Now  striven  hae  we  fer  mony  a  year, 
Wi'  kemps  and  knightis  stark  : 

Sae  mickle  we  hear  o'  Olger  Danske, 
He  bides  in  Dannemarck. 

**  This  hae  we  heard  o'  Olger  Danske,  — 

He  bides  in  North  Jutland  ; 
He  's  gotten  him  crown'd  wi'  red  goud, 

And  scorns  to  be  our  man." 

Up  Sverting  bent  a  stang  ^  o'  steel, 

And  shook  it  scomfuUie  : 
<*  A*  hunder  o'  King  Olger's  men 

I  wadna  reck  a  flie !  " 

**  Hear  thou,  Sverting,  thou  laidly  *  page, 

111  sets  thee  sae  to  flout ; 
I  tell  thee  King  Olger's  merry  men 

Are  stalwart  lads  and  stout. 

"  Nae  fear  fer  either  glaive  or  swerd 

Or  grounden  *  bolt  hae  they ; 
The  bloody  stour  's  >^  their  biytbest  hour ; 

They  count  it  bairns'  play." 

This  word  heard  the  high  Bermeris, 
And  took  tent  ^^  o'  the  same  : 

**  We  will  ride  us  till  Dannemarck, 
See  an  Olger  be  at  hame." 


>  Eight.  •  Champions. 

«  Twalre.  «  Appear. 

*  Do  not  can  lor.  f  Took  a  bar. 

4  Manj.  •  1 


•  Sharp. 

10  Battle. 

11  Heed. 


They  drew  out  o'  the  Bemer's  land  ; 

Acht  thousand  Strang  they  were  : 
**  King  Olger  we  will  visit  now. 

And  a'  till  Danmarck  fere." 

King  Tidrick  sent  a  messager. 

Bade  him  till  Olger  say : 
«<  Whilk  will  ye  loor  now,^'  stand  the  itonr, 

Or  to  us  tribute  pay .'  " 

Sae  grim  in  mood  King  Olger  grew, 
111  could  he  thole  ^'  sic  taunts  : 

**Thou  bid  them  bide  us  on  the  bent;  '^  — 
See  wha  the  payment  vaunts ! 

^*  Tribute  the  Dane  to  nae  man  pays. 
But  dane-gelt  >*  a'  gate  ^<  taks ; 

And  tribute  gin  ye  will  hae,  ye  *s  hae  't 
Laid  loundring  *7  on  your  backs  ! " 

King  Olger  till  his  kempis  said  : 
**  I  've  selcouth  '*  news  to  tell ; 

Stark  Tidrick  has  sent  us  a  messagor 
That  we  maun  pay  black-mail. 

**  And  he  black-mail  maun  either  hae. 
Or  we  maun  fecht  ^*  him  here  ; 
But  he  is  na  the  first  king, 

Will  Danmarck  win  this  year." 

Syne  ^  till  King  Tidrick 's  messager 
Up  spak  that  kemp  sae  stout : 

**  Come  the  Bemers  but  till  Danmarck  in, 
Uneath  *»  they  '11  a'  win  out." 

Sae  glad  was  he  then,  Ulf  of  Aim, 

Whan  he  that  tidings  fend  ; 
Sae  leugh  **  he.  Hero  Hogen  ; 

And  they  green 'd  '^  the  stour  to  stand. 

It  was  Vidrich  Verlandson, 

He  grew  in  mood  sae  fiiin  ; 
And  up  and  spak  he,  young  Child  Orme, 

^  We  'II  ride  the  Bemers  foregain."  ** 

<«  The  feremaist  on  the  bent  I  'se  be  !  " 

That  said  Sir  Iver  Blae ; 
«<  Forsuith  I  'se  nae  the  faindmaist  be  !  " 

Answered  Sir  Kulden  Gray. 

King  Olger  and  Stark  Tiderick, 

They  met  upon  the  muir ; 
They  laid  on  load  in  furious  mood. 

And  made  a  fearfii'  stour. 


"  : 

13  Bear. 

14  Field. 

i»  Blackmail. 
!•  Alway. 


IT  Beating. 
!•  Strange. 
i»  Fighu 
"Then. 


SI  Uneasily. 
M  Laughed. 
M  Longed. 
S4  Against. 


{1                                                                      BALLADS.                                                              65] 

Tbey  fought  ae  day ;  Ibr  three  thejr  fought ; 

Neither  could  win  the  gree  ;  ^ 
The  manfu'  Danes  their  chiefUin  ware,** 

Nae  ane  will  flinch  or  flee. 

It  was  the  Hero  Hogen, 

He  's  gane  out  to  the  strand. 

And  there  he  fand  the  Ferryman 
All  upo*  the  white  sand. 

The  bloid  ran  bullering  *''  in  buma 
Bedown  baith  hill  and  dale  ; 

Dane-gelt  the  Bemera  now  maun  pay, 
That  ween*d  to  get  black-mail. 

«*  Hear  thou  now,  gude  Ferryman, 
Thou  row  me  o'er  the  sound, 

And  I  '11  gie  thee  my  goud  ring ; 
It  weighs  well  fifteen  pound." 

The  yowther  **  drifted  sae  high  i'  the  sky ; 

The  sun  worth  ^*  a*  sae  red  : 
Great  pity  was  it  there  to  see 

Sae  mony  stalwart  dead  ! 

"  I  winna  fare  thee  o'er  the  sound, 

For  a'  thy  goud  sae  red  ', 
For  and  thou  come  till  Hvenild's  land. 

Thou  wilt  be  slaen  dead." 

There  lay  the  steed ;  here  lay  the  man ; 

Gude  friends  that  day  did  twin :  '^ 
They  leucb  ^^  na  a'  to  the  feast  that  cam, 

Whan  the  het  bluid-bath  was  done. 

'T  was  then  the  Hero  Hogen, 
His  swerd  out  he  drew, 

And  frae  the  luckless  Ferryman 
The  head  aff  he  hew. 

High  Bermeris  bethought  him  then. 

All  sadly  as  they  lay  : 
"  There  scarce  live  a  hunder  0*  our  men ; 

How  should  we  win  the  day  ?  " 

He  strak  the  goud  ring  frae  his  arm, 
Gae  it  the  Ferryman's  wife  : 

«<  Hae,  tak  thou  this,  a  gudely  gift. 
For  the  Ferryman's  young  life." 

Then  took  Tiderick  till  his  legs. 
And  sindle  »  luikit  back  ; 

Syerting  fbrgat  to  say  gude-night ; 
And  the  gait  till  Bern  they  tak. 

It  was  the  Hero  Hogen, 

He  danner'd  *  on  the  strand  ; 

And  there  he  fand  the  Mer-lady 
Sleeping  on  the  white  sand. 

Tldrick  he  tnm'd  him  right  about. 
And  high  in  the  lift  »»  luik'd  he : 

«<  To  Bern  I  trow  is  our  safest  gait ; 
Here  fa'  we  scoug  nor  lee !  "  '^ 

^«Heal,  heal  to  thee,  dear  Mer-lady, 
Thou  art  a  cunning  wife ; 

And  I  come  in  till  Hvenild's  land. 
It  's  may  I  brook  ^  my  life  ? " 

Syne  stay'd  him  Vidrich  Verlandson, 
All  under  a  green  know  :  ^* 

**  Ye  *ve  little  to  ruse  ye  0*  your  raid  *• 
The  Danish  kemps  to  cow  !  " 

**  It 's  ye  hae  mony  a  Strang  castell, 
And  mickle  goud  sae  red ; 

And  gin  ye  come  till  Hvenoe  land. 
Ye  will  be  slaen  dead." 

That  tyde  they  drew  frae  Bemland  out, 
Acht  thousand  Strang  were  they : 

And  back  to  Bern  but  only  five 
And  fifty  took  their  way. 

'T  was  then  the  Hero  Hogen, 
His  swerd  swyth  •  he  drew. 

And  frae  the  luckless  Mer-lady 
Her  head  afi"  he  hew. 

• 
LADY  GRIMILD'S  WRACK. 

Sae  he  has  taen  the  bloody  head. 
And  cast  it  i'  the  sound  : 

The  body's  croppen  *  after. 
And  join'd  it  at  the  ground. 

Garr'd  mask  >  the  mead  sae  free, 
And  she  has  bidden  the  hardy  knights 
Frae  ilka  from  *  countrie. 

Sir  Grimmer  and  Sir  Germer 
They  launch'd  sae  bald  and  free, 

Sae  angry  wazt  the  wild  winds. 
And  stormy  waxt  the  sea. 

She  bade  them  come,  and  nae  deval,^ 
To  bargane  *  and  to  strife  ; 

And  there  the  Hero  Hogen 
Forloot  *  his  young  life. 

Sae  angry  wazt  the  wild  winds. 
And  fierce  the  sea  did  rair ; 

In  twain  in  Hero  Hogen's  hand 
Is  brast  the  iron  air.*® 

In  twain  it  brast,  the  iron  air. 
In  Hero  Hogen's  hand ; 

»«  Defend.        3»  Seldom.                    «  Far. 
«  BubUing.     99  Sky.                        9  Delay. 
M  Vapor.         M  Sheltarnor peace.      4  Battle. 
>•  Became.       9i  KnoIL                       ft  LoeL 
90  Fkit.            3«  Pnlae  for  your  deed. 
»             9 

«  Sauntered.           •  Straightway.           10  Oar. 
T  Preaerre.              »  Corpse. 
f3 

66 


DANISH  POETRY. 


And  wi*  twa  gilded  shields  then 
The  knights  they  steer'd  to  land. 

Whan  they  were  till  the  land  come, 
They  ilk  ane  scour'd  his  brand, 

And  there  sae  proud  a  maiden 
Saw  what  they  had  in  hand. 

Her  stature  it  was  stately, 

Her  middle  jimp  "  and  sma' ; 

Her  body  short,  her  presence 
Was  maiden-like  witha*. 

They  've  do6n  "  them  till  Norborg, 
And  to  the  yett  *'  sae  free  : 

**  O,  whare  is  now  the  porter 
That  here  should  standing  be  ?  " 

"  It  *s  here  am  I,  the  porter, 

That  here  stand  watch  and  ward  ; 

I  *d  bear  your  tidings  gladly. 
Wist  I  but  whence  ye  fiir'd." 

"  Then  hither  are  we  come  frae 
A*  gaits  **  whare  we  hae  gane  ; 

Lady  Grimild  's  our  sister ;  — 
It  's  a*  the  truth  I  've  sayn." 

In  syne  cam  the  porter, 

And  stood  afore  the  deas  ;  '^ 

Fu'  canny  i'  the  tongue  was  he. 
And  well  his  words  could  place. 

Fu'  canny  i'  the  tongue  was  he, 
And  well  his  words  could  wale  :  '• 

"  There  out  afore  your  yett  stand 
Twa  wordy  *^  kemps  but "  fail. 

"  It  *s  out  there  stand  afore  your  yett 
Twa  sae  well-wordy  men ; 

The  tane  he  bears  a  fiddle. 
The  tither  a  gilded  helm. 

*<  Ho  that  bears  a  fiddle  bears  't 
For  nae  lord's  meat  or  fee ; 

And  wharesoe'er  they  come  frae. 
Duke's  sons  I  wat  they  be." 

It  was  proud  Lady  Grimild 
Put  on  the  pilche  ^*  sae  fine, 

And  she  is  to  the  castell  yett 
To  bid  her  brithers  in. 

««  Will  ye  gae  till  the  chamber 
And  drink  the  mead  and  wine ; 

And  sleep  upon  a  silken  bed 
Wi'  twa  fair  ladies  mine  ?  " 

It  was  proud  Lady  Grimild 
Put  on  the  pilche  sae  braw. 

And  she  's  intill  the  ha'  gane 
Afore  her  kempis  a*. 


"  Slender. 
»  Betaken. 
»Gate. 


14  Places. 
»  l^ible. 
i«  Cbooee. 


"  Worthy. 
»»  Wiibout 
19  Fur  mantle. 


"  Here  sit  ye  a*,  my  merry  men. 
And  drink  baith  mead  and  wine ; 

But  wha  will  Hero  Hogen  sla', 
Allerdearest  brither  mice  ? 

«'  It  's  he  that  will  the  guerdon  fii',*o 
And  sla'  this  Hogen  dead. 

Sail  steward  o'  my  castell  be. 
And  win  my  goud  sae  red." 

It  's  up  and  spak  a  kemp  syne, 

A  lording  o'  that  land  : 
"  It  's  I  will  win  your  guerdon. 

Forsooth,  wi'  this  right  hand. 

*•  It 's  I  will  fa'  your  guerdon  ; 

Sla'  Hero  Hogen  dead  ; 
Be  steward  o'  your  castell. 

And  win  your  goud  sae  red." 

And  up  spake  Folqvar  Spill^mand, 

Wi  's  burly  iron  stang  : 
**  Come  thou  within  my  arms'  length, 

I  '11  mark  thee  or  thou  gang  !  " 

The  first  straik  fifteen  kempis 
Laigh  to  the  eard  '>  did  strik  : 

«<  Ha,  ha,  Folqvar  Spill^mand  ! 
Well  wags  thy  fiddlestick  !  " 

Syne  dang  he  down  the  kempis 
Wi'  deadly  dints  and  dour ; " 

And  braid  and  lang  the  brigg  ^'  was 
Whare  they  fell  in  that  stour. 

Aneath  were  spread  wet  hides,  and 
Aboon  were  pease  sae  sma'. 

And  Hero  Hogen  stumbled. 
And  was  the  first  to  fa'. 

It  was  the  Hero  Hogen, 

He  wad  win  up  again  : 
"  Hald,  hald,  my  dearest  brither, 

Our  paction  well  ye  ken. 

**  Ye  keep  your  troth,  my  brither; 

Still  keepit  it  maun  be  ; 
And  ance  thou  till  the  eard  fa', 

Nae  rising  is  for  thee." 

Sae  moody  Hero  Hogen  is. 
Still  keep  his  word  will  he ; 

Till  he  has  got  his  death-straik, 
A-fighting  on  his  knee. 

Yet  dang  he  down  three  kempis ; 

Nane  o'  the  least  were  they  : 
Wi'  liammers  syne  he  brast  whare 

His  father's  treasures  lay. 

And  him  betid  a  luck  sae  blyth, 
He  gat  the  lady's  fere ; 


MGet. 

s>  Low  to  the  earth. 


»  Hard. 
M  Bridge. 


BALLADS. 


67 


And  she  was  the  proad  Hvenild,  that 
A  son  to  him  did  bear. 

Rank^,  hight  that  kemp,  that 
ReTeng'd  his  father's  dead : 

Grimild  in  the  treasury, 

She  qaail*d  for  want  o'  bread. 

Sae  drew  he  frae  that  land  oat 

Till  Bern  in  Lombardy  ; 
There  liv'd  amang  the  Danish  men. 

And  k/th'd'^  his  valor  hy. 

Hia  mither  she  gaed  hame  again. 
And  Hyenske-land  bears  her  name ; 

'Mang  gallant  knights  and  kempis 
Sae  wide  is  spread  their  &me. 


THE   ETTIN  LANGSHANKS. 

KiVG  TiDRicK  sits  intill  Bern, 

He  rooses  ^  him  of  his  might ; 
Sae  mony  has  he  in  battle  cow'd, 
Baith  kemp  and  doughty  knight. 
(There  stands  a  fortress  hight  Bern,  and 
thereintill  dwelleth  King  Tidrick.) 

King  Tidrick  stands  at  Bern, 

And  he  looks  out  sae  wide  : 
»<  Wold  God  I  wist  of  a  kemp  sae  bold 

Durst  me  in  field  abide  ! " 

Syne  answerM  Master  Hildebrand, 
In  war  sae  ware  and  wight :  * 

'*  There  liggs^  a  kemp  in  Birting's  Bierg; — 
Dare  ye  him  rouse  and  fight?  '* 

*<  Hear  thou.  Master  Hildebrand, 

Thou  art  a  kemp  sae  rare  : 
Ride  thou  the  first  i'  the  shaw  *  the  day. 

Our  banner  gay  to  bear." 

Syne  answer'd  Master  Hildebrand  ; 

He  was  a  kemp  sae  wise : 
*'  Nae  banner  will  I  bear  the  day, 

For  sae  unmeet  a  prize." 

Syne  answer'd  Vidrich  Verlandson, 

He  spoke  in  full  good  mood : 
'>  The  first  i*  the  press  I  *se  be  the  day, 

To  march  to  Birting's  wood. 

Up  spak  he,  Vidrich  Verlandson, 

And  an  angry  man  he  grew : 
*'  Thro*  hauberk  as  thro'  hacketon 

The  smith's  son's  swerd  sail  hew." 

They  were  well  three  bunder  kemps. 
They  drew  to  Birting's  land  : 

They  sought  the  Ettin  ^  Langshanks, 
And  in  the  shaw  him  fand. 


34  Showed. 


s  Siout  and  strong. 
3  Lies. 


4  Wood. 
»  Gianu 


Syne  up  spak  Vidrich  Verlandson  ; 

<*  A  selcouth  game  yoa  'a  see. 
Gin  ye  lat  me  ride  fint  to  the  wood, 

And  lippen  '  sae  far  to  me. 

**  Here  bide  ye  a',  ye  kingis  men, 
Whare  twa  green  roads  are  met. 

While  I  ride  out  in  the  wood  alane, 
To  speer^  for  you  the  gate."  ' 

It  was  Vidrich  Verlandson, 

Into  the  wood  he  rade ; 
And  there  he  fand  a  little  foot-path, 

To  the  Ettin's  lair  that  led. 

Syne  up  spak  he,  King  Tidrick  : 

"  Hear  what  I  say  to  thee ; 
Find  ye  the  Ettin  Langshanks, 

Ye  healna  '  it  firae  me." 

It  was  Vidrich  Verlandson, 
To  Birting's  hythe  ^^  he  wan  ; 

And  there  the  Ettin  Langshanks 
Laidly  and  black  he  fand. 

It  was  Vidrich  Verlandson 

Strak  the  Ettin  wi'  his  stang : 
**  Wake  up,  ye  Langshanks  Ettin  ; 

Te  sleep  baith  hard  and  lang  ! " 

*(  On  this  wild  moor  I  've  lien  and  slept 

For  lang  and  mony  a  year  : 
Nor  ever  a  kemp  has  challeng'd  me. 

Or  dar'd  my  rest  to  steer."  ** 

"  Here  am  I,  Vidrich  Verlandson, 

With  good  swerd  by  my  side. 
And  here  I  dare  thy  rest  to  steer. 

And  dare  thy  wrath  abide." 

It  was  the  Ettin  Langshanks, 

He  wink'd  up  wi'  his  ee* : 
**  And  whence  is  he,  the  page  sae  bald. 

Dares  say  sic  words  to  me .'  " 

*'  Verland  was  my  father  hight, 

A  smith  of  cunning  rare ; 
Bodild  was  my  mother  call'd, 

A  kingis  daughter  fair. 

**  My  full  good  shield,  that  Skrepping  hight, 
Has  mony  a  dent  and  clour ;  ^* 

On  Blank,  my  helmet,  mony  a  swerd 
Has  brast,  of  temper  dour. 

"  My  noble  steed  is  Skimming  hight, 

A  wild  horse  of  the  wood  j 
My  swerd  by  men  is  Mimmering  nam'd, 

Temper'd  in  heroes'  blood. 

"  And  I  hight  Vidrich  Verlandson, 

All  steel-clad  as  you  see  ; 
And,  but  thy  lang  shanks  thou  bestir. 

Sorely  shalt  thou  abie.^' 


«  Trust. 
7  Ask. 
«  Way. 


»  Hide  not. 
10  Heath, 
li  Disturb. 


IS  Bruise. 
13  Suffer. 


68 


DANISH    POETRY. 


<*  Hear  thou,  Ettin  Langshanka, 

A  word  I  winna  >^  lie  ; 
The  king,  is  in  the  wood,  and  he 

Mann  tribute  hae  firae  thee/* 

(( What  gold  I  have  full  well  I  know 

Sae  well  to  guard  and  wore, 
Nor  Baucy  page  sail  win  't  frae  me, 

Nor  groom  to  claim  it  dare." 

"  Thou  to  thy  cost  salt  find,  all  young 

And  little  as  I  be, 
Thy  head  I  '11  firae  thy  shoulders  hew. 

And  win  thy  gold  firae  thee.*' 

It  was  the  Ettin  Langphanks 

Nae  langer  lists  to  sleep  : 
**  Toung  kemp,  away,  and  to  thy  speed. 

If  thou  thy  life  wilt  keep." 

Wi*  baith  his  hooves  up  Skimming  sprang 
On  the  Ettin's  side  belyve ;  ^* 

There  seven  o'  his  ribs  he  brake  ',  — 
Sae  they  began  to  strive. 

It  was  the  Ettin  Langshanks 
Grip'd  his  steel  stang  in  hand ; 

He  strak  a  stroke  at  Vidrich, 

That  the  stang  i'  the  hill  did  stand. 

It  was  the  Ettin  Langshanks, 

He  ween'd  to  strike  him  stythe ;  ** 

But  he  his  firsten  straik  has  mist. 
The  steed  sprang  aff  sae  swyth.'^ 

'T  was  then  the  Ettin  Langshanks, 
And  he  took  on  to  yammer  :  >" 

^'  Now  lies  my  stang  i*  the  hillock  fast 
As  it  were  driven  wi*  hammer.'* 

It  was  Vidrich  Verlandson, 
And  wroth  in  mood  he  grew : 

"  Skimming,  about !  Good  Mimmering, 
Now  see  what  thou  canst  do  !  '* 

In  baith  his  hands  he  Mimmering  took, 
And  strak  sae  stem  and  fierce. 

That  through  the  Langshanks  Ettin's  breast 
The  point  his  thairms  >*  did  pierce. 

Then  first  the  Ettin  Langshanks 

Felt  of  a  wound  the  pain ; 
And  gladly,  had  his  strength  remain*d. 

Wad  paid  it  back  again. 

**  Accursed,  Vidrich,  be  thy  am, 

Accursed  be  thy  brand. 
For  the  deadly  wound  that  in  my  breast 

I  *Te  taken  frae  thy  hand !  ** 

♦*  Ettin,  I  *ll  hew  and  scatter  thee 

Like  leaves  before  the  wind« 
But  and  thou  tell  me  in  this  wood 

Whare  1  thy  gold  may  find/* 


*•  Uuneot. 
»  Eotnib. 


**  O,  spare  me,  Vidrich  Verlandson, 

And  never  strike  me  dead  ! 
Sae  will  I  lead  thee  to  the  house 

Roof 'd  With  the  gold  sae  red." 

Vidrich  rode  and  the  Ettin  crept ; 

Deep  in  the  wood  they  *re  gone ; 
They  found  the  house  with  gold  sae  red 

Like  burning  light  that  shone. 

**  Away  ye  heave  that  massy  stane, 
Lift  fitie  the  bands  the  door ; 

And  mair  gold  nor  's  in  a'  this  land 
Within  ye  *11  find  in  store." 

Syne  answer'd  Vidrich  Verlandson ; 

Some  treason  he  did  foar : 
"  The  kemp  is  neither  ware  nor  wise 

That  sic  a  stane  wad  steer." 

"  Well  Vidrich  kens  to  turn  a  steed  ; 

'T  is  a*  he  understands : 
But  I  '11  do  mair  vri'  twa  fingers 

Nor  thou  wi'  baith  thy  hands.'* 

Sae  he  has  taen  that  massy  stane. 

And  lightly  o'er  did  turn  : 
Full  grimly  Vidrich  ettled  ^  then 

That  he  should  rue  that  scorn. 

^*  There  *s  mair  gold  in  this  treasury 
Nor  fifteen  kings  can  shaw  : 

Now  hear  thou,  Vidrich  Verlandson, 
The  first  thou  in  salt  ga." 

Syne  up  spak  Vidrich  Verlandson, 
His  cunning  well  he  knew  : 

^*  Be  thou  the  first  to  venture  in, 
As  foarless  kemp  should  do." 

It  was  the  Ettin  Langshanks, 

In  at  the  door  he  saw  : 
Stark  Vidrich  strak  wi*  baith  his  hands. 

And  hew'd  his  head  him  fira. 

And  he  has  taen  the  Ettin*s  blood 
And  smear'd  wi'  it  his  steed : 

Sae  rade  he  to  King  Tidrick, 

Said,  **  Foul  has  been  my  speed  !  " 

And  he  has  taen  the  Ettin*s  corpse, 

Set  it  against  an  aik  ; 
And  all  to  tell  the  wondrous  foat 

His  way  does  backward  take. 

•*  Here  bide  ye  a*,  my  doughty  fores,  " 

Under  this  green  hill  foir  : 
How  Langshanks  Ettin  *s  handled  me. 

To  tell  yon  grieves  me  sair.*' 

M  And  has  the  Ettin  manl'd  thee  sae  f 
That  is  foul  skaith  and  scorn ; 

Then  never  anither  sail  be  foil'd  ;  — 
We  *II  back  to  Bern  return." 


»  DMeruuDcd. 


s>  Compuiiooa. 


BALLADS. 


**  Thou  tiim  thee,  now,  King  Tidrick, 
Thou  torn  thee  swytJbe  wi*  me ; 

And  a'  the  gold  the  Ettin  had 
I  '11  shew  beljye  to  thee.'* 

^  And  hast  then  slain  the  Ettin  the  day  ? 

That  mony  a  man  sail  weet ; 
And  the  baldest  kemp  i'  the  warld  wide 

Thou  never  need  fear  to  meet.'* 

It  was  then  King  Tldrick's  men. 
The  J  gieen'd  **  the  Ettin  to  see ; 

And  loud  they  leach  at  his  laidly  boak,  '* 
As  it  stood  by  the  tree. 

They  ween'd  that  he  his  lang  shanks 
Tet  after  ihem  might  streek ; 

And  nae  ane  dared  to  nigh  him  near. 
Or  wake  him  frae  his  sleep. 

It  was  Vidrich  Verlandson, 

Wi'  mickle  glee  he  said  : 
*«  How  would  ye  bide  his  Hying  look. 

That  fleys^  ye  sae  whan  dead  ?  " 

He  gtrak  the  body  wi'  his  staff; 

The  head  fell  to  the  eard  : 
**  In  sooth  that  Ettin  was  a  kemp 

That  ance  might  well  be  fear*d«" 

And  they  hae  taen  the  red  gold, 
What  booty  there  did  stand ; 

And  Vidrich  got  the  better  part. 
Well  won  with  his  right  hand. 

But  little  he  reck'd  a  spoil  sae  rich ; 

'T  was  a'  to  win  the  gree, 
And  as  the  Ettin-qneller  wide 

O'er  Danmarck  fam'd  to  be. 

Sae  gladly  rode  they  back  to  Bern ; 

But  Tidrick  maist  was  glad ; 
And  Vidrich  o'  his  menyie  a' 

The  foremost  place  aye  had. 


HERO  HOGEN  AND  THE  QUEEN  OF 
DANMARCK. 

Thb  king  he  's  sitting  in  Rib^ ; 

He  's  drinking  wine  ; 
Sae  he  has  bidden  the  Danish  knights 

To  propine. 

(Sae  nobly  dances  he,  Hogen !) 

'*  Te  stand  np  a',  my  merry  men 

And  knightis  bold. 
And  gayly  tread  the  dance  wi*  me 

O'er  the  green  wold." 

(Sae  nobly  dances  he,  Hogen !) 

Now  lists  the  lung  o'  Danmarck 
To  dance  in  the  ring ; 


^  Longed. 


u  BodjT. 


34  Aflftighu. 


And  neist'  cam  Hero  Hogen 
Aibre  them  to  sing. 

Up  wak*d  the  qaeen  o'  Danmarck ; 

In  her  bower  she  lay : 
*(  O,  whilken  o'  my  ladies 

Strikes  the  harp  sae  ?  " 

*^  It  is  nane  o'  your  ladies 

Whase  harp  ye  hear ; 
It  is  Hero  Hogen 

Singing  sae  clear." 

^  Te  a*  get  up,  my  maidens. 
Rose  chaplets  on  your  hair ; 

Forth  we  will  us  a'  ride, 
Wassel  to  share." 

First  rade  the  queen  o'  Danmarck, 

In  red  scarlet  tho ;  * 
Syne  ladies  rade,  and  maidens. 

And  maries  a-row. 

Fu*  lightly  rade  the  queen  round 
And  round  th^  dance  sae  free ; 

*T  was  a'  on  noble  Hogen  aye 
Turned  her  ee*. 

'T  was  then  Hero  Hogen, 

His  hand  raught  ^  he  : 
**  O,  list  ye,  gracious  lady, 

To  dance  wi'  me  ? " 

Now  dances  Hero  Hogen  ; 

He  dances  wi'  the  queen  ; 
And  mickle  glee,  the  sooth  to  say, 

There  passes  them  atween. 

Up  there  stood  a  little  may  ^ 

In  kirtle  blue : 
«*  O,  *ware  ye  'fore  the  fause  claTerers;  * 

They  lyth  to  you." 

It  was  the  king  o'  Danmarck, 

And  he  can  there  speer : 
**  What  does  the  queen  o'  Danmarck 

A-dancing  here  f 

'  **  Far  better  in  her  bower  't  were 
On  her  goud  harp  to  play, 
Nor  dancing  here  sae  lightly 
Wi'  Hogen  thus  to  gae." 

Up  there  stood  a  little  may 

In  kirtle  red : 
«« 'Ware  now,  my  gracious  lady  ; 

My  lord  's  grim,  I  rede." 

**  I  've  just  but  i'  the  dance  come  in ; 

It 's  nae  near  till  an  en* ; 
And  sae  my  lord  the  king  may 

Mak  himsell  blythe  again." 


t  Next. 

*  Than. 


9  Rflsched. 
4  Maiden. 


»  Idle  talkers. 


70                                                     DANISH 

POETRY. 

Up  there  stood  a  little  page 

It  was  Sir  liver  Blaa, 

Intill  a  kirtle  green  : 

To  the  east  he  tum'd  about : 

"  'Ware  ye,  my  gracious  lady ;  — 

«*  Help  now,  Ulf  and  Ismer  Grib  • 

My  lord  is  riding  bame.'* 

I  hear  a  kemp  thereout" 

Shame  fa'  Hero  Hogen, 

It  was  Sir  Ifver  Blaa, 

That  e*er  he  sang  sae  clear ; 

And  he  look'd  to  the  west : 

The  queen  sits  in  her  bower  up, 

"  Thereout  I  hear  Sir  Guncelin : 

And  dowy  •  is  her  cheer. 

Help,  Otthin  !  as  thou  can  best." 

(Sae  nobly  dances  he,  Hogen  !) 

It  was  the  Earl  Sir  Guncelin, 

And  helm  o'er  neck  he  flang ; 

Sae  heard,  though  mony  a  mile  away. 

His  mother  dear  the  clang. 

SIR   GUNCELIN. 

That  lady  she  waken'd  at  still  midnight. 

It  was  the  Earl  Sir  Guncelin, 

And  till  her  lord  she  said  : 

To  his  mother  he  can  say, 

"May  God  Almighty  rightly  rede* 

**  It  's  I  will  ride  me  up-o-land, 

That  our  son  may  well  be  sped !  " 

My  manhood  to  essay." 

(Up,  up  afore  day,  sae  come  we  well 

The  firsten  ^It  they  thegither  rode. 

over  the  heath-O  !) 

Those  kemps  sae  stark  and  bold, 

Wide  on  the  field  Sir  Ifver  Blaa 

"  And  wilt  thou  ride  thee  up-o-land, 

Was  cast  upon  the  mold. 

And  dost  thou  tell  me  sae  ? 

Then  I  '11  gie  thee  a  steed  sae  good, 

"  Hear  thou.  Earl  Guncelin, 

Men  call  him  Karl  the  gray. 

An'  thou  will  lat  me  live. 

(Up,  up  afore  d^  sae  come  we  well 
over  the  hea#0!) 

I  hae  me  a  betrothed  bride. 

And  her  to  thee  I  '11  give." 

«( Then  I  '11  gie  thee  a  steed  sae  good. 

"  I  '11  none  of  thy  betrothed  bride  ; 

Men  call  him  Karl  the  gray ; 

Yet  wedded  would  I  be  : 

Te  ne'er  need  buckle  on  a  spur 

Give  me  Salenta,  sister  thine, 

Or  helm,  whan  him  ye  hae. 

As  better  liketh  me." 

«*  At  never  a  kemp  maun  ye  career, 

Sae  rode  they  to  the  bride-ale  ; 

Frae  never  ane  rin  awa'. 

They  roundly  rode  in  fere  ; 

Untill  ye  meet  with  him,  the  kemp 

And  they  hae  bidden  the  kempery  men 

That  men  call  Ifver  Blaa." 

To  come  frae  far  and  near. 

It  was  the  Earl  Sir  Guncelin 

They  bade  him,  Vidrich  Verlandson, 

Can  by  a  green  hill  ride ; 

Stark  Tidrick  out  of  Bern, 

There  met  he  him,  little  Tilventin, 

And  Holger  Danske,  that  aye  for  feats 

And  bade  him  halt  and  bide. 

Of  chivalry  did  yearn. 

"  Well  met,  well  met,  young  Tilventin  ! 

Child  Sivard  Snaren  they  hae  bidden, 

Whare  did  ye  lie  last  night?  " 

Afore  the  bride  to  ride  ; 

«« I  lay  at  Bratensborg,  whare  they 

And  Ettin  Langsbanks  he  maun  be 

Strike  fire  frae  helmets  bright." 

All  by  the  bridegroom's  side. 

It  was  the  Earl  Sir  Guncelin 

They  've  bidden  Master  Hildebrand, 

Look'd  under  his  helmet  red  : 

And  he  the  torch  maun  bear ; 

»« Sae  be  't  wi'  little  Tilventin  !  — 

Him  followed  twice  sax  kemps,  and  they 

Thou  's  spoken  thy  ain  dead." 

Drank  and  made  lusty  cheer. 

It  was  the  Earl  Sir  Guncelin, 

And  hither  came  Folquard  Spillemand  ; 

He  his  swerd  out  drew ; 

For  that  the  kemps  sail  pay  ; 

It  was  little  Tilventin 

And  hither  came  King  Sigfrid  Home, 

He  in  pieces  hew. 

As  he  shall  rue  the  day. 

Sae  rade  he  till  Bratensborg, 

It  was  proud  Lady  Grimild 

He  rapped  at  the  yate  : 

Was  bidden  to  busk  *  the  bride  ; 

<(  Is  there  here  ony  kemp  within 

But  hard  and  fast  her  feet  and  hands 

That  dares  wi'  me  debate  ?  " 

Wi'  fetters  they  hae  tied. 

«  DolefuL 

1  Ordain.                          «  Dren. 

. — , 

BALLADS.                                                              71 

Theretill  came  Lady  Gunde  Hette, 

And  there  a  sturdy  dance  began. 

In  Nord«n  Field  that  bade ) 

Frae  Rib^,  and  intill  Slie : 

She  drank  and  she  danced, 

The  least  kemp  in  the  dance  that  was 

And  luckiJy  was  sped. 

Was  five  ell  under  the  knee. 

There  in  came  Lady  Brynial, 

The  least  kemp  in  the  dance  that  was 

And  she  carred  for  the  bride  ; 

Was  little  Mimmering  Tand ; 

Her  follow'd  seven  sma*  damsels, 

He  was  amang  that  heathen  folk 

And  sat  the  kemps  beside. 

The  only  Christian  man. 

They  followed  the  bride  to  the  chamber  in, 

Their  breakfast  there  to  eat ; 

or  groats  four  barrels  she  ate  up, 

RIBOLT  AND  GULDBORG. 

Sae  well  she  lik*d  that  meat. 

RiBOLT  was  the  son  of  an  earl  gude  ; 

Sax  oxen  she  ate  ap,  theretill 

(Sae  be  that  ye  are  willing ; ) 

Eight  flitches  of  the  brawn  ; 

Guldborg  he  lang  in  secret  lo'ed. 

Seven  hogsheads  of  the  ale  she  drank, 

(There  's  a  hue  and  cry  for  them.) 

Or  she  to  yex  '  began. 

Whan  she  was  a  hairn  he  Io*ed  her  sair. 

They  follow'd  the  bride  intill  the  ha* ; 

(Sae  be  that  ye  are  willing,) 

Sae  bowden  ^  wu  her  skin, 

And  aye  as  she  grew  he  Io*ed  her  the  mair. 

They  dang  doym  fiviKells  o*  the  wa* 

(There  *•  a  hue  and  cry  for  them.) 

Ere  they  could  get  ]tfr  in. 

«*  Guldborg,  will  ye  plight  your  troth  to  me, 

They  led  the  bride  to  the  bnde-bench, 

And  I  '11  till  a  better  land  bring  thee. 

And  gently  set  her  down  : 

Her  weight  it  brake  the  m^le  bench. 

"Till  a  better  land  I  will  thee  bear, 

And  she  came  to  the  ground. 

Whare  there  never  comes  or  dule  >  or  care. 

They  serrM  her  wi'  the  best  o^  fve  ; 

"I  will  bring  thee  untill  an  6e,* 

She  made  na  brocks  *  o'  meat ;  . 

Whare  thou  salt  live  and  negate  '  die." 

Five  Axen  and  ten  gude  hX  swine 

Clean  up  the  witch  did  eat. 

•«  It  '•  till  nae  land  can  ye  me  bear. 

Whare  there  never  comes  or  dule  or  care ; 

That    marked   the   bridegroom   (well    he 

might !), 

"  Nor  me  can  ye  bring  to  sic  an  oe ; 

'T*waa  little  to  bis  wish  : 

For  to  God  I  owe  that  I  should  die." 

"  I  never  yet  saw  sae  young  a  bride 

Lay  her  lugs  *  sae  in  a  dish  !  '* 

«« There  leeks  are  the  only  grass  that  springs. 

And  the  gowk  *  is  the  only  bird  that  sings ', 

Up  syne  sprang  the  kempery  men  ; 

Thegither  they  advise : 

u  There  a'  the  water  that  rins  is  wine  : 

«' Whilk  will  ye  rather,  pitch  the  bar, 

Ye  well  may  trow  this  tale  0*  mine." 

Or  kemp  in  knightly  guise  ? " 

"  O,  how  sail  I  frae  the  eastell  win. 

The  kempery  men  a  ring  they  drew 

Sae  fiel  *  they  watch  me  out  and  ip  ? 

All  on  the  sward  sae  green ; 

And  there,  in  honor  o*  the  bride. 

"  I  *m  watch'd  by  my  fiither,  I  'm  watch'd  by 

The  courtly  game  begin. 

my  mither. 

I  'm  watch'd  by  my  sister,  I  'm  watch'd  by  my 

The  young  bride  wi*  the  mickle  nieves  ^ 

brither; 

Up  irae  the  bride-bench  sprang : 

And  np  to  tulzie  8  wi'  her  there  lap 

»« My  bridegroom  watches  wherever  I  ga, 

The  Ettin  wi*  shanks  sae  lang. 

And  that  watch  fears  me  maist  ava !  "  * 

There  danced  and  dinnled*  bench  and 

*«  And  gin  a'  your  kin  were  watching  ye. 

board. 

Ye  maun  bide  by  what  ye  hecht^  to  me. 

And  sparks  firae  helmets  fly ; 

Out  then  leapt  the  kemps  sae  bold  : 

"  And  ye  maun  put  on  my  brynie  «  blae  ; 

•«  Help,  Mother  Skratt !  "  they  cry. 

My  gilded  helmet  ye  soil  hae  ; 

3  HIecop.               «  Eaiw,                   •  Wrertle. 

1  Sorrow.               4  Cuckoo.               7  PromiBed. 

1        ^SwoHen.              T  FisU.                  » Jingled. 

s  Island.                 »  Many.                 8  CuiniM. 

1    '"-^ 

3NowtM.               «  Of  all 

72 


DANISH   POETRY. 


**  My  gude  brand  belted  by  your  side ; 
Sae  unlike  a  lady  ye  will  ride : 

'*  Wi*  gouden  spur  at  your  heel  sae  braw, 

Te  may  ride  thro'  the  mids  o'  your  kindred  a'/' 

His  mantel  blue  he  has  o*er  her  thrown. 
And  his  ambler  gray  he  has  set  her  upon. 

As  o'er  the  muir  in  fere  they  rade. 
They  met  a  rich  earl  that  till  them  said  : 

"  O,  hear  ye,  Ribolt,  dear  compere  mine, 
Whare  gat  ye  that  page  sae  fair  and  fine  ?  " 

**  O,  it  is  nane  but  my  youngest  brither, 
And  I  gat  him  frae  nane  but  my  mither." 

"  In  vain  ye  frae  me  the  truth  wad  heal : 
Guldborg,  Guldborg,  I  ken  ye  weel. 

*<  Your  red  scarlet  ye  well  may  len  ;  * 
But  your  rosy  cheeks  fu'  well  I  ken. 

«*  I'  your  fiither's  castell  I  did  sair,  lo 
And  I  ken  you  well  by  your  yellow  hair. 

u  By  your  claiths  and  your  shoon  I  ken  ye  ill, 
But  I  ken  the  knight  ye  your  troth  gae  till ; 

<*  And  the  Brok  ^^  I  ken,  that  has  gotten  your 

han' 
Afore  baith  priest  and  laic  man.*' 

He  's  taen  the  goud  bracelet  frae  his  hand. 
And  on  the  earlis  arm  it  band  : 

"  Whaever  ye  meet,  or  wharever  ye  gae. 
Ye  naething  o'  me  maun  to  nae  man  say." 

The  earl  he  has  ridden  to  Kallo-house, 
Whare,  merrily-drinking,  the  kemps  carouse. 

Whan  Sir  Truid's  castell  within  cam  he, 
Sir  Truid  at  the  deas  he  was  birling  ^*  free  : 

<*  Here  sit  ye,  Sir  Truid,  drinking  mead  and 

wine ; 
Wi'  your  bride  rides  Ribolt  roundly  hyne."  *• 

Syne  Truid  o'er  the  castell  loud  can  ca' : 
*<  Swyth  on  wi'  your  brynies,  my  merry  men 
a'!" 

They  scantly  had  ridden  a  mile  but  four, 
Guldborg  she  luikit  her  shoulder  o'er : 

"  O,  yonder  see  I  my  father's  steed. 
And  I  see  the  knight  that  I  hae  wed !  " 

'*  Light  down,  Guldborg,  my  lady  dear. 
And  hald  our  steeds  by  Uie  renyies  ^*  here. 


•  OoncMl. 
10  Serre. 


11  Bndger. 
»  Drinking. 


IS  Hmim. 
14  Reins. 


"  And  e'en  sae  be  that  ye  see  me  fii', 
Be  sure  that  ye  never  upon  me  ca' ; 

'*  And  e'en  sae  be  that  ye  see  me  bleed. 
Be  sure  that  ye  namena  me  till  dead." 

Ribolt  did  on  his  brynie  blae ; 
Guldborg  she  clasp'd  it,  the  sooth  to  say. 

In  the  firsten  shock  o*  that  bargain,** 
Sir  Truid  and  her  father  dear  he  's  slain. 

I'  the  nezten  shock,  he  hew'd  down  there 
Her  twa  brethren  wi'  their  gouden  hair. 

**  Hald,  hald,  my  Ribolt,  dearest  mine. 
Now  belt  thy  brand,  for  it 's  mair  nor  time ! 

"  My  youngest  brither  ye  spare,  O,  spare 
To  my  mither  the  dowy  news  to  bear ; 

<«  To  tell  o'  the  dead  in  this  sad  stour !  — 
O,  wae,  that  ever  she  dochter  bure  ! " 

Whan  Ribolt's  name  she  nam'd  that  stound,  i* 
'T  was  then  that  he  gat  his  deadly  wound. 

Ribolt  he  has  belted  his  brand  by  his  side  : 
**  Ye  come  now,  Guldborg,  and  we  will  ride." 

As  on  to  the  Rosen-wood  they  rade. 
The  never  a  word  till  ither  they  said. 

"  O,  hear  ye  now,  Ribolt,  my  love,  tell  me. 
Why  are  ye  na  blythe  as  ye  wont  to  be  ?  " 

*<  O,  my  life-blood  it  rins  fast  and  firee, 
And  wae  is  my  heart,  as  it  well  may  be  ! 

«  And  soon,  fu*  soon,  I  '11  be  cald  in  the  clay. 
And  my  Guldborg  I  maun  a  maiden  lea'." 

**  It 's  I  '11  tak  my  silken  lace  e'en  now. 
And  bind  up  your  wound  the  best  I  dow."  " 

«  God  help  thee,  Guldborg,  and  me  on  thee ; 
Sma*  boot  can  thy  silken  lace  do  me  !  " 

Whan  they  cam  till  the  castell  yett. 
His  mither  she  stood  and  leant  thereat 

^'  Ye  're  welcome,  Ribolt,  dear  son  mine. 
And  sae  I  wat  is  she,  young  bride  thine. 

**  Sae  pale  a  bride  saw  I  never  air,  '• 

That  hieid  ridden  sae  far  but  goud  on  her  hair." 

**  Nae  wonder,  nae  wonder,  tho'  pale  she  be, 
Sae  hard  a  fecht  as  she  's  seen  wi'  me  ! 

«» Wold  God  I  had  but  an  hour  to  live  I  — 
But  my  last  bequests  awa'  I  '11  give. 


1*  Battla.        le  Tim*.         it  Cmi.        it  Till  now. 


BALLADS.                                                             73  i 

^  To  my  father  mj  steed  sue  tall  I  gie ; 

«« And  who  is  he,  that  noble  child 

Dear  mither,  ye  ietch  a  priest  to  me  ! 

That  rides  sae  bold  and  fiee.'  " 

M  To  my  dear  brither,  that  stands  me  near, 

Syne  up  and  spak  the  maiden  feir 

I  lea'  Gnldborg  that  I  hald  sae  dear." 

Was  next  unto  the  bride  : 

M  It  is  the  Young  Child  Dyr^ 

««  How  glad  thy  bequest  were  I  to  &ng,  >• 

That  stately  steed  does  ride." 

But  haly  kirk  wad  ca*  it  wrang." 

«« And  is  't  the  Young  Child  Dyr^ 

^  Sae  help  me  Ood  at  my  utmost  need, 

That  rides  sae  bold  and  free  > 

Aa  Gnldborg  for  me  b  a  may  indeed. 

God  wot,  he  's  dearer  that  rides  that  steed 

Nora'theUve>tome!" 

^  Ance,  only  ance,  with  a  lover^s  lyst, 

And  but  only  ance,  her  mouth  I  kist." 

All  rode  they  there,  the  bridal  train. 

Each  rode  his  steed  to  stall, 

M  It  ne'er  sail  be  said,  till  my  dying  day, 

All  but  Child  Dyrd,  that  look'd  where  he 

That  till  twa  brithers  I  plight  my  fay.'^ 

Should  find  his  seat  in  the  hall. 

Ribolt  was  dead  or  the  cock  did  craw; 

•*  Sit  where  ye  list,  my  lordings  ; 

Guldborg  she  died  or  the  day  did  daw. 

For  me,  whate'er  betide. 

Here  I  shall  sickerly  *  sit  the  day. 

Three  likes  *<^  fiae  that  bower  were  carried  in 

fere. 
And  eomely  were  they  withouten  peer : 

To  hald  the  sun  frae  the  bride." 

Than  up  spak  the  bride's  father. 

And  an  angry  man  was  he  : 

Sir  Ribolt  the  leal,  and  his  bride  sae  feir, 

"  Whaever  sits  by  my  dochter  the  day. 

(Sae  be  that  ye  are  willing,) 

Ye  better  awa'  wad  be." 

And  his  mither  that  died  wi'  sorrow  and  care. 

(There  's  a  hue  and  cry  Ibr  them.) 

^  It 's  I  have  intill  Paris  been. 

And  well  my  drift  can  spell ; 

And  aye  whatever  I  have  to  say, 
I  tell  it  best  mysell." 

YOUNG  CHILD  DTRING. 

>'  Sooth  thou  hast  intill  Paris  lear'd  ' 

It  was  the  Young  Child  Dyring, 

A  worthless  drift  to  spell : 

Wi'  his  mither  rede  did  he  : 

And  aye  whatever  thou  hast  to  say. 

«« I  will  me  out  ride 

A  rogue's  tale  thou  must  tell." 

Sir  Magnus's  bride  to  see." 

(His  leave  the  page  takes  to-day  frae 

Ben  stept  he,  Young  Child  Dyr6, 

his  master.) 

Nor  reck'd  he  wha  might  chide  ; 

And  he  has  taen  a  chair  in  hand. 

^  Wilt  thou  thee  out  ride, 

And  set  him  by  the  bride. 

Sir  Magnus's  bride  to  see  ? 

Sae  beg  I  thee  by  Almighty  God 

'T  was  lang  i*  the  night ;  the  bride-folk 

Thou  speed  thee  home  to  me." 

Ilk  ane  look'd  for  his  bed ; 

(His  leave  the  page  takes  to-day  frae 

And  Young  Child  Dyr^  amang  the  lave 

his  master.) 

Speer'd  where  he  should  be  laid. 

Syne  answer'd  Young  Child  DyiA ;  — 

•(  Without,  afore  the  stair  steps. 

He  rode  the  bride  to  meet ; 

Or  laigb  *  on  the  cawsway  stane. 

The  silk  but  and  the  black  sendell 

And  there  may  lye  Sir  Dyr^  ; 

Hang  down  to  his  horse's  feet. 

For  ither  bed  we  've  nana." 

All  rode  they  there,  the  bride-folk. 

'T  was  late  intill  the  evening, 

On  row  sae  fair  to  see ; 

The  bride  to  bed  maun  ga ; 

Excepting  Sir  Svend  Djrrd, 

And  out  went  he.  Child  Dyring, 

And  far  about  rode  he. 

To  rouse  his  menyie  a'. 

It  was  the  young  Child  Dyr&  rode 

«  Now  busk  and  don  your  hamass. 

Alone  along  the  strand  ; 

But  and  your  brynies  blae  ; 

The  bridle  was  of  the  red  gold 

And  boldly  to  the  bride-bower 

That  glitter'd  in  his  hand. 

Full  merrily  we  '11  gae." 

'T  was  then  proud  Lady  Ellensboig, 

Sae  foUow'd  they  to  the  bride-bower 

And  under  weed  sroil'd  she  : 

That  bride  sae  young  and  bright : 

i»  Tkke.                          ao  Corpsa^ 

I  Ra>U         s  Sunljr.           9  Learned.         4  Low. 
0 

74 


DANISH  POETRY. 


And  forward  slept  Child  Djrr^ 
And  quench'd  the  marriage  light. 

The  crewet  thej  Ve  lit  up  again, 

But  and  the  taper  clear, 
And  follow'd  to  the  bride-bower 

That  bride  without  a  peer. 


And  up  Child  Dyr6  snatch'd  the  bride, 

All  in  his  mantle  blae  ; 
And  swung  her  all  so  lightly 

Upon  his  ambler  gray. 

They  lock'd  the  bower,  they  lit  the  torch ; 

'T  was  hurry-scurry  a' ; 
While  merrily  aye  the  lovers  gay 

Rode  roundly  to  the  shaw. 

In  Rosen- wood  they  tum'd  about 

To  pray  their  bridal  prayer : 
"  Good  night  and  joy,  Sir  Magnus  ! 

For  us  ye  '11  see  nae  mair." 

Sae  rode  he  to  the  green  wood, 

And  o'er  the  meadow  green, 
Till  he  came  to  his  mither's  bower, 

Ere  folks  to  bed  were  gane. 

Out  came  proud  Lady  Metelild, 

In  menevair  sae  fi«e ; 
She  's  welcom'd  him.  Child  Dyring, 

And  his  young  bride  him  wi . 

Now  joys  attend  Child  Dyring, 

Sae  leal  but  and  sae  bold ; 

He  's  taen  her  to  his  ain  castell, 

His  bride-ale  there  to  hold. 

(His  leave  the  page  takes  to-day  firae 
his  master.) 


CHILD  AXELVOLD. 

Thb  kingis  men  they  ride  till  the  wold, 

There  they  hunt  baith  the  hart  and  the  hind ; 

And  they,  under  a  linden  sae  green, 
Sae  wee  a  bairn  find. 

(I'  the  loft  whare  sleeps  she,  the  proud  Elin^.) 

That  little  dowie  up  they  took, 

Swyl'd '  him  in  a  mantle  blae ; 
They  took  him  till  the  kingis  court, 

Till  him  a  nourice  gae. 
(I'  the  loft  whare  sleeps  she,  the  proud  Elin&.) 

And  they  hae  carried  him  till  the  kirk. 

And  christen 'd  him  by  night ; 
And  they  Ve  ca*d  him  Young  Axelvold, 

And  hidden  him  as  they  might. 

They  Ibater'd  him  for  ae  winter. 

And  sae  for  winters  three ; 
And  he  has  grown  the  bonniest  bairn 

That  man  on  mold  mat  see. 

tSwttihed. 


And  they  hae  foster'd  him  sae  lang. 

Till  he  was  now  eighteen ; 
And  he  has  grown  the  wordiest  child 

Was  in  the  palace  seen. 

The  kingis  men  till  the  court  aro  gane. 

To  just,  and  put  the  stane  ; 
And  out  slept  he,  Child  Axelvold, 

And  waur'd  them  ilka  ane. 

**  'T  were  better  ye  till  the  house  gang  in. 

And  for  your  mither  speer. 
Nor  thus  wi'  courtly  knights  to  mell. 

And  dare  and  scorn  them  hero." 

Up  syne  spak  Young  Axelvold, 

And  his  cheek  it  grew  wan  : 
^*  I  's  weet  whaso  my  mither  is. 

Or  ever  we  kemp^  again." 

It  was  the  Young  Axelvold 

Thought  mickle,  but  said  nae  mair ; 
And  he  is  till  the  bower  gane 

To  speer  for  his  mither  there. 

**  Hear  ye  this,  dear  foster-mither. 

What  I  now  speer  at  thee  ; 
Gin  aught  ye  o'  my  mither  weet. 

Ye  quickly  tell  it  me." 

**  Hear  ye  this,  dear  Axelvold, 

Why  will  ye  tak  on  sae  ? 
Nor  living  nor  dead  ken  I  thy  mither, 

I  tell  thee  on  my  fiiy. " 

It  was  then  Young  Axelvold, 

And  he  draw  out  his  knifo  : 
'*  Ye  's  tell  me  wha  my  mither  is. 

Or  it  sail  cost  thy  lifo." 

*<  Then  gae  thou  till  the  ladies'  bower. 

Ye  hendly  •  greet  them  a' ; 
Her  a  goud  coronet  that  wears, 

Dear  mither  ye  may  ca'." 

It  was  then  Young  Axelvold 

Put  on  his  pilche  sae  braw. 
And  he  's  up  till  the  ladies'  bower, 

'Fore  damea  and  maidens  a'. 

**  Hera  sit  ye,  ladies  and  manes. 

Maiden  and  courtly  fre ;  * 
But  and  allerdearest  mither  mine 

I'  the  mida  o'  you  should  be." 

All  sat  they  thera,  the  proud  maidens, 

Nae  ane  durst  say  a  word ; 
But  it  was  proud  Lady  Elin^, 

She  set  her  crown  o'  the  board. 

•*  Here  ait  ye,  my  right  mither, 

Wi'  hand  sae  saft  and  fair : 
Whare  is  the  bairn  ye  bure  in  dem,* 

Albe  goud  crown  ye  wear  ?  " 


'SuiTv. 


>  GeoOj. 


4  Dune. 


•Sacrat. 


BALLADS. 


75 


Lang  BUiid  the,  th^  prood  EUn^ 

Nor  answer'd  6T6r  a  word ; 
Her  cheelu,  eae  richly  red  ifore, 

Orew  haw  '  aa  oo j  eard. 

She  doff  *d  her  atudded  stemmiger. 

And  will  of  rede  ^  she  stuid : 
'*  I  bare  nae  bairn,  sae  help  me  Ood 

But  and  oar  Lady  gude  ! " 

«4  Hear  ye  this,  dear  mither  mine ; 

Forsooth  it  ia  great  shame 
For  you  sae  lang  to  heal  that  ye 

Was  mither  to  tic  a  man. 

•«  And  hear  ye  this,  allerdearest  mither, 

What  now  I  say  to  thee  ; 
Gin  aught  ye  o*  my  lather  weet. 

Ye  heal  *t  nae  mair  ftae  me." 

•*  To  the  king's  palace  then  ye  maon  pas ; 

And,  trow  ye  well  my  word, 
Tour  dear  fiither  ye  may  ca*  him  there 

That  has  knights  to  serre  at  his  board. 

*^  And  do  ye  till  the  kingis  ha', 
'Fore  knights  and  liegemen  a', 

And  see  ye  Erland  the  kingis  son. 
Ye  may  him  year  &ther  ea'." 

It  was  then  Young  Azelvold 

Put  on  the  scarlet  red, 
And  in  aibre  the  Danish  king 

I'  the  kingis  ha*  he  gaed. 

M  Here  sit  ye,  knight  and  child,  and  drink 
The  moad  and  wine  sae  free ', 

But  and  allerdearest  father  mine 
I'  the  mids  o'  you  should  be. 

**  Here  sit  ye,  dearest  father  mine : 

Men  me  a  foundling  name ; 
And  a  man  like  me  sae  scom'd  to  be, 

Forsooth  it  is  great  shame !  " 

All  sat  they  then,  the  kingis  men. 

As  haw  as  ony  eard ; 
But  it  was  Erland  the  kingis  son, 

•And  he  spak  the  first  word. 

Up  spak  he,  Erland,  the  kingis  son. 

Right  unaseurM  spak  he  : 
'<  I  'm  nae  thy  fiither,  AxeWold, 

Sic  like  thou  say*st  I  be." 

It  was  then  Young  Axelvold, 

And  he  drew  out  his  knife  : 
**  My  mither  ye  sail  either  wed. 

Or  it  sail  cost  thy  life." 

'<  Wi*  knight  and  squire  it  were  Ibul  scorn 

And  deadly  shame  for  me. 
That  I  should  lather  a  bastard  bairn, 

A  kingis  son  that  be. 


«  PaU. 


T  Bewildered. 


M  But  hear  thou  this.  Young  AzeWold, 

Thou  art  a  prince  sae  fine. 
Then  gie  thou  me,  my  wife  to  be, 

Elin^,  mither  thine." 

And  glad  were  they  in  the  kingis  court, 

Wi'  lyst  and  mickle  game ; 
AzeWold  's  gi'en  his  mither  awa ; 

His  fiither  her  has  taen. 

It  was  the  Young  Axelvold 
Oae  a  dunt '  the  board  upon : 

M  I'  the  court  I  was  but' a  foundling  brat ; 
The  day  I  'm  a  kingis  son  ! " 
(I*  the  loft  where  sleeps  she,  the  proud  Elini.) 


THE  WASSEL  DANCE. 

Thx  night  is  the  night  o*  the  wank ;  *■ 

(There  wauk  may  he  that  will ;) 
There 's  fiel  come  to  dance  and  wassol  mak. 
(Where  wanks  she,  the  proud  Signelild, 
under  sae  green  an  oe.) 

Proud  Signild  speer'd  at  her  mither  right, 
(There  wauk  may  he  that  will,) 

<«  May  I  gae  till  the  wauk  the  night  ?  " 

(Whare  wauks  she,  the  proud  Signelild, 
under  sae  green  an  oe.) 

«« O,  what  will  ye  at  the  wauk-house  do, 
But  sister  or  brither  to  gang  wi'  you  ? 

**  Brither  or  gude-brither  hae  ye  nane. 

Nor  gang  ye  to  wauk-house  the  night  alane." 

That  maiden  fine  has  prigget  *  sae  lang, 
Her  mither  at  last  gae  her  leave  to  gang. 

**  Thou  gang,  thou  gang  now,  dochter  mine. 
But  to  nae  wauk-house  gangs  mither  thine. 

"The  king  he  is  coming  wi'  a*  his  men  ; 
Sae  lyth  '  my  rede,  and  bide  at  hame." 

*<  There  comes  the  queen  wi'  her  maries  a' ; 
To  talk  wi'  them,  mither,  lat  me  fa'." 

She  to  the  green  wood  her  way  has  taen. 
And  she  is  till  the  wauk-house  gaen. 

Afore  she  wan  the  green  strath  ^  o'er. 
The  queen  was  gane  to  bed  in  her  bower. 

Ere  she  to  the  castell  yett  can  win. 
The  wassel  dance  it  was  begun. 

There  danced  all  the  kingis  men. 

And  the  king  himsell  he  danced  wi'  them. 

The  king  raught  out  his  hand  sae  firee  : 
•<  Fair  maiden,  will  ye  dance  wi'  me  ?  " 

t  Blow,     t  Wake.     *  Eatreated.     ^  Llateo.    *  Plain. 


76 


DANISH  POETRY. 


^<  I  'm  onljT  come  o*er  the  dale,  to  see 
An  the  Daniah  queen  can  apeak  to  me.** 

"  Ye  dance  wi'  ua  a  wee  but  fear, 

And  the  queen  heraell  will  soon  be  here.'* 

Out  Btept  Signild,  jimp  and  sma' ; 

The  king  gae  'r  his  hand,  and  they  danced  awa'. 

"  Hear  ye  what,  Signild,  I  say  to  thee ; 
A  lay  o'  love  ye  maun  sing  to  me." 

**  In  lays  o*  lore  nae  skill  I  hae, 
But  I  '11  sing  anither  the  best  I  may." 

Proud  Signild  can  sing  a  sang  wi*  that ; 
This  heard  the  queen  in  her  bower  that  sat. 

This  heard  the  queen  in  her  bower  that  lay : 
<*  Whilk  ane  o'  my  ladies  is  singing  sae  ? 

*<  Whilk  ladies  o'  mine  dance  at  this  late  hour  ? 
Why  didna  they  follow  me  up  to  my  bower  ?  " 

Syne  up  spak  a  page  in  kirtle  red  : 

**  It 's  nane  o'  your  ladies,  I  well  ye  rede ; 

"  Nae  ane  o'  your  ladies  I  reckon  it  be. 
But  it  is  proud  Signild  under  oe." 

"  Ye  bring  my  scarlet  sae  fine  to  roe, 
And  I  will  forth  this  lady  to  see." 

Whan  she  came  till  the  castell  yett. 
The  dance  gaed  sae  merrily  and  sae  feat. 

Around  and  around  they  dancing  gae ; 
The  queen  she  stood  and  saw  the  deray ;  * 

And  bitter  the  pangs  her  heart  did  wring, 
Whan  she  saw  Signild  dance  wi'  the  king. 

It 's  Sophi*  says  till  her  bower- woman ; 
"  Bring  a  horn  o'  wine  sae  swyth  ye  can ; 

<*  A  horn  o*  goud  come  hand  to  me, 
And  lat  it  wi'  wine  well  filled  be." 

The  king  raught  out  his  hand  sae  free : 
"  Will  ye,  Sophia,  dance  wi'  me  ?  " 

"  To  dance  wi'  thee  nor  can  I  nor  will, 
'Less  first  proud  Signild  drink  me  till." 

She  hent  the  horn,  and  she  drank  sae  free :  — 
Her  heart  it  brast,  and  dead  fell  she. 

Lang  luikit  the  king  in  speechless  wae. 
As  dead  at  his  feet  the  maiden  lay  : 

"  Sae  young  and  sae  fair  !  wae,  wae  is  me, 
Thy  dowie  sakeless  '  weird  ^  to  see !  " 

Sair  grat  the  women  and  maries  there. 
As  intill  the  kirk  her  like  they  bare. 


*  M orrimeat. 


«  OuilUeM. 


T  Destiny. 


Had  she  but  lythit  her  mither's  rede, 
(There  wauk  may  he  that  will,) 

That  maiden  she  never  sae  ill  had  sped. 

(Whare  wauks  she,  the  proud  Signelild, 
under  sae  green  an  oe.) 


OLUF  PANT. 

Olvf  Part  be  sits  in  Korsoer-house, 

A-drinking  wi'  his  men  ; 
And  merrily  drink  they  and  carouse. 
Till  themselves  they  downa  tame. 
(Oluf  Pant  the  bonny, 
Wi'  a'  his  menyie. 
They  maun  a'  sae  sorry  and  wae  be !) 

**  My  service  now  will  ye  forleet,* 

And  lose  baith  meat  and  fee ; 

Or  follow  me  swyth  to  Grerlev, 

For  a  lemman  there  to  see  ?  " 

(Oluf  Pant  the  bonny, 

Wi'  a'  his  menyie. 

They  maun  a'  sae  sorry  and  wae  be !) 

His  service  nane  wad  there  forleet, 

Amang  his  merry  men  a'. 
Nor  langer  while  deval,'  but  till 

They  took  their  steeds  frae  the  sta*. 

,He  's  bidden  them  saddle  the  bonniest  steed 

They  in  the  sta'  can  find  : 
<*  Mat  Burmand  's  be  our  host  the  night, 

As  he  this  while  sail  mind !  " 

Sae  on  they  *ve  ridden  to  Stnd^by, 
Thro'  wood  and  shaw  in  haste  ; 

Tyg^  Olesen  stood  i'  the  cauler  air. 
And  bade  them  in  to  guest. 

It  was  then  rich  Oluf  Pant 

Hade  up'  till  Gerlev  yett ; 
His  steed  that  day,  the  sooUi  to  say. 

Full  proudly  did  curvett. 

He  rade  intill  Mat  Burmand's  yard. 

Well  wrapt  in  vair  '  sae  gay  ; 
And  out  the  husbande  he  could  come. 

All  in  his  kirtle  gray. 

**  Thou  shalt  lend  us  thy  house  the  night, 

And  mak  us  bierdly  ^  cheer ; 
But  and  gie  us  thy  huswife  swyth. 

Or  I  sail  fell  thee  here." 

**  Gin  I  lend  you  my  house  the  night. 

And  mak  ye  bierdly  cheer ; 
But  and  gie  you  my  huswife  swyth, 

'T  will  gang  my  heart  right  near." 

Their  steeds  he  's  till  the  stable  led ; 

Gien  them  baith  com  and  hay ; 
And  merrily  they  to  the  chalmer  gang. 

To  talk  wi'  huswife  and  may. 


I  Qufu 


3  Delay. 


»  Fur. 


4  Genarous. 


BALLADS. 


77 


The  hasbande  turn'd  him  snell  *  aboat. 

All  in  his  kirtle  gray, 
And  he  has  sought  the  gainest '  gate 
•      To  Andershaw  that  Uy. 

Olaf  Mortensen,  that  gade  prior, 
Speer'd  at  the  hnsbuide  right : 

««  What  has  befa'n  that  thee  has  drawn 
Up  here  sae  late  the  night  ?  *' 

^  O,  sad  's  my  teen  and  unforeseen  ! 

Oluf  Pant  is  in  my  hame ; 
But  him  and  his  rout  I  may  drive  out. 

My  wife  is  brought  to  shame.*' 

"T  was  then  the  gude  prior  Oluf  Mortensen 

O'er  a'  the  house  can  ca' : 
*^  Up,  up  in  haste,  and  swyth  do  on 

Your  brynies,  my  merry  men  a' ! 

(*  Swyth  busk  ye  weel  frae  crown  to  heel 

I'  your  gear,  as  best  ye  may ; 
Oluf  Pant  to  cow  will  be  nae  mow ;  ^ 

We  '11  find  nae  bairns'  play. 

^  And  hye,  thou  luckless  husbande,  hame, 

And  lock  thy  dogs  up  weel ; 
And  keep  a'  quiet  as  ye  may ;  — 

We  '11  tread  close  at  your  heel." 

Buskit  and  boun  *  the  stout  prior. 
Till  Burmand's  yard  he  rade  : 

Now  God  in  heaven  his  help  mat  be ;  — 
Oluf  Pant  he  draws  his  blade ! 

Oluf  Mortensen  at  the  door  gaed  in, 

In  a  grim  and  angry  mood ; 
Oluf  Pant  lap  lightly  till  his  legs. 

And  up  afore  him  stood. 

*<  Wha  bade  thee  here  till  Geriev-town, 
Wi'  my  husbande  leal  to  guest  ? 

Up,  up,  to  horse,  and  swyth  be  gone. 
Or  thou  's  find  a  bitter  feast." 

Oluf  Pant  wi'  that  gan  smile  aneath 

His  cleading  o'  towey  *  vair, 
And,  '*  They  are  mine  as  well  as  thine," 

He  safUy  whisper'd  there. 

Swyth  out  the  prior  drew  his  swerd ; 

He  scom'd  to  flince  or  flee ; 
The  light  in  the  chandler  Oluf  Pant  put  out. 

And  wi'  Helen^  fight  maun  he. 

I'  the  hen-bauks  '^  up  Oluf  Pant  he  crap ; 

There  he  was  nagate  fain  : 
The  prior  took  tent  whareas  he  sat. 

And  in  blood-bath  laid  him  then. 

Sae  they  the  rich  Oluf  Pant  hae  slain. 
And  his  men  a',  three  times  three, 

A'  but  the  silly  little  foot-page. 
And  to  him  his  life  they  gie. 


»  Qaickljr. 
<  Nearest. 


T  Game. 
»  Went. 


10  Hen-roost 


ROSMER  HAFMAND, 
OR  THE  lOER-MAN   ROSHEB. 

Bow-HouoHS  and  Elfin-stane, 
And  fiel  >  mair  I  canna  name. 

They  loot  them  bigg  sae  stark  a  ship ; 
Till  Island  maun  they  stem. 
(I  never  will  break  my  troth.) 

They  shot  the  ship  out  in  the  brim  ' 
That  bremm'd  '  like  an  angry  bear : 

The  White  Gkx>se«  sank;  the  laidly  elves 
Loot  her  rise  up  nae  mair. 
(I  never  will  break  my  troth.) 

T  was  then  the  young  Child  Roland, 
He  sought  on  the  sea-ground. 

And  leading  untill  Eline's  bower, 
A  little  green  sty  *  he  found. 

Roland  gaed  to  the  castell ;  — 

He  saw  the  red  fire  flee : 
**  Now  come  o'  me  whatso  God  will. 

It  's  here  that  I  maun  be." 

And  it  was  the  Child  Roland, 

Intill  the  court  rade  he, 
And  there  stood  his  sister,  proud  Eline, 

In  menevair  sae  free. 


And  Roland  into  the  castell  < 

His  hands  he  downs  steer  : 
"  God  rue  on  thee,  poor  luckleas  fode,' 

What  hast  thou  to  do  here  ?  " 

This  Eline  was  to  him  unkent : 
'*  What  for  soe'er  thou  came. 

What  so  thy  letter  or  errand  be. 
Would  thou  had  bidden  at  hame  \ 

**  And  gae  thou  till  that  chalmer  in, 

Sae  Srozen  wat  and  haw  ; 
But  come  the  Lang-shanks  Ettin  in. 

He  '11  rive  thee  in  dugits  ^  sma'. 

**  And  sit  thou  down,  thou  luckless  fbde. 
And  warm  thou  thy  shin-bane ; 

But  come  the  Lang-shanks  Ettin  in. 
He  '11  stick  thee  on  this  stane." 

Hame  cam  Rosmer  Lang-shanks, 
And  he  was  wroth  and  grim  : 

<*  Sae  well  I  wiss  there  's  come  in  here 
A  Christian  woman  or  man  !  " 

Proud  Eline  lyle  is  gane  to  him. 

To  win  him  as  she  dow  : ' 
<*  There  flew  a  craw  out  o'er  the  house, 

Wi'  a  man's  bane  in  his  mou'." 

Rosmer  screeched  and  sprang  about : 
"  Here  's  a  Christian  man  I  ken  ; 

But  and  thou  tell  me  truth,  but  lies, 
I  will  thee  stick  and  bren  !  " 


1  Many.      3  Growled.  »  Path.       T  Piece 

s  Sea.  4  The  name  of  the  ship.     <  Man.       •  Oan. 


78 


DANISH    POETRY. 


Eline  lyle  took  o'er  her  her  blue  mantel, 

And  afore  Rosmer  can  stand : 
'*  Here  is  a  child  frae  Island  come, 

O'  my  near  kin  and  land.*' 

'*  And  is  a  child  frae  Island  come, 

Sae  near  a-kin  to  thee  ? 
His  ward  and  warrant  I  swear  to  be ; 

He  's  never  be  drown'd  by  me." 

Sae  here  in  love  and  lyst  fu'  deme  * 
Scarce  twa  years  o*er  them  flew, 

Whan  the  proud  lady  Eline's  cheek 
Grew  a'  sae  wan  o*  hue. 

About  twa  years  he  there  had  been ; 

But  there  maun  be  nae  mair ; 
Proud  Eline  lyle's  wi'  bairn  by  him  : 

That  wirks  them  mickle  care. 

Proud  Eline  lyle's  now  taen  on  her 

Afore  Rosmer  to  stand : 
«*  Will  ye  gie  till  this  fremmit  ^^  page 

Forlof  hame  till  his  land  ?  " 

<*  And  will  he  gae  hame  till  his  land  ? 

And  say'st  thou  that  for  true  ? 
Then  o'  the  goud  and  white  money 

A  kist  I  *l\  gie  him  fu'." 

Sae  took  he  mickle  red  goad, 

And  laid  it  in  a  kist ; 
And  proud  Eline  lyle  laid  hersell  wi*  it ;  — 

That  Rosmer  little  wist. 

He  took  the  man  under  his  arm ; 

The  kist  on  his  back  took  he ; 
Sae  he  can  under  the  saut  sea  gang, 

Sae  canny  and  sae  free. 

"  Now  I  hae  borne  thee  till  the  land ; 

Thou  seest  baith  slin  and  moon  : 
And  I  gie  thee  this  lust  o'  goud, 

That  is  nae  churlis  boon." 

« I  thank  thee,  Rosmer,  thou  gude  fellow; 

Thou  'st  landed  me  hut  harm ; 
I  tell  thee  now  for  tidings  new, 

Proud  Eline  lyle's  wi'  bairn." 

Then  ran  the  tears  down  Rosmer's  cheeks, 
As  the  bum  "  rins  down  the  brae  :  ^* 

'*  But  I  hae  sworn  thee  ward  and  warrant. 
Here  drowning  thou  should  hae." 

Hame  to  the  knock  >'  syne  Rosmer  ran. 

As  the  hart  rins  to  the  hind ; 
But  whan  to  the  knock  that  he  cam  hame, 

Nae  Eline  lyle  could  he  find. 

But  proud  Eline  and  Child  Roland, 

Wi*  gaming  lyst  and  joy, 
Gaed  hand  in  hand,  wi'  kindly  talk. 

And  mony  an  amorous  toy. 


•  Secretly. 
io  Foreign. 


"  Brook. 
»  HiUflkfe. 


13  HUIock. 


Rosmer  waxt  sae  wrbth  and  grim. 
Whan  he  nae  Eline  (and. 

He  turn'd  intill  a  whinstane  gray, 
Siclike  he  there  does  stand. 


WIT  AT  NEED. 

Thb  brither  did  at  the  sister  speer, 
(Oil  and  many  times,)  ^ 

^  will  ye  na  tak  a  man  to  your  fere  ?  '* 
(It  *8  a*  for  her  dearie  she  sorrows  sae.) 


«  O  na,  O  na,  dear  brither  I "  she  said, 

(Oil  and  many  times,) 
For  I  am  o'er  young  yet  to  wed.** 

(It 's  a'  for  her  dearie  she  sorrows  sae.) 

"  Gin  they  say  true  in  this  gate  en*. 

Ye  've  nae  been  aye  sae  fleyt  ^  for  men.** 

«*  They  say  was  aye  for  a  liar  kent ; 
O*  they  says  nana  but  fools  tak  tenL" 

<*  But  wha  was  that  for  a  knight  sae  braw. 
That  rade  frae  your  castle  this  morning  awa*  ?*' 

^^ A  knight!"  quo'  she;  "braw  knights  in- 

deed!  — 
'T  was  my  Utile  foat-pmge  upon  his  steed  !  " 

<*  But  what  were  they  for  twa  pair  o*  skeen^ 
That  lay  afore  your  bed  yestreen  ?  " 

(« Twa  pair  o'fikem.'"  quo' she;  <*o*«ibe]i/' 
'T  is  surely  my  ri^ers^  Billy,  you  mean." 

"  And  what  wee  haimies^  the  tither  day, 
Was  it  i'  the  bed  wi'  you  that  lay  ?  " 

"  Wee  haimies  !  —  O,  ay !  —  the  tither  day, 
Wi'  my  dmoie^  I  mind  now,  I  did  play !  " 

**  But  what  for  a  haimie  was  it  that  cried 
Sae  loud  i'  your  bower  this  morrow  tide  ?  '* 

<'  Could  ever  sic  greeting  a  laimie^s  be  ? 
*T  was  my  lassie  that  grat,  she  had  tint*  her 
key." 

*<  And  what  bonny  cradle  was  it  sae  braw, 
That  I  i'  the  neuk  sae  cannily  saw  ?  " 

*'  Bonny  cradle  !  '*  quo'  she ;  **  gude  sain  your 

een ! 
It 's  my  silk  loom  wi'  the  wab  you  've  seen. 

**  Now,  brither,  what  mair  hae  ye  to  speer  ? 
I'  ve  answers  aneuch,  ye  needna  foar !  " 


Whan  women  for  answers  are  at  a  stand, 

(Oft  and  many  times,) 
The  North  Sea  bottom  will  be  dry  land. 

(It  *s  a'  for  her  dearie  she  sorrows  sae.) 


I  Afnid. 


>  Lost. 


BALLADS. 


79 


TH£   MER-MAN,  AND  MAR8TIO*8 
DAUGHTER. 

**  Now  rede  *  me^  dew  mither,  ft  ■onij  *  red* ; 

A  sonsy  rode  twythe  rede  to  me. 
How  Marrtig*9  daughter  I  may  &', 

My  love  and  lemman  gay  to  be.'* 

She  *8  made  him  a  eteed  o*  the  clear  water ; 

A  saddle  and  bridle  o*  nnd  mide  she ; 
8he  'a  ahap*d  him  into  a  knight  sae  lair, 

Syne  into  Mary'e  kirk-yard  rade  he. 

He  's  tied  his  steed  to  the  kirk-stile, 

Syne  wrsng-gates'  roand  the  kirk  gaed  he; 

When  the  Mer-man  entered  the  kirk-door, 
Awa  the  sma*  images  turned  their  ee*. 

The  priest  afore  the  altar  stood : 

•«  O,  what  for  a  gode  knight  may  this  be  ?  '* 
The  may  leogh  till  hersell,  and  said, 

■(  Ood  gif  that  gudo  knight  were  for  me !  '* 

Tlie  Mer-man  he  stept  o*er  ae  deas. 
And  he  has  steppit  over  three  : 

■*  O  maiden,  pledge  me  fiuth  and  troth  ! 
O  Maistig's  daughter,  gang  wi*  me !  " 

And  she  raught  out  her  lily  hand. 
And  pledg'd  it  to  the  knight  sae  free  : 

«« Hae ;  there  's  my  faith  and  troth,  Sir  Knight, 
And  willingly  I  *H  gang  wi*  thee." 

Out  free  the  kirk  gaed  the  bridal  train. 
And  on  they  danc*d  wi'  fearless  glee ; 

And  down  they  danc'd  unto  the  strand. 
Till  twasome  now  alane  they  be  : 

M  O  Marstig's  daughter,  baud  my  steed. 
And  the  bonniest  ship  I  '11  bigg  *  for  thee !" 

And  whan  they  came  to  the  white  sand, 
To  shore  the  sma*  boats  turning  came ; 

And  whan  they  came  to  the  deep  water. 
The  maiden  sank  in  the  saut  sea  &em. 

The  shriek  she  shriek'd  amang  the  waves 
Was  heard  far  up  upo'  the  land : 

*«  I  rede  gude  ladies,  ane  and  a'. 

They  dance  wi*  nae  sic  unco  *  man." 


ELFER  HILL. 

I  LAID  my  haffet^  on  Elfer  Hill ; 

Baft  Blooming*  clos'd  my  ee' ; 
And  there  twa  aelcouth  ^  ladies  came, 

Sae  fain  to  speak  to  me. 

Ane  clappit  me  then,  wi'  cheek  sae  white. 
And  rown'd  ^  intill  mine  ear : 


3  Good. 

>  Backwank. 


4  Build. 
»  Unknown. 


s  Slamber. 
9  StrangB. 
4  Whbperad. 


>*  Rise  up,  ftir  youth,  and  join  oar  daiioe ; 
Rise  up,  but*  doubt  or  fear ! 

^  Wake  up,  feir  youth,  and  join  the  daaoe, 

And  we  will  tread  the  ring. 
While  mair  nor  eardly  melody 

My  ladies  for  thee  sing." 

Syne  ane,  the  fkirest  may  on  mold, 

Sae  sweet  a  sang  began  ; 
The  hurling  stream  was  stiU'd  tberewi', 

Baa  fast  afore  that  ran. 

The  striving  stream  was  still'd  therewi', 

Sae  fest  that  wont  to  rin ; 
The  sma*  fish,  in  the  flood  that  swam, 

Amo*  their  fees  now  blin'. 

The  fishes  a',  in  flood  that  were. 

Lay  still,  baith  fin  and  tail ; 
The  sma'  fowls  in  the  shew  began 

To  whitter  *  in  the  dale. 

•*  O,  hear,  thou  fair,  thou  young  swain ! 

And  thou  wi'  us  will  dwell. 
Then  will  we  teach  thee  book  and  nme. 

To  read  and  write  sae  well. 

•«  I  '11  lear  thee  how  the  bear  to  bind. 

And  fasten  to  the  aik  tree ; 
The  dragon,  that  liggs  on  mickle  goad. 

Afore  thee  fast  shall  flee." 

They  danced  out,  and  they  danced  in. 

In  the  Elfer  ring  sae  green ; 
All  silent  sat  the  ^r  young  swain, 

And  on  his  sword  did  lean. 

M  Now  hear,  thou  fair,  thou  young  swain, 

But  and  thou  till  us  speak. 
Then  shall  on  sword  and  sharp  knife 

Thy  dearest  heart-blood  reek." 

Had  Gk>d  nae  made  my  luck  sae  gude, 
That  the  cock  did  wap  "*  his  wing, 

I  boot  hae  bidden  on  Elfer  Hill, 
In  the  Elf-ladies'  ring. 

I  rede  the  Danish  young  swains. 

That  to  the  court  will  ride. 
That  they  ne'er  ride  to  Elfer  Hill, 

Nor  sleep  upon  its  side. 


KING  OLUF  THE  SAINT. 

KiHO  Oluf  and  his  brother  bold 
'Bout  Norroway's  rocks  a  parley  hold. 

**  The  one  of  the  two  who  best  can  sail 
Shall  rule  o'er  Norroway's  hill  and  dale. 

*«  Who  first  of  us  reaches  our  native  ground 
O'er  all  the  region  shall  king  be  crowned." 

»  Without.       •  To  ifarUa  In  a  low  roieo.       7  Fkp. 


80 


DANISH  POETRY. 


Then  Harald  Haardrode  answer  made : 
*<  Ay,  let  it  be  done  as  thou  hast  said. 

<*  But  if  I  to-day  most  sail  with  thee, 

Thou  shalt  change  thy  vessel,  I  swear,  with  me. 

**  For  thou  hast  got  the  Dragon  of  speed ; 

I  shall  make  with  the  Oz  a  poor  figure  indeed. 

<*  The  Dragon  is  swift  as  the  clouds  in  chase ; 
The  Ox,  he  moveth  in  lazy,  pace." 

^  Hear,  Harald,  what  I  have  to  say  to  thee, 
What  thou  hast  proposed  well  pleaseth  me. 

**  If  my  ship  in  aught  be  better  than  thine, 
I  '11  readily,  cheerfully,  lend  thee  mine. 

*<  Do  thou  the  Dragon  so  sprightly  take, 
And  I  with  the  Ox  will  the  journey  make." 

**  But  first  to  the  church  we  '11  bend  our  way, 
Ere  our  hand  on  sail  or  on  oar  we  lay.*' 

And  into  the  church  Saint  Oluf  trode. 

His  beautiful  hair  like  the  bright  gold  glowed. 

But  soon,  out  of  breath,  there  came  a  man : 
<*  Thy  brother  is  sailing  off  fiut  as  he  can." 

**Let  them  sail,  my  friend,  who  to  sail  may 

choose; 
The  word  of  our  Lord  we  will  not  lose. 

<*  The  mass  is  the  word  of  our  blessed  Lord. 
Take  water,  ye  swains,  for  our  table  board. 

*<  We  will  sit  at  board,  and  the  meat  we  will 

taste, 
Then  unto  the  sea-shore  quietly  haste.' 

Now  down  they  ail  speed  to  the  ocean-strand. 
Where  the  Ox  lay  rocking  before  the  land. 

And  speedily  they  to  the  ocean  bore 
The  anchor,  and  cable,  and  sail,  and  oar. 

Saint  Oluf  he  stood  on  the  prow  when  on  board : 
"  Now  forward,  thou  Ox,  in  the  name  of  the 
Lord!" 

He  grappled  the  Ox  by  the  horn  so  white  :    • 
"  Hie  now,  as  if  thou  went  clover  to  bite ! " 

Then  fi>rward  the  Ox  began  to  hie. 

In  his  wake  stood  the  billows  boisterously. 

He  hallooed  to  the  lad  on  the  yard  so  high  : 
*«  Do  we  the  Dragon  of  Harald  draw  nigh  ?  " 

«  No  more  of  the  pomps  of  the  world  I  see 
Than  the  uppermost  top  of  the  good  oak-tree.  — 

(<  I  see  near  the  land  of  Norroway  skim 
Bright  silken  sails  with  a  golden  rim.  — 


"  I  see  'neath  Norroway's  mountains  proud 
The  Dragon  bearing  of  sail  a  cloud.  — 

^  I  see,  I  see,  by  Norroway's  side. 
The  Dragon  gallantly  fi>rward  stride." 

On  the  Ox's  ribs  a  blow  be  gave : 

«  Now  faster,  now  faster,  over  the  wave  !  " 

He  struck  the  Ox  on  the  eye  with  force  : 
«<  To  the   haven  much    speedier    thou  must 
course." 

Then  forward  the  Ox  began  to  leap. 
No  sailor  on  deck  his  stand  could  keep. 

Then  cords  he  took,  and  his  mariners  fast 
He  tied  to  the  vessel's  rigging  and  mast. 

'Twas  then  — 'twas  then — the  steersman  cried : 
<«  But  who  shall  now  the  vessel  guide  ?  " 

His  little  gloves  off  Saint  Oluf  throws. 
And  to  stand  himself  by  the  rudder  he  goes. 

<«  O,  we  will  sail  o'er  cliff  and  height. 
The  nearest  way,  like  a  line  of  light ! " 

So  o*er  the  hills  and  dales  they  career, 
To  them  they  became  like  water  clear. 

So  they  sailed  along  o'er  the  mountains  blue, 
Then  out  came  running  the  Elfin  crew. 

**  Who  sails  o'er  the  gold  in  which  we  joy  ? 
Our  ancient  fiither  *■  who  dares  annoy  ?  " 

*<  Elf,  turn  to  stone,  and  a  stone  remain 
Till  I  by  this  path  return  again ! " 

So  they  sailed  o'er  Skaaney's  mountains  tall. 
And  stones  became  the  little  Elves  all. 

Out  came  a  Carline  with  spindle  and  rok  : 
**  Saint  Oluf!  why  sailest  thou  us  to  mock  ? 

"  Saint  Oluf^  thou  who  the  red  beard  hast '. 
Through  my  chamber  wall  thy  ship  hath  passed." 

With  a  glance  of  scorn  did  Saint  Oluf  say  : 
*'  Stand  there  a  flint-rock  for  ever  and  aye." 

Unhindered,  unhindered,  they  bravely  sailed  on, 
Before  them  yielded  both  stock  and  stone. 

Still  onward  they  sailed  in  such  gallant  guise, 
That  no  man  upon  them  could  fiisten  his  eyes. 

Saint  Oluf  a  bow  before  his  knee  bent. 
Behind  the  sail  dropped  the  shaft  that  ho  sent. 

From  the  stem  Saint  Oluf  a  barb  shot  firee, 
Behind  the  Ox  fell  the  shaft  in  the  sea. 

1  Meaning,  profaiailr,  the  hUl. 


BALLADS. 


81 


Saint  Oluf  he  trusted  in  Christ  alone, 

And  therefore  first  home  by  three  days  he  won. 

And  that  made  Harald  with  fiiry  stoim. 
Of  a  laidly  dragon  he  took  the  form. 

Bat  the  Saint  was  a  man  of  deyotion  ftill, 
And  the  Saint  got  Norrowaj's  land  to  rale. 

Into  the  church  Saint  Oluf  trode, 

He  thanked  the  Savioor  in  fervent  mood. 

Saint  Oluf  walked  the  church  abouty 
There  shone  a  glory  his  ringlets  out. 

Whom  God  doth  help  makes  bravely  his  way, 
His  enemies  win  both  shame  and  dionay. 


AAGER  AND  ELIZA. 

'T  WAS  the  valiant  knight,  Sir  Aager, 

He  to  the  far  island  hied. 
There  he  wedded  sweet  Eliza, 

She  of  maidens  was  the  pride. 

There  he  married  sweet  Eliza, 
With  her  lands  and  ruddy  gold ; 

Woe  is  me !  the  Monday  after, 
Dead  he  lay  beneath  the  mould. 

In  her  bower  sat  sweet  Eliza, 

Screamed,  and  would  not  be  consoled ; 
And  the  good  Sir  Aager  listened, 

Underneath  the  dingy  mould. 

Up  Sir  Aager  rose,  his  coffin 
Bore  he  on  his  bended  back : 

Towards  the  bower  of  sweet  Eliza 
Was  his  sad  and  silent  track. 

He  the  door  tapped  with  his  coffin, 

For  his  fingers  had  no  skin  : 
^  Rise,  O,  rise,  my  sweet  Eliza ! 

Rise,  and  let  thy  bridegroom  in." 

Straightway  answered  fair  Eliza  : 

**  I  will  not  undo  my  door, 
'Till  thou  name  the  name  of  Jesus, 

Even  as  thou  could'st  before." 

**  Rise,  O,  rise,  mine  own  Eliza, 
And  undo  thy  chamber  door  ! 

I  can  name  the  name  of  Jesus, 
Even  as  I  could  of  yore." 

Up  then  rose  the  sweet  Eliza, 

Down  her  cheeks  tears  streaming  ran ; 
Unto  her  within  the  bower 

She  admits  the  spectre  man. 

She  her  golden  comb  has  taken, 
And  has  combed  his  yellow  hair ; 

On  each  lock  that  she  adjusted 

Fell  a  hot  and  briny  tear. 

11 


**  Listen  now,  my  good  Sir  Aager ! 

Dearest  bridegroom,  all  I  crave 
Is  to  know  how  it  goes  with  thee 

In  that  lonely  place,  the  grave  ?  " 

'*  Every  time  that  thou  rejoicest. 

And  art  happy  in  thy  mind, 
Are  my  lonely  grave's  recesses 

All  with  leaves  of  roses  lined. 

**  Every  time  that,  love,  thou  grievest. 
And  dost  shed  the  briny  flooid. 

Are  my  lonely  grave's  recesses 

Filled  with  black  and  loathsome  blood. 

<^  Heard  I  not  the  red  cock  crowing  ? 

I,  my  dearest,  must  away ; 
Down  to  earth  the  dead  are  going. 

And  behind  I  must  not  stay. 

<*  Hear  I  not  the  black  cock  crowing  ? 

To  the  grave  I  down  must  go ; 
Now  the  gates  of  heaven  are  opening. 

Fare  thee  well  for  ever  moe." 

Up  Sir  Aager  stood,  the  coffin 
Takes  he  on  his  bended  back  ; 

To  the  dark  and  distant  church-yard 
Is  his  melancholy  track. 

Up  then  rose  the  sweet  Eliza, 
Full  courageous  was  her  mood  ; 

And  her  bridegroom  she  attended 
Through  the  dark  and  dreary  wood. 

When  the  forest  they  had  traversed, 
And  within  the  church-yard  were. 

Faded  then  of  good  Sir  Aager 
Straight  the  lovely  yellow  hair. 

When  the  church-yard  they  had  traversed. 
And  the  church's  threshold  crossed. 

Straight  the  cheek  of  good  Sir  Aager 
All  its  rosy  colors  lost. 

*<  Listen  now,  my  sweet  Eliza  ! 

If  my  peace  be  dear  to  thee. 
Never  thou,  from  this  time  forward, 

Pine  or  shed  a  tear  for  me. 

**  Turn,  I  pray  thee,  up  to  heaven 

To  the  little  stars  thy  sight : 
Then  thou  mayest  know  for  certain 

How  it  fareth  with  the  knight." 

Soon  as  e'er  her  eyes  to  heaven 

To  the  little  stars  she  reared. 
Into  earth  the  dead  man  glided, 

And  to  her  no  more  appeared. 

Homeward  went  the  sweet  Eliza, 
Grief  of  her  had  taken  hold  ; 

Woe  is  me  !  the  Monday  afler, 
Dead  she  lay  bei^eath  the  mould. 


82 


DANISH   POETRY. 


THE  ELECTED  KNIGHT. 


Sir  Oluf  he  rideth  over  the  plain, 

Full  seven  miles  broad  and  seven  miles  wide ; 
But  never,  ah  !  never,  can  meet  with  the  man 

A  tilt  with  him  dare  ride. 

He  saw  under  the  hill-side 

A  knight  full  well  equipped  ; 
His  steel  was  black,  his  helm  was  barred ; 

He  was  riding  at  fiill  speed. 

He  wore  upon  his  spurs 

Twelve  little  golden  birds ; 
Anon  he  spurred  his  steed  with  a  clang. 

And  there  sat  all  the  birds  and  sang. 

He  wore  upon  his  mail 

Twelve  little  golden  wheels ; 
Anon  in  eddies  the  wild  wind  blew, 

And  round  and  round  the  wheels  they  flew. 

He  wore  before  his  breast 

A  lance  that  was  poised  in  rest, 
And  it  was  sharper  than  diamond-stone ; 

It  made  Sir  Oluf 's  heart  to  groan. 

He  wore  upon  his  helm 
A  wreath  of  ruddy  gold  ; 


And  that  gave  him  the  Maidens  Three, 
The  youngest  was  fair  to  behold. 

Sir  Oluf  questioned  the  knight  eflsoon 
If  he  were  come  from  heaven  down  ; 

"  Art  thou  Christ  of  Heaven  ?*'  quoth  he, 
"  So  will  I  yield  me  unto  thee." 

«« I  am  not  Christ  the  Great, 
Thou  shalt  not  yield  thee  yet ; 

I  am  an  Unknown  Knight, 

Three  modest  Maidens  have  me  bedight." 

««  Art  thou  a  knight  elected  ? 

And  have  three  maidens  thee  bedight  ? 
So  shalt  thou  ride  a  tilt  this  day. 

For  all  the  maidens'  honor  !  '* 

The  first  tilt  they  together  rode, 
They  put  their  steeds  to  the  test ; 

The  second  tilt  they  together  rode. 
They  proved  their  manhood  best. 

The  third  tilt  they  together  rode. 

Neither  of  them  would  yield  ; 
The  fourth  tilt  they  together  rode, 

They  both  fell  on  the  field. 

Now  lie  the  lords  upon  the  plain. 
And  their  blood  runs  unto  death  ; 

Now  sit  the  Maidens  in  the  high  tower. 
The  youngest  sorrows  till  death. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THOMAS   KINGO. 

Thomas  Kiitoo  was  bom  in  Slangerup  in 
1634,  and  died,  as  bishop  of  l^inen,  in  1723. 
He  was  the  author  of  psalms  and  spiritual 
songs,  whose  simplicity  and  quaintness  remind 
the  English  reader  of  Crashaw  and  Quarles. 
He  was  highly  esteemed  by  his  contemporaries, 
and  his  memory  is  still  held  in  reverence  in 
his  native  country.  He  has  been  called  the 
Dr.  Watts  of  Denmark. 


MORNING  SONO. 

From  eastern  quarters  now 

The  son  's  up-wandering. 
His  rays  on  the  rock's  brow 

And  hill's  aide  squandering ; 
Be  glad,  my  soul!   and  sing  amidst  thy 
pleasure. 

Fly  from  the  house  of  dust. 

Up  with  thy  thanks,  and  trust 
To  heaven's  azure  ! 


O,  countless  as  the  grains 

Of  sand  so  tiny. 
Measureless  as  the  main's 

Deep  waters  briny, 
God's  mercy  is,  which  he  upon  me  show- 
ereth! 

Each  morning,  in  my  shell, 

A  grace  immeasurable 
To  me  down-poureth. 

Thou  best  dost  understand. 

Lord  God  !  my  needing, 
And  placed  is  in  thy  hand 

My  fortune's  speeding, 
And  thou  fi>reseest  what  is  for  me  most 
fitting; 

Be  still,  then,  O  my  soul ! 

To  manage  in  the  whole 
Thy  God  permitting ! 

May  fhiit  the  land  array, 

And  com  fbr  eating ! 
May  truth  e'er  make  its  way, 

With  justice  meeting ! 


TULLIN.— EVALD. 


83 


Give  thou  to  me  my  share  with  every  other, 

Till  down  mj  staff  I  lay, 

And  from  this  world  away 
^Wend  to  another ! 


CHRISTIAN  BRAUMAN  TULLIN. 

TUI.I.IV  was  bom  in  Christiania,  in  1728, 
and  received  his  education  at  the  Univernty 
of  Copenhagen,  where,  besides  the  usual  acade- 
mic course,  he  applied  himself  to  music,  draw- 
ing, and  the  French  and  German  languages. 
On  closing  his  college  life,  he  returned  to 
Christiania,  where  he  devoted  himself  to  the 
study  of  the  law,  and  of  English  and  Italian. 
Among  the  English  poets,  Young  and  Pope 
were  hia  fayorites,  and  had,  doubtless,  much 
influence  upon  his  taste.  He  afterwards  became 
director  of  a  nail,  starch,  and  powder  manufiu;- 
tory.  He  died,  as  collector  of  his  native  town, 
at  the  early  age  of  thirty-seven. 

His  poems  were  received  with  great  enthusi- 
asm by  his  countrymen.  For  a  long  time  he  was 
considered  the  first  of  the  Danish  poets.  He 
seems,  however,  to  have  gained  his  fame  very 
easily ;  ibr,  if  judged  by  a  high  standard  of  poetic 
merit,  or  by  that  which  he  himself  established, 
—  >(  Thoughts  are  the  soul  of  poetry  ;  the  more 
of  these  one  finds  in  a  poem,  the  better  is  the 
poem,"  —  he  would  not  be  ranked  among  the 
first.  The  following  extract  is. a  paraphrase  of 
some  of  the  concluding  stanzas  of  "  Maidagen," 
TuUin's  most  celebrated  piece.  It  is  in  a  dif- 
ferent measure  from  the  original,  and  can  hard- 
ly be  considered  as  a  fair  specimen  of  the  au- 
tlior's  power. 


EXTRACT  FROM  MAY-DAY. 

Hail,  uncreated  Being,  source  of  life. 
Whose  love  is  boundless,  and  whose  mercy  wise! 
Whose  power  hath  wrought,  to  spread  thy  glo- 
ries wide. 
For  every  sense  a  paradise  of  joy  ! 
Thyself  art  All,  and  in  thy  spirit  pure 
Live  all  created  things  :  each  form  declares 
Thy  touch  and  pressure  ;  every  meanest  tribe 
The  sacred  image  of  thy  nature  bears  ! 
Summer,  and  autumn's  sun,  and  wintry  blasts 
Proclaim  thy  might  and  glory  ;  but  the  spring. 
Wherefore   and  whence,  O   Lord,   its  genial 

breath? 
'T  is  the  loud  voice  that  bids  the  faithless  bow ', 
With  thousand  thousand  tongues  of  joy  and 

praise. 
With  the  full  choir  of  new-created  life. 
Singing  thy  name  ;  proclaiming  to  the  dull 
Thy  love,  thy  bounty,  thine  almighty  hand ! 
And  thee  it  most  resembles ;  like  thyself, 
It  moulds  and  fashions  ;  bids  the  spirit  wake  ; 
Gives  life  and  aliment,  and  clothes  the  form 


With  strength  and  vigor !  T  is  the  holy  type 
Of  thy  creative  breath !  —  How  mean  of  soul, 
How  lost  are  they  to  every  finer  bliss. 
Who,  prisoned  *mid  the  dusty  smoke  of  towns 
^When  Nature  calls  aloud,  and  Life  invites. 
Arrayed  in  yt?iith  and  freshest  beauty),  sit 
Forlorn  and  darkling  in  the  maze  of  thought ! 
Life  springs  at  thy  command ;  thou  bidd'st 

awake 
New  scenes  to  witness  all  thy  majesty. 
New  shapes  and  creatures :  none  dost  thou  forbid 
To  view  the  wondrous  produce  of  thy  word ; 
And  shall  that  creature,  whom  thy  bounty  raised 
By  reason  high  above  the  grovelling  race. 
With  coldness  trace  thy  glory,  taste  thy  gifte 
Contemptuous  and  unmoved .' — I  tremble.  Lord, 
I  roam,  as  on  a  wide  and  fathomless  sea. 
Amid  the  wonders  of  thy  growing  year  ! 
I  see,  but  know  not :  my  full  heart  admires 
The  prospect  of  delight  thou  spread'st  around ; 
And,  as  thy  beck  can  from  the  withered  plant 
Call  forth  new  verdure,  bid  fi^sb  blossoms  spring, 
Methinks  that  power  may  in  the  mouldering 

corse 
Arouse  warm  life  and  vigor.     I  behold 
Each  living  thing  declare  thy  liberal  hand. 
Thy  force,  all-bountiful,  almighty  €rod ! 
And  shall  not  I,  on  whom  thy  judging  will 
Showers  choicer  bliss,  some  duteous  tribute  pay. 
Some  strain  of  rapture,  to  the  King  of  Kings  ? 
My  mind  and  heart  and  ravished  sense  admire 
The  might  and  gorgeous  majesty  of  heaven. 
The  glory  of  thy  works ;  and  deem  the  world 
Created  vainly  for  such  torpid  souls 
As  scorn  its  beauty  and  renounce  its  joys. 


JOHANNES   EVALD. 

CoiTTZMPORART  With  TulHu,  and,if  less  known 
during  his  lifetime,  more  honored  after  his 
death,  is  Johannes  Evald.  He  was  born  at 
Copenhagen  in  1743.  At  the  age  of  sixteen,  he 
ran  away  from  the  University,  and  escaped  to 
Germany,  where  he  entered  the  Prussian  army, 
and  afterwards  deserted  to  the  Austrian,  which 
he  joined  as  a  drummer.  After  two  years  of 
service,  he  returned  to  Copenhagen  in  1760, 
v/here  he  passed  the  remainder  of  his  life  in 
literary  pursuits.     He  died  in  1781. 

Evald  is  the  author  of  several  dramatic  works, 
the  most  important  of  which  are  the  tragedies 
of  "  Rolf  Krage,"  and  "  Baldcr's  Dod  "  (Bal- 
der*s  Death),  and  the  lyrical  drama  of  "  Fis- 
kerne  "  (the  Fishermen),  in  which  he  has  in- 
troduced the  celebrated  national  song  of  "  King 
Christian."  He  also  commenced  another  trage- 
dy, entitled  <<  Frode,"  and  a  new  <*  Hamlet,"  in 
iambics.  It  is,  however,  as  a  lyric,  not  as  a 
dramatic  poet,  that  Evald  is  chiefly  known  and 
valued.  In  this  point  of  view  he  has  no  rival 
among  his  countrymen.  His  songs  are  written 
with  remarkable  vigor  and  beauty.  In  strength 
and  simplicity  he  resembles  Campbell. 


84 


DANISH   POETRY. 


KING  CHRISTIAN. 

Kiffe  Christian  stood  by  the  lofty  mast 

In  mist  and  smoke ; 
His  sword  was  hammering  so  fast. 
Through  Gothic  helm  and  brain  it  passed ; 
Then  sank  each  hostile  hulk  and  mast 

In  mist  and  smoke, 
ic  Fly !  "  shouted  they,  "  fly,  he  who  can  ! 
Who  braves  of  Denmark's  Christian 

The  stroke  ?  " 

Nils  Juel  gave  heed  to  the  tempest's  roar ; 

Now  is  the  hour  ! 
He  hoisted  his  blood-red  flag  once  more, 
And  smote  upon  the  foe  full  sore. 
And  shouted  loud,  through  the  tempest's  roar, 

"  Now  is  the  hour  1 " 
"  Fly !  "  shouted  they,  "  for  shelter  fly  ! 
Of  Denmark's  Juel  who  can  defy 

The  power?" 

North  Sea !  a  glimpse  of  Wessel  rent 

Thy  murky  sky ! 
Then  champions  to  thine  arms  were  sent ; 
Terror  and  Death  glared  where  he  went ; 
From  the  waves  was  heard  a  wail  that  rent 

Thy  murky  sky  ! 
From  Denmark  thunders  Tordenskiol' ; 
Let  each  to  Heaven  commend  his  soul, 

And  fly ! 

Path  of  the  Dane  to  flime  and  might ! 

Dark-rolling  wave ! 
Receive  thy  friend,  who,  scorning  flight, 
Goes  to  meet  danger  with  despite. 
Proudly  as  thou  the  tempest's  might. 

Dark-rolling  wave ! 
And,  amid  pleasures  and  alarms. 
And  war  and  victory,  be  thine  arms 

My  grave ! 

THE  WISHES. 

All  hail,  thou  new  year,  that,' apparelled  in 
sweetness. 
Now  spring 'st  like  a  youth  from  eternity's 
breast ! 
O,  say,  dost  thou  come  from  the  bright  throne  of 
greatness, 
Our  herald  of  mercy,  of  gladness,  and  rest  ? 
Cheer  the  heart  of  our  king  with  benignity's 
token ; 
Light  his  soul  with  the  sunbeam  that  sets  not 
above ; 
Be  his  sword  unresisted,  his  sceptre  unbroken  ; 
O,  peace  be  to  Christian,  the  monarch  we 
love ! 

With  an  emerald  zone  bind  the  rocks  of  the 
North; 
O'er  Denmark's  green  vales  spread  a  buckler 
of  gold ; 
Pour  the  glories  of  harvest  unsparingly  forth. 
And  show  that  our  wealth  is  our  dear  native 
mould  : 


Smile  on  the  conqueror  of  ocean,  who  urges. 
Through  darkness  and  tempests,  his  blue  path 
to  flmie; 
May  the  sea  spare  her  hero,  and  wafi  on  her 
surges 
Blessings  and  peace  to  the  land  whence  he 
came: 

Round  the  forehead  of  art  twine  the  wreath 
that  she  loves. 
And  harden  to  labor  the  sinews  of  youth  ; 
With  a  hedge  of  stout  hearts  guard  our  Eden's 
fair  groves, 
And  temper  their  valor  with  mercy  and  truth : 
Bless  him,  to  whom  heaven  its  bright  flame 
commendeth. 
And  shadow  his  couch  with  the  folda  of  thy 
love ; 
Give  light  to  our  judges,  —  the  heart  that  ne'er 
bendeth,  — 
Inspirit  our  bards,  and  our  teachers  approve. 

O,  blest  be  the  firm-hearted  hero,  who  weaves 
not 
A  thought  or  a  wish  but  his  spirit  may  own  ! 
O,  shame  on  the  cold  son  of  interest,  who 
cleaves  not 
To  the  heart  of  his  country,  and  loves  her 
alone  ! 
Be  her  welfare  our  glory,  our  joy,  our  devotion  ; 
Unchilled  be  her  valor,  her  worth  undecayed ; 
May  her  frienda  on  her  fields  gaze  with  rap- 
ture's emotion ; 
May  she  long  love  the  stranger,  but  ask  not 
his  aid ! 


SONG. 

From  high  the  seaman's  wearied  sight 
Spies  the  green  forests  with  delight, 

Which  seem  to  promise  rest  and  joy ; 
But  woe  is  him,  if  hope  deceives. 
If  his  fond  eye  too  late  perceives 

The  breakers  lurking  to  destroy. 

O  sweetest  pledge  of  love  and  pleasure. 
Enchanting  smile  !  thy  depth  I  'II  measure. 

Wary,  as  in  the  shallow  tide ; 
That,  if  beneath  that  garb  of  beauty 
The  mind  has  shoals  to  wreck  my  duty, 

I  straight  may  seek  the  waters  wide. 


EDWARD  STORM. 

Edward  Storm  was  born  in  1749,  at  Vaage, 
in  Guldbrandsdalen,  Norway.  He  is  the  au- 
thor of  a  comic  heroic  poem,  in  hexameters,  en- 
titled "  Breger,"  and  a  collection  of  »*  Fables 
and  Tales  in  the  manner  of  Gellert."  But  in 
the  comic  vein  he  is  not  considered  equal  to  his 
countryman  Wessel,  whose  tragi-comedy  of 
**  Kjerlighed    uden     Stromper  '*    (Love   with- 


STORM. 


86 


;  oat  StockingB)  is  looked  apon  as  one  of  the 
j  most  sneeeasful  humorous  productions  of  Den- 
I  mark.  He  is  known  chiefly  as  a  lyric  poet 
'  Ib  his  bodlads  he  has  eanght  much  of  the  spirit 
;  of  ancient  song.  Many  of  them  are  written  in 
■!  his  natiTC  Guldbrandsdalske  dialect,  and  these 
ue  the  most  esteemed  among  his  countrymen. 
'  He  died  in  1794. 


I  THE  BALLAD  C^  SINCLAIR. 

j  Across  the  sea  came  the  Sinclair  brave, 
And  he  steered  for  the  Norway  border ; 

I  Ib  Goldbrand  valley  he  found  his  grave, 
Where  his  merry  men  fell  in  disorder. 


j  Across  the  sea  came  the  Sinclair  brave, 
To  fight  for  the  gold  of  Gustavus ; 
God  help  thee,  chief!  from  the  Norway  glaive 
No  other  defender  can  save  us. 

The  moon  rode  high  in  the  blue  night-cloud, 

IAnd    the    waves    round    the  bark   rippled 
smoothly ; 
When  the  mermaid  rose  from  her  watery  shroud. 
And  thoa  sang  the  prophetess  soothly  : 

■^Retnm,  return,  thou  Scottish  wight ! 

Or  thy  light  ts  extinguished  in  mourning ; 
If  thou  goest  to  Norway,  I  tell  thee  right. 

No  day  shall  behold  thy  returning." 

'   **  Now  load  thou  liest,  thou  sorceress  old ! 

Thy  prophecies  ever  are  sore ; 
jj  If  once  I  catch  thee  within  my  hold, 
I       Thou  never  sbalt  prophesy  more." 

I    He  sailed  three  days,  he  sailed  three  nights, 
I       He  and  his  merry  men  bold  ; 
The  fborth  he  neared  old  Norway's  heights;  — 
I  tell  you  the  tale  as  H  is  told. 

On  Romsdale  coast  has  he  landed  his  host. 

And  lifted  the  flag  of  rain ; 
Full  fourteen  hundred,  of  mickle  boast. 

All  eager  for  Norway's  undoing. 

They  scathe,  they  ravage,  where'er  they  light. 

Justice  or  ruth  unheeding ; 
They  spare  not  the  old  for  his  locks  so  white. 

Nor  the  widow  for  her  pleading. 

They  slew  the  babe  on  his  mother's  arm. 
As  he  smiled  so  sweet  on  bis  foemen  : 

But  the  cry  of  woe  was  the  war-alarm. 
And  the  shriek  was  the  warrior's  omen. 

The  Baun  *  flamed  high,  and  the  message-wood 
ran 

Swiftly  o'er  field  and  o'er  fUrrow ; 
No  hiding-place  sought  the  Guldbranders  then, 

As  the  Sinclair  shall  find  to  his  sorrow. 

1  A  heap  of  wood  ralaed  In  the  form  of  a  cone  on. the 
ernnmiu  of  the  mounulne,  and  set  on  fire  to  give  notice  of 
invaaion. 


**  Ye  men  of  Norway,  arise,  arise ! 

Fight  for  your  king  and  your  laws ; 
And  woe  to  the  craven  wretch  that  flies. 

And  grudges  his  blood  in  the  cause  !  " 

And  all  of  Lesso,  and  Vog,  and  Lon, 
With  axes  full  sharp  on  their  shoulders, 

To  Bredeboyd  in  a  swarm  are  gone. 
To  talk  with  the  Scottbh  soldiers. 

Close  under  lid  lies  a  pathway  long. 
The  swift-flowing  Laugen  runs  by  it ; 

We  call  it  Kring  in  our  Northern  tongue ; 
There  wait  we  the  foemen  in  quiet. 

No  more  on  the  wall  hangs  the  rifle-gun. 
For  the  gray  marksman  aims  at  the  foemen ; 

Old  Nokken  '  mounts  from  the  waters  dun. 
And  waits  for  the  prey  that  is  coming. 

The  first  shot  hit  the  brave  Sinclair  right. 
He  foil  with  a  groan  fbll  grievous ; 

The  Scots  beheld  the  good  colonel's  plight. 
Then  said  they, "  Saint  Andrew  receive  us !  " 

•«  Ye  Norway  men,  let  your  hearts  be  keen ! 

No  mercy  to  those  who  deny  it!" 
The  Soots  then  wished  themselves  home,  I  ween. 

They  liked  not  this  Norway  diet. 

We  strewed  vrith  bodies  the  long  pathway. 
The  lavens  they  feasted  flill  deep  ; 

The  youthful  blood,  that  was  spilt  that  day. 
The  maidens  of  Scotland  may  weep. 

No  Scottish  flower  was  left  on  the  stem. 

No  Scotsman  retarned  to  tell 
How  perilous  't  is  to  visit  them 

Who  in  mountains  of  Norway  dwell. 

And  still  on  the  spot  stands  a  sUtue  high, 
For  the  foemen  of  Norway's  discerning ; 

And  woe  to  him  who  that  statue  can  spy. 
And  feels  not  his  spirit  burning ! 


THORVALD. 

SwATNK  TvESKiKO  did  a  man  possess. 

Sir  Thorvald  hight  j 
Though  fierce  in  war,  kind  acts  in  peace 

Were  bis  delight. 
From  port  to  port  his  vessels  fast 

Sailed  wide  around, 
And  made,  where'er  they  anchor  cast. 

His  name  renowned. 
But  Thorvald  has  fireed  his  king. 

Prisoners  he  bought,  —  clothes,  liberty. 

On  them  bestowed, 
And  sent  men  home  from  slavery 

To  their  abode. 


*  The  river-god. 
H 


86 


DANISH  POETRY. 


And  many  an  old  man  got  his  boy, 

His  age's  stay ; 
And  many  a  maid  her  youth's  sole  joy, 

Her  lover  gay. 
But  Thorvald  has  freed  his  king. 

A  brave  fight  Thorvald  loved  full  dear, 

For  brave  his  mood  ; 
But  never  did  he  dip  his  spear 

In  feeble  blood. 
He  followed  Swayne  to  many  a  fray 

With  war-shield  bright, 
And  his  mere  presence  scared  away 

Foul  deeds  of  might. 
But  Thorvald  has  freed  his  king. 

They  hoist  sail  on  the  lofty  mast; 

It  was  King  Swayne ; 
He  o*er  the  bluey  billows  passed 

With  armed  train. 
His  mind  to  harry  Bretland  ^  boiled ; 

He  leapt  on  shore  : 
And  every,  every  thing  recoiled 

His  might  before. 
But  Thorvald  has  freed  his  king. 

Yet  slept  not  Bretland's  chieftain  good  ; 

He  speedily 
Collects  a  host  in  the  dark  wood 

Of  cavalry. 
And  evil,  through  that  subtle  plan, 

Befell  the  Dane ; 
They  were  ta'en  prisoners  every  man. 

And  last  king  Swayne. 
But  Thorvald  has  freed  his  king. 

*'  Now  hear,  thou  prison-fbogd  !  *  and,  pray. 

My  message  heed  : 
Unto  the  castle  take  thy  way. 

Thence  Thorvald  lead ; 
Prison  and  chains  become  him  not. 

Whose  gallant  hand 
So  many  a  handsome  lad  has  brought 

From  slavery's  band.*' 
But  Thorvald  has  freed  his  king. 

The  man  brought  this  intelligence 

To  the  bower's  door ; 
But  Thorvald,  with  loud  vehemence, 

"  I  '11  not  go,"  swore. 
**  What !  go,  and  leave  my  sovereign  here, 

In  durance  sore .' 
No  !  Thorvald  then  ne'er  worthy  were 

To  lift  shield  more." 
But  Thorvald  has  freed  his  king. 

What  cannot  noble  souls  effect .' 

Both  freedom  gain 
Through  Thorvald's  prayer,  and  the  respect 

His  deeds  obtain. 
And,  from  that  hour  unto  his  grave, 

Swayne  ever  showed 
Towards  his  youth's  friend,  so  true  and  brave. 

Fit  gratitude. 
But  Thorvald  has  freed  his  king. 


>  Britain. 


s  TIm  govenior  of  the  prison. 


Swayne  Tveskieg  sat  with  kings  one  tide. 

O'er  mead  and  beer ; 
The  cushion  soft  he  stroked,  and  cried, 

(« Sit,  Thorvald,  here. 
Thy  father  ne'er  ruled  land  like  me 

And  my  compeers ; 
But  yarl  and  nobleman  is  he 

Whose  fame  thine  nears. 
For  Thorvald  has  freed  the  king." 


THOMAS  THAARUP. 

Thomas  Thaardp  was  bom  at  Copenhagen 
in  1749,  and,  after  completing  his  studies  at  the 
University,  he  became  Professor  of  History, 
Philosophy,  and  Belles  Lettres  in  the  Royal 
Naval  Academy,  a  post  which  he  occupied 
twenty  years.  In  1800  he  retired  to  Smid- 
strup,  where  he  lived  upon  his  pension  until  his 
death  in  1821,  at  the  advanced  age  of  seventy- 
two. 

His  principal  works  are  the  three  national 
operas  of  "  Hdstgildet"  (Harvest  Home),  "Pe- 
ters Bryllup  "  Jeter's  Marriage),  and  "  Hiem- 
komsten  "  (the  Return  Home).  As  a  poet,  he 
is  more  remarkable  for  his  common  sense  and 
correct  versification  than  for  invention  or  pow- 
er.    He  is  more  patriotic  than  poetical. 


THE  LOVE  OP  OUR  COUNTRY. 

Thou  spot  of  earth,  where  from  my  bosom 

The  first  weak  tones  of  nature  rose  ; 
Where  first  I  cropped  the  stainless  blossom 

Of  pleasure,  yet  unmixed  with  woes ; 
Where,  with  my  new-bom  powers  delighted, 

I  tripped  beneath  a  mother's  hand ; 
In  thee  the  quenchless  flame  was  lighted. 

That  sparkles  for  my  native  land  ! 

And  when  in  childhood's  quiet  morning 

Sometimes  to  distant  haunts  we  rove. 
The  heart,  like  bended  bow  returning, 

Springs  swifter  to  its  home  of  love. 
Each  hill,  each  dale,  that  shared  our  pleasures, 

Becomes  a  heaven  in  memory  ; 
And  e'en  the  broken  veteran  measures 

With  sprightlier  step  his  haunts  in  glee. 

Through  east,  through  west,  where'er  creation 

Glows  with  the  cheerful  hum  of  men. 
Clear,  bright  it  bums,  to  earth's  last  nation, 

The  ardor  of  the  citizen  : 
The  son  of  Greenland's  white  expansion 

Contemns  green  com  and  laughing  vine  } 
The  cot  is  his  embattled  mansion. 

The  rugged  rock  his  Palestine. 

Such  was  the  beacon-light  that  guided 
Our  earliest  chiefs  through  war  and  woe  ; 

E'en  love  itself  in  fame  subsided. 

Though  love  was  all  their  good  below  : 


THAARUP.— RAHBEK. 


87 


Thus  joung  Hialte  rushed  to  glory, 
Aod  left  his  mourning  maid  behind ; 

He  fell, — and  Honor  round  his  story, 

Dropping  with  tears,  her  wreath  entwined. 

Such  flame,  O  Pastor-chief!  impelled  thee 

To  quit  the  croeier  for  the  blade ; 
Not  eVn  the  Heaven-loved  cloister  held  thee, 

When  Denmark  called  thee  to  her  aid : 
No  storms  could  chill,  no  darkness  blind  thee, 

Ankona  saw  her  thousands  bend, 
Tet,  when  her  suppliant  arms  entwined  thee, 

She  found  a  man  in  Denmark's  friend. 

O'er  Norway's  crags,  o'er  Denmark's  valleys. 

Heroic-  tombs  profiisely  rise. 
Memorials  of  the  love  that  rallies 

Nations  round  kings,  and  knits  their  ties. 
Sweet  is  the  bond  of  filial  duty. 

Sweet  is  the  grasp  of  friendly  hand, 
Sweet  is  the  kiss  of  opening  beauty. 

But  sweeter  still  our  native  land. 

Thou  monument  of  truth  unfailing ! 

Sublime,  unshaken  Frederickshall ! 
In  vain,  with  peal  on  peal  assailing, 

Charles  thundered  at  thy  fatal  wall : 
Beneath  thy  cliff,  in  flames  ascending, 

A  sacrifice  to  virtue  blazed. 
When  patriot  bands,  serene,  unbending. 

Consumed  the  domes  their  fathers  raised.     . 

O  royal  town  !  in  memory  hallowed 

To  Denmark's  last  and  darkest  day  ! 
The  prize  that  Sweden's  hunter  followed 

Behind  thy  feeble  ramparts  lay : 
But  fkith,  the  strength  of  towers  supplying, 

Bade  Vasa  tremble  for  his  name  ; 
While,  round  the  rescued  Hafnia  lying. 

Expired  stem  Sweden's  flower  and  fame. 

Long,  long  shall  Danish  maidens  sigh 

For  those  who  in  their  battle  fell ; 
And  mothers  long,  with  beaming  eye. 

Of  Frederickshall  and  Hafnia  tell ! 
The  child,  that  learns  to  lisp  his  mother. 

Shall  learn  to  lisp  his  country's  name ; 
Shall  learn  to  call  her  son  a  brother. 

And  guard  her  rights  with  heart  of  flame. 

Bom  high,  bum  clear,  thou  spark  unfading^ 

From  Holstein's  oaks,  to  Dofra's  base  ; 
Til!  each,  in  war  his  country  aiding. 

Remain  in  peace  her  strength  and  grace  ! 
The  sons  of  wisdom  shall  approve  us. 

The  Grod  of  patriots  smile  from  high. 
While  we,  and  all  the  hearts  that  love  us. 

Breathe  but  for  Denmark's  liberty. 

TO  SPRING. 

Tht  beams  are  sweet,  beloved  spring ! 

The  winter-shades  before  thee  fly ; 
The  bough  smiles  green,  the  young  birds  sing. 

The  chainless  current  glistens  by  ; 


Till  countless  flowers,  like  stars,  illume 
The  deepening  vale  and  forest-gloom. 

Oy  welcome,  gentle  guest  from  high. 
Sent  to  cheer  our  world  below, 

To  lighten  sorrow's  faded  eye. 
To  kindle  nature's  social  glow ! 

O,  he  is  o'er  his  fellows  blest. 

Who  feels  thee  in  a  guiltless  breast ! 

Peace  to  the  generous  heart,  essaying 
With  deeds  of  love  to  win  our  praise  ! 

He  smiles,  the  spring  of  life  surveying. 
Nor  fears  her  cold  and  wintry  days : 

To  his  high  goal,  with  triumph  bright. 

The  calm  years  waft  him  in  their  flight. 

Thou  glorious  goal,  that  shin'st  afiir. 
And  seem'st  to  smile  us  on  our  way ; 

Bright  is  the  hope  that  crowns  our  war, 
The  dawn-blush  of  etemal  day  ! 

There  shall  we  meet,  this  dark  world  o'er, 

And  mix  in  love  fer  evermore. 


KNUD   LTNE  RAHBEK. 

Rahbxk  was  bom  at  Copenhagen  in  1760, 
and  died  there  in  1830.  His  long  life  was  an 
active  and  laborious  one.  He  was  a  man  of 
many  occupations,  a  traveller,  a  professor,  an 
editor,  a  critic,  and  a  poet  He  began  his  lite- 
rary career  by  translations  from  Racine  and 
Diderot,  and  an  original  play  called  **  Den  Unge 
Darby  "  (The  Young  Darby).  A  few  years  after- 
wards, in  connexion  with  his  friend  Pram, 
author  of  the  epic  poem  of  <*  Stsrkodder,"  he 
established  a  monthly  review  under  the  title 
of  *'  Minerva."  He  was  the  author,  also,  of 
another  periodical,  in  imitation  of  Addison's 
«« Spectator,"  entitled  "  Den  Danske  Tilskuer  " 
(The  Danish  Observer),  which  is  considered 
by  his  countrymen  as  his  momimentum  tare 
pereimius^  and  a  mirror  of  the  times.  He  him- 
self has  been  called  *<  the  man  of  the  eighteenth 
century."  The  following  ballad  is  a  favorable 
specimen  of  his  poetic  powers. 


PETER  COLBIORNSEN. 

'Fork  Fredereksteen  King  Carl  he  lay 

With  mighty  host ; 
But  Frederekshal,  from  day  to  day. 

Much  trouble  cost. 
To  seize  the  sword  each  citizen 

His  tools  let  fiUl, 
And  valiant  Peter  Colbiomsen 

Was  first  of  all. 
Thus  fer  Norroway  fight  the  Norsemen. 

'Gainst  Frederekshal  so  fierce  and  grim 

Turned  Carl  his  might, 
The  citizens  encountered  him 

In  numbers  slight ; 


88 


DANISH  POETRY. 


But,  ah !  they  fought  like  Northern  men 

For  much- loved  land, 
And  it  was  Peter  Colbiornsen 

That  led  the  band. 
Thus  for  Norroway  fight  the  Norsemen. 

Such  heavy  blows  the  Norsemen  deal 

Amid  the  foe, 
Like  ripe  corn  'fore  the  reiser's  steel 

The  Swedes  sink  low. 
But  sturdiest  reaper  weary  will ; 

So  happ'd  it  here  ; 
Though  many  the  Norwegians  kill, 

More,  more  appear. 
Thus  for  Norroway  fight  the  Norsemen. 

Before  superior  force  they  flew, 

As  Norsemen  fly, 
They  but  retired,  the  fight  anew 

Unawed  to  ply. 
Now  o'er  the  bodies  of  his  slain 

His  way  Carl  makes ; 
.  He  thinks  he  has  the  city  ta'en, 
But  he  mistakes. 
Thus  for  Norroway  fight  the  Norsemen. 

A  speedy  death  his  soldiers  found 

Where'er  they  came ; 
For  Norse  were  posted  all  around, 

And  greeted  them. 
Then  Carl  he  sent,  but  sorely  vexed. 

To  Fredereksteen, 
And  begged  that  he  might  bury  next 

His  slaughtered  men. 
Thus  for  Norroway  fight  the  Norsemen. 

*'  No  time,  no  time  to  squander  e*er 

Have  Norsemen  bold. 
He  came  self>bidden  'mongst  us  here," 

Thus  Carl  was  told ; 
"If  we  can  drive  him  back  again, 

We  now  must  try," 
And  it  was  Peter  Colbiornsen 

Made  that  reply. 
Thus  for  Norroway  fight  the  Norsemen. 

Lo !  fit)m  the  town  the  flames  outburst, 

High-minded  men ! 
And  he  who  fired  his  house  the  first 

Was  Colbiornsen. 
Eager  to  quench  the  fire,  the  foes 

Make  quick  resort, 
But  bullets  fell  as  feat  as  snows 

Down  firom  the  fort 
Thus  for  Norroway  fight  the  Norsemen. 

Now  rose  the  flames  toward  the  sky. 

Red,  terrible ; 
His  heroes'  death  the  king  thereby 

Could  see  right  well. 
Sir  Peter's  word  he  then  made  good. 

His  host  retires ; 
But  in  his  path  the  steen  h  stood. 

And  on  him  fires. 
Thus  for  Norroway  fight  the  Norsemen. 


Magnificent  'midst  corse  and  blood 

Glowed  Frederekshal ; 
Illumed  its  own  men's  courage  proud. 

And  Swedesmen  fall. 
Whoe'er  saw  pile  fiinereal  flame 

So  bright  as  then  ? 
Sure  never  shall  expire  thy  name, 

O  Colbiornsen  ! 
Thus  for  Norroway  fight  the  Norsemen. 


PETER  ANDREAS  HEIBERG. 

Heibxro  was  bom  at  Vordingborg  in  1758. 
Till  1800}  he  lived  in  Copenhagen,  where  he 
devoted  himself  to  writing  for  the  stage.  Next 
to  Holberg,  he  has  produced  the  greatest  num- 
ber of  original  Danish  comedies,  most  of  which 
are  noted  for  acuteness,  wit,  and  knowledge  of 
the  world.  In  1800,  he  was  banished  from  his 
native  country  on  account  of  his  political  writ- 
ings. Since  that  time,  he  has  resided  in  Paris, 
where,  during  the  reign  of  Napoleon,  he  was 
employed  in  the  Bureau  of  Foreign  Afiairs. 
His  later  writings  consist  chiefly  of  philosoph- 
ical and  literary  essays  in  the  French  journals. 

NORWEGIAN  LOTE-SONO. 

Thx  bright  red  sun  in  ocean  slept ; 
Beneath  a  pine-tree  Gunild  wept. 
And  eyed  the  hills  with  silver  crowned, 
And  listened  to  each  little  sound 
That  stirred  on  high. 

"Thou   stream,"   she  said,  "fipom    heights 

above. 
Flow  softly  to  a  woman's  love  ! 
As  on  thy  azure  current  steering. 
Flow  soft,  and  shut  not  fit>m  my  hearing 
The  sounds  I  love. 

^  Ere  chased  the  mom  the  night-cloud  pale, 
He  sought  the  deer  in  distant  dale  : 
*  Farewell ! '  he  said,  *  when  evening  closes, 
Expect  me  where  the  moon  reposes 
On  yonder  vale.' 

*'  Return,  retum,  my  Harold  dear  ! 
This  wedded  bosom  pants  with  fear ; 
By  woodland  foe  I  deem  thee  dying ; 
O,  come !  and  hear  the  rocks  replying 
To  Gunild's  joy." 

Then  horns  and  hounds  came  pealing  wide  ; 
«« 'T  is  he !  't  is  he !  "  feir  Gunild  cried  ; 
"  Ye  winds,  to  Harold  bear  my  cry !  " 
And  rocks  and  mountains  answered  high, 
"'Tishe!  »tiahe!" 

TYCHO  BRAHE,  OR  THE  RUINS  OF  URANIENBORO. 

Thou  by  the  strand  dost  wander, — 
Yet  here,  O  stranger,  stay  ! 

Turn  towards  the  island  yonder. 
And  listen  to  my  lay : 


HEIBERO BAGOE8EN. 


Thy  every  meditation 

Bid  thither,  thither  haste ; 

A  castle  had  its  station 
On  yon  banks  ages  past. 

In  long  past  days  in  glory 

It  stood,  and  grandeur  sheen ; 
Now  —  't  was  so  transitory  — 

Its  ruins  scarce  are  seen. 
But  it  in  ancient  tide  was 

For  height  and  size  renowned. 
It  seen  from  every  side  wss 

Uprising  from  the  ground. 

For  no  sea-king  intended, 

I  ween,  was  yonder  hold ; 
Urania !  it  ascended 

In  praise  of  thee  so  bold. 
Close  by  tho  ocean  roaring, 

Far,  fiur  from  mortal  jars. 
It  stood  towards  heaven  soaring. 

And  towards  the  little  stars. 

A  gate  in  the  wall  eastward 

Showed  like  a  mighty  mouth ; 
There  was  another  westward. 

And  spires  stood  north  and  south. 
The  castle  dome,  high  rearing 

Itself,  a  spirelet  bore. 
Where  stood,  'fore  the  wind  veering, 

A  Pegasus,  gilt  o'er. 

Towers,  which  the  sight  astounded. 

In  north  and  sooth  were  placed. 
Upon  strong  pillars  founded. 

And  both  with  galleries  graced. 
And  there  they  caught  attention 

Of  all,  who  thither  strolled, 
Quadrants  of  large  dimension, 

And  spheres  in  flames  that  rolled. 

One,  from  the  castle  staring. 

Across  the  island  spied 
The  woods,  green  foliage  bearing. 

And  ocean's  bluey  tide. 
The  halls  the  sight  enchanted. 

With  colors  bright  of  blee  ; 
The  gardens  they  were  planted 

With  many  a  flower  and  tree. 

When  down  came  night  careering. 

And  vanished  was  the  sun, 
The  stars  were  seen  appearing 

All  heaven's  arch  upon. 
Far,  far  was  heard  the  yelling 

(When  one  thereto  gave  heed) 
Of  those  who  watched  the  dwelling. 

Four  hounds  of  mastiff'  breed. 

The  good  knight  ceased  to  walk  on 

The  fields  of  war  and  gore  ; 
His  helm  and  sword  the  balk  on 

He  hung,  to  use  no  more. 
From  earth,  its  woe  and  riot. 

His  mind  had  taken  flight. 
When  in  his  chamber  quiet 

He  sat  at  depth  of  night. 


Then  he  his  eye  erected 

Into  the  night  so  far. 
And  keen  the  course  inspected 

Of  every  twinkling  star  : 
The  stars  his  flune  transported 

Wide  over  sea  and  land ; 
And  kings  his  friendship  courted. 

And  sought  his  islet's  strand. 

But  the  stars  pointed  serious 

To  other  countries'  track ; 
His  fate  called  him  imperious. 

He  went,  and  came  not  back. 
The  haughty  walls,  through  sorrow, 

Have  long  since  sunken  low ; 
The  heavy  ploughshares  furrow 

Thy  house,  Urania !  now. 

Each  time  the  sun  is  sinking. 

It  friendly  looks  on  Hveen  ; 
Its  rays  there  linger,  thinking 

On  what  that  place  has  been. 
The  moon  hastes,  melancholy. 

Past,  past  her  coast  so  dear ; 
And  in  love's  pleasure  holy 

Shines  Freya's  starlet  clear : 

Then  suddenly  takes  to  heaving 

Of  that  same  ruin  old 
The  basis  deep,  believing. 

Some  evening,  —  't  is  oft  told,  — 
For  many  moments,  gladly, 

'T  would  rise  up  fl'om  the  mould ;  - 
It  may  not ;  — .so  it  sadly 

Sinks  in  Death's  slumber  cold. 


JENS   BAGGESEN. 

Jkns  Baggeszii  was  bom  at  Korsoer  in  1764, 
and  died  at  Hamburg  in  1826.  A  large  por- 
tion of  his  life  was  passed  on  the  Continent. 
He  was  for  a  time  professor  in  the  University 
at  Kiel ;  but  travelling,  and  a  residence  in  for- 
eign capitals,  seem  to  have  been  more  in  accord- 
ance with  his  restless  spirit  than  a  fixed  abode 
in  his  native  land. 

His  principal  writings  are  a  collection  of 
comic  stories,  called  '*  The  Labyrinth,"  or  Tales 
of  a  Traveller  in  Germany,  Switzerland,  and 
France  ;  the  operas  of  "  Holgerdanske  "  and 
'«  Erik  Eiegod  " ;  "  Parthenais,"  an  idyllic  po- 
em in  the  manner  of  Voss's  "  Luise,"  and  Goe- 
the's "  Hermann  und  Dorothea  " ;  a  burlesque 
epic,  *<  Adam  und  Eva  " ;  and  several  volumes 
of  lyric  and  miscellaneous  poems.  Some  of 
these  works  were  written  originally  in  Ger- 
man. 

Baggesen  was  much  engaged,  also,  in  those 
quarrels  of  authors  which  so  oflen  disgrace  the 
literary  world  and  embitter  the  lives  of  schol- 
ars. He  was  particularly  hostile  to  Oehlen- 
schlftger,  a  poet  who  has  attained  a  far  greater 


90 


DANISH    POETRY. 


and  more  widely  extended  fame  than  his  antag- 
onist. Baggesen's  lyric  poems  are  considered 
his  best  productions.  Many  of  them  are  written 
with  great  tenderness  of  feeling  and  elegance 
of  style. 

CHILDHOOD. 

There  was  a  time  when  I  was  very  small, 
When  my  whole  frame  was  but  an  ell  in 
height ; 

Sweetly,  as  I  recall  it,  tears  do  fall. 
And  therefore  I  recall  it  with  delight. 

I  sported  in  my  tender  mother's  arms. 

And  rode  a-horse-back  on  best  father's  knee  ; 

Alike  were  sorrows,  passions,  and  alarms. 
And  gold,  and  Greek,  and  love,  unknown  to 
me. 

Then  seemed  to  me  this  world  far  less  in  size, 
Likewise  it  seemed  to  me  less  wicked  far ; 

Like  points  in  hearen,  I  saw  the  stars  arise. 
And  longed  for  wings  that  I  might  catch  a 
star. 

I  saw  the  moon  behind  the  island  fade, 

And   thought,  *'  O,  were  I  on   that  island 
there, 
I  could  find  out  of  what  the  moon  is  made, 
Find  out  how  large  it  is,  how  round,  how 
fair!" 

Wondering,  I  saw  Grod's  sun,  through  western 
skies, 
Sink  in  the  ocean's  golden  lap  at  night. 
And  yet  upon  the  morrow  early  rise. 

And  paint  the  eastern  heaven  with  crimson 
light; 

And  thought  of  God,  the  gracious  Heavenly 
Father, 
Who  made  me,  and  that  lovely  sun  on  high. 
And  all  those  pearls  of    heaven  thick-strung 
together, 
Dropped,  clustering,  from  bis  hand  o'er  all 
the  sky. 

With  childish  reverence,  my  young  lips  did  say 

The  prayer  my  pious  mother  taught  to  me  : 
*<  O  gentle  God !  O,  let  me  strive  alway 
">     Still  to  be  wise,  and  good,  and  follow  thee ! " 

So  prayed  I  for  my  father  and  my  mother, 
And  for  my  sister,  and  for  all  the  town ; 

The  king  I  knew  not,  and  the  beggar-brother, 
Who,  bent  with  age,  went,  sighing,  up  and 
down. 

They  perished,  the  blithe  days  of  boyhood  per- 
ished. 
And  all  the  gladness,  all  the  peace  I  knew ! 
Now  have  I  but  their  memory,  fondly  cherish- 
ed ;  — 
God  !  may  I  never,  never  lose  that  too  ! 


TO  MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

Thou  spot  of  earth,  where  from  the  breast  of 

woe 
My  eye  first  rose,  and  in  the  purple  glow 
Of  morning,  and  the  dewy  smile  of  love. 
Marked  the  first  gloamings  of  the  Power  above : 

Where,  wondering  at  its  birth,  my  spirit  rose. 
Called  forth  from  nothing  by  his  word  sublime. 

To  run  its  mighty  race  of  joys  and  woes. 
The  proud  coeval  of  immortal  time  : 

Thou  spot  unequalled !  where  the  thousand  lyres 
Of  spring  first  met  me  on  her  balmy  gale. 

And  my  rapt  fimcy  heard  celestial  choirs 
In  the  wild  wood-notes  and  my  mother's  tide : 

Where  my  first  trembling  accents  were  addressed 
To  lisp  the  dear,  the  unforgotten  name, 

And,  clasped  to  mild  affection's  throbbing  breast, 
My  spirit  caught  fix>m  her  the  kindling  flame : 

My  country !  have  I  found  a  spot  of  joy. 
Through  the  wide  precincts  of  the  chequered 
earth. 
So  calm,  so  sweet,  so  guiltless  of  alloy. 
As  thou  art  to  his  soul,  whose  best  employ 
Is  to  recall  the  joys  that  blessed  his  birth  ? 

O,  nowhere  blooms  so  bright  the  summer  rose. 
As  where  youth  crept  it  from  the  valley's 
breast! 

O,  nowhere  are  the  downs  so  sofl  as  those 
That  pillowed  infimcy's  unbroken  rest ! 

In  vain  the  partial  sun  on  other  vales 

Pours  liberal  down  a  more  exhaustless  ray. 

And  vermeil  firuits,  that  blush  along  their  dales, 
Mock  the  pale  products  of  our  scanty  day ; 

In  vain,  far  distant  firom  the  land  we  love, 
The  world's  green  breast  soars  higher  to  the 
sky: 

O,  what  were  heaven  itself^  if  lost  above 
Were  the  dear  memory  of  departed  joy  ? 

Range  ocean,  melt  in  amorous  forests  dim, 
O'er  icy  peaks  with  sacred  horror  bend. 

View  life  in  thousand  forms,  and  hear  the  hymn 
Of  love  and  joy  from  thousand  hearts  ascend. 

And  trace  each  blessing,  where  round  freedom's 
shrine 

Pure  fiiith  and  equal  laws  their  shadows  twine  : 

Yet,  wheresoe'er  thou  roam'st,  to  lovelier  things 
With  mingled  joy  and  grief  thy  spirit  springs ; 
And  all  bright  Amo's  pastoral  lays  of  love 
Yield  to  the  sports,  where  through  the  tangling 

grove 
The  mimic  falcon  chased  the  little  dove. 

O,  what  are  Eloisa's  bowers  of  cost. 

Matched  with  the  bush,  where,  hid  in  berries 
white, 
Mine  arms  around  my  infant  love  were  crossed  ? 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


91 


What  Jura's  peak,  to  that  upon  whose  height 
I  strove  to  grasp  the  moon,  and  where  the 
flight 
Of  my  first  thought  was  in  my  Maker  lost  ? 

No !  here,  —  but  here, — in  this  lone  paradise, 
Which  Frederic,  like  the  peaceful  angel,  gilds, 

Where  my  loved  brethren  mix  in  social  ties, 
From  Norway's  rocks  to  Holstein's  golden 
fields; 

0  Denmark  !  in  thy  quiet  lap  reclined. 
The  dazzling  joys  of  varied  earth  forgot, 

1  find  the  peace  1  strove  in  vain  to  find. 

The  peace  I  never  found  where  thou  wert 
not. 

The  countless  wonders  of  my  devious  youth, 
The  forms  of  early  love  and  early  truth. 

Rise  on  my  view,  in  memory's  colors  dressed ; 
And  each  lost  angel  smiles  more  lovingly, 
And  every  star  that  cheered  my  early  sky 

Shines  fairer  in  this  happy  port  of  rest ! 


ADAM  GOTTLOB  OEHLENSCHLAGER. 

Adak  Gottlob  Oxblenschlaoer,  the 
greatest  poet  of  Denmark,  wos  bom  in  a  sub- 
urb of  Copenhagen  in  1779.  His  boyhood  was 
passed  at  the  castle  of  Frideriksborg,  a  royal 
residence,  of  which  his  father  was  organist  and 
steward  or  governor.  The  castle  was  occupied 
by  the  king  and  his  court  in  the  summer,  but 
during  the  winter  the  boy  '*  was  lefl  to  wander 
at  will  through  the  lofty,  magnificent,  and  soli- 
tary apartments,  to  gaze  on  the  portraits  of 
kings  and  princes;  and,  surrounded  by  these 
splendors  not  his  own,  to  pore  over  romances 
and  &iry  tales,  obtained  from  some  circulating 
library  in  town,  to  which  he  made  frequent 
pilgrimages  for  this  purpose  through  storm  and 
snow ;  or  to  listen  to  his  father,  who,  as  the  au- 
tumnal evenings  closed  in,  used  to  assemble  his 
family  about  bim,  and  read  aloud  to  them  ac- 
counts of  voyages  and  travels."  * 

In  this  manner  the  poet  lived  the  first  twelve 
years  of  his  life.  He  was  now  transferred  to 
the  city,  and  commenced  his  studies  under  Ed- 
ward Storm,  a  Norwegian  scholar  and  poet. 
He  showed  but  little  fondness  for  scholastic 
pursuits,  but  occupied  himself  chiefly  with  writ- 
ing and  acting  plays  and  boxing,  "walking 
about,"  as  he  himself  says,  '*for  a  long  time,  in 
coats  which  had  once  figured  on  the  backs  of 
crown  princes,  and  stiff  boots  which  had  been 
worn  by  kings,  while  my  pantaloons  were  made 
out  of  the  cloth  which  had  covered  some  old 
billiard  table,  now  out  of  commission,*'  all 
bought  by  his  fiither  on  speculation  from  the 
keeper  of  the  king's  wardrobe.  In  this  irregular 
manner  he  spent  four  years,  gaining  little  Latin 

*  Forot^  Qiiait«rly  Review,  Vol.  YID.,  p.  2. 


and  less  Greek,  but  acquiring  a  moderate  know- 
ledge  of  geography  and  history,  and  studying 
the  Danish,  German,  and  French  languages. 
His  father  intended  to  make  him  a  merchant ; 
but  the  merchant,  in  whose  counting-house  he 
desired  to  place  him,  not  being  able  to  receive 
the  young  man,  the  plan  was  abandoned,  and 
the  poet  went  back  to  his  studies.  He  was 
soon  discouraged  by  finding  that  the  defects  of 
his  early  training  made  it  extremely  difficult,  if 
not  quite  impossible,  to  achieve  distinction  in  a 
classical  or  theological  career  ;  and,  his  former 
schoolboy  taste  for  theatrical  representation  re- 
viving, he  suddenly  resolved  to  try  his  fortune 
on  the  stage.  His  success  as  an  actor  was  only 
moderate ;  but  the  experience  he  acquired  in 
theatrical  affairs  was  of  some  advantage  to  him 
in  his  subsequent  career  as  a  dramatic  poet. 
He  formed  an  acquaintance  at  this  time  with  a 
young  student,  named  Oersted,  by  whose  argu- 
ments he  was  persuaded  to  desert  the  stage  and 
apply  himself  to  the  profossion  of  the  law. 
This  shifting  of  the  scene  took  place  in  1800. 
About  the  same  period,  occurred  a  love  passage 
between  our  law-student  and  Councillor  Heger's 
daughter  Christiana,  his  future  wife,  the  result  of 
which  is  thus  related  by  the  writer  in  the  "  For- 
eign Quarterly  Review."  *' All  the  poet's  means 
were  merely,  as  the  schoolmen  would  say,  pos- 
sihUy  but  not  very  probable,  entities  ;  he  had  not 
yet  distinguished  himself  in  literature  ;  his  law 
he  could  not  hope  to  render  available  for  years ; 
and  therefore  the  prospects  of  the  lovers  were 
any  thing  but  flattering.  It  was  naturally  with 
a  beating  heart,  therefore,  that  OehlenschlAger 
laid  his  proposals  before  the  father,  a  musician, 
optician,  fire-work  maker,  and  fifty  other  things 
besides.  He  might  have  spared  himself  all 
anxiety  on  the  subject ;  for  the  old  gentleman, 
after  listening  to  the  young  lawyer's  maiden 
speech  on  the  question,  coolly  rang  the  bell 
for  his  daughter,  told  her  in  a  moment  how  the 
matter  stood,  placed  her  hand  in  that  of  Oeh- 
lenschlAger, and  —  changed  the  subject." 

In  1801,Oeh]enschl&ger's  professional  studies 
were  interrupted  by  the  tumults  of  war,  caused 
by  the  expedition  of  the  British  fleet  against 
Copenhagen.  The  young  lawyer  became  one 
of  a  company  of  volunteers  raised  for  the  de- 
fence of  the  country ;  but  the  hardest  services 
they  were  called  upon  to  perform  were  to  march 
and  countermarch  in  stormy  weather.  This 
military  episode  was  of  short  duration.  At  the 
return  of  peace,  OehlenschlAger  resumed  his 
studies,  lightening  his  professional  pursuits  by 
private  theatricals,  literary  clubs,  and  the  care- 
fol  study  of  the  legendary  lore  of  the  North. 
In  1803,  he  published  a  small  collection  of 
poems,  a  dramatic  lyrical  sketch,  and  soon  af- 
ter a  comic  opera  called  *<Freya's  Altar,"  and 
**  Vaulundur's  Saga,"  a  modernized  fable  fix>m 
the  Edda. 

His  first  important  work,  however,  was  the 
Oriental  drama  of  "Aladdin."  The  success  of 
this  attempt  was  such,  that  he  renounced  the 


DANISH  POETRY. 


study  of  the  law,  and  resolved  to  devote  him- 
self wholly  to  poetry.  Through  the  friendly 
interposition  of  Count  Schimmelmann,  he  ob- 
tained a  travelling  pension  from  the  Danish 
government,  by  which  he  was  enabled  to  visit 
Germany,  France,  and  Italy.  In  this  tour  he 
became  acquainted  with  the  most  eminent  lite- 
rary men  of  Halle,  Berlin,  and  Dresden ;  and 
at  Weimar  he  enjoyed  for  some  time  a  confi- 
dential intercourse  with  Wieland  and  Goethe. 
He  was  in  Weimar  during  its  occupation  by 
the  French  afler  the  battle  of  Jena ;  but,  as 
soon  as  the  disturbed  state  of  the  country  permit- 
ted, he  hastened  to  Paris,  where  he  completed 
three  tragedies  on  national  subjects,  "  Hakon 
Jarl,"  "  Palnatoke,"  and  «  Axe!  and  Walburg," 
works  which  betray  no  marks  of  slavish  imita- 
tion of  any  school,  but  are  full  of  originality 
in  thought,  and  are  marked  by  great  beauty  of 
execution.  In  these  poems  he  reproduces  the 
bold  and  energetic  spirit  of  the  elder  times  of 
the  North,  soflening  its  harsher  features  occa- 
sionally by  the  light  of  modem  refinement. 
The  contrast  between  the  cruel  and  bloody 
rites  of  the  Scandinavian  paganism,  and  the 
manners  and  precepts  taught  by  the  Christian 
religion,  is  seized  by  him  with  striking  skill ; 
and  his  great  familiarity  with  the  times  in 
which  his  scenes  are  laid  is  manifested,  says 
the  writer  already  quoted,  "  not  in  the  accumu- 
lation of  minute  particulars  or  antiquarian  allu- 
sions, but  in  a  primeval  simplicity  and  essential 
truth  pervading  and  informing  the  whole.** 

In  Paris,  Oehlenscb lager  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Madame  de  Stafil  and  Benjamin  Con- 
stant, and  of  Baggesen,  with  whom  he  after- 
wards waged  a  bitter  literary  warfare.  He 
visited  Madame  de  Stafil  at  Coppet,  and  there 
met  Augustus  William  Schlegel,  with  whom, 
however,  he  had  no  very  genial  intercourse. 
Schlegel  read  his  poems,  and  advised  him  with 
regard  to  his  German  style  ;  for,  being  skilled  in 
both  languages,  —  doclus  tUrhtsque  semumiSj  — 
OehlenschlAger  wrote  his  principal  works  in 
the  German  as  well  as  in  the  Danish ;  but  the 
great  critic  was  cautious  and  reserved  in  ex- 
pressing any  opinion  of  their  merits. 

Leaving  Madame  de  Stall's  residence,  he 
proceeded  on  his  Italian  tour,  to  which  he  had 
long  been  looking  forward.  At  Parma  he  vis- 
ited the  frescoes  of  Correggio  in  the  churches 
of  St.  Joseph  and  St.  John.  «(The  idea  of 
writing  a  play,"  saya  he,  "  on  the  subject  of 
his  (Correggio's)  life  —  an  idea  which  I  had 
already  entertained  in  Paris — again  occurred 
to  my  mind ;  and  in  Modena,  when  I  saw  the 
little  fresco  painting  over  the  chimney-piece  in 
the  ducal  palace,  which  had  been  executed  in 
his  seventeenth  year,  it  was  finally  resolved 
on." 

In  the  execution  of  his  plan,  he  adopted 
Vasari's  account  of  Correggio's  death,  as  the 
groundwork  of  the  piece.  The  delineation 
of  the  artist's  character  is  singularly  beautiful. 
The  gentle   and  sensitive  painter  is  brought 


into  striking  contrast  with  the  daring  and  sub- 
lime genius  of  Michael  Angelo,  as  will  be 
seen  in  one  of  the  following  extracts.  The 
picture  of  domestic  life  and  love,  graced  by 
congenial  tastes  for  art  and  enthusiasm  in  its 
pursuit,  was  never  drawn  with  more  simplicity, 
truth,  beauty,  and  felicity,  than  in  this  exquisite 
drama.  "  His  celebrated  drama,  *  Correggio,'  " 
says  Wolfgang  Menzel,  in  his  *'  German  Literar 
ture,"  "became  the  fruitful  parent  of  the  *  pain- 
ter-dramas,' which  appeared  in  great  numbers, 
in  company  with  the  'painter-novels,'  afler 
Heine,   in   his   *  Ardinghello,'   and   Tieck,  in 

*  Stembald's  Travels,'  had  made  the  romantic 
life  of  the  artist  the  subject  of  fiction." 

Goethe's  "  Tasso  "  resembles  *'  Correggio  "  in 
design,  except  that  he  takes  a  poet,  and  not  an 
artist,  for  his  hero  ;  other  works,  constructed 
upon  the  same  principle,  are  Schenck's  "Albert 
DQrer,"  Deinhardstein's  "Hans  Sachs,"  Rau- 
pach's  "  Tasso,"  Halm's  "  Camoens,"  Gutz- 
kow's  "  Richard  Savage  " ;  these  all  come  un- 
der the  general  denomination  of  the  KunsUer 
dranMy  —  the  artist  drama,  —  inasmuch  as  they 
celebrate  great  artists  or  poets. 

Afler  an  absence  of  five  years  from  his  coun- 
try and  the  councillor's  daughter,  OehlenschlA- 
ger began  to  feel  an  irresistible  longing  to  re- 
turn. 

In  his  passage  through  Germany  he  visited 
Goethe  again ;  and  his  account  of  the  inter- 
view —  the  last  they  ever  had  —  presents,  in 
curiously  contrasted  lights,  the  simple,  genuine, 
affectionate,  and  honest  character  of  the  Dane, 
and  the  cold,  measured,  diplomatic  manner  of 
the  poet-minister  of  Weimar. 

"I  had  dedicated   to  him,"  he   says,  "my 

*  Aladdin,'  had  sent  him  a  German  copy  of  my 
<  Hakon  Jarl '  and  <  Palnatoke,'  with  an  affec- 
tionate letter,  and  I  now  expected  a  paternal  re- 
ception, such  as  a  scholar  would  anticipate  from 
a  master.  Goethe  received  me  courteously,  but 
coldly,  and  almost  like  a  stranger.  Had  subse- 
quent events,  then,  extinguished  in  his  mind  the 
recollection  of  happy  hours  spent  together,  which 
in  mine  remained  so  dearly  cherished,  so  incapa- 
ble of  being  forgotten  ?  or  were  these  recollec- 
tions  slumbering  only,  and  peradventure  might 
be  awakened  ?  Was  I  too  impatient,  that  the  son 
did  not  at  once  find  the  father  he  had  expected  ? 
I  know  not.  In  truth,  I  could  not  suppress  the 
pain  I  felt,  —  but  I  thought  that  if  I  could  be 
allowed  to  read  my  <  Correggio '  to  him,  our  old 
communion  and  fellowship  would  revive.  Mat- 
ters, however,  it  seems,  were  otherwise  arranged. 
When  I  told  him,  through  Riemer,  that  I  had 
written  a  new  tragedy,  which  I  wished  to  read 
to  him,  he  sent  me  word  that  I  might  send  him 
the  manuscript,  and  he  would  read  it  himself. 
I  told  him  he  could  not  read  it,  as  I  had  only 
a  very  ill  written  copy  in  my  possession,  full 
of  corrections  and  interlineations.  Such  as  it 
was,  however,  I  gave  it  to  Riemer.  He  brought 
it  back  to  me,  and  told  me  that  Goethe  in  fact 
found  he  could  not  read  it ;  but  that  when  I 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


93 


printed  it,  he  would  do  80.  This  pained  me, 
but  I  endeayoured  to  preMrve  my  firmneas  and 
good  humor.  Croethe  twice  aaked  me  poUtelj 
to  dinner,  and  there  I  waa  bold  and  aatirical, 
becauae  I  found  it  impoaaible  to  be  open-hearted 
and  simple.  Among  other  things,  I  recited  some 
epigrams,  which  I  had  never  printed,  on  some 
celebrated  writers.  Goethe  said  to  me  good-hu- 
moredlj,  ^  This  is  not  your  field ;  ^  he  who  can 
make  wine  should  not  make  vinegar.'  *And 
have  you,  then,*  I  answered,  ^  made  no  vinegai 
in  your  time  ? '  « The  devil !  *  said  Goethe, 
^  suppose  I  have,  does  that  make  it  rigkt  to  do 
so .' '  '  No,'  rejoined  I,  —  *  but,  wherever  wine 
is  made,  some  grapes  will  fell  off  which  will 
not  do  for  wine,  though  they  make  excellent 
vinegar,  and  vinegar  is  a  good  antidote  against 
corruption.' 

^*  Could  we  have  had  time  only  to  become 
acquainted  with  each  other  •gain,  all  would 
have  gone  well,  and  Goethe  would  have  al- 
lowed me  to  read  my  play  to  him.  But,  unfor- 
tunately, my  departure  could  not  be  put  off,  and 
we  took  a  cold  fiurewell  of  each  other.  It 
grieved  me,  however,  to  the  soul ;  for  there  was 
not  a  being  in  the  world  that  I  loved  and  hon- 
ored more  than  Goethe,  and  now  we  were 
parting,  perhaps  never  again  to  meet  in  lifo. 
The  horses  had  been  ordered  at  five  o'clock  the 
next  morning.  It  was  now  half  past  eleven  at 
night ;  I  sat  melancholy  in  my  room,  leaning 
my  head  upon  my  hand,  the  tears  standing  in 
my  eye.  AH  at  once  an  irresistible  longing 
came  over  me  to  press  my  old  friend  once  more 
to  my  heart;  though  the  pride  of  mortified 
foeling  contended  with  it  in  my  heart,  and 
pleaded  that  I  ought  not  to  present  myself  to 
him  in  an  attitude  of  humiliation. 

^*  I  ran  to  Goethe's  house,  in  which  there 
was  still  light ;  went  to  Riemer  in  his  room  and 
said,  *■  My  dear  firiend,  can  I  not  speak  to 
Goethe  for  a  moment  ?  I  would  willingly  bid 
him  fivewell  once  more.'  Riemer  was  sur- 
prised, but,  seeing  my  agitation,  and  knowing 
its  source,  he  answered,  *  I  will  tell  him ;  I  will 
see  whether  he  is  still  up.'  He  returned  and 
told  me  to  go  in,  while  he  himself  took  his 
leave.  There  stood  the  creator  of  .*  Gotz  of 
Berlichingen  '  and  *  Herman  and  Dorothea,'  in 
his  night-gown,  winding  up  his  watch  before 
going  to  bed.  When  he  saw  me,  he  said  to  me 
kindly,  *  Ah !  friend,  you  come  like  Nicodemus.' 
>  Will  the  privy  councillor,'  said  I,  *  permit  me 
to  bid  a  last  farewell  to  the  poet  Goethe  f 
« Now,  then,*  replied  he  with  affection,  *  fiure- 
well, my  child  !  *  *  No  more  !  no  more ! '  said  I, 
deeply  moved,  and  hastily  lefl  the  room.  For 
twenty  years  now  I  have  not  seen  Goethe  >nor 
written  to  him,  but  I  have  named  my  eldest 
son  afier  him ;  I  have  repeatedly  read  through 
and  lectured  upon  his  noble  productions;  his 
picture  hangs  in  my  room.  I  love  him,  and  am 
convinced  that  if  fate  should  once  more  bring 
me  into  his  neighbourhood,  I  should  still  find 
in  him  the  old  paternal  friend.     I  know  also 


that  he  has  always  spoken  with  kindness  of 
me." 

Oehlensohliger  was  married  immediately  ti- 
ter his  return,  and  soon  received  the  appoint- 
ment of  Profossor  Extraordinary  in  the  Univer- 
sity. His  winters  vrere  employed  in  lecturing 
on  elegant  literature  in  Copenhagen,  and  the 
leisure  of  his  summers  was  given  assiduously 
to  composition.  In  1815  he  was  made  a  Knight 
of  Dannebrog  (Danish  Flag),  and  in  1827  electa 
ed  Ordinary  Profosaor  and  Anessor  in  the  Con- 
sistory. 

Other  pieces  of  his  are  *'  Ludlam's  Cave," 
"  Erich  and  Adel,"  ^  Hugo  von  Rheinberg," 
"Sta!rkodder,"and««Charles  the  Great."  '«His 
lyric  poems,  in  general,  are  distinguished  by 
force  and  simplicity  of  expression,  a  simplicity, 
in  foct,  which  sometimes  degenerates  into  com- 
mon or  prosaic  lines ;  and  almost  always  by  a 
natural  and  unexaggerated  vein  of  feeling."  * 
But  both  his  lyrical  poems  and  his  novels  are 
inferior  to  his  dramatic  compositions.  One  of 
his  works  of  fiction,  however,  a  reproduction 
of  the  old  German  romance  of  the  **  Island 
Felsenburg,"  is  described  by  Menzel  as  **a 
novel  foil  of  rich  and  warm  lifo." 

The  admirable  translations  from  OehlenschlA- 
ger's  dramas,  which  we  have  taken  from  ^*  Black- 
wood's Magazine,"  are  by  Mr.  Gillies.  An  an- 
alysis of  his  **  Axel  and  Valburg,"  and  of  the 
"  Veerings  in  Miklagord,"  with  extracts,  may 
be  found  in  the  '*  Foreign  Review,"  for  Octo- 
ber, 1828,  and  one  of  his  comedy  of  ••  The  Broth- 
ers of  Damascus,"  in  Blackwood,  No.  248,  for 
June,  1836. 

Oehlenschlftger  is  still  living  in  Copenhagen. 


EXTRACrrS  FROM  ALADDIN,  OR  THE  WONDERFUL 
LAMP. 

FROM  THE  DKDICATION. 

BoRH  in  the  distant  North, 

Soon  to  my  youthful  ear  came  tidings  forth 

From  Fairy  Land : 
Where  flowers  eternal  blow, 
Where  youth  and  beauty  go 

In  magic  band. 

Even  in  my  childish  days 

I  pored  enchanted  on  its  ancient  lays ; 

Where  the  thick  snowy  fold 
Lay  deep  on  wall  and  hill, 
I  read,  and  felt  the  chill 

Of  wonder,  not  of  cold. 

Methought  the  driving  hail. 

That  on  the  windows  beat  with  icy  flail, 

Was  Zephyr's  wing : 
I  sat,  and  by  the  light 
Of  one  dim  lamp  had  sight 

Of  Southern  spring. 

•  Foraign  Quarterly  Raview,  VoL  Vm.,  p.  31. 


94 


DANISH   POETRY. 


NOUREDDIN   AND  ALADDIN. 

[Two  rocln,  bending  towards  each  other,  ibrm  an  arch ; 
a  small  plain  in  front,  clothed  with  grass  and  flowers, 
partly  oTorshAded  by  the  trees  upon  the  rocks.  A  spring 
flows  torn  the  cleft  of  the  rocks,  and  loses  itself  in  the 


] 
NooKBDOur  and  ALAODni  (In  conrersation). 

ALADDm. 

Well,  uncle,  you  do  tell  the  loveliest  stories 

That  ever  in  my  life  I  listened  to, 

And  I  could  stand  and  hearken  here  for  ever. 

Methlnks  I  feel  myself  a  wiser  man 

Already,  since  we  lefl  the  city  gate,  — 

Tou  've  led  me  such  a  round  through  every 

quarter 
Of  the  wide  world.     All  that  you  say  of  trade 
Doubtless  is  true  ;  but,  I  confess,  your  tales 
Of  Nature's  magic  and  mysterious  powers, 
Of  men  who  by  mere  luck  and  chance  obtain, 
Even  in  an  instant,  all  that  others  toil  for 
Through  a  long,  weary  life,  yet  toil  in  vain,  — 
These  themes  were  those  I  loved. 

NOUaSDDUI. 

These  themes  indeed 

The  noblest  are  that  can  employ  the  soul. 

ALADDIN  (looking  about,  bewildered). 
But  where,  in  Heaven's  name,  are  we  ?     Tour 

fine  talk 
So  charmed  me  on,  I  quite  forgot  the  way. 
Far  over  stock  and  stone,  through  field  and 

thicket. 
We've  wandered  on, — far  from  the  gardens 

now, — 
Alone  amidst  the  mountains.     Ah  !  we  must 
Have  walked  a  fearful  way.    And,  now  I  think 

on% 
I  did  at  times  feel,  as  it  were,  aweaiied. 
Although  I  soon  forgot  it.     Was  it  so, 
Dear  uncle,  with  thee  too .' 

NOURSDDm. 

Not  so,  my  son. 

'T  was  purposely  that  by  degrees  I  drew  thee 
From  out  the  stir  and  tumult  of  the  town 
Here  into  Nature's  still,  majestic  realm. 
I  saw  thy  young  heart  beat  with  frolic  joy. 
While  through  the  gardens  we  together  wan- 
dered. 
Which,  like  an  isolated  ring  of  flowers. 
The  rocky  bases  of  the  mountains  girdled. 
But  though  those  blooming  bowers  and  trick- 
ling rills, 
The  tempting  fruits  with  which  they  're  studded 

over. 
May  claim  a  passing  homage  from  the  eye, 
Tet  such  diminutive  and  puny  Nature, 
Hemmed  in  on  every  side  by  dreary  want. 
Chained  in  the  galling  fetters  of  possession, 
Sinks  into  naught  beside  these  glorious  hills, 
In  this  their  royal,  their  gigantic  greatness. 
By  chance  apparently,  dear  youth,  but  yet 
With  foresight  and  deep  purpose,  have  I  led  thee 


Thus  from  the  mean  to  the  majestic  on ', 
And  what  I  said,  I  said,  to  make  thy  spirit 
Familiar  with  the  wonderful,  lest  thou 
(Even  as  a  wild,  unbroken  courser  does,  — 
Strong  in  his  youthful  speed,  but  wild  of  wit) 
Shouldst  swerve  aside  because  the  thunder  bel- 
lowed. 
This  have  I  done  to  school  thy  mind,  —  and  now 
Methinks  I  may  impart  my  purpose  to  thee. 

ALADDnr. 

Speak  on  then,  uncle, — I  am  not  afiidd. 

IfOUaSDDIK. 

Know,  then,  my  child,  for  many  a  year  I  've 
pored 

0  'er  Nature's  closely  clasped  mysterious  volume, 
Till  in  its  pages  I  detected  secrets 

That  lie  beyond  the  ken  of  common  eyes. 
So  have  I,  among  other  things,  discovered 
That  here — upon  the  spot  whereon  we  stand  — 
A  deep  and  vaulted  cavern  yawns  beneath. 
Where  all  that  in  the  mountain's  breast  lies  bu- 
ried, 
Far  fairer,  livelier,  brighter,  blooms  and  sparkles. 
In  the  deep  tints  of  an  eternal  spring. 
Than  the  weak  growths  of  this  our  surface  earth, 
Where  swift  the  flower  decays  as  swift  it  grew. 
And  leaves  but  withered,  scentless  leaves  be- 
hind. 
Know,  then,  my  son,  if  thou  hast  heart  to  ven- 
ture 
Into  this  wondrous  cave  Ttwas  for  thy  sake 

1  brought  thee  hither,  —  I  myself  have  seen 
Its  wonders  often),  I  will  straight  proceed. 
Soon  as  a  fire  of  withered  twigs  is  kindled. 
By  strength  of  deep,  mysterious,  charmed  words. 
To  bare  its  entrance  to  thine  eyes. 

ALADDIH. 

What  !^  uncle!  — 

A  cavern  here  beneath,  —  here,  —  where  we 
stand  .^ 


Even  so.     The  loveliest  of  earth's  grottoes,  — 

nay. 
The  very  magazine  of  boundless  nature. 

ALADDIH. 

And  you  can  lay  its  entrance  bare  by  burning 
Dry  twigs,  and  uttering  some  charmed  words .' 

MOtmxDDnr. 
Nephew,  such   power   has   Allah's  grace  be- 
stowed. 

ALADDIM. 

Well,  never  in  my  lifetime  did  I  hear — (paoaes). 


Already  frightened ! 

ALADDIN. 

Frightened .'  —  not  at  all ;  — 
And  yet  it  is  too  wonderful. 


OEHLENSCHLAOER. 


95 


Look,  then : 

See  where  yon  fiided  twigs  their  branches  stoop, 

All  parched  and  withered  on  the  sun-burnt 

rocks,— 
€ro,  get  thee  thither,  —  bring  us  wood  to  make 
Our  fire,  —  and  haste,  ibr  it  grows  late  and 

gloomj. 


Uncle,  I  fly,  —  I  long  to  be  within 
The  charming  care, — I  '11  fetch  the  wood  di- 
rectly. [Exit. 

VOUSBDDm  (alooA). 

So,  then,  the  moment  is  approaching,  that 

Makes  me  the  lord  of  earth  and  all  its  treasures. 

This  is  the  spot  for  which  I  longed  through  life. 

For  which  so  many  a  weary  foot  I  've  travelled. 

There  comes  mine  instrument.  See,  where  he 
runs. 

Thoughtless  of  ill,  th^  wood  upon  his  back ! 

His  eagerness  impels  him  on  too  fest ', 

He  stumbles  oft ;  —  soon  will  his  fell  be  deeper ! 

Poor  simple  fool !  Stand  still  and  fix  thine  eye. 

For  the  last  time,  on  yonder  flowery  beds, — 

Warm  thy  poor  carcass  in  the  genial  sun  ! 

Soon  wilt  thou  howl,  far,  fer  firom  sun  or  flow- 
ers. 

In  darkness  and  in  fiunine  courting  death. 

Weakness  would  call  my  purpose  cruelty. 

*T  is  wisdom  rather,  where  no  passion  mingles. 

That  which  is  fixed  is  fixed,  and  cannot  but  be. 

Does  he  who  searches  Nature's  secrets  scruple 

To  stick  his  pin  into  an  insect  ? 

AX.ADDnf  (enttfing  with  ■  bondla  of  twip  on  bis  back). 
Uncle, 

Here's  wood  enough  to  roast  an  elephant. 
But  while  I  broke  the  branches  off  and  laid  them 
Upon  my  back,  what  thought  occurred  to  me, 
But  the  old  tale  of  Abraham  and  Isaac, 
How  the  poor  boy  upon  his  back  was  doomed 
To  bear  the  wood  for  his  own  sacrifice  ? 

[He  turns  nnind,  then  wstm  his  band  triamphsntly 
aboro  his  head. 

But  Allah  sent  fit>m  heaven  a  guardian  angel 

To  rescue  him.     O,  Allah  aids  us  all 

Then  when  our  need  is  greatest !     Is  't  not  so  ? 

HounBDDiM  (confusad). 
Unfethomable  fiite  o'erruleth  all. 


And  yet,  methinks,  poor  Isaac  must  have  been 
A  little  simple,  that  he  did  not  see  through 
His  fether's  cunning  plan.     Had  I  been  he  !  — 
Bat  this,  too,  is,  perhaps,  a  mere  invention. 

VOUSBDDUf. 

Most  probably.    There, — lay  the  bundle  down : 
I  will  strike  fire.     But,  first,  a  word  with  thee. 
From  the  first  hour  I  saw  thee  yester  eve 
Catch  the  three  oranges  within  thy  turban, 
I  set  thee  down  a  brave  and  active  stripling, 
A  youth  to  court,  not  shrink  fix>m,  an  adventure. 


There,  uncle,  you  have  judged  me  right,  I  hope. 


Prepare,  then,  for  a  spectacle  of  wonder. 
When  on  this  blazing  wood  is  incense  scattered. 
When  the  charmed  words  are  spoken,  —  earth 

.  will  shake. 
And  from  its  breast  heave  forth  a  stone  of  mar- 
ble, 
Four-cornered,  —  in  the  midst  an  iron  ring : 
This  thou  mayst  raise  with  ease  by  merely  ut- 
tering 
Softly  thy  fether's  and  thy  grandsire's  names. 
Beneath  that  stone  thou  wilt  behold  a  stair ; 
Descend  the  steps,  fear  not  the  darkness ; — soon 
The  cavern's  fruits  will  light  thee  brighter  fiur 
Than  this  oppressive,  sickly,  sulphurous  sun. 
Three  lofty  grottoes  first  will  meet  thine  eye, 
Flashing  with  veins  of  gold  and  silver  ore 
Dug  firom  the  mountain's  adamantine  deeps. 
Pass  by  them  all,  and  touch  them  not.    They 

stand 
Too  firmly  fixed ;  thou  wouldst  but  lose  thy  Isr- 

bor. 
These  chambers  passed,  a  garden  opens  on  thee ; 
Not  Eden's  self  more  feir;— perchance  the  same, 
That  since  the  Deluge  in  these  rocky  cliffs 
Lies  buried.     Fruits  the  richest,  the  most  radi- 
ant,— 
Fruits  of  all  hues, — crimson,  or  blue,  grass-green, 
White,  yellow,  violet,  crystal-clear  as  are 
The  diamonds  in  a  sultaness'  ear, 
Enchant  the  eye.    Gladly  would  I  go  with  thee, 
But  in  one  day  but  one  may  enter  in. 
Now,  for  myself,  I  ask  of  Uiee  but  this : 
Walk  through  the  garden  to  the  wall  of  rock 
Beyond ;  —  there,  in  a  smoky,  dark  recess. 
Hangs  an  old  lamp  of  copper ; — briso  me  that. 
I  am  a  virtuoso  in  such  matters, 
A  great  collector  of  old  odds  and  ends ; 
And  so  the  lamp,  worthless  enough  to  others. 
Has  an  imaginary  worth  to  me. 
Returning,  pluck  what  fruits  thou   wilt,  and 

bring  them 
Along  with  thee,  but  haste, — and  bring  the 
lamp. 

ALADDm. 

Enough,  dear  uncle,  I  am  ready  now. 

[Nonreddln  takea  ool  a  box  of  incense,  and  throws  aome 
upon  the  firs.  Distant  thunder.  A  flash  of  lightning 
fidls  and  kindies  tlie  fire.  Tlie  earth  opens,  and  shows  a 
large  aquare  block  of  marble,  with  an  iron  ring  in  the 
middle.J 

HovaxDDm. 
Now  quick,  Aladdin,  —  grasp  the  ring,  —  pull 
firmly. 

ALAODxic  (trambling). 
Ah !  No,  dear  uncle ! — spare  me,  dearest  uncle ! 
I  tremble  so,  I  cannot,  cannot,  do  it. 

MOURXDDu^  (feUs  him  to  the  ground  with  a  blow). 
Coward  and  slave,  wilt  anger  me  ? — Are  these 
My  thanks  for  all  the  labor  I  have  taken, 


96 


DANISH  POETRY. 


That  thou  shouldst,  like  a  petted  lapdog,  look 
Aakance,  and  whine  and  tremble,  when  I  stroke 

thee? 
Lay  hold  upon  the  ring,, —  or,  by  the  Prophet, 
And  by  the  mighty  Solomon,  I  '11  chain  thee 
To  that  same  stone,  and  travel  hence  without 

thee. 
And  leave  thy  carcass  for  the  eagles*  prey. 

AXJU>D». 

Dear  uncle,  pardon  me,  be  not  so  angry,  -;— 
I  will  in  all  things  do  thy  bidding  now. 

NOUBBDDnV. 

Well,  be  a  man,  —  and  I  will  make  thy  fortune. 


ALADDIK   AT  THE   GATES   OF  ISPAHAN. 

My  head  is  swimming  still.    Heavens,  what  a 

journey ! 
He  took  me  on  his  back ;  I  felt  as  if 
Upon  a  bath  of  lukewarm  water  floated. 
How  high  he  flew  in  the  clear  moonshine  !  how 
The  earth  beneath  us  strangely  dwarfed  and 

dwindled ! 
.  The  mighty  Ispahan  with  all  its  lights, 
That  one  by  one  grew  dim  and  blent  together, 
Whirled  like  a  half-bnmed  paper  firework,  such 
As  giddy  schoolboys  flutter  in  their,  hands. 
He  swung  me  on  in  wide  gigantic  circles. 
And  showed  me  through  the  moonbeams'  magic 

glimmer 
The  mighty  map  of  earth  unroll  beneath  me. 
I  never  shall  forget  how  over  Caucasus 
He  flew,  and  rested  on  its  icy  peak ; 
Then  shot  plumb  down  upon  the  land,  as  if 
He  meant  to  drown  me  in  Euphrates'  bosom. 
A  huge  three-master  on  the  stormy  Euxine 
Scudded  before  the  blast ;  he  hovered  over  her. 
Pressed  with  his  toe  the  summit  of  the  mast, 
And,  resting  on  its  vane  as  on  a  pillar. 
He  stretched  me  in  his  hand  high  into  heaven. 
As  firm  as  if  he  trode  the  floor  of  earth. 
Then,  when  the  moon,  like  a  pale  ghost,  before 
The  warm  and  glowing  morning  sun  retreated. 
He  changed  himself  into  a  purple  cloud, 
And  dropped  with  me,  soft  as  the  dews  of  dawn. 
Here  by  the  city  gate  among  the  flowers. 
Then,  changed  again  by  magic,  like  a  lark 
He  soared  and  vanished  twittering  in  the  sky. 


ALADDIN   IN  PRISON. 

ALADDiM  (fuftaned  to  a  stone  by  a  beary  iroa  chain.    Ho  re- 
mains gazing  fixedly  in  deep  tbought,  then  barau oat—) 

Almighty  God  !  is  this  a  dream  ?  a  dream  ? 
Yes,  yes,  it  is  a  dream.     I  slumber  still. 
In  the  green  grass,  within  the  forest  glooms. 


BBATHWATOV  (in  the  wall). 
Pi,  pi,  pi. 
No  hope  for  thee. 


ALADDOr. 

What  sound  was  that  ?    Sure,  't  was  the  death- 
watch  spoke. 

SBATHWATCB. 

Pi,  pi,  pi, 

No  hope  for  thee. 


Is  this  thine  only  chant,  ill-boding  hermit. 
Croaking  firom  rotten  clefts  and  mouldering 

walls,  — 
Thy  burden  still  of  death  and  of  decay  ? 

BBATHWATOR. 

Pi,  pi,  pi, 

No  hope  for  thee. 

ALAODUr. 

I  do  begin  to  credit  thee,  —  thou  speakest 
With  such  assurance  that  my  heart  believes  thee. 
Prophet  of  ill !  Death's  hour-glass !   who  hath 

sent  thee 
Hither,  to  shake  me  with  thy  note  of  death  ? 


Pi,  pi,  pi. 

No  hope  for  thee. 

AI^DDIN. 

It  cannot  change  its  ditty,  if  it  would; 
'T  is  but  a  sound,  —  a  motion  of  the  mouth ;  — 
Her  song  is  but  **  Pi,  pi," — the  rest  was  fancy. 
'T  was  I  that  heard  it,—  't  was  not  she  that  sung. 

DBATHWATCH. 

No  hope  for  thee. 

ALADDIM. 

Ha!  insect!  —  what  is  this?  —  Think'st  thou 

to  shake 
My  fixed  philosophy  with  that  croak  of  tliine  ? 

DSATHWATGH. 

Pi! 

ALADOm. 

Well,  —  be  it  as  it  may,  —  my  hope  is  gone. 
This  brie^  but  oft  repeated  warning-note 
Weighs  down  my  bosom,  fills  my  heart  with 

fear. 
Yes,  't  is  too  clear.     It  must  be  so.     Th*  £n> 

chanter 
Is  master  of  the  lamp.     The  lamp  alone 
Could  thus  undo  its  work.     O  levity,  — 
Thou  serpent,  that  from  Paradise  drove  forth 
Adam,  —  destroyer  of  all  earthly  bliss,  — 
Tempter,  that  in  good  hearts  dost  sow  the  seed 
Of  evil,  bane  of  health,  and  wealth,  and  peace ! — 
Through  thee,  and  thee  alone,  I  Buff*er  here.  • 
How  dark  these  dungeon  walls  close  over  me  ! 
How  hollow  sounds  the  rushing  of  the  wind. 
Howling  against  the  tower  without !   'T  is  mid- 
night, — 
Midnight !  and  I  must  tremble  for  the  dawn. 
The  lovely  dawn,  which  opes  the  eyes  of  men. 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


97 


The  leaves  of  flowers,  to  me  alone  is  feariul ; 
To  them  it  brings  new  life,  but  death  to  me. 
[The  moon  btMks  throof  h  the  dooda  snd  sIiIdm  Into 

tllB  piiflOIL 

What  gleam  is  that  ?    Is  it  the  day  that  breaks  ? 
Is  death  so  nigh  ?     Oh,  no  ;*  it  was  the  mo<m. 
What  wouldst  thoo,  treacherous,  smiling  appa- 
rition ? 
Com'st  thon  to  tell  me  I  am  not  the  first 
Upon  whose  ashj  cheeks  thjr  quiet  light 
Fell  calmly,  on  his  farewell  night  of  life  ? 
To  tell  me  that  to-morrow  night  thy  ray 
Will  greet  my  bleeding  bead  upon  the  stake  ? 
Sad  moon,  accursed  spectre  of  the  night. 
How  often  hast  thou,  like  a  fayoring  goddess, 
Shone  o'er  me  in  my  loved  Gulnara's  arms. 
While  nightingales  from  out  the  dusky  bowers 
Vented  our  mute  felicity  in  song ! 
I  deemed  thee  then  a  kind  and  gentle  being. 
Nor  deemed,  as  now,  that  in  that  lovely  form 
Could  lurk  such  coldness  or  such  cruelty. 
Alike  unruffled  looks  thy  pallid  fkce 
On  myrtle  bowers,  on  wheel  or  gallows  down. 
The  sel&ame  ray  that  shone  above  my  joys. 
And  kissed  the  couch  of  innocence  and  love, 
Shone  on  the  murderer's  dagger  too,  or  glided 
0*er  mouldering  gravestones,  which  above  their 

dead 
Lie  lighter  than  despair  upon  the  hearts 
Of  those  that  still  are  living !  —  Com'st  thou 

here 
Thus  to  insult  me  in  my  hour  of  need. 
Pale  angel  of  destruction  f  Hence !  disturb  not 
The  peace  of  innocence  i'  th'  hour  of  death. — 
[The  moon  Is  ofaBCured  b^  clouds. 
By  Heaven,  she  flies !— She  sinks  her  pallid  face 
Behind  her  silver  curtains  mournfully, 
Even  as  an  innocent  maiden,  when  she  droops 
Her  head  within  her  robe,  to  hide  the  tears 
That  flow  for  others'  sorrows,  not  her  own. 
O,  if  my  speech  hath  done  thee  wrong,  fair  moon. 
Forgive  me !    O,  forgive  me !    I  am  wretched. 
I  know  not  what  I  say.     Guiltless  am  I, 
Tet  guiltless  I  must  yet  endure  and  die, — 
But  see  I  what  tiny  ray  comes  trembling  in, 
Like  an  ethereal  finger  from  the  clouds. 
And  lights  on  yonder  spider,  that  within 
Its  darksome  nook,  amidst  its  airy  web. 
So  calm  and  heart-contented  sits  and  spins  ? 

IBB  8PZ0BB. 

Look  upon  my  web  so  fine, 
See  how  threads  with  threads  entwine ; 
If  the  evening  wind  alone 
Breathe  upon  it,  all  is  gone. 
Thus  within  the  darkest  place 
Allah's  wisdom  thou  mayst  trace ; 
Feeble  though  the  insect  be, 
Allah  speaks  through  that  to  thee ! 
As  within  the  moonbeam  I, 
God  in  glory  sits  on  high. 
Sits  where  countless  planets  roll. 
And  from  thence  controls  the  whole : 
There  with  threads  of  thousand  dies 
Life's  bewildered  web  he  plies, 
13 


And  the  hand  that  holds  them  all 
Lets  not  even  the  fiseblest  fidl. 


ALADDIN  IN   HIS  MOTHKR's  CHAMBKR. 


(•lone). 

[He  itands  and  gum  upon  all  with  hia  banda  foldad. 
There  stands  her  spindle  as  of  yore,  but  now 
No  cheerful  murmur  from  its  corner  comes ; 
We  grow  fimiiliar  with  such  ancient  fiiends, 
And  miss  their  hum  when  they  are  hushed  for 

ever. 
There  is  some  wool  upon  the  distaff  still ; 
I  *11  sit  me  down  where  my  poor  mother  sat. 
And  spin  Uke  her,  and  sing  old  strains  the  while. 

[Ha  aha  down,  alnga,  and  barsta  into  taara. 
It  will  not  do,  I  cannot  make  it  move 
With  its  accustomed  even  touch  :  too  wildly. 
Too  feverishly  fiist  I  turn  the  wheel. 
O  God!  —  Look  there!    These  thin  and  fee- 
ble threads 
Her  hands  have  spun, — and  they  stand  fast  and 

firm } 
They  hang  unbroken  and  uninjured  there ;  — 
But  she  that  spun  them — my  poor  mother — lies 
With  firozen  fingers  underneath  the  yew. 
There  hangs  her  old  silk  mantle  on  the  wall. 
With  its  warm  woollen  lining,  —  here  her  shoes ; 
Now  thine  old  limbs  are  cold  enough,  my  mother! 
Thou  wouldst  not  leave  this  dwelling, — wouldst 

not  quit 
Thy  life  of  old  ;  thy  loving,  still  existence 
My  vanity  and  pride  have  undermined. 
O  ye  that  may  this  humble  roof  hereafter 
Inhabit,  if  at  dead  of  night  ye  hear 
Strange  sounds,  as  of  a  chamber  goblin- haunted. 
Be  not  alarmed.     It  is  a  good  and  gentle 
House-spirit.    Let  it  sit,  and  spin,  and  hum ;  — 
It  will  not  harm  ye.     Once  it  was  a  woman 
That  spun  the  very  skin  from  off  her  fingers. 
All  for  her  son, — and  in  return  he  killed  her. 
This  have  I  done. — ^This  have  I  done. — O  me ! 

[Seats  himaelf  again  and  weepa. 
There  stands  her  little  pitcher  by  the  wall,  — 
There  on  the  floor  lies  a  half- withered  leaf;  — 
And  such  am  I,  —  that  leaf  was  meant  for  me. 

[He  gasea  long  with  wild  glancea  on  the  apot  where  the 
wonderful  lamp  uaed  to  hang,  — then  ezclaima,  with  a 
diatncted  look, 

By  Heaven,  the  lamp  still  hangs  upon  the  nail ! 

What !  think'st  thou  that  I  cannot  clutch  thee  ? 
There,  — 
[Takea  a  chair,  mounta  upon  it,  and  laya  bold  of  the  nail. 

Now,  there,  I  have  thee, — thou  art  mine  again. 

Now,  then,  Gulnara  shall  be  mine  again,  —  . 

The  palace  shall  be  mine,  with  all  its  treasures. 

But  soft  !     I  '11  visit  first  my  mother's  grave. 

THB  LAHDLOBD  (enten). 
Now,  fi-iend,  hast  looked  thy  fill  ?  The  old  lady 

was 
Perhaps  a  near  relation  ? 


98 


DANISH   POETRY. 


ALADDIN. 

Distant  only. 

Now  I  am  ready.     But  will  you  pennit  me 
To  take  this  worn-out  copper  lamp  with  me  ? 
Tou  see  't  is  scarcely  worth  an  asper. 

LANDLOKD  (Staring). 
Friend, 
I  see  no  lamp. 

ALADDIN. 

See  !  this  in  my  right  hand. 
'T  is,  as  I  said,  a  trumpery  piece  of  metal. 
But  I  am  fond  of  such  old  odds  and  ends ; 
And  thus  the  lamp,  worthless  enough  for  others, 
Has  an  imaginary  worth  to  me. 

LANDLOKD. 

Good  friend,  thou  hast  nothing  in  thy  hand,  be- 
lieve me. 

ALADDIN  (aside). 
So  then  the  lamp  hath  gained  this  property. 
That  it  becomes  invisible  to  strangers. 
Charming !     They  cannot  rob  me  of  it  now. 

[Aloud,  as  he  places  the  supposed  lamp  in  his  bosom. 
Well,  since  you  say  so,  friend,  I  must  believe 
The  lamp  was  but  a  vision  of  the  brain. 
Farewell,  good  friend,  and  thanks.     Stay,  let 

me  lift 
This  withered  leaf  and  place  it  in  my  turban, — 
'T  is  all  I  ask  of  her  inheritance. 
Now  fare  thee  well. 

LANDLORD. 

Poor  man  !  his  brain  is  turned. 
Now  take  thy  leaf,  good  friend,  and  get  thee 
gone. 


ALADDIN   AT   HIS   MOTHER'S   GRAVE. 
ALADDIN  Oying  on  his  mother's  grare.   He  sings). 
Sleep  within  thy  flowery  bed. 

Lulled  by  visions  without  number ', 
Needs  no  pillow  for  thy  head. 

Needs  no  rocking  for  thy  slumber. 

Moaning  wind  and  piteous  storm, 
Mother  dear,  thy  dirge  are  knelling; 

And  the  greedy  gnawing  worm 

Vainly  strives  to  pierce  thy  dwelling. 

Thick  in  heaven  the  stars  are  set, — 
Slumber  soundly  to  my  singing,  — 

Hark,  from  yon  high  minaret 

Clear  and  sweet  the  death-note  ringing ! 

Hush,  the  nightingale  alofl 

Pours  her  descant  from  the  tree  ! 

Mother,  thou  hast  rocked  me  oft, 
Let  me  do  the  same  for  thee. 

Is  thy  heart  as  loving  now. 
Listen  to  my  wail  and  sorrow 

From  this  hollow  elder-bough 
I  for  this  a  pipe  will  borrow. 


But  the  feeble  notes  are  lost. 

Chilled  by  this  cold  wintry  weather : 
Ah  !  the  night-wind's  piercing  frost 

Withers  leaves  and  life  together. 

Here  I  can  no  longer  lie. 

All 's  so  cold  beside  thee,  mother ; 
And  no  cheerful  fire  can  I 

Ask  of  father,  friend,  or  brother. 

Mother,  sleep !  —  though  chill  thy  bed. 
Lulled  by  visions  without  number. 

Needs  no  pillow  for  thy  head, 

Needs  no  rocking  for  thy  slumber. 
[Exit. 


HAKON  JARL. 

This  tragedy  celebrates  a  subject  of  national 
interest  in  the  North.  It  involves  the  downfall 
of  the  ancient  Scandinavian  paganism,  and  the 
establishment  of  Christianity.  Olaf  Trygveson, 
descendant  of  Harald  the  Fair-haired,  has  been 
left  in  possession  of  his  father's  conquests  in 
Ireland,  where  he  has  been  converted  to  Chris- 
tianity. In  the  mean  time  Hakon  Jarl  has 
usurped  the  power,  and  meditates  the  assump- 
tion of  the  kingly  crown.  But  his  cruelty  and 
licentiousness  have  raised  up  a  strong  party 
against  him  among  the  Bondas ;  and  his  at- 
tempt to  seize  Gudrun,  tho  beautiful  daughter 
of  Bergthor,  the  smith  who  had  been  ordered 
to  make  a  crown  for  the  tyrant,  inflames  the 
people  to  the  highest  pitch,  and  the  Jarl's  re- 
tainers are  driven  off.  The  young  prince  Olaf, 
in  an  expedition  to  Russia,  lands  on  an  island 
near  the  coast  of  Norway ;  he  escapes  the 
snare  laid  for  him  by  the  crafiy  Jarl,  and,  find- 
ing the  people  eager  for  his  restoration,  resolves, 
contrary  to  his  first  intention,  to  strike  for  the 
crown.  The  tyrant  is  overthrown,  and  with 
him  the  religion  of  Odin. — ^The  subject  is  man- 
aged with  great  dramatic  skill.  The  poem 
contains  many  passages  of  rare  beauty,  and 
some  of  terrible  power;  the  sacrifice  of  the 
Jarl's  son  makes  the  reader  thrill  with  horror. 

HAXON  AND  THORER,  IN  THE  SACRED  GROVE. 
RAXON. 

We  are  alone.     Within  this  sacred  wood 
Dares  no  one  come  but  Odin's  priests  and  Ha- 
kon. 

moua. 
Such  confidence,  my  lord,  makes  Thorer  proud. 

BAKON. 

So,  Thorer,  thou  believ'st  all  that  to-day 
Was  told  of  Olaf  Trygveson  at  table, 
Till  that  hour,  was  unknown  to  me  f 

TBORSB. 

To  judge 

By  your  surprise,  my  lord,  and,  if  I  dare 

To  say  so,  by  your  looks,  such  was  the  truth. 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


99 


Trust  not  mj  looks ;—  my  features  are  mine  own, 
And  most  obej  their  owner.    What  I  teem 
Is  only  sttming.     With  the  multitude 
I  most  dissemble.  •—  Now  we  are  alone, 
Hear  me  !  Whate'er  of  Olaf  thou  bast  said, 
I  knew  it  long  before. 


His  warlike  fame 

Had  reached  to  Norway  ? 


But  thou  art  serious.  — 

What  mean'st  thou,  noble  Jarl  ? 

BAKOH. 

Give  me  thine  hand. 

In  pledge  of  thy  firm  loyalty  ! 

THOKMR. 

Thereto 

Thy  kindness  and  my  gratitude  must  bind  me. 


Thou  art  a  man  eren  after  mine  own  heart ! 
For  such  a  friend  oft  had  I  longed.  —  With 

prudence 
Thou  know'st  to  regulate  thine  own  affairs ; 
And,  if  obstructions  unforeseen  arise, 
With  boldness  thou  canst  use  thy  battle-sword  ; 
And  as  thy  wisdom  is  exerted,  still 
So  must  thy  plans  succeed. 

THOESR. 

The  gods  endow  us 

With  souls  and  bodies,  —  each  must  bear  their 
part. 

HAKON. 

Man  soon  discovers  that  to  which  by  nature 
He  has  been  destined.     His  own  impulses 
Awake  the  slumbering  energies  of  mind ; 
Thence  he  attains  what  he  feels  power  to  reach ; 
Nor  for  his  actions  other  ground  requires. 


It  is  most  true. 

BAKOX. 

My  passion  erermore 

Has  been  to  rule,  —  to  wear  the  crown  of  Nor- 
way,— 
This  was  the  favorite  "vision  of  my  soul. 


That  vision  is  already  realized. 

BAKOH. 

Not  quite,  my  friend;  —  almost,  but  yet  not 

wholly. 
Still  am  I  styled  but  Hakon  Jarl,  —  the  name 
Whereto  I  was  begot  and  bom. 

TBOaSB. 

T  is  true ; 

But  when  thou  wilt,  then  art  thou  King. 


BAXOM. 

My  hopes 

Have  oft  suggested  that  our  Northern  heroes 
Will  soon  perceive  it  more  befits  their  honor 
A  monarch  to  obey  than  a  mere  Jarl. 
Therefore  at  the  next  congress  I  resolve 
At  once  to  explain  my  wishes  and  intent. 
Bergthor,  the  smith,  a  brave  old  Drontheimer, 
Labors  already  to  prepare  my  crown. 
When  it  is  made  I  shall  appoint  the  day. 


Whatever  may  chance,  thou  art  indeed  a  king. 


Thou  judgest  like  a  trader,  still  of  gain  ;  — 
But  yet,  methinks,  the  mere  external  splendor 
Is  not  to  be  despised.     Even  to  the  lover 
A  maiden's  warm  embrace  is  not  so  rapturous 
As  to  a  monarch's  head  the  golden  crown.  — 
My  favorite  goal  is  near.     But  now  the  day 
Draws  to  a  close ;  the  twilight  dews  descend ; 
And,  as  the  poet  sings,  my  raven  locks 
Are  mixed  with  fi«quent  gray.     Give  me  thine 

hand  : 
Erewhile  I  could  have  grasped  thee,  till  the 

blood 
Sprung  from  thy  nails,  like  sap  from  a  green 

twig;  — 
Say  to  me  truly,  hast  thou  felt  it  now .' 

THORSB. 

The  strongest  pressure  may  not  fi-om  a  man 
Extort  complaint. 

BAXON. 

But  mine  was  no  strong  pressure. 

Thou  speak'st  but  to  console  me.     Seest  thou 

here? 
My  forehead  is  with  wrinkles  deeply  ploughed. 


Such  lineaments  become  a  warlike  hero. 


Yet  Norway's  maidens  love  them  not.  In  short. 
My  fnend,  I  now  grow  old ;  but  therefore  still 
The  twilight  of  mine  evening  would  enjoy.  — 
Clearly  my  sun  shall  set.     Woe  to  the  cloud 
That  strives  to  darken  its  last  purple  radiance ! 

TBORBE. 

Where  is  that  cloud  ? 


Even  in  the  West. 

TBORBE. 

Thou  mean'st 
Olaf,  in  Dublin  ? 

BAKON. 

He  is  sprung  fVom  Harald 

Sumamed  the  Yellow-locked.  —  Know'st  thou 

the  Norsemen  f 
A  powerful,  strong,  heroic  race,  yet  full 
Of  superstition  and  of  prejudice ; 


22 


100 


DANISH   POETRY. 


I  know  full  well  that  in  a  moment^s  space 
All  Hakon's  services  they  will  forget. 
And  only  think  of  Olaf 's  birth,  whene'er 
They  know  that  he  survives. 


Can  this  be  so  ? 


I  know  my  people. — And  shall  this  enthusiast, 
This  traitor  to  his  country  (who  has  served 
With  Otto  against  Norway,  on  pretence 
Of  Christian  piety),  ascend  our  throne. 
And  tear  the  crown  from  Hakon  ? 


Who  dare  think  so  f 


I  think  so,  friend,  and  Olaf  too.  —  Now  mark 

me: 
He  is  the  last  descendant  of  King  Harald ; 
Tet  Hakon's  race  yields  not  to  his.     Of  old 
The  Jarls  of  Klade  ever  were  the  first 
After  the  king ;  and  no  one  now  remains 
Of  our  old  royal  line,  but  this  vain  dreamer. 
Who  has  forsworn  the  manners  and  the  faith 
Of  his  own  native  land, — a  ransomed  slave, 
Bom  in  a  desert,  of  an  exiled  mother. 


HAEON   DISCLOSES   HIS   DESIGNS   TO    THORER. 
HAKON. 

Enough.     I  called  you  to  this  meeting  here, 
That  I  may  speak  in  friendly  confidence  : 
I  know  you  love  me,  and  deserve  this  trust. 
Then  listen, — for  the  times  require  decision. 
My  life  has  passed  away  in  strife  and  storm  : 
Full  many  a  rock,  and  many  a  thicket  wild, 
Have  I  by  violence  torn  up  and  destroyed. 
Ere  in  its  lofty  strength  the  tree  at  last 
Could  rise  on  high.     Well !  that  is  now  ful- 
filled,— 
My  name   has  spread  o'er  Norway  with  re- 
nown, — 
Only  mine  enemies  can  my  fame  decry. 
I  have  met  bravery  with  bravery  — 
And  artifice  with  art  —  and  death  with  death  ! 
Weak  Harald  Schaafell  and  his  brothers  now 
Injure  the  realm  no  mortf;  fi)r  they  are  &l]en  ! 
If  I  proved  faithless  to  the  gold-rich  Harald, 
Tet  had  his  baseness  well  deserved  his  fate. 
The  youthful  powers  of  Jomsburg  now  no  more 
May  fill  the  seas  with  terrdr ;  I  have  them 
Extirpated.     This  kingdom  every  storm 
Has  honorably  weathered,  —  and  't  was  I 
That  bad  the  helm,  —  I  only  was  the  pilot ; 
I  have  alone  directed — saved  the  vessel, — 
And  therefore  would  I  still  the  steersman  be, 
Still  hold  my  station. 


'T  is  no  more  than  justice. 


HAKOV. 

Olaf  alone  is  left  of  the  old  line  ; 

And  think'st  thou  he  is  tranquil  now  in  Ireland  ? 

What  would'st  thou  say,  wise  Thorer,  if  I  told 

thee. 
In  one  brief  word,  that  he  is  here  ? 


Here  ? 

HAKON. 

Ay. 

OABLSBOVKD. 

W^at,  here  in  Norway  ?  is  it  possible  ? 

HAXON  (toThonr). 
I  could  not  choose  but  smile,  when  thou  to-day 
Long  stories  told  us  of  thy  pious  firiend 
Olaf,  in  Dublin,  —  even  as  if  mine  eyes 
Have  not  long  since  been  watching  him! — I 

heard 
Your  words  in  silence  <Aen, — but  now  't  is  time 
Freely  to  speak.     This  morning  news  arrived. 
That  Olaf  with  a  fleet  had  sailed  firom  Dublin, 
To  visit  Russia,  but  meanwhile  has  landed 
Hard  by  us  here  at  Moster,  with  intent. 
As  it  is  said,  but  to  salute  his  country 
After  long  absence. 

1H0HHB. 

Thb  indeed  is  strange. 


If,  like  a  wild  enthusiast,  he  in  truth 

Has  lingered  on  his  way  but  to  refresh 

His  lungs  with  some  pure  draughts  of  mountain 

air 
I  know  not;    but  this  much  must  be  deter- 
mined, — 
Whether  beneath  an  innocent  wish  he  bears  not 
Some  deep  concealed  intention.  Thou  hast  been 
His  guest  at  Dublin  ;  therefore,  on  the  claim 
Of  old  acquaintance,  now  canst  visit  him. 
The  wind  is  fair ;  —  early  to-morrow  morning 
Thou  couldst  be  there. 

mOBBB. 

And  what  is  thy  design  ? 

HAXON. 

No  more  but  to  discover  his  designs ; 
And,  if  he  tarries  longer  on  our  ground. 
At  once  to  meet  him  on  the  battle-field. 
Brave  warriors  love  such  meetings,  and  search 

not 
Too  scrupulously  for  grounds  of  tlieir  contention. 
He   has   a  fleet  like   mine ;  —  power   against 

power ;  — 
Such  is  our  Northern  courtesy.     Few  words, 
Methinks,  are  needful. 

JOSTBN. 

Surely  not. 

mORBK. 

But  how 

Shall  I  detain  him  ? 


oehlenschlAger. 


101 


-that 


aucoK 
Visit  him ;  and  ny,  — 
What  doabtless  he  has  wished  to  heari 

Hakon 

Far  through  the  land  is  hated ;  that  men  wait 
Bat  Ibr  a  warrior  of  the  rightfiil  line 
To  tear  him  from  the  throne.     If  thia  mcceeds, 
Then  let  him  disembark.    On  the  finn  groond 
Right  gladly  will  I  try  the  chanee  of  war. 
Bat  if  the  bait  allures  not» — why,  't  is  well, 
Then  let  him  go. 


Now,  Sir,  I  understand, 
And  am  obedient. 


Thoa  shalt  not  in  rain 
Have  senred  me,  Thorer. 

That,  indeed,  I  know. 

Hakon's  rewards  are  princely, — yet  without 

them 
I  had  been  firm. 

HAKOH  (•faaldiig  him  bj  the  bsod). 
Mine  honest  friend !  — (Turning  to  the  othen.)  And 

you. 
As  Olaf 's  cousins,  will  you  go  with  Thorer, 
And  second  his  attempts  ? 


We  are  his  cousins,  — 
But  Hakon  is  our  patron  and  commander ; 
By  joining  in  this  plan  we  shall  but  prove 
King  Olaf 's  innocence. 


•T  is  well. 


HAKON   AND  MESSENOER. 
RAKOM. 

Now — tell  me  all — where  stands  the  insurgent 
army  ? 


In  Orkdale,  Sire,  by  Orm  of  Lyrgia 
Commanded,  and  by  Ekialm  and  Alf 
Of  Rimol.     They  are  there  with  hearts  intent 
Their  sister  to  avenge. 

HAKOM. 

I  do  confide 

In  my  tried  bands  of  heroes,  who  will  soon 

This  wild  horde  put  to  flight. 


Tet  anger.  Sire, 

Has  armed  them  powerfully. 

BAXOH. 

With  sudden  rage,  — 
A  momentary  fire, — that  vanishes 
Whene'er  the  sword  of  Hakon  Jarl  appears. 
Has  Olaf 's  fleet  approached  near  the  land  ? 


He  is  in  Drontheim's  bay  already  harboured. 


How  ?    And  my  son  has  not  there  made  him 

captive  ? 
Not  barred  his  entranoe  ?   Ha !   What  then  has 

happened  ? 


At  early  morning.  Sire,  King  Olaf  came,— 
He  had  ^y^  ships,-^- thy  son  had  three, —  in  size 
Far  less.    A  heavy  fog  reigned  all  around : 
Lord  Erland  deemed  that  Olaf 's  fleet  vras  thine ', 
Then,  on  a  nearer  view,  perceived  too  late 
His  error,  and  would  have  returned,  but  soon 
Was  overtaken  by  the  enemy. 
His  ship  was  stranded.  Then  on  deck  he  sprung, 
With  all  his  crew ;  but  on  a  sinking  wreck 
They  could  not  fight ;  but  in  the  waves  sought 

refuge, — 
Diving  beneath  the  flood,  they  swam  to  land. 
Yet  Olaf  never  lost  sight  of  thy  son  ; 
From  his  bright  armor  and  his  burnished  shield. 
He  deemed  it  was  thyself,  and  called  aloud, 
^  Hakon !    thou  shalt   not  now  escape   from 

death, — 
When  last  we  met,  I  swore  our  next  encounter 
Should  be  the   unsparing    strife  of  life  and 

death  ! " 
With  these  words,  suddenly  he  seized  a  pole 
That  on  the  water  floated.     O,  forgive  me, 
If  I  would  spare  myself  the  dread  recital, 
And' thee  the  knowledge  of  the  rest ! 

BAXON. 

Not  so: 

I  charge  thee,  tell  the  whole.  He  seized  an  oar, — 

What  then  ? 


He  struck  thy  son  upon  the  head, 
So  that  his  brains  burst  forth  into  the  i 

BAKON. 

Hast  thou  no  more  to  tell  ? 


It  vexed  King  Olaf; 

When  't  was  explained  that  he  who  had  been 

struck 

Was  not  Jarl  Hakon Many  men  were  slain. 

Tet  some  he  spared,  and  learned  from  them  the 

news. 
Where  stood  the  insurgent  army ;  and  how  much 
The  people  against  thee  had  been  incensed. 

BAKON. 

Hast  thou  yet  more  to  toll  ? 


My  liege,  I  have  not. 


Then  go  !  [The  Measenger  goes  oat 

<«  It  vexed  King  Olaf,  when  't  was  proved 
i2 


102 


DANISH  POETRY. 


That  he  who  had  been  etrack  was  not  Jarl 

Hakon  ! " 
Not  80  !  By  Heaven,  mine  enemy  could  find 
No  other  means  to  wound  my  heart  so  deeply ! 
Erland  thou  haat  not  struck ;  he  feels  it  not ; 
And  the  sea-goddesses  have  now  received  him, 
Have  pressed  him  lovingly  to  their  white  bosoms. 
Rolled  him  in  their  blue  mantles,  and  so  borne 

him 
To   Odin*s    realm !      But    Hakon    thou  hast 

wounded ; 
Ay,  struck  him  very  deeply !    O  dear  Erland, 
My  son,  my  son  !    He  was  to  me  most  dear ; 
The  light  and  hope  of  my  declining  age  ! 
I  saw  in  him  the  heir  of  my  renown, 
And  Norway's  throne !     Has  fortune,  then,  re- 
solved 
To  cast  me  off  at  last  ?    And  is  Walhalla 
Now  veiled  in  clouds  ?  its  glories  all  obscured  ? 
The    gods   themselves    o'erpowered?      Bums 

Odin's  light 
No  longer  ?     Is  thy  strength  exhausted  too. 
Great  Thor  ?  The  splendor  of  the  immortal  gods 
Declining  into  twilight,  and  already 
Their   giant   fees   triumphant?      Rouse   thee, 

Hakon ! 
Men  call  thee  Northern  Hero.     Rouse  thyself! 
Forgive  thy  servant,  O  Almighty  Powers, 
If,  worldly-minded,  he  ibrgot  Walhalla ! 
From  this  hour  onwards  all  his  life  and  deeds 
To  you  are  consecrated.     The  bright  dream, 
That  in  the  sunset  placed  upon  my  head 
The  golden  crown,  is  fled.     The  storm  on  high 
Rages,  —  the  dark  clouds  meet,  and  rain  pours 

down,  — 
The  sun  appears  no  more ;  and  when  again 
The  azure  skies  are  cleared,  the  stars  in  heaven 
Will  glimmer  palely  on  the  grave  of  Ha\on  ! 
The  sea  now  holds  my  son !     The  little  Erling, 
'T  is  true,  remains  behind.     How  can  I  hope 
That  such  a  tender  youngling  can  resist 
The  raging  storm's  assault  ?     So  let  me  swear 
By  all  the  diamonds  in  the  eternal  throne. 
Stars  of  the  night,  by  you ;  and  by  thy  car. 
All-powerful  Thor,  that  turns  the  glittering  pole 
At  midnight  toward  the  south ;  even  from  this 

hour 
I  live  no  more,  but  only  fer  Walhalla ! 
My  life  is  wholly  to  the  gods  devoted. 
If  worldly  pride  erewhile  my  heart  deluded, 
Tet  may  I  be  fergiven,  thou  noble  Saga ! 
It  was  thy  sovereign  charms  that  led  me  on. 
And  have  my  deeds,  Almighty  Father,  drawn 
Thy  wrath  upon  my  head  ?  Well,  then ;  desire 
A  sacrifice,  whate'er  thou  wilt,  it  shall 
Be  thine ! 


HAKON    AND  HIS   SON  IRLINO  IN   THE  8ACRKD 
OROVE. 

[Hakon  enters,  leading  his  son  Erling  hj  the  liand.] 


'T  is  cold,  my  fether  ! 


'T  is  yet  early  morning. 
Art  thou  so  very  chill  ? 


Nay,  —  't  is  no  matter. 

I  shall  behold  the  rising  sun,  —  how  grand  ! 

A  sight  that  I  have  never  known  before. 

HAKON. 

Seest  thou  yon  ruddy  streaks  along  the  east  ? 


What  roses !  how  they  bloom  and  spread  on 

high! 
Tet,  fether,  tell  me,whence  come  all  these  pearls, 
Wherewith  the  valley  here  is  richly  strewn  ? 
How  brightly  they  reflect  the  rosy  light ! 


They  are  not  pearls,  —  it  is  the  morning  dew ; 
And  that  which  thou  deem'st  roses  is  the  sun. 
Seest  thou  ?  He  rises  now  !  Look  at  him,  boy ! 


O,  what  a  beauteous  whirling  globe  he  seems ! 
How  fiery  red  !     Dear  father,  can  we  never 
Visit  the  sun  in  yonder  distant  land  ? 


My  child,  our  whole  life  thitherward  is  tending ; 
That  flaming  ball  of  light  is  Odin's  eye ; 
His  other  is  the  moon,  of  milder  light. 
That  he  just  now  has  left  in  Mimer's  well. 
There  by  the  charmfiil  waves  to  be  refireshed. 


And  where  is  Mimer's  well  ? 


The  sacred  ocean,  — 

Down   there,   that,   foaming,    beats   upon   the 

rocks, — 
That  is  old  Mimer's  deep  and  potent  well. 
That  strengthens  Odin's  eyes.     From  the  cool 

waves, 
At  morning,  duly  comes  the  sun  refreshed,  — 
The  moon  again  by  night. 

JOtUNO. 

But  now  it  hurts  me,  — 
It  mounts  too  high. 

RAKOH. 

Upon  his  golden  throne 

The  Almighty  Father  mounts,  soon  to  survey 

The  whole  wide  earth.     The  central  diamond 

In  his  meridian  crown  our  earthly  sight 

May  not  contemplate.  —  What  man  dares  to 

meet 
The  unveiled  aspect  of  the  king  of  day .' 


(terri6ed). 

Hu !  hu !  my  father !  —  In  the  forest  yonder  *  - 
What  are  those  bearded,  frightful  men  ? 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


103 


Fear  not, — 

These  are  the  statues  of  the  gods,  by  men 

Thufl  hewn  in  marble.     They  blind  not  with 

Bon^leams ! 
Before  them  we  can  prajr  with  confidence, 
And  look  upon  them  with  untroubled  firmness. 
Come,  child  !  —  let  us  go  nearer ! 


No,  mj  fiither ! 

I  am  afraid !  —  Seest  thou  that  old  man  there  } 

Him  with  a  beard  ?     I  am  afraid  of  him  ! 

HAXOH. 

Child,  it  is  Odin!  —  Wouldst  thou  fly  from 
Odin .? 


No,  no; — I  fear  not  the  great  king  in  heaven ; 
He  is  so  good  and  beautiful ;  and  calls 
The  flowers  from  the  earth's  bosom,  and  himself 
Shines  like  a  flower  on  high.  —  But  that  pale 

sorcerer, 
He  grins  like  an  assassin  ! 

HAXON. 

Ha! 

BSLura. 
Father,  at  least. 

Let  me  first  bring  my  crown  of  flowers ;  I  left  it 
There  on  the  hedge,  when  first  thou  brought*st 

me  hither. 
To  see  the  sun  rise.     Then  let  us  go  home  ; 
Believe  me,  that  old  man  means  thee  no  good  ! 

HAXOM. 

Go,  bring  thy  wreath,  and  quickly  come  again. 

(Exit  Erling. 
A  lamb  for  sacrifice  is  ever  crowned. 
Immortal  Powers,  behold  from  heaven  the  faith 
Of  Hakon  in  this  deed  ! 

BSUMO. 

Here  am  I,  &ther, 
And  here  *s  the  crown. 

BAXOM. 

Yet,  ere  thou  goest,  my  child. 

Kneel   down  before  great  Odin.     Stretch  thy 

hands 
Both  up  to  heaven,  and  say,  «  Almighty  Father, 
Hear  little  Erling !     As  thy  child,  receive  him 
To  thy  paternal  bosom  !  " 


(He  kneels,  itretchlng  his  amu  oot  towards  the 
■UD,  and  oaysi  wHh  childish  iDnocence  and  tranquilll- 

ly.— > 
w  O  great  Odin, 

Hear  little  Erling !    As  thy  child,  receive  him 
To  thy  paternal  bosom  !  *' 

piakon,  who  stands  behind,  draws  his  dagger,  and  Intends 
to  stab  him,  but  it  drops  out  of  his  hand.  Eiling  turns 
aboDi  quieUj,  takes  it  up,  and  says,  as  ha  rises, 

Here  it  is, — 

Your  dagger,  father !  'T  is  w  bright  and  sharp  I 


When  I  grow  taller,  I  will  have  one  too. 
Thee  to  defend  against  thine  enemies ! 

BAXOIf. 

Ha!  what  enchanter  with  soch  words 

thee 
To  move  thy  father's  heart  ? 


How  's  this,  my  father  ?    . 

You  are  not  angry,  sure  ?  —  What  have  I  done  ? 

HAKOir. 

Come,  Erling,  follow  me  behind  that  statue. 


Behind  that  frightful  man  ?  O,  no  ! 

■AxoH  (resolutely). 
Yet  listen!  — 
There   are  fine  roses   blooming  there,  —  not 

white. 
But  red  and  purple  roses.     *T  is  a  pleasure 
To  see  them  shooting  forth.  —  Come,  then,  my 

child! 


Dear  father,  stay  :  I  am  so  much  afiraid — 
I  do  not  love  red  roses. 

HJLXOir. 

Come,  I  say ! 

Hear'st  thou  not  Heimdal's  cock  ?     He  crows 

and  crows. 
Now  it  is  time ! 

[Exeunt  behind  the  sutues. 


DIFKAT   AND   DKATH   OF   HAKON. 

[SimoL  —  Night. —Thort  and  Inger  sitting  at  a  Uble  with 
work.    The  lights  are  nearly  bunit  out.] 


Sleep,  Inger,  weighs  upon  thee  heavily. 


Midnight  has  passed  long  since.  But  listen,  now. 
They  come.     There  is  a  knocking  at  the  gate. 

THOBA. 

No,  —  't  was  the  tempest.  Through  the  livelong 

night 
It  beats  and  howls,  as  if  it  would  tear  up 
The  house  from  its  foundation. 


In  such  weather. 

Your  brothers,  noble  lady,  will  not  come, 

But  wait  till  it  is  daylight. 

TBOBA. 

Well,  then,  child. 

Go  thou  to  bed.     Sleep  flies  from  me.     This 

morning 
The  battle  must  have  been ;  —  and  Ekialm 


104 


DANISH  POETRY. 


And  Alf  have  promised  me  to  come  with  tidings. 
Go  thou  to  bed ;  and  I  shall  watch  alone. 


If  yon  pennit  me.     Bat  again  I  hear 

That  sound.     Methinks  it  cannot  be  the  storm. 

[Exit. 

THOKA. 

How  sad  am  I !  How  sorely  is  my  heart 
Oppressed ! — My  brothers  against  Hakon  Jarl ! — 
Whoever  wins,  poor  Thora  must  be  lost !  — 
[An  archer 


God  sare  thee,  noble  Thora !  and  good  morning ! 
For,  if  I  err  not,  it  is  mom  already ;  — 
The  cock  crows  loudly  in  the  court  without. 
Tidings  I  bring  for  thee.  My  name  is  Einar, — 
Einar  the  bowman.  —  Fear  not,  though  I  were 
Erewhile  the  friend  of  Hakon ; — for,  since  he 
Offered  his  own  child  for  a  sacrifice, 
To  gain  the  victory,  I  have  been  to  him 
A  f^  relentless. 


O  immortal  Powers !  — 


Just  cause,  indeed,  hast  thou  for  thy  dislike, 
And  he  deserves  sJihorrence  even  from  all. 
But  most  from  thee.  But  to  the  point.  For  me, — 
I  am  King  Olaf  *s  liegeman.     I  have  known 
Thy  brothers  but  for  a  short  space  ;  yet  soon 
Firm  friends  had  we  become.     Vicissitudes 
Of  war  cement  in  one  brief  hour  a  bond 
That  years  of  peaceful  life  could  not  unite. 
They  fought  like  Normans ;  —  well,  so  did  we 

all;— . 
And  Olaf  conquered.   Like  the  waste  sea-foam. 
The  worn-out  troops  of  Hakon  were  dispersed. — 
Hotly  the  battle  raged  beneath  the  clash 
Of  blood-stained  shields ;  and  every  sword  and 

spear 
With  gore  was  reeking.     The  war-goddesses 
Descended  on  the  field.     They  would   have 

carnage. 
And  had  their  fill. — More  freely  pours  not  forth 
Odin  the  foaming  nectar  in  Walhalla !  — 
Thousands  were  slain ;  but  Hakon  and  his  squire 
Escaped  our  swords.     We  now  pursue  their 

flight!  — 

1H0BA  (anxfoQily). 
But  my  dear  brothers,  Einar,  what  of  them.'  — 
Thou  com*st  a  stranger — late  at  night — I  trem- 
ble— 
My  brothers — tell  me !  — 

aiNAa. 
They  have  sent  me  hither,  — - 
They  could  not  come  themselves.     But,  noble 

Thora, 
Rejoice ;  for  Ekialm  and  Alf  have  now 
Rode  with  the  sunrise  to  Walhalla's  towers. 
With  Odin  there  they  sit  amid  the  heroes. 
And  to  their  meeting  drain  the  golden  horn !  — 


OFreya!  — 


Noble  lady,  at  their  fate 

Thou  shouldst  rejoice.     To  few,  alas !  is  given 

A  death  so  glorious.     Ever  in  the  van 

They  shone  distinguished.  There  it  was  I  found 

them!  — 
Jarl  Hakon,  like  a  wild  bear  of  the  forest. 
Raged  in  the  battle ;  and  the  strife  was  hard. 
Together  whole  battalions  intermixed  ;  — 
Half  Norway  fought  for  Hakon ;  and  the  rest. 
Against  them,  on  the  side  of  our  King  Olaf. 
Thy  brothers  strove  with  vehemence  thee  to 

avenge 
By  the  life-blood  of  Hakon.     Tet,  behold  ! 
Both  fell  beneath  his  sword.  —  His  arm,  indeed. 
Is  powerful,  when  *t  is  energized  by  wrath. 
What  more  ?     They  found  a  noble  conqueror. 
Whatever  'men  say,  Jarl  is  a  peerless  hero ; 
This  on  the  field  to-day  was  amply  proved. 

THOSA. 

Alas  !  my  brothers  !  — 

BOflB. 

Nay,  I  envy  them ! 

Of  Odin's  realm  they  are  the  denizens. 
And  wear  their  swords  amid  immortal  heroes. 
Ere  morning  will  their  monument  be  raised, 
To  brave  the  wreck  of  time.     In  gratitude. 
There  will  King  Olaf  place  the  eternal  wreath 
Of  massy  stone.^-**  Salute  our  sister  Thora !  " — 
These  were  the  last  words  on  their  lips.  —  I 

promised ; 
That  promise  I  have  thus  fulfilled.  —  And  now 
I  ride  about  with  a  strong  band  of  horsemen 
In  search  of  Hakon.     Olaf,  too,  is  with  us. 
We  meet  again  at  Gaula ;  for  to-day 
The  Congress  is, — but  where  it  holds  I  know 

not. 
Soon,  as  we  hope,  our  prey  shall  be  secured. 
And  all  thy  wrongs  be  fearfully  avenged.  — 
Now  may  the  gods  be  with  thee  ;  and  fiuewell ! 

[KxiL 

TBORA. 

Te  sacred  Powers !  how  have  I,  then,  deserved 
A  fate  so  cruel  ?    What  have  been  my  ^srirnes, 
That  my  poor  heart  should  thus  be  rent  asun- 

der  ?  —       [Enter  a  itnnger,  muffled  In  a  doalc. 
Whence  comes  this  unknown  guest  ?  —  Stran- 
ger !  who  art  thou  ? 

STRAiront. 
Are  we  alone  and  in  security  ? 

TRORA. 

How  !  Speak'st  thou  of  security,  —  even  now. 
When  thou  thyself  my  solitude  hast  broken. 
And  on  my  grief  intruded  ?— Say,  what  art  thou  ? 


(throwing  off  his  disgnlee). 
Know'st  thou  me  now  ? 

THORA. 

O  heavenly  Powers !  —  Jarl  Hakon ! 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


105 


Even  he  himself. 

And  hast  thou  fled  to  me  ? 

HAKOH. 

Bj  all  Walhalla's  gods!  —  Thou  shouldst  not 

wonder !  — 
Will  not  the  noble  game,  that  all  day  long 
Has  been  paraued,  at  last  for  refuge  fly 
To  haunts  the  most  unmeet  or  unexpected  ? 


Jarl,  thou  art  pale,  thy  looks  are  desolate  ! 


Heaven  knows,  I  hare  contended  like  a  wolf 
That  would  protect  her  young.    With  this  good 

sword 
Souls  hare  I  sent  enough  this  day  to  Lok 
Or  Odin.     Now  am  I  sore  spent.     My  troops 
Are  broken.     Fortune  has  proved  treacherous. 
And  Olaf  with  his  Christian  charms  has  blnnted 
The  swords  of  Northern  heroes.     Many  fled ; 
Others  more  base  endeavoured  to  betray  me ; 
No  man  is  left  in  whom  I  may  confide. 
On  my  devoted  bead  the  hand  of  Rota, 
Blood-loving  goddess,  icy-cold  was  laid, 
And  heavily.     In  silence  with  one  slave 
Have  I  rode  through  the  night.     By  fiery  thirst 
Long  have  I  been  tormented.     In  diat  cup 
Is  there  cold  water? 


Wait,  and  I  will  bring  you  - 


[  (drinks). 
No,  stay  !     How  much  indeed  this  draught  re- 

frMhed  me !  — 
At  Ganla  fell  my  horse  ;  I  killed  him  there ; 
Threw  off  my  war-cloak,  drenched  it  in  his 

blood. 
And  left  it  to  deceive  mine  enemies. 


0  Hakon ! 

HAXOV. 

As  I  passed  thy  dwelling  by. 
And  stood  before  the  dark  and  silent  gate, 
Whereon  the  storm  was  breaking,  a  deep  thought 
Awoke  within  me,  that  here  yet  one  soul 
Survived,  of  whom  I  was  not  quite  an  outcast. 
And  who  the  gate  to  me  would  open  gladly. 

1  called  to  mind  how  often  thou  hadst  sworn 
That  I  was  dear  to  thee.  —  Tet  well  I  knew 
That  love  can  turn  to  hatred.     Be  it  so  ! 
Here  am  I,  Thora !  Wilt  thou  now  conceal  me 
From  Okf  and  his  horsemen  .'    For  thy  love 
Then  am  I  grateful,  —  love  that  heretofore 

I  have  not  duly  prized.     If  thou  art  doubtful, 
I  cannot  supplicate.    Then  shall  I  go 
Once  more,  amid  the  desolate  night,  and  climb 
The  highest  cliff;  look,  for  the  last  time,  round 
Even  on  that  realm  that  honored  and  obeyed 


Then,  with  the  tranquil  heart  of  stem  resolve, 
Rush  on  this  tried  and  faithful  sword.  The  storm 
Will  on  its  wild  wings  quickly  bear  my  soul 
Unto  the  father  of  all  victories  ; 
And  when  the  sun  reveals  my  lifeless  frame. 
It  shall  be  said,  **  As  he  hath  lived  exalted. 
So  did  he  nobly  die  !  " 

fHOBJL 

No  more  of  this  ! 

O  Hakon,  speak  not  so !     My  hatred  now 
Is  past  and  gone.     Gladly  shall  I  afford 
A  refuge  from  thy  numerous  foes. 

HAKOH. 

Know'st  thou 

That  I  with  this  hand  sacrificed  the  boy. 

The  &vorite  little  one,  to  thee  so  dear  ? 


Thou  to  the  gods  hast  offered  him  :  I  know  it : 
A  deed  that  proves  the  miserable  strife. 
The  oppression,  of  thy  heart. 


But  know'st  thou  too. 

That  I,  with  this  hand  which  thou  kindly 

graspest. 
And  —  no  —  I  cannot  say  the  rest ! 


I  know 

That  thou  hast  killed  my  brothers  in  the  battle. 

BAXOV. 

Indeed  ?  and  still 


Thora  is  still  the  same. 

O  Hakon  !  thou  hast  acted  cruelly  ; 

With   scorn   repaid  my  love,  and   killed  my 

brothers ; 
Tet  in  the  battle  it  goes  ever  thus. 
Life  against  life ;  and  they,  as  Einar  said. 
Are  in  Walhalla  blest  — 
Ah  !  tell  me,  Hakon, 
Is  this  no  vision  >     Art  thou  here  indeed. 
In  Thora's  humble  cottage,  fiur  remote 
From  thy  proud  palace  *mid  the  forest  wild, 
Surrounded  by  the  fearful  gloom  of  night  ? 
Say,  is  the  pale  and  silent  form  that  now 
Leans  on  his  sword,  so  worn  and  spiritless, 
No  longer  with  imperial  robes  adorned. 
Thyself  indeed  P 

■AXON. 

The  shadow  which  thou  seest 
Was  once  indeed  the  monarch  of  all  Norway, 
And  heroes  did  him  homage  and  obeisance  ; 
He  fell  in  one  day's  battle,  —  't  was  at  Klade. 
Ha  !  that  is  long  past  now,  —  almost  forgot. 
His  pallid  spectre  wanders  up  and  down. 
To  scare  beholders  in  the  gloom  of  night. 
His  name  was  Hakon  ! 


I  indeed  am  now 
Revenged,  and  fearfully  ! 


Away  with  hatred. 


106 


DANISH  POETRY. 


Henceforth,  and  enmity  !  Come  love  again  ! 
I  were  indeed  a  she-wolf,  and  no  woman, 
If  in  my  bosom  hatred  not  expired 
At  such  a  look  as  thine  is  now  !  —  Come,  then, 
Lean  on  thy  Thora ;  let  me  dry  thy  temples, 
That  fire  again  may  light  thy  &ded  eyes. 

BJLKON  (wildly). 
What  is  thy  name,  thoa  gentle  maid  of  Norway  ? 


The  maidens  here  have  called  me  Violet. 
Methinks,  indeed,  I  was  a  little  flower. 
Grown  up  within  the  shelter  of  thine  oak. 
And  there  alone  was  nourished, —  therefore  now 
Must  wither,  since  no  longer  't  is  allowed, 
As  wont,  within  that  honored  shade  to  bloom. 

HAXON. 

Violet !  a  pretty  name. 

TBORA. 

How  's  this  ?  O  Hearen ! 
A  fever  shakes  thee  in  mine  arms.     This  mood 
Is  new,  indeed,  and  fnghtful.    When,  till  now, 
Have  I  beheld  tears  on  thy  cheeks  ? 

RAXOH. 

How,  Violet, 

Thou  pale  blue  floweret  on  the  hero's  grave. 
And  wonder'st  thou  if  I  shed  tears  ?     Ere  now. 
Hast  thou  not  seen  hard  rocks  appear  tb  weep. 
When  suddenly  from  freezing  cold  to  warmth 
Transported  ?     It  is  but  of  death  the  token. 
Then  wonder  not,  pale,  trembling  flower ! 


O  Jarl ! 

My  own  !  my  Hakon  ! 


Help  me.  Heaven ! 


■▲XOH. 

The  snow 

Fades  on  the  mountains ;  now  its  reign  is  o*er ; 
The  powerful  winter  melts  away,  and  yields 
Before  the  charmful  breath  of  flowery  spring. 
Jarl  Hakon  is  no  more ;  his  ghost  alone 
Still  wanders  on  the  earth.     Yet  boldly  go. 
And  through  his  body  drive  a  wooden  spear 
Deep  in  the  earth  beneath.    Then  shall,  at  last, 
His  miserable  spectre  find  repose. 

THORA. 

My  Hakon,  be  composed ;  speak  not  so  wildly. 
The  loftiest  spirit,  howsoe'er  endowed. 
Must  yield  at  last  to  fortune.     Thy  proud  heart 
Has  long  with  hate  and  enmity  contended  ; 
Now  let  its  o'erstretched  chords  relent,  at  last. 
In  tears  upon  the  bosom  of  thy  love. — 
But  follow  me.     Beneath  this  house  a  vault 
Deep  in  the  rock  is  broad  and  widely  hewn. 
That  no  one  knows  but  I  alone,  and  there 
Will  I  conceal  thee  till  the  danger  's  past. — 
Soon  may  a  better  fortune  smile  on  us  t 

HAXON. 

Say  to  me  truly,  think*Bt  thou  that  once  more 
Beyond  that  dusky  vault  the  day  will  dawn  ? 


THORA. 

My  lord,  I  doubt  it  not. 

RAXON. 

And  to  the  vault, 

Hollow,  obscure,  unknown,  deep  in  the  earth 
(That  barrier  'gainst  all  enemies  and  danger). 
To  that  dark  fortress,  refuge  most  secure. 
Wilt  thou  conduct  me  ? 


Ay,  my  best  beloved. 


Come,  then, 

My  bride  in  death,  I  'II  follow  thee,  my  Hxla  ! 

Lead  on,  I  tremble  not. 


O  heavenly  Powers ! 

HAXOM. 

Think'st  thou  thy  looks  can  e'er  appall  my  heart .' 
True,  thou  art  pale,  thy  lips  are  blue ;  nay  more. 
Thou  kill'st  not  quickly  with  the  glittering  spear. 
Like  thy  wild  sisters  Hildur  and  Geir8k6gul, 
But  slowly  smother'st  first  with  ice-cold  anguish 
(Ere  life  departs)  the  heart's  internal  fire ;  — 
Yet 't  is  all  one  at  last.     Come,  then !     In  m«. 
Of  valorous  pride  thou  hast  not  yet  o'ercome 
The  lingering  flames.   I  follow  thee,  with  steps 
Firm  and  resolved,  into  the  grave. 


Ye  gods 

Of  mildness  and  of  mercy,  look  upon  him  ! 

[ExeuDU 

P^oody  country  at  Gaula.— Olaf,   Oazkhoyed,  Josiein, 
Grelf,  Soldien. 

ORBIF. 

It  dawns,  my  liege.  Methinks  the  day  will  prove 
Clear  and  rejoicing,  as  the  night  was  gloomy. 
Wilt  thou  not,  till  the  horses  are  refreshed. 
Repose  beneath  these  trees  P 


I  cannot  rest. 

Till  we  have  Hakon  prisoner ;  —  his  army 
Is  but  dispersed,  —  not  wholly  overcome. 
Young  Einar  deems  that  we  already  triumph  ; 
But  he  has  less  of  wisdom  than  of  valor. 
If  Hakon  gains  but  time,  he  will  be  saved. 
The  streams  will  seek  reunion  with  the  sea. 
I  would  not  waste  the  land  with  ceaseless  war, 
But  with  the  blessings  of  long  peace  enrich. 
Hakon  must  fall ;  for,  while  this  heathen  lives. 
The  rose  of  Christianity  in  Norway 
Will  never  bloom. 

[Eioar,  the  bowmao,  enters  with  Hakon's  war-dreas. 

BIHAR. 

Olaf,  thy  toils  are  o'er  ! 

Beside  a  mountain-stream  Jarl  Hakon's  steed 

Lay  bathed  in  gore,  —  and  there  I  found  hia 

mantle. 
All  bloody  too. — Thy  soldiers  must  have  met 
And  killed  him  there. 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


107 


OLAF. 

Iniiir^d  ?     Can  tJiifl  be  «o? 
I   Is  this  bis  dress  ?     Who  recognizes  it  ? 

The  dress  in  tmth  is  there, — but  where  "s  the 

Jarl? 
Lay  be  there  too  ? 


His  horse  and  cloak  alone 
Hare  I  beheld. 


Bring  also  the  Jarl,  and  then 
We  maj  repose  ;  but  not  before.     M«th ought 
Thou  knew*st  him  better.   He,  if  I  mliitak«  not. 
By  this  time  has  assumed  another  dreju,  — 
Let  not  this  trick  mislead  you.  Sire.     It  suits 
The  crafty  Jarl.     He  has  contriTed  it  a!l 
But  to  deceive  us. 


Forward,  then,  my  friends !  — 

We  are  near  Rimol.  There  is  held  the  CongreM, 

And  we  may  gain  some  tidings  of  the  foti. 


Ay,  —  there  lives  Tbora,  his  devoted  mistress. 


Nay,  that  is  past,  —  Jarl  has  deserted  ber, 
And  slain  her  brothers. 


Well,  but  it  is  said 

True  love  may  never  be  outworn ;  and  we 

Must  try  all  chances. 

Come,  to  hone  *     The  day 
Is  dawning  brightly. 

[A  Tockj  vmnlL  —  Httknn.  Karker.— The  lait  carriea  t, 
bDim'iD^  Immp,  and  a  pkle  with  food.  Hakoa  bu  a  ap«ir 
la  hi«  huhL] 

le  AS  It  SB. 

Iri  Ihifl  cavemi  then. 

Are  we  to  live  f     Here  is  not  much  prepared 
For  lire's  cotivenieace.  Where  shall  I  set  down 
Onr  lamp? 

OllCDN. 

There;  —  hang  it  on  that  hook. 

KAKICSR. 

At  Tast, 

This  much  is  gained.     And  here,  too,  there  are 

sejita 
f  lewn  in  the  reck,  whereon  one  may  repose. 
My  lord,  will  jou  not  now  take  soma  refresh - 

ment  ? 
This  whole   long  day  you   have  been  without 

food. 

I  am  not  hungry  ^  boy  }  —  but  thou  majst  eai. 


With  your  permiMion,  then,  I  shoJL. 

[Ha  miM.  Hskoa  walks  up  and  down,  takinf  lonf  st^pa.  - 
My  lord,  —  Hu  !  ILooklnj  mvnt 

T  is  ID  sooth  A  frightful  plnre  ! 
Saw'st  thoti  that  black  and  hideous  coffin  there, 
Cloei  to  the  door,  as  we  stepped  in  f 


Be  silent, 

And  eat,  I  tell  thee.  •— (AsM^:)     In  this  dark 

abode 
Has  Tbom  spent  lull  many  a  slecplese  night, 
Lonely  and  weeping.     Then,  in  her  affliction, 
That  coffin  slie  has  aecretly  provided, 
Even  fer  herself i  and  here  that  fairest  form 
One  day  awaits  corruption  ! 

[He  took*  III  KarkcT. 
Wherefofe,  boy. 

Wilt  thou  not  eat  ?    With  enger  ha»te,  till  now, 
Didjtt  thou  devour  thy  food.     What  ha^  thus 

changed  thee  f 


My  lord,  I  sm  not  hungry,  and  metbiuka 
This  food  ta«tea  not  inviiingly. 

How  ao  ? 

Be  of  good  courage.     Trust  in  me,  thy  maater. 

XASKKn. 

Lord  Jarl,  thou  art  thyself  oppressed  and  sad. 

'*  Oppr^sftpd  and  sad  !  *'  How  dar*st  thou,  slave, 

presume  ? 
I  sny,  be  merry !     If  thou  can  at  not  eal. 
Then  aing.     1  wish  to  hear  a  song. 


Which,  then, 
Would  you  prefer? 


Sing  what  thou  wilt.     However^ 
Let  it  be  of  n  deep  and  hollow  tone. 
Even  like  the  music  of  a  wintry  atorm ! 
A  lullaby,  my  child,  a  lullaby  I 


A  lullaby  ? 

BAKOH, 

Ay,  that  the  grown-up  child 
May  quietly  by  night  repose. 

My  lord^ 

1  know  a  ftunous  war^song,  —  an  old  legend. 


Has  it  a  mournful  ending  ^     Seems  it  first. 
As  if  nil  things  went  prosperously  on. 
Then  winds  up  suddenly  with  death  and  mur- 
der? 


108 


DANISH  POETRY. 


No,  Sire.     The  song  is  sad  fixim  the  beginniDg. 

BAXON. 

Well ;  that  I  most  approve.    For  to  commence 
A  song  with  calmness  and  serenity, 
Only  to  end  with  more  impressive  horror,  — 
This  is  a  trick  that  poets  too  much  use ;  — 
Let  clouds  obscure  the  morning  sky, —  and  then 
We  know  the  worst !     Begin  the  song. 


<*  King  Harald  and  Erling  they  sailed  by  night 
(And  blithe  is  the  greenwood  strain). 

But  when  they  came  to  Oglehof, 
The  doughty  Jarl  was  slain !  " 

BAXON. 

How,  slave ! 

Hast  lost  thy  reason  ?     Wilt  thon  sing  to  me 

My  Other's  death-song  ? 


How !     Was  Sigurd  Jarl 

Your  fiither.  Sire  ?     In  truth,  I  knew  not  this ; 

His  fate  at  last  was  mournful. 


Silence ! 


Here 

One  finds  not  even  a  little  straw  to  rest  on. 

RAXOK. 

If  thou  art  weary,  on  the  naked  earth 
Canst  thou  not  rest,  as  I  have  often  done  ? 


Since  it  must  be  so,  I  shall  try. 

BAXON. 

Enough. 
Sleep,  <^  sleep ! 

[Karker  stretches  himself  on  the  ground  and  falls  asleep: 
HakoQ  looking  at  him. 
Poor  nature !  slumber'st  thou  already  ? 
The  spark  which  restlessly  betokened  life 

Already  sunk  in  ashes !     But  't  is  well, 

'T  is  well  for  thee.  —  Within  this  heart  what 

flames 
Violently  rage  ! — Ha !  stupid  slave !  hast  thou. 
Commanded  by  the  Normans,  unto  me 
My  father's  death-song  as  a  warning  sung  ? 
Shall  Hakon's  fate  be  like  the  ftte  of  Sigurd  ? 
He  was,  as  I  have  been,  unto  the  gods 
A  priest  of  bloody  sacrifice.     But  how  ! 
Can  the  wise  God  of  Christians  have  o*ercome 
Odin  and  all  his  powers  ?     And  must  he  fidl 
Who  has  of  Christians  been  the  enemy  ? 

[He  pauses. 
'T  is  cold  within  this  damp  and  dusky  cave ; 
My  blood  is  fireezing  in  my  Teins. 

[He  looks  at  Karker. 
He  dreams. 
How  hatefully  his  features  are  contorted  I 


He  grins  like  some  fimtastic  nightly  spectre  ! 

[Shaking  him. 
Ho !  Karker !  Slave,  awake  !  What  mean  those 


Ah  !  't  was  a  dream. 

HAXON. 

And  what,  then,  hast  thou  dreamed  ? 


Methought  I  saw 

BAXOB. 

Be  silent.     Hear'st  thou  not  ? 
What  is  that  noise  above  ? 


Horsemen,  my  lord,  — 

A  numerous  troop.  I  hear  their  armor  clashing. 
They  are,  as  I  suspect.  King  Olaf 's  people, 
Who  search  for  us. 

BAXOB. 

This  cave  is  all  unknown. 

Its  iron  gates  are  strong.     I  have  the  key. 

Here  are  we  safe. 


But  hear'st  thou  what  the  herald 
Is  now  proclaiming  ? 

BAXOltf. 

No.     What  were  the  words  ? 

XARXBX. 

King  Olaf  will  with  riches  and  with  honor 
Reward  the  man  who  brings  to  him  the  head 
Of  Hakon,  Jarl  of  Klade. 

BAXOB  (looking  at  him  scrutinlzlnglj). 
Feel'st  thou  not 
Desire  to  win  this  wealth.^  —  Why  art  thoa 

trembling  P 
Why  are  thy  lips  turned  pale  ? 


The  vision  scared  me.  — 

Perchance,  my  lord,  you  could  explain  it  for  me. 

BAXOB. 

What  hast  thou  dreamed  ? 


That  we  were  both  at  sea, 

In  one  small  vessel,  'mid  the  stormy  waves  ; 

I  had  the  helm. 

BAXOB. 

That  most  betoken,  Karker, 
That  my  life  finally  depends  on  thee. 
Therefore  be  faithful.     In  the  hour  of  need, 
Stand  by  thy  master  firmly ;  and  one  day. 
He  shall  reward  thee  better  than  King  Olaf. 

XARXn. 

My  lord,  I  dreamed  yet  more. 


OEHLEN8CHLA6ER. 


109 


Boj,  tell  me  all ! 


There  came  a  tall  black  man  down  to  the  shore, 
Who  from  the  rocka  proclaimed,  with  fearful 

voice. 
That  every  harbour  was  barred  up  against  us. 

HUEOH. 

Karker,  thou  dream'st  not  well ;  for  this  betokens 
Short  life  even  for  us  both.     Be  fidthfhl  still : 
As  thou  thyself  hast  told  me,  we  were  bom 
On  the  same  night ;  and  therefore  in  one  day 
We  both  shall  die. 


And  then,  methought,  once  more, 
I  was  at  Klade  ',  and  King  Olaf  there 
Fixed  round  my  neck  a  ring  of  gold. 

HAXOH. 

Ha!  this 

Betokens  that  King  Olaf  round  thy  neck 
A  halter  will  entwine,  when  treacherously 
Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  master.— But  no  more.- 
Place  thyself  in  that  comer.     I  will  here 
Recline,  and  so  we  both  will  go  to  sleep. 


Even  as  thou  wilt,  my  lord. 

HAXOH. 

What  wouldst  thou  do  ? 


'T  was  but  to  trim  the  lamp. 

BAXOH. 

Go,  take  thy  place ; 

And  leave  the  lamp.    Thou  might'st  extinguish 
it; 

Then  should  we  sit  in  darkness.     It  is  more 

Than  I  can  well  explain,  how  every  night 

Those  who  retire  to  sleep  put  out  the  light ! 

Of  death  it  is,  methinks,  a  fearful  emblem. 

More  threatening  far  than  slumber.     What  ap- 
pears 

In  life  so  strong  and  vivid  as  the  light  ? 

Where  is  the  light  when  once  it  is  extinguished  ? 

Let  my  lamp  stand.  It  burns  but  feebly  now ;  — 

Tet  still  it  bums,  —  and  where  there  's  life  is 
hope ! 

Go,  take  thy  place,  and  sleep. 

[He  walks  unqnietlj  up  and  down,  and  then  uka^ 

Now,  Karker,  sleep'st  thou  ? 

XAaXKR. 

Ay,  my  good  lord. 


Ha  !  stupid  slave  !  —  (Rising  up.)     Jar!  Hakon ! 
Is  this  wretch,  then,  the  last  that  now  remains 
Of  all  thy  mighty  force  ? — I  cannot  trust  him ; 
For  what  can  such  a  dull  and  clouded  brain 
Conceive  of  honor  and  fidelity  ? 
Like  a  chained   dog,  fewning   he  will  come 
straight 


To  him  who  offers  the  most  tempting  morsels. 
Karker,  give  me  thy  dagger.     Slaves,  thou 

knowest. 
Should  wear  no  weapons. 


From  yourself,  my  lord. 

It  was  a  gift ;  and  here  it  is  again. 

■▲xox. 
T  is  well.    Now  sleep. 

TiSWSB 

Immediately. 


(adds). 
A  fever 

Burns  in  my  brain  and  blood.     I  am  outworn, 
Exhausted  with  the  combat  of  the  day. 
With  watching,  and  our  long  noctumal  flight 
Tet  sleep  I  dare  not,  while  that  sordid  slave  — 

Well,  I  may  rest  awhile,  yet  caiefhlly 
Beware  of  sleep. 

[He  alts  down,  and  \b  orarpowend  bj  abunbar. 


Ha  !  now — he  sleeps  !  —He  trusts  me  not ; 

he  fbars 
That  I  may  now  betray  him  to  King  Olaf. 
Olaf  gives  wealth  and  honors  fer  his  life ; 
What  can  I  more  expect  from  Hakon  Jarl  ? 
He  moves  !   Protect  me,  Heaven  !  He  rises  up, 
And  yet  is  not  awake. 

HAKOH  (riaing  up  In  hia  aleep,  and  coming  fiuward  towards 
Karker;  as  If  he  Had  fiom  aome  baiful  i^iparitkm). 

GOLD-HARALD  !    ScHAAFZLL  ! 

What  wouldst  thou  with  me  ?  Go  !  leave  me 
in  peace  ! 

Wherefbre  dost  thou  intrade  thy  death-pale 
visage 

Between  those  broken  rocks  ?  Harald  !  thou 
liest ! 

I  was  to  thee  no  traitor. — How,  now,  children ! 

What  would  you  here  ?  Go  home  !  go  home ! 
for  now 

There  is  no  time  fer  dalliance.  Then  your 
bridegroom !  — 

And  Odin's  marble  statue — it  has  fellen  ! 

And  Freya  stands  with  flowers  upon  her  head ! 

[Listening. 

Who  weeps  there  'mid  the  grass  ? 

Ha !  that  is  worst. 

Poor  child !  poor  little  Erling !  dost  thou  bleed  ? 

And  have  I  strack  too  deeply  ?    'Mid  the  roses. 

Till  now  snow-white,  are  purple  drops  descend- 
ing ?  [Calling  aloud. 

Ha!  Karker!  Karker! 


Still  he  dreams.     My  lord, 
Here  is  your  feithfUl  slave. 

HAKOH. 

Hold  !  take  that  spear, — 


no 


DANISH    POETRY. 


Strike  it  at  once  into  my  heart.     'T  is  done ! 
There!  gtrike  ! 

KABxaa. 
My  lord,  canat  thou  indeed  desire 
That  I  should  such  a  deed  fulfil  ? 

HAKON. 

No  more ! 

[Thraatenlag. 
Thou  wretch,  strike  instantly  !  for  one  of  us 
Must  fall, — we  cannot  both  suryive. 


Nay,  then, 
Die  thou  ! 


[He  takes  the  spear  and  stabs  Hakon. 


BAXON  (ftUiag). 
Now  in  my  heart  the  avenging  spear 
Of  Heaven  is  deeply  fixed.    Thy  threatening 

words, 
Olaf,  are  now  confirmed.  , 

XABXJBR. 

Now  it  is  past ; 

And  cannot  be  recalled.     Therefore  shall  I 
No  time  devote  to  lamentation  here. 
I  could  not  weep  him  back  to  life  again. 
These  iron  doors  now  must  I  open  wide. 
And  bring  this  dead  Jarl  to  the  king ;  then  claim 
The  wealth  and  honor  that  to  me  are  promised. 
'T  is  done  I  but  he  himself  desired  his  death ; 
I  blindly  but  perfbrmed  what  he  commanded  ! 
[Exit,  beariag  out  the  body  of  Hakon  JaiL 


SOLILOQUY   OF  THORA. 

[The  cavern.  The  lamp  etill  borne.  Servants  bring  in  a 
coffin,  eet  It  silently  in  the  care,  and  retire.  Thora 
comee  slowljr,  with  a  drawn  sword  and  a  lufe  pine-tree 
garland  in  her  hands.  She  remains  long  deeply  medita- 
tive, and  contemplatee  the  coffin.] 


Now  art  thou  in  thy  cofihi  laid,  Jarl  Hakon  ! 
In  Thora^B  cofiin.     Who  could  have  foreseen 

this.? 
May  thy  bones  rest  in  peace !  If  thou  hast  erred, 
By  sufferings  thou  has  amply  made  atonement ; 
And  no  one  now  to  thee,  laid  in  the  grave, 
One  insolent  word  may  speak  of  blame  or  scorn. 
As  in  thy  life,  so  even  in  death  I  love  thee  ! 
For  some  brief  years  thy  light  o*er  Norway 

shone. 
Even  like  the  sun,  new  life  through  all  diffusing. 
Now  have  thy  bands  of  warriors  all  forgot  thee, 
And  sworn  allegiance  to  a  foreign  power  ! 
One  feeble  woman  only  now  is  left 
To  mourn  and  weep  for  thee  !    So  let  her  now 
Those  honors  pay,  that  others  have  neglected. 
From  Thora*s  hand  receive  this  coronet. 
Of  Northern  pine-trees  woven  ;  and  let  it  twine 
Around  thy  battle  sword,  and  so  betoken 
That  thou  wert  a  brave  champion  of  the  North ; 
A  noble  forest  tree,  though  by  the  storm 
Of  winter  wild  overpowered  at  last  Old  legends, 


In  distant  ages,  when  the  colors  quite 
Have  from  the  picture  faded,  and  no  more 
But  the  dark  outline  is  beheld,  will  say, 
*'  He  was  a  wicked  servant  of  the  gods." 
Thy  name  will  be  a  terror  to  the  people ;  — 
Jfot  so  it  is  to  me  !  for,  O,  I  knew  thee  ! 
In  thee  the  noblest  gifts  and  greatest  heart 
Were  in  the  tumult  of  wild  times  perverted. 
So  then,  farewell,  great  Hakon  Jarl !    Thy  soul 
Is  now  rejoicing  in  the  halls  of  Odin. 
Now  must  I  leave  thee  here  in  solitude ; 
And  when  these  gates  are  opened  next,  the 

slaves 
Of  Thora  shall  her  lifeless  frame  deposit 
Beside  the  loved  remains  of  her  dear  friend. 


EZIRACTS  FROM  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  CORREGGIO. 

ANTONIO  DA  CORREGGIO,  AND  MARIA  HIS  WIFE. 

jjnomo  (alone.   He  eete  down  the  plaure,  and  eeems  con- 
founded). 
Is  this  a  dream  ?    Or  has  indeed  the  great 
And  gifted  Buonarotti  been  with  me  ? 
And  such  his  words !  O,  were  it  but  delusion  ! 
[He  site  down,  holding  hie  hand  over  his  6ce ;  then 
risee  up  again. 
My  brain  whirls  round.  —  And  yet  I  am  awake  ! 

A  fiightful  voice  has  broke  my  sleep "  A 

Bungler ! " 
Such  name,  indeed,  I  never  had  believed 
That  I  deserved,  if  the  great  Buonarotti 
Had  not  himself  announced  it ! 

[He  eunds  lost  in  thought. 
On  my  sight 

Rose  variegated  floating  clouds.    I  deemed 
That  they  were  natural  forms,  and  eager  seized 
The  pencil  to  arrest  their  transient  beauty ;  — 
But,  lo !  whate'er  I  painted  is  no  more 
But  clouds  again, —  a  many-colored  toy. 
Wherein  all  nobler  attributes  of  soul 
Are  sought  in  vain ;  —  even  just  proportion's 

rules 
Are  wanting  too !  [Mournfully. 

This  I  had  not  suspected  I 
From  deep  internal  impulse,  with  pure  heart. 
Have  I  my  self-rewarding  toil  pursued. 
When   at  the  canvass  placed,  methought   I 

kneeled 
Even  at  the  everlasting  shrine  of  Nature, 
Who  smiled  on  me,  her  fiivored  votary. 
And  glorious  mysteries  revealed.     But,  O, 
How  have  I  been  deceived  !  —  [A  pause. 

I  well  remember. 

When  but  a  boy,  I  with  my  father  went 
To  Florence  on  the  market-day,  and  ran 
Alone  into  St.  Lawrence  church,  and  there 
Stood  at  the  graves  of  Giulio  and  Lorenzo ; 
Contemplated  the  immortal  imagery, — 
The  Night,  the  Day,  the  Twilight,  and  Aurora, 
All  in  white  marble  cut  by  Buonarotti. 
My  stay  was  brief,  but  on  my  heart  the  impres- 
sion 
Was  deep  and  lasting ;  —  I  had  then  beheld 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


Ill 


The  high  Uni^uk  ;  the  noblest  worlu  of  art ! 
All  wan  BO  strange,  — go  beautiful  and  great, 
And  yet  ao  dead  and  mournful, — I  rejoiced 
When  I  came  forth  and  saw  once  more  the  fields 
And  the  blue  sky.     But  now  again  I  stand 
Beneath  the  cold  sepulchral  vault.     The  forms, 
So  fugitive,  of  light  and  cheerfulness, 
Are  vanuhed  all  away.     Shuddering  I  stand 
Before  the  Twilight  and  the  Night,  —  de- 
spised, — 
Forsaken  !  [Much  moYsd. 

Well !  henceforth  I  paint  no  more  ! 
Heaven  knows 't  was  not  from  vanity  I  labored. 
But  rather  as  the  bees  erect  their  cells. 
From  natural  impulse,  —  or  the  birds  their  nests. 
If  this  is  all  a  dream,  then  he  shall  once. 
Yet  once  more,  not  in  anger,  but  with  calm 
And  tranquil  dignity,  such  as  his  art 
Has  on  Lorenzo's  tomb  portrayed,  confirm 
My   sentence.     Then  ferewell,  ye  cherished 

hopes! 
Then  I  am  still  a  poor  and  humble  peasant ! 
Ay,  with  a  conscience  pure  and  peaceful.   Still, 
I  shall  not  mourn,  nor  sink  into  despair. 
If  I  am  not  a  painter,  yet  my  lot 
Is  neither  mean  nor  abject ;  —  if  this  great 
And  far-famed  Angelo  should  so  denounce  me, 
Tet  would  an  inward  voice,  by  Heaven  inspired. 
The  assurance  give, «'  Thou  art  not  base  nor 
guilty!" 

MABiA  (eaten). 
How  's  this,  Antonio  ?  Tbou  art  melancholy. 
Thy  picture  *8  thrown  aside.  —  'T  is  strange,  in- 
deed, 
To  find  thee  unemployed,  when  thus  alone. 


Maria,  dearest  wife,  my  painting  now 
Is  at  an  end. 

MAaiA. 

Hast  thou,  then,  finished  quite  ? 

AJRomo  (painfully,  and  preaeing  her  band). 
Ay,  child,  —  quite  finished  ! 


How  is  this  ?     O  Heaven  ! 
Thoa  weep'st,  Antonio  ! 


Nay,  not  so,  Maria. 


Dear  husband,  what  has  happened  here  ? 
tell  me ! 


O, 


Be  not  afraid,  Maria.     I  have  thought 
On  many  things  relating  to  our  life ; 
And  I  have  found,  at  last,  that  this  pursuit, 
By  which  we  live,  brings  not  prosperity  ; 
So  have  I,  with  myself,  resolved  at  once 
To  change  it  quite. 


I  onderstand  thee  not ! 

Airromo. 
Seven  years  ago,  when  fiom  thy  father's  hand 
I,  as  my  bride,  received  thee,  canst  thou  still 
Remember  what  the  old  man  said  ?   ^^  Antonio, 
Leave   off  this  painting.     He  who  lives  and 

dreams 
Still  in  the  fairy  world  of  art,  in  truth. 
Is  for  this  world  unfit.    Tour  painters  all. 
And  poets,  prove  bad  husbands ;  for  with  them 
The  Muse  usurps  the  wife's  place  ;  and,  intent 
On  their  spiritual  children,  they  will  soon 
Forget  both  sons  and  daughters.'* 


Nay,  in  truth. 

He  was  an  honest,  fidthful  heart     Methinks, 
Such  to  those  usefbl  plants  may  be  compared 
That  grow  beneath  the  earth,  but  never  bloom 
With  ornamental  flowers.   No  more  of  this  ! 


*«Be,"  said  he  then,  **  a  potter,  like  myself, — 
Paint  little  figures  on  the  clay,  and  sell  them. 
So,  free  fi-om  care,  live  with  thy  wife  and  chil- 
dren. 
And  unto  them  thy  time  and  life  devote.'* 


He  saw  not  that  which  I  then  loved  in  thee. 
Thy  genius,  and  thy  pure,  aspiring  soul ! 
He  knew  not  that  thine  art,  which  he  despised. 
Had  shared  my  love,  and  was  itself  a  blessing  ! 

Airromo. 
My  child,  flill  many  things  have  been  believed 
That  were  not  true.    Thy  hopes  have  all  been 
bUghted ! 


Antonio !  wilt  thou  force  me  to  be  sad  ? 

Airromo  (embraces  her). 
Thou  art  an  angel !  —  I  have  found  thee  still 
In  every  state  contented.     But  too  well 
I  know  thy  hopes  were  blighted.     Nor  have  I 
To  thee  given  up  the  emotions  of  my  heart. 
But  wasted  them  in  visionary  strife, 
And  fugitive  creations.     What  I  gained 
Has  partly  on  dear  colors  been  expended  ; 
And  for  the  rest  I  have  not  managed  wisely. 
At  times  we  lived  in  superfluity. 
But  oftener   scarce   could   meet   the   calls   of 

want;  — 
So  has  thy  tender  heart  enough  been  tried  ; 
It  shall  no  more  be  thus  !    We  shall  not  strive 
For  that  which  is  impossible,  nor  waste 
This  life  in  feverish  dreams.     I  shall  renounce 

them, — 
Step  back  into  obscurity.     Henceforth, 
I  may  not  be  an  artist, — but  will  learn 
The  duties  of  a  husband  and  a  father. 


Thou  canst  not  be  an  artist? — Then  no  more 
Can  Art  survive  upon  this  earth  ! 


112 


DANISH  POETRY. 


Dear  wife, 
Thou  loy'st  mo  ? 


A  J, — because  I  know  thee  wholly. 

A2ffT0NI0. 

Thou  smirgt  so  sweet  and  innocently,  —  mark 

you, 
How  that  unmeaning  imp  is  grinning  there  ? 
[Pohaiing  to  the  pictara. 

MABLi  (perplexed). 
Antonio ! 

Airromo. 
Now  I  see  the  fiiults.     O,  wherefore 
Have  I  not  had  ere  now  some  faithful  friend 
Who  might  have  shown  them  to  me .'     For  I 

feel 
Within  me  the  capacity  to  mend  them  ! 


O  Heaven  !  what  means  all  this  ? 

AMTONXO  (intereited,  end  contemplatlnf  the  picture). 
It  seems  to  me, 

As  if  in  that  poor  picture  there  were  still 
Something  not  wholly  so  contemptible ;  — 
Not  color  only,  —  no,  —  nor  finishing, — 
Nor  play  of  light  and  shade, —  but  something, 

too. 
Of  soLBM N  and  sublim z  ! 


Nay,  what  has  happened  ? 
Antonio,  pray  thee,  tell  me ! 


He  shall  anee — 
Ones  more  confirm  his  sentence.     He  has  hoice 
Thundered  it  forth,  but  yet  my  condemnation 
Must  be  a  third  time  uttered ;  —  I  shall  then 
Paint  cups,  and  be  a  potter ! 


Who  has  been  here  ? 

▲MTomo  (with  di|;iiit7). 
The  great  and  far-famed  Michael  Anoelo. 


And — he  — HZ  said  these  things.' 


Be  quiet,  child ; 

We  shall  await  the  third  time.  From  that  world 
Of  cherished  dreams  and  magic  imagery 
I  may  not  willingly  be  torn  away ! 
Yet  once  more  for  my  sentence  !   Then,  hence- 
forth, 
I  shall  renounce  them  all,  and,  for  my  share. 
Strive  but  for  art  to  blazon  crockery-ware  ! 


ANTONIO  AND  OipLIO  ROMANO. 
AMTOMIOb 

Now  there  wants  hut  the  varnish!  Ha!  that  veil 


Will  be  ftr  too  transparent     From  all  eyes, 
O,  might  it  be  withdrawn  !     O,  why  was  I 
By  want  compelled  to  sell  it  ?     Was  it  not 
Deception,  thus  so  large  a  sum  to  gain 
By  such  a  worthless  Idbor  ?  '  Yet  Octavian 
Himself  surveyed  the  picture  ;  and  the  price 
On  his  own  judgment  offered.     I  then  said 
It  was  too  much. 

[Taking  a  pencil 
Yet  here,  amid  the  grass, 
I  shall  paint  one  pale  hyacinth.     That  flower. 
When  beauteous  maidens  die,  adorns  their  tomb. 
For  me  the  lovely  form  of  Hope  has  now 
Declined  in  death  ;  and  for  her  sake  shall  I, 
For  the  last  time,  here  plant  one  flower ! 
But  then,  — 

How  shall  I  live,  if  I  must  paint  no  more  ? 
For  Art  hath  like  the  breath  of  heaven  become, 
A  requisite  of  life  ! 

[A  pease. 
Well,  be  it  so ! 

Let  the  long  week  in  manual  toil  be  spent, 
For  wife  and  child  !    The  Sunday  morning  still 
Remains  mine  own.     Then,  once  more  on  my 

sight. 
The  smiling  Iris  with  her  sevenfold  bow 
Will  rise  in  wonted  beauty.     I  shall  draw. 
And  groups  compose  again,  and  color  them, — 
All  for  mine  own  delight.     To  say  the  least, 
'T  is  but  a  harmless  luxury ;  and  my  pictures 
Will  yet  adorn  our  cottage  walls,  and  please 
Maria  and  my  boy,  who  love  them  too ! 
When  I  am  gone,  and  travellers  wander  here. 
They  will  not  look  on  them  unmoved ;  for  all 
Are  not  like  Michael  Angelo.  —  Perchance 
It  may  be  said,  this  man  at  least  aspired^ 
And  had  true  love  for  Art. 

oiuuo  aoMAMO  (eaten). 
Here  now  he  sits. 

The  man  by  Heaven  inspired,  —  painting  again 
Some  picture  that  shall  fill  the  world  with  won- 
der. 
O,  how  I  long  to  speak  with  him !     Yet  pa- 
tience! 
I  shall  by  gradual  steps  prolong  my  joy. — 
Am  I  awake  ?  What  have  I  seen  ?  How,  Giulio  ? 
Must  thou  from  Rome  to  this  poor  village  come. 
To  find  the  second  Rafaelle  ?     'T  is,  indeed. 
Wondrous  and  unexpected  !     In  the  city. 
Schools  and  academies  we  build,  and  princes 
Aid  all  our  efforts.     Even  from  infancy 
Our  eyes  are  fixed  on  models,  and  our  hands 
Are  exercised  ;  but  when  at  length  arrives 
The  brilliant  opportunity  to  prove 
The  powers  that  we  have  gained,  what  are  we 

all 
But  scholars  f  not,  indeed,  of  praise  unworthy. 
Good,  specious  im itatom  !     If,  once  more, 
True  genius  is  to  show  itself  on  earth. 
It  blooms  not  in  the  hot-house.     All  such  aid 
That  amaranthine  flower  disdains.     In  woods 
And  wilds,  by  the  free  breath  of  storms  per- 
vaded. 
It  flourishes,  by  chance  implanted  there. 


0£HLENSCHLAG£R. 


113 


And  by  supernal  powers  upheld.     We  gaze 
With  veneration  on  our  ancient  masters, 
And  deem  that  genius  has  its  meme  gained. 
And  died  with  them.    But  while,  all  unawares. 
We  mourn  its  loss,  lo  !  suddenly  it  springs. 
Fresh,  jouthlul,  vigorous,  into  lifh  again, 
Demanding  admiration  ever  new ! 
How  wondrous  that  those  visitants  divine. 
That  must  illume  our  earth,  so  oft  are  bom 
Even  in  the  humblest  celb  of  poverty  ! 

Airromo  (ttOl  at  ths  ptctiue). 
Stand  there,  thou  little  pale  blue  hyacinth,  — 
Thy  hues  betokening  death  ! 


He  looks,  indeed. 

Like  the  fiur  forms  that  he  delights  to  paint. 

Mild,  amiable,  and  sensitive.     But  care 

And  sadness  mark  his  ibatures.     The  fine  hues. 

That  to  the  cheeks  of  others  he  imparts, 

Bloom  not  upon  his  own. 

AMToino  (Unalng  telf  rMwd). 
There  comes  again 
A  stranger  visitant ! 


Forgive  me.  Signer, 
If  I  disturb  you !     But  how  could  I  leave 
This  place,  till  I  that  wondrous  artist  knew, 
Whose  works  adorn  it  ? 

ARTDMIO. 

Then  —  you  meet  —  ah.  Heaven  *. 
But  a  poor,  melancholy  man  ! 

•rouo. 
How  's  this  ? 

Has  the  bright  sun,  that  must  the  world  illume. 
Even  for  himself  nor  light  nor  warmth  P 


Thy  looks 

Are  friendly,  stranger ;  and  I  do  believe 
Thou  dost  not  mock  me.     Tet,  unconsciously. 
Thou  wound'st  me  deeply.    Sun  indeed !  •—  If 

thou 
Knew'st  bat  the  darkness  of  the  soul  that  dwells 

here !  — 
Not  even  one  star  gleams  through  my  rayless 

night!  — 


Nay,  from   thy   Night   beams  forth  resistless 

That  with  the  radiance  of  immortal  fame 
Will  one  day  circle  round  thee.— >Signor,  I 

pray. 
Thy  name  ? 


Antonio  Allegri. 


'T  is  well,  — 

AlTTOHIO  AlLZOBI  DA  CORRXOOIO  ! 
16 


How  can  this  name  sound  strange  unto  mine 

ears. 
That  shall  ere  long  on  all  tongues  be  Amiliar  ? 
I  have  indeed  beheld  thy  Night,  Antonio, 
There,  in  the  church.    What  thou  wouldst  rep- 
resent. 
Thou  hast  thyself  performed,  —  a  miracle  ! 
Through  the  deep  gloom  of  earthly  life  shines 

forth 
Light  to  rejoice  the  shepherds ; — and,  like  them, 
I  stand  amazed  before  you,  —  powerless  quite 
To  explain  the  wonders  that  I  look  upon. 
Veiling  my  dazzled  eyes,  and  half  in  doubt 
If  all  that  I  behold  is  not  delusion  !  — 


0  Signer,  *t  is,  indeed,  delusion  all !  — 
Thou  art  k  man  of  honor,  —  and  thou  lov'st 
Our  art, — but  let  me  venture  thus  to  say, — 

1  know  too  well  what  Art  should  be ! 


Thy  words 
Perplex  me.  Signer. 

AHTomo. 
I  have  been  indeed, 
Through  many  a  year,  a  riddl«  to  myself. 

•xuuo. 
Thou  art  in  all  things  inconceivable. 
How  has  thy  genius  bloomed  thus  all  unaid- 
ed.' 
How  has  the  world  and  thine  own  worth  to  thee 
Remained  unknown  ? — 


But,  for  example,  now, 

How  deem*st  thou  of  this  picture  ? 


How  shall  words 

Express  my  feelings .'  —  If  I  say  't  is  hoblx, 

What  have  I  said  ?  —  Till  now,  Rafaelle's  Ma^ 

donna 
Had  all  mine  admiration  ;  in  my  heart. 
She  ruled  alone.     But  now,  once  more,  Maria, 
Another  and  the  same,  smiles  out  upon  me ;  — 
With  more  of  woman's  tenderness  and  love 
Maternal,  —  less  of  queenly  dignity. 
Raiaelle,  indeed,  has  earthly  forms  endowed 
With  grace  divine, —  but  thou  hast  brought  from 

heaven 
Ethereal  spirits,  here  in  mortal  frames 
Submissively  to  dwell ! 

AmoRio  (anziotuly). 
But  then,  indeed. 
Are  there  no  faults  ? 

SIDUO. 

Where  s&  much  is  achieved. 
Faults  have  no  room  to  exist.     In  the  foil  bliss 
Of  superfluity,  who  would  complain. 
Because  he  has  not  allf  — 
j3 


114 


DANISH  POETRY. 


▲NTOMIO. 


But  what,  — I  pray  you, — 
What  here  is  wanting  ? 

oivuo.     ^ 
All  that  ia  required 

To  fbnn  a  masterpiece  is  here.     It  lives, 
And   breathes  instinct  with  life  divine, by 

depth 
Of  meditative  reason  planned,  —  by  all 
The  powers  of  genius,  feeling,  industry. 
Brought  to  perfection.      Who  would  ask  for 

more  ? 


AinONXO. 

So  much  for  praise,  —  but  tell  me  now  the 
faults. 

OZULIO. 

Thy  genius  nowhere  fails;  even  where  the 
powers 

Of  Art  are  wanting,  or  where  memory  wan- 
dered, 

Thou  hast,  by  some  peculiar  strength  of  soul, — 

Some  fine  ideal  energy,  —  bestowed 

A  charm  even  on  the  faults,  —  which,  I  might 
say. 

Is  all  thine  own ;  —  but  here,  too,  thou  resem- 
blest 

Rafaelle,  —  our  great  precursor. 

ANTOmo. 

Yet,  once  more, 

I  pray  you  point  out  all  my  faults;  you  know 

not 
How  gladly  I  firom  you  would  hear  of  them  ! 

ennjo. 
Well,  then,  —  the  mere  anatomist  might  say 
There  are  defects  of  drawing  in  this  picture. 

▲MTONIO. 

Now,  —  for  example  ? 

onruo. 
The  foreshortening  here 
Is  not  quite  accurate.     The  child*s  limbs  ap- 

pear 
Too  round ;  the  contour  is  too  full.     But  then 
You  love  such  blooming  graces;  and,  for  this, 
Avoid  the  harshness  of  reality. 

ARTONXO. 

Once,   once  more,   Signor,  —  then   I  breathe 

again;  — 
How  deem*st  thou   of  the  smile  upon   these 

lips,— 
The  Virgin's  smile,  and  then  the  Child's  ? 

_      ,  oiuuo. 

In  them 

I  find  no  fault.     Original,  but  lovely ! 


Not,  then,  "unmeaning,"  «< imp-like,"  *< honey- 
sweet  "  f 


aiuuo. 
So  have  I  to  myself,  in  summer  dreams. 
Painted  the  smiles  of  angels. 

AXTONXO. 

Thus,  O  Heaven, 
Have  I,  too,  dreamed  ! 

onruo. 
And  art  thou  mournful  now. 
Because  thou  hast  so  nobly  triumphed  here  ? 

AMTOmO. 

Nay,  I  am  sad,  because  I  have  so  long 
Myself  deceived. 


Signor,  thy  words  again 
Become  inexplicable. 

AHTOmO. 

Stranger,  in  truth, 

Thou  hast  according  to  mine  own  heart  spoken  ; 
And  it  consoles  me  that  there  are  on  earth 
Yet  men,  and  honorable,  wise  men,  too. 
That  in  the  selfsame  path  have  been  deceived. 
And  yet  I  more  admire  the  judgment  true. 
Which  on  my  faults  has  been  pronounced.  And 

there 
Thou  hast  not  erred  ;  but,  like  a  genuine  friend. 
Hast,   in   considerate,   gentle   tones,   rep'roved 

me. — 
Now,  truly,  such  discourse,  so  full  of  knowl- 
edge. 
Would  inexpressibly  rejoice  my  heart, 
If  I  had  not  (ah  !  had  I  known  it  sooner !  ) 
Even  this  day  learned  too  truly,  that  my  labor 
Is  worthless  all  and  vain  ! 


Who  told  you  this  ? 

AMTOIflO. 

Even  the  most  gifted  artist  of  our  age,  — 
Great  Michael  Angelo. 

oicuo. 
I  could  have  guessed  it ; 
This  is  but  like  him.     Truly  now  I  find 
That  broken  wheel  still  whirls  within  his  brain. 

▲MTomo. 
Nay,  I  had  first  by  levity  provoked  him.  — 
A  man  who  dwells  here,  —  a  strange  humor- 
ist,— 
By  whom  too  oft  I  am  disturbed,  had  come 
And  told  me  that  the  traveller  who  sat 
At  table  in  his  house  was  but  a  dauber, 
A  rude  companion,  who  had  injured  him. 
And  spoke  on  all  things  without  aught  of  know- 
ledge. 
Then  I  received  him,  not  with  that  respect 
That  he  so  well  deserved.     He  spoke  to  me 
Dryly  and  in  a  grumbling  tone ;  to  which 
I  made  him  jestingly  a  careless  answer. 
Then  he  was  angry;  —  "Bungler!"  "Mean 
and  base  ! "— 


OEHLENSCHLAGER. 


115 


Sueh  were  to  me  his  epitheti.     Misled 
Bj  a  vain  love  of  splendid  coloring, 
He  then  declared  that  I  woald  never  gain 
True  greatness  or  true  beauty  in  mine  art. 

•iDUO  (rsheiiMntlj). 
Rightly  he  spoke !     Thoa  wiU  not ;  for  thoa 

hast 
Already <t  by  the  immortal  works  that  fill 
The  high  Sixtinian  chapel,  won  the  wreath 
Of  victory ! 

AMTOmO. 

Ah  !  dear  Sir  i 


Think'st  thou 

That  like  a  blind  man  I  have  spoke  of  Art  ? 

There  thou  hast  erred.  'T  is  true,  I  am,  indeed. 

No  peerless  master,  —  hi  len  Angelo; 

But  yet  I  am  a  man,  —  a  Roman  too; 

No  Ctesar,  —  yet  a  Julius.     I  have  learned, 

As  thou  hast  done,  what  Art  should  be ;  the 

great 
And  ftr-iamed  Rafaelle  Sanctio  vras  my  master, 
And  still  his  deathless  spirit  hovers  o'er  me  ! 
/,  too,  may  have  a  voice  in  such  decision  ! 

AJfTOHIO. 

0  Heaven !  Tou  are,  then,  Giulio  Rom aho  ? 

•nruo. 

1  am. 

AHTOmO. 

Thou  art  Romano,  the  great  master, 
And  Rafiielle's  &vorite  ? 

srouo. 
That  I  was. 


And  thou 

Say *Bt  I  am  no  pretender  ? 

oinuo. 
I  do  say, 
Since  RaBwIle  Sanctio's  death,  there  has  not 

lived 
A  greater  artist  in  our  land  than  thou, 
Ahtonio  Alleobi  da  Corrxgoio  ! 


MICHAEL   A^OBLO,   MARIA,   AMD   GIOVANNI. 

oiovAmn. 
There  comes  my  mother. 

[Maria  eaton. 

noHAaL. 
Ay,  indeed .'  How  lovely  ! 
I  trace  at  once  the  likeness  to  Maria. 

aiovAxmi. 
Mother,  here  is  a  stranger  gentleman,  — 
He  gave  me  sugar  plumbs.  —  Look  here  ! 

laOBABL. 

Madonna, 

May  I,  then,  hope  forgiveness  ? 


Noble  Sir, 

I  thank  you  for  your  kindness.  —  CIV>  Olovaaal.) 

Hast  thou  thanked 
This  gentleman  ? 

•lovAimi. 
I  thank  you. 


Nay,  what  manners ! 

Go,  make  your  bow.     Say,  Noble  Sir  - 


I  pray  you, 

Let  him  have  his  own  way,  nor  by  forced  rules 

Check  the  pure  flow  of  Nature  that  directs  him. 


Then  you  love  children.  Sir  ? 


Not  always.    Yet 

I  love  your  son. — Tou  live  here? 


Ay,  Sir ;  —  there 

Tou  see  our  humble  cot. 


Antonio 

The  painter  is  your  husband .' 


Ay,  dear  Sir. 

MICBABL. 

Is  he  in  real  life  so  amiable, 

As  in  his  works  he  has  appeared  ?    If  so, 

Tou  are  a  happy  wife. 

MAMA. 

Signer,  his  works 

Show  but  the  iaint  reflection  of  that  sun 

Of  excellence  that  glows  within  his  heart. 


Indeed  } 
Ay,  truly. 

MICHASU 

Still,  you  seem  not  glad. 
Nor  cheerful.     Tet  an  honest,  active  husband, 
A  beauteous  wife,  and  a  fine  child,  —  methinks. 
Here  is  a  paradise  at  once  complete ! 


Tet  something, 
Alas !  is  wanting. 

What? 


Prosperity 

And  worldly  fortune. 

MICHASL. 

Are  not  beauty,  then, 

And  genius,  in  themselves  an  ample  fortune  ? 


116 


DANISH  POETRY. 


In  many  a  flower  is  hid  the  gnawing  worm. 
My  husband  has  been  ill,  —  is  irritable, 
And  each  impression  moves  him  fkr  too  deeply. 
Hence,  even  to-day,  unlucky  chance  befell  him. 


I  know  it,  Buonarotti  has  been  here, 
And  has  offended  him. 


Nay,  more  than  this,  — 
He  has  renewed  his  illness* 


Nay,  perchance 

He  has  but  spoke  the  truth.     For  Angelo 

Told  him  he  was  no  painter.  And  who  knows  ? — 

He  is  an  artist  of  experience, 

And  may  have  said  the  truth. 


And  if  from  heaven 

An  angel  had  appeared  to  tell  me  this, 

I  could  not  have  believed  him ! 


Indeed  ? 

Are  you  so  confident  ? 


Nay,  Sir.     In  truth. 

The  sum  of  all  my  confidence  is  thit^ — 

The  knowledge,  that  with  my  whole  heart  I 

love 
Antonio.     Therefore  all  that  he  has  done 
Is  with  that  love  inseparably  joined, 
And  therefore,  too,  his  works  are  dear  to  me. 

WOHAIL. 

Is  this  enough  ?    Tou  love,  yet  know  not  how 
To  ground  and  to  defend  that  preference  ? 


Let  others  look  for  learning  to  defend 
Their  arguments.  Enough  it  is  for  us 
On  pure  affection's  impulse  to  rely. 

inCHASL. 

Bravo,  Madonna  !     Tou  indeed  rejoice  me. 
Forgive  me,  if  I  tried  you  thus  awhile. 
So  should  all  women  think.  —  But  now,  for  this 
Affair  of  Michael  Angelo ;  be  bears 
A  character  capricious,  —  variable  : 
This  cannot  be  denied ;  yet,  trust  me  still. 
Good  in  the  main.     Too  oft,  indeed,  his  words 
Are  like  the  roaring  of  the  blinded  Cyclope, 
When  the  fire  rages  fiercely ;  yet  can  he 
Be  tranquil  too ;  and  even  in  one  short  hour. 
Like  the  wise  camel  with  her  provender. 
Think  more  than  may  well  serve  him  for  a  year. 
The  fierce  volcano  oft  is  terrible, 
Yet  fruitful  too ;  when  its  worst  rage  is  o*er, 
The  peasant  cultivates  the  fields  around. 
Whose  fiiiits  are  thereby  nourished  and  im- 
proved ; 
The  fearfnl  gulf  itself  is  decked  with  flowers 


And  wild-wood,  and  all  breathes  of  life  and 
joy. 


I  do  believe  you. 


Trifles  oft  give  birth 

Even  to  the  most  important  deeds.     'T  is  tme, 

The  mountain  may  have  borne  a  mouse; — in 

turn. 
The  mouse  brings  forth  a  mountain.     Even  so 
The  clumsy  trick  of  a  miUicious  host 
Set  Angelo  at  variance  with  your  husband. 
One  word  begets  another ;  for  not  love 
Alone,  but  anger,  and  rash  violence  too, 
Make  blind  their  victims. 


Sir,  you  speak  most  wisely. 


Now  listen.  —  Angelo  commanded  me 
To  visit  you ;  I  am  his  friend,  — and  such 
Excuse  as  I  have  made,  he  would  have  offered. 
His  ring,  too,  for  a  proof  of  his  respect. 
He  gives  Antonio ;  and  entreats  him  still 
To  wear  it  as  a  pledge  of  his  firm  friendship. 
They  will  yet  meet  again  ;  Antonio  soon 
Will  better  proof  receive  of  Michael's  kindness, 
If  he  has  influence  to  advance  your  fortune. 

[Ezlu 

AMTomo  (entenO. 
Maria,  dearest  wife,  what  has  he  said  ? 


The  stranger  gentleman  ? 

AMTOmo. 

Ay, — Buonarotti. 


How?    Is  it  possible  ?    Was  it  himself  ? 

AHTOHXO. 

•^7f  <^7>  —  't  was  he,  —  great  Michael  Angelo ; 
O'er  all  the  world  there  lives  not  such  another ! 

luaiiu 
O  happy  day !  Now,  then,  rejoice,  Antonio  ! 
He  kissed  our  child,  and  kindly  spoke  to  me. 
This  ring  he  left  for  thee  ;  he  honors,  loves  thee. 
And  henceforth  will  promote  our  worldly  for- 
tune. 

AMTONIO. 

Can  this  be  possible  ?    Romano,  then. 
Was  in  the  right 

MAKIA. 

He  loves  and  honors  thee. 


And  this  fine  ring  in  proof!  —  Ha !  then,  Maria, 
He  has  but  cast  me  down  into  the  dust. 
To  be  more  proudly  raised  on  high.  O  Heaven  ! 
Dare  I  believe  such  wondrous  fate  ?— But  come. 
Let  me  yet  seek  this  noble  friend ;  with  tears 
Of  gratitude  embrace  him  ;  and  declare 
That  we  indeed  are  bleat ! 


oehlenschlXoer. 


117 


At  last,  I,  too. 

Can  say  that  Buonarotti  judges  wisely, 

And  bencelbrtli  blooms  for  us  a  paiudisx  ! 

(Enanu 
ikB  ^^J  roUra,  Baptlsta  crosm  tbs  ftsfo,  sod,  oret> 
hearing  the  hut  words,  aays,) 

Then  be  it  mine  to  bring  perfection  due. 
For  Paradise  requires  a  ss&rsiiT  too  I 


ANTONIO  IN  THS  OALLIRT  OP  C0U19T  OCTAVIAN. 


Here  am  I,  then,  arrived  at  last !     O  Hearen  ! 
What  wearinees  oppresses  me  !  the  way 
Has  been  so  long, —  the  sun  so  hot  and  soorchiog. 
Here  all  is  fresh  and  airy.    Thus  the  great 
Enjoy  all  luxuries ;  in  cool  palaces, 
As  if  in  rocky  cayems,  they  deiy 
The  summer's  heat.     Qn  high  the  vaulted  roof 
Ascends,  and  pillars  cast  their  shade  below ; 
While  in  the  vestibule  clear  fountains  play 
With  cool,  refreshing  murmur.     Happy  they 
Who  thus  can  live  !  Well,  that  ere  long  shall  be 
My  portion  too.     How  pleasantly  one  mounts 
On  the  broad  marble  steps !     How  reverently 
These  ancient  statues  greet  our  entrance  here ! 
[Looking  Into  the  haU  and  coming  fbrward. 
This  hall  indeed  is  noble  !  —  How  is  this  ? 
What  do  I  see  ?   Ha  !  paintings  !  T  is,  indeed, 
The  picture  gallery.     Holy  saints  !    I  stood 
Unconsciously  within  the  sacred  temple ! 
Here  then,  Italia's  artists,  hang  on  high 
Your  wondrous  works,  like  scutcheons  on  the 

tombs 
Of  heroes,  to  commemorate  their  deeds  !  — 
What  shall  I  first  contempkte?      Woodland 

scenes, — 
Wild  beasts  of  prey,  —  stem  warriors, — or  Map 

donnas  ? 
Mine  eye  here  wanders  round,  even  like  a  bee 
Amid  a  thousand  flowers !    I  see  too  much  I 
My  senses  all  are  overpowered !    I  fee) 
The  influence  of  imperial  power  around  me. 
And  in  the  temple  of  mine  ancestors 
Could  kneel  and  weep !  —  Ha !  there  is  a  fine 

picture ! 

[Going  Baanr. 
Nay,  I  have  been  deceived  ;  for  all,  indeed, 
Are  not  of  equal  worth.     But  what  is  there  ? 
Ay,  that,  indeed,  is  pretty  !    Till  this  hour, 
I  have  not  seen  its  equal.     An  old  woman 
Scouring  a  kettle  ;  in  the  corner  there 
A  cat  asleep ;  with  his  tobacco-pipe. 
The  white-haired  boy  meanwhile  is  blowing 

soap-bells. 
I  had  not  thought  such  things  could  e'er  be 

painted. 
It  is  indeed  a  pleasure  to  behold 
How  bright  and  clean  her  kitchen  looks ;  and,  lo ! 
How  nobly  falls  the  sunlight  through  the  leaves 
On  the  clear  copper  kettle !  Is  not  here 
The  painter's  name  upoil  the  frame?    (Beads.) 

•«  Unknown, 


But  of  the  Flemish  school."   Flesush?   Where 

Ues 
That  country  ?     'T  is  unknown  to  »e.  -—  Ha ! 

there 
Are  hung  large  pictniet  of  still  life*  flowers, 

firuit. 
Glasses  of  wine,  and  game.  Here,  too,  are  dogs, 
And  many-coloied  bi^     Ay,  that  indeed 
Is  rarely  finished.     But  no  more  of  them.  — 
Ha,  ha !    There  's  lifi)  again  !     Three  reverend 


With  anxious  looks,  are  counting  gold.    And 

here. 
If  I  mistake  not,  is  our  Saviour's  birth ; 
And  painted  by  Mantegna ; — ay,  't  is  so. 
How  nobly  winds  that  mountain-path  along ! 
And  then   how  finely  those  three  kings  are 

grouped 
Before  the  Virgin  and  the  Child !     Another, 
As  if  to  meet  in  contrast,  here  is  placed ; 
Intended  well,  but  yet  how  strange  !     That  oz 
Is  resting  with  his  snout  upon  the  Virgin  ! 
And  the  Moor  grins  «o  laughably,  yet  kindly ! 
The  Child,  meanwhile,  is  stretching  out  his  arm 
For  toys  drawn  from  that  casket.    Ha,  ha,  ha ! 
'T  is  one  of  Albert  Durer*s,  an  old  German  ! 
Thus,  even  beyond  the  mountains,  there  are  men 
Who  are  not  ignorant  of  Art.     Ah,  Heaven  ! 
How  beautiful  that  lady  !  how  divine  ! 
Young,  blooming,  senritive  !     How  beams  that 

eye  ! 
How  smile  those  ruby  lips  !   And  how  that  cap 
Of  crimson  velvet,  and  the  sleeves,  become  her ! 
(Readi.)  ««  By  Lionard  da  Vinci."  Then,  in  truth, 
It  is  no  wonder.     He  could  paint  indeed!  — 

How  's  this  ? 
A  king  almost  in  the  same  style,— but  yet 
It  must  have  been  a  work  of  early  youth. 
No,  this  (reading),  we  find,  is  ^  Holbein."    Him 

I  know  not; 
Yet  to  Leonardo  he  bears  much  resemblance. 
But  not  so  noble  nor  so  masterly.  — 
Yonder  I  recognize  you  well,  good  friends. 
Our  earliest  masters.     Honest  Perugino, 
How  fiir'st  thou  with  thy  sameness  of  green 

tone. 
Thy  repetitions,  and  thy  symmetry .' 
Thy  St.  Sebastian  too  ?     Thou  hast,  indeed. 
Thy  share  of  greatness ;  yet  a  little  more 
Of  boldness  and  invention  had  been  well.— 
There  throne  the  Powers !     There,  large  as  life, 

appears 
A  reverend  man,  the  holy  Job  !  Ha !  this 
Has  nobly  been  conceived,  nobly  fulfilled  ! 
'T  is  Rafaelle,  surely.     (ReadB.)    •*  Fra  Barthole- 

meo." 
Ah  !  the  good  monk !  Not  every  priest,  in  truth. 
Will  equal  thee  !  —  But  how  shall  I  find  time 
To  view  them  all  ?     Here,  in  the  background, 

hangs 
A  long  green  curtain.     It  perchance  conceals 
The  choicest  picture.     This  I  must  behold. 
Ere  Count  Octavian  comes. 

[Withdraws  the  curtain  from  Ralaelle'a  picture  of 
SuCJeciUa. 


118 


DANISH  POETRY. 


What  do  I  see  ? 

'T  is  the  divine  Cecilia !     There  she  stands, 

Her  hand  upon  the  organ.     At  her  feet 

Lie  meaner  instruments,  confused  and  broken ; 

But  silently,  even  on  the  organ  too, 

Her  fingers  rest,  as  on  her  ear  from  heaven 

The  music  of  the  angelic  choir  descends ! 

Her  fervent  looks  are  fixed  on  high  I     Ha !  this 

No  more  is  painting,  —  this  is  poetry  ! 

Here  is  not  only  the  great  artist  shown. 

But  the  great  high-souled  mah  !  The  sanctities 

Of  poetry  by  painting  are  expressed. 

Such,  too,  were  my  designs  i    In  my  best  hours 

For  this  I  labored  ! 

[OcUTian  ent«n,  and  Oorregglo,  withoat  nlntation 
'  or  cerBmonj,  runa  up  to  himi  and  sajii— 
Now,  I  pray  you,  tell  me 
This  painter's  name.  [Pointing  to  the  picture. 


ooTAViAN  (coldly). 


'T  is  Rafiielle. 

I  AM,  THEN, 

A  PAIITTXR,  TOO  ! 


80LIL0QU7  OF  CORRBGOIO. 

AMTONio  (bavlng  been  crowned  bj  Celaatlna,  after  he  had 

ftUen  aalaep  in  the  gallery). 
Where  am  I  now  ? — Ha !  this  dim  hall,  indeed, 
Is  not  Elysium  !  —  All  was  but  a  dream  ! 
Nay,  not  a  vision,  surely,  —  but  a  bright 
Anticipation  of  eternal  life ! 
Methought  I  stood  amid  those  happy  fields. 
More  beauteous  far  than  Dante  has  portrayed 

them, — 
Even  in  the  Muses'  consecrated  grove. 
Hard  by  their  temple  on  tall  columns  reared, 
Of  alabaster  white  and  adamant, 
With  proud  colossal  statues  filled,  and  books. 
And  paintings.     There  around  me  I  beheld 
The  illustrious  of  all  times  in  every  art. 
The  immortal  Phidias  with  his  chisel  plied 
On  that  gigantic  form  of  Hercules, 
The  wonder  of  all  ages.     Like  a  fly. 
He  sat  upon  one  shoulder  ;  yet  preserved 
Through  the  gigantic  frame  proportion  just. 
And  harmony.     Apelles,  smiling,  dipped 
His  pencil  in  the  ruby  tints  of  morn, 
And  painted  wondrous  groups  on  floating  clouds. 
That  angels  forthwith  bore  away  to  heaven. 
Then  PaJestrina,  at  an  organ  placed. 
Had  the  four  winds  to  aid  him,  and  thus  woke 
Music,  that  spread  its  tones  o'er  all  the  world ; 
While  by  his  side  Cecilia  sat  and  sung. 
Homer  I  saw  beside  the  sacred  fount ; 
He  spoke,  and  all  the  poets  crowded  round  him. 
The  gifted  Rafaelle  led  me  by  the  hand 
Into  that  listening  circle.     Well  I  knew 
His  features,  though  his  shoulders  now  were 

decked 
With  silvery  seraph  wings.     Then  from  the 

circle 
Stepped  forth  the  inspiring  Muse,  —  a  matchless 

form,  — 


Pure  as  the  stainless  morning  dew,  —  and  bright. 
Blooming,  and  cheerful,  as  the  dew-sprent  rose. 
O,  never  on  remembrance  will  it  fade. 
How  with  her  snow-white  hand  this   lovely 

form 
A  laurel  wreath  then  placed  upon  my  head !  — 
•<  To  immortality  I  thus  devote  thee  !  " 
Such  were  her  words.    Then  suddenly  I  woke. 
It  seems  almost  as  if  I  felt  the  crown 
Still  on  my  brows. 

[Puta  hia  hand  to  hia  fenhead,  and  takes  off  the  wreath. 
O  Heaven  !  how  can  this  be  ? 
Are  there  yet  miracles  on  earth  ? 

[At  thia  moment,  Baptiate  entera  with  Nicolo ;  the  latr 

ter  bearing  a  eack  of  copper  coin.    Antonio  runa  up 

to  them  for  ezpianation,  and  saya,  — 
My  friend 
Baptists,  who  has  been  here  ? 

BAPTISTA. 

Ask'st  thou  me  ? 

How  should  I  know  ?     Lo  !  here  we  bring  the 

price 
Given  for  thy  picture  by  our  noble  lord. 
Tou  must  receive  the  sum  in  copper  coin. 
So  't  is  most  fitting  that  a  nobleman 
Should  to  a  peasant  ^ay  his  debts. 


THOR'S  FISHING. 

Or  the  dark  bottom  of  the  great  salt  lake 
Imprisoned  lay  the  giant  snake, 
With  naught  his  sullen  sleep  to  break. 

Huge  whales  disported  amorous  o'er  his  neck  ; 

Little  their  sports  the  worm  did  reck. 

Nor  his  dark,  vengeful  thoughts  would  check. 

To  move  his  iron  fins  he  hath  no  power. 
Nor  yet  to  harm  the  trembling  shore, 
With  scaly  rings  he  's  covered  o'er. 

His  head  he  seeks  'mid  coral  rocks  to  hide. 
Nor  e'er  hath  man  his  eye  espied. 
Nor  could  its  deadly  glare  abide. 

His  eyelids  half  in  drowsy  stupor  close, 
But  short  and  troubled  his  repose. 
As  his  quick,  heavy  breathing  shows. 

Muscles  and  crabs,  and  all  the  shelly  race. 
In  spacious  banks  still  crowd  fi>r  place, 
A  grisly  beard,  around  his  face. 

When  Midgard's  worm  his  fetters  strives  to 

break, 
Riseth  the  sea,  the  mountains  quake  ; 
The  fiends  in  Nastrond  >  merry  make. 

Rejoicing  flames  from  Hecla's  cauldron  flash. 
Huge  molten  stones  with  deafening  crash 
Fly  out, —  its  scathed  sides  fire-streams  wash. 


1  The  Scandinavian  hell. 


OEHLENSCHLA6ER. 


119 


The  affrif  hted  sons  of  Askur  feel  the  shock. 
As  the  wonn  doth  lie  and  rock, 
And  sullen  waiteth  Ragnarok. 

To  his  foul  craving  maw  naught  e*er  came  ill ; 
It  never  he  doth  cease  to  fill, 
Nath'  more  lus  hungry  pain  can  still. 

Upwards  bj  chance  he  turns  his  sleepy  eye, 
And,  oyer  him  suspended  nigh. 
The  gory  head  he  doth  espy. 

The  serpent,  taken  with  his  own  deceit. 
Suspecting  naught  the  daring  cheat, 
Ravenous,  gulps  down  the  bait. 

His  leathern  jaws  the  barbed  steel  compress. 
His  ponderous  head  must  leave  the  abyss ', 
Dire  was  Jormungandur's  hiss. 

In  giant  coils  he  writhes  his  length  about. 
Poisonous  streams  he  speweth  out, 
But  his  struggles  help  him  nought. 

The  mighty  Thor  knoweth  no  peer  in  fight; 
The  loathsome  worm,  his  strength  despite, 
Now  overmatched  must  yield  the  fight. 

His  grisly  head  Thor  heaveth  o'er  the  tide. 

No  mortal  eye  the  sight  may  bide. 

The  scared  waves  haste  i'  th'  sands  to  hide. 

As  when  accursed  Nastrond  yawns  and  bums. 
His  impious  throat  'gainst  heaven  he  turns. 
And  with  his  tail  the  ocean  spurns. 

The  parched  sky  droops,  darkness  enwraps  the 

sun; 
Now  the  matchless  strength  is  shown 
Of  the  god  whom  warriors  own. 

Around  his  loins  he  draws  his  girdle  tight. 
His  eye  with  triumph  flashes  bright, 
The  frail  boat  splits  aneath  his  weight : 

The   frail  boat  splits,  —  but  on  the    ocean's 

ground 
Thor  again  hath  footing  found ; 
Within  his  arms  the  worm  is  bound. 

Hymir,  who  in  the  strife  no  part  had  took. 
But  like  a  trembling  aspen  shook, 
Rouseth  him  to  avert  the  stroke. 

<«  In  the  last  night,  the  Vala  hath  decreed 

Thor,  in  Odin's  utmost  need, 

To  the  worm  shall  bow  the  head." 

Thus,  in  sunk  voice,  the  craven  giant  spoke. 
Whilst  from  his  belt  a  knife  he  took. 
Forged  by  dwarfs  aneath  the  rock. 

Upon  the  magic  belt  straight  'gan  to  file ; 
Thor  in  bitter  scorn  to  smile ; 
Miolner  swang  in  air  the  while. 


In  the  worm's  front  full  two-score  leagues  it 

fell. 
From  Gimle  to  the  realms  of  hell 
Echoed  Jormungandur's  yell. 

The  ocean  yawned ;  Thor's  lightnings  rent  the 

sky; 
Through  the  storm,  the  great  Sun's  eye 
Looked  out  on  the  fight  from  high. 

Bifirost  *  i'  th'  east  shone  forth  in  brightest  green ; 
On  its  top,  in  snow-white  sheen, 
Heimdal  at  his  post  was  seen. 

On  the  charmed  belt  the  dagger  hath  no  power ; 
The  star  of  Jotunheim  'gan  lour ; 
But  now,  in  Asgard's  evil  hour, 

When  all  his  efforts  foiled  tall  Hymir  saw, 
Wading  to  the  serpent's  maw. 
On  the  kedge  he  'gan  to  saw. 

The  Sun,  dismayed,  hastened  in  clouds  to  hide; 
Heimdal  turned  his  head  aside ; 
Thor  was  humbled  in  his  pride. 

The  knife  prevails,  far  down  beneath  the  main 
The  serpent,  spent  with  toil  and  pain. 
To  the  bottom  sank  again. 

The  giant  fled,  his  head  'mid  rocks  to  save ; 

Fearfolly  the  god  did  rave, 

With  his  lightnings  tore  the  wave  : 

To  madness  stung,  to  think  his  conquest  vain. 
His  ire  no  longer  could  contain. 
Dared  the  worm  to  rise  again. 

His  radiant  form  to  its  full  height  he  drew. 
And  Miolner  through  the  billows  blue 
Swifter  than  the  fire-bolt  flew. 

Hoped,  yet,  the  worm  had  fallen  beneath  the 

stroke; 
But  the  wily  child  of  Loke 
Waits  her  turn  at  Ragnarok. 

His  hammer  lost,  back  wends  the  giant-bane. 
Wasted  his  strength,  his  prowess  vain ; 
And  Miolner  must  with  Ran  remain. 


THE  DWARF& 

Loke  sat  and  thought,  till  his  dark  ejf  glea 
With  joy  at  the  deed  he  'd  done ; 

When  Sif  looked  into  the  crystal  stream. 
Her  courage  was  well-nigh  gone. 

For  never  again  her  soft  amber  hair 

Shall  she  braid  with  her  hands  of  snow; 

*  The  rainbow. 


120 


DANISH    POETRY. 


From  the  hateful  image  she  turned  in  despair, 
And  hot  tears  began  to  flow. 

In  a  cayem's  mouth,  like  a  crafty  fox, 
Loke  sat,  'neath  the  tall  pine's  shade, 

When  sudden  a  thundering  was  heard  in  the 
rocks. 
And  fearfully  trembled  the  glade. 

Then  he  knew  that  the  noise  good  boded  him 
naught. 

He  knew  that 't  was  Thor  who  was  coming ; 
He  changed  himself  straight  to  a  salmon-trout. 

And  leaped  in  a  fright  in  the  Glommen. 

But  Thor  changed,  too,  to  a  huge  sea-gull. 
And  the  salmon-trout  seized  in  his  beak  : 

He  cried,  **  Thou  traitor,  I  know  thee  well, 
And  dear  sbalt  thou  pay  thy  freak. 

^  Thy  caitiflTs  bones  to  a  meal  I  '11  pound. 
As  a  mill-stone  crusheth  the  grain." 

When  Loke  that  naught  booted  his  magic  found. 
He  took  straight  his  own  form  again. 

M  And  what  if  thou  scatter'st  my  limbs  in  air.' " 
He  spake :  «*  Will  it  mend  thy  case  ? 

Will  it  gain  back  for  Sif  a  single  hair  ? 
Thou  'It  still  a  bald  spouse  embrace. 

'( But  if  now  thou  'It  pardon  my  heedless  joke, — 
For  malice,  sure,  meant  I  none,  — 

I  swear  to  thee  here,  by  root,  billow,  and  rock, 
By  the  moss  on  the  Bauta-stone,  ^ 

«  By  Mimer's  well,  and  by  Odin's  eye. 

And  by  Miolner,  greatest  of  all ; 
That  straight  to  the  secret  caves  I  '11  hie. 

To  the  dwarft,  my  kinsmen  smalt : 

**  And  thence  for  Sif  new  tresses  I  'II  bring 

Of  gold,  ere  the  daylight's  gone. 
So  that  she  shall  liken  a  field  in  spring. 

With  its  yellow-flowered  garment  on." 

Him   answered  Thor:    "Why,   thou  brazen 
knave. 
To  my  face  to  mock  me  dost  dare .' 
Thou  know'st  well  that  Miolner  u  now  'neath 
the  wave 
With  Ran,  and  wilt  still  by  it  swear  ?  " 

^  O,  a  better  hammer  for  thee  I  '11  obtain," 
And  he  shook  like  an  aspen-tree, 

**'Fore   whose   stroke,   shield,  buckler^  and 
greave  shall  be  vain. 
And  the  giants  with  terror  shall  flee  !  " 

"Not  so,"  cried  Thor,  and  his  eyes  flashed 
fire ; 
"  Thy  base  treason  calls  loud  for  blood  ; 
And  hither  I  'm  come,  with  my  sworn  brother, 
Freyr, 
To  make  thee  of  ravens  the  food. 

t  SUMiea  placed  over  the  tombs  of  disUnguiahed  warriors. 


"  I  '11  take  hold  of  thine  arms  and  thy  coal-black 
hair. 

And  Freyr  of  thy  heels  behind, 
And  thy  lustful  body  to  atoms  we  *11  tear, 

And  scatter  thy  limbs  to  the  wind." 

"  O,  spare  me,  Freyr,  thou  great-souled  king ! " 

And,  weeping,  he  kissed  his  feet ; 
"  O,  mercy  !   and  thee  I  '11  a  courser  bring. 

No  match  in  the  wide  world  shall  meet. 

"  Without  whip  or  spur  round  the  earth  you 
shall  ride ; 

He  '11  ne'er  weary  by  day  nor  by  night ; 
He  shall  carry  you  safe  o'er  the  raging  tide, 

And  his  golden  hair  furnish  you  light." 

Loke  promised  so  well  with  his  glozing  tongue, 
That  the  Aser  at  length  let  him  go. 

And  he  sank  in  the  earth,  the  dark  rocks  among. 
Near  the  cold-fountain,  *  far  below. 

He  crept  on  his  belly,  as  supple  as  eel. 
The  cracks  in  the  hard  granite  through. 

Till  he  came  where  the  dwarfi  stood  hammer- 
ing steel. 
By  the  light  of  a  fbmace  blue. 

I  trow  't  was  a  goodly  sight  to  see 
The  dwarfs,  with  their  aprons  on, 

A-hammering  and  smelting  so  busily 
Pure  gold  from  the  rough  brown  stone. 

Rock  crystals  from  sand  and  hard  flint  they  made. 
Which,  tinged  with  the  rosebud's  dye. 

They  cast  into  rubies  and  carbuncles  red. 
And  hid  them  in  cracks  hard  by. 

They  took  them  fresh  violets  all  dripping  with 
dew, — 
Dwarf  women  had  plucked  them,  the  mom, — 
And  stained  with  their  juice  the  clear  sapphires 
blue. 
King  Dan  in  his  crown  since  hath  worn. 

Then,  for  emeralds,  they  searched  out  the  brighu 
est  green 

Which  the  young  spring  meadow  wears. 
And  dropped  round  pearls,  without  flaw  or  stain. 

From  widows'  and  maidens'  tears. 

And  all  round  the  cavern  might  plainly  be  shown 
Where  giants  had  once  been  at  play ; 

For  the  ground  was  with  heaps  of  huge  muscle- 
shells  strewn. 
And  strange  fish  were  marked  in  the  clay. 

Here  an  icthyosaurus  stood  out  from  the  wall. 
There  monsters  ne'er  told  of  in  story. 

Whilst  hard  by  the  Nix  in  the  waterfall 
Sang  wildly  the  days  of  their  glory. 

Here  bones  of  the  mammoth  and  mastodon, 
And  serpents  with  wings  and  with  claws ; 

*  Hrergemler. 


OEHLENSCH  LAGER. 


ISl 


The  elephnnl's  tuaks  from  the  burning  zone 
Are  small  to  the  teeth  jn  their  jaw». 

When  Lok«  to  the  dworfk  had  hid  ermcid  meide 

In  B  trice  for  the  work  the^  werd  ready ; 
Qaoth  DvalJQ :  ^^  O  Loptur,  it  now  shall  be 
shown 
That  dwoHi  in  tlieir  friendship  are  steitd j. 

« We  both    trace   our  line   from  the  sej&iune 
stock  ; 
What  yoti  ask  ihall  be  fumijihcd  with  spe^d, 
For  it  ne'er  shall  be  ssdd  thai  tlie  sons  of  the 
rock 
Turned  their  backs  on  a  kineman  its  need." 

Then  they  took  tbem  the  skin  of  a  large  wlld- 
bour. 
The  largest  that  they  could  find. 
And  thf}  bellows  they  blew  till  the  furnace  'gon 
roar, 
And  tlie  fire  flamed  on  high  for  the  wind. 

And  they  struck  with  tli^ir  sledge -ham  men 
stroke  00  fltrokc. 

That  the  sparku  from  the  skin  f!ew  on  high  ; 
But  neYCr  a  word  good  or  bad  spake  Loke^ 

Though  foul  malice  lurked  in  his  eye. 

Tbe   Thunderer   far   distant,  with   sorrow   he 

thought 
On  all  he  'd  engaged  to  obtain. 
And,  OS  HUmmer^breeze  fickle,  now  anxiously 
sought 
To  render  the  dwarfs'  labor  Tain» 

Whilst  the  bellows  plied  Brokur,  and  Sindrig 
the  hftmmer. 
And  Thror^  that  the  sparks  flew  on  high. 
And  tbe  sides  of  the  vaulted  cave  rang  with  the 
ctamor, 
Loke  changed  to  a  huge  forest-fly h. 

And   he  sat  him^  all  swelling  with  venom  and 
spite. 
On  Brokur,  the  wrist  just  below  ; 
But  the  dwarf '9  skin  was  thick,  and  be  recked 
not  the  bite, 
Nor  once  ceased  the  bellows  to  blow. 

And  now,  strange  to  tell,  from  the  roaring  fire 
Carae  the  golden-hmred  Gul1]nl>orst, 

To  serve  oa  a  charger  the  sun -god  Freyr, 
Sure,  of  all  wildH-boars  this  tbe  first. 

They  look  them  pure  gold  from  their  seeret  etore, 
The  piece  U  was  but  smoll  in  size. 

But  ere  *t  had  been  long  in  the  fiirnace  roar, 
"T  was  a  jewel  beyond  all  prize, 

A  broad  red  ring  all  of  w  rough  ten  gold  ; 

As  a  snake  vvith  its  tail  in  its  head ; 
And  a  gnrland  of  gems  did  the  rim  enfold. 

Together  with  rare  art  laid. 
Ifi 


'T  was  solid  and  heavy,  and  wrought  with  care. 
Thrice  it  pasdcd   through  tbe  white   tlumes' 
glow ; 

A  ring  to  produce,  6t  for  Odin  to  wear, 
No  labor  they  spared,  I  trow. 

They  worked   it  &nd  turned   it  with  wondrous 
skill. 
Till  they  gare  it  the  virtue  rare^ 
That  each  thrice  third  night  frum  its  rim  there 
fell 
Eight  rings,  as  their  parent  fair. 

^T  was  the  same  with  which  Odin  sanctified 

Ood  Haider's  and  Nanmi'i  faith ; 
On  his  gentle  bo«om  was  Draupner '''  laid. 

When  their  eyes  were  closed  in  deaths 

Neit  they  laid  on  the  anvil  a  steel >bar  cold. 

They  needed  nor  fire  nor  file  ; 
But  thetr  sledge-hammers,  fi>Howing,  like  thnn* 
der  rolled. 
And  Sindrig  sang  runes  the  while. 

When  Loke  now  marked  how  the  steel  gat 
power. 

And  how  warily  out  H  was  beat 
(*T  was  to  make  a  new  hammer  for  Anka-Thor), 

He  *d  recourse  once  again  to  deceit 

In  a  trice^  of  a  hornet  the  semblance  he  took, 
Whilst  in  cadence  fell  blow  on  blow, 

In  the  leading  dwarf's  Jbrehead  bis  barbed  sting 
he  stuck, 
That  the  blood  in  a  stream  down  did  ]9ow. 

Then  the  dwarf  raised  his  hand  to  his  brow^ 
for  the  smartf 
Ere  the  iron  well  out  was  heat. 
And  they  found  that  tbe  haH  by  an  inch  was 
too  short. 
But  to  alter  it  then  't  was  too  late. 

Now  a  smaU  elf  cnme  running  with  gold  on  his 
bead, 
Which  he  gave  a  dwarl^woman  to  spin, 
Who  the  metal  like  flajc  on  her  jtp inning- wheel 
laid, 
Nor  tarried  her  task  to  hej^n. 

So  she  span  and  span,  and  the  gold  thread  rats 
Into  hair,  though  Loke  tliought  it  a  pity ; 

She  span,  and  sang  to  the  stedgK-hammer^s  clang 
This  strange,  wild  spinning- wheel  ditty  : 

"  Henceforward  her  hair  shall  the  tall  Sif  wear, 
Hanging  loose  down  her  white  neck  behind; 

By  no  enriouft  braid  nhall  it  captive  be  made. 
But  in  native  gmeo  float  in  the  wind. 

"  No  swain  shall  it  view  in  the  clear  hearen's 
blue. 
But  his  heart  in  its  toils  shall  he  lost  3 


K 


122 


DANISH   POETRY. 


No  goddess,  not  e'en  beauty's  faultless  queen,^ 
Such  long  glossy  ringlets  shall  boast. 

t*  Though  they  now  seem  dead,  let  them  touch 
but  her  head, 

Each  hair  shall  the  life-moisture  fill ; 
Nor  shall  malice  nor  spell  henceforward  prevail 

Sif 's  tresses  to  work  aught  of  ill." 

His  object  attained,  Loke  no  longer  remained 
'Neath  the  earth,  but  straight  hied  him  to 
Thor; 
Who  owned  than  the  hair  ne'er,  sure,  aught 
more  fair 
His  eyes  had  e'er  looked  on  before. 

The  boar   Freyr  bestrode,  and  away  proudly 
rode. 

And  Thor  took  the  ringlets  and  hammer ; 
To  Valhalla  they  hied,  where  the  Aser  reside, 

'Mid  of  tilting  and  wassail  the  clamor. 

At  a  full,  solemn  ting,^  Thor   gave  Odin  the 

And  Loke  his  foul  treachery  pardoned ; 
But  the  pardon  was  vain,  for  his  crimes  soon 
again 
Must  do  penance  the  arch-sinner  hardened. 


THE  BARD. 

O,  GREAT  was  Denmark's  land  in  time  of  old ! 

Wide  to  the  South  her  branch  of  glory  spread ; 
Fierce  to  the  battle  rushed  her  heroes  bold. 

Eager  to  join  the  revels  of  the  dead  : 
While  the  fond  maiden  flew  with  smiles  to  fold 

Round  her  returning  warrior's  vesture  red 
Her  arm  of  snow,  with  nobler  passion  fired. 
When  to  the  breast  of  love,  exhausted,  he  re- 
tired. 

Nor  bore  they  only  to  the  field  of  death 
The  bossy  buckler  and  the  spear  of  fire } 

The  bard  was  there,  with  spirit-stirring  breath. 
His  bold  heart  quivering  as  he  swept  the  wire. 

And  poured  his  notes,  amidst  the  ensanguined 
heath. 
While  panting  thousands  kindled  at  his  lyre : 

Then  shone  the  eye  with  greater  fury  fired. 

Then  clashed  the  glittering  mail,  and  the  proud 
foe  retired. 

And  when  the  memorable  day  was  past. 
And  Thor  triumphant  on  his  people  smiled. 

The  actions  died  not  with  the  day  they  graced ; 
The  bard  embalmed  them  in  his  descant  wild, 

And  their  hymned  names,  through  ages  unef- 
fiiced, 
The  weary  hours  of  future  Danes  beguiled : 

When  even  their  snowy  bones  had  mouldered 
long, 

On  the  high  column  lived  the  imperishable  song. 


4  Freya. 


•  Public  mestiof. 


And  the  impetuous  harp  resounded  high 
With  feats  of  hardiment  done  far  and  wide. 

While  the  bard  soothed  with  festive  minstrelsy 
The  chiefi,  reposing  after  battle-tide : 

Nor  would  stem  themes  alone  his  hand  employ ; 
He  sang  the  virgin's  sweetly  tempered  pride. 

And  hoary  eld,  and  woman's  gentle  cheer. 

And   Denmark's    manly   hearts,   to   love   and 
friendship  dear. 


LINES  ON  LEAVINO  ITALT. 

Once  more  among  the  old  gigantic  hills 

With  vapors  clouded  o'er  ; 
The  vales  of  Lombardy  grow  dim  behind. 

The  rocks  ascend  before. 

They  beckon  me,  the  giants,  from  afar. 

They  wing  my  footsteps  on ; 
Their  helms  of  ice,  their  plumage  of  the  pine. 

Their  cuirasses  of  stone. 

My  heart  beats  high,  my  breath  comes  freer 
forth,  — 

Why  should  my  heart  be  sore  ? 
I  hear  the  eagle  and  the  vulture's  cry. 

The  nightingale's  no  more. 

Where  is  tb^  laurel,  where  the  myrtle's  blos- 
som.' 
Bleak  is  the  path  around : 
Where  from  the  thicket  comes  the  ringdove's 
cooing  ? 
Hoarse  is  the  torrent's  sound. 

Tet  should  I  grieve,   when  fi-om  my   loaded 
bosom 

A  weight  appears  to  flow  ? 
Methinks  the  Muses  come  to  call  me  home 

From  yonder  rocks  of  snow. 

I  know  not  how,  —  but  in  yon  land  of  roses 

My  heart  was  heavy  still, 
I  startled  at  the  warbling  nightingale. 

The  zephyr  on  tlie  hill. 

They  said,  the  stars  shone  with  a  softer  gleam, — 

It  seemed  not  so  to  me  ; 
In  vain  a  scene  of  beauty  beamed  around, 

My  thoughts  were  o'er  the  sea. 


THE  MORNING  WALK. 

To  the  beech-grove  with  so  sweet  an  air 

It  beckoned  me. 
O  earth  !  that  never  the  cruel  ploughshare 

Had  furrowed  thee  ! 
In  their  dark  shelter  the  flowerets  grew, 

Bright  to  the  eye. 
And  smiled  by  my  foot  on  the  cloudlets  blue 

Which  decked  the  sky. 


INGEMANN. 


133 


O  lovely  field,  and  forest  ftir, 

And  meads  grass-clad ! 
Her  bride-bed  Freja  everywhere 

Enamelled  had. 
The  corn-flowers  rose  in  azure  band 

From  earthy  cell ; 
Naught  else  could  I  do,  but  stop  and  stand, 

And  greet  them  well. 

«*  Welcome  on  earth's  green  breast  again, 

Te  flowerets  dear ! 
In  spring  how  charming  *mid  the  grain 

Tour  heads  ye  rear  ! 
Like  stars  'midst  lightning's  yellow  ray 

Te  shine,  red,  blue  : 
O,  how  your  summer  aspect  gay 

Delights  my  view !  " 

«« O  poet !  poet !  silence  keep,  — 

Grod  help  thy  case ! 
Our  owner  holds  us  sadly  cheap. 

And  scorns  our  race. 
Each  time  he  sees,  he  calls  us  scum, 

Or  worthless  tares. 
Hell-weeds,  that  but  to  yez  him  come 

'Midst  his  corn-ears." 


«» O  wretched  mortals  !  —  O  wretched  man !  — 

O  wretched  crowd  !  — 
No  pleasures  ye  pluck,  no  pleasures  ye  plan, 

In  life's  lone  road,  — 
Whose  eyes  are  blind  to  the  glories  great 

Of  the  works  of  Grod, 
And  dream  that  the  mouth  is  the  nearest  gate 

To  joy's  abode. 

^  Come,  flowers !  for  we  to  each  other  belong ; 

Come,  graceful  elf! 
And  around  my  lute  in  sympathy  strong 

Now  wind  thyself; 
And  quake  as  if  moved  by  Zephyr's  wing, 

'Neath  the  clang  of  the  chord, 
And  a  morning  song  with  glee  we  '11  sing 

To  our  Maker  and  Lord.'* 


BERNHARD  SEVERIN  INGEMANN. 

Bkrithard  Severin  IiTOEMAirir  was  bom  in 
1789,  in  the  island  of  Falster.  He  has  written 
patriotic  songs,  an  epic  poem  called  **  The  Black 
Knights,"  an  allegoric  poem  in  nine  cantos, 
and  several  tragedies,  the  best  known  of  which 
are  ^<  Masaniello  "  and  "Blanca."  He  is  also 
a  voluminous  prose-writer,  having  published  a 
series  of  historical  romances,  in  the  manner 
of  Walter  Scott,  illustrating  the  medieval  his- 
tory of  Denmark.  One  of  his  best  novels, 
*'  Waldemar,"  was  skilfully  and  elegantly  trans- 
lated into  English,  by  Miss  J.  F.  Chapman,  and 
published  in  London  in  1841.  Since  then, 
another,  ^  King  Eric  and  the  Outlaws,"  has  ap. 
peared  firom  the  same  able  pen.  His  pre&ce 
to  **  Prince  Otto  of  Denmark,"  which  accom- 


panies the  translation  of  *«  Waldemar,"  is  an 
interesting  exposition  of  the  principles  accord- 
ing to  which  his  works  are  composed.  His 
poem  of'*  Waldemar  the  Great  and  his  Men  " 
goes  back  for  its  subject  to  the  middle  of  the 
twelfth  century.  The  two  kings,  Swend  of 
Zealand,  and  Knud  Magnusson  of  Jutland,  be- 
tween whom  Denmark  was  divided,  **  were  at 
war  with  each  other,  and  at  the  same  time  con- 
stantly engaged,  Swend  particularly,  in  defend- 
ing the  coasu  against  the  piratical  hostilities  of 
the  heathen  Vends.  Prince  Magnus,  the  father 
of  King  Knud,  had  murdered  Duke  Knud  La- 
rard  of  the  Skioldung  race,  from  whence  the 
kings  of  Denmark  were  usually,  not  to  say  he- 
reditarily, elected ;  and  the  young  Duke  Walde- 
mar, posthumous  son  of  the  murdered  Knud, 
ranked  with  all  his  personal  friends  and  adhe- 
rents amongst  the  supporters  of  King  Swend, 
although  the  sovereign  of  Zealand  was  in  every 
respect  the  worse  of  the  rivals.  The  poem 
opens  with  the  arrival  in  Denmark  of  Walde- 
mar's  friend  Axel  Hwide,  recalled  from  his 
studies  in  more  civilized  lands  by  the  tidings  of 
domestic  and  foreign  war."  * 

PROGRESS  OF  AXEL  HWIDK 

'T  IS  Epiphany  night,  and  echoes  a  sound 
In  Haraldsted  wood  from  the  hard  frozen  ground. 
Loud  snort  three  steeds  in  the  wintry  blast, 
While  under  their  hoof-dint  the  snow  crackles 

&st. 
On  his  neighing  charger,  with  shield  and  sword, 
Is  mounted  a  valiant  and  loAy  lord ; 
A  clerk  and  a  squire  his  steps  attend. 
And  their  course  towards  Roskild  the  travellers 

bend  : 

But  distant  is  Denmark's  morning  ! 

Silent  the  leader  of  the  band 

Rides,  sorrowing,  through  his  native  land. 

Skjalm  Hwide's  grandson,  bold  and  true. 

No  more  his  studies  shall  pursue 

In  foreign  university ; 

Of  wit  and  lore  the  guerdon  high 

No  longer  can  he  proudly  gain ; 

Needs  must  be  home  the  loyal  Dane  : 

For  distant  is  Denmark's  morning  ! 

A  learned  man  Sir  Axel  was  thought ', 

But  he  dropped  his  book,  and  his  sword   he 

caught. 
When  tidings  arrived  from  Denmark's  strand 
That  the  wolves  of  discord  devoured  the  land. 
Two  monarchs  are  battling  there  for  the  realm. 
And  Danish  victories  Danes  o'erwhelm. 
On  Slangerup  lea,  and  on  Thorstrup  hill. 
Two  summers,  the  ravens  have  eaten  their  fill ; 
And  on  Viborg  plain,  over  belt,  over  bay. 
Loud  screaming,  on  Danish  dead  they  prey  : 


East  Zealand  is  but  a  robber's  den, 

*  Foreign  Quarterl7  Reriow,  Vol  ZXI.,  p.  133. 


124 


DANISH   POETRY. 


Vends  are  lurking  in  forest  and  glen  ; 
Women  and  men  are  the  Vikings'  prey, 
Dragged  thence  to  slayery  far  away. 


King  Knud  to  his  aid  summons  Saxon  men ;  — 

In  Roskild  King  Swend  is  arming  again ; 

And  proudly,  amidst  his  Zealand  hosts, 

Of  Asbiorn  Snare  ^  and  Duke  Waldemar  boasts. 

Thither  his  banner  bears  Axel  Hwide, 

His  two-handed  sword  belted  fast  at  his  side ; 

On  his  breast  the  cuirass  of  steel  shines  bright. 

And  his  gray  Danish  steed  bears  him  glad  for 

the  fight. 
His  ermined  cloak  falls  wide  and  low, 
His  battle-axe  hangs  at  his  saddle-bow, 
The  golden  spurs  on  his  buff  boots  ring. 
On  his  shield  the  golden  hart  seems  to  spring. 
As  king  he  shows,  and  all  who  meet 
Sir  Axel  reverently  greet. 
But  they  who  beneath  the  helm  of  gold 
Might  in  his  eyes  his  soul  behold, 
The  tranquil  inward  energy 
Holding  with  Heaven  communion  high, 
Had  deemed  in  princely  warrior's  pride 
They  saw  the  church's  champion  ride. 
Seeking,  amidst  the  wars  of  kings. 
But  the  pure  peace  religion  brings. 

By  Axel's  side  in  thoughtful  guise. 

Bent  o'er  the  saddle-bow, 
Mute  rides  his  penman,  o'er  his  eyes 

His  clerkly  hood  drawn  low. 
■  That  penman's  sunk  and  sallow  cheek, 

Seen  in  the  pale  moonlight, 
Tiie  scholar's  lamp-lit  toil  may  speak 

Through  many  a  winter's  night. 
Well  versed  was  he  in  lettered  lore, 

Far  less  in  chivalry ; 
His  horse's  side,  like  mounted  boor. 

With  heel  belabors  he. 

Stranger  shows  the  henchman  good, 
On  his  head  a  seal-skin  hood ; 
Old  Arnold,  to  his  lord  endeared, 
With  bear-skin  cloak  and  shaggy  beard. 
With  club,  with  dagger  on  his  thigh. 
And  flag  on  lance-point  waving  high, 
Muscular  and  short  and  stark. 
Follows  knight  and  lettered  clerk. 
Legends  he  of  former  days 
Knows,  and  loves  to  chant  the  lays 

Sung  by  Skalds  long  dead. 
Learning  he  but  ill  abides. 
Dust  of  cloistered  lore  derides, 

Shakes  at  sohools  his  head. 
But  th^  seer's  sad  gift  has  he : 
Deep  as  the  mysterious  sea 

Oil  the  old  man's  spirit  swells; 
Then  upon  his  vision  loom 
Dark  the  sinner's  threatening  doom. 

Woe  that  in  the  future  dwells. 
Warnings  dread  his  accents  tell, 
As  torrent  roars  from  Northland-fell. 

1  The  twin  brother  of  Axel  Hwide. 


EXTRACT  FROM  MASANIELLO. 

MA8ANIELL0,   MAO,    IN   THE   CHURCH-7ARD. 

[The  church-yard  of  St.  Maria  del  GBrmloo. — An  open 

gmrei  and  a  skeleton  on  the  side  of  It.  —  Moonlight] 

MASAKXSLLO  (alone). 

Darker  it  grows  at  every  step  I  take  ; 

Soon,  then,  must  it  be  wholly  night.  —  So  long 

The  deepening  clouds  have  hung  around  my 

brow. 
Scarce  can  I  recollect  how  looked  of  yore 
The  smiling  face  of  day  !     Yet  unto  light 
Through  darkness  must  we  pass,  —  't  is  but 

transition !  — 

Perhaps,  perhaps But  dreadful  is  that  hour  ! 

Would  it  were  past !  —  (Looking  beck.)    I  am  not 

here  alone  ! 
Still  follow  me,  tried  countrymen  and  friends  ! 
Our  march  is  through  a  darksome  country  here, — 
But  light  ere  long  will  dawn.  —  Ha !  now  look 

there  !    [With  gladnees,  on  perceiving  the  grave. 
Look,  and  rejoice  !     We  had  gone  far  astray : 
But  here,  at  last,  a  friendly  port  awaits  us,  -— 
An  inn  of  rest.     I  was  already  tired. 
And  sought  for  shelter ;  —  now  I  find  this  hut. 
Truly,  't  is  somewhat  dusky,  low,  and  narrow ; 
No  matter !    'T  is  enough,  —  we  want  no  more. 

[Obeerref  the  skeleton. 
Ha,  ha !  here  lies  the  owner  of  the  cottage. 
And  soundly  sleeps.  —  Holla!    wake  up,  my 

friend  !  — 
How  worn  he  looks !     How  hollow  are  his 

cheeks ! 
Hu !    and   how  pale,  when  moonlight  gleams 

upon  him  ! 
He  has  upon  our  freedom  thought  so  deeply. 
And  on  the  blood  which  it  would  cost,  that  he 
Is  turned  himself  to  naked  joints  and  bones. 
[Shakee  the  skeleton. 
Friend  !  may  I  go  into  thy  hut  awhile. 
And  rest  me  there  ?     Thou  seest  that  I  am 

weary, — 
Tet  choose  not  like  thyself  to  lay  me  down, 
And  bask  here  in  the  moonshine. — He  is  silent.— 
Yet  hark!  —  There  was  a  sound,  —  a  strange 

vibration, 
That  touched  me  like  a  spirit's  cooling  wing ! 
Who  whispered  thus  ? —  Haply  it  was  the  wind  ; 
Or  was  it  he  who  spoke  so  ?     He,  perchance. 
Has  lost  his  voice  too,  by  long  inward  strifo, 
And  whispers  thus,  even  like  the  night-wind's 

rustling.  [Looks  round,  eurpriaed. 

Ha,  ha  !  Masaniello,  thou  'rt  deceived  ! 
This  is  a  grave ;  this  man  is. dead ;  and  here 
Around  thee  are  the  realms  of  death.     How 

strangely 
One's  senses  are  beguiled  !  —  Hush,  hush  ! 

[Muelc  of  the  choir  firom  the  church. 
Who  sings 

In  tones  so  deep  and  hollow  'mid  the  graves  ? 
It  seems  as  if  night-wandering  spirits  woke 
A  death-song.  —  Ha !  there  's  light,  too,  in  the 

church ; 
I  shall  go  there  and  pray.    Long  time  has  past, 
And  I  have  wandered  foarfully ;  my  heart 
Is  now  so  heavy,  I  must  pray  ! 

[Exit  into  the  church. 


INGEMANN. 


125 


THE  ASPEN. 

What  whispera  so  strange,  at  the  hoar  of  mid- 
night. 
From  the  aspen's  leaves  trembling  so  wildly  ? 
Why  in  the  lone  wood  sings  it  sad,  when  the 
bright 
FuII-moon  beams  upon  it  so  mildly  ? 

It  soundeth  as  'mid  the  harp-strings  the  wind- 
gust, 
Or  like  sighs  of  ghosts  wandering  in  sorrow ; 
In  the  meadow  the  small  flowers  hear  it,  and 
must 
With  tears  close  themselves  till  the  morrow. 

**  O,  tell  me,  poor  wretch,  why  thou  shiverest 
so,— 

Why  the  moans  of  distraction  thou  poorest ; 
Say,  can  thy  heart  harbour  repentance  and  woe  ? 

Can  sin  reach  the  child  of  the  forest?  " 

**Te8,"  sighed  forth   the  tremulous  Toioe, — 
**  for  thy  race 
Has  not  alone  fallen  from  its  station ; 
Not  alone  art  thou  seeking  for  comibrt  and 
grace. 
Nor  alone  art  thou  called  to  salration. 

^  I  'ye  heard,  too,  the  voice,  which,  with  heaven 
reconciled. 
The  earth  to  destruction  devoted  ; 
But  the  storm  from  my  happiness  hurried  me 
wild. 
Though  round  me  joy's  melodies  floated. 

«^  By  Kedron  I  stood,  and  the  bright  beaming 
eye 
I  viewed  of  the  pitying  Power; 
Each  tree  bowed  iu  head,  as  the  Saviour  passed 

But  I  deigned  not  my  proud  head  to  lower. 

^  I  towered  to  the  cloud,  whilst  the  lilies  sang 
sweet. 
And  the  rose  bent  its  stem  in  devotion ; 
I  strewed  not  my  leaves  'fore  the  Holy  One's 
feet. 
Nor  bough  nor  twig  set  I  in  motion. 

**  Then  sounded  a  sigh  from  the  Saviour's  breast ; 
And  I  quaked,  fw  that  sigh  through  me  dart- 
^  ed; 
•  Quake  so  till  I  comei  '  said  the  voice  of  the 
Blest; 
My  repose  then  for  ever  departed. 

**  And  now  must  I  tremble  by  night  and  by  day. 
For  me  there  no  moment  of  ease  is ; 

I  must  sigh  with  regret  in  such  dolorous  way. 
Whilst  each  floweret  can  smile  when  it  pleases. 

^*  And  tremble  shall  I  till  the  Last  Day  arrive. 
And  I  view  the  Redeemer  returning ; 

My  sorrow  and  punishment  long  will  survive. 
Till  the  world  shall  in  blazes  be  burning." 


So  whispers  the  doomed  one  at  midnight ;  its 
tone 
Is  that  of  ghosts  wandering  in  sorrow; 
The  small  flowers  hear  it  within  the  wood  lone, 
And  with  tears  close  themselves  till  the  mor- 
row. 


DAME  MARTHA'S  FOUNTAIN. 

Damx  Martha  dwelt  at  Earisegaard, 
So  many  kind  deeds  she  wrought : 

If  the  winter  were  sharp,  and  the  rich  man  hard, 
Her  gate  the  indigent  sought. 

With  her  hand  the  hungry  she  loved  to  feed. 

To  the  sick  she  lent  her  aid. 
The  prisoner  oft  from  his  chains  she  freed. 

And  for  souls  of  sinners  she  prayed. 

But  Denmark's  Jand  was  in  peril  dire : 
The  Swede  around  burnt  and  slew, 

The  castle  of  Martha  they  wrapped  in  fire ; 
To  the  church  the  good  lady  flew. 

She  dwelt  in  the  tower  both  night  and  day. 

There  unto  her  none  repaired ; 
'Neath  the  church-roof  sat  the  dull  owl  gray, 

And  upon  the  good  lady  glared. 

And  in  the  Lord's  house  she  dwelt  safe  and 
content. 

Till  the  foes  their  departure  had  ta'^n ; 
Then  back  to  her  castle  in  ruins  she  went. 

And  bade  it  be  builded  again. 

There  found  the  houseless  a  cover  once  more, 
And  the  mouths  of  the  hungry  bread ; 

But  all  in  Karise  by  ^  wept  sore. 
As  soon  as  Dame  Martha  was  dead. 

And  when  the  Dame  lay  in  her  coffin  and  smiled 

So  calm  with  her  pallid  face, 
O,  there  was  never  so  little  a  child 

But  was  brought  on  her  to  gaze ! 

The  bell  on  the  day  of  the  burial  tolled. 
And  youth  and  age  shed  the  tear; 

And  there  was  no  man  so  weak  and  old 
But  helped  to  lift  the  bier. 

And  when  they  the  bier  set  down  for  a  space. 
And  rested  upon  the  church  road, 

A  fountain  sprang  forth  in  that  very  same  place, 
And  there  to  this  hour  has  it  flowed. 

God  bless  for  ever  the  pious  soul ! 

Her  blessings  no  lips  can  tell : 
Oft  str|dght  have  the  sick  become  sound  and 
whole, 

Who  've  drank  at  Dame  Martha's  well. 

The  tower  yet  stands  with  the  gloomy  nook. 

Where  Dame  Martha  sat  of  old ; 
Oft  comes  a  stranger  tliereon  to  look. 

And  with  joy  hears  the  story  told. 

MriUage. 
k2 


SWEDISH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


The  Swedish  language,  like  the  Danish,  is 
a  daughter  of  the  Old  Norse,  or  Icelandic,  and 
began  to  assume  a  separate  character  at  the 
same  period.  Petersen  *  divides  its  history  into 
four  periods,  corresponding  verj  nearly  with 
those  in  the  history  of  the  Danish  language  : 
1.  Oldest  Swedish,  from  1100  till  1250;  2. 
Older  Swedish,  from  1250  till  1400 ;  3.  Old 
Swedish,  from  1400  till  1527 ;  4.  Modern  Swe- 
dish, from  1527  till  1700. 

The  Swedish  is  the  most  musical  of  the  Scan- 
dinavian languages,  its  pronunciation  being  re- 
markably sofl  and  agreeable.  In  single  words 
and  phrases  it  bears  much  resemblance  to  the 
English,  as,  for  instance,  in  the  old  song, 

"  Adam  och  Era 
Baka  stora  lefra ; 
NUr  Adam  var  d»d 
Baka  Era  mindro  briJd  ":  t 
which  is,  in  English, 

"  Adam  and  Ere 
Baked  great  loaves ; 
When  Adam  waa  dead 
Baked  Ere  leas  bread." 

It  is  said,  also,  that  a  Dalekarlian  boy,  who 
visited  England  in  the  suite  of  a  Swedish  am- 
bassador, was  able  to  converse  with  English 
peasants  from  the  northern  parts  of  the  coun- 
try, t 

The  principal  dialects  of  the  Swedish  are  : 
1.  The  Ostrogothic;  2.  The  Vestrogothic ;  3. 
The  Sm&land ;  4.  The  Scanian ;  5.  The  Up- 
land ;  6.  The  Norland ;  7.  The  Dalekarlian.  § 
The  Dalekarlian  is  subdivided  into  the  three 
dialects  of  Elfdal,  Mora,  and  Orsa.  The  Dal- 
karls  are  the  Swedish  Highlanders.  Inhabiting 
that  secluded  region  which  stretches  westward 
from  the  Silian  Lake  to  the  Alps  of  Norway, 
they  have  preserved  comparatively  unchanged 
the  manners,  customs,  and  language  of  their 
Gothic  fbrefiLthers.  "Here,"  says  Serenius,  || 
"  are  the  only  remains  in  Sweden  of  the  ancient 
Gothic  stock,  whereof  the  aspiration  of  the  let- 
ters I  and  w  bears  witness  upon  their  tongues, 
an  infidlible  characteristic  of  the  Mceso-Gothic, 


*  I)et  Danake,  Nonke,  og  Srenake  Sprogs  Hietorie,  af 
H.  M.  Pbtbrbbn.   2  rola.    Copenhagea :  1^.    12roo. 

t  SvBN  Vujauvfm.  Diaeertatio  Philologica  de  Dlalectia 
LiQg.  Sviogoth.    Upealis :  1756.    Para  I^rtla,  p.  8. 

t  Nabmam.  Hiatoriola  Lingua  Dalekarlica.  Upialia : 
1733.  p.  17. 

i  SvbnHof.  Dialectna  Veatrogothica.  Stockholm:  1778. 
p.  16. 

II  J.  SBEBNiva's  English  and  Swedish  Dictionary,  4to. 
NjkSping:  1757.    Pref.  p.  ill. 


Anglo-Saxon,  and  Icelandic."  In  another  place, 
speaking  of  the  guttural  or  aspirated  Z,  he  says : 
"  Germans  and  Danes  cannot  pronounce  it,  no 
more  than  the  aspirated  w ;  for  which  reason 
this  was  a  fatal  letter  three  hundred  years  ago 
in  these  nations,  when  Engelbrect,  a  born  Dal- 
karl,  set  it  up  for  a  shibboleth,  and  whoever 
could  not  say  *  Hvnd  hest  %  komgulff*  was  tak- 
en for  a  foreigner,  because  he  could  not  aspi- 
rate the  to,  nor  utter  the  guttural  2."  *  It  is 
even  asserted,  that,  with  their  ancient  customs 
and  language,  the  Dalkarls  long  preserved  the 
use  of  the  old  Runic  alphabet ;  although,  from 
feelings  of  religious  superstition,  it  was  prohib- 
ited by  Olaf  Shfttkonung  at  the  beginning  of  the 
eleventh  century,  and  discontinued  in  all  other 
parts  of  Sweden.  This  is  mentioned  on  the  au- 
thority of  Nftsman,  who  wrote  in  the  first  half 
of  the  last  century,  t 

Hammarskold,  in  his  **  History  of  Swedish 
Literature,"^  divides  the  subject  into  six  epochs : 
1.  The  Ancient  Catholic  period,  from  the  earli- 
est times  to  the  Reformation  ;  2.  The  Lutheran 
period,  from  1520  to  1640;  3.  The  Stjern- 
hjelmian  period,  from  1640  to  1730;  4.  The 
Dalinian  period,  from  1730  to  1778;  5.  The 
Kellgrenian  period,  from  1778  to  1795  ;  6. 
The  Leopoldian  period,  from  1795  to  1810. 
These  titles,  it  will  be  perceived,  are  taken 
chiefly  from  distinguished  writers  who  gave  a 
character  to  the  literature  of  their  times.  In 
the  following  sketch  'of  Swedish  poetry  the 
same  divisions  will  be  preserved. 

I.  The  Ancient  Catholic  period.  To  this 
period  belong  the  translations  of  some  of  the 
old  romances  of  King  Arthur  and  Charle- 
magne, known  under  the  title  of  **  Drottning 
Euphemias  Visor  "  (Songs  of  the  Queen  Eu- 
phemia),  the  translations  having  been  made  by 
her  direction.  Here,  too,  we  find  that  character- 
istic specimen  of  monkish  lore,  **  The  Soul's 
Complaint  of  the  Body,"  translated  from  the 
Latin.  §     More  important  documents  of  these 


*  Ibid.  p.  ii. 

t  Nasmax.  Hiatoriola  Lingua  DalekarlicsB.  4to.  Up- 
aalia:  1733.  p.  30. 

For  a  further  account  of  the  Swedish,  Duiiah,  and  Tce- 
landic,  see  Bobwobtb'b  Dictionary  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
Language:  London,  1838:  Preftce;  — and  Mbioxnobr'8 
Dictionnaire  dee  Langues  Teuiogothlquea :  Frankfort,  1833 : 
Introduction. 

I  Svenaka  Yitterheten,  Historiakt-Kritiaka  Antecknin- 
gar,  af  L.  Hamm AaaxOu).  Andra  Upplagen,  Sfversedd  och 
utgtfren  af  P.  A.  Sondbm.    Stockholm :  1833. 

%  The  original  of  this  poem,  which  is  found  in  aome  form 
or  other  in  nearly  all  the  languages  of  Western  Europe,  and 
which  aeems  to  hare  been  ao  popular  during  the  Middle 


SWEDISH   LANGUAGE   AND   POETRY. 


137 


olden  times  are  the  two  rhjmed  chronicles,  the 
^<  Stora  Rim-Chronikan  '*  (Chronicon  Rythmi- 
cam  Majus),  and  the  "  Gamla  och  Minsta  Rim- 
Chronikan,"  which  have  lately  been  republish- 
ed by  Fant.*  But  the  most  valuable  remains 
of  these  early  ages  are  their  popular  ballads, 
two  collections  of  which  have  been  given  to 
the  public  in  our  own  day.  The  first,  by  Gei- 
jer  and  Afzelius,  contains  one  hundred  ballads ; 
and  the  second,  by  Arwidason,  a  still  greater 
number,  t 

These  ballads  bear  a  strong  resemblance  to 
the  Danish,  and  many  of  them  are  but  different 
Versions  of  the  same.  **  The  king  is  sitting  by 
his  broad  board,'*  says  Geijer,  in  his  Pre&ce, 
**and  is  served  by  knights  and  swains,  who 
bear  round  wine  and  mead.  Instead  of  chairs, 
we  find  benches  covered  with  cushions,  or,  as 
they  are  called  in  the  ballads,  mattresses  (M- 
strar,  bolsters,  long  pillows) ;  whence  comes 
the  expression,  ^siUapa  boUtrama  Ha '  (on  the 
blue  cushions  seated).  Princesses  and  noble 
virgins  bear  crowns  of  gold  and  silver;  gold 
rings,  precious  belts,  and  gold  or  silver-clasped 
shoes,  are  also  named  as  their  ornaments.  They 
dwell  in  the  highest  rooms,  separate  from  the 
men,  and  their  maidens  share  their  chambers 
and  their  bed.  From  the  high  bower-stair  see 
they  the  coming  of  the  stranger-knight,  and  how 
he  in  the  castle-yard  taketh  upon  him  his  fine 
cloak, — may  be  of  precious  skins, — or  discover 
out  at  sea  the  approaching  vessel,  and  recognize 
by  the  flags,  which  their  own  hands  have  broid- 
ered,  that  a  lover  draweth  nigh.  The  dress  of 
the  higher  class  is  adorned  with  furs  of  the 
sable  and  the  martin,  and  they  are  distinguished 
by  wearing  scarlet,  a  general  name  for  any  finer 
or  more  precious  cloth  (for  the  ballads  call  it 
sometimes  red  and  sometimes  green  or  blue), 
88  opposed  to  vadrtuU  (serge,  coarse  woollens), 
the  clothing  of  the  poorer  sort.  Both  men  and 
women  play  upon  the  harp,  and  affect  dice  and 
tabl(» ;  song  and  adventure  are  a  pastime  loved 
by  all  in  common ;  and  occasionally  the  men 
amuse  themselves  at  their  leisure  with  knightly 
exercise  in  the  castle-yard.  Betrothals  are  first 
decided  between  the  fiimilies,  if  every  thing 
follows  its  usual  course ;  but  love  oflen  destroys 
this  order,  and  the  knight  takes  his  beloved 
upon  his  saddle-bow,  and  gallops  off*  with  her 
to  his  bridal  home.  Cars  are  spoken  of  as  the 
vehicle  of  ladies ;  and  from  an  old  Danish  bal- 
lad, in  which  a  Danish  princess  who  has  ar- 

Agm,  is,  by  some  writers,  attribated  to  Saint  Bernard,  and 
hf  otbera  to  the  hermit  Philibert.  It  was  translated  into 
English  by  William  Crashaw,  father  of  the  distinguished 
poet,  and  published  (London,  1616)  under  the  title  of  "The 
Complaint,  or  Dialogue  betwixt  the  Soul  and  the  Bodie  of  a 
Damned  Man."  A  few  stanxas  of  it  may  be  found  In  Holla's 
"Ancient  Mysteriee,"  p.  191. 

*  Scriptores  Benim  Srecicamm  Medil  JEvi.  Edidit 
B.  M.  Faitt.    UpsaliaB :  1818.  folio.  Vol.  I. 

t  Svenska  Folk-Visor  fi^n  Fomtiden,  samlade  och  ut- 
gifne  af  E.  O.  Gbukr  och  A.  A.  Afzbltob.  3  toIs.  Stock- 
holm: 1814-16.  Srenska  FomsSnger,  ntgifne  af  A.  J. 
Arwids^pn.    8to.    Stockholm :  1834.    8  vols. 


rived  in  Sweden  laments  that  she  must  pursue 
her  journey-  on  horseback, ^e  see  that  their  use 
did  not  reach  Sweden  so  early.  Violent  courtp 
ships,  club  law,  and  the  revenge  of  blood,  &c., 
which,  however,  could  often  be  atoned  by  fines 
to  the  avenger,  are  common.  .  .  .  We  cannot 
help  remarking,  also,  that  the  popular  ballads 
almost  constantly  relate  to  high  and  noble  per- 
sons. If  kings  and  knights  are  not  always 
mentioned,  still  we  perpetually  hear  of  sirs, 
ladies,  and  fitir  damsels,  —  titles,  which,  accord- 
ing to  old  usage,  could  only  be  properly  em- 
ployed of  the  gentry.  We  will  not,  it  is  true, 
assert  that  the  old  songs  have  preserved  any 
distinction  of  rank ;  but  in  the  mean  time  this 
will  prove  that  their  subjects  are  taken  firom 
the  higher  and  more  illustrious  classes.  Their 
manners  are  those  chiefly  represented,  and  the 
liveliness  of  the  coloring  necessarily  excites  the 
supposition  that  they  spring  firom  thence.  On 
the  other  side,  again,  they  have  been  and  re- 
main as  native  among  the  common  people  as 
if  they  had  been  bom  among  them.  All  this 
leads  us  back  to  times  when  as  yet  the  classes 
of  society  had  not  assumed  any  mutually  inimi- 
cal contrast  to  each  other,  when  nobility  was 
as  yet  the  living  lustre  from  bright  deeds  rather 
than  firom  remote  ancestry,  and  when,  there- 
fore, it  as  yet  belonged  to  the  people,  and  was 
regarded  as  the  national  flower  and  glory. 
Such  a  time  we  have  had  ;  and  he  only  cannot 
discover  it  who  begins  by  transplanting  into 
history  all  the  aristocratical  and  democratical 
party-ideas  of  a  later  time.  .  .  .  Further,  we 
find  in  the  old  ballads  that  there  is  not  only  no 
hate  of  class,  but  also  no  national  hate,  among 
the  Northern  peoples.  This  explains  how  it  is 
that  they  are  so  much  in  common  to  the  whole 
North,  and  this  community  of  sentiment  extends 
itself  even  to  the  ancient  historical  songs."  * 

II.  The  Lutheran  Period,  from  1520  to  1640. 
The  Refi)rmation  gave  the  minds  of  the  North 
a  new  impulse  and  a  new  direction.  The 
poets  drew  their  inspiration,  such  as  it  was, 
from  religious  themes.  The  whole  century  re- 
sounds with  psalms.t  From  **A  Little  Song- 
Book  to  be  used  in  Churches  "  (Een  liten  SoTig- 
Book  til  at  bruka  %  Kyrkionne),  down  to  Gyl- 
lenhjelm's  *<  Psalter  in  Rhyme,"  and  the  hymns 
of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  there  is  an  unbroken 
strain  of  sacred  music.  Secular  matters,  how- 
ever, were  not  wholly  neglected ;  for  the  period 
produced  its  due  proportion  of  rhymed  chron- 
icles, and  ends  with  a  translation  of  the  well 
known  German  poem  of  "Reynard  the  Fox" 
(Reyneke  Foss). 

To  this  period  belongs  also  the  origin  of  the 
Swedish  drama.     The  earliest  specimen  is  the 

*  Gsunt's  Swedish  Ballads,  Vol.  I.  pp.  39,  41,  42.  See 
Foreign  Quarterly  Review  for  April,  1840. 

t  "  To  count  them  all,"  says  HboHARK  in  his  Psalmo- 
piBographi,  "  would  be  as  impossible  as  to  count  the  stars 
in  heaven  or  measure  the  sands  on  the  sea-shore."  See 
Sverlges  SkSna  Litteratur,  af  P.  Wisbblosbn.  Lund :  1833. 
Vol.  I.  p.  143. 


128 


SWEDISH   LANGUAGE   AND   POETRY. 


•*  Tobie  Comedia "  of  Olaus  Petri,  published 
in  tbe  year  1550.  In  bis  Preface,  the  author 
saya,  "  Now  they  that  have  a  desire  unto  rhyme 
and  such  like  song,  they  may  read  this  comedy ; 
but  they  who  have  more  desire  for  simple  dis- 
course, they  may  read  the  same  Tobias-book  in 
the  Bible."  The  following  extract  may  not  be 
unacceptable  to  the  lovers  of  the  drama. 

Touiro  TOBLis  (lo  tbs  angel). 
Azariah,  dear  brother,  wilt  thou  here  avaj  f 
In  the  water  I  will  wash  mj  ftet  straightway. 

TOUNO  TOBLIB  (to  the  siigel). 
Help !  help  I  Azariah,  that  pray  I  thee, 
For  this  great  fleh  will  eat  up  me. 

TBB  AMOSL. 

Into  his  gills  thou  thrust  thj  hand, 

And  drag  him  with  might  upon  the  land ; 

Hew  him  asunder,  and  do  not  quake : 

Hia  gall  and  liver  shalt  thou  take ; 

They  are  a  great  medicine,  for  thy  behoof, 

As  the  time  cometh  well,  when  thou  shalt  bare  proof. 

TOBIAS. 

Azariah,  my  brother,  now  tell  unto  me. 
What  sickness  can  be  healed  by  this  reoaedie  f 

THB  AJfOBU 

The  smoke  of  the  heart  can  spirits  put  to  flight, 
The  gall  take  away  every  film  from  the  sight. 

TOBIAS. 

Azariah,  where  shall  our  lodging  be  made  f 
For  the  light  of  the  day  beginneth  to  ftde. 

THB  AHOSL. 

Here  bare  we  many  a  trusty  friend, 
Under  whose  roof  the  night  we  may  spend. 
Here  dwelleth  a  good  man,  he  bight  Raguel, 
He  shall  receive  us  and  treat  us  welL 
He  hath  a  daughter,  and  Sarah  hight  she. 
She  shall  be  given  thee,  thy  housewife  to  be  ; 
An  only  child  is  this  daughter  here, 
A  dutiful  damsel,  he  holdeth  dear. 

TOBIAS. 

Azariah,  my  brother,  I  have  heard  people  say 
This  maiden  hath  lived  in  a  very  strange  way. 
Seven  men  as  husbands  to  her  have  been  given ; 
They  are  all  of  than  dead,  — they  fared  ilU— the 

whole  seven. 
And  now  full  widely  the  tidings  do  ma 
That  an  evil  spirit  hath  them  foradone. 
And  if  I,  too,  should  fiall  in  such  a  bad  way, 
In  our  house  there  would  be  the  devil  to  poy.* 

Besides  this  prodigious  drama,  more  than 
twenty  others  of  the  same  period  have  been 
preserved,  the  titles  of  some  of  which  will 
suffice  :  "  Judas  Redivivus,  a  Christian  Tragi- 
comedy," by  Jakob  Rondelitius ;  *<A  little 
Spiritual  Tragedy  about  the  Three  Wise  Men," 
by  Hans  Olsson  ;  **  A  Merry  Comedy  of  King 
Gustavus,"  by  Andreas  Prytz  ;  "  The  Prodigal 
Son,"  and  "  The  Acts  and  Martyrdoms  of  the 
Apostles,"  by  Samuel  Brask;  **Bele  Snack,  or 
a  New  Comedy  containing  various  Merry  Dis- 
courses and  Judgments  concerning  Marriage 
and  Courtship,"  by  Jakob  Chronander ;  and  the 
four  comedies  and  two  **  Merry  Tragedies  "  of 
Johannes  Messenius,  whose  plan  was  to  turn 
all  Swedish  history  into  fifty  dramas,  as  Mas- 

*  Tobie  Comedia.    Stockholm :  15G0. 


carille  proposed  to  put  all  Roman  history  into 
madrigals.  Into  each  of  his  plays  be  has  intro- 
duced the  lustig  person^  the  merryman  or  clown 
of  the  English  comedy,  and  the  gradoso  of 
the  Spanish.  Messdnius  died  in  Finland  in 
1637,  and  his  tombstone  records  his  fame  in  the 
following  epitaph : 

"Doctor  Johannes  Messenius  lies  here; 
His  soul  is  with  God,  and  his  name  everywhere."  * 

III.  The  Stjernhjelmian  period,  from  1640  to 
1730.  Georg  Stjemhjelm,  from  whom  this 
period  takes  its  name,  and  in  a  great  measure 
its  form  and  character,  was  born  in  1598.  He 
was  the  son  of  a  Dalekarlian  miner ;  but,  in- 
stead of  following  his  father's  occupation,  he 
devoted  himself  to  books,  and  became  a  learned 
and  distinguished  man.  In  1631,  he  received 
from  the  Crown  titles  of  nobility,  and  estates  in 
Livonia,  and  afterwards  held  various  important 
offices  till  his  death  in  1672.  He  seems  to  have 
been  a  jolly  as  well  as  a  learned  man.  When  the 
High  Chancellor  Oxenstjerna  asked  him  what 
wine  he  preferred,  he  answered,  "  Vinum  alie- 
num  "  (other  people's  wine),  a  jest  which  the 
Chancellor  rewarded  with  a  pipe  of  Rhenish. 
Shortly  before  his  death  he  requested  that  his 
epitaph  might  be  :  **Fmt,  dum  vixU^  lotus  "  (he 
lived  merrily,  whilst  he  lived).  His  principal 
poem  is  an  epic  in  hexameters,  entitled  **  Hercu- 
les," "  in  which,"  says  one  of  his  critics,  ••  en- 
dowed with  the  pure  antique  spirit  and  Hesiod's 
art,  he  gives  to  his  ethical  opinions  of  (rod  and 
the  world,  life  and  death,  joy  and  sorrow,  clear, 
plastic  precision,  artistic  form,  and  poetic  life." 
The  poem  was  so  celebrated  in  iu  day,  that 
Charles  the  Tenth  of  Sweden  carried  it  always 
with  him,  even  in  his  wars.  He  wrote  also  sev- 
eral small  comic  operas,  under  the  title  of  "  Bal- 
letter,"  and  was  the  first  to  introduce  the  sonnet 
into  Swedish  literature.  His  influence  contin- 
ued long  after  his  death,  and  his  services  to  the 
language  and  literature  of  his  native  land  are 
still  held  in  honorable  remembrance.  Of  his 
immediate  followers  and  imitators  nothing  need 
be  said,  save  that  one  of  them  wrote  a  collec- 
tion of  songs  under  the  title  of  «  The  Guide- 
board  to  Virtue,"  and  another,  a  poem  entitled 
*<  The  Thundering  and  Warning  Moses,"  and 
that  to  most  of  them  may  be  applied  the  distich 
which  Count  Lindskold  applied  to  himself: 
"My  poetry  is  poor, 
And  is  not  worth  the  name." 

Some  eighty  names,  mostly  unknown  to 
fame,  complete  the  catalogue  of  this  long  pe- 
riod. I  shall  mention  only  Gustaf  Rosenhane, 
author  of  ^*  Wenerid,"  a  series  of  a  hundred 
sonnets  to  a  lady,  whom  he  designates  by  that 
name ;  —  Haquin  Spegel,  author  of  "  God's 
Work  and  Rest,"  a  translation  or  paraphrase  of 
Arrebo's  **  Hexa^meron  "  (which  itself  is  but 
a  Danish  version  of  Du  Bartas's  Sanete  Sep- 
maine);  —  Peter  Lagerlof,  author  of  a  quaint 


*  Notice  sor  la  Lilt^reture  ot  les  Beaoz  Aru  en  SuMe, 
parMAUAinm  D'EiiaairsTB8H.    Stockholm:  1826.   8vo. 


SWEDISH   LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


129 


old  love-song,*  which  was  very  popular  and 
often  imitated,  and  which,  had  it  been  written 
in  English,  would  have  held  a  conspicuous  place 
in  the  *'  Paradise  of  Daintie  Devices  "  ;  —  and 
Gunno  Dahlstjerna,  who  translated  Guarini's 
'*  Pastor  Fido,"  and  was  the  first  to  introduce 
the  ottava  rima  into  Swedish  poetry.  In  fine, 
this  was  not  a  poetic  age.  *<  People  in  general," 
says  Hamniarskdid,t  **  looked  upon  poetry  as 
little  more  than  a  juggler's  tricks,  which  it  was 
well  enough  to  have  on  holyday  occasions,  by 
way  of  show ;  and  upon  the  poet  himself  as  a 
merry-andrew,  who  should  always  hold  him- 
self ready  to  amuse  the  respected  public.  Spe- 
gel,  and  some  others,  by  treating  of  spiritual 
themes,  raised  themselves  above  this  pickle- 
herring  circle ;  their  poems  were  esteemed  for 
the  sake  of  the  subject  only,  and  were  hardly 
looked  upon  as  poetry,  under  which  name  peo- 
ple generally  understood  occasional  verses. 
The  so-called  poets,  likewise,  labored  zealously 
to  support  this  opinion,  and  to  justify  that  view 
of  Art  which  considers  it  as  a  servant  for  the 
menial  offices  of  every-day  life.  If  a  maiden 
were  to  be  won,  she  was  wooed  in  limping 
verses  {Kdpp-^fch-Kryek&'Vers^  cane  and  crutch 
verses),  and  when  the  wedding  came,  the  Epi- 
thalamium  could  not  be  omitted.  And  so  they 
rhymed  at  baptisms  and  burials,  on  birth-days 
and  saints-days,  at  promotions  and  inheritan- 
ces ;  nay,  one  could  not  even  eat  a  fish's  liver, 
without  celebrating  it  with  a  song.  To  be  rea- 
dy with  wares  for  all  these  oft  recurring  de- 
mands, the  rhymester  was  forced  to  make  his 
labor  as  light  as  possible,  to  choose  the  easiest 
form  of  versification,  and  to  avail  himself  of  all 
kinds  of  shifts  and  short  cuts,  which  the  muti- 
lation of  words,  provincialisms,  and  far-fotched 
metaphors  could  offer  him.  The  rhyme,  though 
it  were  none  of  the  best,  the  rhyme  was  his 
highest  end  and  aim." 

IV.  The  Dalinian  period,  from  1730  to  1778. 
Olof  von  Dalin,  who  gives  his  name  to  this 
period  in  the  literary  history  of  his  country, 
was  bom  in  1708,  and  died  in  1763.  He  oc- 
cupied several  important  stations  at  court,  and, 
among  others,  those  of  Chancellor  and  Royal 
Historiographer.  He  was  first  known  to  the 
literary  world  by  the  publication  of  a  weekly 
journal,  after  the  manner  of  Addison's  "  Spec- 
tator," entitled  "Den  Svenska  Argus"  (The 
Swedish  Argus).  It  commenced  its  career  in 
1732,  when  Dalin  was  but  twenty-four  years 
of  age,  and  soon  awakened  general  attention 
by  the  beauty  of  its  criticisms,  tales,  and  essays, 
and  the  lively  colors  in  which  it  painted  the 
changing  features  of  the  times.  Among  his 
principal  writings  are  to  be  numbered  a  heroic 
poem  in  four  cantos,  entitled  <*  Svenska  Frihe- 
ten"  (The  Freedom  of  Sweden),  the  tragedy 
of  "  Brynilda,"  one  or  two  comedies,  and  nu- 
merous fables,  songs,  and  miscellaneous  poems. 


*  HammabskSld,  p.  126. 
t  Sreoflka  YiUerheten.  p.  190. 


V 


His  writings  are  of  a  more  elevated  tone  and 
character  than  most  of  those  which  preceded 
them',  and  to  him  belongs  the  merit  of  having 
raised  Swedish  poetry  from  the  low  state  of 
degradation  into  which  it  had  &llen. 

This  period,  though  less  than  half  a  century 
in  duration,  added  more  than  a  hundred  names 
to  the  literary  history  of  Sweden.  Of  these 
the  most  distinguished  are  Olof  Celains,  author 
of  "  Gustaf  Wasa,"  a  heroic  poem  in  seven 
cantos;  —  Erik  Skjoldebrand,  author  of  ttThe 
Gustaviade,"  a  hermc  poem  in  twelve  cantos, 
and  of  several  tragedies ;  —  Jakob  Wallenberg, 
author  of  a  comic  book  of  travels,  entitled 
"Min  Son  p8  Galejan  "  (My  Son  in  the  Gal- 
ley), —  a  title  taken  ft-om  Moli^re's  "  Q^e  diahlt 
aUuU'U  ftdre  dant  eette  gaUre ! "  —  and  <*  Su- 
sanna," a  drama  in  five  acts  ;  —  Count  Gustaf 
Philip  Creutz,  author  of  "  Atis  and  Camilla," 
a  pastoral  epic  in  five  cantos ;  —  Count  Gustaf 
Fredrik  Gyllenborg,  an  intimate  friend  of 
Creutz,  and  author  of  "■  Taget  ofver  Bait "  (The 
Passage  of  the  Belt),  a  heroic  poem  in  twelve 
cantos ;  —  Olof  Rudbeck,  author  of  two  comic 
epics  entitled  **Borasiade"  and  »'Neri";  — 
and  Hedvig  Charlotta  Nordenflycht,  a  poetess 
whose  singular  character  and  peculiar  influence 
upon  the  Uterature  of  the  time  deserve  a  more 
extended  notice.  She  was  bom  in  Stockholm 
in  1718,  and  was  remarkable  in  her  childhood 
for  her  love  of  reading  and  her  lively  fancy  in 
the  invention  of  stories.  At  the  age  of  sixteen, 
yielding  to  her  father's  dying  request,  she  was 
betrothed,  against  her  awn  inclination,  to  a 
mechanician  of  the  name  of  Tideman,  whose 
deformed  person  seems  to  have  inspired  her 
with  disgust,  and  whose  death,  three  years  after- 
wards, left  her  at  liberty  to  choose  a  bridegroom 
more  to  the  taste  of  a  young  and  romantic 
woman.  She  soon  afterwards  availed  herself 
of  this  liberty,  and  fell  in  love  with  ,a  young 
clergyman  named  Jacob  Fabricius ;  though  va- 
rious untoward  circumstances  postponed  their 
marriage  for  four  long  years.  After  marriage 
they  removed  to  Carlskrona,  where,  at  the  end 
of  seven  months,  her  husband  died.  Over- 
whelmed with  sorrow,  she  retired  to  a  cottage 
in  Sodermanland,  hung  her  chamber  in  black, 
and  adorned  it  with  gloomy  pictures,  and,  re- 
signing herself  to  solitude  and  affliction,  poured 
forth  her  feelings  to  her  harp  in  lamentations 
and  elegies,  which  she  afterwards  published 
under  the  title  of  «*The  Sorrowing  Turtle- 
dove" {Den  SOrjimde  Turturdufoan),  This 
drew  upon  her  the  eyes  of  all  Sweden.  This 
notoriety,  together  with  frequent  attacks  of  ill- 
ness, induced  her  to  leave  her  solitude  and  take 
up  her  residence  in  Stockholm,  where  her  fame 
was  increased  by  an  essay  on  the  **  Defence  of 
Poetry,"  a  poem  in  five  cantos  entitled  "  Swe- 
den Delivered,"  and  a  kind  of  poetic  diary 
which  she  called  '^Gentle  Reveries  of  a 
Shepherdess  in  the  North."  Her  talents  and 
attractions  soon  drew  around  her  a  circle  of 
firiends,  such  as  the  Counts  of  Creutz  and  Gyl- 


130 


SWEDISH   LANGUAGE   AND   POETRY. 


lenborg,  and  others  of  like  distinction,  in  con- 
junction with  whom  she  established  a  literary 
society,  known  by  the  name  of  Utile  Jhdei.  For 
ten  years  she  continued  to  be  the  central  point 
of  this  society,  whose  literary  annals  were  en- 
riched by  the  productions  of  her  pen ,  but,  un- 
fortunately for  her  peace,  among  the  members 
of  the  UHU  Dttlci  was  a  young  man  by  the 
name  of  Fischerstrom,  for  whom  she  conceiv- 
ed a  violent  and  romantic  passion,  which  does 
not  seem  to  have  been  returned  with  equal  ar- 
dor. The  faithless  young  lover  deserted  her, 
and,  although  she  had  now  reached  the  ma- 
ture age  of  forty-five,  urged  to  despair  by  love, 
jealousy,  and  wounded  pride,  like  another  Sap- 
pho she  threw  herself  into  the  sea.  She  was 
taken  from  the  water  before  life  was  extinct, 
but  died  three  days  afterwards,  the  martyr  of 
an  ill  regulated  mind.  She  was  at  once  the 
founder,  and  the  victim,  of  the  sentimental 
school  in  Sweden.  Fischerstrom  made  all  the 
atonement  in  his  power,  by  composing  an  elegy 
upon  her  death,  and  publishing  a  selection  from 
her  writings. 

It  may  be  added,  in  conclusion,  that  this 
period  is  remarkable  for  the  establishment  of 
the  Swedish  Academy  of  Belles-lettres,  under 
Queen  Louisa  Ulrika,  and  of  several  literary 
societies  in  imitation  of  Fru  Nordenflycht's 
UUU  Jhdd ;  for  a  new  impulse  given  to  the 
drama ;  and  for  the  appearance  of  numerous 
literary  periodicals,  of  which  more  than  twenty 
were  published  between  the  years  1734  and 
1774. 

v.  The  Kellgrenian  period,  from  1778  to 
1795.  Johan  Henrik  Kellgren,  who  gives  his 
name  to  this  period,  holds  a  distinguished  place 
in  the  literary  annals  of  his  native  land ;  a 
place  he  well  deserves  for  a  life  devoted  to  the 
cause  of  letters.  After  completing  his  studies 
at  the  University  of  Abo,  he  became  editor  of 
a  literary  journal  in  Stockholm ;  and,  by  his 
writings,  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  King 
Gustavns  the  Third,  who  gave  him  a  secretari- 
ship  and  a  pension,  and  made  him  member  of 
the  Swedish  Academy,  which  had  now  been 
reestablished  on  a  more  permanent  foundation. 
He  died  at  the  age  of  forty-five.  His  principal 
works  are  his  lyrical  dramas.  The  most  cele- 
brated of  these  is  "  Gnstavus  Vasa,"  the  plan  of 
which  was  suggested  to  him  by  the  king.  He 
also  left  behind  him  many  odes,  satires,  and 
songs.  Of  his  own  powers  he  seems  to  have 
entertained  a  very  modest  opinion,  and  claims 
distinction  only  for  his  love  of  letters.  Writing 
to  one  of  his  friends  a  short  time  before  his 
death,  he  says  of  himself,  as  if  anticipating  the 
judgment  of  posterity  :  *<  There  was  in  our  lit- 
erary world  an  obscure  individual,  whose  tal- 
ents were  but  small,  who  had  not  even  what 
is  called  esprit^  and  the  greater  part  of  whose 
writings  were  without  merit,  and  of  no  consid- 
eration ;  but  this  man  possessed  one  quality  in 
a  higher  degree,  perhaps,  than  any  of  his  con- 
temporaries ;  he  felt  for  the  honor  and  progress 


of  literature  in  Sweden  a  devotion  and  an 
enthusiasm  which  attended  him  constantly  in 
his  painful  career,  a^d  were  his  ruling  passion 
at  the  moment  when  he  traced  these  lines." 

But  the  most  famous  poet  of  this  period  is 
Carl  Michel  Bellman,  the  Anacreon  of  Swe- 
den, as  Gustavus  the  Third  called  him.  He  is 
the  most  popular  song-writer  of  the  country, 
the  bard  of  the  populace.  His  genius  runs  riot 
in  scenes  of  low  life,  —  in  taverns  and  ale- 
houses, and  the  society  of  his  beloved  UUa  Win- 
Had^  and  of  such  vagabonds  and  boon  compan- 
ions as  Christian  Wingmark^  MoUberg^  and  Mo- 
ritz,  true  and  life-like  sketches  of  the  Swedish 
swash-bucklers  of  the  times  of  Gustavus  the 
Third.  Bellman  died  in  1795,  and  in  1829  a 
colossal  bust  in  bronze,  by  Bystrom,  was  raised 
to  his  memory  in  the  park  of  Stockholm, — 
the  poet's  favorite  resort  during  his  life-time, 
where,  stretched  on  the  grass  beneath  the  trees, 
he  played  with  the  children,  or  composed  his 
songs.  The  artist  has  been  but  too  faithful 
in  the  delineation  of  the  poet ;  for  the  huge 
bust  literally  leers  from  its  pedestal,  with  bloat- 
ed cheeks  and  sleepy  eyes.  In  midsummer  it 
is  crowned  with  flowers,  and  a  convivial  society 
assembles  on  the  little  hillock  where  it  stands, 
and  sings  some  of  Bellman's  favorite  songs. 
His  principal  works  are  ^  The  Temple  of  Bac- 
chus," «<  Fredman's  Epistles,"  and  <*  Fredman's 
Songs."  He  also  wrote  some  sacred  songs,  as 
if,  like  a  new  Belshazzar,  he  would  grace  his 
revels  with  the  holy  vessels  of  the  temple. 

Of  the  eighty  remaining  poets  of  this  period 
I  shall  name  but  few ;  for  to  most  of  them  may 
be  applied  the  words  which  Leopold  used 
frequently  to  repeat  to  Gustaf  von  Paykull : 
**  Thou  art  one  of  the  best  of  the  middling  poets 
of  Sweden."  The  most  worthy  of  mention  are 
Johan  Gabriel  Oxenstjema,  author  of  ««The 
Harvests,"  and  «<  The  Hours  of  the  Day,"  and 
translator  of  Milton's  •^  Paradise  Lost ";  —  Gud- 
mund  Goran  Adlerbeth,  author  of  several  trag- 
edies, and  translator  of  Ovid,  Virgil,  and  Hor- 
ace ;  —  Bengt  Linders,  author  of  **  The  Last 
Judgment,"  «'The  Messiah  in  Gethsemane," 
and  *(  The  Destruction  of  Jerusalem  "; — ^Thom- 
as Thorild,  author  of  «« The  Passions,"  a  poem 
of  six  cantos  in  hexameters;  —  and  Anna  Maria 
Lenngren,  who  threw  somewhat  into  the  shade 
the  fame  of  Fru  Nordenflycht,  and  acquired  con- 
siderable reputation  by  her  satirical  and  humor- 
ous poems,  among  which  may  be  mentioned 
"My  Late  Husband,"  and  '« A  Few  Words  to 
my  Daughter,  supposing  I  had  one." 

The  reign  of  Gustavus  the  Third  was  a  kind 
of  SUeU  de  Louis  XIV,  in  Sweden.  «<  Both 
Kings,"  says  a  writer  in  the  Foreign  Review, 
**  stamped  their  personal  character  on  that  of 
the  times  in  which  they  lived ;  —  both  were 
alike  vain,  ambitious,  haughty,  and  luxurious ; 
prompted  to  great  exertions  by  national  feeling 
and  love  of  glory,  both  were  generous,  but  un- 
principled; amiable,  but  of  ftttal  influence  on 
the  morals  of  their  country  ;  and,  finally,  both 


SWEDISH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


131 


were  equally  zealooa  patrons  and  promotera  of 
the  arts  and  sciences,  thus  oontribating  to  a  new 
era  in  the  literary  history-  of  the  people  whom 
they  goyemed.  In  this  last  respect,  howeyer, 
GustsTus  had  the  advantage,  he  himself  being 
a  productiye  laborer  in  the  field  of  literature  ; 
and,  though  with  smaller  means  than  those  pos- 
sessed by  the  rich  and  powerful  King  of  France, 
he  efiected  a  comparatiTely  greater  roTolution 
in  the  taste  and  culture  of  his  time.  Gustavus 
could  not  only  reward  literary  merit,  but  he 
could  appreciate  it  rightly ;  and,  whateyer  faults 
the  historian  may  haTe  cause  to  find  with  the 
general  character  of  this  monarch,  it  would  be 
an  injustice  to  deny,  that,  more  than  any  prince 
mentioned  in  history,  he  sought  and  cultiyated 
the  acquaintance  of  enlightened  men,  and,  from 
the  recesses  of  obscurity,  led  genius  forth  into 
the  light,  even  within  the  encircling  splendor 
of  the  throne.  He  made  it  his  pride  to  nurture 
the  germs  of  talent,  which  must,  probably,  hare 
been  stifled,  but  for  such  fostering  and  paternal 
care.  Amongst  those  whom  he  faTored  with 
his  personal  esteem  and  friendship,  we  may 
particularly  mention  Bellman, —  a  poetical  gen- 
ius of  so  extraordinary  a  kind,  that  we  know  of 
none  in  the  history  of  any  nation  to  whom  he 
can  be  compared,  —  and  Kellgren,  whose  works 
form  the  subject  of  our  present  consideration. 
Even  the  adherents  of  the  Romantic  school 
in  Sweden,  which  has  waged  unceasing  war 
against  the  French  school  patronized  by  Gusta- 
Tus,  admit  the  claims  of  Kellgren  as  an  origin- 
al and  talented  writer ;  and  we  think,  that,  with- 
out OTerrating  his  merits,  he  may  be  pronounced 
a  distinguished  ornament  of  the  classical  litera^ 
ture  of  his  country.** 

VI.  The  Leopoldian  period,  from  1795  to 
1810.  The  poet  who  gives  his  name  to  this 
period  is  Carl  Gustaf  af  Leopold,  who,  from  a 
literary  journalist,  rose  to  the  dignity  of  Com- 
mander of  the  Order  of  the  Polar  Star  and 
Secretary  of  State.  He  has  been  called  the 
Voltaire  of  Sweden,  and  presents  the  singular 
phenomenon  of  an  author  who  is  more  praised 
than  read,  and  more  read  by  his  enemies  than 
by  his  firiends.  One  of  his  most  ardent  admir- 
ers exclaims :  **  His  genius  soars  into  the  ce- 
lestial regions,  as  the  lordly  eagle  darts  upwards 
towards  the  sun.  Nothing  is  so  beautiful  as  the 
talent  of  Leopold;  it  is  the  ideal  of  perfection. 
One  should  haye  heard  him,  entirely  depriTed 
of  sight,  repeat  his  poem  upon  the  statue  of 
Charles  the  Thirteenth,  in  order  to  conceiTe 
all  the  &xe  of  his  imagination,  and  all  his  resem- 
blance to  Homer,  Milton,  and  D^lille.*'  *  On 
the  other  hand,  one  of  his  sererest  critics  says  : 
**  Leopold  has  written  a  poem  on  Empty  Jfotk- 
ing,  and  he  was  right  in  doing  so,  fi>r  that  is  all 
which  we  find  in  the  greater  part  of  his  rhymed 
and  nnrhymed  productions.     The  fiite  which 


NoiicM,  p.  74. 


awaits  him  hereafter  as  an  author  it  is  not  diffi- 
cult to  foresee,  indeed,  it  has  already  begun  to 
declare  itself;  in  truth,  he  is «- it  can  no  longer 
be  denied  —  already  for  the  moat  part  forgot- 
ten." • 

Leopold's  most  celebrated  works  are  his  two 
tragedies,  *<  Virginia,"  and  ^*  Odin,  or  the  Emi- 
gration of  the  Gods."  At  the  first  representa- 
tion of  Odin  in  1790,  the  King,  GusUyus  the 
Third,  wrote  Leopold  the  fbllowing  note : ««  The 
author  of  «  Sin  Brahe  *  begs  of  the  author  of 
*Odin'  a  pit  ticket;  it  is  the  only  place  he 
dares  to  ask.**  His  majesty  sent  him,  at  the  same 
time,  a  laurel  branch  which  he  had  brought  from 
the  tomb  of  Virgil,  fiatened  with  a  large  dia- 
mond. He  is  the  author,  also,  of  sundry  odes, 
satires,  and  tales. 

But  the  most  distinguished  poets  of  this  peri- 
od are  Franz^n,  Wallin,  and  Tegn6r,  all  of 
them  bishops.  Frans  Michsl  Franz^n  was 
bom  in  Finland  in  1772.  His  best  known  po- 
etic labors  are  the  fragments  of  an  epic  enti- 
tled ^  GustSTUs  Adolphus  in  Germany,*'  three 
cantos  of  a  poem,  to  be  completed  in  twenty,  on 
«« The  Meeting  at  AlTastra  **  (the  meeting  of 
GustaruB  Wasa  with  his  bride  Margaret  of  Ley- 
onhuTud),  and  his  lyric  poems,  which  are  mark- 
ed with  great  beauty  and  a  kind  of  apostolic  ten- 
derness. Tegn^r,  in  his  poem  of  ^*Azel,"  com- 
pares the  song  of  the  nightingale  to  one  of  his 
songs: 

"  Prom  tlM  oak-tiMS  isng  the  nif btingsle ; 

The  mmg  raoanded  through  the  T«le, 

Aa  tander  mod  as  puro  a  atrain. 

Am  aome  aweet  poem  of  Fnasto." 

Johan  Olof  Wallin  was  bom  in  Dalekarlia  in 
1779.  As  a  pulpit  orator,  his  fame  is  great.  As 
a  poet,  he  is  known  chiefly  by  the  beauty  of  his 
psalms,  and  through  them  has  won  the  name  of 
the  David  of  the  North.  In  «« The  Children  of 
the  Lord's  Supper,*'  Tegn^r  takes  occasion  to 
laud  hb  psalms :  — 

**  Anthem  immortal 
Of  the  anbllme  Wallin,  of  Darid'a  harp  In  the  North-knd, 
Taned  to  the  choral  of  Lather;  the  aong  on  tta  powarfhl 

pinions 
Took  erery  lirlng  aonl,  and  lUkad  It  gentlj  to  hesTen." 

Of  Tegn^r  and  a  few  others  I  shall  speak 
more  at  length  hereafter ;  and  for  the  continua- 
tion of  this  sketch  of  Swedish  Poetry  the  read- 
er is  referred  to  the  **  Bibliographisk  Ofrersigt 
5fVer  Srenska  Vitterheten,**  1810-1833;  af  P. 
A.  Sond^n.  This  is  the  sequel  to  Hammar- 
skold*s  work,  and  is  published  in  the  same  rol- 
ume.  In  conclusion,  I  hsTe  only  to  regret  that 
the  extracts  which  follow  are  so  few,  and  from 
so  few  authors ;  and  in  particular  that  I  hare 
been  able  to  find  no  English  translations  from 
Nicander,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the 
younger  Swedish  poets ;  nor  from  Ling,  one  of 
the  most  Toluminous. 

*  HamxabskBld,  p.  467. 


BALLADS. 


THE  MOUNTAIN-TAKEN  MAID. 

And  now  to  early  matin-song  the  maiden  would 
away; 
(The  hour  goes  heavy  by ; ) 
So  took  she  that  dark  path  where  the   lofty 
mountain  lay. 
(Ah !  well  sorrow's  burden  know  I ! ) 

On  the  mountain-door  she  gently  tapped,  and 
small  her  fingers  are  : 
(The  hour  goes  heavy  by  :  ) 
(^  Rise  up,  thou  King  of  the  Mountain,   and 
lock  and  bolt  unbar  !  " 
(Ah  !  well  sorrow's  burden  know  I ! ) 

The  mountain-king  rose  up,  and  quick  drew 

back  both  bolt  and  bar ', 
To  his  silk  bed  blue  then  bore  he  the  bride  that 

came  so  far. 

And  thus,  for  eight  long  years,  I  ween,  she  lived 

i'  th'  mountain  there ; 
And  sons  full  seven  she  bore  him,  and  eke  a 

daughter  fair. 

The  maiden  'fore  the  mountain-king  now  stands 

with  looks  of  woe  :  — 
«( Would  God,  that   straight  I  home  to  mother 

dear  could  go  !  " 

**And   home  to  thy  mother  dear  thou  well 

enough  canst  go ; 
But,  mind '.  I  warn  thee  name  not  the  seven 

young  bairns  we  owe  !  " 

Now  when  at  last  she  cometh  to  where  her 

home- halls  be. 
Outside  to  meet  her  standing  her  tender  mother 


**And  where  so  long,  so  long  a  time,  dear 
daughter,  hast  thou  been  ? 

Thou  'st  dwelled,  I  fear  me,  yonder,  in  the  rose- 
decked  hill  so  green." 

**  No !  never  was  my  dwelling  in  the  rose- 
decked  hill  BO  green ; 

This  long,  long  time  I  yonder  with  the  monn- 
tain-king  have  been ! 

**  And  thus,  for  eight  long  years,  I  ween,  I  're 

lived  i'  th'  mountain  there  ; 
And  sons  full  seven  I  've  borne  him,  and  eke  a 

daughter  fair.'* 


With  hasty  steps  the  mountain-king  now  treads 

within  the  door :  — 
(« Why  stand'st  thou  here,  about  me  such  evil 

speaking  o'er  ?  " 

**  Nay,  surely  naught  of  evil  I  lay  now  at  thy 

door; 
But  all  the  good  thou  'st  shown  me  I  now  am 

speaking  o'er.'* 

Her  lily  cheek  then  struck  he,  her  cheek  so 

pale  and  wan. 
So  that  o'er  her  slim-laced  kirtle  the  gushing 

blood  it  ran. 

«« A-packing,  mistress,  get  thee ;  and  that,  I  pray, 

right  fast ! 
This  view  of  thy  mother's  gate  here,  I  swear 

it  is  thy  last ! " 

"  Farewell,  dear  father !  and  farewell,  my  tender 

mother  too ! 
Farewell,  my  sister  dear!    and  dear  brother, 

farewell  to  you  ! 

(^  Farewell,  thou  lofty  heaven  !  and  the  firesh 
green  earth,  farewell ! 

Now  wend  I  to  the  mountain,  where  the  moun- 
tain-king doth  dwell." 

So  forth  they  rode,  right  through  the  wood,  all 
black,  and  long,  and  wild  ; 

Right  bitter  were  her  tears, — but  the  mountain- 
king  he  smiled. 

And  now  they  six  times  journey  the  gloomy 

mountain  round ; 
Then  flew  the  door  wide  open,  and  in  they 

quickly  bound. 

A  chair  her  little  daughter  reached,  with  gold 
it  redly  shone  :  — 

*'  O,  rest  thee,  my  poor  mother,  so  sad  and  woe- 
begone I " 

u  Come  haste  thee  with  the  mead-glasses ;  hith- 
er, quick,  I  say  ! 
Thereout  now  will  I  drink  my  too  weary  life 

away!" 

And  scarce  fW)m  out  the  mead-glass  bright  her 
first  draught  doth  she  take ; 
(The  hour  goes  heavy  by  ;) 
Her  eyes  were  sudden  closed,  and  her  weary 
heart  it  brake ! 
(Ah !  well  sorrow's  burden  know  I ! ) 


BALLADS. 


133 


HILLEBRAND. 

HiLLKBRAND  seiTed  in  the  king*!  halls  so  gay : 

(In  the  groTe  there  :) 
For  fifteen  round  years,  I  wis,  he  *d  serre  there 
night  and  day. 
(For  her  that  in  his  youth  he  had  betrothed 
there.) 

Not  so  much  served  he  for  siWer  and  goad ; 

(In  the  grove  there;) 
*T  was  the  Gar  Ladie  Gulleboig  so  dearly  he 
loved.  ' 

(For  her  that  in  his  youth  he  had  betrothed 
there.) 

Not  so  much  served  he  fi>r  pay  or  for  place  ; 
T  was  that  fair  Ladie   Gulleborg  she  smiled 
with  such  sweet  grace. 

^*  And  hear,  Ladie  Gulleborg,  listen  to  my  love ! 
Hence  to  lands  far  off,  dear,  say,  wilt  thou  with 


«(Ah !  willing  with  thee  would  I  haste  far  away. 
Were  't  not,  love,  for  so  many  who  watch  me 
night  and  day. 

*<  For  me  watches  father,  and  mother  also ; 
For  me  watches  sister,  and  brother,  too,  I  know. 

«(For  me  watch  my  friends,  and  me  closely 

watch  my  kin ; 
But  most  that  young  knight  watcheth  me  to 

whom  I  pledged  have  bin." 

"  A  dress  of  fine  scarlet  I  '11  cut  for  thee,  my 

dear! 
He  then  can  never  know  thee  by  thy  rosy 

cheeks  clear. 

"  And  rings  will  Ir  change  on  thy  fingers  so 

small; 
Then  never  thereby  can  he  know  thee  at  all." 

Hillebrand  his  palfrey  gray  saddled  right  soon. 
And  lightly  Ladie  Gulleborg  he  lifted  there 
aboon. 

Away  so  they  rode  o'er  thirty  miles'  long  wood ; 
When,  see !  to  meet  them  cometh  a  knight  so 
stout  and  good. 

*(  And  whence,  friend,  hast  thou  taken  that  fidr 

young  page  with  thee  ? 
Full  badly  in  his  saddle  he  sits,  as  't  seems  to 

me. 

*«  But  yestern  I  took  him  from  's  mother  so 

kind; 
Thereat  how  many  tears,  alas!    adown  her 

cheeks  fast  wind !  " 

MMethinks  that  once  more  I  that  rose-cheek 
should  ken ;  > 

But  his  cloak  of  such  fine  scarlet  I  cannot  tell 
agun. 


^  Farewell,  now,  &rewell !  and  a  thousand  times 

good  night ! 
Salute  the  Ladie  Gulleborg  with  a  thousand 

times  good  night !  " 

But  when  they  had  ridden  so  little  a  while, 
The  maiden  it  listeth  to  rest  her  awhile. 

^And  Hillebrand,  Hillebrand,  not  now  slum- 
ber here ; 

My  ftther's  seven  trumpets  I  hear  loud-pealing 
clear. 

**  My  father's  gray  palfrey  again  now  I  know  ; 
'T  is  fifteen  long  years  since  through  the  wood- 
,         land  it  did  go." 

«( And  when  'mid  the  battle  I  ride  against  the 

foe. 
Then,  dearest  Ladie  Gulleborg,  name  not  my 

name  to  woe. 

*«  And  when  'mid  the  battle,  as  hottest  it  be. 
Ah !  dearest  Ladie  Gulleborg,  my  horse  thou  'It 
hold  for  me  !  " 

M  My  mother  she  taught  me  to  broider  silk  and 

gold. 
But  never  yet  I  've  learned  me  in  battle  horse 

to  hold." 

The  first  charge  he  rode,  when  together  they 

flew. 
So  slew  he  her  brother  and  many  a  man  thereto. 

The  next  charge  he  rode,  when  together  they 

flew, 
So  slew  he  her  fiither  and  many  a  knight  thereto. 

<«And  Hillebrand,  Hillebrand,  still  now  thy 

fierce  brand ; 
That  death,  ah  !  my  good  father  deserved  not 

at  thy  hand." 

Scarce  had  fair  Gulleborg  these  words  uttered 

o'er. 
When  seven  bloody  wounds  had  Sir  Hillebrand 

gashed  sore. 

(*And  wilt  thou,  now,  follow  to  thy  tender 

mother's  home. 
Or  with  thy  death-siok  childe  still  onward  wilt 

thou  roam?" 

*«  And  indeed  I  will  not  follow  to  my  tender 

mother's  home, 
But  sure  with  my  death-sick  childe  still  onward 

will  I  roam." 

Through  dark  woods  thus  rode  they,  for  many 

a  weary  mile ; 
And  not  one  single  word  spoke  Hillebrand  the 

while. 

"  Is  Hillebrand  awear'd,  or  sits  care  on  his  brow  ? 
For  not  one  single  word  he  speaketh  to  me 
now ! " 

L 


134 


SWEDISH  POETRY. 


«( Nor  wearied  I  am,  nor  sits  care  on  my  brow ; 
But  Cut  down  from  my  heart  my  blood  it  drip- 
peth  now  I " 

And  onward   rode   Hillebrand  to  his  dearest 

father's  lands ; 
And  there  by  the  hall  to  meet  him   his  tender 

mother  stands. 

«( And  hear  now,  how  is 't  with  thee,  Hillebrand, 

sweet  knight  mine  ? 
For  fast  the  red  blood  drippeth  from  off  thy 

mantle  fine." 

«(My  palfrey  he  stumbled,  and  quickly  from 

my  seat 
I  fell,  and  right  hardly  an  apple-bough  did  greet. 

«« My  horse  lead,  dear  brother,  to  the  meadow 

close  by ; 
And  a  bed,  my  dearest  mother,  make  up  where 

I  may  lie. 

<*  And  curl  now  so  gayly  my  hair-locks,  sister 

dear! 
And  haste  thee,  father  dearest,  to  get  my  burial 

bier ! " 

**  Ah !  Hillebrand,  Hillebrand,  speak  my  Ioto 

not  so! 
On  Thursday  right  merrily  to  the  wedding  we 

will  go !  '* 

*«  Down  in  the  grave's  house  of  darkness  shall 

we  wed ; 
Thy  Hillebrand  lives  no  longer,  when  night's 

last  star  is  sped." 

And  when  as  night  was  sped,  and  the  dawn 

beamed  out  to  day, 
So  bare  they  three  corpses  from  Hillebrand 's 

home  away ; 

The  one  it  was  Sir  Hillebrand,  the  other  his 
maid,  death's  bride, 
(In  the  grove  there,) 
The  third  it  was  his  mother,  of  a  broken  heart 
she  died ! 
(For  her  that  in  his  youth  he  had  betrothed 
there !) 


THE  DANCE  IN  THE  GROVE  OF 
ROSES. 

*T  WAS  all  upon  an  evening,  when  the  rime  it 

falleth  slow. 
That  a  swain,  on  good  gray  palfrey,  across  the 

meads  would  go.  — 

Ye  '11  bide  me  true ! 

His  saddle  it  was  of  silver,  his  bridle  it  was  of 

gold; 
Himself  rides  there,  so  full  of  grace  and  virtues 

all  untold. — 

Ye  '11  bide  me  true ! 


So  straight  to  the  Grove  of  Roses  the  knight 

he  speeds  along, 
Where  a  merrie  dance  he  findeth,  fair  dames 

and  maids  among.  — 

Ye  'II  bide  me  true ! 

His  horse  right  soon  he  bindeth  where  the  lily 

blooms  so  fair, 
And  much  his  heart  rejoiceth  that  he  now  was 

comen  there.  •*— 

Ye  '11  bide  me  true ! 

**  Again  we  '11  meet,  again  we  *11  greet,  when 

middest  summer  's  here, 
When  the  laughing  days  draw  out  so  long,  and 

the  nights  are  mild  and  clear.  — 
Ye  '11  bide  me  true ! 

**  Again  we  '11  meet,  again  we  '11  greet,  on  mid- 
dest summer's  day. 

When  the  lark  it  carols  lightly,  and  the  cuckoo 
cooes  away.  — 

Ye  '11  bide  me  true  ! 

**  Again  we  'II  meet,  again  we  '11  greet,  on  the 

freshly- flowering  lea. 
Where  the  rose  so  bright,  and  the  lily  white, 

our  sweet,  soft  couch  shall  be.  — 
Ye  *li  bide  me  true !  " 


THE  MAIDEN  THAT  WAS  SOLD. 

*^  Mt  father  and  my  mother  they  need  have 

suffered  sore ;  — 
And  then,  for  a  little  bit  of  bread,  they  sold 

me  from  their  door. 
Away  into  the  heathen  land  so  dreadful !  " 

And  the  war-man  each  oar  grasps  tight,  and 

quickly  will  depart. 
While  her  hands  the  pretty  virgin  wrings  till 
the  blood  thereout  doth  start :  — 
**  God   help  that  may  who  afar  shall  stray  to 
the  heathen  land  so  dreadful !  " 

*'  Ah  !   war-man  dear,  ye  '11  bide  now  here, 

one  moment  more  ye  '11  stay ! 
For  I  see  my  father  coming  fit>m  yon  grove 
that  blooms  so  gay  : 

I  know  he  loves  me  so,  — 
With  his  oxen  he  will  ransom  me  and  will 
not  let  me  go : 
So  scape  I  then  to  wander  fiff  to  the  heathen 
land  so  dreadful !  " 

«« My  oxen,  —  indeed,  now,  I  have  but  only 

twain ; 
The  one  I  straight  shall  ose,  the  other  may 
remain: 
Thou  scapest  not  to  wander  &r  to  the  heathen 
land  so  dreadfbl ! " 


BALLADS. 


135 


And  the  war-man  each  oar  grasps  tight,  and 

quickly  will  depart. 
While  her  hands  the  pretty  virgin  wrings  till 
the  blood  thereout  doth  start :  — 
**  God  help  that  may  who  afar  shall  stray  to  the 
heathen  land  so  dreadfiil !  " 

^*  Ah !  war-man  dear,  ye  '11  bide  now  here, 

one  moment  more  ye  *11  stay  ! 
For  I  see  my  mother  coming  from  yon  grove 
that  blooms  so  gay : 

I  know  she  loves  me  so,  — 
With  her  gold  chests  she  will  ransom  me, 
and  will  not  let  me  go  ! 
So  scape  I  then  to  wander  fiu"  to  the  heathen 
land  so  dreadful !  " 

•«  My  gold  chests, — indeed,  now,  I  have  bat 

only  twain ; 
The  one  I  straight  shall  use,  and  the  other 
may  remain : 
Thou  canst  not  scape  to  wander  fiu*  to  the  hea- 
then land  so  dreadful !  " 

And  the  war-man  each  oar  grasps  tight,  and 

quickly  will  depart. 
While  her  hands  the  pretty  virgin  wrings  till 
the  blood  thereout  doth  start :  — > 
^  God  help  that  may  who  afar  shall  stray  to 
the  heathen  land  so  dreadful !  " 

M  Ah  !  war-man  dear,  ye  '11  bide  now  here, 

one  moment  more  ye  Ml  stay  ! 
For  I  see  my  sister  coming  from  yon  grove 
that  blossoms  so  gay : 

I  know  she  loves  me  so,  — 
With  her  gold  crowns  she  will  ransom  me, 
and  wUl  not  let  me  go  ! 
So  scape  I  then  to  wander  far  to  the  heathen 
land  so  dreadful ! " 

u  My  gold  crowns, — indeed,  now,  I  have  bat 

only  twain ; 
The  one  I  straight  shall  use,  and  the  other 
may  remain  : 
Thou  scapest  not  to  wander  far  to  the  heathen 
land  so  dreadful  I  " 

And  the  war-man  each  oar  grasps  tight,  and 

quickly  will  depart. 
While  her  hands  the  pretty  virgin  wrings  till 
the  blood  thereout  doth  start :  — 
**  God  help  that  may  who  afar  shall  stray  to 
the  heathen  land  so  dreadful !  " 

*«  Ah  !  war-man  dear,  ye  '11  bide  now  here, 

one  moment  more  ye  '11  stay  ! 
For  I  see  my  brother  coming  from  yon  grove 

that  blooms  so  gay  : 
With  his  fbal-steeds  he  will  ransom  me,  and 
will  not  let  me  go  ! 
So  scape  I  then  to  wander  &r  to  the  heathen 
land  so  dreadful  !  " 

**  My  foal-steeds,  —  indeed,  now,  I  have  but 
only  twain ; 


The  one  I  straight  shall  use,  and  the  other 
may  remain :' 
Thou  scapest  not  to  wander  fiu*  to  the  heathen 
land  so  dreadful !  " 

And  the  war-man  his  oar  grasps  tight,  and 

quickly  will  depart. 
While  her  hands  the  pretty  virgin  wrings  till 
the  blood  thereout  doth  start :  — 
*^  Ah !  woe  's  that  may  who  afar  must  stray  to 
the  heathen  land  so  dreadful !  " 

**  Ah  !  war-man  dear,  ye  '11  bide  now  here, 

one  moment  more  ye  '11  stay  ! 
For  I  see  my  sweetheart  coming  from  yon 

grove  that  blooms  so  gay  : 
With  his  gold  rings  he  will  ransom  me  and 
will  not  let  me  go  ! 
So  scape  I  then  to  wander  far  to  the  heathen 
land  so  dreadful !  " 

*'  My  gold  rings,  —  indeed,  now,  I  have  bat 

ten  and  twain ; 
With  six  I  straight  will  ransom  thee,  thyself 
the  rest  shall  gain  : 
So  scapest  thou  to  wander  fiu*  to  the  heathen 
land  so  dreadful !  " 


THE   LITTLE   SEAMAN. 

In  her  lofty  bower  a  virgin  sat 
On  skins,  embroidering  gold, 

When  there  came  a  little  seaman  by, 
And  would  the  maid  behold.  — 
But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 
away! 

**  And  hear  now,  little  seaman. 

Hear  what  I  say  to  thee : 
An'  hast  thou  any  mind  this  hour 

To  play  gold  dice  with  me^?  "  — 
But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

away  ! 

**  But  how  and  can  I  play  now 

The  golden  dice  with  thee  ? 
For  no  red  shining  gold  I  have 

That  I  can  stake  'gainst  thee."  — 
But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

away ! 

**  And  surely  thou  canst  stake  thy  jacket, 
Canst  stake  thy  jacket  gray  ; 

While  there  against  myself  will  stake 
My  own  fair  gold  rings  twa."  — 
But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 
away ! 

So  then  the  first  gold  die,  I  wot. 

On  table-board  did  run ; 
And  the  little  seaman  lost  his  stake. 

And  the  pretty  maiden  won.  — 
But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

away ! 


136                                                 SWEDISH 

POETRY. 

«<  And  hear  now,  little  seaman, 

But  that  young  virgin  have  I  will. 

Hear  what  I  say  to  thee : 

Whom  with  gold  dice  I  won."  — 

An'  hast  thou  any  mind  this  hour 

But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

To  play  gold  dice  with  me  ?  "  — 

away! 

But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

away ! 

«i  Come,  hear  now,  little  seaman  1 

Haste  far  away  from  me ; 

••  Bat  how  and  can  I  play  now 

And  a  shirt  so  fine,  with  seams  of  silk, 

The  golden  dice  with  thee? 

I  that  will  give  to  thee."  — 

For  no  red  shining  gold  I  have 

But  with  golden  £ce  they  played,  they  played 

That  I  can  stake  'gainst  thee."  — 

away! 

But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

away  ! 

"A  shirt  so  fine,  with  seams  of  silk, 

I '11  get,  if 't  can  be  done; 

^(  Thou  surely  this  old  hat  canst  stake, 

But  that  young  virgin  have  I  will. 

Canst  stake  thy  hat  so  gray ; 

Whom  with  gold  dice  I  won."  — 

And  I  will  stake  my  bright  gold  crown, — 

But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

Come,  take  it,  if  ye  may."  — 

away! 

But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

away! 

**  Nay,  hear  now,  little  seaman  ! 

Haste  far  away  firom  me  ; 

And  BO  the  second  die  of  gold 

And  the  half  of  this  my  kingdom 

On  table-board  did  run ; 

I  that  will  give  to  thee."  — 

And  the  little  seaman  lost  his  stake. 

But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

While  the  pretty  maiden  won 

away ! 

But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

away! 

•*  The  half  of  this  thy  kingdom 

I  '11  get,  if 't  can  be  done ; 

(( And  hear  now,  little  seaman. 

But  that  young  virgin  have  I  will. 

Hear  what  I  say  to  thee : 

Whom  with  gold  dice  I  won."  — 

An'  hast  thou  any  mind  this  hour 

But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

To  play  gold  dice  with  me  ? "  — 

away  ! 

But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

away! 

And  the  virgin  in  her  chamber  goes, 

And  parts  her  flowing  hair  : 

"  But  how  and  can  I  play  now 

*<  Ah,  me  !  poor  maid,  I  soon,  alas ! 

The  golden  dice  with  thee  ? 

The  marriage-crown  must  bear."  — 

For  no  red  shining  gold  I  have 

But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

That  I  can  stake  'gainst  thee."  — 

away! 

But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

away ! 

The  seaman  treads  the  floor  along. 

And  with  his  sword  he  played,  — 

<*  Then  stake  each  of  thy  stockings, 

**  As  good  a  match  as  e'er  thou  'rt  worth 

And  each  silver-buckled  shoe ; 

Thou  gettest,  little  maid  !  — 

And  I  will  stake  mine  honor. 

But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

And  eke  my  troth  thereto."  — 

away! 

But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

away! 

"  For  I,  God  wot,  no  seaman  am, 

Although  ye  thinken  so  : 

And  so  the  third  gold  die,  I  wot, 

The  best  king's  son  I  am,  instead. 

On  table-board  did  run ', 

That  in  Engelande  can  go."  — 

And  the  pretty  maiden  lost  her  stake. 

But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

While  the  little  seaman  won.  — 

away! 

But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

away! 

**  Come,  hear  now,  little  seaman ! 

SIR  CARL, 

Haste  far  away  from  me  ; 

And  a  ship  that  stems  the  briny  flood 

OR  THE  CLOISTER  ROBBED. 

I  that  will  give  to  thee."-- 

But  with  golden  dice  they  played,  they  played 

Sir  Carl  he  in  to  his  foster-mother  went, 

away  I 

And  much  her  rede  he  prayed :  — 

*«  Say  how  from  that  cloister  I  may  win 

«*  A  ship  that  stems  the  briny  flood 
I'll  get,  if 't  can  be  done; 

My  own,  my  dearest  maid."  — 

But  Sir  Carl  alone  he  sleepeth. 

BALLADS. 


137 


**  Laj  tbee  down  as  aick,  lay  thee  down  as 
dead. 
On  thy  bier  all  straif  ht  be  laid ; 
So  then  thou  canst  from  that  cloister  win 
Thy  own,  thy  dearest  maid !  "  — 
But  Sir  Carl  aJone  he  sleepeth. 

And  in  the  little  pafes  came, 
'     And  clad  in  garments  blue : 
^  An'  please  ye,  fair  virgin,  i'  th'  ohapel  to  go. 
Sir  Carl  on  *s  bier  to  view  ?  '*  — 
Bot  Sir  Carl  alone  he  sleepeth. 

And  in  the  little  pages  came. 

All  clad  in  garments  red  : 
**  An'  please  ye,  &ir  Tirgin,  i'  th*  chapel  to 
wend, 
And  see  how  Sir  Carl  lies  dead .'  "  — 
But  Sir  Carl  alone  he  sleepeth. 

And  in  the  little  pages  came. 
All  clad  in  garments  white : 
**  An'  please  ye,  &ir  virgin,  i'  th'  chapel  to 
tread. 
Where  Sir  Carl  lies  in  lUte  so  bright  ?  " — 
But  Sir  Carl  alone  he  sleepeth. 

And  the  may  she  in  to  her  foster-mother  went, 

And  much  'gan  her  rede  to  speer : 
^  Ah  !  may  I  but  into  the  chapel  go. 
Sir  Carl  there  to  see  cm  his  bier?  " — 
But  Sir  Carl  alone  he  sleepeth. 

•«  Nay,  sure  I  '11  give  thee  now  no  rede. 

Nor  yet  deny  I  thee : 
But  if  to  the  chapel  to-night  thou  goest. 

Sir  Carl  deceiyeth  thee !  "-* 
But  Sir  Carl  alone  he  sleepeth. 

And  the  Tirgin  trod  within  the  door. 

Sun-like  she  shone  so  mild  ; 
But  Sir  Carl's  &lse  heart  within  his  breast 

It  lay  on  the  bier  and  smiled !  — 
But  Sir  Carl  alone  he  sleepeth. 

And  the  virgin  up  to  his  head  she  stepped, 
But  his  fair  locks  she  ne'er  sees  move : 

^  Ah,  me  !  while  here  on  earth  thou  liv'dst. 
Thou  dearly  didst  me  love ! "  — 
But  Sir  Carl  alone  he  sleepeth. 

And  the  virgin  down  to  his  feet  she  went, 

And  lifts  the  linen  white : 
**  Ah,  me !  while  here  on  earth  thou  liv'dst. 

Thou  wert  my  heart's  delight!  "-^ 
But  Sir  Carl  alone  he  sleepeth. 

And  the  virgin  then  to  the  door  she  went, 
And  good  night  bade  her  sisters  last ; 

But  Sir  Carl,  who  upon  his  bier  was  laid. 
He  sprang  up  and  held  her  fast !  -— 
But  Sir  Carl  idone  he  sleepeth. 

**  Now  carry  out  my  bier  again. 
Come  pour  the  mead  and  wine ; 

18  


For  to-morrow  shall  my  wedding  stand 
With  this  sweetheart  dear  of  mine !  "- 
But  Sir  Carl  alone  he  sleepeth. 

And  the  oloister-nuns,  the  cloister-nuns» 
They  read  within  their  book  : 

**  Some  angel,  sure,  it  was  from  heaven. 
Who  hence  our  sister  took ! "  — 
But  Sir  Carl  alone  he  sleepeth. 

And  the  cloister-nuns,  the  cloister-nuns. 

They  sung  each  separatelie : 
«c  O  Christ !  that  such  an  angel  came. 
And  took  both  me  and  thee ! "  — 
But  Sir  Carl  alone  he  sleepeth. 


ROSEOROVE-SIDE. 

I  WAS  a  fiur  young  swain  one  day. 

And  had  to  the  court  to  ride ; 
I  set  me  out  at  the  evening  hour. 

And  listed  to  sleep  on  the  Rosegrove-side.- 
Since  I  had  seen  them  first ! 

I  laid  me  under  a  linden  green, 

My  eyes  they  sunk  to  sleep ; 
There  came  two  maidens  tripping  along, 

They  frin  with  me  would  speak.  — 
Since  I  had  seen  them  fint ! 

The  one  she  patted  me  on  my  cheek. 
The  other  she  whispered  in  my  ear : 

M  Rise  up,  rise  up,  thou  frir  young  swain, 
If  of  love  thou  list  to  hear !  "  — 
Since  I  had  seen  them  first ! 

And  forth  they  led  a  maiden  fidr. 

And  hair  like  gold  had  she  : 
*«  Rise  up,  rise  up,  thou  fair  young  swain. 

If  thou  lovest  joy  and  glee ! "  — 
Since  I  had  seen  them  first ! 

The  third  began  a  song  to  sing, 
With  right  good  will  she  begun ; 

The  striving  stream  stood  still  thereby. 
That  befbre  was  wont  to  run.  — 
Since  I  had  seen  them  fij^  ! 

The  striving  stream  stood  still  thereby. 
That  befbre  was  wont  to  run  ; 

And  all  the  hinds  with  hair  so  brown 
Forgot  which  way  to  turn.  — 
Since  I  had  seen  them  first ! 

I  got  me  up  from  off  the  ground. 

And  on  my  sword  did  lean ; 
The  maiden  elves  danced  out  and  in. 

All  elvish  in  look,  in  mien.  — 
Since  I  had  seen  them  first  \ 

Had  it  not  then  my  good  luck  been. 
That  the  cock  had  clapped  his  wing, 

I  should  have  slept  in  the  hill  that  night, 
With  the  elves  in  their  dwelling.  — 
Since  I  had  seen  them  first ! 


138 


SWEDISH   POETRY. 


SIR  OLOF'S  BRIDAL. 

Sir  Olof  rode  out  at  the  break  of  day ; 
There  he  came  to  an  elf-dance  gay. 

The  dance  it  goes  well, 

So  well  in  the  grove  ! 

The  el^father  hia  white  hand  outstretched  he  : 
(( Come,  come,  Sir  Olof,  and  dance  with  me ! " 

The  dance  it  goes  well. 

So  well  in  the  grove  ! 

**  Naught  can  I  dance,  and  naught  I  may ; 
To-morrow  is  my  bridal  day." 

The  dance  it  goes  well, 

So  well  in  the  grove  ! 

The  el^mother  her  white  hand  outstretched 

she : 
<(  Come,  come.  Sir  Olof,  and  dance  with  me  !  " 

The  dance  it  goes  well, 

So  well  in  the  grove  ! 

*<  Naught  can  I  dance,  and  naught  I  may  ; 
To-morrow  is  my  bridal  day." 

The  dance  it  goes  well. 

So  well  in  the  grove ! 

The  elf-sister  her  white  hand  outstretched  she : 
"  Come,  come,  Sir  Olof,  and  dance  with  me !" 

The  dance  it  goes  well, 

So  well  in  the  grove  ! 

^<  Naught  can  I  dance,  and  naught  I  may  ; 
To-morrow  is  my  bridal  day." 

The  dance  it  goes  well, 

So  well  in  the  grove  ! 

And  the  bride  she  spoke  to  her  bridemaids  so  : 
*'  What  may  it  mean  that  the  bells  do  go  ?  " 

The  dance  it  goes  well. 

So  well  in  the  grove  I 

(*  It  is  the  custom  on  this  our  isle. 

Each  young  swain  ringeth  home  his  bride.  — 

The  dance  it  goes  well. 

So  well  in  the  grove  ! 

'<  And  the  truth  from  thee  we  no  longer  conceal ; 
Sir  Olof  is  dead  and  lies  on  his  bier." 

The  dance  it  goes  well. 

So  well  in  the  grove  ! 

Next  morning,  when  uprose  the  day. 
In  Sir  Olof 's  house  three  corpses  lay. 

The  dance  it  goes  well. 

So  well  in  the  grove  ! 

They  were  Sir  Olof  and  his  bride. 
And  his  mother  who  of  sorrow  died  ! 

The  dance  it  goes  well. 

So  well  in  the  grove  ! 


DUKE  MAGNUS. 

Duke  Magnus  looked  out  from  his  castle-win- 
dow. 
How  the  stream  so  rapidly  ran ; 
There  he  saw  how  there  sat  on  the  foaming 
stream 
A  fair  and  lovely  woman  : 

"  Duke  Magnus,  Duke  Magnus,  betroth 

thee  to  me, 
I  pray  thee  now  so  freely  ; 
O,  say  me  not  nay,  but  yea,  say  yes ! 

^'  And  I  will  giv«  thee  a  travelling  ship, 

The  best  that  knight  e'er  did  guide. 
That  sails  on  the  water,  and  sails  on  the  land, 
And  through  the  fields  so  wide. 

Duke  Magnus,  Duke  Magnus,  betroth  thee 

to  me, 
I  pray  thee  now  so  freely  ; 
O,  say  me  not  nay,  but  yes,  say  yes ! " 

<*  I  have  not  yet  come  to  quiet  and  rest; 

How  should  I  betroth  me  to  thee  ? 
I  serve  my  king  and  my  country. 

But  to  woman  I  've  not  yet  matched  me." 
*(  Duke  Magnus,  Duke  Magnus,  betroth 

thee  to  me, 
I  pray  thee  now  so  freely ; 
O,  say  me  not  nay,  but  yes,  say  yes ! 

^*  And  I  will  give  thee  a  steed  so  gray. 

The  best  that  knight  e'er  did  ride. 
That  goes  on  the  water,  and  goes  on  the  land. 
And  through  the  woods  so  wide. 

Duke  Magnus,  Duke  Magnus,  betroth  thee 

to  me, 
I  pray  thee  now  so  freely  ; 
O,  say  me  not  nay,  but  yes,  say  yes  !" 

**  I  am  a  king's  son  so  good. 

How  can  I  let  thee  win  me  ? 
Thou  dweirst  not  on  land,  but  on  the  flood. 
Which  would  never  with  me  agree." 

**  Duke   Magnus,   Duke  Magnus,  betroth 

thee  to  me, 
I  pray  thee  now  so  freely ; 
O,  say  me  not  nay,  but  yes,  say  yes  ! 

**  And  I  will  give  thee  so  much  gold. 

As  much  as  can  ever  be  found ; 
And  stones  and  pearls  by  the  handful. 
And  all  from  the  sea*s  deep  ground. 

Duke  Magnus,  Duke  Magnus,  betroth  thee 

to  me, 
I  pray  thee  now  so  freely, 
O,  say  me  not  nay,  but  yes,  say  yes  !  " 

**>  O,  fain  I  would  betroth  me  to  thee, 

Wert  thou  of  Christian  kind  ; 
But  thou  art  only  a  vile  sea^sprite ; 
My  love  thou  never  canst  win." 

*«Duke  Magnus,  Duke  Magnus,  betroth 

thee  to  me, 
I  pray  thee  now  so  freely  ; 
O,  say  me  not  nay,  but  yes,  say  yes ! 


BALLADS. 


139 


^  Duke  Magnus,  Duke  Magnui,  bethink  thee 
well. 
Speak  not  to  me  ao  acomfully  ! 
For,  if  thou  wilt  not  betroth  thee  to  me. 
Then  crazed  shalt  thou  for  ever  be  ! 

Duke  Magnus,  Duke  Magnus,  betroth  thee 

to  me, 
I  pray  thee  now  ao  freely ; 
O,  say  me  not  nay,  but  yes,  say  yea !  " 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  HARP. 

ItiTTLs  Christin  she  weeps  in  her  bower  all 

day; 
Sir  Peter  he  sports  in  the  yard  at  play. 

^  My  heart's  own  dear ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  griere .' 

"  Is  it  saddle  or  steed  that  grievetfa  thee  f 
Or  grieyeth  that  thou  *rt  betrothed  to  me  ? 

My  heart*8  own  dear ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieye  ?  ** 

'^  Not  saddle  nor  steed  is  't  that  griereth  me ; 
Nor  grieveth  that  I  'm  betrothed  to  thee.  -^ 

My  heart's  own  dear ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieTe  ? 

«*  Far  more  I  grioTe  for  my  ftir  yellow''  hair. 
That  the  deep  blue  waTes  shall  dye  it  to-day.  — 

My  heart's  own  dear  ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieve  ? 

<c  Far  more  I  grieye  for  Ringfiilla's  wares. 
Where    both    my  sisters    haye    found    their 
graves!  — 

My  heart'a  own  dear  ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieye  ? 

**  When  a  child,  it  was  foretold  to  me. 
My  bridal  day  ahonld  proye  heayy  to  me." 

My  heart's  own  dear ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieye  ? 

«« I  will  bid  thy  horse  to  haye  round  shoes. 
He  shall  not  stumble  on  four  gold  shoes.  — 

My  heart's  own  dear ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieye  ? 

**  Twelye  of  my  courtiers  before  thee  shall  ride. 
And  twelve  of  my  courtiers  on  either  side." 

My  heart'a  own  dear  ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieve  ? 

But  when  they  Ringialla  forest  came  near, 
There  sported  with  gilded  horns  a  deer. 

My  heart's  own  dear ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieve  ? 

And  the  courtiers  to  hunt  the  deer  are  gone ; 
Little  Christin  she  must  go  onward  alone. 

My  heart's  own  dear  ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieve .' 


And  when  over  Ringfalla  bridge  she  goes, 
There  stumbled  her  steed  on  his  four  gold  shoes : 

My  heart's  own  dear ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieve  ? 

On  four  gold  shoes  and  gold  nails  all : 
The  maid  in  the  rushing  stream  did  fall. 

My  heart's  own  dear ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieve  ? 

Sir  Peter  he  spoke  to  his  footpage  so  : 
**  Now  swiftly  for  my  golden  harp  go !  " 

My  heart's  own  dear ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieve  f 

The  first  stroke  on  the  gold  harp  he  gave, 
The  foul  ugly  sprite  sat  and  laughed  on  the  wave. 

My  heart's  own  dear ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieve  ? 

Once  more  the  gold  harp  gave  a  sound ; 

The  foul  ugly  sprite  sat  and  wept  on  the  ground. 

My  heart's  own  dear ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieve  ? 

The  third  stroke  on  the  gold  harp  rang ; 
Little  Christin  reached  out  her  snow-white  arm. 

My  heart's  own  dear ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieve  ? 

He  played  the  bark  from  off  the  high  trees. 
He  played  little  Christin  upon  his  knees. 

My  heart's  own  dear ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieve  ? 

And  the  sprite  himself  came  out  of  the  flood, 
On  each  of  his  arms  a  maiden  proud. 

My  heart's  own  dear ! 

Tell  me,  why  dost  thou  grieve  ? 


LITTLE  KARIN'S  DEATH. 

The  little  Karin  served 

Within  the  young  king's  hall ; 
She  glistened  like  a  star. 

Among  the  maidens  all. 

She  glistened  like  a  star. 
Of  all  the  fairest  maid ; 

And  to  the  Ijttle  Karin, 

One  day,  the  young  king  said  : 

<*  And  hear  thou,  little  Karin, 
O,  say,  wilt  thou  be  mine .' 

Gray  steed  and  golden  saddle 
Shall,  if  thou  wilt,  be  thine." 

**  Gray  steed  and  golden  saddle 
Would  not  with  me  agree ; 

Give  them  to  thy  young  queen. 
And  leave  my  honor  to  me !  " 

«*  And  hear  thou,  little  Karin, 
O,  say,  wilt  thou  be  mine  ? 

My  brightest  golden  crown 
Shall,  if  thou  wilt,  be  thine." 


140 


SWEDISH    POETRY. 


<«  ThjT  brightest  golden  crown 
Would  not  with  me  agree ; 

Oiye  it  to  thy  young  queen. 
And  leave  my  honor  to  me  !  ** 

*'  And  hear  thou,  little  Karin, 
O,  say,  wilt  thou  be  mine  ? 

One  half  of  all  my  kingdom 
Shall,  if  thou  wilt,  be  thine.*' 

«•  One  half  of  all  thy  kingdom 
Would  not  with  me  agree ; 

Give  it  to  thy  young  queen. 
And  leave  my  honor  to  me  !  *' 

^  And  hear  thou,  little  Karin, 
Wilt  thou  not  yield  to  me  ? 

A  cask  with  spikes  all  studded 
Shall  then  thy  dwelling  be.'* 


M  If  a  cask  with  spikes  all  studded 
Shall  then  my  dwelling  be, 

God's  holy  angels  know  full  well 
That  without  guilt  I  be !  " 

They  put  the  little  Karin 

In  the  spiked  tun  within ; 
And  then  the  king's  young  servants 

They  rolled  her  in  a  ring. 

And  from  the  high  high  heaven 
Two  snow-white  doves  there  came ; 

They  took  the  little  Karin, 
And,  lo  !  they  three  became. 

And  from  the  deep  deep  hell 
Two  coal-black  ravens  came ; 

They  took  the  wicked  king, 
And,  lo !  they  three  became. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


fl«VWWWWW«M« 


JOHAN  HENRIK  KELLGREN. 

This  distinguished  poet  was  bom  in  the 
parish  of  Floby,  West  (Gothland,  in  1751.  In 
1772  he  took  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts  at 
the  University  of  Abo,  and  in  1774  became  a 
Magister  Docena.  Three  years  aflerwards  he 
removed  to  Stockholm  as  private  tutor  in  a 
nobleman's  fiimily,  and  in  1776,  in  connexion 
with  his  friend  Carl  Lenngren,  established  there 
a  weekly  literary  journal,  under  the  title  of 
^  Stockholms  Posten,"  which  exercised  consid- 
erable influence  on  Swedish  literature.  Kell- 
gren  soon  became  a  courtier  and  a  fiivorite  with 
the  king,  who  suggested  to  him  the  plan  of  his 
three  principal  dramatic  pieces,  **  Gustaf  Wasa," 
'« Christine,"  «^  Gustaf  Adolf  und  Ebba  Brahe.*' 
His  reputation  rests  chiefly  upon  his  satires 
and  upon  his  lyrical  poems.  He  died  in  1795, 
and  his  friends  showed  "the  esteem  in  which 
they  held  his  memory  by  a  medal,  on  one  side 
of  which  was  the  poet's  head,  and  on  the  re- 
verse the  inscription :  "  Poeto,  Pkilowpko^  Cwit 
jSmieOj  LugeiUes  Amid."  For  a  further  notice 
of  Kellgren  and  his  times  see  p.  130. 

THE  NEW  CREATION. 

Thou  who  didst  heavenly  forms  portray 
Of  bliss  and  beauty's  charm  to  me, 

I  saw  thee  once,  —  and  from  that  day 
Thee  only  in  the  world  I  see ! 

Dead  to  my  view  did  Nature  lie. 
And  to  my  feelings  deeply  dead ; 

Then  came  a  breathing  from  on  high, 
And  light  and  life  around  were  spread. 


And  the  light  came  and  kindled  lifb, 

A  soul  pervaded  every  part ; 
With  feeling's  features  all  was  rife. 

And  voices  sounding  to  my  heart 

Through  space  new  spheres  celestial  broke. 
And  earth  fresh  robes  of  verdure  found ; 

Genius  and  Cultivation  woke. 
And  Beauty  rose  and  smiled  around. 

Then  felt  my  soul  her  heavenly  birth. 
Her  godly  offspring  from  on  high  ; 

And  saw  those  wonders  of  the  earth. 
Yet  unrevealed  to  Wisdom's  eye. 

Not  only  splendor,  motion,  space. 
And  glorious  majesty  and  might ; 

Not  only  depth  in  vales  to  trace. 

And  in  the  rocks  their  towering  height : 

But  more  my  ravished  senses  found :  — 
The  lofty  spheres'  sweet  harmony  ; 

Heard  angel-harps  from  hills  resound,. 
From  darksome  gulfs,  the  demons'  cry. 

On  fields  the  smile  of  Peace  was  bright. 
Fear  skulked  along  the  shadowy  vale ; 

The  groves  were  whispering  of  Delight, 
The  forests  breathing  sig£i  of  Wail. 

And  Wrath  was  in  the  billowy  sea. 
And  Tenderness  in  cooling  streams; 

And  in  the  sunlight,  Majesty, 
And  Bashfhlness  in  Dian's  beams. 

To  point  the  lightning  Hatred  sped. 
And  Courage  quelled  the  raging  storm  ; 

The  cedar  reared  its  lofty  head. 

The  flower  unclosed  its  beauteous  form. 


KELLGREN. 


141 


0  liviiig  ■enM  of  all  things  dear ! 

0  Genius,  Feeling'a  nijrttery ! 
Who  comprehends  thee,  Beauty,  hers  ? 

He  who  can  Ioto,  and  onlj  he. 

When  painting  Nature  to  my  gaze 
In  heayens  of  hliss  that  brightly  roll, 

For  me  what  art  thou  ?  Broken  rays 
Of  Hilma's  image  in  my  soul. 

T  is  she,  within  my  soul,  who,  fiur, 
Stamps  bliss  on  ill  the  things  that  be,    ' 

And  earth  is  one  wide  temple,  where 
She  is  the  adored  dirinity. 

Thou,  who  didst  heavenly  forms  portray 
Of  bliss  and  beauty's  charm  to  me, 

1  saw  thee  once,  —  and  firom  that  day 

Thee  only  in  the  world  I  see ! 

All  things  thy  borrowed  fbatures  bear, 
O,  still  the  same,  yet  ever  new  ! 

Thy  waist,  the  lily's  waist  so  fair, 
And  thine  her  fresh  and  lovely  hue ! 

Thy  glance  is  mixed  with  day-beams  bright, 
Thy  voice  with  Pbtlomel's  sweet  song. 

Thy  breath  with  roses^  balm,  and  light. 
Like  thee,  the  zephyr  glides  along. 

Nay,  more, — thou  lend'st  a  charm  to  gloom, 
Filling  the  deep  abyss  with  rays. 

And  clothing  wastes  in  flowery  bloom, 
And  gladdening  dust  of  former  days. 

And  if  perchance  the  enraptured  mind 
With  eager,  anxious  search  should  stray 

Through  earth  and  heaven,  that  it  may  find 
The  Author  of  this  blissfol  clay; 

Demanding  in  some  form  to  view 
Him,  the  All-bounteous  and  Divine, 

To  whom  our  loftiest  praise  is  due,  — 
His  form  reveals  itself  in  thine  ! 

In  cities,  courts,  and  kingly  balls, 

'Mong  thousands,  I  behold  but  thee ; 
When  entering  humbler  cottage  walls, 

1  find  thee  there  awaiting  me. 

To  Wisdom's  depths  I  turned  in  vain, 
Borne  onward  by  thy  thought  divine ; 

I  strove  to  wake  the  Heroic  strain,  — 

My  harp  would  breathe  no  name  but  thine ! 

To  Fame's  proud  summit  I  would  soar. 
But  wandered  in  thy  footsteps'  trace ; 

I  wished  for  Fortune's  worshipped  store. 
And  found  it  all  in  thy  embrace  ! 

Thou,  who  didst  heavenly  forms  portray 
Of  bliss  and  beauty's  charm  to  me, 

I  saw  thee  once,  —  and  fii>m  that  day 
Thee  only  in  the  world  I  see  ! 


What  though,  horn  thee  now  torn  away. 
Thy  thought  alone  remains  to  me  ? 

Still  in  thy  track  must  memory  stray,— 
Thee  only  in  the  world  I  see  ! 


THB  FOBS  or  UeRT. 

Osx  eve  last  winter, — let  me  see, — 
It  was,  if  rightly  I  remember, 
About  the  SOth  of  December ; 

Yes,  Reader, — yes,  it  so  must  be, 
For  winter's  solstice  had  set  in. 

And  PhoDbus — he,  the  ruler  bright. 
Who  governs  poets  and  the  light 
(This  latter  shines,  the  former  rhyme. 
More  dimly  in  the  Northern  clime)  — 
At  three  o'clock  would  seek  the  deep 
For  nineteen  hours'  unbroken  sleep,  — 
Luddor  on  such  eve  went  forth 
To  join  the  club  upon  the  North. 
A  club  ?  — >  political  ?  —  Herein 

No  trace  the  manuscript  doth  show, 

And  nothing  boots  it  now  to  know. 

Enough,  —  he  went, — the  club  he  found, — 

Entered,  sat  down,  and  looked  around ; 

But  very  little  met  his  sight. 

For  yet  they  had  not  ordered  light ; 

And  heaven's  all-glorious  President 

To  rest  had  long  since  stole  away. 
While  dim  his  pale  Vice-regent  went 

Declining  on  her  cloudy  way. 
Though  thus  in  darkness,  soon  be  knew 

The  senseless  crowd,  who  kept  a  pother 
With  wondrous  heat  (as  still  they  do 

Whene'er  they  can't  conceive  each  other) 
About  the  form  the  chamber  bore,  — 
The  color  of  the  chairs,  —  and  more. 

At  length  they  one  and  all  bethought 

Themselves  how  dull,  how  worse  than  naught, 

It  was  to  prate  of  form  and  hue, 

While  blindness  bandaged  thus  their  view 

(For  to  be  blind,  and  not  to  see, 

The  selfiame  thing  appeared  to  be)  ; 

So  various  voices  mingling  cry, 

«< Light!  light!" 

Light  came,  —  and  then  the  eye 
Was  glad ;  for  who  doth  not  delight 
To  see  distinctly  black  from  white  ? 
Yet  here  and  there  a  friend  of  gloom 
Gave  light  and  lamps  —  you  know  to  whom : 
And  now  of  these  there  's  more  to  come. 

A  blear-eyed  man  was  first  to  bawl 
Against  the  light ;  yet  this  must  call. 

Not  wonder,  pity  from  each  heart : 
For  how  should  he  enjoy  the  ray, 
When  even  the  smallest  gleam  of  day 

Falls  on  his  view  with  deadly  smart  ? 

Like  him,  in  evil  plight  much  pained. 
An  old  and  nervous  man  complained :  — 


142 


SWEDISH  POETRY. 


"  By  Heaven  !  "  he  cried,  '*  this  cruel  glare 
Of  light  is  more  than  I  can  bear." 
Nor  should  his  murmur  much  amaze : 
The  poor  old  man  had  all  his  days 
Groped  out  his  path  through  darksome  ways ; 
But  to  learn  to  walk  and  see 
Are  both  of  like  necessity, 
And  custom  gives  us  faculty. 

A  drowsy  man,  with  startled  stare, 
Amazed,  leaped  high  from  off  his  chair ; 
His  name  was  Duloess.  —  Ever  deep 
Both  soul  and  body  he  would  steep. 
By  day  and  night,  in  ceaseless  sleep. 
One  well  may  fancy  what  a  doom 
For  him  to  be  deprived  of  gloom. 
Now  all  behold  his  laziness, 
The  senseless  swine  can  do  no  less 
Than  blush  to  be  discovered,  making 
The  only  drone  amongst  the  waking. 

The  Enthusiast  cries :  <*  Most  sweet  to  me 
The  hour  when  twilight's  veil  is  drawn ; 

0  blissful  twilight !     Rapture's  dawn  1 
O  darkness  mild  and  sofl  to  see  ! 

While  thou  dost  all  in  charms  array. 
What  is  't  to  me,  if  thou  betray  ? 
In  thee  may  Fancy,  fearless,  stray. 
Released  from  Reason's  rigid  thrall, 
In  joyful  chaos  mingling  ail  ! 
Through  thee,  the  shadow  substance  shows, 
Through  thee,  the  earth  empeopled  grows, 
Gods,  giants,  wizards,  sprites  appear  ! 
Just  now  I  caught  a  shadow  here 
From  Swedenborg's  enchanted  sphere. 
But  light  —  a  cursed  trick !  —  now  beams, 
Consuming  all  my  blissful  dreams. 

*'  A  cursed  trick !  "  —  This  cry,  too,  rose 
Loud  from  behind  the  comer  screen. 
From  one  whose  thriving  trade  had  been 

In  legerdemain  and  raree-shows :  — - 
*'  The  Swedish  public  soon  will  see 
My  art's  long  hidden  mystery ; 
In  twilight  all  went  on  divinely, 

1  tricked  their  eyes  and  purses  finely  ; 

But  now  they  've  brought  this  devilish  light, 
Farewell  to  witchcraft  every  way  ; 

Farewell  to  magic,  —  black  and  white  !  " 
So  said  my  lord,  and  sneaked  away. 

Soon  as  this  last  lament  was  o*er. 

The  selfsame  exit  —  through  the  door  — 

Was  taken  by  a  worthy  spark, 

Who — honest  else,  we  may  remark  — 

Had  lately,  wandering  in  the  dark, 

Mistook  —  by  accident  alone  — 

His  neighbour's  pocket  for  his  own. 

A  member  of  the  king's  police. 
Who  loved  his  knowledge  to  increase 
(In  vulgar  parlance  called  a  spy). 
Now  sought  the  chimney  skulkingly. 
*T  is  hard  to  listen  in  the  light : 
Partly  for  its  still  flickering  glare. 


And  partly,  that,  when  forced  to  beat 
A  swift  and  unforeseen  retreat, 
'T  will  sometimes  with  the  listener  fare 
That  he  must  be  content  to  spare 
An  arm  or  leg,  and  leave  it  there. 

With  hump  before  and  hump  behind, 
A  cripple  had  for  hours  depicted 

How  dear  he  was  to  womankind 

(In  darkness  none  could  contradict  it). 

And  countless  blisses  called  to  mind ; 

But  light  appeared,  and  who  looked  down. 

If  not  this  miserable  clown  ? 

For  not  a  more  revolting  creature 

Ever  yet  was  seen  in  nature. 

A  speaker  rose,  and  said  :  "  'T  were  vain. 

Now  that  the  thing  has  gone  so  far, 
To  strive  light's  progress  to  restrain  ; 
Then  leave  all  matters  as  they  are. 
So  that  we  can  but  keep  the  rays 
From  spreading  to  the  public  gaze. 
And  to  avert  this  awfbl  scourge 
From  our  dear  country,  let  me  urge 
'T  were  best  to  leave  the  light  to  me 
An  undisturbed  monopoly.'* 

**  Well  said  !  "  another  answered  straight, 
"  Farewell  to  ministerial  state, 
To  court,  to  customs,  honor,  birth, 
And  all  we  value  most  on  earth, 
If  we  allow  the  light  to  fall 
In  common  for  the  eyes  of  all ! 
But,  now,  as  Government  alone 
Has  power  to  say  how  every  one 
May  innocently  hear  and  see. 
And  eat  and  drink,  it  seems  to  me. 
For  my  part,  —  and  by  this  is  meant 
My  portion  of  the  public  rent,  — 
That  we  had  better  fix  the  light 
The  Crown's  hereditary  right." 

Of  those  assembled  in  the  room. 
Whom  shame  constrained,  in  hate's  despite, 
To  hide  the  rage  they  felt  at  light. 

Mine  host  and  each  assistant  groom 
Were  found  :  for  guests  could  now  behold 
What  drugs  were  given  for  their  gold. 
The  miracle,  admired  of  yore. 

Of  turning  water  into  wine. 
Is  now  a  trick,  and  nothing  more, 

Which,  as  all  may  well  divine. 
Will  hardly  cheat  the  taste  and  sight 
Of  sober  folks,  except  at  night. 

<«  O  sin  and  shame,"  the  Parson  cries, 
^  To  jest  with  Heaven's  providing  care  ! 
Think  that  a  child  of  dust  should  dare 
At  eve,  when  darkness  veils  the  skies, 
To  strike  a  light  and  use  his  eyes  ! 
Then  vainly  God  prescribes  the  sun 
His  rising  and  his  going  down. 
In  order  that  the  humankind 
May  needful  warmth  and  radiance  find. 


KELLGREN. 


143 


Now  man  creates  a  warmth  bj  fires, 

And  with  his  tallow-light  aspires 
To  ape  the  blessed  beams  of  da  j  ! 

Soon  Nature  will  not  hare  a  nook. 

No  somidless  depths,  nor  darksome  caYes, 

ImperriouB  to^his  searching  look ; 

His  skill  can  curb  the  winds  and  waTes, 
Nay, —  more  tremendous  still  to  say, — 

He  dares,  when  cloads  are  torn  asunder. 

To  save  his  body  from  the  thunder ! " 

The  assembly  here  in  laughter  burst. 

The  priest,  preparing  to  depart. 
His  brethren  most  devoutly  cursed 

To  pest  and  death  with  all  his  heart ; 
When  suddenly  was  heard  a  sound 
Of  trumpets,  drums,  and  bells  around. 
And  soon  a  cry  in  every  mouth 
Of  «« Fire  is  raging  in  the  South  !  " 
The  part,  the  street,  the  house  are  named. 
And  Ligkt^  the  cause  of  all,  is  blamed : 
^  O  Lucifer's  and  Genius'  sons, 

(From  Lux  comes  Luafer)  see  here,*' 
The  parson  cries,  —  ^^  ye  faithless  ones. 

What  direfiil  fruits  from  light  appear  ! 
Upon  the  Southern  side  bursts  forth 
The  fire,  and  doubt  not  but  the  North 
Like  end  will  find  to  crown  such  crime  : 
Then  let  us  all  resolve  in  time. 
With  strictest  care,  to  quench  outright 
Whatever  can  conduce  to  light." 

Already  have  the  friends  of  light 

(Such  is  fanaticism's  might). 

Now  here,  now  there,  by  looks  expressed 

A  secret  fear  that  rules  the  breast. 

At  length  arises  one  whose  voice 

Is  destined  to  decide  their  choice. 

AH  hushed,  Lucidor  has  the  word :  — 

**  My  friends  and  brothers !"  thus  he 's  heard,— 

^  A  law  there  is,  prescribed  by  Heaven, 

For  every  good  to  mortals  given ; 

And  this  the  precept  all-sublime  : 

That, '  wanting  wisdom's  due  control. 
Even  virtue's  self  becomes  a  crime,  — 

The  cup  of  bliss,  a  poisoned  bowl.' 
All  useful  things  may  noxious  be : 
Sleep  strengthens,  —  sleep  brings  lethargy ; 

Meat  feeds, — meat  brings  obstruction  after ; 
Ale  warms,  —  ale  causes  strangury ; 

Smiles   cheer,  —  convulsions    come    fh>m 
laughter: 
Nay,  more,  —  the  mother  virtue,  whence 

Arises  earth's  and  heavenly  bliss. 

The  fear  of  God  itself,  has  this 
(When  overstretched)  sad  consequence, 
Of  voiding  certain  heads  of  sense. 
And  yet,  should  any  man  from  hence 
Induce  a  Christian  soul  to  think 
'T  were  wrong  to  sleep,  eat,  laugh,  or  drink ; 
He  is,  by  giving  such  a  rule, 
A  self-convicted  knave  —  or  fool. 
As  to  what  concerns  the  right 
Administration  of  the  light. 
Wise  rulers  have  two  means  of  might : 


Lashes,  by  which  the  over-bold 
And  negligent  may  be  controlled ; 
And  engines,  to  allay  the  ire 
Of  the  most  infbriate  fire." 

He  ceased ;  -~  a  general  bravo  cry,  -^ 

A  lood  and  general  applause. 
Save  from  the  priest  and  company, 
Who  took  their  party  prudently. 

And  mumbled  curses  'twixt  their  jaws. 

What  happened  on  the  Southern  side,  — 
How  quenched  they  there  the  flame  so  feared. 
Or  what  new  palace  there  was  reared 

Above  the  former's  fallen  pride,  — 
Of  this  we  '11  sing  in  foture  lays. 
Should  Heaven  vouchsafe  us  length  of  days. 


FOLLT  IS  NO  PROOF  OF  OENnj& 

I  ORAHT  'tis  oft  of  greatest  men  the  lot 

To  stumble  now  and  then,  or  darkling  grope ; 

Extremes  for  ever  border  on  a  blot. 

And  loftiest  mountains'  sides  abruptest  slope. 

Mortals,  observe  what  ills  on  genius  wait ! 

Now  god,  now  worm  1  —  Why  fellen  ?  —  A 
dizzy  head !  — 
The  energy  that  lifts  thee  to  heaven's  gate. 

What  is  it  but  a  hair,  a  distaff's  thread  ? 

He,  who  o'er  twenty  centuries,  twenty  climes, 
Has  reigned,  whom  all  will  first  of  poets  vote. 

E'en  our  good  fether  Homer,  nods  at  times ; 
So  Horace  says,  —  your  pardon,  I  but  quote. 

Thou,  Eden's  bard,  next  him  claim'st  genius' 
throne ;  — 
But  is  the  tale  of  Satan,  Death,  and  Sin, 
Of  Heaven's  artillery,  the  poet's  tone  ? 

More  like  street-drunkard's  prate  inspired  by 
gin. 

Is  madness  only  amongst  poets  found  ? 

Grows  folly  but  on  literature's  tree  } 
No !  wisdom's  self  is  to  fixed  limits  bound, 

And,  passing  those,  resembles  idiocy. 

He,  who  the  planetary  laws  could  scan. 
Dissected  light,  and  numbers'  mystic  force 

Explored,  to  Bedlam  once  that  wondrous  man 
Rode  on  the  Apocalypse'  mouse-colored  horse. 

Thou,   whose   stem   precept,   against  sophists 

hurled. 

Taught  that  to  truth  doubt  only  leads  the 

mind, 

Thy  law  forgott'st,  —  and,  in  a  vortex  whirled, 

'Thou  wander'st,  as  a  Mesmer,  mad  and  blind. 

But  though  some  spots  bedim  the  star  of  day. 
The  moon,  despite  her  spots,  remains  the 
moon; 

And  though  great  Newton  once  delirious  lay, 
Swedenborg  's  nothing  but  a  crazy  loon. 


144 


SWEDISH  POETRY. 


Fond  dunces '.  ye  who  claim  to  be  inspired, 
In  letters  and  philosophy  unversed, 

Who  deem  the  poet's  ftme  may  be  acquired 
By  faults  with  which  great  poets  have  been 
cursed  ! 

Ye  Swedenborgian,  Roeionician  schools. 
Ye  number-prickers,  ye  physiognomists. 

Ye  dream-expounding,  treasure-seeking  fools, 
Alchymists,  magnetizers,  cabalists ! 

Ye  're  wrong :  —  though  error  to  the  wisest  clings. 
And  judgments,  perfect  here,  may  there  be 
shaken. 

That  genius  therefore  out  of  madness  springs 
When  ye  assert,  ye  're  deucedly  mistaken. 

Vain  reasoning !  —  all  would  easily  succeed. 
Was  Pope  deformed,  were  Milton,  Homer 
blind  ? 

To  be  their  rery  likeness,  what  should  need 
But  just  to  crook  the  back,  the  eyes  to  bind? 

But  leave  we  jest ;  ^  weak  weapon  jest,  in  sooth. 
When  justice  and  religion  bleeding  lie, 

Society  disordered,  and  'gainst  truth 
Error  dares  strike,  upheld  by  treachery. 

Arouse  thee.  Muse  !  snatch  from  the  murderer 
His  dagger,  plunging  it  in  his  Tile  breast ! 

By  nature  thou  reason's  interpreter 

Wast  meant ;  obey —  and  nobly —her  behest ! 

Manhem !  ^  so  named  fiom  olden  Manhood's 
sense 
And  olden  Manhood's  force;   from  error's 
wave 
What  haven  shelters  thee .'    Some  few  years 
hence 
One  spacious  bedlam  shall  the  Baltic  lave. 

Virtue  from  light,  and  vice  fii>m  folly  springs ; 

To  sin  'gainst  wisdom's  precept  is  high  trea- 
son 
Against  the  majesty  of  man,  and  kings ! 

Fanaticism  leads  on  rebellion's 


Pardon,  my  liege,  the  virtuous  honesty 
That  swells  the  poet's  breast  and  utterance 
craves! 

The  enthusiast  for  thy  fame  must  blush  to  see 
Thy  sceptre  raised  to  fiivor  fools  or  slaves. 

But  you  who  to  his  eyes  obecure  the  light. 
What  is 't  you  seek  ?  what  recompense  high 
prized? 

I  see  't !  —  O  fkme !  all,  all  confess  thy  might; 
And  even  fools  would  bo  immortalized. 

Ye  shall  be  so !  your  brows  and  mind  await 
A  thistle  and  a  laurel  crown.     To  thee. 

Posterity,  their  names  I  dedicate. 
Thy  laughing-stock  to  all  eternity ! 

>  Tha  abode  of  man ;  aa  ancloat  pooUcal  namo  of  Swe- 


ANNA  MARIA  LENN6REN. 

This  lady,  whose  maiden  name  was  Malm- 
stedt,  was  bom  at  Upsala,  in  1754.  She  was 
known  as  a  poetess  as  early  as  the  age  of  eigh- 
teen, by  a  piece  called  **  The  Council  of  the 
Tea-table  " ;  and  not  long  after  produced  vari- 
ous tranalations  for  the  stage.  Her  best  poems 
are  her  humorous  sketches  of  characters  and 
scenes  in  common  lifo,  wherein  she  exhibits 
her  lively  fancy  to  great  advantage.  She  died 
at  Stockholm  in  1817. 

FAMILY  POBTRATTSL 

Upoh  an  old  estate,  her  father's  heritage, 
A  shrivelled  countess  dowager 
Had  vegetated  half  an  age ; 

She  drank  her  tea  mingled  with  elder- 
flowers. 
By  aching  bones  foretold  the  weather. 
Scolded  at  times,  but  not  for  long  together. 
And  mostly  yawned  away  her  hours. 
One  day,  (God  knows  how  such  things  should 
occur!) 
Sitting  beside  her  chambermaid 
In  her  saloon,  whose  walls  displayed 
Gilt  leather  hangings,  and  the  pictured  face 
Of  many  a  member  of  her  noble  race. 
She  pondered  thus :  **  I  almost  doubt 
Whether,  if  I  could  condescend 
Some  talk  on  this  dull  wench  to  spend, 
It  might  not  call  my  thoughts  off  from  my 
gout; 
And,  thou|^  the  malkin  cannot  compre- 
hend 
The  charms  of  polished  conversation, 

T  will  give  my  lungs  some  exercise ; 
And  then  the  goosecap's  admiration 

Of  my  descent  to  ecstasy  must  rise."  — 
^  Susan,"  she  said, "  you  sweep  this  drawing- 
room. 
And  sweep  it  almost  every  .day ; 
You  see  these  pictures,  yet  your  looks  betray 
You  're  absolutely  ignorant  whom 
You  clear  from  cobwebs  with  your  broom. 
Now,  mind  !    That 's  my  great  grandsire  to  the 
right. 
The  learned  and  travelled  president. 

Who  knew  the  Greek  and  Latin  names  of 
flies. 
And  to  the  Academy,  in  form  polite. 
Was  pleased  an  earthworm  to  present 
That  he  from  India  brought ;  a  prize 
Well  worth  its  weight  in  gold.  — 
That  next  him,  in  the  corner  hung  by  chance. 
The  ensign  is,  my  dear,  lost,  only  son, 
A  pattern  in  the  graces  of  the  dance. 

My  pride  and  hope,  and  all  the  fkmily's. 
Seven  sorts  of  riding-whips  did  he  invent ; 
But  sitting  by  the  window  caught  a  cold. 
And  so  his  honorable  race  was  run. 

He  soon  shall  have  a  marble  monument.  — 
Now,  my  good  girl,  observe  that  other. 
The  countess  grandam  of  my  lady  mother. 


J 


LENNGREN.  — LEOPOLD. 


145 


A  beauty  in  her  time  lamed  far  and  near ; 
On  Queen  Christina'a  coronation-day, 
She  helped  her  majesty,  they  aay,  -^ 
And  truly,  no  false  tale  you  hear,  -^ 
To  tie  her  under-petticoat  — 
The  lady  whoae  manteau  yon  note 
Was  my  great  aunt.     Beside  her  see 
That  ancient  noble  in  the  long  simar ; 

An  uncle  of  the  family. 
Who  once  played  chess  with  Russia's  mighty 


That  portrait  further  to  the  left 
Is  the  late  colonel,  my  dear  wedded  lord ; 
His  equal  shall  the  earth,  of  him  bereft. 
In  partridge-shooting  noTer  more  afford  !  — > 
But  now  observe  the  lovely  dame 
In  yonder  splendid  oval  frame. 

Whose  swelling  bosom  bears  a  rose ;  — 
Not  that  one,  ninny  ;  -^  look  this  way ;  — 
What  haughtiness  those  eyes  display  ! 
How  nobly  aquiline  that  nose  ! 
King  Frederick  once  was  by  her  beauty  caught ; 
But  she  was  virtue's  self,  fired  as  she  ought, 
And  scolded,  reverently,  the  royal  youth, 
Till,  utterly  confused,  he  cried,  *  My  charmer, 
Your  virtue  's  positively  cased  in  armor ! ' 

Many  can  yet  attest  this  story's  truth. 
Well,  Susan,  do  you  know  the  lady  now  ? 
What !  do  n't  you  recognize  my  lofty  brow  ?  ** 
But,  •*  Lord  have  mercy  on  me  !  "  Susan  cries. 
And  scissors,  needle,  thread,  lets  slip ; 
«*  Could  that  be  ever  like  your  ladyship  ?  " — 
*(  What !    what !  "    the  countess  screams,  with 
flashing  eyes ; 
*^  Could  that  be  like  me  ?  Idiot !  Nincompoop ! 
Out  of  my  doors,  with  all  thy  trumpery  ! 
Intolerable  !     But  so  must  it  be. 
If  with  such  creatures  to  converse  we  stoop." 
A  gouty  twinge  then  seized  the  countess'  toe, 
And  of  her  history  that 's  all  I  know. 


CARL  GUSTAF  AF  LEOPOLD. 

This  distinguished  champion  of  the  French 
school  in  Swedish  poetry  was  bom  in  Stock- 
holm in  1756.  He  was  educated  at  Upsala ; 
became  private  tutor  in  the  family  of  Count 
Douglas ;  afterwards,  private  secretary  of  King 
Gustavus  the  Third ',  and  finally.  Secretary  of 
State.  He  died  in  1829.  For  an  account  of 
his  literary  character  and  influence,  see,  ante, 
p.  131. 


ODE  ON  THE  DESIRE  OF  DEATHLESS  FAME. 

Vainlt,  amidst  the  headlong  course 
Of  centuries,  centuries  on  that  urge. 

Earth's  self^  despite  her  weight  and  force. 
Becomes  the  prey  of  Time's  wild  surge; 

Vainly  Oblivion's  depths  profound 

Bury  of  former  names  the  sound, 
19 


With  manners,  arts,  and  deeds  gone  by : 
Born  amidst  ruins,  we  survey 
Sixty  long  centuries'  decay. 

And  dare  Time's  sovereignty  defy. 
Even  when  by  Fame's  impetuous  car 

Our  glory  round  the  world  is  spread, 
A  breath  from  Eastern  caves  afar 

Comes  poison-fraught, — the  hero 's  dead !— > 
A  worm,  condemned  in  dust  to  crawl, 
Concealed  in  grass  from  thy  foot-fall. 

Thy  soaring  flight  for  ever  stays ;  — 
A  splinter  starts ;  thy  race  is  run  ;  — 
Shines  on  thy  pride  the  rising  sun. 

Thine  ashes  meet  his  setting  rays. 

And  thou,  the  insect  of  an  hour. 

O'er  Time  to  triumph  wouldst  pretend ; 
With  nerves  of  grass  wouldst  brave  the  power 

Beneath  which  pyramids  must  bend  ! 
A  slave,  by  every  thing  controlled. 
Thou  canst  not  for  an  instant  mould 

Thine  actions'  course,  thy  destiny ; 
In  want  of  all,  of  all  the  sport. 
Thou,  against  all  who  need'st  support, 

Boastest  o'er  Death  the  mastery ! 
Recall 'st,  as  they  would  prove  thy  right 

To  honors  but  to  fow  assigned. 
Our  Wasa  sovereign's  annals  bright. 

The  triumphs  of  a  Newton's  mind. 
Whilst  round  the  globe  thy  glances  rove 
On  works  and  deeds  that  amply  prove 

Man's  strength  of  intellect,  they  fall: 
Their  mysteries  Time  and  Space  unfold, 
New  worlds  are  added  to  the  old. 

Beauty  and  light  adorning  all. 

Strange  creature !  go,  fulfil  thy  fate. 

Govern  the  earth,  subdue  the  waves. 
Measure  the  stars'  paths,  regulate 

Time*s  clock,  seek  gold  in  Chile's  graves. 
Raise  towns  that  lava-buried  sleep. 
Harvest  the  rocks,  build  on  the  deep. 

Force  Nature,  journey  in  the  sky. 
Surpass  in  height  each  monument. 
On  mountains  mountains  pile,  —  content. 

Beneath  their  mass  then  putrefy  ! 

Tes,  fruits  there  are  that  we  enjoy. 

Produce  of  by-gone  centuries'  toil ; 
The  gifts  -remain,  though  Time  destroy 

The  givers,  long  sgo  Death's  spoil : 
And  whilst  deluded  crowds  believe 
Their  guerdon  they  shall  straight  receive 

In  Admiration's  empty  ciies. 
Their  whitening  and  forgotten  bones 
Repose,  unconscious  as  the  stones 

Where  burns  the  atoning  sacrifice. 


The  poet's,  hero's  golden  dream, 
Olympus'  heaven,  Memory's  days. 

Valor  enthroned  in  Earth's  esteem. 
And  Genius'  never-fading  bays  ! 

Proud  names,  the  solace  of  our  woes, 

That  often  Vanity  bestows 
M 


146 


SWEDISH  POETRY. 


On  empty  shadows,  nothing  worth  ;  — 
O,  have  ye  giren  in  Memory's  shrine 
To  Virtue  honors  more  divine 

Than  Vice  and  Folly  gain  on  earth  ? 

But  grant  we  that  for  victory's  prize 

The  hero  brave  fierce  war's  alarms ; 
His  deeds  are  noble,  if  unwise, 

His  valor  overawes  and  charms ; 
And  pardon  him,  created  strong 
For  energy  in  right  or  wrong ;  ^ — 

Who  darkling  with  the  crowd  remains, 
A  son  of  Ruin's  night  is  he, 
Immersed  in  dreams  of  memory. 

That  sound  philosophy  disdains. 

Go,  shake  the  Neva's  banks  with  dread  ; 

With  liberal  arts  our  Northland  grace  ; 
With  Genius'  torch,  or  War's,  blood-red. 

Enlighten  or  destroy  thy  race  ; 
A  deathless  name  by  arms  be  won 
For  Ingo  or  for  Marathon  ; 

Establish  thrones,  or  overturn  ; 
Our  Europe's  tottering  liberty 
Down  trample,  or  exalt  on  high  ;. — 

Then  crown  thyself  and  danger  spurn. 

But  when  a  soul  of  vulgarer  mood. 

For  shadows,  fancies,  such  as  these, 
Abandons  life's  substantial  good. 

Life's  humbler  duties  that  displease ; 
But  when,  seduced  by  dreams  of  praise 
From  unborn  worlds,  idiots  would  raise 

A  monument  of  baseless  fame. 
Who,  with  false  arrogance  elate. 
May  guilty  prove,  but  never  great,  — 

I  blush  in  human  nature's  name. 

Still  may  this  thirst  for  men's  esteem 

Spur  Merit  forward  on  his  course ! 
Deprive  not  Earth  of  that  fair  dream, 

Her  culture's  and  her  honor's  source. 
Woe  worth  the  day,  when  Reason's  hand, 
Unloosing  Prejudice's  last  band. 

From  the  world's  eye  the  veil  shall  tear, 
Shall  with  her  blazing  torch  reveal 
The  nothing  that  rewards  our  zeal. 

The  errors  that  our  steps  ensnare  ! 

Toung  son  of  Art,  thy  bosom's  flame 

With  hopes  of  centuries*  wonder  cheer ! 
Shrink,  Monarch,  from  the  voice  of  blame. 

Whose  sound  shall  never  reach  thine  ear ! 
And  Virtue,  thou,  in  life  betrayed. 
Forgotten,  proudly  through  death's  shade 

Thy  memory  see  with  honors  graced  ! 
A  god,  befriending  our  weak  kind. 
Illusion,  as  our  balm  assigned. 

By  the  entrance  to  life's  desert  placed. 

To  Genius,  in  his  kindling  mood, 
Statues  are  promised  by  her  breath  ; 

She  purchases  the  warrior's  blood 
With  garlands  in  the  hand  of  Death ; 


She  animates  the  poet's  song 
With  all  the  raptures  that  belong 

To  immortality  divine ; 
The  student,  o'er  his  night-lamp  bent. 
Sees  through  her  glass,  though  poor,  content. 

His  light  o'er  distant  ages  shine. 

Break  but  her  witchery's  golden  wand  ;  — 

No  longer  Grenius  flashes  bright; 
Rome  shrinks  from  the  Barbarian's  brand ; 

Athens  and  Science  fade  from  sight ; 
Europe's  old  dread,  our  Northern  ground. 
No  more  with  heroes  shall  abound. 

When  threaten  danger,  blood,  and  broil ; 
And,  paid  by  thanklessness,  no  more 
Shall  birth-crowned  monarchs,  as  of  yore. 

Exchange  their  joys  for  duty's  toil. 


ESAIAS  TEGN^R, 

EsAiAS  Tson£r,  Bishop  of  Wexio,  and  Knight 
of  the  Order  of  the  North  Star,  was  born  in  the 
parish  of  By  in  Warm  land,  in  the  year  1782. 
In  1799,  he  entered  the  University  of  Lund,  as  a 
student;  and  in  1812,  was  appointed  Professor  of 
Greek  in  that  institution.  In  1824,  he  became 
Bishop  of  Wexio,  which  office  he  still  holds. 
He  stands  first  among  the  living  poets  of  Swe- 
den ;  a  man  of  a  grand  and  gorgeous  imagina- 
tion, and  poetic  genius  of  a  high  order.  His 
countrymen  are  proud  of  him,  and  rejoice  in 
his  fame.  If  you  speak  of  their  literature,  Teg- 
n^r  will  be  the  first  name  upon  their  lips.  They 
will  speak  to  you  with  enthusiasm  of  "  Frith- 
ioft  Saga";  and  of  "Axel,"  and  "Svea," 
and  "  Nattvardsbamen  "  (The  Children  of  the 
Lord's  Supper).  The  modem  Skald  has  writ- 
ten  his  name  in  immortal  runes;  not  on  the 
bark  of  trees  alone,  in  the  "  unspeakable  rural 
solitudes  "  of  pastoral  song,  but  on  the  moun- 
tains of  his  native  land,  and  the  clifi*s  that  over- 
hang the  sea,  and  on  the  tombs  of  ancient  he- 
roes, whose  histories  are  epic  poems.  Indeed, 
the  "  Legend  of  Frithiof "  is  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  productions  of  the  age.  It  is  an 
epic  poem,  composed  of  a  series  of  ballads,  each 
describing  some  event  in  the  hero's  life,  and  each 
written  in  a  different  measure,  according  with 
the  action  described  in  the  ballad.  This  is  a 
novel  idea ;  and  perhaps  thereby  the  poem  loses 
something  in  sober,  epic  dignity.  But  the  loss 
is  more  than  made  up  by  the  greater  spirit  of 
the  narrative ;  and  it  seems  to  us  a  very  lauda- 
ble innovation,  thus  to  describe  various  scenes 
in  various  metre,  and  not  employ  the  same  for 
a  game  of  chess  and  a  storm  at  sea. 

The  first  ballad  describes  the  childhood  and 
youth  of  Frithiof  and  Ingeborg  the  fair,  as  they 
grew  up  together  under  the  humble  roof  of 
Hilding,  their  foster-father.  They  are  two 
plants  in  the  old  man's  garden ;  —  a  young  oak, 
whose  stem  is  like  a  lance,  and  whoee  leafy  top 
is  rounded  like  a  helm ;  and  a  rose,  in  whose 


TEGNER. 


147 


folded  buds  Spring  itill  sleep*  and  dreams. 
Bat  the  storm  comes,  and  the  young  oak  must 
wrestle  with  it;  the  sun  of  Spring  shines  warm 
in  heayen,  and  the  red  lips  of  Uie  rose  open. 
The  sports  of  their  childhood  are  described. 
The  J  sail  together  on  the  deep  blue  sea ;  and 
when  he  shiAs  the  sail,  she  cl^ie  her  small 
white  hands  in  glee.  For  her  he  plunders  the 
highest  birds'-nests,  and  the  eagle's  e]rry ;  and 
bears  her  through  the  rushing  mountain -brook, 
—  it  is  so  sweet  when  the  torrent  roars,  to  be 
pressed  by  small,  white  arms. 

But  childhood  and  the  sports  thereof  soon 
pass  away,  and  Frithiof  becomes  a  mighty  hunt- 
er. He  fights  the  grisly  bear  without  spear  or 
sword,  and  lays  the  conquered  monarch  of  the 
forest  at  the  feet  of  Ingeborg.*  And  when,  by 
the  light  of  the  winter  eyening  hearth,  he 
reads  the  glorious  songs  of  Valhalla,  no  goddess 
whose  beauty  is  there  celebrated  can  compare 
with  Ingeborg.  Freya's  golden  hair  may  waye 
like  a  wheat-field  in  the  wind,  but  Ingeborg*s 
is  a  net  of  gold  around  roses  and  lilies.  Iduna*s 
bosom  throbs  full  and  iair  beneath  her  silken 
yest,  but  beneath  the  silken  yest  of  Ingeborg 
two  Elyes  of  Light  leap  up  with  rose-buds  in 
their  hands.!  And  she  embroiders  in  gold  and 
silyer  the  wondrous  deeds  of  heroes ;  and  the 
face  of  eyery  champion,  that  looks  up  at  her 
Irom  the  woof  she  is  weaying,  is  the  face  of 
Frithiof;  and  she  blushes  and  is  glad ;  —  that 
is  to  say,  they  loye  each  other  a  little.  Ancient 
Hilding  does  not  fayor  their  psssion,  but  telk 
his  foster-son  that  the  maiden  is  the  daughter 
of  King  Bei^,  and  he  but  the  son  of  Thorsten 
Vikingsson,  a  thane ;  he  should  not  aspire  to 
the  loye  of  one  who  has  descended  in  a  long 
line  of  ancestors  from  the  star-clear  hall  of  Odin 
himself.  Frithiof  smiles  in  scorn,  and  replies, 
that  he  has  slain  the  shaggy  king  of  the  forest, 
and  inherits  his  ancestors  with  his  hide ;  and 
moreoyer,  that  he  will  possess  his  bride,  his 
**  white  lily,"  in  spite  of  the  yery  god  of  thun- 
der ;  for  a  puissant  wooer  is  the  sword. 

Thus  closes  the  first  fit  In  the  second,  old 
King  Bel^  stands  leaning  on  his  sword  in  his 
hall,  and  with  him  is  his  fkithful  brother-in-arms, 
Thorsten  Vikingsson,  the  father  of  Frithiof, 
silyer-haired,  and  scarred  like  a  runic  stone. 
The  king  complains  thst  the  eyening  of  his 
days  is  drawing  nesr,  that  the  mead  is  no  long- 
er pleasant  to  his  taste,  and  that  his  helmet 
weighs  heayily  upon  his  brow.  He  feels  the 
approach  of  death.  Therefore  he  summons  to  his 
presence  his  two  sons,  Helg^  and  Halfdan,  and 
with  them  Frithiof,  that  he  may  giye  a  warning 
to  the  young  eagles,  before  the  words  slumber 


*  A  lithographic  sketch  repnwenta  Frithiof  bringing  in  a 
baar  by  tfa«  eara,  and  preaenting  it  to  Ingeborg;  a  delicate 
little  attention  on  the  part  of  the  Scandinavian  lorer. 

t  In  the  Nofthem  myihologj  two  kinds  of  elvea  are 
mentioned ;  the  Ljus  Alfer,  or  ElTes  of  Ligbt,  who  were 
whiter  than  the  eun,  and  dwelt  in  Alfheim ;  and  the  S^mrt 
Alfer,  or  Elves  of  Darkness,  who  were  blacker  than  pitch, 
and  bad  their  dwelling  under  the 


on  the  dead  man*s  tongue.  Foremost  adyances 
Helg^,  a  grim  and  gloomy  figure,  who  loyes  to 
dwell  among  the  priesti  and  before  the  altars, 
and  now  comes,  with  blood  upon  his  hands, 
from  the  groyes  of  sacrifice.  And  next  to  htm 
approaches  Halfdan,  a  boy  with  locks  of  light, 
and  so  gentle  in  his  mien  and  bearing,  that  he 
seems  a  maiden  in  disguise.  And  after  these, 
wrapped  in  his  mantle  blue,  and  a  head  taller 
than  either,  comes  Frithiof,  and  stands  between 
the  brothers,  like  mid-day  between  the  rosy 
morning  and  the  shadowy  night.  Then  speaks 
the  king,  and  tells  the  young  esgleti  thst  his 
sun  b  going  down,  and  that  they  must  rule  his 
realm  after  him  in  hsrmony  and  brotherly  loye ; 
that  the  sword  was  giyen  for  defence,  and  not 
for  offence ;  that  the  shield  was  forged  as  a  pad- 
lock for  the  peasant's  bam ;  and  that  they 
should  not  glory  in  their  &thers*  honors,  as  each 
could  bear  his  own  only.  ^*  If  we  cannot  bend 
the  bow,"  says  he,  '*  it  is  not  ours.  What  haye 
we  to  do  with  worth  that  is  buried .'  The 
mighty  stream  goes  into  the  sea  with  iti  own 
wayes.'*  These,  and  many  other  wise  saws. 
Ml  from  the  old  man's  dying  lips;  and  then 
Thorsten  Vikingsson,  who  means  to  die  with 
his  king,  as  he  has  liyed  with  him,  arises  and 
addresses  his  son  Frithiof  He  tells  him  that 
old  age  has  whispered  many  warnings  in  his 
ear,  which  ho  will  repeat  to  him ;  for  as  the 
birds  of  Odin  descend  upon  the  sepulchres  of 
the  North,  so  words  of  manifold  wisdom  de- 
scend  upon  the  lips  of  the  eld.  Then  follows 
much  sage  advice ;  —  that  he  should  serye  his 
king,  for  one  alone  shall  reign ;  the  Hark  Night 
has  many  eyes,  but  the  Day  has  only  one ;  that 
he  should  not  praise  the  day,  until  the  sun  had 
set,  nor  his  beer  until  he  had  drunk  it ;  that  he 
should  not  trust  to  ice  but  one  night  old,  nor 
snow  in  spring,  nor  a  sleeping  snake,  nor  the 
words  of  a  maiden  on  his  knee.  Then  the  old 
men  speak  together  of  their  long  tried  friend- 
ship ;  and  the  king  praises  the  yalor  and  heroic 
strength  of  Frithiof,  and  Thorsten  has  much  to 
say  of  the  glory  which  crowns  the  kings  of  the 
Northland,  the  sons  of  the  gods.  Then  the 
king  speaks  to  his  sons  again,  and  bids  them 
greet  his  daughter,  the  rose-bud.  "In  retire- 
ment," says  he,  **  as  it  behoved  her,  has  she 
grown  up ;  protect  her ;  let  not  the  storm  come, 
and  fix  upon  his  helmet  my  delicate  flower." 
And  he  bids  them  bury  him  and  his  ancient 
friend  by  the  sea-side;  —  "by  the  billow  blue, 
for  its  song  is  pleasant  to  the  spirit  evermore, 
and  like  a  funeral  dirge  ring  its  blows  against 
the  strand." 

And  now  King  Be\6  and  Thorsten  Vikingsson 
are  gathered  to  their  fathers,  Helg^  and  Half- 
dan  share  the  throne  between  them,  and  Frithiof 
retires  to  his  ancestral  estate  at  Framnfts;  of 
which  a  description  is  given  in  the  third  ballad, 
conceived  and  executed  in  a  truly  Homeric  spirit. 

Among  the  treasures  of  Frithiof 's  house  are 
three  of  transcendent  worth.  The  first  of  these 
is  the  sword  Angurvadel,  brother  of  the  light- 


148 


SWEDISH  POETRY. 


DiDg,  handed  down  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion, since  the  days  of  Bjorn  Blfttand,  the  Blue- 
toothed  Bear.  The  hilt  thereof  was  of  beaten 
gold,  and  on  the  blade  were  wondrous  runes, 
known  only  at  the  gates  of  the  sun.  In  peace 
these  runes  were  dull,  but  in  time  of  war  they 
burned  red  as  the  comb  of  a  cock  when  he 
fights;  and  lost  was  he  who  in  the  night  of 
slaughter  met  the  sword  of  the  flaming  runes. 

The  second  in  price  is  an  arm-ring  of  pure 
gold,  made  by  Vaulund,  the  limping  Vulcan  of 
the  North ;  and  containing  upon  its  border  the 
signs  of  the  zodiac,  —  the  Houses  of  the  Twelve 
Immortals.  This  ring  had  been  handed  down 
in  the  family  of  Frithiof  from  the  days  when 
it  came  fit»m  the  hands  of  Vaulund,  the  founder 
of  the  race.  It  was  once  stolen  and  carried  to 
England  by  Viking  Sot^,  who  there  buried 
himself  alive  in  a  vast  tomb,  and  with  him  his 
pirate-ship  and  all  his  treasures.  King  Bel^  and 
Thorsten  pursue  him,  and  through  a  crevice  of 
the  door  look  into  the  tomb,  where  they  behold 
the  ship,  with  anchor,  and  masts,  and  spars ; 
and  on  the  deck,  a  fearful  figure,  clad  in  a  man- 
tle of  flame,  sits  gloomily  scouring  a  blood- 
stained sword ;  though  the  stains  cannot  be 
scoured  oflT.  The  ring  is  upon  his  arm.  Thors- 
ten bursts  the  doors  of  the  great  tomb  asunder 
with  his  lance,  and,  entering,  does  battle  with 
the  grim  spirit,  and  bears  home  the  ring  as  a 
trophy  of  his  victory.* 

The  third  great  treasure  of  the  house  of  Frith- 
iof is  the  dragon-ship  EUida.  It  was  given  to 
one  of  Frithiof 's  ancestors  by  a  sea-god,  whom 
this  ancestor  saved  from  drowning,  somewhat 
as  Saint  Christopher  did  the  angel.  The  an- 
cient mariner  was  homeward  bound,  when,  at 
a  distance,  on  the  wreck  of  a  ship,  he  espied  an 
old  man,  with  sea-green  locks,  a  beard  white  as 
the  foam  of  waves,  and  a  face  which  smiled  like 
the  sea  when  it  plays  in  the  sunshine.  The  Vi- 
king takes  this  old  man  of  the  sea  home  with  him, 
and  entertains  him  in  hospitable  guise ;  but  at 
bed-time  the  green- haired  guest,  instead  of  going 
quietly  to  his  rest,  like  a  Christian  man,  sets  sail 
again  on  his  wreck,  like  a  hobgoblin,  having, 
as  be  says,  a  hundred  miles  to  go  that  night,  at 
the  same  time  telling  the  Viking  to  look  the 
next  morning  on  the  sea-shore  fbr  a  gift  of 
thanks.  And  the  next  morning,  behold !  the 
dragon-ship  Ellida  comes  sailing  up  the  har- 
bour, like  a  phantom  ship,  with  all  her  sails 
set,  and  not  a  man  on  board.  Her  prow  is  a 
dragon's  head,  with  jaws  of  gold ,  her  stern,  a 
dragon's  tail,  twisted  and  scaly  with  silver ; 
her  wings  black,  tipped  with  red ;  and  when 
she  spreads  them  all,  she  flies  a  race  with  the 
sousing  storm,  and  the  eagle  is  left  behind. 

These  were  Frithiof's  treasures,  renowned 
in  the  North;  and  thus  in  his  hall,  with  Bjorn  his 
bosom  friend,  he  sat,  surrounded  by  his  cham- 

*  Not  anlika  the  old  tradition  of  the  Brazen  Ring  of 
Ojrgea;  which  wu  found  on  a  dead  man'i  finger  in  the 
flank  of  a  brazen  hone,  deep  barled  In  a  chasm  of  the  earth. 
—  Plato.    Rep.  11.13. 


pions  twelve,  with  breasts  of  steel  and  furrowed 
brows,  the  comrades  of  his  father,  and  all  the 
guests  that  had  gathered  together  to  pay  the 
funeral  rites  to  Thorsten  Vikingsson.  And 
Frithiof,  with  eyes  full  of  tears,  drank  to  his 
father's  memory,  and  heard  the  song  of  the 
Skalds,  a  dirge  of  thunder. 

** Frithiof's  Courtship"  is  the  title  of  the 
fourth  canto. 

"High  sounded  the  aong  In  Frithiof's  hall, 
And  the  Skalds  they  praised  his  fathen  all ; 
But  the  song  rajolces 
Not  Frithiof,  he  hears  not  the  Skalds'  k>ud  voices. 

"And  the  earth  has  clad  Itself  green  again, 
And  the  dragons  swim  once  more  on  the  main  ; 
But  the  hero's  son 
He  wanden  in  woods,  and  looks  at  the  moon." 

He  had  lately  made  a  banquet  fbr  Helg^  and 
Halfdan,  and  sat  beside  Ingeborg  the  fair,  and 
spoke  with  her  of  those  early  days  when  the 
dew  of  morning  still  lay  upon  life ;  of  the 
reminiscences  of  childhood ;  their  names  carved 
in  the  birch-tree's  bark ;  the  well  known  vale 
and  woodland ;  and  the  hill  where  the  great 
oaks  grew  from  the  dust  of  heroes.  And  now 
the  banquet  closes,  and  Frithiof  remains  at  his 
homestead  to  pass  his  days  in  idleness  and 
dreams.  But  this  strange  mood  pleases  not  bis 
friend,  the  Bear. 

"It  pleased  not  Bj6rn  these  things  to  see; 
'  VThat  ails  the  joung  eagle  now,'  said  he, 
'So  still,  so  oppressed? 

Have  thej  plucked  his  wings?— have  thej  pierced  his 
breast? 

" '  Wbat  wilt  tlura  ?    Have  we  not  more  than  we  need 
Of  the  yellow  lard  and  the  nu^brown  mead  ? 
And  of  Skalds  a  throng  ? 
There  's  never  an  end  to  their  ballads  long. 

"  'True  enough,  that  the  coursera  stamp  in  their  stall, 
For  prey,  for  prey,  scream  the  falcons  all ; 
But  Frithiof  only 
Hunts  in  the  clouds,  and  weeps  so  lonely.' 


"Then  Frithiof  set  the  dragon  finee, 
And  the  sails  swelled  full,  and  snorted  the  sea ; 
Right  over  the  bay 
To  the  sons  of  the  king  he  steered  hia  way." 

He  finds  them  at  the  grave  of  their  father. 
King  Bel6,  giving  audience  to  the  people,  and 
promulgating  laws,  and  he  boldly  asks  the  hand 
of  their  sister  Ingeborg ;  this  alliance  being  in 
accordance  with  the  wishes  of  King  BeU.  To 
this  proposition  Helg^  answers,  in  scorn,  that 
his  sister's  hand  is  not  for  the  son  of  a  thane  ; 
that  he  needs  not  the  sword  of  Frithiof  to  pro- 
tect his  throne ;  but,  if  he  will  be  his  serf^  there 
is  a  place  vacant  among  the  house-folk,  which 
he  can  fill.  Indignant  at  this  reply,  Frithiof 
draws  his  sword  of  the  flaming  runes,  and  at 
one  blow  t:1eaves  in  twain  the  golden  shield  of 
Helg^,  as  it  hangs  on  a  tree ;  and,  turning  away, 
in  disdain,  departs  over  the  blue  sea  home- 
ward. 


TEGNER. 


149 


In  the  next  canto  the  scene  changes.  Old 
King  Ring  pushes  back  his  golden  chair  irom 
the  table,  and  arises  to  speak  to  his  heroes  and 
Skalds,  —  old  King  Ring,  a  monarch  renowned 
in  the  North,  beloved  by  all,  as  a  father  to  the 
land  he  governs,  and  whose  name  each  night 
goes  up  to  Odin  with  the  prayers  of  his  people. 
He  announces  to  them  his  intention  of  taking 
to  himself  a  new  queen,  as  a  mother  to  his 
iniant  son,  and  tells  them  he  has  fixed  his 
choice  upon  Ingeborg,  *^  the  lily  small,  with  the 
blush  of  morn  on  her  cheeks."  Messengers 
are  forthwith  sent  to  Helg2  and  Halfiian,  bear- 
ing golden  gifts,  and  attended  by  a  long  train 
of  Skalds,  who  sing  heroic  ballads  to  the  sound 
of  their  harps.  Three  days  and  three  nights 
they  revel  at  the  court;  and  on  the  fourth 
morning  receive  from  Helg^  a  solemn  reffasal, 
and  Scorn  Halfdan  a  taunt,  that  King  Graybeard 
should  ride  forth  in  person  to  seek  his  bride. 
Old  King  Ring  is  wroth  at  the  reply,  and 
straightway  prepares  to  avenge  his  wounded 
pride  with  his  sword.  He  smites  his  shield  as 
it  hangs  on  the  bough  of  the  high  linden-tree, 
and  the  dragons  swim  forth  on  the  waves,  with 
blood-red  combs,  and  the  helms  nod  in  the 
wind.  The  sound  of  the  approaching  war 
reaches  the  ears  of  the  royal  brothers,  and  they 
place  their  sister  for  protection  in  the  temple  of 
Balder.* 

In  the  next  canto,  which  is  the  sixth,  Frithiof 
and  Bjom  are  playing  chess  together,  when  old 
Hilding  comes  in,  bringing  the  prayer  of  Helg^ 
and  Halfdan,  that  Frithiof  would  aid  them  in 
the  war  against  King  Ring.  Frithiof,  instead 
of  answering  the  old  man,  continues  his  game, 
making  allusions,  as  it  goes  on,  to  the  king's 
being  saved  by  a  peasant  or  pawn,  and  the 
necessity  of  rescuing  the  queen  at  all  hazards. 
Finally,  he  bids  the  ancient  Hilding  return  to 
Bel^*s  sons,  and  tell  them,  that  they  have 
wounded  his  honor,  that  no  ties  unite  them 
together,  and  that  he  vrill  never  be  their  bonds- 
man. So  cloees  this  short  and  very  spirited 
ballad. 

The  seventh  canto  describes  the  meeting  of 
Frithiof  and  Ingeborg  in  Balder*s  temple,  when 
silently  the  high  stars  stole  forth,  like  a  lover 
to  his  maid  on  tip-toe.  Here  all  passionate 
vows  are  retold ;  he  swears  to  protect  her  with 
his  sword,  while  here  on  earth,  and  to  sit  by  her 
side  hereafter  in  Valhalla,  when  the  champions 
ride  forth  to  battle  from  the  silver  gates,  and 
maidens  bear  round  the  mead-hdm,  mantled 
vrith  golden  foam.  The  parting  of  the  lovers 
at  day-break  resembles  the  parting  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet  in  Shakspeare.  **Hark!  't  is  the 
lark,"  says  Ingeborg : 

"  Hark !  't  Is  the  lark !    O,  no,  a  doTs 
Murmared  his  tme-loTe  in  the  grove." 
And  again,  farther  on : 

"  Ste,  the  day  dawns  f    No,  *t  b  the  flame 
Of  some  hrighl  watch-fire  in  the  east." 

*  Balder,  the  eon  of  Odin;  —  the  ApoHo  of  the  Northern 
mTthotogj. 


The  eighth  canto  commences  in  this  wise. 
Ingeborg  sits  in  Balder*s  temple,  and  waits  the 
coming  of  Frithiof,  till  the  stan  &de  away  in 
the  morning  sky.  At  length  he  arrives,  wild 
and  haggai^.  He  comes  from  the  Ting,  or 
council,  where  he  has  offered  his  hand  in  re- 
conciliation to  King  Helg^,  and  again  asked  of 
him  his  sister  in  marriage,  before  the  assembly 
of  the  warriors.  A  thousand  swords  hammered 
applause  upon  a  thousand  shields ;  and  the  an- 
cient Hilding  with  his  silver  beard  stepped 
forth  and  «  held  a  talk  "  {hoU  el  to/),  full  of 
wisdom,  in  short,  pithy  language,  that  sounded 
like  the  blows  of  a  sword.  But  all  in  vain. 
King  Helg^  says  him  nay,  and  brings  against 
him  an  accusation  of  having  profaned  the  tem- 
ple of  Balder,  by  daring  to  visit  Ingeborg  there. 
Death  or  banishment  is  the  penalty  of  the  law ; 
but,  instead  of  being  sentenced  to  the  usual  pun- 
ishment, Frithiof  is  ordered  to  sail  to  the  Ork- 
ney Islands,  in  order  to  force  from  Jarl  Angantyr 
the  payment  of  an  annual  tribute,  which  since 
Belt's  death  he  had  neglected  to  pay.  All  this 
does  Frithiof  relate  to  Ingeborg,  and  urges  her 
to  escape  with  him  to  the  lands  of  the  South, 
where  the  sky  is  dearer,  and  the  mild  stars 
shall  look  down  vrith  friendly  glance  upon 
them,  through  the  warm  summer  nights.  By 
the  light  of  the  winter  evening's  fire,  old  Thors- 
ten  VikingsBon  had  told  them  tales  of  the  Isles 
of  Greece,  with  their  green  groves  an^  shining 
billows ;  —  where,  amid  the  ruins  of  marble 
temples,  flowers  grow  from  the  runes,  that  utter 
forth  the  wisdom  of  the  past,  and  golden  apples 
glow  amid  the  leaves,  and  red  grapes  hang  fi-om 
every  twig.  All  is  prepared  for  their  flight; 
already  EUida  spreads  her  shadowy  eagle- 
wings  ;  but  Ingeborg  refoses  to  escape.  King 
Belt's  daughter  will  not  deign  to  steal  her  hap- 
piness. In  a  most  beautiful  and  passionate 
appeal,  she  soothes  her  lover's  wounded  pride, 
and  at  length  he  resolves  to  undertake  the  ex- 
pedition to  Jarl  Angantyr.  He  gives  her  the 
golden  arm-ring  of  Vaulund,  and  they  part, 
she  with  mournfol  forebodings,  and  he  vrith 
ardent  hope  of  ultimate  success.  This  canto 
of  the  poem  is  a  dramatic  sketch,  in  blank 
verse.  It  is  highly  wrought  up,  and  full  of 
poetic  beauties. 

^  Ingeborg's  Lament  "  is  the  subject  of  the 
ninth  ballad.  She  sits  by  the  sea-side,  and 
watches  the  westward-moving  sail,  and  speaks 
to  the  billows  blue,  and  the  stars,  and  to  Fri- 
thiof's  falcon,  that  sits  upon  her  shoulder,  — 
the  gallant  bird  whose  image  she  has  worked 
into  her  embroidery,  with  wings  of  silver  and 
golden  claws.  She  tells  him  to  greet  again 
and  again  her  Frithiof,  when  he  returns  and 
weeps  by  her  grave.  'The  whole  ballad  is  full 
of  grace  and  beauty. 

And  now  follows  the  ballad  of  *<  Frithiof  at 
Sea  *' ;  one  of  the  most  spirited  and  character- 
istic cantos  of  the  poem.  The  versification, 
likewise,  is  managed  with  great  skill;  each 
strophe  consisting  of  three  several  parts,  and 
m2 


150 


SWEDISH  POETRY. 


each  in  its  respective  metre.  King  Helg6  stands 
by  the  sea-shore,  and  prays  to  the  fiends  for  a 
tempest ;  and  soon  Frithiof  hears  the  wings  of 
the  storm,  flapping  in  the  distance,  and,  as 
wind-cold  Ham  and  snowy  Heid  beat  against 
the  flanks  of  his  ship,  he  sings  : 

"Fairer  was  the  jouroej, 
In  the  moonbeama'  ahimmer, 
0*ef  the  mirrored  waters, 
Unto  Baldor'a  grove. 
Warmer  than  It  here  U, 
Close  by  Ingeborg's  bosom ;  — 
Whiter  than  the  sea-foam, 
Swelled  the  maiden's  breast." 

But  the  tempest  waxes  sore  :  —  it  screams  in 
the  shrouds,  and  cracks  in  the  keel,  and  the 
dragon-ship  leaps  from  wave  to  wave  like  a 
goat  from  cliff  to  cliff.  Frithiof  fears  that 
witchcraft  is  at  work ;  and  calling  Bjom,  he 
bids  him  gripe  the  tiller  with  his  bear-paw, 
while  he  climbs  the  mast  to  look  out  upon  the 
sea.  From  aloft,  he  sees  the  two  fiends,  riding 
on  a  whale;  Heid  with  snowy  skin,  and  in 
shape  like  a  white  bear, — Ham  with  outspread, 
sounding  wings,  like  the  eagle  of  the  storm. 
A  battle  with  these  sea-monsters  ensues.  Ellida 
heard  the  hero's  voice,  and  with  her  copper 
keel  smote  the  whale,  so  that  he  died ;  and  the 
whale-riders  learned  how  bitter  it  was  to  bite 
blue  steel,  being  transfixed  with  Northern 
spears,  hurled  from  a  hero's  hand.  And  thus 
the  storm  was  stilled,  and  Frithiof  reached,  at 
length,  the  shores  of  Angantyr. 

In  the  eleventh  canto,  Jarl  Angantyr  sits  in 
his  ancestral  hall,  carousing  with  his  friends. 
In  merry  mood,  he  looks  forth  upon  the  sea, 
where  the  sun  is  sinking  into  the  waves  like  a 
golden  swan.  At  the  window  the  ancient 
Halvar  stands  sentinel,  watchful  alike  of  things 
within  doors  and  without ;  for  ever  and  anon 
he  drains  the  mead-horn  to  the  bottom,  and, 
uttering  never  a  word,  thrusts  the  empty  horn 
in  at  the  window,  to  be  filled  up  anew.  At 
length  he  announces  the  arrival  of  a  tempest- 
tost  ship ;  and  Jarl  Angantyr  looks  forth,  and 
recognizes  the  dragon-ship  Ellida,  and  Frithiof, 
the  son  of  his  friend.  No  sooner  had  he  made 
this  known  to  his  followers,  than  the  Viking 
Atl^  springs  up  from  his  seat  and  screams 
aloud  :  ^*  Now  will  I  test  the  truth  of  the  tale, 
that  Frithiof  can  blunt  the  edge  of  hostile 
sword,  and  never  begs  for  quarter."  Accord- 
ingly he  and  twelve  other  champions  seize 
their  arms,  and  rush  down  to  the  sea-shore  to 
welcome  the  stranger  with  warlike  sword-play. 
A  single  combat  ensues  between  Frithiof  and 
Atl6.  Both  shields  are  clefl  in  twain  at  once  ; 
Angurvadel  bites  full  sharp,  and  Atle's  sword 
is  broken.  Frithiof,  disdaining  an  unequal  con- 
test, throws  his  own  away,  and  the  combatants 
wrestle  together  unarmed.  Atl^  falls ;  and  Fri- 
thiof, as  he  plants  his  knee  upon  his  breast, 
tells  him,  that,  if  he  had  his  sword,  he  should 
feel  its  sharp  edge  and  die.  The  haughty  Atl^ 
bids  him  go  and  recover  his  sword,  promising 


to  lie  still  and  await  his  death,  which  promise 
he  fulfils.  Frithiof  seizes  Angurvadel,  and 
when  he  returns  to  smite  the  prostrate  Viking, 
he  is  so  moved  by  his  courage  and  magnanim- 
ity, that  he  stays  the  blow,  seizes  the  hand  of 
the  fidlen,  and  they  return  together  as  friends 
to  the  banquet-hall  of  Angantyr.  This  hall  is 
adorned  with  more  than  wonted  splendor.  Its 
walls  are  not  wainscoted  with  rough-hewn 
planks,  but  covered  with  gold-leather,  stamped 
with  flowers  and  fruits.  No  hearth  glows  in  the 
centre  of  the  floor,  but  a  marble  fireplace  leans 
against  the  wall.  There  is  glass  in  the  win- 
dows, there  are  locks  on  the  doors ;  and  instead 
of  torches,  silver  chandeliers  stretch  forth  their 
arms  with  lights  over  the  banquet-table,  where- 
on is  a  hart  roasted  whole,  with  larded  haunch- 
es, and  gilded  hooft  lifted  as  if  to  leap,  and 
green  leaves  on  its  branching  antlers.  Behind 
each  warrior's  seat  stands  a  maiden,  like  a  star 
behind  a  stormy  cloud.  And  high  on  his  royal 
chair  of  silver,  with  helmet  shining  like  the 
sun,  and  breastplate  inwrought  with  gold,  and 
mantle  star-spangled,  and  trimmed  with  purple 
and  ermine,  sits  the  Viking  Angantyr,  Jarl  of 
the  Orkney  Isles.  With  friendly  salutations 
he  welcomes  the  son  of  Thorsten,  and  in  a 
goblet  of  Sicilian  wine,  foaming  like  the  sea, 
drinks  to  the  memory  of  the  departed ;  while 
Skalds,  from  the  hills  of  Morven,  sing  heroic 
songs.  Frithiof  relates  to  him  his  adventures 
at  sea,  and  makes  known  the  object  of  his  mis- 
sion ;  whereupon  Angantyr  declares  that  he  was 
never  tributary  to  King  Bel^ ;  that,  although 
he  pledged  him  in  the  wine-cup,  he  was  not 
subject  to  his  laws ;  that  his  sons  he  knew  not ; 
but  that  if  they  wished  to  levy  tribute,  they 
must  do  it  with  the  sword,  like  men.  And 
then  he  bids  his  daughter  bring  from  her  cham- 
ber a  richly  embroidered  purse,  which  he  fills 
with  golden  coins,  of  foreign  mint,  and  gives  it 
to  Frithiof,  as  a  pledge  of  welcome  and  hos- 
pitality. And  Frithiof  remains  his  guest  till 
spring. 

In  the  twelfth  canto  we  have  a  description 
of  Frithiof 's  return  to  his  native  land.  He 
finds  his  homestead  at  Framnfts  laid  waste  by 
fire ;  house,  fields,  and  ancestral  forests  are  all 
burnt  over.  As  he  stands  amid  the  ruins,  his 
falcon  perches  on  his  shoulder,  his  dog  leaps  to 
welcome  him,  and  his  snow-white  steed  comes, 
with  limbs  like  a  hind,  and  neck  like  a  swan ; 
he  will  have  bread  firom  his  master's  hands. 
At  length  old  Hilding  appears  from  among  the 
ruins,  and  tells  a  mournful  tale  ;  how  a  bloody 
battle  had  been  fought  between  King  Ring  and 
Helg^ ;  how  Helg^  and  his  host  had  been 
routed,  and  in  their  flight  through  Framnfts,  from 
sheer  malice,  had  laid  waste  the  lands  of  Fri- 
thiof; and  finally,  how,  to  save  their  crown  and 
kingdom,  the  brothers  had  given  Ingeborg  to  be 
the  bride  of  King  Ring.  He  describes  the  bridal, 
as  the  train  went  up  to  the  temple,  with  virgins 
in  white,  and  men  with  swords,  and  Skalds,  and 
the  pale  bride  seated  on  a  black  steed,  like  a 


TEGN^SR. 


151 


spirit  on  a  cloud.  At  the  altar  the  fierce  Helg6 
had  torn  the  bracelet,  the  gift  of  Frithiof,  fit>m 
Ingeborg's  arm,  and  adorned  with  it  the  image 
of  Balder.  And  Frithiof  remembers  that  it  is 
now  mid-summer,  and  festival  time  in  Haider's 
temple.     Thither  he  directs  his  steps. 

Canto  thirteenth.  The  sun  stands,  at  mid- 
night, blood-red  on  the  mountains  of  the  North. 
It  is  not  day,  it  is  not  night,  but  something 
between  the  two.  The  fire  blazes  on  the  altar 
in  the  temple  of  Balder.  Priests  with  silver 
beards,  snd  with  knives  of  flint  in  their  hands, 
stand  there,  and  King  Helg^  with  his  crown.  A 
sound  of  arms  is  heard  in  the  sacred  grove 
without,  and  a  voice  commanding  Bjom  to 
guard  the  door.  Then  Frithiof  ruAes  in,  like 
a  storm  in  autumn.  ^*  Here  is  your  tribute  firom 
the  western  aeaay"  he  cries ;  *«  take  it ;  and  then 
be  there  a  battle  for  life  and  death  between  us 
twain,  here  bj  the  light  of  Balder's  altar; 
shields  behind  us,  and  bosoms  bare ;  —  and  the 
first  blow  be  thine,  as  king ;  but  forget  not  that 
mine  is  the  second.  Look  not  thus  toward  the 
door ;  I  have  caught  the  fox  in  his  den.  Think  of 
FramnAs ;  think  of  thy  sister  with  golden  locks ! " 
With  these  words  he  draws  firom  his  girdle  the 
purse  of  Angantyr,  and  throws  it  into  the  fiice 
of  the  king  with  such  force,  that  the  blood  gush- 
es firom  his  mouth,  and  he  falls  senseless  at  the 
foot  of  the  altar.  Frithiof  then  seizes  the  brace- 
let on  Balder's  arm,  and,  in  trying  to  draw  it 
off,  he  pulls  the  wooden  statue  firom  ita  base, 
and  it  fiUls  into  the  flames  of  the  altar.  Id  a 
moment  the  whole  temple  is  in  a  blaze.  All 
attempta  to  extinguish  the  conflagration  are 
vain.  The  fire  is  victorious.  Like  a  red  bird 
the  flame  site  upon  the  roof,  and  flaps  ite  loos- 
ened wings.  Mighty  was  the  fiineral  pjrre  of 
Balder. 

The  fourteenth  canto  is  entitled  *^  Frithiof  in 
Exile.*'  Frithiof  site  at  night  on  the  deck  of 
his  ship,  and  chanto  a  song  of  welcome  to  the 
sea,  which,  as  a  Viking,  he  vows  to  make  his 
home  in  life  and  his  grave  in  death.  *'  Thou 
knowest  naught,"  he  sings,  *'  thou  Ocean  firee,  of 
a  king  who  oppresses  thee  at  his  own  wild  will." 
He  turns  his  prow  from  shore,  and  is  putting 
to  sea,  when  King  Helgd,  with  ten  ships,  comes 
sailing  out  to  attack  him.  But  anon  the  ships 
sink  down  into  the  sea,  as  if  drawn  downward 
by  invisible  hands,  and  Helg^  saves  himself  by 
swimming  ashore.  Then  Bjom  laughed  aloud, 
and  told  how,  the  night  before,  he  had  bored 
holes  in  the  bottom  of  each  of  Helg^'s  ships. 
But  the  king  now  stood  on  a  cliff,  and  bent  his 
mighty  bow  of  steel  against  the  rock  with  such 
force  that  it  snapped  in  twain.  And  Frithiof, 
jeering,  cried,  that  it  was  rust  that  had  broken 
the  bow,  not  Helg6*s  strength;  and  to  show 
what  nerve  there  was  in  a  hero's  arm,  he  seized 
two  pines,  large  enough  for  the  maste  of  ships, 
but  shaped  into  oars,  and  rowed  with  such  mar- 
vellous strength,  that  the  two  pines  snapped  in 
his  hands  like  reeds.  And  now  uprose  the  sun, 
and  the  land-breeze  blew  offshore,  and,  bidding 


his  native  land  fitrewell,  Frithiof  the  Viking 
sailed  forth  to  scour  the  seas. 

The  fifteenth  canto  contains  the  Vikings 
Code,  the  laws  of  the  pirate-ship.  *'  No  tent 
upon  deck,  no  slumber  in  house ;  but  the  shield 
must  be  the  Viking's  couch,  and  his  tent  the 
blue  sky  overhead.  The  hammer  of  victorious 
Thor  is  short,  and  the  sword  of  Frey  but  an  ell 
in  length ;  and  the  warrior's  steel  is  never  too 
short,  if  he  goes  near  enough  to  the  foe.  Hoist 
high  the  sail,  when  the  wild  storm  blows ;  't  is 
merry  in  stormy  seas;  onward  and  ever  on- 
ward. He  is  a  coward  who  strikes ;  rather  sink 
than  strike.  There  shall  be  neither  maiden 
nor  drunken  revelry  on  board.  The  fivighted 
merchantman  shall  be  protected,  but  must  not 
refose  his  tribute  to  the  Viking ;  for  the  Viking 
is  king  of  the  waves,  and  the  merchant  a  slave 
to  gain,  and  the  steel  of  the  brave  is  as  good  as 
the  gold  of  the  rich.  The  plunder  shall  be  di- 
vided on  deck,  by  lot  and  the  throwing  of  dice ; 
but  in  this  the  sea-king  takes  no  share ;  glory 
is  his  prize ;  he  wanta  none  other.  They  shall 
be  valiant  in  fight,  and  merciful  to  the  conquer- 
ed ;  for  he  who  begs  for  quarter  has  no  longer 
a  sword,  is  no  man's  foe ;  and  Prayer  is  a  child 
of  Valhalla,  —  they  must  listen  to  the  voice  of 
the  pale  one."  —  With  such  laws,  sailed  the 
Viking  over  the  foaming  sea,  for  three  weary 
years,  and  came  at  length  to  the  Isles  of  Greece, 
which  in  days  of  yore  his  father  had  so  oft  de- 
scribed to  him,  and  whither  he  had  wished  to 
flee  with  Ingeborg.  And  thus  the  forms  of  the 
absent  and  the  dead  rose  up  before  him,  and 
seemed  to  beckon  him  to  his  home  in  the  North. 
He  is  weary  of  sea-fighte,  and  of  hewing  men 
in  twain,  and  of  the  glory  of  battle.  The  flag 
at  the  mast-head  pointed  northward ;  there  lay 
the  beloved  land;  he  resolved  to  follow  the 
course  of  the  winds  of  heaven,  and  steer  back 
again  to  the  North. 

Canto  sixteenth  is  a  dialogue  between  Frith- 
iof and  his  fnend  Bjom,  in  which  tbe  latter 
gentleman  exhibita  some  of  the  rade  and  unciv- 
ilized tastes  of  his  namesake.  Bruin  the  Bear. 
They  have  again  reached  the  shores  of  their 
fotherlaad.  Winter  is  approaching.  The  sea 
begins  to  freeze  around  their  keel.  Frithiof  is 
weary  of  a  Viking's  life.  He  wishes  to  pass 
the  Jule-tide  on  land,  and  to  visit  King  Ring, 
and  his  bride  of  the  golden  locks,  his  beloved 
Ingeborg.  Bjom,  dreaming  all  the  while  of 
bloody  exploits,  offers  himself  as  a  companion, 
and  talks  of  firing  the  king's  palace  at  night, 
and  bearing  off  the  queen  by  force.  Or  if  his 
friend  deems  the  old  king  worthy  of  nholmgAng* 
or  of  a  battle  on  the  ice,  he  is  ready  for  either. 
But  Frithiof  tells  him  that  only  gentle  thoughte 
now  flll  his  bosom.     He  wishes  only  to  take  a 


*  A  dud  between  thj  Vikings  of  the  North  wa«  caUed  a 
hohnfang,  because  the  two  combaunte  met  on  an  island  to 
decide  their  qnaml.  Fierce  battles  wera  likewlM  fought 
by  armies  on  tlM  ice;  the  froien  bays  and  lakes  of  a  moun- 
udnoaa  country  being  oftentimes  the  only  plains  brge 
enough  for  battla*flelds. 


152 


SWEDISH    POETRY. 


last  farewell  of  iDgeborg.  These  delicate  feel- 
ings  cannot  penetrate  the  hirsute  breast  of  Bruin. 
He  knows  not  what  this  love  may  be, —  this 
sighing  and  sorrow  for  a  maiden's  sake.  The 
world,  he  says,  is  full  of  maidens;  and  he  offers 
to  bring  Frithiof  a  whole  ship-load  from  the 
glowing  South,  all  red  as  roses  and  gentle  as 
Iambs.  But  Frithiof  will  not  stay.  He  resolves 
to  go  to  King  Ring ;  but  not  alone,  lor  his  sword 
goes  with  him. 

The  seventeenth  canto  relates,  how  King 
Ring  sat  in  his  banquet-hall  at  Jule-tide,  and 
drank  mead.  At  his  side  sat  Ingeborg  his  queen, 
like  spring  by  the  side  of  autumn.  And  an  old 
man,  and  unknown,  all  wrapped  in  skins,  en- 
tered  the  hall,  and  humbly  took  his  seat  near 
the  door.  And  the  courtiers  looked  at  each 
other  with  scornful  smiles,  and  pointed  with 
the  finger  at  the  hoary  bear-skin  man.  At  this, 
the  stranger  waxed  angry,  and,  seizing  with  one 
hand  a  young  coxcomb,  he  ^*  twirled  him  up 
and  down."  The  rest  grew  silent ;  he  would 
have  done  the  same  with  them.  **  Who  breaks 
the  peace  ?  "  quoth  the  king.  ^<  Tell  us'  who 
thou  art,  and  whence,  old  man."  And  the  old 
man  answered, — 

"  In  Anguish  was  I  nurtured,  Want  ia  mj  homeataad  bight, 
Now  come  I  from  ibe  Wolf's  den,  I  slept  with  him  last 
nlghL" 

'*  Once  on  a  dragon's  back  I  rode ;  strong  wings 
had  he,  and  flew  with  might.  But  now  he  lies 
wrecked  and  frozen  on  the  strand,  and  I  am 
grown  old  and  burn  salt  by  the  sea-shore."  But 
King  Ring  is  not  so  easily  duped,  and  bids  the 
stranger  lay  aside  his  disguise.  And  straight 
the  shaggy  bear-skin  fell  finom  the  head  of  the 
unknown  guest,  and  down  from  his  lofly  fore- 
head, over  his  shoulders  broad  and  full,  floated 
his  shining  ringlets,  like  a  wave  of  gold.  Frith- 
iof stood  before  them,  in  a  rich  mantle  of  blue 
velvet,  with  a  hand-broad  silver  belt  around  his 
waist;  and  the  color  came  and  went  in  the 
cheek  of  the  queen,  like  the  northern  light  on 
fields  of  snow ; 

"  And  as  two  water-lilies,  beneath  the  tempest's  might, 
Lie  heaving  on  the  billow,  so  heaved  her  bosom  while." 

And  now  a  horn  blew  in  the  hall,  and  kneeling 
on  a  silver  dish,  with  haunch  and  shoulder  hung 
'*  with  garlands  gay  and  rosemary,"  and  hold- 
ing an  apple  in  his  mouth,  the  wild  boar  was 
brought  in.*  And  King  Ring  rose  up  in  his  hoary 
locks,  and,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  boar*s  head, 
swore  an  oath  that  he  would  conquer  Frithiof^ 
the  great  champion,  so  help  him  Frey  and  Odin 
and  the  mighty  Thor.  With  a  disdainful  smile, 
Frithiof  threw  his  sword  upon  the  table,  so  that 

*  The  old  English  custom  of  the  boar's  head  at  Christ- 
mas dates  from  a  far  antiquity.  It  was  in  use  at  the  festi- 
vals of  Jule-tide  among  the  pagan  Northmen.  The  words 
of  Chaucer  In  the  Fianklein's  lUe  will  apply  to  the  old 
hero  of  the  North: 

"  And  he  drinketh  of  hU  bugle-bom  the  wine, 
Before  him  standeth  the  bcawne  of  the  tasked  swine." 


the  hall  echoed  to  the  clang,  and  every  warrior 
sprang  up  from  his  seat,  and  turning  to  the  king 
he  said :  ^'  Young  Frithiof  is  my  fnend ;  I  know 
him  well ;  and  I  swear  to  protect  him,  were 
it  against  the  world ;  so  help  me  Destiny  and 
my  good  sword."  The  king  was  pleased  at 
this  great  fireedom  of  speech,  and  invited  the 
stranger  to  remain  their  guest  till  spring ;  bid- 
ding Ingeborg  fill  a  goblet  with  the  choicest 
wine  for  him.  With  downcast  eyes  and  trem- 
bling hand,  she  presented  Frithiof  a  goblet, 
which  two  men,  as  men  are  now,  could  not 
have  drained ;  but  he,  in  honor  of  his  lady-love, 
quaffed  it  at  a  single  draught.  And  then  the 
Skald  took  his  harp,  and  sang  the  song  of  Hag- 
bart  and  &ir  Sign^,  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  of 
the  North.  And  thus  the  Jule-carouse  (JuUnts) 
was  prolonged  ^  into  the  night,  and  the  old 
fellows  drank  deep,  till,  at  length, 

"  The/  all  to  sleep  departed,  withouten  pain  or  care." 

The  next  canto  describes  an  excursion  on  the 
ice.  It  has  a  cold  breath  about  it.  The  short, 
sharp  stanzas  are  like  the  angry  gusts  of  a 
northwester. 

"  King  Ring,  with  his  queen,  to  the  banquet  did  frre, 
On  the  lake  stood  the  ice  so  mirror-clear. 

"  'Para  not  o'er  the  ice,'  the  stranger  cries ; 
'  It  wlU  bunt,  and  full  deep  the  cold  bath  lies.' 

"  '  The  king  drowns  not  easily,'  Ring  out-spake ; 
'  He  who 's  afraid  maj  go  round  the  lake.' 

"  Threatening  and  dark  looked  the  stranger  round, 
Hia  ateei-shoes  with  haste  on  his  ftet  he  bound. 

"  Tlie  sledge-horae  starts  forth  strong  and  fiee ; 
He  anorteth  ilamee,  so  glad  U  ha. 


"  'Strike  out,'  screamed  the  king, '  my  trotter  good, 
Let  ua  aee  if  thou  art  of  Sleipner's  *  blood.' 

"  Tbej  go  as  a  storm  goes  over  the  lake; 
No  heed  to  his  queen  doth  the  old  man  take. 

"  But  the  steel-shod  champion  stands  not  still. 
He  passes  by  them  as  swift  as  he  wilL 

"  He  carves  manj  runes  in  the  frosen  tide, 
Fair  Ingeborg  o'er  her  own  name  doth  glide." 

Thus  they  speed  away  over  the  ice,  but  be- 
neath them  the  treacherous  Ran  t  lies  in  am- 
bush. She  breaks  a  hole  in  her  silver  roof,  the 
sledge  is  sinking,  and  fair  Ingeborg  is  pale  with 
foar,  when  the  stranger  on  his  skates  comes 
sweeping  by  like  a  whirlwind.  He  seizes  the 
steed  by  his  mane,  and,  at  a  single  pull,  places 
the  sledge  upon  firm  ice  again.  They  return 
together  to  the  king*s  palace,  where  the  stran- 
ger, who  is  none  else  than  Frithiof,  remains  a 
guest  till  spring. 

The  nineteenth  canto  is  entitled  **  Frithiof  *s 
Temptation."  The  spring  comes,  and  King 
Ring  and  his  court  go  forth  to  hunt ;  but  the  old 
king  cannot  keep  pace  with  the  chase.  Frithi- 
of rides  beside  him,  silent  and  sad.   Gloomy  mu- 


*  The  ateed  of  Odin. 

t  A  giantess,  holding  dominion  over  the  waten. 


TEGNER. 


153 


singi  rise  within  him,  and  he  hears  continaally 
the  mournilil  Toices  of  his  own  dark  thoughts, 
l^fay  had  he  left  the  ocean,  where  all  care  is 
blown  awaj  by  the  winds  of  heaven  ?  Here 
he  wanders  amid  dreams  and  secret  longings. 
He  cannot  forget  Balder's  grove.  Bat  the  grim 
sods  are  no  longer  fiiendly.  They  hare  taken 
his  rose-bud,  and  placed  it  on  the  breast  of 
printer,  whose  chill  breath  covers  bod  and  leaf 
and  stalk  with  ice.  — And  thus  they  come  to  a 
lonely  valley  shut  in  by  mountains,  and  over- 
shadowed by  beeches  and  alders.  Here  they 
alight ;  the  quiet  of  the  place  invites  to  slum- 
ber. Frithiof  throws  down  his  mantle,  and  the 
king,  stretching  himself  upon  it,  pretends  to 
sleep.  Frithiof  is  tempted  to  murder  him,  but 
resists  the  temptation,  and  the  king,  starting  up, 
declares  that  he  has  not  been  asleep,  but  has 
feigned  sleep,  merely  to  put  Frithiof —  ibr  he 
has  long  recognized  the  hero  in  his  guest -^  to 
the  triJ.  He  then  upbraids  him  fyr  having 
come  to  his  palace  in  disguise,  to  steal  away  his 
queen ;  he  had  expected  the  coming  of  a  war- 
nor  with  an  army ;  he  beheld  only  a  beggar  in 
tatters.  But  now  he  has  proved  him,  and  for- 
given ;  has  pitied,  and  forgotten.  He  is  soon  to 
be  gathered  to  his  fathers.  Frithiof  shall  take 
his  queen  and  kingdom  after  him.  Till  then  he 
shall  remain  his  guest,  and  thus  their  feud  shall 
have  an  end.  But  Frithiof  answers,  that  he 
came  not  as  a  thief  to  steal  away  the  queen,  but 
only  to  gaze  upon  her  foce  once  more.  He  will 
remain  no  longer.  The  vengeance  of  the  of- 
fended gods  hangs  over  him.  He  is  an  outlaw. 
On  the  green  earth  be  seeks  no  more  for  peace ; 
for  the  earth  bums  beneath  his  feet,  and  the 
trees  lend  him  no  shadow.  *^  Therefore,"  he 
cries,  **  away  to  sea  again !  Away,  my  dragon 
brave,  to  bathe  again  thy' pitch-black  breast  in 
the  briny  wave  !  Flap  thy  white  wings  in  the 
clouds,  and  cut  the  billow  with  a  whistling 
sound ;  fly,  fly,  as  fiir  as  the  bright  stars  guide 
thee,  and  the  subject  billows  bear.  Let  me 
hear  the  lightning's  voice  again;  and  on  the 
open  sea,  in  battle,  amid  clang  of  shields  and 
arrowy  rain,  let  mo  die,  and  go  up  to  the  dwell- 
ing of  the  gods." 

In  the  twentieth  canto  the  death  of  King 
Ring  is  described.  The  sunshine  of  a  pleasant 
spring  morning  plays  in  the  palace  hall,  when 
Frithiof  enters  to  bid  his  royal  friends  a  last 
farewell.  With  them  he  bids  his  native  land 
good  night 

"Nomonriianiwe 
In  ita  upward  moiloa 
The  tmoka  of  the  Northland.    Aba  is  a  daTO ; 
TheFatM  deerea. 
On  the  waste  ai  the  ocean, 
There  la  my  fiaherland,  there  is  my  gnre. 

"  Go  not  to  the  etiand. 
Ring,  with  thy  bride. 
After  the  stan  spread  their  light  thrnwh  the  sky. 
Perliape  in  the  eand, 
Washed  up  try  the  tide, 
The  bonee  of  the  outlawed  Vikbig  maj  lie. 


"  Ttea  quoth  the  Ung, 
'  T  \m  raoumflil  to  hear 
A  man  like  a  whimpering  maiden  cry, 
The  daath-eoDg  they  eing 
Bren  now  in  mine  ear. 
WhaaTaUeitf    He  who  U  bom  mnrt  die.' " 

He  then  says  that  he  himself  is  about  to  de- 
part  for  Valhalla;  that  a  death  on  the  straw 
(strkdsd)  becomes  not  a  king  of  the  Northmen. 
He  would  fein  die  the  death  of  a  hero :  and  he 
cuts  on  his  arms  and  breast  the  runes  of  death, 
—  runes  to  Odin.  And  while  the  blood  drops 
from  among  the  silvery  hairs  of  his  naked  bos- 
om, ho  calk  for  a  flowing  goblet,  and  drinks  a 
health  to  the  glorious  North ;  and  in  spirit  hears 
the  GjaUar  Hom^*  and  goes  to  Valhalla,  where 
glory,  like  a  golden  helmet,  crowns  the  coming 
guest. 

The  next  canto  is  the «« Dirge  of  King  Ring  " ; 
in  the  unrhymed,  alliterative  stanzas  of  the  old 
Icelandic  and  Anglo-Saxon  poetry.  The  Skald 
sings  how  the  high-descended  monarch  sits  in 
his  tomb,  with  his  shield  on  his  arm  and  his 
battle-sword  by  his  side.  His  gallant  steed, 
too,  neighs  in  the  tomb,  and  paws  the  ground 
with  his  golden  hooft.t  But  the  spirit  of  the 
departed  rides  over  the  rainbow,  which  bends 
beneath  its  burden,  up  to  the  open  gates  of  Val- 
halla. Here  the  gods  receive  him,  and  garlands 
are  woven  for  hun,  of  golden  grain  with  blue 
flowers  intermingled,  and  Brag^  sings  a  song  of 
praise  and  welcome  to  the  wise  old  Bing. 

The  twenty-second  canto  describes,  in  a  very 
spirited  and  beautiful  style,  the  election  of  a 
new  king.  The  yeoman  takes  his  sword  from 
the  wall,  and,  with  clang  of  shields  and  sound 
of  arms,  the  people  gather  together  in  a  public 
assembly,  a  Ting,  whose  roof  is  the  sky  of  hea- 
ven. Here  Frithiof  harangues  them,  bearing 
aloft  on  his  shield  the  little  son  of  Bing,  who 
sits  there  like  a  king  on  his  throne,  or  a  young 
eagle  on  the  chff^  gazing  upward  at  the  sun. 
Frithiof  hails  him  as  King  of  the  Northmen, 
and  swears  to  protect  his  kingdom ;  and  when 
the  little  boy,  tired  of  sitting  on  the  shield,  leaps 
fearlessly  to  the  ground,  the  people  raise  a 
shout,  and  acknowledge  him  for  their  monarch, 
and  Jarl  Frithiof  as  regent,  till  the  boy  grows 
older.  But  Frithiof  has  other  thoughts  than 
these.  He  must  away  to  meet  the  Fates  at 
Balder's  ruined  temple,  and  make  atonement  to 
the  oflTended  god.    And  thus  he  departs. 

Canto  twenty-third  is  entitled  *«  Frithiof  at 
his  Father's  Grave."  The  sun  is  sinking  like  a 
golden  shield  in  the  ocean,  and  the  hills  and 
vales  around  him,  and  the  fragrant  flowers,  and 
song  of  birds,  and  sound  of  the  sea,  and  shadow 


*  The  Ojallar  Horn  was  blown  by  Heimdal,  the  watch- 
man of  the  gods.  He  was  the  son  of  nine  virgins,  and  was 
called  "  the  God  with  the  Golden  Teeth."  His  watch-tower 
wae  upon  the  rainbow,  and  lie  blew  his  horn  whenever  a 
fidlen  hero  rode  over  the  Bridge  of  Heaven  to  Valhalla. 

t  It  was  a  Scandinarian  as  well  as  a  Scythian  custom,  to 
bury  the  ftTorito  steed  of  a  warrior  in  the  same  tomb  with 
lUm. 


154 


SWEDISH  POETRY. 


of  trees  awaken  in  his  softened  heart  the  mem- 
ory of  other  days.  And  he  calls  aloud  to  the 
gods  for  pardon  of  his  crime,  and  to  the  spirit  of 
his  iather,  that  he  should  come  from  his  grave 
and  bring  him  peace  and  forgiveness  from  the 
city  of  the  gods.  And,  lo !  amid  the  evening 
shadows,  from  the  western  wave  uprising,  land- 
ward floats  the  Fata  Morgana^  and,  sinking  down 
upon  the  spot  where  Balder*s  temple  once 
stood,  assumes  itself  the  form  of  a  temple,  with 
columns  of  dark  blue  steel,  and  an  altar  of  pre- 
cious stone.  At  the  door,  leaning  upon  their 
shields,  stand  the  Destinies.  And  the  Destiny 
of  the  Past  points  to  the  solitude  around,  and 
the  Destiny  of  the  Future  to  a  beautiful  temple 
newly  risen  from  the  sea.  While  Frithiof  gazes 
in  wonder  at  the  sight,  all  vanishes  away,  like 
a  vision  of  the  night.  But  the  vision  is  inter- 
preted by  the  herb,  without  the  aid  of  prophet 
or  of  soothsayer. 

Canto  twenty-fourth;  '*The  Atonement.'* 
The  temple  of  Balder  had  been  rebuilt,  and 
with  such  magnificence,  that  the  North  beheld 
in  it  an  image  of  Valhalla.  And  two  by  two, 
in  solemn  procession,  walked  therein  the  twelve 
virgins,  clad  in  garments  of  silver  tissue,  with 
roses  upon  their  cheeks,  and  roses  in  their  in- 
nocent hearts.  They  sang  a  solemn  song  of 
Balder,  how  much  beloved  he  was  by  all  that 
lived,  and  how  he  foil,  by  Hoder's  arrow  slain, 
and  earth  and  sea  and  heaven  wept.«  And  the 
sound  of  the  song  was  not  like  the  sound  of 
human  voice,  but  like  the  tones  which  come 
from  the  halls  of  the  gods,  like  the  thoughts  of 
a  maiden  dreaming  of  her  lover,  when  the  night- 
ingale is  singing  in  the  midnight  stillness,  and 
the  moon  shines  over  the  beech-trees  of  the 
North.  Frithiof  listened  to  the  song ;  and  as 
he  listened,  all  thoaghts  of  vengeance  and  of 
human  hate  melted  within  him,  as  the  icy 
breastplate  melts  fi^m  the  bosom  of  the  fields, 
when  the  sun  shines  in  spring.  At  this  mo- 
ment the  high- priest  of  Balder  entered,  venera- 
ble with  his  long  silver  beard ;  and  welcoming 
the  Viking  to  the  temple  he  had  built,  he  de- 
livered for  his  special  edification  a  long  homily 
on  things  human  and  divine,  with  a  short  cate- 
chism of  Northern  mythology.  He  told  him, 
likewise,  very  truly,  that  more  acceptable  to 
the  gods  than  the  smoke  of  burnt-offerings  was 
the  sacrifice  of  one's  own  vindictive  spirit,  the 
hate  of  a  human  soul.  He  then  spake  of  his 
hatred  to  BeU*8  sons ;  and  informed  him  that 
Helg^  was  dead,  and  that  Halfiian  sat  alone  on 
Belt's  throne,  urging  him,  at  the  same  time,  to 
sacrifice  to  the  gods  his  desire  of  vengeance, 
and  proffer  the  hand  of  friendship  to  the  young 
king.  This  was  done  straightway,  Halfdan 
having  opportunely  come  in  at  that  moment ; 
and  the  priest  removed  forthwith  the  ban  from 
the  Varg'i'Vtum^  the  sacrilegious  and  outlawed 
man.  And  then  Ingeborg  entered  the  vaulted 
temple,  followed  by  maidens,  as  the  moon  is 
followed  by  stars  in  the  vaulted  sky ;  and 
from  the  hand  of  her  brother  Frithiof  receives 


the  bride  of  his  youth,  and  they  are  married  in 
Balder's  temple. 


EXTRACTS  FBOM  FRTTHIOFS  SAGA. 

CANTO  I. 
PRITHIOr   AND  INOBBORO. 

Two  plants,  for  fostering  nurture  placed. 
The  rural  Hilding's  hamlet  graced ; 
And,  peerless  since  the  birth  of  time, 
Exulted  in  North's  vigorous  clime. 

One  rose  to  seek  the  bright  expanse. 
An  Oak,  its  stem  a  warrior's  lance ; 
Its  wreath,  which  every  gale  unbound, 
A  warrior's  helmet,  vaulted  round. 

The  other  reared  its  blushing  head, 
A  Rose,  when  wintry  storms  are  fled ; 
Tet  spring,  which  stores  its  richer  dyes. 
Still  in  the  rose-bud  dreaming  lies. 

When  earth's  bright  face  rude  blasts  deform, 
That  Oak  shall  wrestle  with  the  storm ; 
When  May's  sun  tints  the  heaven  with  gold, 
That  Rose  its  ruddy  lips  unfold. 

Jocund  they  grew,  in  guileless  glee  ; 
Toung  Frithiof  was  the  sapling  tree  ; 
In  budding  beauty  by  his  side. 
Sweet  Ingeborg,  the  garden's  pride. 

The  noontide  beam  which  gilt  their  sport, 
Say,  showed  it  not  like  Freya's  court ; 
Where  bride-guests  flit  in  spritefiil  rings, 
With  glistening  locks  and  roseate  wings  ? 

Whilst,  'neath  the  moon-lit  silver  spray. 
They  wheeled  in  evening  roundelay. 
Say,  showed  it  not  a  fairy  scene. 
Where  elf-king  danced  with  elfin-queen  ? 


Her  pilot  soon  he  joyed  to  glide. 
In  Viking-guise,  o'er  stream  and  tide : 
Sure,  hands  so  gentle,  heart  so  gay. 
Ne'er  'plauded  rover's  young  essay  ! 

No  beetling  lair,  no  pine-rock^  nest. 
Might  'scape  the  love-urged  spoiler's  quest : 
Ofl,  ere  an  eaglet-wing  had  soared, 
The  eyry  mourned  its  parted  hoard. 

He  sought  each  brook  of  rudest  force, 
To  bear  his  Ing'borg  o'er  its  source  : 
So  thrilling,  'midst  the  wild  alarm. 
The  tendril-twining  of  her  arm. 

The  earliest  flower,  spring's  infant  birth. 
The  earliest  fruit  that  gemmed  the  earth. 
The  ear  that  earliest  graced  the  plain, 
Oft  told  his  love,  nor  told  in  vain. 

But  years  of  childhood  smiling  fled, 
Touth  came  with  light  advancing  tread  ; 
New  hopes  the  stripling's  glance  betrayed, 
Maturing  charms  adorned  the  maid. 


TE6NER. 


155 


A  hunter  grown,  through  den  and  dale. 
Such  chase  might  see  the  stoutest  quail : 
For,  waging  desperate  stake  of  life. 
The  spearless  met  in  equal  strife. 

Breast  closed  to  breast,  they  struggling  stood  : 
Those  sayage  teeth  are  wet  with  blo<^  ! 
Tet  laden  home  the  victor  hies. 
And  could  the  nymph  his  boon  despise  ? 

Since  dear  to  beauty  yalorous  deed. 
The  fidr  one  e*er  the  hero's  meed : 
Assorted  for  the  mutual  tow. 
As  martial  helm  to  softer  brow. 

When  clustering  near  the  social  blase, 
A  tale  beguiled  the  icy  days. 
Of  mystic  names,  supernal  all, 
mib  in  Valhalla's  beaming  hall ; 

He  mused  :  **  Though  Freya's  braid  is  bright 
As  corn-land  waving  amber  light. 
My  Ingliorg's  meshy  tresses  throw 
O'er  rose  and  lily  rival  glow. 

^  Iduna !  mortal  vision  ftils. 
Dazed  by  the  orbs  thy  mantle  veik ; 
And,  ah !  what  venturous  look  may  dare, 
Where  light-elves  move,  a  bud-crowned  pair  ? 

*«  O !  blue  and  clear  is  Frigga's  eye. 
Dazzling  as  heaven's  unclouded  sky  : 
But  hers  the  eye  whose  sparkling  ray 
Eclipses  e'en  spring's  sapphire  day. 

**  What,  Gerda,  though  thy  cheeks  may  glow 
Like  Northern-light  on  drifted  snow  ? 
The  cheeks  I  see,  whene'er  they  dawn. 
Blush  forth  at  once  a  twofold  mom. 

*'  I  know  a  heart  whose  truth  might  claim 
A  portion,  Nanna,  in  thy  ftme ! 
Well,  Balder,  may  each  poet's  song 
The  gratulating  strain  prolong ! 

**  Ah !  by  one  Nanna  might  my  bier 
Be  watered  witlv  as  true  a  tear. 
The  prooft  of  tenderness  she  gave 
Would  bid  me  hail  an  early  grave." 

The  feats  of  many  a  storied  king 

The  royal  maid  would  sit  and  sing ; 

And,  broidering,  paint  the  blood-stained  scene 

'Midst  wave  of  blue  and  grove  of  green. 

In  snow-white  wool  is  seen  to  spread 
The  ample  shield  of  gilded  thread ; 
Red  lances  pierce  the  mascled  side. 
In  burnished  mail  the  champions  ride. 

Yet,  though  she  proves  her  various  skill. 
Each  face  bears  Frithiof 's  semblance  still : 
And  forth  the  tissue  as  they  gaze. 
She  blushes,  but  with  pleased  amaze. 


His  steel  imprints  with  runic  mark 
The  living  rolls  of  birchen  bark  ; 
Where  blent  initials  ftequent  show 
The  hearts  that  thus  together  grow. 

When  Day*s  bright  train  invests  the  air. 
King  of  the  world  with  splendent  hair. 
And  men  in  noiaefiil  courses  move. 
Their  only  thoughts  are  thoughts  of  love. 

When  Night's  dark  train  invests  the  air. 
Queen  of  the  world  with  raven  hair, 
And  stars  in  silent  courses  move. 
Their  only  dreams  are  dreams  of  love. 

"  Thou  earth,  which,  bathed  in  April  showers, 
Weav'st  thy  green  locks  with  wreathy  flowers ! 
Culled  fix>m  the  feirest  of  the  spring, 
A  garland  for  my  Frithiof  bring." 

"  Thou  sea,  which,  in  thy  caves  below, 
Strew'st  lucid  peark  in  countless  row ! 
Here  bear  the  treasures  of  the  main. 
That  love  may  thread  a  silken  chain." 

*«  Brilliant  on  Odin's  seat  of  state. 
Heaven's  eye,  whose  glance  no  years  abate ! 
If  thou  wert  mine,  thy  orb  should  yield 
My  Frithiof  a  golden  shield." 

**  All-ftither*s  lamp,  whose  evening  beam 
Illumes  his  dome  with  softened  gleam  ! 
If  thou  wert  mine,  my  maid  should  bow 
Thy  silver  crescent  o'er  her  brow." 

But  Hilding's  sager  counsel  came. 
To  damp  the  youth's  presumptuous  flame  : 
*^  Fan  not,"  he  warned,  *^  forbidden  fire ; 
The  virgin  boasts  a  royal  sire. 

u  To  Odin,  throned  in  stany  space. 
Ascends  the  lineage  of  her  race  : 
Let  Thorsten's  son  the  prize  resign. 
Best  thrive  whom  equal  lots  combine." 

*«  My  race,"  young  Frithiof  gay  ly  said, 
**  Descends  to  regions  of  the  dead  : 
My  sway  the  forest-king  confessed. 
His  lineage  mine,  and  bristling  vest. 

*'  The  world  his  realm,  what  daunts  the  free  ? 
He  heeds  not  partial  fete's  decree : 
Smiles  may  dispel  stem  fortune's  fi-own, 
'T  is  hope's  to  wear  and  point  a  crown. 

**  In  pedigree  all  might  excels. 
Its  parent,  Thor,  in  Thrudvang  dwells  : 
Valor  by  him,  not  birth,  is  weighed, 
A  potent  wooer  is  the  blade. 

"  In  combat  for  my  youthftil  bride 
Were  thunder's-god  himself  defied  : 
Grow  blithe,  my  flower,  in  sure  defence. 
Woe  to  the  hand  would  pluck  thee  hence  !  " 


156 


SWEDISH  POETRY. 


CANTO   III. 
FRITHIOF^S   HOMESTEAD. 

Thrxx  miles  extended  around  the  fields  of  the 

homestead ;  on  three  sides 
Valleys  and  mountains  and  bills,  but  on  the 

fourth  side  was  the  ocean. 
Birch-woods  crowned  the  sommits,  bat  oyer 

the  down-sloping  hill-sides 
Flourished  the  golden  corn,  and  man-high  was 

waving  the  rje-field. 
Lakes,  full  many  in  number,  their  mirror  held 

up  for  the  mountains. 
Held  for  the  forests  up,  in  whose  depths  the 

high-antlered  reindeers 
Had  their  kingly  walk,  and  drank  of  a  hundred 

brooklets. 
But  in  the  yalleys,  full  widely  around,  there  fed 

on  the  green-sward 
Herds  with  sleek,  shining  sides,  and   udders 

that  longed  fi>r  the  milk-pail. 
'Mid  these  were  scattered,  now  here  and  now 

there,  a  yast,  countless  number 
Of  white- woolled  sheep,  as  thou  seest  the  white- 
looking  stray  clouds. 
Flock-wise,  spread   o*er   the    heayenly   vault, 

when  it  blowetb  in  spring-time. 
Twice  twelve  swifl-footed  coursers,  mettlesome, 

fast-fettered  storm-winds. 
Stamping  stood  in  the  line  of  stalls,  all  champ- 
ing their  fbdder, 
Knotted  with  red  their  manes,  and  their  hoofi 

all  whitened  with  steel  shoes. 
The  banquet-hall,  a  house  by  itself,  was  timber- 
ed of  hard  fir. 
Not  five  hundred  men  (at  ten  times  twelve  to  the 

hundred)^ 
Filled  up  the  roomy  hall,  when  assembled  for 

drinking  at  Tule-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  firiends.  Hospitality  sit- 
ting with  Gladness. 
Oft,  when  the  moon  among  the  night  clouds 

flew,  related  the  old  man 
Wonders  from  ftr  distant  lands  he  had  seen, 

and  cruises  of  Vikings* 

1  An  old  fashion  of  reckooinf  In  the  North. 

s  Odin,  the  AU&ther;  the  Jnpiter of  Scandinaviaa  mj- 
ihology. 

9  Frej,  the  fod  of  Liberty ;  the  Bacchos  of  the  North. 
He  repreeents  the  mm  at  the  winter  eolelice. 

4  The  old  pirates  of  the  North  were  called  Ylkingar, 
Kings  of  the  Gulf. 


Far  on  the  Baltic  and  Sea  of  the  West,  and  the 

North  Sea. 
Hushed  sat  the  listening  bench,  and  their  glances 

hung  on  the  graybeard*8 
Lips,  as  a  bee  on  the  rose ;  but  the  Skald  was 

thinking  of  Brag^,^ 
Where,  with  silver  beard,  and  runes  on  his 

tongue,  he  is  seated 
Under  the  leafy  beach,  and  tells  a  tradition  by 

Mimer's  • 
Ever- murmuring  wave,  himself  a  living  tradi- 
tion. 
Mid-way  the  floor  (with  thatch  was  it  strewn), 

burned  forever  the  fire-flame 
Glad  on  its  stone-built  hearth  ;  and  through  the 

wide-mouthed  smoke-flue 
Looked  the  stars,  those  heavenly  friends,  dovni 

into  the  great  hall. 
But  round  the  walls,  upon  naik  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  glistened. 
White  as  the  orb  of  the  sun,  or  white  as  the 

moon's  disk  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. 


CANTO  IV. 
frithiof's  suit. 

The  songs  are  loud-pealing  in  Frithiof  *s  hall, 
And  the  praise  of  his  sires  is  the  burden  of  all : 
But  the  Skald's  art  is  vain. 
He  heeds  not  the  music,  and  hears  not  the  strain. 

Now  a  vest  of  bright  green  mantles  vale,  hill, 

and  tree. 
And  dragons  are  swimming  th^  dark  blue  sea : 
But  the  son  of  the  brave, 
The  moon  is  his  pole-star,  the  wood-flower  his 

wave. 

O,  the  hours  had  been  joyous,  how  rapid  their 

speed. 
Whilst  merry  King  Halfdan  late  quafied  of  his 

mead! 
For,  though  Helg^  dark-frowned. 
The  smile  of  fiiir  Ing'borg  spread   sunshine 

around. 

He  sat  by  her  side,  and  he  pressed  her  soft  hand. 
And  he  felt  a  fond  pressure  responsive  and  bland : 

»  Brag6,  the  god  of  Song;  the  Scandinavian  Apolla 
•  Mimer,  the  god  of  Boquence.    He  sat  bjr  the  wave  of 
Urda,  the  Destiny  of  the  PasU 


T£6N£R. 


167 


Whilst  bis  loTe-beanuDg  gase 
Was  retoHMd  as  the  san's  ia  the  moon's  placid 
rays. 

Thej  wpoke  of  days  by-gone^  so  gladsomo  and 

When  the  dew  was  yet  firesh  on  life's  Downtrod- 
den way : 
For  on  memory's  page 
Touth  traces  its  roses,  its  brien  old  age. 

She  brought  him  a  greeting  from  dale  and  ftom 

wood, 
From  the  bark-grayen  mnes  and  the  brook's 

silver  flood ; 
From  the  dome-crowned  cave, 
Where  oaks  bravely  stream  o'er  a  warrior's 

grave. 

**  From  the  pomp  of  the  palace  't  wero  sweet  to 
retam, 

For  Halfdan  was  puerile,  Helgfe  was  stem  : 

And  the  two  royal  heirs 

Savored  only  the  incense  of  praises  and  pray- 
ers. 

^  There  was  no  one,"  she  said,  as  she  blushed 

like  a  rose, 
''To  whom  her  sad  heart  could  unbosom  its 


From  a  king's  halls,  in  truth, 
Freedom  fled  to  respire  in  the  scenes  of  her 
youth. 

'«  Of  the  doves  he  had  given,  porloined  from  the 

nest. 
Which  had  fed  from  her  hand  and  reposed  on 

her  breast, 
Lo !  "  she  lisped, ''  a  last  pair : 
These  brave  the  near  felcon ;  let  one  be  thy  caro. 

«<  For  homeward  the  swift-pinioned  turtle  will 

wend. 
Like  another  it  yearns  to  rejoin  a  lost  fiiend : 
Let  its  feith-guided  wing 
A  kind  token  concealed  to  the  desolate  bring." 

Such  whispers  Day  heard,  as  he  rode  his  gay 

round. 
And  the  ear  of  the  Evening  still  caught  the  soft 

sound,  — 
To  the  leaves  of  the  grove 
Thus  the  zephyrs  of  Spring  whisper  accents  of 

love. 

But  now  she  has  left  him,  and  with  her  are 

flown 
Joy  and  Peace   its  sweet  sister,  he  wanden 

alone. 
And  with  Astrild's  warm  dyes 
Toung  blood  stains  his  cheeJc,  as  he  boms  and 

he  sighs. 

His  sorrow,  his  plaint,  to  the  dove  he  consigned. 
And  love's  messenger  joyous  outstrips  the  fleet 
wind : 


Ah  \  how  envied  her  fete ! 
Could  bo  aek  her  return  ?    She  had  feund  her 
lost  mate. 

This  omiartial  demeanour  Bjom's  anger  in. 

flamed: 
>'  What  means  our  plumed  eagle  ?  "  displeased 

he  exclaimed ; 
><  Why  so  mute,  so  reserved  ? 
Has  his  breast  been  pierced  through,  or  his 

wing  been  unnerved  ? 

^  Say,  groans  not  thy  board, — canst  thou  covet 

aught  more. 
With  the  foaming  brown  mead  and  fet  chine  of 

the  boar? 
And  of  Skalds  what  a  throng ! 
They  could  weary  thy  walk  with  the  echo  of 

song. 

'*  The  stalled  coor^is,  indeed,  they  paw  restless 

and  neigh, 
And  the  felcon  shrieks  wildly,  'To  prey!  to 

prey ! ' 
But  their  lord's  dreamy  chase 
Is  pursued  in  the  clouds,  and  he  feints  with  the 

race. 

"  Ellida,  't  is  trae,  on  the  wave  has  no  rest. 
She  tugs  at  the  anchor  and  rears  her  high  crest : 
Cease  thy  hiss,  dragon,  cease  ! 
For  Frithiof  wars  not,  his  watchword  is  Peace. 

"  There 's  a  death  on  the  straw,  and  a  death  by 

the  spear, 
I  can  carve  me,  like  Odin,  for  blood  on  the 

bier: 
Not  a  fear  we  should  feil. 
Seeking  shadowy  welcome  with  Hela  the  pale." 

Then  he  loosed  his  sespdragon  and  donned  his 

bright  mail ; 
There  was  snorting  of  billow  and  swelling  of 

sail. 
And  light  fiirrowed  the  bay, 
As  straight  to  the  monarchs  he  steered  his  bold 

way. 

On  the  cairn  of  King  Bole  they  were  seated  in 

state. 
With  the  balance  and  ensign  of  awiUl  debate. 
Soon  the  echoes  awoke, 
And  fer  caverns  repeated  the  voice,  as  he  spoke. 

«*  To  the  hand  of  fair  Ing'borg,  ye  kings,  I  as- 
pire. 
Be  the  nuptial  toroh  lit  with  a  spark  of  love's 

'T  was  a  parent's  behest ; 
Bind  his  flower,  as  he  bade,  to  this  helm-mount- 
ed crest. 

'<>He  had  left  ns  to  grow,  to  sage  Hilding  as- 
signed. 

Like  saplings  whose  branches  are  closely  en- 
twined } 


158 


SWEDISH  POETRY. 


And  bright  Freya  above 

Had  linked  the  yoiftig  tops  with  the  gold  knot 
of  love. 

'<  Grant  my  tire  was  no  monarch,  nor  high- 
titled  thane, 

But  he  lives  in  the  song,  and  is  hynmed  with 
the  slain ; 

My  ancestors*  fame 

Their  high-vaulted  Bauta-stones  proudly  pro- 
claim. 

*<  It  were  easy  to  win  me  a  sceptre  and  land, 
But  the  home  of  my  choice  is  my  own  native 

strand : 
There  the  cot  and  the  court 
My  shield  shall  o*erscreen,  and  my  spear  shall 

support. 

^  'T  is  the  death-mound  of  Bele,  of  the  honored, 

we  tread, 
Now  hearkening  be  raises'  his  time-silvered 

head : 
E'en  the  dead  intercedes. 
And  bethink  ye  for  whom?  'tis  for  Frithiof  he 

pleads." 

Then  spake  Helg^,  uprising,  with  scorn-breath- 
ing ire, 

^  To  a  sister  of  kings  shall  the  serf-bom  as- 
pire? 

Can  the  pine  and  crab  blend  ? 

Let  monarchs  for  Valhairs  fair  scion  contend ! 

<*  For  the  first  in  the  North  dost  thou  bum  to  be 

sung? 
Win  men  with  thy  sword-arm,  and  maids  vnth 

thy  tongue. 
But  Odin's  blood-tide 
Shall  disdain  to  be  poured  in  the  veins  of  thy 

pride. 

'*  My  realm  I  defend ;  vain  intrader,  forbear. 
It  can  yield  stalworth  yeomen  enough  and  to 

spare ; 
Yet  a  place  in  my  train 
Thy  humble  entreaty  might  haply  obtain." 

*<  A  retainer  ? "  he  thundered,  and  grasped  his 

dread  brand : 
**  Thorsten's  son,  like  his  sire,  knows  alone  to 

command : 
From  thy  sheath's  silver  stay 
Fly  forth,  Angurvadel !  it  brooks  not  delay." 

In  the  sunshine  the  blue  steel  then  brilliantly 

beamed, 
And  redly  the  flaming  rune-characters  gleamed : 
<^  Thou,"  he  cried,  "  my  good  blade. 
Thou,  at  least,  art  in  birth's  ancient  honors  ar^ 

rayed! 

^  But  I  bow  to  the  peace  of  this  grave-hallowed 

mound. 
On  the  spot  it  should  hew  thee,  swarth  chief,  to 

the  ground; 


Yet  leara,  from  this  hour. 
That  my  sword  has  some  edge,  and  my  arm  has 
some  power." 

He  said ;  and,  lo !  cloven  in  twain  at  a  stroke. 
Fell  King  Helg^'s  gold  shield  from  its  pillar  of 

oak: 
At  the  clang  of  the  blow. 
The  live  started  above,  the  dead  started  below. 

"  Well  rived,  Angurvadel !  thy  runic  fires  hide. 
And,  of  higher  feats  dreaming,  repose  by  my 

side: 
Thou  shalt  wake  thee  again. 
Now  home  be  our  course  o'er  the  purple-clad 


CANTO  VI. 
FRITHIOF  AT  CHESS. 

BxsiDX  a  chess-board's  chequered  frame 
Frithiof  and  Bjom  pursued  their  game: 
Silver  was  each  alternate  plane, 
And  each  alternate  plane  of  gold. 

Aged  Hilding  came:  to  throne  of  beech 
The  chief\ain  led  with  courteous  speech : 
"  Sire,  when  the  mead's  bright  bora  shall  wane. 
Our  field  be  won,  thy  tale  unfold." 

The  eage  began :  "  From  Bele's  high  heirs 
I  come  with  courteous  words  and  prayers : 
Disastrous  tidings  rouse  the  brave. 
On  thee  a  nation's  hope  relies." 

<«  Check  to  thy  king !  "  then  Frithiof  cried, 
**  Prompt  means  of  rescue,  Bjom,  provide ; 
His  crown  a  yeoman's  life  may  save. 
And  who  would  heed  the  sacnfice  ?  " 

**  Naught  'gainst  a  king,  my  son,  presume ; 
Strong  the  young  eagle's  beak  and  plume : 
Measured  with  Ring's,  the  weaker  power 
Were  adamant,  opposed  to  thine." 

**  My  castle,  Bjom,  thou  threat'st  in  vain, 
My  yeomen  rout  thy  royal  train  : 
'T  will  cost  thee  much  to  win  its  tower. 
Shielded  secure  in  bastion-line." 

"  In  Balder's  fkne,  grief's  loveliest  prey. 
Sweet  Ing'borg  weeps  the  live-long  day : 
Say,  can  her  tears  unheeded  fall. 
Nor  call  her  champion  to  her  side  ?  " 

"  Thy  fruitless  quest,  good  Bjom,  forbear ! 
From  earliest  youth  I  held  her  dear ; 
The  noblest  piece,  the  queen  of  all. 
She  must  be  saved,  whate'er  betide." 

«*  Is  brief  rejoinder  yet  deferred  ? 
And  must  thy  foster-sire,  unheard. 
Or  quit  this  hall,  or  menial  wait 
Thy  sport's  procrastinated  close  ?  " 


TEGNilR. 


169 


Then  Frithiof,  moyed,  approached  his  guest, 
The  old  man*8  hand  he  kindly  pressed: 
**  I  haye  replied,"  he  said  elate, 
«*  My  soul's  resolve  my  fiither  knows. 

"  Haste  !  tell  the  sons  of  royal  Bele 
b  I  wear  not  a  retainer's  steel : 
For  wounded  honor  bids  divide 
The  sacred  bond  it  once  revered." 

*'  Well,  tread  thy  path,"  the  answer  came, 
'^  Thy  wrath  *t  were  chance  unmeet  to  blame. 
May  Odin  all  in  mercy  guide !  " 
Thus  Hilding  spake,  and  disappeared. 


CANTO  Z. 
FRITHIOr  AT  8BA. 

Helo£  on  the  strand 
Chants  his  wizard-spell. 
Potent  to  command 
Fiends  of  earth  or  hell. 
Gathering  darkness  shrouds  the  sky  ; 
Hark,  the  thunder's  distant  roll ! 
Lurid  lightnings,  as  they  fly, 
Btreak  with  blood  the  sable  pole. 
Ocean,  boiling  to  its  base. 
Scatters  wide  its  wave  of  foam ; 
Screaming,  as  in  fleetest  chase. 
Sea-birds  seek  their  island-home. 

'*  Hard  's  the  weather,  brother ! 

List  the  storm's  wild  pinions 

Flapping  in  the  distance ; 

Tet  we  tremble  not. 

Tranquil  in  the  high-grove, 

Sighing,  think  of  Frithiof, 

In  thy  tears  most  beauteous. 

Lovely  Ingeborg ! " 

Two  ibul  imps  of  air 
Toward  Ellida  glide : 
Frosty  Ham  is  there ; 
There  is  snowy  Heyd. 
Now,  the  hoarse-winged  storm,  set  free. 
Delves  in  depths  their  coral  road ; 
Now,  aloft  on  mountain-sea. 
Whirls  them  to  the  gods'  abode. 
Courage,  proved  in  many  a  fight, 
Shudders  at  emprise  like  this, 
Scaling  the  ethereal  height. 
From  the  bottomless  abyss. 
*'  Fairer  was  the  passage 
O'er  the  watery  mirror. 
Silvered  by  the  moon-beam. 
Bound  to  Balder's  grove : 
Wanner  than  this  region. 
Near  my  Ing'borg's  bosom ; 
Whiter  than  the  sea-foam 
Heaved  her  swelling  breast." 

"  See,  Solundar  Isle 
Peers  amid  the  spray  ; 
Try  its  calm  awhile. 
Run  to  make  the  bay." 


But,  secure  in  sea-tight  keel. 
Desperate  Viking  scorns  the  port ; 
Grasps  the  helm  with  hand  of  steel, 
Joying  in  the  whirlwind's  sport. 
More  he  girds  the  groaning  mast, 
Cleaves  the  surge  with  keener  force, 
Vantaging  by  wave  and  blast. 
West,  due  west,  pursues  his  course. 

M  Lists  me  with  the  tempest 

Tet  an  hour  of  combat ; 

Here  the  storm  and  Northman 

Cope  with  like  advantage. 

What  were  Ing'borg's  blushes. 

Should  her  proud  seapcagle. 

By  a  gust  disheartened. 

Drooping  seek  the  land  I " 

Deeper  and  more  oh 
Tawn  the  gulfii  of  death  : 
There  is  whistling  aloft. 
There  b  cracking  beneath. 
Yet,  amidst  the  war  of  waves. 
Now  pursuing,  now  opposed. 
Shock  and  blast  Ellida  braves, 
Gods  her  seamless  fabric  closed : 
As  a  meteor's  scudding  light, 
Shoots  athwart  the  flashing  deep ; 
As  a  chamois  launched  in  flight. 
Bounds  o'er  cataract  and  steep. 
'<  Better  't  were  to  gather. 
For  the  spray's  salt  kisses. 
Sweets  in  Balder's  temple. 
From  thy  lips  distilling  : 
Better  *t  were,  than  grappling 
Thus  the  impatient  rudder. 
Hold  in  fond  embraces 
Thee,  my  royal  bride  !  " 

Snow-flakes  ride  the  gale ; 
Nature  seems  congealed ; 
Fast  the  pattering  hail 
Beats  on  deck  and  shield. 
Full  between  the  rampant  beaks 
Night  her  canopy  hath  spread  ; 
Not  a  darker  dawning  breaks 
O'er  the  chambers  of  the  dead. 
As  with  demon-wrath  endued. 
Fiercely  roars  each  spell-bound  wave  ; 
As  with  heroes'  ashes  strewed, 
Soundless  gapes  each  foamy  grave. 

^*  Rana  in  sea-caverns 

Streeks  our  beds  of  azure ; 

But  the  couch  of  Ing'borg 

Waits  her  weary  wanderer. 

Mariners  undaunted 

Man  the  oared  Ellida ; 

Sea-gods  framed  her  timbers  : 

Still  an  hour  she  bides." 

Now  a  torrent  stream. 
Threatening  instant  wreck, 
Swift  as  lightning  gleam. 
Swept  the  laden  deck. 
Frithiof  fl'om  his  arm  released. 
Three  marks'  weight,  a  solid  ring. 


160 


SWEDISH  POETRY. 


BrillUiit  as  the  glowing  East, 
Relio  of  the  honored  king. 
Portioning,  he  hewed  the  gold, 
Wrought  by  dwarfs  with  artftil  care ; 
Crew  and  fragments  nicelj  told. 
No  one  lacked  his  equal  share. 

<*  Love's  persuasive  herald. 

Gold,  befits  the  suitor ; 

Hands  devoid  of  tribute 

Press  not  tea-green  Rana. 

Cold  she  shuns  fond  ardor, 

Fleeting  flies  caresses, 

Tet  the  burnished  metal 

Seapbride  shall  enchain." 

As  mad  with  defeat. 
It  blows  more  and  more  hard ; 
There  is  bursting  of  sheet. 
There  is  splintering  of  yard. 
0*er  and  o*er  the  half>gulfed  side, 
Flood  succeeding  flood  is  poured ; 
Fast  as  they  expel  the  tide. 
Faster  still  it  rolls  aboard. 
Now  e'en  Frithiof 's  dauntless  mind 
Owned  the  triumph  of  his  foe ; 
Louder  yet  than  wave  and  wind. 
Thus  his  thundering  accents  flow  : 
<*  Haste  and  grasp  the  tiller, 
Bjorn,  with  might  of  bear-paw  ! 
Tempest  so  infuriate 
Comes  not  from  Valhalla. 
Witchcraft  is  a-going ; 
Sure,  the  coward  Helg^ 
Spells  the  raging  billows ! 
Mine  the  charge  to  explore." 

Light  as  marten-tread 
Up  the  pine  he  sprung ; 
From  its  dizzy  head 
Eagle-glances  flung. 
Floating  as  an  isle  loose-torn, 
Lo  !  a  whale's  terrific  form ; 
On  whose  scaly  ridge  upborne. 
Two  fell  demons  rule  the  storm. 
Like  a  shaggy  mammoth,  Heyd 
Shook  his  mane  of  drifting  snow  : 
Ham,  with  ospray  wings  spread  wide, 
Taught  the  tempest  where  to  blow. 
**  Iron-braced  sea-dragon, 
Boots  one  gallant  onset. 
Prove  that  heart  of  prowess 
Tenants  breast  of  oak. 
Hear  my  voice  accordant : 
Boast'st  thou  birth  celestial, 
Up  !  with  ore-edged  bosom 
Qore  the  charmed  whale  !  " 

Chafing,  as  he  spake, 
With  expanded  crest. 
Flew  the  hissing  drake. 
Cleft  the  monster's  breast. 
Burst  e  blood-spout  from  the  wound. 
Mingling  with  the  reeking  clouds. 
Ere  the  beast  in  mire  profound. 
Bellowing,  its  death-strife  shrouds. 


Fate-winged  lances,  two  allied. 
Hurtling  from  their  nervous  rest. 
Pierced  the  Mammoth's  shaggy  hide. 
Pierced  the  Ospray's  plumed  vest. 

«<  Bravely  struck,  Ellida ! 

Not,  I  ween,  so  quickly 

Helg^'s  sloop  emerges 

From  the  bloody  slime. 

Ham  and  Heyd,  its  pilots. 

Keep  the  brine  no  longer ; 

Bitter  is  the  morsel. 

Biting  cold  blue  steel" 

Straight  the  sky  was  cleared ; 
Calmed  the  angry  flood. 
Save  a  swell  that  steered 
Where  .An  island  stood. 
Suddenly  the  orb  of  day. 
Leading  on  its  pageant  train. 
Gladdened  with  reviving  ray 
Vale  and  mountain,  ship  and  plain. 
Snow-capped  cliff  and  wood- veiled  slope 
Shone,  with  parting  radiance  crowned  : 
Instinct  all  with  kindling  hope. 
Hailed  the  strands  of  EQe-sound. 

**  Ing'borg's  prayers  have  risen. 

Maiden  pale,  to  Valhall, 

At  the  golden  altar 

Her  fkir  knees  have  bowed. 

Tears  in  eyes  of  crystal, 

Sighs  in  swandown-bosom. 

Touched  the  obdurate  Asar ; 

Theirs  be  all  the  praise !  " 

Tet  Ellida's  prow 
Rued  the  fierce  affray ; 
Wearily  and  low, 
Ploughed  its  watery  way. 
Still  more  weary  of  the  main, 
Scarce  the  stoutest  of  the  band 
Now  tlieir  toilwom  limbs  sustain. 
Aided  by  the  trusty  brand. 
Of  the  frozen  seamen,  four 
Bjorn 's  gigantic  shoulders  raise ; 
Frithiof 's,  eight ;  and,  borne  to  shore, 
Seat  them  round  the  cheering  blaze. 

«<  Nay,  blush  not,  ye  pale  ones  ! 

Viking,  brave  the  billow ! 

Desperate  is  the  conflict. 

Waged  with  ocean-maids. 

See,  on  hastening  gold-foot 

Moves  the  sparkling  mead-horn. 

Warmth  and  strength  diffusing : 

Health  to  Ingeborg !  " 


CANTO  ZI. 
niTHIOP  AT  THE  COURT  OP  ANOANTTB. 


*T  IS  time  to  tell  how  Angantyr, 
The  earl,  was  seated  then 

High  in  his  hall  of  stately  fir, 
Carousing  with  his  men. 


T£ON£R. 


161 


Thence  he  surveyed,  in  meny  mood. 

The  day-car  aa  it  rolled ; 
Now  cleaTing  tfaroai^h  the  purple  flood. 

All  like  a  awan  of  gold. 

The  window  near,  a  tnistj  twain. 

Old  Halvar,  kept  good  heed ; 
One  eye  upon  the  foamy  main. 

One  on  the  frothy  mead. 
Oft  as  the  Tetenn'i  dole  came  round, 

He  quaffed  till  all  waa  drawn  ; 
Then  straight,  with  gravity  proibuid. 

Replaced  the  exhausted  horn. 

Now  hurled,  it  bounded  on  the  floor, 

Whilst  loud  the  warder  cried, 
«<  The  billows,  laboring  toward  the  shore, 

I  see  a  vessel  ride. 
Wrestling  with  death,  pale  rowers  atrain, 

And  now  they  touch  the  land ; 
And  ghastly  forms,  by  giants  twain. 

Are  strewed  along  the  strand.'* 

The  chieftain  o*er  the  glassy  vale 

Looked  from  his  hall  on  high  : 
**  Ton  pennon  is  Ellida'a  sail ; 

Frithiof,  I  ween,  is  nigh. 
That  noble  port,  that  lofty  brow. 

Old  Thorsten's  son  declares ; 
Such  cognizance,  brave  youth,  as  thou. 

No  gallant  Northman  bears." 

Swift  from  the  bench,  with  maddening  air. 

The  Berserk  Atl^  flew ; 
O'er  whose  gaunt  visage,  gore-stained  hair 

A  sable  horror  threw. 
"  I  haste,*'  he  roared,  ^  intent  to  brava 

This  8word-sabduer*s  spell. 
Who  peace  or  truce  ne*er  deigned  to  erare, 

As  vaunting  rumors  tell.*' 

Then  twice  six  followers  from  the  board 

Rushed  forth  with  fierce  delight ; 
They  whirled  the  club,  they  waved  the  sword. 

Impatient  for  the  fight. 
Thus  storming,  to  the  beach  they  hied. 

Where  Frithiof  on  the  sand 
Seated,  by  spent  £llida*a  side. 

Cheered  his  disheartened  band. 

M  Conquest,"  he  'gan,  with  thundering  voice, 

**  Were  feat  of  light  emprise, 
Tet  generous  AtU  grants  a  choice, 

Ere  luckless  Frithiof  dies. 
For  proffered  peace  deign  once  to  aue. 

Else  all  unwont  to  plead. 
Thy  steps,  myself,  as  comrade  true, 

To  yonder  keep  will  lead." 

**  Though  worn  with  conflict  fell  and  long," 

In  ire,  the  Bold  replied, 
'*  Ere  Frithiof  wear  a  suppliant  tongue. 

Be  the  fresh  battle  tried." 
Then  from  each  sun-burnt  warrior'a  steel 

The  lightning  flashes  came. 
And  Angnrvadel's  runes  reveal 

Dark  fate,  in  signs  of  flame. 

:2i 


Now  on  their  bncklen,  showered  like  hail. 

The  clattering  death-strokes  beat ; 
Till,  cleft  at  once,  each  ahield'a  bossed  mail 

Falls  clanging  at  their  feet. 
Yet,  proof  alike  'gainst  fear  and  ruth, 

They  played  the  desperate  stake ; 
But  keen  was  Angurvadel's  tooth. 

And  Atl^'s  fidchion  brake. 

Said  Frithiof,  •«  Swordless  foeman's  life 

Ne'er  dyed  this  gallant  blade  : 
So,  liat  thee  to  prolong  the  atrife, 

Be  equal  war  essayed." 
Like  billows  driven  by  autumn's  blast, 

The  championa  met  and  closed ; 
In  mutual  clutch  locked  firm  and  flist. 

Their  steel-clad  breasts  opposed. 

They  hugged  like  bean,  that,  wandering  fi«e, 

Meet  on  their  cliff  of  snow ; 
Grappled  like  eagles  o'er  the  sea. 

That  fi«ts  its  waves  below. 
Such  force  had  well-nigh  torn  the  rock. 

Deep-rooted,  fix>m  its  bed ; 
And,  shaken  less,  the  iron  oak 

Had  bowed  its  leafy  head. 

Big  fix>m  their  brows  the  heat-drops  roll. 

Cold  heaves  each  laboring  chest. 
Touched  by  their  tread,  stone,  bush,  and  knoll 

Start  from  their  ancient  rest. 
Trembling,  their  sturdy  followers  wait 

The  issue  of  the  fnj ; 
And  oft  shall  Northern  lips  relate 

The  wrestling  of  that  day. 

'T is  o'er;  for  Frithiof 's  matchless  strength 

Has  felled  his  ponderous  size ; 
And  'neath  that  knee,  a  giant  length, 

Supine  the  Viking  lies. 
*t  But  fails  my  sword,  thou  Berserk  swart !  " 

The  voice  rang  for  and  wide, 
**  Its  point  should  pierce  thy  inmost  heart, 

lU  hilt  should  drink  the  tide.** 

•*  Be  fi«e  to  lift  the  weaponed  hand," 

Undaunted  Atl^  spoke, 
•*  Hence,  fearless  quest  thy  distant  brand ! 

Thus  I  abide  the  stroke : 
To  track  Valhalla's  path  of  light. 

In  arms  immortal  shine,  — 
My  destiny,  perchance,  this  night. 

To-morrow  may  be  thine  !  " 

Nor  Frithiof  long  delayed ;  intent 

To  close  the  dread  debate. 
His  blade  redeemed  'gainst  AtU  bent. 

And  aimed  the  expected  fate. 
But  reckless  courage  holds  a  charm 

Can  kindred  wrath  surcease  ; 
This  quelled  his  ire,  this  checked  his  arm. 

Outstretched  the  hand  of  peace. 

The  warder  growled,  and  eyed  the  cheer, 

Waving  his  staff  of  white  : 
<*  But  little  boots  our  banquet  here. 

That  Hildur's  cates  invite : 

n2 


162 


SWEDISH   POETRY. 


For -you  must  stand  the  savorj  meat 

Untouched  in  reeking  row. 
For  you  theae  lips  be  parched  with  heat, 

Halvar  his  horn  forego." 

Now,  brothers  sworn,  the  former  foes 

Have  passed  the  spacious  gate. 
Whose  yalves  to  Frithiof 's  view  disclose 

Wonders  of  wealth  and  state. 
For  planks,  his  walls'  rude  vest,  scant  aid 

To  exclude  the  piercing  cold. 
Rich  skins  with  glittering  flowers  overlaid, 

Berries  of  pendent  gold. 

No  centra]  balefire  in  the  hall 

With  stifling  splendor  shone ; 
But  glowed  within  the  cavemed  wall 

A  hearth  of  polished  stone. 
No  sooty  clouds  the  roof  defaced, 

The  polished  plank  distained  ; 
Glass  neatly  squared  the  windows  graced ; 

The  door  a  lock  restrained. 

For  torch  of  pine,  whose  crackling  blaze 

Diffused  a  flickering  gleam. 
From  branching  silver  shed,  bright  rays 

Rivalled  the  solar  beam. 
He  saw  the  table's  ample  sweep 

A  larded  hart  adorn. 
With  gold-hoof  raised  for  menaced  leap, 

And  leaf  in  grove  of  horn. 

Behind  the  seated  chief^  serene, 

Appeared  a  virgin-form ; 
So  looks  the  star  of  beauty's  queen, 

Soft,  o'er  a  sky  of  storm. 
There  nut-brown  ringlets  circling  flowed ; 

There  sparkled  eyes  of  blue  ; 
And,  as  a  flower  'midst  runes,  there  glowed 

Small  lips  of  roseate  hue. 

High  on  a  throne  of  ore-clad  elm 

Sat  Angantyr  sedate ; 
Bright  as  the  sun  his  burnished  helm, 

As  bright  his  gilded  plate. 
His  mantle,  rich  with  many  a  gem. 

Strewed  the  bespangled  ground } 
Along  whoae  border's  purple  hem 

The  spotless  ermine  wound. 

He  strode  three  paces  from  the  dais, 

His  gallant  guest  to  greet. 
And  led,  with  many  a  gracious  phrase, 

To  honor's  nearest  seat. 
•*  What  place  a  comrade's  cherished  name 

Might  ask  for  Thorsten's  son 
Is  thine,  brave  youth ;  the  due  of  ftma. 

By  peerless  valor  won." 

Now  flagons  from  Sicilians  store 

Their  treasured  nectar  gave ; 
Not  Etna's  fire  could  sparkle  more. 

More  froth  Charybdis*  vrave. 
**  Come,  pledge  the  memory  of  my  friend, 

Be  welcome  pledged,"  he  said, 
'*  And  let  the  brimming  goblet  blend 

The  living  and  the  dead." 


A  chief  of  Morven's  bards  of  old 

Then  'gan  his  harp  essay ; 
In  Gaelic  numbers  darkly  trolled 

The  wild  heroic  lay. 
He  ceased.    When  straight  the  chords  along 

A  Norrhasne  finger  flies, 
Thorsten.'s  exploits  its  customed  song : 

And  this  obtained  the  prize. 

Now  much  the  curious  earl  would  learn 

Of  friends  and  scenes  of  youth. 
And  well  might  listening  ear  discern 

The  answering  voice  of  truth. 
To  partial  doom  in  vain  esteem 

Or  honest  hate  excites ; 
So  calm,  by  Time's  absorbing  stream. 

Saga  her  tale  indites. 

When  Frithiof  spake  of  hair-breadth  'scape. 

Proved  on  the  watery  plain  ; 
Of  Helg^'s  imps  and  monster  shape. 

Which  ne'er  shall  float  again  : 
Then  laughed  the  champions'  festive  ring. 

Great  Angantyr  then  smiled. 
Whilst  back  the  echoing  rafters  fling 

Plaudits  more  rude  and  wild. 

But  when  he  told  how  dearly  loved 

The  sister  of  his  chief. 
What  tears  her  fond  affection  proved. 

How  noble  in  her  grief; 
Then  deep  sighed  many  a  maiden-breast. 

Love  tinted  many  a  cheek, 
And  many  a  palm  had  ftin  expressed 

What  maiden  may  not  speak. 

At  length  the  youth  his  embassade 

Announced  in  firmer  tone ; 
Each  champion  firowned,  trembled  each  maid, 

Calm  spake  the  earl  alone :  — 
**  No  feudatory  sceptre  mine. 

Free  men  the  free  obey  ; 
Oft  have  we  pledged  Bele's  royal  line, 

But  never  owned  its  sway. 

^  To  those  onknovni,  degenerate  heirs. 

That  tribute-craving  king. 
Bear  back  :  *  The  vassal  count  prepares 

What  offering  warriors  bring. 
Behoves  that  power  should  wait  on  pride :  — 

Tet  was  thy  father  dear.'  " 
He  paused.     His  beck,  her  instant  guide. 

An  elf-like  fi>rm  drew  near. 

The  sandal  *neath  her  foot  was  mute  ; 

Her  frame  the  elastic  sprig ; 
Her  boeom  was  the  rounded  fruit ; 

Her  waist  its  slender  twig. 
Close-nestled  in  her  dimpled  chin. 

Arch  knave,  young  Astrild  lay  ; 
So  lurks  the  honey-fly  within 

The  flower-cup  borne  by  May. 

She,  flitting  through  a  deep  alcove. 

From  its  recesses  drew 
A  purse,  by  maiden  fingers  wove. 

With  scenes  of  various  view. 


TEONER. 


163 


There  deer  enjoyed  the  yerdant  shade ; 

Sails  thronged  the  liquid  lea ; 
Soft  sheaves  of  gold  its  pendants  made ; 

Rubies  supplied  a  key. 

With  filial  air,  this  web  of  price 

To  Angantyr  conveyed. 
He  heaped  with  coin,  whose  stnmge  device 

A  Southern  mint  betrayed. 
«« This  guest-gift  take,"  he  said  benign, 

**  To  render  or  retain ; 
But  here,  till  winter  rules  the  sign. 

Must  Thorsten's  son  remain. 

*t  Though  desperate  valor  oft  avails, 

'T  is  winter's  stormy  tide ; 
It  bears,  believe  me,  on  its  gales. 

Another  Ham  and  Heyd. 
Ellida  with  so  nice  assault 

May  threat  her  ibe  in  vain ; 
And  ocean  in  its  soundless  vault 

Has  whales  in  plenteous  train." 

Whilst  jest  and  social  joys  engage, 

Swift  the  night-watches  fled ; 
Freighted  with  mirth,  not  fraught  with  rage. 

The  golden  goblet  sped ; 
A  health  to  Angantyr  they  shout. 

At  the  close  of  each  regale  : 
And  Frithiof  wears  the  winter  out, 

Ere  swells  Ellida's  sail. 


CANTO  HX. 
frithiof's  temptation. 

Spriko  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  rose- 
buds '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  splendor  is  assembled 

all  the  court ; 
Bows  ring  loud,  and  quivers  rattle,  stallions 

paw  the  ground  alway. 
And,  with   hoods  upon  their  eyelids,  fidcons 

scream  aloud  for  prey. 

See,  the  queen  of  the  chase  adTanees !  Fri- 
thiof, gaze  not  on  the  sight ! 

Like  a  star  upon  a  spring-cloud  sits  she  on  her 
palfivy  white. 

Half  of  Freya,^  half  of  Rota,*  yet  more  beau- 
teous than  these  two. 

And  from  her  light  hat  of  purple  wave  aloft 
the  feathers  blue. 


X  The  goddam  of  Love  and  Baaoty. 
s  One  of  the  Yslkyries. 


Now  the  huntsman's  band  is  ready.     Hurrah  ! 

over  hill  and  dale ! 
Horns  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,  afUr 

them  Valkyria  '  comes. 


Then  threw  Frithiof  down  his  mantle,  and 
upon  the  greensward  spread. 

And  the  ancient  king  so  trustfUl  laid  on  Fri- 
thiof *s  knee  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  aims. 

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  defence- 
less old  man  slay  ? 

Whatsoe'er  thou  winn'st,  thou  canst  not  win  a 
hero's  feme  this  way." 

Thus  the  two  wood-birds  did  warble  ;  Frithiof 

took  his  war-sword  good, 
With  a  shudder  hurled  it  from  him,  fer  into 

the  gloomy  wood. 
Coal-black  bird  flies  down  to  Nastrand ;  *  but  on 

light  unfolded  wings. 
Like  Uie  tone  of  harps,  the  other,  sounding 

towards  the  sun  upsprings. 

Straight  the  ancient  king  awakens.  **  Sweet 
has  been  my  sleep,"  he  said  ; 

*•*•  Pleasantly  sleeps  one  in  the  shadow,  guarded 
by  a  brave  man's  blade. 

But  where  is  thy  sword,  O  stranger  ?  Light- 
ning's brother,  where  is  he  f 

Who  thus  parts  you,  who  should  never  from 
each  other  parted  be  ?  " 

« It  avails  not,"  Frithiof  answered ;  "  in  the 

North  are  other  swords  ; 
Sharp,  O  monarch,  is  the  sword's  tongue,  and 

it  speaks  not  peaceful  words. 
Murky  spirits  dwell  in  steel-blades,  spirits  from 

the  Niffelhem, 
Slumber  is  not  safe  before  them,  silver  locks 

but  anger  them." 


s  The  YaUcTilee  sra  celestial  virgins,  who  bear  off  the 
soals  of  the  slain  In  battle. 

4  The  Sliand  of  Oorpses;  a  ngion  in  the  Niflblhem,  or 
Scandinarian  HelL 


164 


SWEDISH  POETRY. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER. 

Pkittxcost,  day  of  rejoicing,  bad  come.    The 

church  of  the  village 
Stood  gleaming  white  in  the  morning's  aheen. 

On  the  spire  of  the  belfry. 
Tipped  with  a  vane  of  metal,  the  friendly  flames 

of  the  Bpring-sun 
Glanced   like   the   tongues  of  fire   beheld  by 

Apostles  aforetime. 
Clear  was  the  heaven  and  blue,  and  May,  with 

her  cap  crowned  with  roses. 
Stood  in  her  holiday  dress  in  the  fields,  and  the 

wind  and  the  brooklet 
Murmured   gladness  and  peace,  God's-peace  ! 

With  lips  rosy-tinted 
Whispered  the  race  of  the  flowers,  and  merry 

on  balancing  branches 
Birds  were  singing  their  carol,  a  jubilant  hymn 

to  the  Highest. 
Swept  and  clean  was  the  charch-yard.  Adorned 

like  a  leaf^  woven  arbor 
Stood  its  old-fashioned  gate ;  and  within  upon 

each  cross  of  iron 
Hung  was  a  sweet-scented  garland,  new-twined 

by  the  hands  of  afiection. 
Even  the  dial,  that  stood  on  a  fountain  among 

the  departed 
(There  fiill  a  hundred  years  had  it  stood),  was 

embellished  with  blossoms. 
Like  to  the  patriarch  hoary,  the  sage  of  his  kith 

and  the  hamlet, 
Who  on  his  birth-day  is  crowned  by  children 

and  children's  children. 
So  stood  the  ancient  prophet,  and  mute  with 

his  pencil  of  iron 
Marked  on  the  tablet  of  stone,  and  measured 

the  swift-changing  moment. 
While  all  around,  at  his  feet,  an  eternity  slum- 
bered in  quiet 
Also  the  church  within  was  adorned,  fi>r  this 

was  the  season 
In  which  the  young,  their  parents*  hope,  and 

the  loved-ones  of  Heaven, 
Should  at  the  foot  of  the  altar  renew  the  tows 

of  their  baptism. 
Therefore  each  nook  and   comer  were  swept 

and  cleaned,  and  the  dost  was 
Blown  from  the  walls  and  ceiling,  and  from  the 

oil-painted  benches. 
There   stood  the  church   like  a  garden;    the 

Feast  of  the  Leafy  Pavilions  ^ 
Saw  we  in   living  presentment     From  noble 

arms  on  the  church  wall 
Grew  forth  a  cluster  of  leaves,  and  the  preach- 
er's pulpit  of  oak-wood 
Budded  once  more  anew,  as  aforetime  the  rod 

before  Aaron. 
Wreathed  thereon  was  the  Bible  with  leaves, 

and  the  dove,  washed  with  silver. 
Under  its  canopy  fastened,  a  necklace  had  on 

of  wind-flowers. 

1  The  Feast  of  the  TeberiMdae ;  In  Swednh,  lAjhyddO' 
hsgtukn,  the  Lesfhnts'high-tide. 


But  in  front  of  the  choir,  round  the  altar-piece 

painted  by  Horberg,* 
Crept  a  garland   gigantic;   and  brightFcarling 

tresses  of  angels 
Peeped,  like  the  sun  from  a  cloud,  out  of  the 

shadowy  leaf-work. 
Likewise   the    lustre   of  brass,   new-polished, 

blinked  from  the  ceiling. 
And  for  lights  there  were  liUes  of  Pentecost  set 

in  the  sockets. 

Loud  rang  the  bells  already ;  the  thronging 

crowd  was  assembled 
Far  from  valleys  and  hills,  to  list  to  the  holy 

preaching. 
Hark  !  then  roll  forth  at  once  the  mighty  tones 

firom  the  organ. 
Hover  like  voices  firom  God,  aloft,  like  invisible 

spirits. 
Like  as  Elias  in  heaven,  when  he  cast  off  firom 

him  his  mantle. 
Even  so  cast  off  the  sonl  its  garments  of  earth ; 

and  with  one  voice 
Chimed  in  the  congregation,  and  sang  an  anthem 

immortal 
Of  the  sublime  Wallln,  of  David's  harp  in  the 

North-land, 
Tuned  to  the  choral  of  Lather ;  the  song  on  its 

powerful  pinions 
Took  every  living  soul,  and  liAed  it  gently  to 

heaven. 
And  every  fkce  did  shine  like  the  Holy  One's 

face  upon  Tabor. 
Lo !    there  entered  then  into  the  church  the 

reverend  teacher. 
Father  he  hight,  and  he  was,  in  the  parish  ;  a 

Christianly  plainness 
Clothed  from  his  head  to  his  feet  the  old  man 

of  seventy  winters. 
Friendly  was  he  to  behold,  and  glad  as  the 

heralding  angel 
Walked  he  among  the  crowds ;  but  still  a  con- 
templative grandeur 
Lay  on  his  forehead,  as  clear  as  on  moss-covered 

gravestone  a  sunbeam. 
As,  in  his  inspiration  (an  evening  twilight  that 

faintly 
Gleams  in  the  human  soul,  even  now,  from  the 

day  of  creation). 
The  Artist,  the  friend  of  Heaven,  imagines  Saint 

John  when  in  Patmos, 
Gray,  with   his   eyes   uplifted   to   heaven,  so 

seemed  then  the  old  man ; 
Snch  was  the  glance  of  his  eye,  and  such  were 

his  tresses  of  silver. 
All  the  congregation  arose  in  the  pews  that 

were  numbered ; 
Bat  with  a  cordial  look,  to  the  fight  and  the 

left  hand,  the  old  man, 
Nodding  all  hail  and  peace,  disappeared  in  the 

innermost  chancel. 


s  The  pessant-palntor  of  Swedea.    He  is  known  ebMlj 
bf  hie  alur-piecei  In  the  village  churches. 


TEONER. 


165 


Simply  and  solemnly  now  proeaoded  the 

Chriitian  seirice, 
Sin^nf  and  prayer,  and  at  Uat  an  ardent  dia- 

coarse  firom  the  old  man. 
Many  a  moring  word  and  waminf,  that  oat  of 

the  heart  came, 
Fell  like  the  dew  <^  the  morning,  Uke  manna 

on  thoee  in  the  desert. 
Afterwards,  when  all  was  finished,  the  teacher 

reentered  the  chancel. 
Followed  therein  hy  the  yoong.     On  the  right 

hand  the  hoys  had  their  placea, 
I>elicate  figares,  with  eloae-corling  hair  and 

cheeks  rosy-blooming ; 
But  on  the  left  hand  of  thes^,  there  stood  the 

tremulous  lilies, 
Tinged  with  the  blushing  light  of  the  morning, 

the  diffident  maidens,  — 
Folding  their  hands  in  prayer,  and  their  eyes 

cast  down  on  the  pavement. 
Now  came,  with  question  and  answer,  the  cate- 
chism.    In  the  beginning 
Answered  the  children  with  troubled  and  fid^ 

tering  voice,  but  the  old  man's 
Glances  of  kindness  encouraged  them  soon, 

and  the  doctrines  eternal 
Flowed,  like  the  waters  of  Ibantains,  so  clear 

from  lips  unpolluted. 
Whene'er  the  answer  was  dosed,  and  aa  oft  as 

they  named  the  Redeemer, 
Lowly  looted  the  boys,  and  lowly  the  maideos 

all  conrtesied. 
friendly  the  teacher  stood,  like  an  angel  of 

light  there  among  them. 
And  to  the  children  explained  he  the  holy,  the 

highest,  in  few  words, 
Thorough,  yet  simple  and  clear ;  for  snblimity 

always  is  simple. 
Both  in  sermon  and  song,  a  child  can  seise  on 

its  meaning. 
Even   as  the  green-growing  bud  is  unfolded 

when  spring-tide  approaches, 
Leaf  by  leaf  is  developed,  and,  warmed  by  the 

radiant  sunshine. 
Blushes  with  purple  and  gold,  till  at  last  the 

perfected  blossom 
Opens  its  odorous  chalice,  and  rocks  with  its 

crown  in  the  breezes, — 
So  was  unfolded  here  the  Christian  lore  of  sal- 
vation, 
Line  by  line,  from  the  soul  of  childhood.    The 

lathers  and  mothers 
Stood  behind  them  in  tears,  and  were  glad  at 

each  well  worded  answer. 

Now  went  the  old  man  op  to  the  altar ;  — 
and  straightway  transfigured 

(So  did  it  seem  unto  me)  was  then  the  affec- 
tionate teacher. 

Like  the  Lord's  prophet  sublime,  and  awful  as 
Death  and  as  Judgment, 

Stood  he,  the  God-commissioned,  the  soul- 
searcher,  earthward  descending. 

Glances,  sharp  as  a  sword,  into  hearta,  that  to 
him  were  transparent, 


Shot  he ;  his  voice  was  deep,  was  low  like  the 

thunder  afitf  off. 
So  on  a  sadden  transfigured  he  stood  there,  he 

spake  and  he  questioned. 

«<This  is  the  faith  of  the  Fathers,  the  feith 

the  Apostles  delivered ; 
This  is,  moreover,  the  feith  whereonto  I  baptized 

you,  while  still  ye 
Lay  on  your  mothers*  breasts,  and  nearer  the 

portds  of  heaven. 
Slumbering  received  you  then  the  Holy  Church 

in  its  bosom } 
Wakened  from  sleep  are  ye  now,  and  the  light 

in  its  radiant  splendor 
Rains  from  the  heaven  downward  ;^->  to-day 

on  the  threshold  of  childhood 
Kindly  she  frees  you  again,  to  examine  and 

make  your  election, 
For  she  knows  naught  of  compalsion,  only 

conviction  desireth. 
This  is  the  hour  of  your  trial,  the  turning-point 

of  existence. 
Seed  for  the  coming  days ;  without  revocation 

departeth 
Now  fiit>m  your  lips  the  confession;    bethink 

ye  before  ye  make  answer  ! 
Think  not,  O,  think  not  with  guile  to  deceive 

the  questioning  teacher ! 
Sharp  is  his  eye  to-day,  and  a  corse  ever  rests 

upon  fidsehood. 
Enter  not  with  a  lie  on  life's  journey;  the 

mnltitnde  hears  you. 
Brothers  and  sisters  and  parents,  what  dear 

open  earth  is  and  holy 
Standeth  before  your  sight  as  a  witness ;   the 

Judge  Everlasting 
Looks  from  the  sun  down  upon  yon,  and  angels 

in  waiting  beside  him 
Grave  your  confession,  in  letters  of  fire,  upon 

tablets  eternal. 
Thus,  then, — believe  ye  in  God,  in  the  Father 

who  this  world  created  ? 
Him  who  redeemed  it,  the  Son  ?  and  the  Spirit 

where  both  are  united  ? 
Will  ye  promise  me  here  (a  holy  promise ! )  to 

cherish 
GU>d  more  than  all  things  earthly,  and  every 

man  as  a  brother  ? 
Will  ye  promise  me  here  to  confirm  your  feith 

by  your  living,  — 
The  heavenly  feith  of  affection? — to  hope,  to 

forgive,  and  .to  suffer. 
Be  what  it  may  your  condition,  and  walk  before 

€k>d  in  uprightness  ? 
Will  ye  promise  rae  this  before  God  and  man  ?  " 

— With  a  clear  voice 
Answered  the  young  men.  Yes !  and  Tes !  with 

lips  softly-breathing 
Answered  the  maidens  eke.     Then  dissolved 

from  the  brow  of  the  teacher 
Clouds  with  the  thunders  therein,  and  he  spake 

on  in  accents  more  gentle. 
Soft  as  the  evening's  breath,  as  harps  by  Baby- 
lon's rivers. 


166 


SWEDISH   POETRY. 


"  Hail,  then,  hail  to  you  all !     To  tho  heir- 
dom of  heaven  be  ye  welcome  ! 
Children  no  more  from  this  day,  but  by  coye- 

nant  brothers  and  sisters  ! 
Tet,  —  for  what  reason  not  children  ?     Of  such 

is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 
Here  upon  earth  an  assemblage  of  children,  in 

heaven  one  Father, 
Ruling  them  as  his  own  household,  —  forgiving 

in  turn  and  chastising : 
That  is  of  human  life  a  picture,  as  Scripture 

has.  taught  us. 
Blessed  are  the  pure  before  God !    Upon  purity 

and  upon  virtue 
Resteth  the  Christian  Faith ;  she  herself  from 

on  high  is  descended. 
Strong  as  a  man  and  pure  as  a  child,  is  the  sum 

of  the  doctrine 
Which  the  Godlike  delivered,  and  on  the  cross 

suffered  and  died  for. 
O,   as    ye  wander  this  day  from  childhood's 

sacred  asylum 
Downward  and  ever  downward,  and  deeper  in 

Age's  chill  valley, 
O,  how  soon  will  ye  come,  —  too  soon !  —  and 

long  to  turn  backward 
Up  to  its  hill-tops  again,  to  the  sun-illumined, 

where  Judgment 
Stood  like  a  father  before  you,  and  Fardon,  clad 

like  a  mother. 
Gave  you  her  hand  to  kiss,  and  the  loving 

heart  was  forgiven, 
Life  was  a  play,  and  your  hands  grasped  after 

the  roses  of  heaven  ! 
Seventy  years  have  I  lived  already ',  the  Father 

Eternal 
Guve  to  me  gladness  and  care ;  but  the  loveliest 

hours  of  existence. 
When  I  have  steadfastly  gazed  in  their  eyes,  I 

have  instantly  known  them. 
Known  them  all,  all  again ;  —  they  were  my 

childhood's  acquaintance. 
Therefore  take,  from  henceforth,  as  guides  in 

the  paths  of  existence. 
Prayer,  with  her  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  and 

Innocence,  bride  of  man's  childhood. 
Innocence,  child  beloved,  b  a  guest  from  the 

world  of  the  blessed. 
Beautiful,  and  in  her  hand  a  lily ;    on  life's 

roaring  billows 
Swings  she  in  safety,  she  heedeth  them  not,  in 

the  ship  she  is  sleeping. 
Calmly  she  gazes  around  in  the  turmoil  of  men ; 

in  the  desert 
Angels  descend  and  minister  unto  her;    she 

herself  knoweth 
Naught  of  her  glorious  attendance ;  but  follows 

faithful  and  humble, 
Follows,  so  long  as  she  may,  her  fnend  ;  O,  do 

not  reject  her. 
For  she  cometh  from  God,  and  she  holdeth  the 

keys  of  the  heavens. — 
Prayer  is  Innocence*  friend  ;  and  willingly  fly- 

eth  incessant 


'Twixt  the  earth  and  the  sky,  the  carrier-pigeon 

of  heaven. 
Son  of  Eternity,  fettered  in  Time,  and  an  exile, 

the  spirit 
Tugs  at  his  chains  evermore,  and  struggles  like 

flames  ever  upward. 
Still  he  recalls  with  emotion  his  Father's  mani- 
fold mansions, 
Thinks  of  the  land  of  his  fathers,  where  blos- 
somed more  freshly  the  flowers. 
Shone  a  more  beautiful   sun,  and  he  played 

with  the  winged  angels. 
Then  grows  the  etuth  too  narrow,  too  close ;  and 

homesick  for  heaven 
Longs  the  wanderer  again;    and  the   spirit's 

longings  are  worship ; 
Worship  is  called  his  most  beautiful  hour,  and 

its  tongue  is  entreaty. 
Ah  !  when  the  infinite  burden  of  life  descend- 

eth  upon  us. 
Crushes  to  earth  our  hope,  and,  under  the  earth, 

in  the  grave-yard,  — 
Then  it  is  good  to  pray  unto  God  ;  for  his  sor- 
rowing children 
Turns  he  ne'er  from  bis  door,  but  he  heals  and 

helps  and  consoles  them. 
Yet  is  it  better  to  pray  when  all  things  are  pros- 
perous with  us. 
Pray  in  fortunate  days,  for  life's  most  beautiful 

Fortune 
Kneels  down  before  the  Eternal's  throne ;  and, 

with  hands  interfolded. 
Praises  thankflil  and  moved  the  only  giver  of 

blessings. 
Or  do  ye  know,  ye  children,  one  blessing  that 

comes  not  from  Heaven  ? 
What  has  mankind  forsooth,  the  poor  !  that  it 

has  not  received  ? 
Therefore  fall  in  the  dust  and  pray  !     The  ser- 
aphs adoring 
Cover  with  pinions  six  their  foce  in  the  glory 

of  him  who 
Hung  his  masonry  pendent  on  naught,  when 

the  world  he  created. 
Earth  declareth  his  might,  and  the  firmament 

uttereth  his  glory. 
Races  blossom  and  die,  and  stars  fidl  downward 

from  heaven. 
Downward  like  withered  leaves;  at  the  last 

stroke  of  midnight,  millenniums 
Lay  themselves  down  at  his  foet,  and  be  sees 

them,  but  counts  them  as  nothing. 
Who  shall  stand  in  his  presence  ?     'The  wrath 

of  the  Judge  is  terrific. 
Casting  the  insolent  down  at  a  glance.     When 

he  speaks  in  his  anger, 
Hillocks  skip  like  the  kid,  and  mountains  leap 

like  the  roe-buck. 
Yet,  why  are  ye  afraid,  ye  children.'     This 

awful  avenger. 
Ah  !  is  a  merciful  God  !  God's  voice  was  not 

in  the  earthquake. 
Not  in  the  fire  nor  the  storm,  but  it  was  in  the 

whispering  breezes. 


TEONER. 


167 


Love  is  the  root  of  creation, -->  God 't  eeeence ; 

worlds  without  number 
Lie  in  his  bosom  like  children ;  he  made  them 

for  this  purpose  only. 
Onlj  to  love  and  to  be  loved  again,  he  breathed 

forth  his  Spirit 
Into  the  slumbering  dust,  and  upright  standing, 

it  laid  its 
Hand  on  its  heart,  and  felt  it  was  warm  with  a 

flame  out  of  heaven. 
Quench,  O,  quench  not  that  flame !     It  is  the 

breath  of  your  being. 
Love  is  life,  but  hatred  is  death.     Not  ftther, 

nor  mother 
Loved  jou  as  God  has  loved  you ;  for  't  was 

that  you  may  be  happy 
(Save  he  his  only  Son.    When  he  bowed  down 

his  head  in  the  death-hour. 
Solemnized  Love  its  triumph ;  the  sacrifice  then 

was  completed. 
Lo  !  then  was  rent  on  a  sodden  the  vail  of  the 

temple,  dividing  ^ 

Earth  and  heaven  apart ;  and  the  dead,  firom 

their  sepulchres  rising, 
Whispered  with  pallid  lips  and  low  in  the  ean 

of  each  other 
The  answer,  but  dreamed  of  before,  to  creation's 

enigma,  —  Atonement ! 
Depths  of  Love  are  Atonement's  depths,  for 

Love  is  Atonement. 
Therefore,  child  of  mortality,  love  thou  the  mer- 
ciful Father ; 
Wish  what  the  Holy  One  wishes,  and  not  fiom 

fear,  but  afiection  ;  — 
Fear  is  the  virtue  of  slaves ;  but  the  heart  that 

loveth  is  willing ; 
Perfect  was,  before  God,  and  perfect  is  Love, 

and  Love  only. 
Lovest  thou  God  as  thou  oughtest,  then  lovest 

thou  likewise  thy  brethren ; 
One  is  the  son  in  heaven,  and  one,  only  one, 

is  Love  also. 
Bears  not  each  human  figure  the  godlike  stamp 

on  his  forehead  ? 
Readest  thou  not  in  his  fiice  thine  origin .'    Is 

he  not  sailing. 
Lost  like  thyself^  on  an  ocean  unknown,  and  is 

he  not  guided 
By   the   same   stars   that  guide   thee  ?     Why 

shonldst  thou  hate,  then,  thy  brother  ? 
Hateth  he  thee,  forgive !     For  't  is  sweet  to 

stammer  one  letter 
Of  the  Eternal's  language ;  — on  earth  it  is  call- 
ed Forgiveness  ! 
Knowest  thou   Him   who   forgave,  with  the 

crown  of  thorns  round  his  temples  ^ 
Earnestly  prayed  for  his  foes,  for  his  murder- 
ers ?     Say,  dost  thou  know  him  ? 
Ah  !  thou  confessest  hu  name,  so  follow  like- 
wise his  example ; 
Think  of  thy  brother  no  ill,  but  throw  a  veil 

over  his  failings ; 
Guide   the   erring   aright;    for  the  good,  the 

heavenly  Shepherd 


Took  the  lost  lamb  in  his  arms,  and  bore  it 

back  to  its  mother. 
This  is  the  fhiit  of  Love,  and  it  is  by  its  fruits 

that  we  know  it. 
Love  is  the  creature's  welfare,  with  God ;  but 

Love  among  mortals 
Is  but  an  endless  sigh  !   He  longs,  and  endures, 

and  stands  waiting, 
Sofferi  and  yet  rejoices,  and  smiles  with  tears 

on  his  eyelids. 
Hope,-->so  is  called   npon   earth   his  recom- 
pense,—  Hope,  the  befriending, 
Does  what  she  can,  for  she  points  evermore  up 

to  heaven,  and  faithful 
Plunges  her  anchor's  peak  in  the  depths  of  the 

grave,  and  beneath  it 
Paints  a  more  beautiful  world,  a  dim,  but  a 

sweet  play  of  shadows  ! 
Races,  better  than   we,  have   leaned  on  her 

wavering  promise. 
Having  naught  else  beside  Hope.     Then  praise 

we  our  Father  in  heaven. 
Him  who  has  given  as  more ;  for  to  us  has 

Hope  been  illumined. 
Groping  no  longer  in  night ;  she  is  Faith,  she 

is  living  assurance. 
Faith  is  enlightened  Hope ;  she  is  light,  is  the 

eye  of  afiection. 
Dreams  of  the  longing  interprets,  and  carves 

their  visions  in  marble. 
Faith  is  the  sun  of  lifo  ;  and  her  countenance 

shines  like  the  Prophet's, 
For  she  has  looked  upon  God ;  the  heaven  on 

its  stable  foundation 
Draws  she  with  chains  down  to  earth,  and  the 

New  Jerusalem  sinketh 
Splendid  with  portals  twelve  in  golden  vapon 

descending. 
There  enraptured  she  wanders,  and  looks  at  the 

figures  majestic, 
Fears  not  the  winged  crowd ;  in  the  midst  of 

them  all  is  her  homestead. 
Therefore  love   and   believe;   for  works  will 

follow  spontaneous. 
Even  as  day  does  the  sun ;  the  Right  from  the 

Good  is  an  oflfspring. 
Love  in  a  bodily  shape ;  and  Christian  works 

are  no  more  than 
Animate  Love  and  Faith,  as  flowers  are  the  ani- 
mate spring-tide. 
Works  do  follow  us  all  unto  God ;  there  stand 

and  bear  witness 
Not  what  they  seemed,  —  but  what  they  were, 

only.     Blessed  is  he  who 
Hears  their  confession  secure ;  they  are  mute 

upon  earth,  until  Death's  hand 
Opens  the  mouth  of  the  silent.     Te  children, 

does  Death  e'er  alarm  you  ? 
Death  is  the  brother  of  Love,  twin-brother  is 

he,  and  is  only 
More  austere  to  behold.    With  a  kiss  upon  lips 

that  are  fading 
Takes  he  the  soul  and  departs,  and,  rocked  in 

the  arms  of  afiection. 


168 


SWEDISH    POETRY. 


PUcM  the  ranaomed  child,  new-born,  Tore  the 

face  of  iu  Father. 
Sounda  of  hia  coming  already  I  hear,^-aee 

dimly  hb  piniona, 
Swart  aa  the  night,  but  with  atara  atrewn  upon 

them  !     I  fear  not  before  him. 
Death  ia  only  releaae,  and  in  mercy  la  mate. 

On  hia  boaom 
Freer  breathea,  in  ita  coolneaa,  my  breaat ;  and, 

face  to  face  atanding, 
Look  I  on  Ood  aa  he  ia,  a  aun  unpolluted  by 

vapora ; 
Look  on  the  light  of  the  agea  I  loved,  the 

apirita  majestic, 
Nobler,  better  than  I ;  they  atand  by  the  throne 

all  transfigured, 
Veated  in  white,  and  with  harpa  of  gold,  and 

are  singing  an  anthem. 
Writ  in  the  climate  of  heayen,  in  the  language 

spoken  by  angels. 
Tou,  in  like  manner,  ye  children  beloyed,  he 

one  day  ahall  gather, 
Neyer  forgets  he  the  weary ;  —  then  welcome, 

ye  loved  ones,  hereafter  ! 
Meanwhile  forget  not  the  keeping  of  rowa, 

forget  not  the  promiae  ; 
Wander  from  holinesa  onward  to  holinesa ;  earth 

ahall  ye  heed  not ; 
Earth  is  but  dust,  and  heaven  is  light ;  I  have 

pledged  you  to  heaven. 
God  of  the  Univerae,  hear  me !  thou  Fountain 

of  Love  everlaating. 
Hark  to  the  voice  of  thy  servant !     I  aend  up 

my  prayer  to  thy  heaven ! 
Let  me  hereafter  not  miaa  at  thy  throne  one 

apirit  of  all  theae 
Whom  thou  haat  given  me  here !    I  have  loved 

them  all  like  a  father. 
May  they  bear  witneaa  for  me,  that  I  taught 

them  the  way  of  aalvation. 
Faithful,  ao  far  aa  I  knew  of  thy  word ;  again 

may  they  know  me. 
Fall  on  their  teacher's  breaat,  and  before  thy 

face  may  I  place  them 
Pure  aa  they  now  are,  but  only  more  tried,  and 

exclaiming  with  gladneaa, 
*  Father,  lo !  I  am  here,  and  the  children,  whom 

thou  haat  given  me !  *  " 

Weeping,  he  spake  in   theae  worda ;    and 

now,  at  the  beck  of  the  old  man. 
Knee  againat  knee  they  knitted  a  wreath  round 

the  altar *a  enclosure. 
Kneeling,  he  read  then  the  prmyera  of  the  con- 

aecration,  and  aofUy 
With  him  the  children  read ;  at  the  cloae,  with 

tremoloua  accenta, 
Aaked  he  the  peace  oif  Heaven,  a  benediction 

open  them.-^ 
Now  ahottid  have  ended  hia  taak  lor  the  day  ; 

the  following  Sunday 
Waa  for  the  young  appointed  to  eal  of  the 

Lord*a  holy  Sapper. 
Sadd«n,  aa  atiuck  from  the  cloada,  atood  the 

teecher  silent,  and  laid  hia 


Hand  on  hia  forehead,  and  caat  hia  looks  up- 
ward ;  while  thoughta  high  and  holy 

Flew  through  the  midst  of  hia  soul,  and  his 
eyes  glanced  with  wonderful  brightness. 

t^On  the  next  Sunday,  —  who  knowa.' —  per- 
hapa  I  shall  rest  in  the  grave-yard ! 

Some  one  perhapa  of  youraelvea,  a  lily  broken 
untimely, 

Bow  down  hia  head  to  the  earth !  Why  delay 
I  ?  The  hour  is  accomplished ; 

Warm  ia  the  heart.  I  will  ao  !  for  to-day  grows 
the  harveat  of  heaven. 

What  I  began  accomplish  I  now ;  for  what  fail- 
ing therein  is 

I,  the  old  man,  will  answer  to  God  and  the 
reverend  father. 

Say  to  me  only,  ye  children,  ye  denizena  new- 
come  in  heaven. 

Are  ye  ready  thia  day  to  eat  of  the  bread  of 
Atonement  ? 

What  it  denoteth,  that  know  ye  full  well,  I 
have  told  it  you  often. 

Of  the  new  covenant  a  aymbol  it  ia,  of  Atone- 
ment a  token, 

'Stabliahed  between  earth  and  heaven.  Man 
by  hia  sins  and  transgressions 

Far  haa  wandered  from  God,  from  hia  eaaence. 
'T  was  in  the  beginning 

Faat  by  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  he  fell,  and  it 
hangs  ita  crown  o'er  the 

Fall  to  this  day ;  in  the  Thought  ia  the  Fall ; 
in  the  Heart  the  Atonement. 

Infinite  ia  the  Fall,  the  Atonement  infinite  like- 
wise. 

See  !  behind  me,  aa  far  aa  the  old  man  remem- 
bers, and  forward. 

Far  aa  Hope  in  her  flight  can  reach  with  her 
wearied  piniona. 

Sin  and  Atonement  inceaaant  go  through  the 
lifetime  of  mortals. 

Brought  forth  is  Sin  full-grown ;  but  Atonement 
sleeps  in  our  bosoms. 

Still  as  the  cradled  babe ;  and  dreama  of  heav- 
en and  of  angela. 

Cannot  awake  to  aenaation ;  ia  like  the  tones 
in  the  harp's  strings. 

Spirits  impriaoned,  that  wait  evermore  the  de- 
liverer's finger. 

Therefore,  ye  children  beloved,  descended  the 
Prince  of  Atonement, 

Woke  the  alumberer  from  aleep,  and  ahe  atands 
now  with  eyes  all  reaplendent. 

Bright  aa  the  vault  of  the  aky,  and  battles  with 
Sin  and  o'ercomea  her. 

Downward  to  earth  he  came  and  tranafignred, 
thence  reaacended ; 

Not  from  the  heart  in  like  wiae,  for  there  he 
still  livea  in  the  Spirit, 

Lovea  and  atonea  evermore.  So  long  aa  lime 
ia,  ia  Atonement. 

Therefore  with  reverence  receive  this  day  her 
viaible  token. 

Tokena  are  dead,  if  the  thinga  do  not  live.  The 
light  everlaating 


TEONER. 


169 


Unto  the  blind  man  if  not,  but  b  bom  of  the 

eye  that  has  vision. 
Neither  in  bread  nor  in  wine,  but  in  the  heart 

that  is  hallowed, 
I*ieth  forgiTeness  enshrined;  the  intentioa  alone 

of  amendment 
Fmits  of  the  earth  ennobles  to  heavenly  things, 

and  removes  all 
Sin  nnd  the  guerdon  of  sin.    Only  htm  with 

his  arms  wide  extended, 
Penitence  weeping  and  praying,  the  Will  that 

is  tried,  and  whose  gold  flows 
Purified  fi>rth  firom  the  flames;  in  a  word,  man- 
kind by  Atonement 
Breaketh   Atonement's    bread,    and    drinketh 

Atonement's  wine-cup. 
But  he  who  cometh  up  hither,  unworthy,  with 

hate  in  his  bosom, 
Scoffing  at  men  and  at  God,  is  guilty  of  Christ's 

blessed  body 
And  the  Redeemer's  blood !     To  himself  he 

eateth  and  drinketh 
Death  and  doom  !     And  firom  this  praserve  us, 

thou  heavenly  Father ! 
Are  ye  ready,  ye  children,  tO  eat  of  the  bread 

of  Atonement.'" 
Thus  with  emotion  he  aaked,  and  together  an- 
swered the  children. 
Yes  !  with  deep  sobs  interrupted.    Then  read 

he  the  due  supplioations. 
Read  the  Form  of  Communion,  and  in  chimed 

the  organ  and  anthem  : 
**  O  Holy  Lamb  of  God,  who  takest  away  our 

transgressions. 
Hear  us !  give  us  thy  peace !  have  mercy,  have 

mercy  upon  us !  " 
The  old  man,  with  trembling  hand,  and  heav- 
enly pearls  on  his  eyelids, 
raied  now  the  chalice  and  paten,  and  dealt 

round  the  mystical  symbols. 
O,  then  seemed  it  to  me,  as  if  Ood,  with  the 

broad  eye  of  mid-day, 
Clearer  looked  in  at  the  windows,  and  all  the 

trees  in  the  churchyard 
Bowed  down  their  summits  of  green,  and  die 

grass  on  the  graves  'gan  to  shiver ! 
But  in  the  children  (I  noted  it  well ;  I  knew 

it)  there  ran  a 
Tremor  of  holy  rapture  along  through  their 

icy-cold  members. 
Decked  like  an  altar  before  them,  there  stood 

the  green  earth,  and  above  it 
Heaven  opened  itself^  as  of  old  beibre  Stephen; 

there  ww  they 
Radiant  in  glory  the  Father,  and  on  his  right 

hand  the  Redeemer. 
Under  them  hear  they  the  clang  of  harpetrings, 

and  angels  fifom  gold  clouds 
Beekon  to  them  like  brothers,  and  fim  with 

their  pinions  of  purple. 

Closed  was  the   teacher's  task,  and  with 
heaven  in  their  hearti  and  their  ftces 
Up  rose  the  children  all,  and  each  bowed  him, 
weeping  full  sorely, 
9a 


Downward  to  kiss  that  reverend  hand ;  but  all 
of  them  pressed  he. 

Moved,  to  his  bosom,  and  laid,  with  a  prayer, 
his  hands  full  of  blessings. 

Now  on  the  holy  breast,  and  now  on  the  inno- 
cent treves. 

EnSACTB  FROM  AXEL. 
THE  TSTERAM. 

I  LOVK  the  old  heroic  times 

Of  Charles  the  Twelfth,  our  country's  glory, 
And  deem  them  fittest  for  the  scenes 

Of  stem  or  tender  story ; 
For  he  was  blithe  as  Peace  may  be. 
Yet  boisterous  as  Victory. 
Even  now,  on  high,  there  glide. 
Up  and  down,  at  eventide, 
Mighty  men,  like  those  of  old. 
With  firocks  of  blue  and  belu  of  gold. 
O,  reverently  I  gaze  upon 

Those  soldier  spirits  clad  in  light. 
And  hold  as  things  most  wonderibl 

Their  coats  of  buff  and  swords  of  giant  height ! 

One  of  his  oldest  veterans 

I  knew  before  my  boyhood's  prime ; 
He  seemed  like  some  triumphal  pillar. 

Undermined  by  Time. 
The  scars  along  his  forehead  were 
Like  sculptures  on  a  sepolchre  ; 
There  flowed  behind  that  old  man's  ears 
The  silver  of  a  hundred  years ; 

'T  was  all  that  old  man  had. 
The  stranger,  gazing  on  his  door. 
Might  sigh  to  think  on  one  so  poor ; 
But  Time  had  trained  his  soul,  and  he 
Had  shaken  hands  with  Poverty ; 

He  was  nor  sick,  nor  sad. 
With  two  possessions,  all  his  pride. 
Yet  dearer  than  the  world  beside, — 
The  sword  that  earned  bis  soldier  fame, 
A  Bible,  with  King  Charles's  name, — 
He  lived,  beneath  a  forest's  shade, 
Within  a  hut,  himself  had  made, 

And  fancied  like  a  tent. 
And  all  that  Sweden's  hero  did. 
Of  valor  praised,  or  craven  chid. 

Or  Cossack  fi>eman  bent, — 
That  now  the  child  who  runs  may  read 
(For  Fame,  the  Eagle,  flew  with  speed),  — 
Were  stored  within  that  soldier's  mind. 
Each  in  their  own  heroic  kind. 
Like  monumental  urns  beneath 
A  barrow^n  the  field  of  death. 
Oft  as  he  told  of  toils  gone  through, 
For  Charles  and  his  dragoons  of  blue. 
That  soldier  seemed  to  rise  in  height. 
Flashed  from  his  eyes  unwonted  light. 
And  all  his  gestures,  all  his  words, 
Sprang  out  like  flame  firom  Swedish  swords. 
Why  say,  that,  in  the  winter  nights. 
He  loved  to  tell  his  former  fights ; 
And,  grateful,  only  spoke  to  praise 
King  Charles ;  and  never  failed  to  raise, 
O 


170 


SWEDISH  POETRY. 


When  mention  of  his  name  was  made, 

His  rimless  hat  and  torn  cockade  ? 

Mj  infant  height  scarce  reached  his  knees, 

And  yet  I  loved  his  histories. 

His  sunken  cheek  and  wrinkled  brow 

Have  lired  with  me  from  then  till  now, 

And,  with  his  stories  strange  and  true. 

Keep  rising  in  mj  mind  anew ; 

Like  snowdrop  bells,  that  wait  to  blow 

Beneath  the  winter's  shielding  snow. 


KINO  CHARLES'S  GUARD. 

He  was  of  Charles's  body-guard, 
Swedish  soldiers*  best  reward ; 
Seven  in  number,  like  the  train 
Of  sister  stars  in  King  Charles's  Wain ; 
Or  nine  at  most,  as  the  maidens  be 
Who  weave  the  songs  of  Eternity. 
They  were  trained  to  scorn  of  death, 

Aiid  tried  by  fire  and  steel  and  blood. 
And  hardened,  by  their  Christian  faith. 

Beyond  the  Viking  hardihood 
Of  their  aires,  that,  fiist  and  free. 
Ploughed  with  keels  the  subject  sea. 

They  lay  to  sleep  on  turf  or  plank. 
With  northern  winds  for  lullaby. 
And  curtained  by  the  colder  sky. 

As  BofUy  as  on  mossy  bank. 
Little  they  cared  for  the  flames'  red  aid. 
Save  for  ihe  sake  of  the  cannonade. 
Casting  light  as  fierce  and  dun 
As  a  winter's  blood-red  sun. 
They  deemed  no  battle  lost  or  won 
To  lesser  odds  than  seven  to  one ; 
And  then  retreated,  soft  and  slow. 
With  their  faces  to  the  foe. 
But  harsher  laws  than  these,  I  ween. 
Lay  upon  those  hardened  men  : 
Never  to  look  on  a  maiden's  eye. 
Never  turn  ear  to  a  maiden's  sigh, 
Never  to  heed  the  sweet  words  she  said. 
Ere  Charles,  that  cold,  stem  chief  was  wed. 
No  matter  how  sofl  voices  strove 
To  match  the  music  of  the  grove ; 
How  lips  might  mock  the  rosebud's  hue. 
How  eyes,  the  violets  steeped  in  dew  ; 
How  breasts  might  heave  for  love's  sweet  sake. 
Like  floating  swan  on  silver  lake,  — 
Vain  were  eyes,  and  breasts,  and  words ; 
They  were  wedded  to  their  swords. 


Love  !  our  being's  waking  bliss ! 
Spirit  garb  of  Happiness ! 
Heaven's  halo,  sent  to  shine 
O'er  a  world  no  more  divine  ! 
Nature's  heart,  whose  choicest  measure 
Beats  in  time  to  promised  pleasure  ; 
Drop  to  drop,  within  the  ocean ; 

Star  to  star,  in  heaven  above. 
Moving,  with  harmonious  motion. 

Round  the  sun  they  love ; 


Brotherhood  and  Sympathy 
Are  the  laws  that  flow  from  thee. 
Love  !  that  art,  within  the  mind 
Of  our  erring,  hapless  kind. 
Even  this,  —  a  recollection 
Of  a  holier  affection. 

Bom  in  heaven ;  fairest  then. 
With  the  silver  chaplets  round  it 
Of  the  singing  stars  that  bound  it. 
Then  nestled  on  its  father's  breast. 
With  angel-wings  to  shade  its  rest,  — 

Reflected  last  on  men. 
Ere  then,  as  rich  as  Thought,  as  ftir 
As  minstrel-dreams,  its  speech  was  Prayer ; 
Its  kindred  sweet,  those  forms  that  blesa 
This  world  with  their  own  loveliness ; 
And  fill  the  sense  with  music,  flung 
From  harps  unearthly.  Spirit-strong. 
What  if  it  fell  to  mix  with  men, 
And  none  must  feel  it  pure  again  ? 
At  some  sweet  times,  it  seems  to  wear 
The  seraph-robes  that  erst  it  bare  ; 
At  some  sweet  times,  its  whispers  come 
Like  echoes  from  its  heavenly  home. 

When  heart  meets  heart,  and  life  is  love. 
The  breath  that  fans  the  spring's  blue  sky. 
The  minstrel's  magic  melody. 

In  such  sof%  numbers  move ; 
But  liker  still,  for  that  they  be 
Themselves  the  brood  of  Memory, 
Those  recollected  distant  chants 
Of  homes  fbr  which  the  Switzer  pants. 
That  raise  beneath  the  tropic's  glow 
His  old,  familiar  Alpine  snow. 


PER  DANIEL  AMADEUS  ATTERBOM. 

This  poet  is  the  son  of  a  countiy  clergyman, 
and  was  bom  at  Abo,  in  1790.  After  com- 
pleting his  college  education  at  Upsala,  inspired 
with  the  love  of  German  literature,  he  estab- 
lished, in  1810,  a  monthly  periodical,  called 
*t  Phoephoras,"  in  which  open  war  was  declared 
against  the  French  school  of  poetiy.  This  war 
was  carried  on  with  unabated  vigor  for  many 
years,  and  Atterbom  was  always  kept  in  the 
field,  as  one  of  the  prominent  chiampions  of  the 
German,  or  Romantic,  school.  In  1817-18, 
he  travelled  through  Germany,  Italy,  and  Den- 
mark; and  on  his  retum,  in  1819,  was  appoint- 
ed tutor  of  the  German  language  and  literature  'i 
to  the  Crown  Prince.  In  1824,  he  was  appoint- 
ed Adjunct  Professor  of  Philosophy,  and,  in 
1828,  Professor  of  Metaphysics,  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  Upsala.  His  principal  poetic  work  is 
entitled  "  Lycksalighetens  6  "  (the  Island  of  the 
Blest),  a  dramatic  romance  in  five  adventures. 
The  fallowing  analysis  and  extract  are  taken 
from  the  **  Foreign  Review  and  Continental 
Miscellany,"  No.  IV. 

**  Asdol^  a  Northern  king,  wearied  by  the 
monotony  of  life,  longs  for  some  adventurous 
deviation  from  his  daily  round  of  duties  and 


ATTERBOM. 


171 


amusements.  He  has  an  indistinct  idea  that 
he  maj  somewhere  find  a  state  of  unalloyed  fe- 
licity, and  is  impatient  to  discover  it ;  for  which 
purpose  he  defers  his  union  with  Sranhvit,  a 
young  and  amiable  princess,  to  whom  he  is  be- 
trothed. At  length  this  restless  wish  is  gratifi- 
ed. On  one  of  his  hunting  parties,  he  finds  the 
haunt  of  Anemotis,  Mother  of  the  Winds,  and 
there  meets  with  Zephyr,  who  wafb  him  to  the 
Island  of  the  Blest,  where  the  fair  Felicia  reigns 
as  queen.  At  first  sight,  she  believes  the  stran- 
ger to  be  a  wonderfiil  bird  (the  phmnix),  of 
which  many  strange  accounts  had  been  related 
to  her;  but  Asdolf  soon  dispels  this  notion,  and, 
forgetting  earth,  with  all  its  ties,  asks  and  ob- 
tains Felicia's  hand  in  marriage.  They  pass 
three  hundred  years  in  mutual  bliss,  though  to* 
Asdolf  the  time  has  appeared  only  so  many 
minutes,  when  he  is  unfortunately  awakened  to 
the  recollection  of  his  earthly  life,  which,  not- 
withstanding the  caresses  of  Felicia,  he  deter- 
mines to  resume.  Finding  his  resolution  im- 
moTable,  she  gives  him  a  splendid  equipment, 
with  sundry  spells  and  amulets,  in  order  to 
insure  his  sale  return,  when  he  sets  out  on  a 
winged  horse,  of  the  highest  mettle,  and  arrives 
on  earth  with  wondrous  expedition.  As  will 
be  readily  conceived,  his  majesty  finds  matters 
marvellously  altered  firom  what  they  were  at 
the  period  of  his  departure.  His  own  subjects 
are  much  infected  with  revolutionary  notions  of 
general  equality ;  and  our  hero,  being  a  high  au- 
tocrat, is  disgusted  by  this  manifestation  of  new- 
fangled feeling.  He  fiiils,  however,  in  his  en- 
deavours to  restore  the  customs  of  *  the  olden 
time,'  and  resolves  on  returning  to  Felicia  and 
the  Island  of  the  Blest ;  but  on  his  way  back, 
being  beguiled  by  the  artifices  of  Time,  who, 
disguised  as  an  infirm  old  man,  allures  him  fit>m 
his  horse,  he  loses  the  charm  of  fiideless  youth, 
which  haid  been  bestowed  on  him  in  the  island, 
and  which,  during  his  earthly  journey,  depend- 
ed on  his  possession  of  the  horse  intrusted  to 
him  by  Felicia.  Time  then  seizes  and  stifles 
him,  and  his  faithful  friend  the  Zephyr  carries 
the  corse  to  the  Island  of  the  Ble^t,  when  Fe- 
licia, for  the  first  time,  discovers  that  happiness 
is  nowhere  truly  lasting.  Unable  with  all  her 
art  to  restore  life  to  her  beloved-,  she  resolves 
to  watch  his  body  unceasingly,  when  her  moth- 
er, Nyx  (Night),  shows  her  the  region  of  eternal 
bliss,  and  Thanatos  (Death),  lighting  his  torch, 
leads  her  to  eternal  day. 

''  The  pervading  idea  of  this  poem  would  ap- 
pear to  be,  that  death,  as  the  metamorphoris  of 
the  human  being,  is  necessary,  in  order  to  con- 
duct it  to  immortal  bliss,  and  that  the  search 
for  happiness  in  earthly  life  is  vain  and  unpro- 
ductive. This  the  author  has  represented  in 
his  romantic  and  didactic  drama,  amplifying 
and  illustrating,  in  much  beautiful  poetry,  what 
Fouqu<  has  finely  said  in  the  following  lines  : 

"  '  Man  geht  aaa  Nscht  In  Sonoo, 
Man  geht  aus  Oreus  In  Woone, 
Ana  Tod  In  Leben  tin.* 


^  The  drama  is  divided  into  five  adventures. 
The  first  is '  The  Aerial  Journey,'  when  Asdolf 
is  carried  by  Zephyr  to  the  Happy  Island ;  the 
second, '  Love,'  when  Felicia  is  united  to  As- 
dolf (a  masterly  erotic  effusion,  of  almost  South- 
em  coloring) ;  the  third,  *The  Farewell,'  when 
Asdolf  sets  forth  on  his  return  to  earth  (this  b 
by  far  the  weakest  part  of  the  poem ;  the  author 
puzzles  himself  and  his  readers  with  politics, 
and  proves  that  they  are  by  no  means  his  prov- 
ince) ;  the  fifth, «  The  Return,'  treating  of  As- 
dolf's  death,  and  the  final  destruction  of  the 
Happy  Island." 


EXHIACT  FROM  THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  BLEST. 

svAJomr  (aloQo  la  bar  ebamber). 
No  Asdolf  yet, — in  vain  and  everywhere 
Hath  he  been  sought  for,  since  his  foaming  steed. 
At  mom,  with  vacant  saddle,  stood  before 
The  lofty  staircase,  in  the  castle  yard. 
His  drooping  crest,  and  wildly  rolling  eye. 
And  limbs  with  frenzied  terror  quivering. 
All  seemed  as  though  the  midnight  fiends  had 

urged 
His  swiftest  flight,  through  many  a  wood  and 

plain. 
O  Lord  !  that  know'st  what  he  hath  witnessed 

there, 
Wouldst  thou  but  give  one  single  speaking  sound 
Unto  the  faithful  creature's  silent  tongue. 
That  momentary  voice  would  be,  for  me, 
A  call  to  life,  or  summons  to  the  grave. 

[She  goM  to  the  window. 
And  yet  what  childish  fears  are  these  !  How  oft 
Hath  not  my  Asdolf  boldest  feats  achieved 
And  ever  home  returned,  unharmed  and  beauti- 
ful! 
Tes,  beautiful,  alas !  like  this  cold  flower 
That  proudly  glances  on  the  frosty  pane. 
Short  is  the  violet's,  short  the  cowslip's  spring;— 
The  frost^flowers  live  far  longer ;  cold  as  they 
The  beautiful  should  be,  that  it  may  share 
The  splendor  of  the  light  without  its  heat ; 
For  else  the  sun  of  life  must  soon  dissolve 
The  hard,  cold,  shining  pearls  to  liquid  tears : 
And  tears — flow  fast  away. 

[She  breathes  on  the  window. 
Become  transparent,  thou  fair  Asdolf-flower, 
That  I  may  look  into  the  vale  beneath  ! 
There  lies  the  city,  —  Asdolf 's  capital — 
How  wondrously  the  spotless  vest  of  snow 
On   roof,   and   mount,  and  market-place  now 

smiles 
A  glittering  welcome  to  the  morning  sun. 
Whose   blood-red  beams  shed  beauty  on  the 

earth  ! 
The  Bride  of  Sacrifice  makes  no  lament. 
But  smiles  in  silence,  —  knowing  sadly  well 
That  she  is  slighted,  and  that  he,  who  could 
Call  forth  her  spring,  doth  not,  but  rather  dwells 
In  other  climes,  where  lavishly  he  pours 
His  fond  embracing  beams,  while  she,  alas ! 
In  wintry  shade  and  lengthened  loneliness 


172 


SWEDISH  POETRY. 


Cold  on  the  aolitary  coach  reclines.  — 

[Aftar  •  paoM. 
What  coantlete  paths  wind  down,  from  diven 

points. 
To  yonder  city  gates !  — O,  wilt  not  thou. 
My  star,  appear  to  me  on  one  of  them  ? 
Whate'er  I  said,  —  thou  art  my  worshipped  son. 
Then  pardon  me ; — thou  art  not  cold ; —  O,  no ! 
Too  warm,  too  glowing  warm,  art  thou  for  me. 
Yet  thus  it  is  \    Thy  being's  music  has 
A  thousand  chords  with  thousand  yarying  tones. 
Whilst  I  but  one  poor  sound  can  offer  thee 
Of  tenderness  and  truth.     At  times,  indeed. 
This,  too,  may  have  its  power ; — ^but  then  it  lasts 
One  and  the  same  fi>r  ever,  sounding  still 
Unalterably  like  itself  alone-; 
A  wordless  prayer  to  God  for  what  we  love, 
'T  is  more  a  whisper  than  a  sound,  and  charms 
Like  new-mown  meadows,  when  the  grass  ex- 
hales 
Sweet  fragrance  to  the  fbot  that  tramples  it. 
Kings,  heroes,  towering  spirits  among  men. 
Rush  to  their  aim  on  wild  and  stormy  wings. 
And  far  beneath  them  view  the  world,  whose 

form 
For  ever  varies  on  from  hour  to  hour. 
What  would  they  ask  of  love  ?    That,  yolatile. 
In  changeful  freshness  it  may  charm  their  ears 
With  proud,  triumphant  songs,  when  high  in  air 
Victorious  banners  wave ;  or  sweetly  lull 
To  rapturous  repose,  when  round  them  roars 
The  awfril  thunder's  everlasting  voice  \ 
Mute,  mean,  and  spiritless  to  them  must  seem 
The  maid  who  is  no  more  than  woman.     How 
Should  she  o'er-sound  the  storm  their  wings 
have  raised  ?  — 

[Sitting  down. 
Great  Lord  !  how  lonely  I  become  within 
These  now  uncheerful  towers !     O'er  all  the 

earth 
No  shield  have  I,-^no  mutual  feeling  left ! 
'T  is  true  that  those  around  me  all  are  kind. 
And  well  I  know  they  love  me,  —  more,  in- 
deed. 
Than  my  poor  merits  claim.    Yet,  even  though 
They  raised  me  to  my  Asdolf  *b  royal  throne, 
As  being  the  last  of  all  his  line,  —  ah,  me ! 
No  solace  could  it  bring ;  —  for  then  frur  less 
Might  I  reyeal  the  sorrow  of  my  soul ! 
A  helpless  maiden's  tears  like  rain-drops  fidl. 
Which  in  a  July  night,  ere  liarvest*time. 
Bedew  the  flowers,  and,  trembling,  stand  within 
Their  half-closed  eyes  unnumbered  and  un- 
known. 

[She  rises. 
Yet  One  there  is,  who  counts  the  maiden's 

tears;  — 
But  when  will  their  sad  number  be  fulfilled  ?  — 

[Walking  to  and  fro. 
How  calm  was  I  in  former  days !  -—  I  now 
Am  so  no  more !   My  heart  beats  heavily. 
Oppressed  within  its  prison-cave.     Ah !  fain 
Would  I  that  it  might  burst  its  bonds,  so  that 
'Twere  conscious,  Asdolf,  I  sometimes  had 
seemed 


Not  all  unworthy  in  thine  eyes. 

[She  takes  the  gahar. 
A  gentle  friend-^ the  Master  from  Vallandin— 
Has  taught  me  how  I  may  converse  with  thee. 
Thou  cherished  token  of  my  Asdolf 's  love  ! 
I  have  been  told  of  far-off  lakes,  around 
Whose  shores  the  cypress  and  the  willow  wave. 
And  make  a  moumfhl  shade  above  the  stream. 
Which,  dark,  and  narrow  on  the  snrfiice,  swells 
Broad  and  unfathomably  deep  below ; — 
From  those  dark  lakes  at  certain  times,  and 

most 
On  Sabbath  moms  and  eves  of  festivals. 
Uprising  from  the  depths,  is  heard  a  sound 
Most  strange  and  wild,  as  of  the  tuneful  bells 
Of  churches  and  of  castles  long  since  sunk; 
And,  as  the  wanderer's  steps  approach  the  shore. 
He  hears  more  plainly  the  lamenting  tone 
Of  the  dark  waters,  whilst  the  surface  still 
Continues  motionless  and  calm,  and  seems 
To  listen  with  a  melancholy  joy. 
While  thus  the  swelling  depths  resound. 
So  let  me  strive  to  soften  and  subdue 
My  heart's  dark  swelling  with  a  soothful  song. 
[She  pUye  and  aings. 

<<  The  maiden  bound  her  hunting-net 
At  morning  fi^sh  and  fair —  " 

Ah,  no !  that  lay  doth  ever  make  me  grieve. 
Another,  then  !  that  of  the  hapless  flower, 
Surprised  by  frost  and  snow  in  early  spring. 

[Sings. 
Hush  thee,  O,  hush  thee. 
Slumber  from  snow  and  stormy  sky. 

Lovely  and  lone  one  ! 
Now  is  the  time  for  thee  to  die, 
When  vale  and  streamlet  frozen  lie. 
Hush  thee,  O,  hush  thee  ! 

Hours  hasten  onward ;  — 
For  thee  the  last  vrill  soon  be  o'er. 

Rest  thee,  O,  rest  thee  ! 
Flowers  have  withered  thus  before,  — 
And,  my  poor  heart,  what  wouldst  thou  more.' 

Rest  thee,  O,  rest  thee  ! 

Shadows  should  darkly 
Enveil  thy  past  delights  and  woes. 

Forget,  O,  forget  them  ! 
'T  is  thus  that  eve  its  shadow  throws  ; 
But  now,  in  noiseless  night's  repose. 

Forget,  O,  forget  them ! 

Slumber,  O,  slumber ! 
No  friend  hast  thou  like  kindly  snow ; 

Sleep  is  well  for  thee. 
For  whom  no  second  spring  will  blow ;  — 
Then  why,  poor  heart,  still  beating  so  ? 

Slumber,  O,  slumber ! 

Hush  thee,  O,  hush  thee ! 
Resign  thy  life-breath  in  a  sigh. 

Listen  no  longer, 
Life  bids  farewell  to  thee,  —  then  die  ! 
Sad  one,  good  night !  —  in  sweet  sleep  lie ! 

Hush  thee,  O,  hush  thee  ! 


ATTERBOM.— 8TAQNELIUS. 


173 


[ShA  bqnto  into  tMin 
Would  now  that  I  might  bid  adien  to  lift ; 
But,  ah !  no  yoice  to  me  replies,  **  Sleep  well ! " 


THB  HYACINTH.* 

Thk  heart's  blood  am  I  of  expiring  strength, 

EngraTed  on  mine  urn  is  its  cry. 
My  dark  glowing  pangs,  to  thee  are  they  known  ? 
Art  thou,  too,  a  stranger  'mid  life's  shadows 
thrown, 

Deceired  by  its  dreamery  ? 
Learn  that  youth-giving  joy  to  the  stars  alone 

Was  allotted  !     Their  youth  in  the  sky 
With  circling  dances  they  celebrate. 
And  our  steps  from  the  cradle  illuminate 
To  the  grave. 

Why  longer  endeavours  thine  earnest  glance 

To  a  merciless  Heaven  to  pray  ? 
An  adamant  door  bars  its  tower  of  light ; 
To  earth's  abyss  from  its  dizzying  height 

What  bridge  may  open  a  way  ? 
There  Blessedness,  Truth,  may  be  throned  in 
might; 

But  thon,  canst  thou  destiny  sway  ? 
Of  suffering  only  can  dust  be  secure ; 
Who  rises,  thy  happier  lot  to  insure, 
From  the  grave  > 

Hope  points,  indeed,  to  a  verdant  shore, 

Where  the  beautiful  Sirens  sing, 
And  waken  their  harps,  while  bright  shines  the 

sun ; 
But  the  bone-whitened  coast  shows  where  mur- 
der is  done, 
And  treachery  dwells  on  each  string. 
Illusions,  on  distaffs  of  Nomas  spun. 

To  the  feeble  distraction  bring : 
He  is  wise  who  disdains  to  lear  or  implore ; 
But  wisest  he  who  desires  nothing  more 
Than  a  grave. 

Yet  within  thee,  to  battle  with  time  and  fhte, 

There  blazes  a  fire  divine  : 
Whate'er  's  evanescent  its  flame  shall  consume ; 
And  if  clouded  the  course  of  the  planets  in 
gloom. 
Thy  star  on  the  conflict  shall  shine  ; 
And  soon  shall  the  long,  happy  night  of  the 
tomb. 
With  peace  and  her  laurels,  be  thine. 
He,  whose  bosom  of  heaven  and  hell  holds  the 

fires, 
Suflices  himself,  and  no  solace  requires 
But  the  grave. 


ERIC  JOHAN  STAGNELIUS. 

Thk  most  signal  specimen  of  a  genius  at 
once  precocious  and  productive,  which  the  an- 
nals of  Swedish  literature  afford,  is  Stagnelius. 


*  The  old  Oraek  i 
the  blood  of  A  juc 


the  Hysclnth  spring  ftom 


He  died  at  the  age  of  thirty,  but  has  left  behind 
him  three  epic  poems,— one  of  which,  though 
never  completed,  was  written  at  the  age  of 
fighteen,  —  &y^  tragedies,  and  seven  other  dr»> 
matio  sketches,  and  a  very  large  collection  of 
elegies,  sonnets,  psalms,  ballads,  and  miscella- 
neous lyrics  ;  making,  in  all,  three  large  octavo 
volumes,  written  in  the  space  of  twelve  years, 
and  marked  with  the  impress  of  a  high  poetic 
genius. 

,,  Stagnelius  was  the  son  of  a  parish  priest  in 
Oland  (afterwards  bishop  of  Kalmar),  and  was 
born  in  1793.  He  studied  first  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Lund,  and  then  at  Upsala,  where, 
upon  passing  his  examination  in  1814,  he  was 
made  clerk  in  the  Department  of  Ecclesiastical 
Affairs.  This,  or  some  similar  office,  he  held 
until  his  death,  in  1823.  His  brief  exist- 
ence, though  completely  barren  of  incident, 
was  rich  in  intellectual  achievements.  **  Slag- 
nelius,"  says  a  writer  in  the  **  Foreign  Re- 
view "  (No.  I.),  **  was  one  of  those  truly  poetic 
beings,  to  whom  Goethe's  beautifiil  comparison, 
likening  the  life  of  a  poet  to  the  gentle,  ever- 
working  existence  of  the  silkworm,  may  be 
justly  applied.  He  was  so  thoroughly  a  poet, 
that  all  his  thoughts,  words,  deeds,  and  even 
his  errors  and  excesses,  bore  the  stamp  of  poetic 
impulse.  He  is  remarkable  for  a  strain  of  deep 
melancholy,  a  profound  mystical  intuition  of 
life  and  nature,  and  a  longing  for  the  moment 
when  the  imprisoned  amma  might  burst  its 
earthly  tenement,  and  soar  to  the  pUroma^  as  he 
terms  it,  —  the  purer  regions  of  celestial  air. 
These  sentimento,  cherished  by  the  philosophy 
of  Schelling,  and  the  Gnostic  doctrines  of  the 
Nazarenes,  contained  in  the  **  Adam's  Book,"  * 
distinguished  the  poems  of  Stagnelius  from  all 
that  we  have  seen  of  Swedish  poetry.  Among 
foreign  poets,  we  can  only  compare  him  with 
the  German  Novalis.  Both  thought  they  saw 
in  this  visible  world  merely  the  symbolic  ex- 
pression of  a  more  ecstatie  order  of  things,  and 
both  were  early  summoned  to  those  blissful 
regions  afUr  which  they  so  fervently  aspired,—- 
whose  bright  effulgence  seems  to  have  en- 
chanted their  mental  gaze,  while  yet  inhabitants 
of  earth." 

To  this  article  the  reader  is  referred  for  a 
more  detailed  account  of  the  writings  of  Stag- 
nelius. 


FROM  THE  ITtAGEDT  OP  THE  MARTYB& 
EMILIA   AND  PERPETUA. 


If  that  thou  love  me,  wherefore  not  intrust 
Thy  sorrows  and  thy  pleasures  to  my  bosom  } 
Confidence  is  the  holy  aliment 
That  nourishes  the  fire  of  tender  feeling. 
As  the  lamp's  flame  by  Pallas'  oil  is  fed. 

*  Edited  br  the  late  Dr.  Norberg,  the  ftmous  Swadlah 
OrientaUet,  and  pabUahed  at  Land. 

o2  


174 


SWEDISH  POETRY. 


Believe  me,  he,  who,  silent,  yisionary. 
Shuts  up  within  himself  his  joy  and  grief; 
Naught  but  self-love  within  his  bosom  kindles. 
For  even  as  the  fire  will  in  its  eddy 
Whirl  up  towards  heaven  whatever  owns  its 

power ; 
As  iron,  by  the  magnet's  witchery 
Attracted,  will  forsake  its  resting-place  ; 
So  tenderness,  wherever  found,  rests  not. 
Until  united  to  its  likeness.     Where, 
O,  where  are  fled  those  former  happy  days, 
When   in   thy   laughing   eye    each   new-born 

thought 
I  read  .'  —  when  into  a  fond  mother's  breast 
Thy  hopes  and  fears,  thy  weal  and  woe  were 

poured  ? 
Now,  bathed  in  tears,  a  gloomy  wanderer 
I  find  thee  evermore.     'Thou  sufferest ;  — 
May  not  thy  mother  with  thee  mourn  ?     Is  she 
Unworthy  to  compassionate  her  child  ? 

PBEPRITA. 

Mother,  I  suffer  not !     O,  couldst  thou  know 
The  blessedness  of  tears  !     Not  sweeter  falls, 
I'  th'  hour  of  evening's  crimson  glow,  the  dew 
On  Syria's  nardus-rose.  The  myrrh-tree's  sweat- 
drops 
In  Saba's  groves  less  precious  are  than  tears. 


Ay,  truly,  they  yield  solace ;  but  that  solace 

By  burning  agony  must  be  preceded  ', 

Their  balm,  Fate's  sun,  with  scorching  noontide 

rays. 
Expresses.     Hapless  child,  thou  sufferest ! 
Strive  not  to  laugh,  —  a  ghost-like  laughter  only 
Hovers  round  thy  cold  lips. 


Alas !  this  earth 

Deserves  not  gladness.     Like  the  butterfly 
That  has  outlived  the  rose's  day  of  bliss, 
Our  soul  on  dusky  pinions  here  below 
Round  deserts  flies,  pining  incessantly. 


My  daughter,  others  praise  life's  plenteousness ; 
Why  pinest  thou  alone  ?  Youth's  cup  for  thee 
Still  mantles,  and  each   wafture   of  heaven's 

breath 
Should  pleasure  thee.    Thou  lovest  not.     Lo ! 

this, 
The  single  reason  of  thy  melancholy. 
Love,  and  be  happy  !    With  a  hundred  tongues 
Nature  exhorts  thee  thus.    Obey  her  voice ! 
The  hand  of  Death  quenched  thy  first  nuptial 

torch: 
Venus  for  thee  superior  bliss  prepares 
I'  th'  second's  light.     O,  bid  her  kindle  it. 
And  by  its  golden  beams  begin  a  new 
Olympian  life  !     Cornelius  loves  thee.     Yet 
In  life's  mid  season,  like  the  stately  palm 
He  blooms,  and  Fortune  dwells  in  his  proud 

halls. 
Present  him  with  thy  hand  at  Hymen's  altar, 


And  bid  the  Fates  spin  a  rose-colored  thread 
Of  many  joyful  years  for  both  of  you. 


O,  I  conjure  you,  utter  not  a  word 

Of  earthly  happiness,  of  earthly  love  ! 

Not  theirs  to  satisfy  the  soul ;  —  I  know  them. 

O,  force  me  not  on  my  heart's  higher  longings 

To  act  a  murder,  and  false  sacrifices 

Offer  to  gods  whose  impotence  I  've  proved  ! 


Wilt  thou,  then,  daughter,  haughtily  reject 
Each  solace  proffered  by  a  mother's  heart  ? 
Like  the  delusive  light  in  forest  shades, 
Fli'st  thou  injuriously  our  outstretched  arms  ? 
Then  let  my  tenderness  no  longer  speak. 
But  mine  upbraidings  storm  thy  soul !  Now  hear. 
And  answer.  Wherefore  dost  thou  thus  forsake 
Thy  mother's  home,  thy  father's  ancient  halls  ? 
Wherefore  dost  thou  no  longer  celebrate 
Our  yearly  festivals  ?  no  longer  crown 
Our  household  gods  with  rosemary  and  myrtle. 
Or  offer  holy  salt  on  their  chaste  altars  ? 
Hast  thou  thy  heart  changed  with  thy  residence. 
And  to  the  house  that  sheltered  thee  in  child- 
hood 
Does  no  soft  fire  now  draw  thy  soul  P  Have  all 
The  rosy  recollections  of  thy  youth 
Fled  with  the  hours'  still  circling  dance .' 


My  heart 

God  sees,  and  in  high  heaven  hears  the  sighs 

I  for  your  welfare  breathe. 

XMIUA. 

With  fiction's  blossoms 
Thou  'dst  decorate  the  winter  of  thy  heart 
Like  serpent  amidst  roses  does  thy  soul 
Conceal  itself.     Thou  breathe  a  sigh  for  us 
To  Heaven  ?  No !  The  cloudy  heights,  to  which 
In  solitary  piety  thou  pray  est, 
For  us  have  only  wrath  and  thunderbolts. 
O  grievous  word,  die  not  upon  my  lips  ! 
Infernal  thought,  embody  thee  in  sound  ! 
Let  it  howl  mournful  as  the  north  wind's  sigh 
In  forest,  or  owl's  hoot  from  moss-clad  grave  ! 
Come  hither,  daughter !     Look  into  mine  eyes. 
Traitress,  come  hither  !    Sink  not  to  the  ground 
Like  vapor ;  what  thou  thinkest  in  night  eternal 
To  hide,  before  thy  mother's  gaze  severe 
It  lies  unveiled.     Wretched  one,   thou  *rt  a 
Christian  1 


O,  woe  is  me,  unhappy,  that  myself 
I  was'  not  first  mine  honor  to  proclaim  ! 
Yes,  mother,  I  *m  a  Christian.     Holy  waves 
Have  purified  my  soul ;  from  darkness*  errors 
The  blessed  mystery  of  the  high  Cross 
Has  called  me  to  the  path  of  light  and  truth. 
The  hidden  manna  I  've  already  tasted 
That  feeds  the  soul  in  deserts ;  I  have  gathered 
The  golden  fhiit,  in  Eden's  morning  dew, 


STAGNELIUS. 


175 


That  shines  seraphically  o'er  life's  stream. 
O,  grudge  not  to  thy  daughter  her  delight. 
But  share  thyself  her  happiness,  her  glory  ! 


Alas !  .  What  sorceress  from  Thessalian  huts 
Has  with  her  witcheries  bewildered  thee  ? 
What  dream,  of  subterranean  vapors  formed. 
Deceives  thy  heart  ?    Which  of  the  Eumenides 
Has  lured  thee  criminally  to  abandon 
Thy  childhood*8  faith,  thy  maidbood's  golden 
gods? 


Those  gods  are  visionary,  and  the  poets 
Say  truly,  that  by  Night,  black,  desolate. 
Void,  unexisting  Night,  they  were  engendered. 


0  cruel  daughter,  that  into  her  grave 
Precipitat*st  thy  mother  !     Ne'er  believe 

1  can  survive  thee.  Thou  'rt  the  sun,  whose  rays 
Of  softened  purple  brighten  my  late  autumn 
And  open  life's  last  flowers  of  gladsomeness. 
If  thou  art  lost,  what  should  remain  for  me 
Save  Death's  cold  winter  night  and  sleep  eternal? 


Believe  as  likes  thee,  but  conceal  thy  ftith. 

paapsnrA. 
Thy  tender  counsel  I  may  not  obey  ; 
Thou  biddest  me  against  my  conscience  act : 
Believe,  and  own  thy  faith,  are  life*s  conditions. 


Have  mercy  on  the  heart  that  throbbed  for  thee 
Whilst  thine  v^as  yet  unmoved !  O,  turn  again  ! 
Be  as  thou  wast  of  yore  ! 


Thou,  who  in  sorrow 
To  sorrow  bor'st  me,  and  a  deathful  lifb, 
Take  back  thy  gift  !     I  to  the  sacrifice 
Offer  me  willingly. 


O  God  !  amongst  the  many  habitations 

That   shine  above,  the   thousand   rose-formed 

bowers 
In  Paradise,  is  there  no  place  for  her? 


MAHCION  AND  EUBITLUS. 


^  Ih  the  vale  of  Tiber, 

Near  to  the  gates  of  high  and  awful  Rome, 
There  dwelt  a  saint.     The  humble  hut  still 

stands. 
Covered  with  weeds  and  shaded  by  tall  pines. 
In  which  she  spent  her  earthly  life,  —  alone 
Her  earthly  life  ;  for,  soaring  ftur  above 
The  crystal  vault  of  stars,  that  purer  flame 
Of  life,  which  earth  could  not  retain,  was  borne 


Unto  the  Tabernacle's  kindred  rays. 

A  maid  she  was  as  daylight  chaste  and  ftir. 

Pure  as  the  jewel  in  the  kingly  crown. 

Spotless  and  beautiful  as  is  the  lily. 

Her  name  was  Theodora.     Blessed  within 

That  humble  hut's  obscority,  the  care 

Of  Christian  parents  watched  her  infant  fteps, 

And  trained  her  for  the  heritage  of  light. 

The  sun  of  all  creation's  systems  gave 

To  her  a  glorious  growth,  and  yet  in  spring 

The  plant  bore  golden  fruits,  purpureal  blooms. 

For  G^  alone  the  maiden's  bosom  burned  ; 

And  ever,  when  upon  the  eastern  hills 

Aurora  raised  the  flag  of  day,  or  when 

The  evening  star-lamp  trembled  in  the  west. 

The  lovely  maiden  prostrate  prayed  in  tears 

Before  the  sacred  cross,  nor  thought  upon 

That  cruel  world  of  darkness  and  of  crime. 

So  near  the  shelter  of  her  blooming  groves. 


O  blissfhl  knowledge  !  knowing  nothing  more 
Beyond  the  Saviour's  wounds  and  heavenly 

love; 
Dissolving  in  a  tearful  stream,  to  glide 
In  Love's  wide  ocean,  heedless  of  the  world ! 


Thus  life  flowed  on,  —  no  change  iu  course 

disturbed,  — 
Until  one  eve,  returning  from  the  chase. 
The  emperor  beheld  her  steal  along 
The  valley's  path  with  timid  steps,  to  seek 
The  cave  of  congregation.    And  a  beam 
Celestial  from  her  pure  blue  eyes  inflamed 
The  tyrant's  tiger-breast,  and  kindled  there 
Wild  passion's  lawless  fire  :  for  natures  vile 
Forget  how  far  above  them  shine  the  pure 
(As  children  vainly  wish  to  play  with  stars). 
To  the  imperial  halls  the  weeping  maid 
Was  forced  to  follow  in  the  tyrant's  train. 


A  voioa. 
Who  was  this  emperor  ?  He  who  governs  now  ? 

MABCIOir. 

My  friends,  what  booU  it  if  his  name  we  know  ? 
Not  ours  is  it  to  judge,  or  hate,  or  curse. 
Tet  duty  bids  me  tell  you  all.     Know,  then, 
'T  was  cruel  Commodus,  Anrelius*  son. 
He,  who,  all-clothed  like  Hercules,  was  seen 
To  drench  the  sand  of  amphitheatres 
With  streams  of  blood  firom  elephants  and  slaves. 

savasAL  V0I0X8. 
Speak !  speak !  Our  eager  bosoms  beat  to  learn 
The  triumph  of  a  Christian's  piety. 

MABOXON. 

Two  sceptres  have  the  lords  of  earth,  wherewith 
Their  slaves  to  sway,  —  with    promises    and 

threats. 
With  promises  the  Cesar  long  besieged 
The  heart  of  Theodora.     All  that  most 
On  earth  is  praised  by  man's  inebriate  mind  — 


176 


SWEDISH  POETRY. 


Gold,  songs  of  Intes,  and  soft  yoluptaousness  — 
Was  held  before  the  captive  maiden's  gaze, 
In  long  perapectiTe  of  delight     But  vain, 
My  friends,  are  life's  allurements,  weak 
Their  spell,  against  a  Christian  breast,  in^ired 
And  penetrated  by  celestial  love  ! 
Then  furiously  the  tyrant  turned  to  threats. 
O  wrath  most  impotent!     The  heart  whose 

strength 
Is  proof  'gainst  Pleasure's  overpowering  smiles 
Can  ne'er  be  conquered  by  the  throb  of  Fain ; 
For,  manacled  with  heavy  chains,  within 
The  dungeon's  depth  was  Theodora  plunged. 


All  hail,  all  hail,  ye  dungeons,  bonds,  and  death ! 
O  sons  of  darkness,  you,  yourselves,  thus  lead 
The  longing  martyr  to  the  gates  of  heaven  ! 
Tour  murky  cells  present  a  boon  to  him, — 
A  sweet  asylum  from  a  world  of  woe  ! 
There  Love  divine  in  secret  breathes,  and  there 
Calm  Contemplation  lights  her  golden  flame. 
And  Silence  o'er  the  germ  of  inward  life 
Spreads  the  warm  shelter  of  a  mother's  wings ! 
'Mid  dreariest  darkness  true  light  beams  and 

smiles. 
To  bless  the  soul's  fond  gaze !     And  when  the 

frame 
With  iron  bonds  is  rudely  bound,  O,  then 
The  mind  shakes  off  its  chains  with  joy !  But  say. 
How  suffered  and  how  died  the  Christian  maid  ? 


Hunger,  and  cold,  and  darkness,  now  combined 
In  vain  to  bend  her  lofty  heart  to  crime. 
Fierce  serpents  hissed  within  the  prison-walls. 
And  there  did  loathsome  lizards  dwell,  and 

there 
The  toads  crawled  ibrth  upon  the  clammy  earth. 
While  from  the  roof  monotonously  fell 
The  chilly,  ceaseless  drops.    No  sunbeam  came 
That  gloom  to  cheer.     But,  as  among 
The  mouldering  tombs  a  lonely  lily  rears 
Its  balmy  crest,  so  bloomed  that  pious  maid. 
And  sweetly  smiled  amidst  surrounding  gloom  ! 
Calm  was  her  soul ',  — for,  when  celestial  love 
Is  burning  on  the  altar  of  the  heart, 
We  heed  not  outward  things ;  and  while  illumed 
By  beams  from  the  unclouded  sun,  what  cares 
The  body  if  its  earthward  shadow  be 
Of  morning  or  of  eve  P    The  tyrant,  thus 
Beholding  Theodora's  heart  unmoved 
Alike  by  pain  and  pleasure,  gave  revenge 
The  place  of  hot  desire,  and  doomed  her  death. 
He  sent  a  chosen  fireedman  with  a  slave 
To  execute  his  fierce  and  murderous  will,  — 
Who,  when  they  reached  the  dungeon  cave,  be- 
held 
Amid  the  darkness,  like  an  angel's  look. 
The  beaming  light  of  Theodora's  smile  ! 
She  heard  the  word  with  joy,  and  calmly  clasped 
Her  hands  in  prayer;  then,  with  enraptured 

thought. 
Exclaimed, «« All  hail,  blessed  isles  of  Paradise ! 
Even  now  the  breath  of  roses  from  your  bowers 


Is  wafted  towards  me!*'     And  the  freedman 

smiled 
In  scorn,  and,  jesting,  said,  **  Send  me,  fair  maid. 
From  those  celestial  groves,  for  which  you  leave 
Our  sinful  world,  some  wreath  of  purple  blooms." 
Then  Theodora  bound  her  flowing  hair. 
And,  gently  blushing,  bared  her  ivory  neck  ;  — 
One  cruel  blow —  and  down  that  fiur  head  fell,  — 
Its  golden  locks  ensanguined,  but  the  smile 
In  death  unaltered  still !     The  sand  drank  in 
The  crimsom  tide  of  life.  An  earthquake  shook 
The  vault,  the  torch  extinguished,  and  around 
Impenetrable  darkness  spread,  —  When,  lo ! 
A  light,  like  spring-time's  golden  eves,  illumed 
The  cave,  and  showed  a  lovely,  beaming  boy, 
Whose  snow-bright  robe  a  starry  girdle  bound. 
A  basket  on  his  lily  arm  he  bore, 
With  flowerets  of  the  rainbow's  thousand  hues ; 
And  calling  on  the  freedman  by  his  name^ 
In  tones  whose  sound  was  musically  sweet 
As  bridal  songs,  the  heavenly  envoy  said, 
**  Behold,  how  Theodora  sends  you  flowers 
From  Paradise  !    then    come,   O,   come,    and 

choose !  " 
Senseless  to  earth  the  freedman  fell,  —  and  lay 
Till  wakened  by  a  mighty  earthquake's  voice. 
The   vision    then    had   fled ;    but    day-beams 

through 
The  shattered  cavern  shone,  and  lit  ^eir  steps, 
'Mid  crumbling  ruins,  from  the  awful  scene. 


THE  BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

BxHOLD  !  the  birds  fly 

From  Gauthiod's  strand. 
And  seek  with  a  sigh 

Some  far  foreign  land. 
The  sounds  of  their  woe 

With  hollow  winds  blend  : 
**  Where  now  must  we  go  ? 

Our  flight  whither  tend  ?  " 
'T  is  thus  unto  heaven  that  their  wailings 
ascend. 

M  The  Scandian  shore 

We  leave  in  despair. 
Our  days  glided  o'er 

So  blissfully  there : 
We  there  built  our  nest 

Among  bright  blooming  trees ; 
There  rocked  us  to  rest 

The  balm-bearing  breeze  :  — 
But  now  to  fiur  lands  we  must  traverse  the 
seas. 

**  With  rose-crown  all  bright 

On  tresses  of  gold. 
The  midsummer  night 

It  was  sweet  to  behold : 
The  calm  was  so  deep. 

So  lovely  the  ray. 
We  could  not  then  sleep. 

But  were  tranced  on  the  spray. 
Till  wakened  by  beams  fi«m  the  bright  car 
of  Day. 


SJOGREN. 


177 


'« The  trees  gently  bent 

O'er  the  plaioB  in  repoee ; 
With  dew-drops  besprent 

Was  the  tremulous  rose : 
The  oaks  now  are  bare, 

Tlie  rose  is  no  more ; 
The  zephyr's  light  air 

Is  exchanged  for  the  roar 
Of  storms,  and  the  May-fields  have  mantles 
of  hoar. 

"  Then  why  do  we  stay 

In  the  North,  where  the  sun 
More  dimly  each  day 

His  brief  course  will  run  ? 
And  why  need  we  sigh  ? 

We  leave  but  a  grave,  — 
To  cleave  through  the  sky 

On  the  wings  which  God  gave ;  — 
Then,  Ocean,  be  welcome  the  roar  of  thy 
wave  ! " 

Of  rest  thus  bereaved. 

They  soar  in  the  air, 
But  soon  are  received 

Into  regions  more  fiiir ; 
Where  elms  gently  shake 

In  the  zephyr's  light  play. 
Where  rivulets  take 

Among  myrtles  their  way, 
And  the  groves  are  resounding  with  Hope's 
happy  lay. 

When  earth's  joys  are  o'er. 

And  the  days  darkly  roll, 
When  autumn  winds  roar, — 

Weep  not,  O  my  soul ! 
Fair  lands  o'er  the  sea 

For  the  birds  brightly  bloom ; 
A  land  smiles  for  thee. 

Beyond  the  dark  tomb. 
Where  beams  never  fiiding  its  beauties  il- 
lume! 


AMANDA. 

Whers  sun  and  flower  are  beaming, 

Amanda's  charms  appear ; 
Her  beauty's  rays  are  streaming 

Round  all  this  earthly  sphere : 
The  breeze,  when  gently  blowing, — 

The  rose  that  scents  the  grove, — 
The  vine,  when  brightly  glowing,  — 

All  tell  of  her  I  love. 

I  hear  her  song's  sweet  numbers, 

When  Zephyr's  breezy  wings 
Sweep  o'er  the  gold  harp's  slumbers. 

And  wake  its  tuneful  strings. 
All  —  all  the  charms  of  natnre 

Amanda's  beauty  bear, 
And  show,  in  every  feature, 

Her  godhead  imaged  there. 
23 


The  spirits  of  the  dying 

Must  quit  this  clay's  control ; 
But  they  to  rest  are  flying 

In  regions  of  the  soul ;  ^ 
The  floods,  now  onward  striding, 

Are  foaming,  fierce,  and  fi-ee  ; 
Yet  soon  their  waves,  subsiding. 

Will  slumber  in  the  sea. 

But  I  must  vainly  languish 

For  joys  I  ne'er  can  know, 
And  wear  a  cureless  anguish 

In  Loneliness  and  woe ! 
Fair  goddess !  I  shall  ever 

Behold  thy  beauty  shine 
Like  Stan  above,  —  but  never 

Can  hope  to  call  thee  mine ! 


ERIC  SJOGREN  (VITALIS). 

Eric  Sjogrsh,  who  wrote  under  the  pseudo- 
nym of  Viudisj  has  a  distinguished  name  and 
place  among  the  modem  poets  of  Sweden.  He 
is  one  of  those  poets,  who,  struggling  with  want 
and  disease,  die  young,  and  leave  behind  them 
a  melancholy  fame.  His  poems  are  chiefly 
lyrical ;  and  though  some  of  them  are  of  a 
humorous  nature,  yet  through  them  all  ^  the 
features  of  settled  despondency  are  still  distinct^ 
ly  seen."  The  genius  of  this  poet  will  be  seen 
in  the  passages  of  his  works  which  follow. 
They  show  great  tenderness  and  delicacy  of 
feeling;  a  profound  sense  of  the  beauties  of 
nature;  a  sensibility  tremblingly  alive  to  the 
whispering  leaves  of  the  woods,  the  tints  of 
the  flowers,,  the  warbling  of  the  birds,  and  to 
the  silent  language  of  the  landscape,  which  he 
interprets  in  a  gentle  moralizing  vein.  The 
beautiful  poem  entitled  *^  Spring  Fancy,"  which 
is  very  well  translated,  will  remind  the  reader, 
by  its  flowing  verse,  its  graceful  imagery,  the 
pensive  melancholy  of  its  tone,  and  the  delicate 
and  gentle  sentiment  which  pervades  it,  of 
some  of  Bryant's  best  pieces.  This  poet's  ex- 
quisite organization  seems  to  have  been  touched 
even  to  finer  issues  by  the  ill  health  which 
shed  a  subduing  influence  over  his  brief  exist- 
ence. The  following  well  written  sketch  of  his 
life  is  from  the  ^«  Foreign  Review,"  No.  VII. 

**  Eric  Sjogren  was  bom  in  1794,  in  the  prov* 
ince  of  Sodermanland.  While  yet  in  his  crso 
die,  he  was  exposed  to  the  frowns  and  storms  of 
life.  Poverty  attended  the  steps  of  the  boy, 
checked  the  free  and  soaring  genius  of  the 
youth,  and  stood  beside  the  death-bed  of  the 
man.  Sjogren's  fether,  a  poor  journeyman, 
could  do  nothing  to  assist  the  education  of  his 
son,  who,  thus  thrown  upon  his  native  resour- 
ces, felt  himself  strengthened  for  exertions,  of 
which  the  wealthy  have  no  need  and  no  knowl- 
edge. From  a  want  of  other  materials,  he  was 
induced  to  exercise  the  art  of  writing  in  the 
primitive  mode,  on  the  bark  of  trees,  which  he 


178 


SWEDISH  POETRY. 


did  in  conjunction  with  a  young  companion, 
with  whom  he  thus  eBtablished  a  correspond- 
ence. The  school  of  the  small  town  of  Trosa 
soon  became  too  bounded  a  sphere  for  the  spirit 
of  Sjogren,  and  the  schoolmaster,  a  man  of  sense 
and  penetration,  recommended  that  the  boy 
should  be  removed  to  Strengnfts,  an  episcopid 
see  in  Westmanland,  where  the  severity  of  the 
school  discipline  was  such,  that  in  1814  he 
quitted  the  college  or  gymnasium  before  the 
usual  period  of  probation,  and  proceeded  to  the 
University  of  Upsala. 

**  Two  pounds  and  ten  shillings,  the  gratuity 
of  a  fiiend,  was  the  entire  capital  possessed  by 
our  young  student  when  he  sought  the  classic 
shades  at  Upsala  Thenceforward  his  sole  re- 
liance was  on  the  resources  of  a  mind  strength- 
ened by  constant  exercise  in  the  struggle  with 
want,  —  resources,  on  which  the  poor  students 
at  the  universities  of  Sweden  must  not  unfre- 
quently  depend.  He  gained  his  livelihood  by 
instructing  some  fellow-students  younger  and 
wealthier  than  himself. 

"  There  is  something  awful  in  the  struggling 
of  a  noble  mind  against  the  never-clearing  storms 
of  a  life,  throughout  which  hunger  and  misery 
have  ftstened  their  fiings  upon  the  sufferer's 
heart.  The  greater  his  magnanimity,  the  more 
poignant  is  the  pain  which,  like  a  lingering 
malady,  attacks  the  energies  of  the  soul ;  and, 
if  we  sometimes  see  men  come  victorious  from 
the  conflict,  wo  may  with  more  reason  number 
them  among  the  heroes  of  mankind,  than  those 
whose  brows  are  wreathed  with  laurels  stained 
by  the  tears  and  blood  of  thousands.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  human  nature  sink  subdued  by  the 
woes  and  adversities  of  such  a  life,  a  heart- 
less sneer  but  too  often  supplies  the  place  of 
sympathy.  *  He  ought  to  have  struggled  and 
withstood,  —  he  ought  not  to  have  been  over- 
powered,'  are  the  sage  and  feeling  remarks  of 
dull  and  callous  natures.  The  soul  of  Sjogren 
was  never  subdued,  but  his  bodily  frame  was 
too  weak  to  sustain  the  strife,  and  thus  he  fell 
unconquered. 

"'  The  poetical  genius  of  our  author  developed 
itself  under  the  most  unfiivorable  circumstances. 
Considering  his  life  of  want  and  misery,  his 
poetical  productions  may  be  likened  to  those 
Northern  flowers,  the  snow-drops,  which  blos- 
som before  Spring  hss  wholly  disengaged  herself 
from  the  cold  embraces  of  Winter.  His  first 
appearance,  as  a  poet,  before  the  literary  world, 
was  in  1820,  when  he  wrote  some  verses  in  an 
Annual  for  Ladies ;  and  with  this  first  appear- 
ance  he  became  so  universally  admired,  that, 
in  the  following  year,  a  collection  of  his  poems 
was  published  and  read  with  great  avidity. 

^*  When,  in  the  year  1822,  the  crown  prince, 
Oscar,  visited  Upsala,  Sjogren  was  recommend- 
ed to  his  notice ;  and  as  the  prince,  who  is 
Chancellor  of  the  University,  has  been  invaria^ 
bly  distinguished  by  his  bountiful  and  delicate 
liberality  in  the  encouragement  of  the  votaries 
of  literature  and  science,  it  may  be  readily  con* 


ceived  that  the  young  poet  was  not  passed  over 
with  neglect.  The  support  extended  to  him  by 
the  prince  will  appear  inconsiderable  to  our 
English  notions  of  pecuniary  assistance.  It 
consisted  of  a  pension  of  two  hundred  dollars 
haneo^  about  twenty  pounds  per  aftmcm,  and 
was  an  important  sum  for  a  man  who  had  been 
taught  by  necessity  to  accommodate  his  wants 
to  his  resources.  His  biographer  says,  that  the 
year  1822  was  perhaps  the  most  free  from  care 
which  Sjogren  had  experienced  >  but  he  belong- 
ed not  to  those  who  were  content  to  eat  the 
bread  of  bounty,  and,  while  basking  in  the  sun- 
shine of  princely  fiivor,  he  felt  a  blush  of  hon- 
est shame  for  his  dependent  condition.  Profes- 
sor Geijer,  through  whom  the  remittances  were 
made  to  Sjogren,  took  occasion  to  inquire  after 
his  poetical  pursuits,  and  at  the  same  time  ex- 
pressed a  wish  that  he  should  devote  his  pow- 
ers to  an  object  of  greater  extent  than  any  in 
which  he  had  been  hitherto  engaged.  From 
these  inquiries  and  suggestions  Sjogren  conclud- 
ed that  his  royal  patron  required  something 
more  ibr  his  money  than  minor  poems,  or  that 
the  grant  had  perhaps  been  made  under  the  sup- 
position that  his  abilitids  were  greater  than  he 
felt  them  to  be.  Such  being  his  impression,  the 
year  had  hardly  elapsed  when  he  spontaneous- 
ly resigned  the  pension,  and  threw  himself  once 
more  within  the  grasp  of  penury.  The  reason 
which  he  alleged  for  this  step  was,  the  weak- 
ened  state  of  his  health,  which  would  not  ad- 
mit of  his  prosecuting  his  studies  with  the  en- 
ergy  necessary  for  enabling  him  to  graduate, 
and  thus  attain  that  end  which  his  patron  had 
probably  had  in  view  when  he  so  liberally  hon- 
ored  him  with  his  support.  He  now  depended 
solely  on  his  own  exertions ;  but  he  had  a  foe 
to  battle  with, —  disease, —  and  this  he  could  not 
overpower.  Notwithstanding,  however,  the  in- 
terruptions in  his  studies,  —  interruptions  caused 
rather  by  want  of  health  and  means  than  of  ap- 
plication, —  he  took  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts 
in  1824.  Having  failed  in  an  attempt  to  pro- 
cure the  appointment  of  Doctns  at  the  Univer- 
sity, he  turned  his  attention  to  the  capital,  but 
life  now  became  for  him  still  more  dark  and 
gloomy.  Private  tuition  and  translations  from 
Uie  English  afforded  him  but  a  scanty  subsist- 
ence till  the  spring  of  1828,  when  he  fell  dan- 
gerously ill ;  and  though  it  would  appear  that 
every  possible  kindness  was  shown  to  him  by 
the  family  in  which  he  was  then  employed  as 
tutor,  he  insisted  on  being  removed  to  a  public 
hospital,  where  he  expired  on  the  4th  of  March, 
1828." 


TO  THE  MOON.  —  A  DEDICATION. 

Mv  gentle  book  I  take  beneath  my  arm. 
And  audience,  O  Moon  !  I  here  implore ; 

Led  by  a  secret,  S3rmpathetic  charm 
To  thee,  for  thou  art  rich  in  silvery  store. 


SJOGREN. 


179 


Enlightened  patron !  tell  mo,  wilt  thou  give 
What  may  be  deemed  a  reasonable  fee  ? 

If  thoa  refuse,  thy  aeryice  I  moat  leave, 
And  dedicate  to  other  than  to  thee. 

Tet  no !  for  kindly  then  wilt  earthward  wend. 
Where,  cap  in  hand,  snbmiaaiTely  I  stay ; 

And  firom  thy  height  to  me  wilt  downward  send 
At  times  a  little,  little  silvery  ray. 


SPRING  FANCY. 

LoYK  now  is  found ;  —  for  from  the  lips  of  all 
He  murmurs  forth  in  tones  most  wonderful; 
Is  manifest  alike  in  hues  and  sounds. 
And  beautiful  alike  in  every  tongue. 
Within  the  verdant  sanctuary  of  groves 
The  zeph]rT  steals  along  to  kiss  the  earth. 
And  by  his  kiss  gives  life  to  fragrant  flowers : 
The  children  of  Platonic  love  are  they. 
So,  too,  the  trees  with  green  and  various  tongues 
In  gentle  whisperings  own,  at  eventide. 
Their  mutual  and  mysterious  love ;  as  low 
They  downward  bend  their  heads  embracingly 
In  twilight,  when  no  watchful  eyes  are  on  them. 
The  flowerets  also  love ;  and  though  no  tongue 
Have  they,  to  tell  their  tenderness,  they  gaze 
With  streaming  looks  into  each  others'  eyes. 
And  understand  each  other,  although  dumb  : 
Earth  never  hears  a  sweeter  language  spoken 
Than  that  invented  by  these  fond  ones,  who 
With  fervent  glance  folfil  the  want  of  tongues. 
The  streamlet,  too,  clasping,  with  constant  arms. 
And  folding  to  its  breast  the  green  Lemoniade, 
Arrayed  in  living  rubies  and  in  gold. 
Sighs  forth  its  tender  love  in  broken  tones. 
Nature !  I  know  thy  heart's  deep  meaning  well. 
Thy  flowery  writings  and  discourse  of  birds, 
Whereof  the  fair  interpreting  by  thee 
Was  written  on  my  heart's  pure  page  with  fire. 
A  word  it  was  of  holy  flame,  long  stifled, 
But  now  set  free ;.  like  to  the  enfranchised  bird. 
Which  high  upsoars  and  fills  the  air  with  songs. 
Forgetting  how  of  late  the  prison  pressed 
That  love  of  song  within  his  heart  to  pain. 
While  with  a  voicefol  flight  he  mounts  to  heaven, 
His  home.     Though  o'er  the  wide  earth  none 

these  sounds 
May  understand,  they  still  are  known  to  God. 
Te  flowerets !  I  will  gently  dream  among  ye ; 
And  I  will  give  to  ye  a  human  heart. 
And  thus  empower  ye  to  return  my  love. 
Sweet,  even  as  childhood's  sinless  beauty,  shines 
The  usance  that  greets  me  through  your  trem- 
bling tears. 
Fair  angels !  blooming  in  eternal  youth. 
Ye  ne'er  survive  your  early  loveliness. 
But  even  in  death  itself  are  beautifol. 
And  yet  ye  do  not  die, —  but  sink  to  rest. 
When  ruthless  northern  tempests  raging  come. 
Te  will  not  look  on  lifo  when  stormfol ;  ne'er 
Save  when,  in  child-like  sweetness,  it  disports 


With  Nature  in  the  western  breeze.     But  when 
Destruction,  striding  o'er  the  ftresh  green  fields, 
Goes  forth  to  battle  with  this  blissfol  life. 
Then  ye  close  down  your  lovely  lids  in  slum* 

her. 
And  on  your  mother's  beauteous  breast  repose, 
Until,  the  contest  done,  victorious  life 
In  light  and  song  reveals  itself  once  more. 
Then  God  arouses  ye  again  firom  sleep. 
Sending  sweet  May  to  whisper  in  your  ears 
That  spring  is  blooming  in  the  vaulted  heaven. 
And  that  't  is  time  for  you  yourselves  to  bloom. 
Te  then  put  off  your  verdant  veil,  —  and  feel 
The    spring-breeze  spreading  lifo   upon   your 

cheeks. 
Which  vie  with  roses  planted  by  the  Mom 
Along  the  Garden  of  the  East.     And  when 
The  sun  shall  come,  your  forms  so  bright  and 

foir 
Will  shine  forth  more  magnificendy  still. 
Thus  I,  too,  shall  not  die ;  — men  call  it  death. 
When  mortals  soar  unto  the  eternal  Father, 
Who  yonder  dwells  upon  the  horizon's  verge. 
Where  earth  and  heaven  mingle  in  harmony 

and  joy ! 


LIFE  AND  DEATR. 

At  morning  I  stood  on  the  mountain's  brow. 
In  its  May-wreath  crowned,  and  there 

Saw  day-rise  in  gold  and  in  purple  glow. 
And  I  cried,—"  O  Life,  how  fair !  " 

As  the  birds  in  the  bowers  their  lay  began. 
When  the  dawning  time  was  nigh, 

So  wakened  for  song  in  the  breast  ef  man 
A  passion  heroic  and  high. 

My  spirit  then  felt  the  longing  to  soar 

From  home  afar  in  its  flight. 
To  roam,  like  the  sun,  still  from  shore  to  shore, 

A  creator  of  flowers  and  light. 

At  even  I  stood  on  the  mountain's  brow. 
And,  rapt  in  devotion  and  prayer. 

Saw  night-rise  in  silver  and  purple  glow. 
And  I  cried, — «<  O  Death,  how  fidr  !  " 

And  when  that  the  soft  evening  wind,  so  meek. 

With  its  balmy  breathing  came. 
It  seemed  as  though  Nature  then  kissed  my 
cheek 

And  tenderly  sighed  my  name  ! 

I  saw  the  vast  Heaven  encompassing  all. 
Like  children  the  stars  to  her  came ; 

The  exploits  of  man  then  seemed  to  me  small, — 
Naught  great  save  the  Infinite's  name. 

Ah  '.  how  unheeded,  all  eharms  which  invest 
The  joys  and  the  hopes  that  men  prize, 

While  the  eternal  thoughts  in  the  poet's  bresst. 
Like  stars  in  the  heavens,  arise  ! 


GERMAN  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


The  earliest  specimen  of  the  ancient  Gothic 
tongue  is  Ulfila's  translation  of  the  Bible.  He 
was  Bishop  of  the  West  Goths  in  the  latter 
half  of  the  fourth  century.  Only  fragments  of 
this  translation  remain.  The  celebrated  **  Codex 
Argenteusy"  so  called  from  the  letters  being 
overlaid  with  silver  leaf,  now  in  the  library  of 
the  University  of  Upsala,  contains  the  greater 
part  of  the  Evangelists.  Other  portions  of  the 
work  have  been  discovered  by  Knittel,  in 
Brunswick,  and  by  Abb^  Maj  and  Count  Cas- 
tiglione  in  Milan.  A  complete  edition  of  Ulfila's 
writings,  so  far  as  discovered,  was  published  at 
Altenburg  in  1836.  This  language  is  generally 
spoken  of  as  the  Mceso- Gothic,  indicating  its 
Eastern  or  Scythian  origin,  and  may  be  regard- 
ed as  the  parent  of  all  the  Scandinavian  and 
Germanic  dialects. 

Of  the  fifth,  sixth,  and  seventh  centuries  no 
literary  monuments  remain,  at  least,  none  well 
authenticated.  At  the  beginning  of  the  eighth 
century,  however,  we  find  that  the  Gothic  lan- 
guage, in  Germany,  had  assumed  the  two  forms 
of,  1.,  Upper  German  (Ober  Deutsch)^  spoken  in 
the  South  of  Germany,  and  embracing  two  dia- 
lects, the  Frankish  (sometimes  called  AUkoch- 
deutseky  old  High  German),  and  the  Alemannie 
or  Swabian;  and,  2.,  Low  German  (Jfieder 
Deutsck,  Piatt  Deutsche  JUtsOchsiseh^  spoken  in 
the  North,  and  the  parent  of  the  Anglo-Saxon, 
Frisic,  Dutch,  and  Flemish.  The  Frankish  was 
the  language  of  the  court  of  Charlemagne ; 
and  the  Swabian  was  carried  to  its  greatest 
refinement  by  the  Minnesingers,  in  the  twelfUi 
and  thirteenth  centuries. 

From  the  union  of  the  Upper  and  Lower 
German  sprang  the  modern  High  German 
(Hoeh  Dmlsck)y  the  character  of  which  may  be 
considered  as  made  permanent  by  Luther,  in 
the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Speak- 
ing of  his  translation  of  the  Bible,  he  says,  •*  I 
have  not  a  distinct,  particular,  and  peculiar  kind 
of  language,  but  I  use  the  common  German 
language,  in  order  that  the  inhabitants  of  both 
Upper  and  Lower  Countries  may  understand 
me.*'  Since  Luther's  time  the  High  (merman 
has  been  exclusively  the  language  of  literature 
and  science.  The  other  forms  of  the  language, 
on  account  of  the  predominance  of  the  High 
German,  have  sunk  to  the  rank  of  dialects,  but 
still  exist  in  popular  nse,  under  a  great  variety 
of  subdivisions.  Some  of  them  are  occasionally 
employed  by  patriotic  poets  and  writers  of 
popular  songs. 

These  dialects  have  been  classed  as  follows. 


by  Radlof  :*  1.  The  German  dialects  in  Italy  ; 
3.  The  Tyrolian;  3.  The  Salzburg;  4.  The 
Bavarian ;  5.  The  Austrian  ;  6.  The  East  Mid- 
dle-German, embracing  the  Upper  Saxon ;  7. 
The  South  and  West  Middle- German,  embrac- 
ing the  Nuremberg ;  8.  The  Swabian ;  9.  The 
Swiss  i^  its  various  forms ;  10.  The  dialects  of 
the  Upper  and  Middle  Rhine ;  11.  The  West- 
em  Lower  Rhine,  embracing  Aix-la-Chapelle, 
Cologne,  and  Bonn  ;  12.  The  Low  German 
dialects  between  the  Rhine  and  the  Elbe  ;  13. 
The  Frisic ;  14.  The  Lower  Saxon ;  15.  The 
dialects  east  of  the  Elbe ;  16.  The  Pomera- 
nian ;  17.  The  Holstein  and  Schleswig ;  18. 
The  corrupted  dialects,  as  the  Pennsylvanian 
and  Jewish.  These  are  the  principal  classes, 
some  of  which  embrace  as  many  as  eight  or 
ten  subdivisions. 

The  translations  from  Grerman  poetry  into 
English  are  so  numerous,  and  extended  through 
so  many  centuries,  that  they  form  in  themselves 
almost  a  complete  history.  It  will  be  necessary, 
therefore,  in  this  introductory  sketch,  only  to 
indicate  the  successive  periods  of  this  history, 
with  a  few  remarks  upon  their  prominent  char- 
acteristics. The  history  of  German  poetry  may 
be  conveniently  divided  into  seven  periods.! 

I.  From  the  earliest  times  to  1100.  The 
earliest  remains  of  German  poetry  belong  to 
the  eighth  century.  As  might  naturally  be  ex- 
pected, they  are  the  song  of  a  hero  and  the 
prayer  of  a  monk ;  *<  The  Song  of  Hildebrand  " 
and  **The  Wessobrun  Prayer,"  which  have 
been  published  together  by  Grimm  (Cassel, 
1812)  ;  who  has  also  published  a  curious  /oc- 
nmiU  of  the  manuscript  of  the  former  (Gottin- 
gen,  1830).  The  former  is  in  the  old  Saxon 
dialect,  the  latter  in  the  Frankish. 

The  remains  of  the  ninth  century  are  more 
numerous  and  important  They  are,'* The  Har- 
mony of  the  Evangelists,"  in  old  Saxon,  which 
has  been  published  by  Schmeller,  under  the 
title  of  ««  Heliand  "  (Stuttgart,  1830) ;  and  in 
Frankish,  Otfried's  *«  Krist,  or  Book  of  the 
Evangelists,"  published  by  Graff  (Konigsberg, 
1831);  — xLudwigslied,"  or  ««Song  of  iCing 
Lewis  the  Third,"  in  celebration  of  his  victory 
over  the  Normans  in   883  (Schilter,   Thesau- 


*  Musienaal  aller  Dvatschen  Mundartea,  roa  J.  Q.  Rad- 
Lov.    StoIs.    Bonn:  1821  >S. 

t  See  Leitbden  zur  Oeschichto  der  Deutechen  Lkeratar, 
Ton  F.  A.  PiscsoN.  Beriin :  I943w  8to.  ;  and  Denkmller  der 
Deotechen  Spnche,  von  den  frtlhestan  Zeiten  bie  Jeit,  von 
F.  A.  PiscnoH.  3  vols.  8vo.  1838-40-43,— a  Ibonh  vol- 
ume to  follow. 


GERMAN  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRT. 


181 


no.  Vol.  II.) ;— «« The  Legend  of  Saint  George  " 
(editions  by  Sandyig,  Copenhagen,  1783 ;  Do- 
cen,  Munich,  1813)  ;  —  *'The  Song  of  the  Sa^ 
maritan  Woman"  (Sehilter,  II.); — and  frag- 
ments of  one  or  two  paalma,  and  a  poem  on  the 
Last  Judgment. 

The  only  relio  of  the  tenth  centory  is  a 
Prankish  fragment  entitled  •<  The  Song  of  the 
two  Henries,"  which  has  been  published  in 
Hoffinann's  '*  Fundgruben  "  (Breslau,  1830); 
and  of  the  eleventh  century  we  have  only 
«  The  Rhyme  of  Saint  Anno,"  who  was  Arch- 
bishop  of  Cologne ;  and  a  fragment  of  an  old 
rhyme  chronicle  entitled  ^*  Merigato,"  meaning 
the  Great  Home,  or  Garden  of  the  World  (edi- 
tion by  Hoffmann,  Prague,  1834). 

II.  From  1100  to  1300.  The  poetry  of  the 
twelfth  century,  of  which  numerous  monuments 
remain,  consists  chiefly  of  legends,  prayers, 
hymns,  and  benedictions.  Among  these  is  heard 
occasionally  the  voice  of  a  Minnesinger,  chant- 
ing some  fragment  of  chivalrous  romance,  as  if 
by  way  of  prelude  to  the  universal  chorus  of 
love  and  heroism  which  bursts  forth  from  the 
century  following.  Most  worthy  of  note  are, 
"  The  Legend  of  the  Virgin  Mary,"  by  Wem- 
her,  monk  of  Tegemsee  (edition  by  Oetter, 
Aitdorf,  1802)  ;^««The  Song  of  Kaiser  Karl," 
by  PIkfie  Chunrat  (edition  by  Grimm,  under 
the  title  of  «^  Ruolandes  Liet,"  Gottingen,  1838); 
— "The  Poem  of  Alexander,"  by  Pfaffe  Lamp- 
recht;  —  the  heroic  romance  of  **  King  Roth- 
er ;  "  —  the  legends  of  Pilate,  of  King  Orendel, 
and  of  Saints  Oswald  and  Ulrich,  together  with 
«( The  Litany  of  All  Saints,"  "  Contemplation 
of  Death,"  '^The  Life  and  Passion  of  Christ," 
*'*'  The  Laud  of  the  Virgin  Mary,"  and  the  old- 
est German  form  of  ^Reinhart  Fochs,"  by 
Heinrich  der  Glichsen&re. 

The  thirteenth  century  is  the  age  of  the 
Minnesingers,  who  filled  the  Swabian  court 
with  their  love-songs,  and  poetic  romances  of 
chivalry.  The  names  of  more  than  a  hundred 
of  these  have  been  preserved,  with  portions,  at 
least,  of  their  writings.*  Of  these  the  most 
celebrated  are,  Hartmann  von  Aue,  author  of 
"  The  Knight  of  the  Lion,"  «*  Poor  Henry,"  and 
^  The  Legend  of  Saint  Gregory  on  the  Stone  " ; 
—  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach,  author  of  **Ti- 
turel,  or  the  Guardian  of  the  Grail,"  "Par- 
cival,"  "Wilhelm  von  Oranse,"  and  «*  Gott- 
fried von  Bouillon"; — Heinrich  von  Ofterdin- 
gen,  author  of  <*King  Laurin,  or  the  Little 
Garden  of  Roses,"  forming  part  of  the  ^  Hel- 


*  BoDMBR  and  M AHSSsaif.  SafnnduDg  von  MinMslog- 
era  ana  dem  SchwtbiKhen  Zeitpancte,  CXL.  XMchter 
eDthaltend.    Zurich:  1768-9.    2  rob.    4to. 

BaiTBCKa.  Minoelieder,  Brginznng  der  Samrnhmf  n>D 
MlnnesiofDra.    QStUngea:  1810-38.    8  role.    8fo. 

MBllbb.  Sammlnng  Deateclisr  Qedlehle  ava  dem  XIL, 
Xm.,  and  Xnr.  Jehrhnndert.  3  vol*.  Berlin :  1784-6.  .4to. 

YoH  DSB  HAasN.  IVniuMBinger.  4  Tola.  Leipxig :  1838. 
4to.  This  eoUectlon  of  the  Mimieelngera  embneee  the 
IHaneaaea,  Jena,  Heidelbeig ,  and  Weiogarten  coUectlona. 

YoH  DBR  HAOBif  and  BimcROfe.  neutBche  Gedlchta  dea 
MitteUtten.    3  Tola.    Berlin:  1803>S0-2S.    4u>. 


denbuch,"  to  whom  also  some  critics  attribute 
the  authorship  of  the  **  Nibelungenlied  " ;  — 
Konrad  Fleck,  author  of  "Flor  and  Blank- 
flor  " ;  — ^Wirin  von  Gravenberg,  author  of  "  Vi- 
galois,  the  Knight  of  the  Wheel  " ;  —  Gottfried 
von  Strasborg,  author  of**  Tristan  " ;  —  Konrad 
von  WOrtzbnrg,  author  of  *•  The  Trojan  War," 
**The  Golden  Smithy,"  ««The  Knight  of  the 
Swan,"  and  several  legends  and  tales  ;  —  Wal- 
ther  von  der  Vogelweide  ;  —  Herr  Nithart ;  ^ 
Hugo  von  Trinberg ;  —  Dietmar  von  Ast. 

Speaking  of  the  lyric  poems  of  the  Minne 
singers,  Mr.  Taylor,  to  whom  we  are  indebted 
for  our  numerous  extracts,  remarks :  **  Nothing 
can  breathe  more  clearly  the  sentiments  of  in- 
nocent and  tender  affection  than  many  of  these 
little  productions.  Narrow  and  circumscribed 
as  the  field  of  such  poetry  may  appear,  its 
charms  are  diversified  by  the  varied  attractions 
of  natural  beauty  and  the  impassioned  tones  of 
feeling.  Admiration  of  his  lady's  perfections, 
joy  in  her  smiles,  grief  at  her  frowns,  and  anx- 
iety  for  her  welflire,  are  expressed  by  the  poet 
in  a  thousand  accents  of  simplicity  and  truth  ; 
and  if  extravagance  or  affectation  sometimes 
offends,  it  ought  to  be  recollected  that  the 
bounds  of  taste  were  not  then  so  accurately 
defined,  nor  the  gallant  spirit  of  chivalry  so 
chastened,  as  to  render  unnecessary  some  allow- 
ance fbr  the  extravagance  of  a  principle  which 
was  in  the  main  generous,  and  at  any  rate  con- 
fbrred  incalculable  blessings  on  society,  in  ad- 
vancing the  interests  and  elevating  the  station 
of  its  most  defenceless  portion. 

**  It  is  surely  difficult,  in  the  perusal  of  many 
of  these  ancient  songs,  to  abstain  from  partaking 
in  the  joyous  hilarity,  the  frolic  festivity  of 
spirit,  with  which  they  seem  to  revel  in  the 
charms  of  Nature,  as  clothed  in  her  most  smiling 
forms.  The  gay  meadows,  the  budding  groves, 
the  breezes  and  flowers 

.  .  .  '  di  primarera  Candida  e  renniglia,' 
sparkle  in  the  song ;  and  the  buoyant  efferves- 
cence of  youthful  gayety  is  often  in  delightful 
keeping  with  the  bounding  rhythm  and  musical 
elegance  of  the  verse."  * 

But  the  most  important  remains  of  this  period 
are  the  noble  old  epic  of  the  **  Nibelungen- 
lied,"t  and  a  collection  of  heroic  poems  known 
by  the  name  of  the  **  Heldenbuch,"  or  **  The 
Book  of  Heroes." 

The  first  stanzas  of  the  song  of  the  Nibel- 
ungen,  like  the  overture  of  an  opera,  contain 
the  theme  of  the  whole  piece. 

"  in  ancient  aong  and  atory,  marrela  high  are  told, 
Of  knighta  of  high  empriae,  and  adrenturaa  manifold ; 
Of  joy  and  merry  feaaiing,  of  lamenting  woe  and  fear, 
Of  cbampiona'  bloody  tnttlea,  many  marrela  ahall  ye  hear. 

*  Laja  of  the  MlnneidngeTa  or  Oemnn  Troubadonrs  of 
the  18th  and  13th  Centuries  (London :  I826).-pp.  123, 124. 

t  The  moat  baantifhl  edition  of  the  Nibelmgenlied  la 
Wigand'a:  Leipale  :  184a  It  ia  adorned  with  numerooa 
iniuiratlona,  and  la  a  very  haantlfhl  apeclmen  of  typogra- 


182 


GERMAN  LANGUAGE   AND   POETRY. 


"  A  noble  maid  and  lair  graw  up  in  Burgundy, 

In  all  ihe  land  about,  fidrer  none  might  be ; 

She  became  a  queen  full  high,  Chrimhild  was  she  hight ; 

But  for  her  matchleas  beauty  fell  many  a  blade  of  mighu" 

The  "  Heldenbuch,"  though  somewhat  similar 
in  character,  is  more  heterogeneous  in  its  mate- 
rials. A  brief  account  of  both  these  works  will 
be  given  hereafter,  in  connexion  with  the  ex- 
tracts from  them.  For  a  more  complete  analysis 
and  criticism,  the  reader  is  referred  to  Weber 
and  Carlyle.* 

Passing  over  the  Latin  plays  of  Roswitha, 
the  Nun  of  Gandersheim,  who  wrote  in  the 
eleventh  century,  and  the  Easter  play  of  *<  Anti- 
christ," also  in  Latin,?  which  is  only  a  panto- 
mime interspersed  with  songs,  belonging  to  the 
twelfth  century,  the  earliest  traces  of  the  Ger- 
man drama  belong  to  the  close  of  this  period. 
At  a  much  earlier  time,  and  as  fiur  back  as  the 
eleventh  century,  mention  is  made  by  the 
chroniclers  of  mimes  and  players  who  fre- 
quented the  courts  of  princes  and  amused  their 
audiences  with  all  kinds  of  pantomime.  Noth- 
ing, however,  is  said  of  their  enacting  plays, 
and  it  is  evident  that  they  were  not  comedians, 
but  jugglers ;  a  race  of  vagabonds,  who,  early 
in  the  twelfth  century,  came  under  the  ban  of 
the  civil  law,  being  ranked  with  prize-fighters 
and  common  thieves.^  The  earliest  play  in 
which  the  German  language  is  introduced  is  a 
Mystery  entitled «'  The  Passion  of  Christ "  (Das 
Leiden  Christi).^  It  is  written  for  the  most 
part  in  Latin,  but  with  here  and  there  a  song 
in  German,  and  contains  a  representation  of 
tlie  principal  events  of  the  Saviour's  life,  which 
are  made  to  follow  each  other  in  rapid  snccea- 
sion,  without  interlude  or  change  of  scene.  In 
fact,  the  whole  piece  is  little  more  than  certain 
portions  of  the  Evangelists,  changed  from  the 
narrative  to  a  dramatic  form ;  and  this  so  un- 
skilfully, that,  at  times,  the  extracts  are  brought 
into  curious  juxtaposition  by  the  omission  of 
the  coiUext.  For  example,  when  Zaccheus  is 
called  down  from  the  sycamore-tree  with  the 
words,  *^  Zaccheus,  make  haste  and  come  down, 
for  to-day  I  must  abide  at  thy  house,"  he  replies 
immediately,  *<  Lord,  if  I  have  taken  any^ing 
from  any  man  by  false  accusation^  I  restore  him 
fourfold."  In  the  course  of  the  play,  the  Devil 
enters,  seizes  upon  Judas,  and  hangs  him  in 
the  most  sununary  manner.  The  stage  direc- 
tion is,  **  Statim  vetUat  diaboluSj  et  dueat  Judam 
ad  nupendium^  et  mspendaiur."  In  one  point 
of  view  this  mystery  is  of  some  importance. 
It  shows  the  transition  from  Latin  to  German 
in  dramatic  composition,  and  fixes  this  transition 
as  early  as  the  thirteenth  century.  That  plays, 
entirely  in  the  German  language,  were  written 


*  niuetrationa  of  Northern  Antiqultiee  (bj  Wbbbr  and 
jAXiBsoir).  Edinburgh:  1814.  Critical  and  Miscellaneous 
EaeajB,  bj  Thomas  Carltlb.    4  roll.    Boston:  IS38-9. 

t  PoUiebed  in  Praua,  Thesanros,  VoL  11.,  Part  IIL,  187. 

1  See  Sacheenspiegel,  Book  I.,  Art.  38. 

I  PuUiehed  In  Arbtui,  Beltiftge  sor  Geschichte  and 
Literatur.    Vol.  VH.,  p.  497. 


before  the  close  of  this  century,  seems  probable 
from  a  fragment  still  extant,  entitled  «*  The  Na- 
tivity of  Christ."*  In  this  fragment,  Saint  Au- 
gustine is  represented  as  calling  upon  Virgil  to 
give  an  account  of  what  he  knows  eoncemiDg 
Christ;  the  author  being  apparently  one  of 
those  theologians  of  the  Middle  Ages  who 
regarded  Virgil  as  a  prophet,  on  account  of  the 
well  known  passage  in  his  fourth  Eclogue. 

III.  From  1300  to  1500.  This  period,  though 
far  less  important  than  the  preceding,  is  marked 
by  the  same  general  characteristics.  We  have 
still  romances,  rhyme-chronicles,  songs,  le- 
gends, paraphrases,  prayers,  hymns,  and  final- 
ly a  death-dance,  and  the  lamentation  of  that 
damned  soul  which  goes  wailing  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  Middle  Ages  through  all  lands. 
But  the  Muse  assumes  a  more  prosaic  garb,  the 
Minnesingers  give  place  to  the  Mastersingers, 
the  artist  sinks  to  the  artisan,  the  profession  to 
a  trade. 

**'  Far  back  towards  the  thirteenth  century," 
says  Grimm,t  ^*  until  which  time  nothing  but 
the  long-drawn  strains  of  old  heroic  poems 
had  been  sung  and  heard,  a  wondrous  throng 
of  tones  and  melodies  resounds  at  once,  as  if 
rising  from  the  earth.  From  afar  we  fancy  we 
hear  the  same  key-note,  but,  if  we  come  nearer, 
no  tune  is  like  another.  One  strives  to  rise 
above  the  rest,  another  to  fall  back  and  softly 
to  modulate  the  strain  ;  what  the  one  repeats, 
the  other  but  half  expresses.  If  we  think,  too, 
of  the  accompanying  music,  we  feel  that  this, 
on  account  of  the  multitude  of  voices,  for  which 
the  instruments  would  not  have  been  enough, 
must  have  been  simple  in  the  highest  degree.  It 
must  have  rested  mainly  on  the  rhymes,  and  have 
been  wanting  in  harmony,  though  not,  indeed, 
devoid  of  melody.  A  thousand  pure  and  varied 
colors  lie  there  outspread,  succeeding  each  other 
in  glaring  brilliancy,  and  very  seldom  inter- 
mixed ;  and  this  is  the  reason  that  all  the  Minne- 
songs,  even  the  most  diversified,  seem  still  to 
resemble  each  other.  These  poets  called  them- 
selves Nightingales  ;  and,  certainly,  no  compari- 
son can  express,  more  strikingly  than  that  of 
the  song  of  birds,  their  rich  and  unattainable 
notes,  in  which,  at  every  moment,  the  ancient 
warblings  recur  always  with  new  modulations. 
In  the  fresh  and  youthful  Minnepoesy,  all  art 
has  acquired  the  appearance  of  nature,  and 
is,  too,  in  a  certain  sense,  purely  natural.  Never 
before,  and  never  since,  has  a  poetry  so  inno- 
cent, so  loving,  so  unaffected,  left  the  human 
soul  to  step  upon  the  earth,  and  it  may  be  said 
with  truth,  that  the  mysterious  nature  of  rhyme 
was  never  so  fully  recognized  nor  so  publicly 
employed  by  a  poetizing  people. 

**A  few  centuries  later,  we  no  longer  see 
courts,  at  which  minstrels  arrive  to  gladden  the 


*  PuUiahed  In  Dibtbbichiub,  Specimen  Antiquitatum 
BIMicaram.    Marburg:  1642.    p.  122. 

t  tfber  den  altdeutechen  Melateigeaang.  Ton  Jacob 
Grimm.    GVulngen:  1811.    8to. 


GERMAN  LANGUAGE   AND   POETRT. 


183 


revel  with  their  songs,  and  to  exalt  the  liberal- 
ity of  the  lord  with  their  ingenioas  eulogy. 
We  find  qaiet  shut-up  cities,  within  whose 
walls  honest  burghers  dwell,  who  practise 
among  themselves  a  singular  and  rigid  art.  If 
we  examine  this  more  closely,  it  has  not  at  all 
the  aspect  of  a  new  invention.  No  reason 
whatever  can  be  imagined,  why  the  burgher 
class  should  have  introduced  among  themselves 
a  peculiar  art  of  rhyme.  Many  affirm,  that  they 
guarded  with  pride  and  fidelity  what  had  come 
down  from  former  times.  Every  other  ornament 
is  far  removed  from  their  poetry ;  but  the  rhymes 
stand  solitary  in  the  ancient  places,  where  they 
no  longer  rightfully  belong,  and  without  signif- 
icance, as  the  memorials  of  a  lost  possession 
are  continued  long  after  their  meaning  has 
ceased  to  be  remembered.  The  later  Master- 
song  has  been  hitherto  entirely  misapprehended, 
and  its  ancient  origin  has  not  been  observed, 
in  its  very  awkwardness.  I  affirm,  that  its  ap- 
pearance would  be  inexplicable  to  us,  if  we 
could  not  go  back  to  the  very  first  bloom  of  the 
Minnesong.  For,  the  more  firmly  and  fatally 
any  thing  whose  glory  has  departed  is  adhered 
to,  the  more  excellent  and  solid  must  have  been 
the  groundwork  ;  and  without  enthusiasm  at  the 
beginning,  it  is  impossible  to  understand  the  rev- 
erence with  which  a  people  can  remain  faithful 
to  the  empty  dogmas  of  a  creed.  These  two  pe- 
riods, therefore,  must  necessarily  refer  to  each 
other ;  and  yet  in  each  there  is  a  point  not  easily 
settled,  where  they  are  not  intimately  united." 

The  most  noted  poetic  writers  of  the  four- 
teenth century  are  Ulrich  Boner,  author  of 
the  *'  Edelstein,"  a  collection  of  one  hundred 
fables  (edition  by  Benecke,  Berlin,  1816) ;  — 
Johannes  Frankenstein,  author  of  a  poem  on 
the  Life  and  Passion  of  Christ;  —  Heinrich 
Frauenlob,  the  last  of  the  Minnesingers;  — 
Ottokar  von  Homeck,  author  of  a  rhyme  chron- 
icle ;  —  Peter  der  Suchenwirth,  author  of  a 
hymn  to  the  Virgin ; —  Heinrich  der  Teichner, 
author  of  poetic  aphorisms ;  —  Halb  Suter  of 
Lucerne,  femous  fer  his  ballad  of  »« The  Battle 
of  Sempach  " ;  —  and  two  Mastersingers,  Mus- 
catbluth,  and  Heinrich  von  Maglin.  Two  al- 
legorical poems  also  grace  the  century  :  <*  Gott 
Amor,  or  the  Lore  of  Love,"  and  ^*  The  Chase, 
a  Poem  on  Love." 

In  the  poetic  catalogue  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury the  most  distinguished  names  are  Heinrich 
von  der  Neuenstadt,  author  of  the  romance  of 
**Apolionius  of  Tyre"; — Hans  von  Bahel,  author 
of  "  The  Seven  Wise  Masters  "; — Hermann  von 
Sacfasenheim,  author  of  the  romance  of  **  The 
Moorish  Princess  " ;  —  Veit  Weber,  the  Swiss 
ballad-singer ; — Sebastian  Brant,  author  of**  The 
Ship  of  Fools  "  (edition  of  Basel,  1494),  upon 
which  Geiler  von  Kaisersberg  wrote  sermons  in 
Latin,  and  preached  them  in  German ; — Kaspar 
von  der  Roen,  who  rewrote  most  of  *<  The  Book 
of  Heroes  " ; — and  three  dramatic  writers,  Hans 
Rosenblat,  a  Nuremberg  painter,  Hans  Folz,  a 
Nuremberg    barber,    both    authors  of  sundry 


Shrove-tide  plays;  —  and  Theodorich  Schem- 
berg,  a  priest,  who  wrote  the  solemn  mystery 
of  "  The  Apotheosis  of  Pope  Joan,  or  the  Play 
of  Frau  Jutta,"  the  grandest  drama  Germany 
had  yet  wondered  at.  No  less  than  five  and 
twenty  personages  are  introduced;  the  most 
remarkable  of  which  are  eight  Devils,  Li  His, 
the  Devil's  mother,  three  Angels,  Christ,  the 
Virgin  Mary,  Pope  Basilius,  four  Cardinals,  a  ^ 
Roman  Senator,  and  Death.  The  scene  changes 
from  Hell  to  Heaven,  from  Earth  to  Purgatory. 
The  first  scene  is  in  Hell.  The  devils  hold 
counsel  how  to  lead  Jutta  into  some  deadly  sin 
against  the  church.  A  priest  seduces  her,  and 
she  elopes  with  him  to  Paris,  where,  disguised 
as  a  man,  she  studies  theology.  From  Paris 
she  goes  to  Rome;  is  made  Cardinal  id  one 
scene,  and  Pope  in  the  next.  This  strange 
anomaly  in  the  apostolic  succession  calls  down 
the  vengeance  of  Heaven ;  and  an  angel  is  sent 
to  her  to  ascertain  whether  she  prefers  eternal 
perdition,  or  humiliation  and  repentance.  She 
promises  the  latter.  Death  enters,  and,  after  a 
long  disputation,  she  dies  in  child-bed,  and  a 
devil  bears  her  away  to  Hell,  where  she  is  tor- 
mented by  Lucifer  and  his  attendants,  in  the 
vain  hope  that  she  will  deny  God.  She  prays 
to  the  Virgin  for  mercy ;  and  finally  an  angel 
descends  and  conducts  her  up  to  Heaven.  *  — 
To  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century  belongs 
also  the  renowned  */  Reineke  Fuchs  "  of  Hein- 
rich von  Alkmaar. 

IV.  From  1500  to  1600.  The  sixteenth  cen- 
tury  was  the  golden  age  of  the  Mastersingers. 
These  poets  were  for  the  most  part  mechanics, 
who  had  incorporated  themselves  into  guilds  or 
singing  schools,  and  beautified  their  daily  toil 
by  the  charms  of  song. 

"  Am  the  wearer  pUad  the  shuttle,  wore  he  too  the  mystic 

rhyme, 
And  the  smith  his  Iron  meaeurse  hammered  to  the  anvll'a 

chime, 
Thanking  God,  whose  boandless  wisdom  makes  the  flower 

of  poesy  hloom 
In  the  forge's  dust  and  cinders,  In  the  tissues  of  the  loom.'' 

The  corporation  boasted  of  great  antiquity ; 
dating  from  a  very  early  though  rather  indefinite 
period,  fer  back  in  the  Middle  Ages.  It  was  ori- 
ginally called  the  Corporation  of  the  Twelve 
Wise  Masters.  The  Mastersingers  flourished 
chiefly  in  the  southern  cities  of  Germany,  and  in 
the  sixteenth  century  Nuremberg  was  the  great 
metropolis  of  their  song-craft.  The  following 
sketch  of  their  art  is  from  the  **  Retrospective 
Review,"  Vol.  X.,  p.  113.f 

*<  In  the  fourteenth  century,  while  Germany 
was  kept  in  continual  agitation  by  the  feuds 
and  broils  of  rival  princes  and  barons,  there 
sprang  up  among  the  inhabitants  of  the  towns, 
who  devoted  themselves  to  commerce  and  the 

*  See  BouraawK.  Oeschichte  der  Poesie  und  Bered- 
samkeit.    VoL  IX.,  p.  363. 

t  See  also  Lays  of  the  Minnesingers,  p.  309,  and  Bov- 
mwsK's  Geschichte  der  Poesie  und  Beredsamkelt,  Vol. 
IX.,  p.  270. 


184 


GERMAN   LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


arta,  the  first  perceptible  germ  of  those  muni- 
cipal orders,  which  for  so  loDg  a  time  rendered 
prosperous  and  flourishing  the  incorporated  ci- 
ties of  that  country ;  and  which,  in  England, 
even  at  this  day,  is  a  remarkable  feature  among 
our  popular  institutions.  Already  in  the  thir- 
teenth century,  the  masons  in  all  parts  of  Ger- 
many had  formed  themselves  into  a  strict  cor- 
poration, which  with  uniform  laws  and  cere- 
monies received  into  its  bosom  apprentices,  com- 
panions, and  masters;  and  which,  throughout 
all  Europe,  erected  to  the  Divinity  those  sublime 
temples  which  have  since  been  denominated 
Gatiiic.  In  the  fourteenth  century,  all  the  arts 
and  trades  imitated  the  example  of  the  masons, 
by  dividing  themselves  into  different  societies ; 
and,  as  moral  bodies,  took  part  in  the  adminis- 
tration of  public  affairs,  and  deliberated  in  mu- 
nicipal council  upon  laws  for  their  internal 
regulation.  These  incorporated  mechanics  usu- 
ally met  together  on  holidays;  and,  after  the 
disposal  of  civil  business,  either  read,  in  the 
long  winter  evenings,  the  chronicles  of  their 
country,  or  the  ancient  Nordic  poems  and  ero- 
tic ballads.  These  readings  could  hardly  fail 
to  suggest  in  many  the  idea  of  entertaining  the 
company  with  some  composition  of  their  own. 
And  there  can  be  little  doubt,  that  the  readings 
of  these  assembled  artisans  were  the  main  cause 
that  awakened  in  many  a  bosom  the  dormant 
spirit  of  poetry,  in  that  unlettered  age. 

**  The  elementary  step  towards  organization 
being  tlius  imperceptibly  compassed,  they  pro- 
ceeded quite  naturally  to  select  the  most  excel- 
lent from  among  their  company,  and,  by  com- 
mon consent,  established  a  poetic  corporation 
under  the  name  of  Matter-gingers.  Adopted 
in  a  particular  city,  the  genius  of  the  Grerman 
population  soon  fastened  on  the  fascinating  nov- 
elty, and  bore  it  onwards.  The  intimate,  uni- 
form, and  constant  relations,  which  subsisted 
between  the  artisans  of  those  times  and  those 
countries,  materially  hastened  its  dissemination, 
and  rendered  it  universal.  The  birthplace  of 
this  poetic  phenomenon  was  Mentz.  Thence 
it  passed  rapidly  into  the  other  cities  of  Ger- 
many, particularly  Augsburg  and  Nuremberg. 
The  masters  of  Mentz,  to  give  celebrity  to  their 
new  institution,  taught  their  pupils  that  this 
school  of  Magistral  Song  was  founded  from  an- 
cient time,  by  very  noble  and  illustrious  per- 
sons, —  and  they  named  the  following :  — 

«« 1.  Walter,  Lord  o£  the  Vogelweide  ;  2. 
Wolfgang  Eschenbacb,  cavalier  or  knight;  3. 
Konrad  Marner,  cavalier ;  4.  H.  Frauenlob,  of 
Mentz,  and,  5.  H.  von  MOglin,  of  Mentz,  theo- 
logicians;  6.  M.  Klingsohr;  7.  M.  Starke  Papp; 
and  five  honorable  burghers,  namely,  8.  Bar- 
tholomew Regenbogen,  a  blackamitb ;  9.  The 
Roman  of  Zwickau ;  10.  The  Chancellor,  a 
fisherman  ;  11.  Konrad  of  Wtlrtzburg ;  and,  12. 
Stoll,  senior. 

**  They  affirmed,  moreover,  that  the  Emperor 
Otho  the  First,  in  the  year  962,  cited  these 
twelve  to  appear  at  the  University  of  Pavia. 


There  they  were  publicly  examined  by  the  pro- 
fessors, in  the  presence  of  a  multitude  of  learned 
persons,  and  acknowledged  masters  in  their  art 
On  this  occasion,  Otho  presented  these  masters 
and  their  academy  with  a  diadem  of  gold,  to 
adorn  and  crown  him  who  should  come  off  the 
victor  in  song.  The  documents  relative  to  these 
transactions  were  preserved  for  seven  hundred 
years  in  the  archives  of  Mentz,  whence  they 
were  taken  and  earned  into  Alsace,  at  the  time 
of  the  Smalkaldic  war. 

**  It  is  eaay  to  perceive  that  this  history  is  an 
artful  invention  of  the  founders  of  the  Magistral 
Song,  to  give  more  importance  and  sanctity  to 
their  corporation.  The  singers  of  Augsburg 
and  Nuremberg  had,  notwithstanding,  each  of 
them  their  own  protomastert,  —  twelve,  alao ; 
but  they  dated  from  more  recent  times,  and  did 
not  clash  with  the  preeminence  of  Mentz  :  on 
the  contrary,  they  mentioned  the  masters  of  that 
school  in  their  songs  always  with  profound  re- 
spect. 

«*  Be  that  as  it  may,  we  have  indicated  with 
great  historical  precision  the  epoch  in  which 
this  sect  originated,  whose  aim  was  to  promote 
the  development  of  music  and  poetry  among 
the  German  people.  To  accomplish  this,  the 
Masters  of  the  Song  assembled  together  on  holi- 
days, generally  in  the  evening,  either  in  the 
halls  of  the  arts,  or  in  the  churches,  and  there 
performed  their  poetico-musical  exercises. 

*^  It  was  their  custom,  by  written  placards, 
handsomely  ornamented,  and  exposed  in  all  the 
public  places,  to  invite  the  lovers  of  the  fine 
arts  to  these  assemblies ;  and  the  ceremony  was 
arranged  as  follows.  The  concurrents  for  the 
distinction  of  Master  placed  themselves,  one 
after  the  other,  in  a  high  chair,  whose  elevation 
gave  it  the  appearance  of  a  cathedral  throne. 
By  the  side  of  the  concurrent  sat  four  judges, — 
Mercker,  —  one  of  whom  was  to  pronounce  upon 
the  subject  of  the  song ;  to  the  second  belonged 
its  prosody ;  the  rhymes  to  a  third ;  and  a  fourth 
kept  an  account  of  its  melody.  So  that,  to  ar- 
rive at  the  mastership,  it  was  not  simply  requi- 
site to  be  a  good  poet,  but  the  candidate  must 
set  his  verses  to  music,  and  sing  them  too  ! 

<*On  mounting  the  rostrum,  the  performer 
first  briefly  complimented  the  masters  and  the 
audience.  He  then  set  forth  the  subject  of  his 
poem,  —  its  particular  form,  whether  of  three, 
five,  or  seven  strophes,  —  the  quality  of  the 
rhymes,  or  verses,  —  and  lastly,  the  melody  he 
proposed  to  adopt.  Of  all  this  the  judges  kept 
an  exact  account.  In  this  manner,  one  after 
the  other,  the  contending  parties  sang  their 
compositions  from  the  chair;  and  when  they 
had  all  finished,  the  judges  began  to  examine, 
from  hand  to  hand,  the  poem  of  each  competi- 
tor, in  the  quadruple  relation  already  pointed 
out.  This  examination  over,  they  called  the 
ordinary  president  of  the  assembly,  if  he  did 
not  happen  to  be  among  the  concurrents ;  but 
if  otherwise,  one  of  the  ancient  masters ;  and 
gave  in  their  judgment  to  him.     The  president 


GERMAN  LANGUAGE   AND  POETRT. 


185 


then  atcended  in  caikedram^  having  at  each 
side  two  judgeiy  and  proceeded,  with  a  load, 
iDtelligible  voice,  to  announce  the  judgment. 
This  comprehended,  first,  the  adjudication  of 
the  crown  to  the  moet  distinguished  poet ;  then, 
that  of  the  garland  to  the  next  best ;  and  final- 
ly, the  penal  sentence  against  those  who  had 
neglected  the  rules  of  the  art  At  the  sound 
of  trumpets  and  other  instruments,  the  two  vic- 
tor poets  now  approached  the  president,  who 
placed  upon  their  heads  the  insignia  of  their 
triumph,  amid  the  shouts  of  the  acclaiming  au- 
ditory. The  bursar  went  his  rounds  with  a 
bag,  into  which  all  who  had  incurred  a  pen- 
al^ dropped  it  acquiescingly,  as  he  passed 
along.  This  was  the  signal  fi>r  the  society  to 
separate,  which  they  now  did,  with  a  band- 
some  raivoy  to  the  audience ;  and  its  members, 
in  good  harmony,  repaired  either  to  one  of 
their  ea^<,  or  some  public  room.  There,  seat- 
ed at  the  festive  board,  their  only  themes  po- 
etry and  the  fine  arts,  they  passed  the  brimmwg 
beaker  in  quick  succession ;  and  improvisation, 
in  those  rhymed  couplets  which  are  called 
htittdverae^  became  the  order  of  the  night 
Woe  to  him  who  had  not  always  a  rhyme  at 
his  fingers*  ends,  or  some  burlesque  idea  to 
compensate  for  it !  for  he  would  have  been  the 
butt  of  the  company. 

*'*'  Such  were  the  singular  customs  of  the  Mas- 
tersingers;  but  yet  more  singular  than  these 
customs  were  the  laws  upon  which  they  ground- 
ed their  judgments.  It  would  be  foreign  to 
the  purpose  of  an  article  like  the  present,  to 
particularize  the  many  strange  regulations  and 
absurdities  of  their  poetic  code ;  but  it  may  be 
remarked,  that  they  fettered  the  fireedom  of  the 
Muse  with  every  impediment  that  an  ingenious 
fiuicy  could  devise.*  They  had  thirty-two  laws 
for  the  minutui  of  composition,  which  it  was 
compulsory  on  each  candidate  to  observe ;  and 
to  the  infiraction  of  any  one  of  these  wss  an- 


*  "Sverf  song  or  poem, for  iastsiice,  had  lt«  glvea  nuin- 
bur  of  rhymes  ead  syllebles,  pnecribed  end  limited  by  the 
master;  and  eveiy  aUngar,  poet,  or  judge,  was  obliged  to 
count  them  vpon  his  fingen.  TIm  song  iBar)  wee  confin- 
ed to  three,  fire,  or  aeren  stansaa,  or  veraea  (Geaetac), 
which  were  dtvided  Into  two  principal  atrophea  {StoUen), 
each  finishing  with  a  crotchet,  and  aung  to  the  aame  air ; 
then  followed  the  antiatrophe  iAbgeKa»g\  In  a  diflbrant 
melody;  and,  oidinarily,  tlie  aong  terminated  with  a  atro- 
pbe,  aet  to  the  aame  melody  aa  the  two  fonner.  The 
rfajmee,  or  veceea,  employed  in  theee  aonga,  or  poema, 
wen  of  seven  eorta.  They  had  their  dumb  or  mute  rhymee, 
called  Siumpjh  Rome;  aoonding  rfaymee,  or  KUngende 
ReSme;  soonding  and  beating  rhymee,  KUngende  Schlag- 
rdme;  modee,  or  blank  reraaa,  WeUen^  oder  einflMehe 
Term;  peneee,  Pau$en;  coroneU,  Kr9fddn;  and  their 
mate,  besting  rhymee,  or  StumpJ^  Sehiagreima,  To  each 
and  all  of  theee  reraea  were  aeaigned  their  eaveral  atationa 
bk  the  poem,  and  often  under  each  hampering  leatrictioaa 
aa  moat  have  been  very  prejodicial  to  the  eanae.  Neitlier 
was  it  aOowabie  to  change  thia  arbltnry  location,  mider 
any  color  of  poetic  lieenae;  for  the  principal  merit  in  theee 
cooDpoeitlons  was  their  pnnctilloua  adaptation  to  a  me- 
chanical atandard,  from  whieh  any  eigiwl  depaitnra  was 

m 


nezed  a  penalty,  often  as  fencifiil  as  the  law  it- 
self. With  such  obstacles  to  the  attainment  of 
perfiNstion,  even  upon  their  own  principles,  a 
freedom  from  faults  was  almost  altogether  im- 
possible; consequently,  those  performers  who 
numbered  the  fewest  errors  were  crowned  as 
conquerors.  Deducting  these  aberrations  of  the 
victors,  the  next  business  was  to  count  the 
feults  of  the  vanquished;  and  every  syllable 
in  excess  of  such  deduction  was  expiated  by  a 
small  pecuniary  fine,  the  product  of  which  went 
towards  the  entertainments,  and  similar  ex- 
penses.* All  the  certaminal  or  master  songs 
were  performed  in  the  high  German  language, 
firom  which  no  deviation  was  tolerated  under 
any  cireumstances.  Nor  was  the  plea  of  his 
own  particular  provincial  idiom  of  any  service 
to  the  offending  singer.  If  he  was  ignorant 
of  the  Teutonic  language,  he  was  desired  to  go 
back  and  study  in  the  received  standards :  — 
these  were  the  Bibles  of  Wittemberg,  Nurem- 
berg, and  Frankfort,  and  the  public  records  of 
the  lordships  and  principalities  of  the  empire. 
It  ought  to  be  mentioned  here,  that  the  harmo- 
nies or  tunes  of  the  Mastersingers  were  of 
high  antiquity,  and  held  in  great  reverence 
by  that  extraordinary  body.  They  are  said, 
indeed,  to  have  preserved,  traditionally,  the 
ancient  melodies  of  the  Minnesingers,  or  love- 
minstrels;  more  especially  those  which  were 
supposed  to  belong  to  the  twelve  founders  of 
the  school  of  song.  According  to  some  writ- 
ers, there  were  not  less  than  four  hundred  of 
these  melodies ;  and  their  names  were  singular 
enough.  There  was  the  Feilweis^  or  Melo- 
dy of  the  File ;  the  Pretsweia^  or  Melody  of 
Praise  ;  Zarts  Bvckstabentoeis,  the  Tender 
Melody  of  Letters ;  Gtschwinde  PfiugweU^  the 
Quick  Melody  of  the  Plough.  Besides  these, 
the  High  AUegro  Melody  of  Praise,  the  Hard 
Melody  of  the  Field,  the  Long.  Tail  of  the 
Swallow,  and  the  Long,  Double  Harmony  of 
the  Dove,  were  among  their  constant  and  fe- 
miliar  favorites.  In  the  certaminal  exereises, 
the  singers  were  confined  to  a  rigorous  obser- 
vation of  the  ancient  metres  as  well  as  notes 
of  these  melodies.  But  the  composition  of 
original  airs  was  not,  on  that  account,  discour- 
aged ;  and  many  of  these,  in  manuscript,  are 
to  be  found  in  the  library  of  Traubot  at  Leip- 
zig, and  in  that  of  Vienna,  and  others. 

"  Such  rules  and  institutions,  it  is  evident. 


*  "  Thia  ayUaUcal  aamaament  of  the  penaltiea  was  another 
pecaliar  ftatora  in  the  inetitutlon  of  the  Maateraingen ; 
and,  firom  the  impoeaibllity  of  a  atrict  adherence,  on  the 
part  of  any  performer,  to  auch  a  vexatious  canon  of  com- 
position,  mnat  hare  been  a  very  material  and  equally  cer- 
tain aource  of  nvenoe.  BsempH  gratid :  a  reree  too  long, 
or  too  ehort,  received  its  poniahment  ayllable  by  ayllable ; 
a  word  too  hard,  or  too  aoft,  — a  note  too  high,  or  too  low, 
— a  change  of  meaaora,  w  of  melody, — a  panae  omitted, 
or  introduced, — a  atrophe  mora,  or  leaa,  Uian  the  regula* 
tion, — riiythm  violated, — rhyme  neglected,  —  and  twenty 
other  each  mechanical  ndnutia,  paid  their  forfeit  accord- 
ing to  the  ayUabie  tarlfl:" 

v2 


186 


GERMAN   LANGUAGE   AND    POETRT. 


were  little  calculated  to  kindle  the  flame  of 
poetry  in  ordinary  bosoms.  And  if  these 
meetings  of  the  United  Artisans  did  not  pro- 
duce any  firs^rate  geniuses,  where  is  the  won- 
der? Has  even  one,  among  all  the  literary 
academies  of  cultivated  Europe,  been  able  to 
achieve  more?  The  Society  of  the  Master- 
singers  has  not  been  wanting,  fi>r  all  this,  in 
many  excellent  consequences.  Music  and  me- 
tre constituted  its  essential  elements,  and  civ- 
ilization felt  her  march  quickened  by  their  in- 
fluence. It  preserved,  too,  among  the  people 
recollections  of  antiquity,  which  else  had  un- 
doubtedly perished ;  and  called  forth  that  pa- 
triarcho-biblical  spirit,  which  rendered  so  ven* 
erable  the  burgher  families  and  artisans  of  the 
cities  of  Germany;  nay,  more,  universalized 
the  high  German  idiom,  and  made  it  the  lan- 
guage of  the  people.  In  the  midst  of  its  many 
curious  arrangements,  and  fantastical  and  use- 
less formalities,  it  had  the  peculiar  merit  to  be- 
come the  guardian  of  its  native  tongue,  and  trans- 
mit it  pure  through  the  defluz  of  barbarous  ages." 

The  greatest  poet  of  this  period  is  Hans 
Sachs,  the  son  of  a  barber,  and  by  trade  a  cob- 
bler. He  was  born  in  Nuremberg  in  1494,  and 
died  there  in  1575  at  the  age  of  eighty-two. 
Eight  years  before  his  death,  he  took  an  inven- 
tory* of  his  poetic  stock,  and  found  that  he  had 
written,  between  the  years  1514  and  1567,  the 
immense  numbed  of  6181  pieces;  namely, 
4200  Mastersongs;  208  comedies  and  trage- 
dies; 1700  comic  tales;  73  miscellaneous  ly- 
rics ;  in  all,  thirty-four  folio  volumes  of  manu- 
script, of  which  three  have  been  published 
(Nuremberg,  1558  -  61).  His  writings  are 
marked  by  shrewdness,  good  sense,  and  moth- 
er wit ;  and  the  portrait  of  him,  by  Hans  HoflT- 
mann,  has  a  mingled  expression  of  intelligence, 
drollery,  and  good  nature.  Adam  Puschmann, 
his  contemporary  and  friend,  describes  him,  in 
a  song  upon  his  death,  as  seen  in  a  vision  on 
Christmas  eve :  *^  In  the  midst  of  the  garden 
stood  a  fair  summer-house,  wherein  there  was 
a  hall  paved  with  marble,  with  beautiful  es- 
cutcheons and  figures  bold  and  daring;  and 
round  about  the  hall  were  windows,  through 
which  were  seen  the  fruits  in  the  garden  with- 
out ;  and  in  the  middle,  a  round  table  covered 
with  green  silk ;  whereat  sal  an  old  man  gray 
and  white,  and  like  a  dove ;  and  he  had  a  great 
beard,  and  read  in  a  great  book  with  golden 
clasps."* 

The  other  poetic  names  of  this  century  are 
few  in  number.  The  most  distinguished  are 
Martin  Luther,  Jobann  Fischart,  Ulrich  von 
Hutten,  Bartholomew  Ringwaldt,  Joachim  Be- 
litz,  Heinrich  Knaust,  Paul  Schede,  Peter  De- 
naisius,  Ambrose  Metzger,  and  Georg  Hager. 
These,  and  a  few  others,  are  writers  of  songs 
and  spiritual  poems,  which,  with  the  anonymous 
popular  ballads,  make  the  chief  part  of  the  poe- 
try of  the  period. 

*  EaukCB.  Yolkalieder  der  Deatacbeo.    YoL  L  p.  09. 


V.  From  1600  to  1700.  This  is,  perbapa, 
the  darkest  period  in  German  poetry.  The 
distractions  of  the  Thirty  Tears'  War  were 
Bital  to  literature.  The  old  romantic  spirit  was 
entirely  gone,  and  the  little  mtellectual  energy 
which  remained  was  employed  on  the  imitap 
tion  of  foreign  models.  The  language,  too,  was 
much  corrupted  by  the  admixture  of  foreign 
words.  Epic  poetry  had  almost  entirely  disap- 
peared ;  and  lyric  poetry,  particularly  that  of 
the  church,  affords  the  most  favorable  speci- 
mens of  the  poetic  talent  of  the  age.  The 
principal  poets  of  this  period  are  Jacob  Ayrer, 
author  of  thirty  tragedies  and  comedies  and 
thirty-six  Shrove-tide  plays,  in  one  of  which, 
Priam,  Ulysses,  and  Achilles  are  represented  as 
suffering  with  the  gout,  and  choose  Hans  Sachs 
to  accuse  Queen  Podagra  before  the  court  of 
Jupiter,  where  Petrarch  appears  as  her  advo- 
cate ;  —  Martin  Opitz,  author  of  various  didac- 
tic, descriptive,  and  dramatic  poems,  and  many 
translations ; — Simon  Dach ; — Paul  Flamming ; 

—  Andreas  Grypbius,  author  of  seven  tragedies 
in  rhymed  Alexandrines ; — Paul  Gerhardt ;  — 
Johann  Klai,  author  of  legendary  melodramas ; — 
Hofmann  von  Hofinannswaldau ;— Johann  Rist; 

—  Andreas  Tscfaerning ;  —  Kaspar  von  Lohen- 
stein ;  —  and  Friedrich  von  Canitz.  From  these, 
and  some  twenty  other  poets  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  fow  translations  have  been  made  into 
English.  The  reader  will  find,  however,  nu- 
merous extracts  from  them  in  the  oollections  of 
Matthisson  and  Erlach.* 

VI.  From  1700  to  1770.  We  at  length  be- 
gin to  emerge  from  the  Black  Forest  of  German 
literature,  **  whence  issuing,  we  again  behold 
the  stars."  This  first  half  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury is  marked  by  a  better  and  more  national 
taste.  The  more  congenial  influence  of  Eng- 
lish writers  gains  steadily  upon  that  of  the 
French ;  while  the  study  of  the  ancient  classic 
models  becomes  more  and  more  apparent,  and 
the  language  advances  in  purity,  copiousness, 
and  vigor. 

The  poets  of  this  period  are  usually  divided 
into  groups  or  schools,  as  the  Swiss,  the  Saxon, 
the  Hamburg,  and  the  Berlin  schools.  This 
division,  though  rather  arbitrary,  may  conven- 
iently be  followed  here ;  but,  as  the  literary 
history  of  the  period  will  be  given  more  com- 
pletely in  the  biographical  sketches  accompany- 
ing the  extracts,  it  will  be  necessary  to  mention 
only  some  of  the  most  distinguished  names  in 
the  several  schools.  1.  The  Swiss  school ; 
Haller,  Bodmer,  Breitinger,  and  Gressner.  2. 
The  Saxon ;  Gottsched,  Gellert,  Gftrtner,  Licht- 
wer,  Giseke,  Kreuz,  Weisse,  and  Cronegk. 
3.  The  Hamburg;  Hagedom,  Kramer,  and 
Klopstock.  4.  The  Berlin ;  Gleim,  Kleist,  Ui, 
Ramler,  and  Lessing. 


*  LyrlsBbe  Anttaolofie,  von  FaiSDaiea  Matthisson. 
90  vols.  Zilrich:  1803>7.  ISmo.— YolfaMadsr  der  Dau^ 
schea,  duich  Tmuamxam  Kabl  ton  Bsuuja.  4  vote. 
Maimbelm :  1834-6.    8vo. 


GERMAN  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


187 


VII.  From  1770  to  the  preMnt  time.  This 
is  tbe  last  and  moat  importsnt  period  of  Gei^ 
man  Uterarj  history ;  illustrioas  with  the  names 
of  Herder,  Wieland,  Goethe,  and  Sehiller, 
anil  many  others,  which,  though  snhordinate 
here,  would  have  been  of  the  highest  distino* 
tion  in  any  former  age.  This  penod  is  divided 
into  three  snbdirisions.  First,  tlie  Storm  and 
Pressure  Period  (Simrm^UMd^Dnmg^F^noie)^ 
so  called  irom  the  restless  spirit  at  work  in  liV 
eratnre,  the  best  exponents  of  which  are  Schil- 
ler's »  Robbeis,"  and  Goethe^  ^  Gotx  Ton  Beiw 
liehingen."  This  period  extends  from  1770  to 
1794.  Second,  the  union  of  Goethe  and  Schil- 
ler, the  Schlegel  and  Tieck  school,  and  the 
modern  Romanticiflti.  This  period  extends  from 
1794  to  about  1813.  Third,  the  most  recent 
period,  from  1813  to  1844,  embiaoing  the  patri- 
otic poeti  of  the  War  of  Liberation,  as  Schenk- 
endorf,  Komer,  and  Rdckert,  the  writers  of  the 
Destiny  dramas,  as  Werner,  Mailer,  and  Grill, 
parzer,  and  the  Uring  poets,  as  Uhland,  Freilig- 
rath,  Auersperg,  Herwegh,  Hoffmann  Ton  FaU 
lersleben,  and  others. 

Such  is,  in  the  briefest  Tiew  possible,  this 
wide  and  important  portion  of  the  field  of  Gter- 
man  culture  which  lies  between  the  present 
day  and  the  middle  of  the  Isst  century.  Hers 
are  the  dwellings  of  Goethe,  and  Schiller,  and 
Lessing;  there  the  firms  of  Voss,  and  Herder, 
and  Jean  Paul;  and  yonder  the  gniTe-yard, 
with  Matthisson  making  an  elegy,  and  other 
sentimental  poets  leaning  with  their  elbows  on 
the  tomb-stones.  And  then  we  hare  the  old 
and  melancholy  tale, -—the  struggle  against 
poverty,  the  suffering,  sorrowful  life,  the  ear- 
ly, mournful  death,  —  still  another  confirmation 
of  the  fact,  that  men  of  genius  too  often  resem- 
ble the  fabled  son  of  Ocean  and  Earth,  who  by 
day  was  waAed  through  the  air  to  distribute 
com  over  the  world,  but  at  night  wss  laid  on 
burning  coals  to  render  him  immortal. 

One  important  portion  of  German  poetry  still 
remains  to  be  noticed,  —  the  great  mass  of  Pop- 
ular Songs,  of  uncertain  date,  and  by  unknown 
authors.  The  ancient  German  ballads  are  cer- 
tainly inferior,  as  a  whole,  to  the  English,  Dan- 
ish, Swedish,  and  Spanish;  but  the  German 
popular  songs,  blooming  like  wildrflewers  orer 
the  broad  field  of  literature  from  the  fifteenth 
century  to  the  present  time,  surpass  in  beauty, 
variety,  and  quantity  those  of  any  other  coun- 
try. Among  their  thousand  sweet  and  mingled 
odors  criticism  often  finds  itself  at  feult,  as  the 
hunter's  hounds  on  Mount  Hymettus  were 
thrown  off  their  scent  by  the  fragrance  of  its 
infinite  wild-flowers.  They  exhibit  the  more 
humble  forms  of  human  life,  as  seen  in  streets, 
workshops,  garrisons,  mines,  fielda,  and  cottages ; 
and  give  expression  to  the  feelings  of  hope,  joy, 
longing,  and  despair,  from  thonmnds  of  hearts 
which  have  no  other  records  than  these. 

Many  collections  of  these  songs  have  been 
made,  among  which  those  of  EUchenburg,€Mirres, 
Wolf,  Bardale,  Zamach,  Meinert,  Erlach,  BOsch- 


ing,  and  Von  der  Hsgen  may  be  particularly 
mentioned.  But  the  roost  popular  collection  of 
all  is  that  published  by  Amim  and  Brentano, 
under  the  title  of «« The  Boy*8  Wonder-horn."  * 
A  youth  on  a  swift  steed  comes  riding  up  to  the 
castle  of  the  empress,  bearing  in  his  hand  a 
beautiftil  ivory  horn  adorned  with  precious 
stones  and  little  silver  bells,  which  a  feiry  has 
sent  to  the  emprew  as  a  reward  for  her  purity. 
He  leaves  the  horn  in  her  hand,  saying : 

*'  Om  prwiuis  of  joat  flngw, 
One  praMura  of  yosr  floftr, 
And  all  than  teUfl  around 
WiU  braathe  a  awaetar  aound 
Than  e'ar  from  harp-atring  rang, 
Than  a'ar  a  woman  aang." 

•*  I  know  not  how  to  praise  this  book  as  it 
deserves,"  says  Heine,  t  **  It  contains  the  most 
beauteous  flowers  of  the  German  mind ;  and  he, 
who  would  become  acquainted  with  the  Ger- 
man people  in  their  most  love-inspiring  aspect, 
mnst  study  these  traditionary  songs.  At  this 
moment  the  ^  Wunderhom  '  lies  before  me,  and 
it  appears  as  if  I  were  inhaling  the  fhigrance 
of  the  German  linden.  The  linden  plays  a 
leading  character  in  these  songs ;  lovers  com- 
mune beneath  its  evening  shade ;  it  is  their  fa- 
vorito  tree,  perhaps  because  the  linden  leaf 
bean  the  shape  of  the  human  heart.  This  re- 
marit  was  once  made  to  me  by  a  German  poet 
who  is  my  greatest  fevorito,  namely, -^myself 
Upon  the  title-page  of  the  volume  is  a  boy 
blowing  a  horn,  and  when  a  German  in  a 
strange  land  looks  upon  it  for  any  length  of 
time,  the  most  familiar  notes  seem  to  greet  his 
ear,  and  he  is  almost  overcome  with  homesick- 
ness; as  was  the  Swim  soldier  who  stood  sen^ 
tinel  on  the  Strasburg  tower,  and  when  he 
caught  the  herdsman's  note,  flung  down  his 
pike,  swam  across  the  Rhine,  but  was  soon  re- 
taken,  and  shot  as  a  deserter.  The  *  Knaben 
Wunderhom '  contains  the  most  touching  song 
upon  it,  a  song  full  of  beauty. 

**  In  these  popular  ballads  there  is  an  inde. 
sccibable  fascination.  The  poets  of  Art  strive  to 
imitato  these  productions  of  Nature,  as  men 
concoct  artificial  mineral-waters.  Tet,  when 
by  chemical  process  they  have  discovered  the 
component  parts,  the  all-important  something 
escapes  them  still,  namely,  the  sympathetic 
power  of  Nature.  In  these  songs  one  feels  the 
heart-beatings  of  the  German  people ;  here  re- 
veals itself  all  the  sombre  joyousness,  all  the 
idle  wisdom  of  the  nation ;  here  German  anger 
drums  its  measure,  here  Cferman  jest  pipes  its 
notes,  and  here  German  love  blends  its  kisses , 
here  drop  the  generous  wines,  and  here,  the 
unaffected  tears  of  Gkrmany ;  the  latter  are  oft 

*  Daa  Knabea  Wimderfaom.  Alie  Dootacho  Lledar  g«- 
aammalt  vtm  L.  A.  t.  Aenim  und  Gum  sua  BasmAiro.  3 
Tola.    Haidalbeig:  1608-19.    Sra 

t  Lattara  Aaziliaiy  to  tha  History  of  Modam  PbliU  Lit- 
entara  In  Germany.  B7  HnwaioH  Hbhb.  Tranalatad 
h7  O.  W.  Havbx.    Boaion:  1836.    16mo. 


188 


GBRMAN   LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


more  coitly  than  the  former,  for  iron  and  salt 
are  there  commingled. 

**It  is,  for  the  most  part,  wanderers,  vaga- 
bonds, soldiers,  travelling  scholars,  and  journey- 
men,* who  composed  such  songs.  The  greater 
part,  however,  we  owe  to  the  journeymen.  How 
oflen,  in  my  pedestrial  journeys,  have  I  asso- 
ciated myself  with  this  last  class  of  travellers, 
and  remarked,  how,  when  they  were  excited 
by  any  unusual  event,  they  would  improvisate 
a  snatch  of  native  song,  or  whistle  aloud  in  the 
&ee  air !  Even  the  little  birds  that  rested  upon 
the  branches  listed  to  the  song,  and  when  an- 
other lad,  with  knapsack  and  wanderer's  staff, 
came  sauntering  by,  the  little  birds  whistled  the 
fragment  in  his  ear,  then  he  adjoined  the  want- 
ing lines,  and  the  song  was  finished.  The  words 
fall  from  heaven  upon  the  lips  of  such  a  wan- 
derer, and  he  has  only  to  speak  them  forth,  and 
they  are  sweeter  than  all  the  beautiful  poetic 
phrases  which  we  delve  from  the  depths  of  our 
hearts." 

In  conclusion,  it  may  be  remarked,  that  what 
Thomas  Fuller  said  of  the  Bible  may  also  be 
said  of  German  literature :  *<  Wheresoever  its 
surface  doth  not  laugh  and  sing  with  com,  there 
the  heart  thereof  within  is  merry  with  mines, 
affording,  where  not  plain  matter,  hidden  mys- 
teries." But  until  recently  a  great  portion  of 
the  English  public  perceived  only  the  hidden 
mysteries,  and  not  the  laughing  and  singing  of 
the  com.  They  seemed  to  think  that  German 
literature  consisted  only  of  ghost-stories,  senti- 
mental novels,  and  mystic  books  of  philosophy. 
They  started  back  in  terror  from  the  appalling 
spectre  of  a  German  metaphysician,  as  Dante 
from  the  form  of  Lucifer,  when  he  beheld  it 
looming  through  the  misty  atmosphere,  and, 
like  a  windmill,  whirling  in  the  blast : 
"  Vesrilla  regia  prodeuni  inJtrrU 
Yerao  di  noi ;  peri  diaaMi  mira, 
Diase  '1  maestro  mio,  aa  tu  M  diacemi. 

Come  quando  una  groaaa  nebbia  >pln, 
O  quaado  V  emisperio  nootro  annotta. 
Par  da  lungi  un  muUn  cha  1  rento  glim, 
Yeder  mi  parve  un  tal  dificio  allotta." 
Many  still   form   their  idea  of  this  literature 
from  a  poor  translation  of  **  The  Sorrows  of 
Werther  " ;  others  from  some  of  Hofimann's  wild 
tales.     Not  finding  these  to  their  taste,  they  lose 
all  patience ;   call   the  whole  literature  silly, 
rhapsodical,  absurd,  and  immoral;  and  finally 
exclaim,  with  Danton  in  the  French  Assembly, 
**  Gentlemen,  in  future  let  us  have  prose  and 
decency ! " 

Before  closing,  it  may  be  well  to  explain  in  a 
few  words  a  form  of  speech  that  has  been  of 
late  years  much  used  in  literary  criticism,  name- 
ly, the  convenient  expressions,  Objeetiviiy  and 
SuJtjeeHmty,    ObjecHmty  is  the  power  of  looking 

*  "  In  many  of  the  German  itatas,  mechanica,  after  thej 
hare  finished  their  apprenticeahip,  are  obliged  U>  wander 
tlinnigh  the  country  for  two  or  three  years,  as  alluded  to  In 
the  text,  and  to  ao^nim  for  a  longer  or  shorter  period  In  the 
diflbrent  cities  and  towns,  in  the  capacity  of  Journeymen, 
r  the  maaten  of  their  respealre  guilds." 


upon  all  things  as  objects  of  art.  The  objective 
writer  is  an  artist,  who,  forgetful  of  himself,  sees 
only  the  object  before  him.  All  scenes  and  per- 
sons are  described  without  betraying  any  of  the 
describer's  own  peculiarities.  The  author  is  not 
seen  in  his  book.  He  never  speaks  in  his  own 
person,  nor  is  the  reader  reminded  of  him. 
Shakspeare  and  Scott  are,  perhaps,  the  most  ob- 
jective of  writers.  Their  heroes  are  not  portraits 
of  themselves,  but  of  objects  out  of  themselves. 
In  the  same  way,  the  old  classic  writers  are  for 
the  most  part  objective.  SubjeeHvUy^  on  the 
other  hand,  is  the  power  by  which  a  writer 
stamps  himself  on  all  he  writes,  and  gives  it 
the  coloring  of  his  own  mind.  The  author  is 
never  lost  sight  of  in  his  work.  We  hear 
always  the  same  voice,  though  somewhat  coun- 
terfeited; see  always  the  same  fkce,  though 
partially  concealed  under  various  masks.  Most 
modern  writers  are  subjective.  Like  Snug,  the 
joiner,  in  ^  The  Midsummer  Night's  Dream," 
they  let  half  the  face  be  seen  through  the  lion's 
neck,  and  say,  **  I  one  Snug  the  joiner  am !  " 
or,  like  Moonshine  in  the  same  play,  exclaim  : 
«» All  that  J  have  to  say  is,  to  tell  you  that  the 
lantern  is  the  moon ;  I,  the  man  in  the  moon  ; 
this  thorn-bush,  my  thom-bush ;  and  this  dog, 
my  dog."  Such  are  the  expressions,  OhjecHmty 
and  SyJbjeedmty;  from  which  the  not  very  trans- 
parent mixture  has  been  formed,  called  Suhjee- 
the-Objeetiviiy.  This  is  the  desirable  power  of 
seeing  ourselves  as  others  see  us.  Launce,  in 
^(The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,"  seems  to 
have  a  confused  notion  of  it,  when  he  says : 
<*I  am  the  dog; — no,  the  dog  is  himself,  and 
I  am  the  dog ;  —  O,  the  dog  is  me,  and  I  am 
myself:  —  Ay,  so,  so." 

In  addition  to  the  works  already  cited,  for  a 
more  complete  history  of  German  literature, 
the  reader  is  referred  to  Madame  de  Stael's 
"Allemagne"; — Franz  Horn's  '^Poesie  und 
Beredsamkeit  der  Deutschen,"  3  vols.,  Berlin, 
1622-4,  8vo. ; — Taylor's  "Historic  Survey 
of  Grerman  Poetry,"  3  vols.,  London,  1830, 
8vo. ;  —  Gervinus,  <*  Geschichte  der  Poetischen 
National-Literatur  der  Deutschen,'*  5  vols., 
Leipzig,  1840-3,  8vo.;  an  excellent  analysis 
of  which  may  be  found  in  the  "  North  Ameri- 
can Review,"  for  January,  1844 ;  —  Menzel's 
"  German  Literature,"  translated  by  C.  C.  Fel- 
ton,  3  vols.,  Boston,  1840, 12mo. ;  —  Peschier's 
"  Histoire  de  la  LittiSrature  Allemande,"  2  vols., 
Paris,  1836,  8vo. ;  —  Henry  and  Apffel's  *«  His- 
toire de  la  Litterature  Allemande,"  Paris,  1839, 
8vo.  Vast  stores  of  the  German  literature  of  the 
Middle  Ages  may  be  found  in  the  publications 
of  the  "  Literariseher  Verein,"  in  Stuttgart,  and 
the  "  Bibliothek  der  gesammten  Deutschen  Na- 
tional-Literatur," which  was  commenced  in 
1839,  by  Basse,  in  Quedlinburg.  See  also  Mail- 
4th  and  KSffinger's  **  Koloczaer  Codex  alt- 
deutscher  Gedicbte,"  Pesth,  1817,  and  Grimm's 
««  Altdeutsche  Wftlder,"  3  v6ls.,  Cassel,  1813- 
16,  8vo. 


FIRST  PERIOD.-CENTURIES  VIIL-XL 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


SONG  OF  OLD  HILDEBRilND. 

I  HATB  heard  say,  that  Hildebnuid  and  Am- 
eluDg  agreed  to  go  on  a  warlike  expedition. 
These  kinsmen  made  ready  their  horses,  pre- 
pared their  war-shirts,  and  girded  on  their  chain* 
hilted  swords. 

As  they  rode  to  the  meeting  of  heroea,  Hil- 
debrand,  Herbrand's  son  (he  was  one  of  the 
wise,  and  questioned  in  few  words),  said  to  his 
companion :  *«  If  thou  wilt  tell  me  who  was 
thy  father,  and  of  what  people  thou  art  aprung, 
I  will  give  thee  three  garments." 

«( I  am  a  child  of  the  Huns,"  answered  Ame- 
lung,  *'  and  our  old  people  have  told  me  that 
my  fiither*s  name  was  Hildebrand.  In  former 
times  he  came  from  the  East,  flying  the  enmity 
of  Otto-asa,  and  put  himself  with  Theodoric 
and  his  blades. 

^*He  left  behind,  in  the  land,  a  bride  in 
child-bed,  and  a  child  without  inheritance ;  and 
went  to  the  South  with  Theodoric,  where  he 
stood  many  brunts. 

**•  He  was  a  man  without  connexions,  not  a 
match  for  Otto-asa ;  but  he  was  a  good  soldier, 
while  he  strove  under  Theodoric,  acquired  do- 
mains, was  his  people's  father,  and  dear  to 
brave  men.  I  do  not  believe  that  he  is  liv- 
ing." 

'*  My  worthy  god  Irmin  in  heaven  above," 
quoth  Hildebrand,  <*  do  not  let  me  fight  with  so 
near  a  kinsman  ! "  Then  he  untwisted  golden 
bracelets  from  bis  arm,  and  imperial  rings,  which 
his  king  had  given  him,  saying :  **  This  I  give 
thee,  not  without  good  will ;  I  am  thy  father 
Hildebrand." 

Amelung  answered :  "  With  willing  soul  be 
gifts  taken,  tit  for  tat.  Thou  art  not  of  his  age. 
Craftily  thou  seekest  to  deceive  me  :  but  I  will 
convict  thee  out  of  thine  own  mouth.  Thou 
art  so  advanced  in  years,  that  thou  must  be  old- 
er than  he.  And  shipvrrecked  men  told  me, 
that  he  died  by  the  Wendel-sea,*  in  the  West." 

Then  Hildebrand  answered :  **  I  well  see 
thou  hast  in  thy  breast  no  Lord  God,  and  carest 
naught  for  his  kingdom.  €ro  now,  so  God  be 
willing,"  said  Hildebrand  ',  **  I  would  we  were 
parted.  Sixty  summers  have  I  wandered  out 
of  my  country,  and  sometimes  I  have  joined 
archers,  but  in  no  borough  did  they  ever  fasten 
my  legs ;  and  now  my  nearest  kinsman  would 
aim  his  battle-axe  at  my  neck,  or  I  must  bind 
his  legs.     Tet  you  may  now  easily,  if  your 

*  Tbs  Sea  of  Venice,  the  Adriatic. 


valor  is  up,  win  the  spoils  of  the  dead  from  one 
yon  should  venerate,  if  you  have  any  sense  of 
right.  He  would  be  a  base  Ostrogoth,"  con- 
tinued Hildebrand,  "who  should  reflise  thee 
battle,  seeing  thou  so  greatly  desirest  it  Gk>od 
commoners,  be  judges  which  it  is  who  flinches 
in  the  field,  and  which  it  is  who  ought  to  have 
our  two  coats  of  mail." 

Then  they  let  fly  their  ashen  spears  with 
such  force  that  they  stuck  in  the  shields. 
Then  they  struck  together  their  stone  axes,  and 
uplifted  hostilely  their  white  shields,  till  their 
loins  and  bellies  quivered. 

But  the  lady  Utta  rushed  in  between  them  : 
^  I  know,"  said  she,  **  the  cross  of  gold  which 
I  gave  him  for  his  shield;  this  is  my  Hilde- 
brand. Ton,  Amelung,  sheathe  your  sword; 
this  is  your  fkther." 

Then  she  led  both  champions  into  her  hall, 
and  gave  them  meal  and  wine  and  many  em- 
braces. 


FRAGMENT  OF  THE  SONG  OF  LOUIS 
THE  THIRD. 

Thxh  took  he  shield  and  spear, 
And  quickly  forward  rode ; 
Willing  to  wreak  revenge 
Against  his  gathering  foes. 

Erelong  he  saw  from  far 
The  Norman  force  approach  : 
•«  Thank  God  !  "  said  he  aloud  : 
He  saw  what  he  desired. 

The  king  rode  bravely  on. 
And  sang  a  Prankish  hymn. 
And  all  bis  people  joined  : 
"  Kyrieleison." 

The  song  was  sung ; 

The  fight  begun : 

The  blood  shone  in  the  cheeks 

Of  the  merry  Franks : 

But  no  blade  of  them  all 

Fought  so  bravely  as  Ludovic.       # 


FROM  THE  RHYME  OF  ST.  ANNO. 


BxroRX  St.  Anno 
Six  were  sainted 
Of  our  holy  bishops ; 
Like  the  seven  stars. 


190 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


They  shall  shine  from  heaven. 

Purer  and  brighter 

Is  the  light  of  Anno 

Than  a  hyacinth  set  in  a  golden  ring. 

This  darling  man 

We  will  have  for  a  pattern ; 

And  those  that  would  grow 

In  virtue  and  trustiness 

Shall  dress  by  him  as  at  a  mirror. 

As  the  sun  in  the  air, 

Which  goes  between  heaven  and  earth, 

Glitters  to  both : 

So  went  Bishop  Anno 

Between  God  and  man. 

Such  was  his  virtne  in  the  palace. 

That  the  empire  obeyed  him. 

He  behaved  with  honor  to  both  sides, 


And  was  counted  among  the  first  barons. 

At  worship,  in  his  gestures. 

He  was  awfbl  as  an  angel. 

Many  a  man  knew  his  goodness ; 

Hear  what  were  his  manners  : 

His  words  were  frank  and  open  ; 

He  spoke  truth,  fearing  no  man. 

Like  a  lion  he  sat  among  princes, 

Like  a  lamb  he  walked  among  the  needy. 

To  the  unruly  he  was  sharp. 

To  the  gentle  he  was  mild. 

Widows  and  orphans 

Praised  him  always. 

Preaching  and  praying 

Nobody  could  do  better. 

Happy  was  Cologne 

To  be  worthy  of  such  a  buhop. 


SECOND  PERIOD.-CENTURIES  XII.,  XIII. 


MINNESINGERS. 


CONRAD  VON  KIRCHBERG. 

Court  Cohrad  yon  Kirchbero  was  a  Swa- 
bian,  who  lived  in  the  latter  part  of  the  twelfth 
centnry.  He  was  the  author  of  several  songs, 
and  this  is  all  that  is  known  of  him. 

Mat,  sweet  May,  again  is  come. 

May  that  frees  the  land  firom  gloom ; 

Children,  children,  up,  and  see 

All  her  stores  of  jollity ! 

On  the  laughing  hedgerow's  side 

She  hath  spread  her  treasures  wide  > 

She  is  in  the  greenwood  shade. 

Where  the  nightingale  hath  made 

Every  branch  and  every  tree 

Ring  with  her  sweet  melody ; 

Hill  and  dale  are  May's  own  treasures. 

Youths,  rejoice !     In  ^ortive  measures 

Sing  ye !  join  the  choms  gay  ! 

Hail  this  merry,  merty  May ! 

Up,  then,  children  !  we  will  go 
Where  the  blooming  roses  grow ; 
In  a  joyful  company 
We  the  boKstiDg  flowen  will  see : 
Up,  your  festal  dress  prepare  ! 
Where  gay  hearts  are  meeting,  there 
May  haUi  pleaenree  most  inviting. 
Heart  and  sight  and  ear  delighting. 
Lislen  to  the  birde*  sweet  song : 
Hark  !  how  soft  it  floats  along ! 
Courtly  dames,  oar  pieasores  share  ! 
Never  saw  I  May  so  lair ; 
Therefore  danong  will  we  go. 
Touths,  rejoice  !  the  flowerets  blow ! 

Sing  ye  !  join  the  choras  gay ! 

Hail  this  merry,  merry  May  ! 


Our  manly  youths, — where  are  they  now  ? 

Bid  them  np  and  with  us  go 

To  the  sporters  on  the  plain  : 

Bid  adieu  to  care  and  pain 

Now,  thou  pale  and  wounded  lover  ! 

ThoQ  thy  peace  shalt  soon  recover. 

Many  a  laughing  lip  and  eye 

Speaks  the  light  heart's  gayety ; 

Lovely  flowers  around  we  find. 

In  the  smiling  verdure  twined. 

Richly  steep^  in  May-dews  flowing. 

Youths,  rejoice !  the  flowers  are  blowing ! 

Sing  ye  !  join  the  chorus  gay  ! 

Hail  this  meny,  meny  May ! 

O,  if  to  my  love  restored,  — 
To  her,  o'er  all  her  sex  adored, — 
What  supreme  delight  were  mine  ! 
How  would  care  her  sway  resign  ! 
Merrily  in  the  bloom  of  May 
Would  I  weave  a  garland  gay. 
Better  than  the  best  is  she. 
Purer  than  all  parity  ; 
For  her  spotless  self  alone 
I  will  praise  this  changeless  one ; 
Thankful  or  unthankfiil,  ahe 
Shall  my  song,  my  idol  be. 

Yoaths,  then  join  the  choms  gay  ! 

HaU  this  meiry,  meny  May  ! 


HEINKICH  VON  RISPACH. 

Hkixrich  vor  RisrACH,  or  the  VutDooa 
Clerk,  flourished  in  the  latter  part  of  the  twelfth 
centniy,  and  lived  as  late  as  1807,  as  be  was 


MINNESINGERS. 


191 


one  of  the  combaUati  at  the  poetical  battle  of 
the  Wartburg,  which  took  place  in  that  year. 

Tbk  woodlands  with  my  aonp  retoond, 

As  still  I  seek  to  gain 
The  favor  of  that  lady  fair 

Who  causeth  all  my  pain. 

My  ftte  is  like  the  nightingale's. 

That  singeth  all  night  long. 
While  still  the  woodlands  mournfully 

But  echo  back  her  song. 

What  care  the  wild  woods,  as  they  ware, 

For  all  the  songster's  pains  ? 
Who  gives  her  the  reward  of  thanks 

For  all  her  tunefiil  strains  ? 

In  dull  and  mute  ingratitude 
Her  sweetest  songs  they  hear, 

Their  tenants  roam  the  desert  wild, 
And  want  no  music  there. 


WOLFRAM  VON  ESCHENBACH. 

Wolfram  toh  Eschkhbach,  one  of  the 
most  voluminous  poets  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
belonged  to  a  noble  family  of  the  Upper  Pala- 
tinate. He  lived  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
twelfth  century,  and  the  first  part  of  the  thir- 
teenth. But  little  is  known  of  his  private 
life,  except  that  he  supported  himself  by  his 
poetical  genius,  and  the  liberality  of  the  princes 
at  whose  courts  he  was  entertained.  Early  in 
the  thirteenth  century,  he  was  a  dependent  of 
Hermann,  the  landgrave  of  Thuringia.  To- 
¥rards  the  close  of  his  life  he  returned  to  the 
castle  of  hu  ancestors,  and  about  the  year  1228, 
died  and  was  buried  in  the  church  of  our  Lady 
of  Eschenbach. 

Wolfram  von  Eschenbach  is  more  renowned 
for  long  narrative  poems  than  for  amorous  dit- 
ties. Besides  his  traditional  fiune,  as  one  of  the 
champions  in  the  poetic  tourney  at  the  Wart- 
burg, his  poems  of  **  Parcival,"  **  Titurel,*'  and 
«  William  and  Kiburg  "  have  given  him  a  lofty 
place  among  the  German  bards.  The  poem  of 
•«  Parcival "  treato  of  the  Saint-Gr^al,  or  Holy 
Grail,  a  relic  in  the  form  of  a  vase,  made  of  a 
single  emerald,  and  containing  the  holy  sacra- 
ment, or,  according  to  other  traditions,  the  blood 
of  the  Saviour,  collected  by  Joseph  of  Arima- 
thea,  and  intrusted  to  the  care  of  angels,  who 
had  long  held  it  suspended  in  the  air,  beyond 
the  sight  of  mortals.  Titurel  built  a  temple, 
according  to  a  design  traced  by  the  hand  of 
God,  which  contained  the  consecrated  vase, 
and  became  the  abode  of  a  monastic  and  chiv- 
alrous order,  who  took  the  name  of  Templars. 
These  persons  were  charged  with  the  duty  of 
watching  over  the  relio,  guarding  the  edifice, 
and  protecting  the  kingdom.  The  king  of  Saint- 
Gr^al  was  at  the  same  time  the  ecclesiastical 


chief.  The  election  of  the  king  was  determined 
by  the  will  of  God,  the  name  of  the  chosen 
monarch  being  written  miraculously  on  the 
vase  itself.  Parcival,  one  of  the  Knights  of  the 
Round  Table,  owed  hb  elevation  to  a  similar 
intimation  of  the  divine  will. 

When  sin  had  made  great  progress  in  the 
West,  the  Saint-Gr^al  was  ordered  by  the  Al- 
mighty to  be  transferred  to  the  East.  Parcival 
was  at  this  time  king  of  Saint-Gr^al.  The 
vase,  the  temple,  the  kingdom,  and  the  order 
of  defenders  were  all  transported,  in  a  single 
day,  to  India.  A  Christian  tribe,  who  had  pre- 
served their  religion  in  its  primeval  purity, 
lived  there,  surrounded  by  pagans,  under  the 
government  of  the  renowned  but  mysterious 
Prester  John.  This  treasure,  according  to  the 
ancient  traditions,  had  been  in  the  possession 
of  Titurel  before  Parcival,  although  the  poem 
which  bears  hia  name  was  compcwed  at  a  later 
period. 

Another  epic  poem  of  Eschenbach  is  on  the 
sabject  of  William  and  Kiburg ;  the  latter  was 
the  wife  of  William  of  Orange,  whose  sister 
had  married  Louis  le  D^bonnaire,  the  son  of 
Charlemagne.  These  poems,  as  Eschenbach 
left  them,  did  not  form  a  complete  whole,  but 
were  afterwards  arranged  and  completed  by 
other  poets.  Eschenbach  was  received  into  the 
ranks  of  chivalry,  as  he  takes  good  care  to  in- 
form us  ;  and  it  was  in  the  character  and  qual- 
ity of  knight  that  he  appeared  at  the  poetic 
combat  of  the  Wartburg.  Like  most  cavaliers 
of  the  age,  it  is  stated  that  Eschenbach  could 
neither  read  nor  write.  A  local  tradition  in- 
forms us,  that  he  was  visited  in  the  chamber  he 
occupied  at  Eisenach,  in  the  house  of  one 
Gottschalk,  by  the  fiuniliar  spirit  of  Klinsor 
the  magician,  who  had  arrived  at  Eisenach 
through  the  air,  and  .taken  lodgings  with  a 
warm  citizen  named  HeUegrave^  or  Count  of 
Hell.  This  malicious  demon  wrote  on  the 
wall  of  Eschenbach 's  chamber  words  signifying 
that  the  poet  was  no  better  than  a  layman^ 
which  meant  in  those  days  an  ignoramus.  The 
host  of  Eschenbach,  in  his  zeal  for  the  repu- 
tation of  his  guest,  caused  the  stone  on  which 
the  inscription  was  written  to  be  taken  out  of 
the  wall  and  thrown  into  the  neighbouring 
stream  of  the  Horsel ;  but  the  room  is  still 
called  ^  the  dark  chamber." 

In  consequence  of  the  defect  above  mention- 
ed in  Eschenbach 's  education,—- a  serious  one, 
it  must  be  confessed,  for  a  poet,  —  he  was  com- 
pelled to  employ  a  reader,  when  he  had  occa- 
sion to  make  use  of  books,  and  to  dictate  to  an 
amanuensis,  whenever  he  composed.  His  poems 
generally  were  imitations  of  the  Romance  or 
Proven^  literature,  in  which  the  spirit  of 
chivalry  was  first  breathed  into  verse.  These 
poems  sometimes  took  the  form  of  a  monologue, 
and  sometimes  that  of  a  conversation  with  his 
characters,  one  of  whom,  a  special  favorite  of 
the  poet,  was  Dame  Aventnre. 

As  a  poet.  Wolfram  betrays  more  of  his  own 


192 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


individaal  character  than  is  common  in  the 
poets  of  an  ear]y  age.  Many  significant  allu- 
siona  occur  in  hit  works  to  his  amours,  success- 
ful or  unsuccessful.  He  hiames  those  who  at- 
tempt to  sing  of  lore  without  haying  felt  its 
ardors.  In  *<  Parcival/*  he  complains  at  times 
of  the  mischievous  god,  and  launches  his  re- 
proaches '  against  some  hard-hearted  fair  one 
who  had  refused  to  listen  to  his  wooings.  His 
minor  poems,  however,  breathe  a  satisfied  spirit, 
and  hint  strongly  that  all  the  dames  to  whom 
his  courtesies  were  offered  did  not  turn  a  deaf 
ear  to  his  prayers.  In  the  poem  of  <*Parcival," 
however,  he  shows  more  of  the  inspiration  of 
chivalry  and  devotion  than  of  love.  He  de- 
scribes the  untaught  and  simple  youth  of  his  he- 
ro, his  chaste  love,  his  innocence,  his  fidelity, 
and  his  trust  in  God.  The  practice  of  these 
virtues  exposes  him  to  great  misfortunes,  but 
also  prepares  him  for  the  highest  dignity,  that 
of  being  king  of  the  Saint-Gr^al  in  the  para- 
disaical country  of  the  early  Christians. 

The  poem  of  «« William  and  Kiburg  "  bears 
a  strong  resemblance  to  the  ancient  6pop^e. 
The  style  is  pure,  vigorous,  and  concise,  and 
the  tone  of  the  poem  has  less  of  the  romantic 
exaltation  and  enthusiasm  than  was  common  at 
the  time.  The  descriptions  of  battles  are  mi- 
nute and  fiuthful,  and  show  the  ready  skill  of 
one  who  has  seen,  and  perhaps  taken  part  in, 
actions  similar  to  those  he  delineates.  The 
love  and  constancy  of  William  and  Kiburg  are 
fblly  and  characteristically  represented;  and 
her  heroic  defence  of  the  castle,  during  her 
husband's  absence,  is  told  with  epic  animation. 

But  of  all  his  poems,  that  of  *«  Titurel "  con- 
tributed the  most  to  his  renown,  as  is  proved 
by  the  numerous  copies  of  it  that  were  made 
during  a  series  of  ages.  Many  other  produc- 
tions of  note,  in  the  early  periods  of  the  German 
language,  have  been  attributed  to  him,  —  as,  for 
example,  **  The  Adventures  of  Wolfdietrich,"  in 
the  ^  Heldenbuch,"  — just  as  a  great  number  of 
epic  compositions  by  nameless  bards  among  the 
early  Greeks  were  popularly  assigned  tp  the 
mighty  name  of  Homer. 


Would  I  the  lofty  spirit  melt 

Of  that  proud  dame  who  dwells  so  high, 
Kind  Heaven  must  aid  me,  or  unfelt 

By  her  will  be  its  agony. 
Joy  in  my  soul  no  place  can  find : 

As  well  might  I  a  suitor  be 
To  thunderbolts,  as  hope  her  mind 

Will  turn  in  softer  mood  to  me. 

Those  cheeks  are  beautiful,  are  bright 

As  the  red  rose  with  dewdrops  graced ; 
And  fimltless  is  the  lovely  light 

Of  those  dear  eyes,  that,  on  me  placed, 
Pierce  to  my  very  heart,  and  fill 

My  soul  with  love's  oonsoming  fires, 
While  passion  burns  and  reigns  at  will ; 

So  deep  the  love  that  ftir  inspires ! 


But  joy  upon  her  beauteous  form 

Attends,  her  hues  so  bright  to  shed 
O'er  those  red  lips,  before  whose  warm 

And  beaming  smile  all  care  is  fled. 
She  is  to  me  all  light  and  joy ; 

I  faint,  I  die,  before  her  fit>wir ; 
Even  Venus,  lived  she  yet  on  earth, 

A  fairer  goddess  here  must  own. 

While  many  mourn  the  vanished  light 

Of  summer,  and  the  sweet  sun's  face, 
I  mourn  that  these,  however  bright. 

No  anguish  fi^m  the  soul  can  chase 
By  love  inflicted  :  all  around. 

Nor  song  of  birds,  nor  ladies'  bloom, 
Nor  flowers  upspringing  from  the  ground. 

Can  chase  or  cheer  the  spirit's  gloom. 

Tet  still  thine  aid,  beloved,  impart ; 

Of  all  thy  power,  thy  love,  make  trial ; 
Bid  joy  revive  in  this  siid  heart, 

Joy  that  expires  at  thy  denial : 
Well  may  I  pour  my  prayer  to  thee, 

Beloved  lady,  since  't  is  thine 
Alone  to  send  such  care  on  me ; 

Alone  for  thee  I  ceaseless  pine. 


THE  EMPEROR  HENRY. 

It  is  doubtful  which  Henry  this  is.  Piscbon 
hesitatingly  calls  him  Henry,  sixth  emperor  of 
that  name,  and  the  son  of  Frederic  Barbarossa. 
If  he  was  so,  he  died  in  1197. 

I  ORKKT  in  song  that  sweetest  one 

Whom  I  can  ne'er  forget. 
Though  many  a  day  is  past  and  gone 

Since  face  to  face  we  met. 
Who  sings  this  votive  song  for  me. 
Or  man  or  woman,  he  or  she. 
To  her,  my  absent  one,  shall  welcome  be. 

Kingdom  and  lands  are  naught  to  me. 
When  with  her  presence  weighed  ; 

And  when  her  face  no  more  I  see, 
My  power  and  greatness  fade ; 

Then  of  my  wealth  I  reckon  none. 

But  sorrow  only,  for  mine  own  : 
Rising  and  falling,  thus  my  life  moves  on. 


He  errs,  whose  heart  will  not  believe 

That  I  might  yet  be  blest. 
Though  never  crown  again  had  leave 

Upon  my  head  to  rest : 
This  loss  I  might  supply ;  but  when 
Her  love  was  gone,  what  had  I  then  ? 
Nor  joy,  hope,  solace  could  I  know  again. 


WALTHER  VON  DER  VOGELWEIDE. 

Walthbr  von  DBR  VooBLWBiDB,  One  of  the 
most  distinguished  of  the  Minnesingers,  was 


MINNESINGERS. 


193 


born  in  the  latter  half  of  the  twelfth  centurjr,  of 
a  noble  family  belongpng  to  the  Upper  Thurgau. 
The  name  Yogelweide  (Bird-meadow)  appears 
to  have  been  taken  from  that  of  their  castle. 
The  poet  led  a  wandering  life ;  sometimes  at  the 
court  of  Frederic,  the  duke  of  Austria  and  Sti- 
ria ',  then  kindly  received  by  Philip  Augustus, 
king  of  France;  then  remaining  long  at  the 
magnificent  court  of  the  Landgrave  of  Thurin- 
gia,  the  great  patron  of  the  poets  of  his  age,  who 
instituted  the  poetical  contest,  called  the  War 
of  the  Wartburg,  in  which  Walther  took  part. 
A  work  is  still  preserved,  called  «« The  Wart- 
burg War,"  consisting  of  the  alternate  songs 
of  the  bards  who  took  part  in  this  poetical  joust. 

Tradition  places  the  date  of  this  tunefiil  tour- 
ney in  the  year  1207,  the  most  brilliant  epoch  of 
ancient  German  poetry,  not  only  fbr  the  illus- 
trious names  that  have  been  handed  down  to 
our  day,  but  for  the  impulse  given  to  the  ancient 
national  and  heroic  poetry  by  unknown  min- 
strels. Hermann,  landgrave  of  Thuringia,  had 
gathered  round  his  court  many  of  the  most  ft- 
mous  Minnesingers,  who  had  celebrated  in  lays 
and  ballads  the  warlike  deeds  of  his  martial 
house.  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen  appears  as 
the  champion  of  the  Austrian  prince,  throws 
down  the  gauntlet  to  all  the  poets,  and  offers  to 
maintain  the  virtues  of  his  hero  against  all  the 
singing  tribe,  under  penalty  of  being  hanged  in 
case  of  defeat.  Walther,  as  court  poet  of  the 
Thuringian  prince,  accepts  the  challenge,  and 
enters  the  luts  against  Heinrich  von  Ofterdin- 
gen. Walther  regrets  that  he  is  obliged  to  de- 
clare against  the  Duke  of  Austria  and  his  brave 
cavaliers ;  then  he  praises  the  King  of  France, 
Philip  Augustus,  in  whose  reign  the  poetry  of 
the  North  of  France  rivalled  the  glory  of  the 
Proven^  muse,  as  the  poet  could  testify  from 
his  own  knowledge,  fbr  he  had  crossed  the 
Rhine  and  visited  the  banks  of  the  Seine.  But 
in  the  course  of  the  contest  he  partially  recants, 
and  sets  the  gracious  duke  above  the  monarch, 
calling  him  the  sun ;  but  the  landgrave  he  com- 
pares to  the  brightness  that  precedes  the  sun. 
Ofterdingen  complains  of  WsJther,  accuses  him 
of  playing  an  unfair  game,  and  resorts  to  Klin- 
sor  of  Hungary  to  sustain  the  supremacy  of 
Austria.  The  other  champions  call  fbr  Stemp- 
fel  of  Eisenach,  who  stands  ready  with  the  hal- 
ter ;  but  Ofterdingen  is  protected  by  the  land- 
gravine, who  intercedes  in  his  defence.  —  The 
place  of  this  scene  was  the  great  hall  of  the 
Wartburg  castle,  —  a  hall  that  still  exists,  and 
is  shown  as  a  monument  of  the  joust. 

After  the  arrival  of  Frederic  the  Second  in 
Germany,  Walther  revisited  the  court  of  Vienna, 
where  he  was  kindly  received  by  Leopold  the 
Seventh.  In  the  contests  between  the  temporal 
and  spiritual  powers,  the  poet  showed  himself  an 
ardent  friend  of  the  empire,  though  he  bewailed 
the  bloody  quarrels,  and  described  them  as  accom- 
panied by  awful  signs  in  the  sky.  These  quar- 
rels began  with  the  excommunication  of  Otho, 
and  ended  only  with  the  deposition  of  Frederic 


the  Second,  and  the  annihilation  of  the  Hohen- 
staufen  fkmily;  an  event  which  Walther  did 
not  live  to  witness.  The  apparent  cause  of 
these  conflicts  was  the  promise  made  by  Fred- 
eric to  undertake  a  crusade  immediately  upon 
his  elevation ;  a  promise  he  was  unable  to  keep, 
on  account  of  domestic  wars.  The  heart  of 
Walther  was  divided  between  two  great  de- 
sires ;  the  re^stablishment  of  the  universal  do- 
minion of  the  German-Roman  empire,  and  the 
power  and  majesty  of  his  temporal  chief.  Since 
1187,  the  Holy  Sepulchre  had  been  in  the  hands 
of  the  infidels,  and  Walther  many  times  entreat- 
ed the  emperor  to  undertake  the  crusade  he  had 
promised  at  his  coronation.  Pressed  by  the 
importunities  of  Walther,  the  emperor  finally 
resolved,  in  spite  of  many  unftvorable  circum- 
stances, to  embark  at  Otranto ;  but,  falling  sick, 
he  was  compelled  to  return,  and  encounter  a 
new  excommunication  from  the  pope.  Walther 
censures  the  bulls  fulminated  from  the  Vatican. 
The  crusade,  however,  on  which  Walther's 
heart  was  set,  at  length  came  to  pass,  and  the 
poet  had  the  satisfaction  and  joy  to  bow,  with 
his  great  emperor,  at  the  tomb  of  the  Saviour, 
redeemed  from  the  infidels. 

From  this  time  forth,  the  poet's  **  life  seemed 
to  him  rich  and  noble,  because  his  sinful  eyes 
had  seen  the  Holy  Land."  The  Emperor 
Frederic  had  made  a  triumphal  entry  into  Jeru- 
salem, at  the  head  of  his  faithful  Germans,  on 
the  27th  of  March,  1229 ;  the  following  Sunday 
he  appeared  in  the  church  of  the  Holy  Sepul- 
chre, and,  taking  the  crown  from  the  altar, 
placed  it  upon  his  own  head.  During  this  cer- 
emony, the  Germans  sang  a  chant,  and  the 
grand-master  of  the  Teutonic  order  pronounced 
a  discourse  in  German.  Walther  was  probably 
present  at  this  spectacle,  and  saw  the  desire  of 
his  soul  fulfilled, — the  chief  of  the  German 
empire  and  of  the  Christian  world  crowned 
with  glory  on  the  most  sacred  spot  on  earth. 

No  later  events  are  mentioned  in  the  poems 
of  Walther,  and  the  swan  of  ancient  Germany 
appears  to  have  died  a  short  time  after.  His 
voice  had  resounded,  as  he  says  himself,  more 
than  forty  years. 

Walther  seems  to  have  adopted  all  the  habits 
and  manners  of  the  wandering  minstrels  of  the 
times.  He  travelled  from  court  to  court,  gen- 
erally received  with  honor,  tarrying  with  the 
German  princes  who  protected  the  arts  of  poet- 
ry and  music,  and  sometimes  at  fi>reign  courts, 
and  was  welcomed  everywhere.  He  made  no 
scruple  to  accept  pensions  and  entertainments 
for  his  services.  '*  It  is  true,"  says  Raczynski,* 
**  that  knights  possessing  fiefi  received  presents 
of  dresses,  armor,  and  horses,  and  a  great  num- 
ber of  knights-errant,  as  well  as  bards  and 
troubadours,  resorted  to  the  tourneys  for  this 
kind  of  alms ;  but  the  latter  accepted  whatev- 
er was  ofiered  them,  particularly  second-hand 
clothes.    Walther  boasts  of  never  having  taken 

*  Histoiro  de  PArt  Modems  en  Allemagne. 
Q 


194 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


any  such  present.  He  sings  his  ballads,  accom- 
.  panying  himself  with  the  violin.  He  played 
this  instrument  also  to  enliven  the  dance,  in 
imitation  of  the  Dukes  of  Austria,  Leopold  and 
Frederic,  who  sung  and  managed  the  ball  them- 
selves.*' The  proud  and  chivalrous  baron  and 
fiddler,  Volker  of  the  Nibelungenlied,  did  the 
same  at  the  nuptials  of  Chrimhild. 

But  Walther  sang  not  fbr  princes  alone. 
Love  formed  the  theme  of  many  a  gentle  ditty 
chanted  by  the  bard,  until  late  in  life.  He  sings 
of  the  &ir  one's  cruelty,  by  whose  side  he  be- 
comes like  a  feeble  child ;  even  a  refusal,  ac- 
companied by  her  angelic  smile,  makes  him 
happy.  He  paints  her  beauties  with  brilliant 
colors,  and  prefers  the  sight  of  her  cheeks, 
clothed  with  the  peach's  downy  hue,  to  the 
contemplation  of  the  empyrean  and  the  celestial 
car.  Her  praise  of  his  poetry  puts  him  in  an 
ecstasy  ;  and  she  it  is,  who  inspires  him  to  say, 
that  **he  who  possesses  the  love  of  a  noble 
woman  holds  all  vice  in  scorn."  Thus  had 
love  exalted  the  soul  of  Walther. 

Walther's  residence  at  the  courts  of  princes, 
his  superior  genius,  the  dignity  of  his  poetry, 
the  cutting  satire  which  he  knew  how  to  use 
with  great  effect,  and  his  vehement  patriotism 
gave  him  a  powerful  influence.  His  poems 
were  the  favorites  of  the  emperor  and  the  prin- 
ces. His  chief  desire  is  the  honor  and  repose 
of  his  country  and  of  Christianity.  The  dis- 
union of  the  temporal  and  spiritual  powers,  and 
the  universal  degeneracy  of  all  classes  and  all 
ages,  are  the  cause  of  his  sorrows,  and  the 
theme  of  his  perpetual  complaints.  He  vene- 
rates the  pope,  as  the  spiritual  head  of  the  Chris- 
tian religion  ;  but  he  disapproves  of  the  abuse 
of  papal  power.  Among  the  vices  of  his  time, 
the  one  which  meets  with  his  severest  repre- 
hension is  that  of  immoderate  drinking. 

When  old  age  approaches,  Walther  piously 
fixes  his  thoughts  upon  the  region  beyond  the 
grave.  **  In  this  valley  of  tears,  every  joy  de- 
parts, like  the  fleeting  tints  of  the  flowers,  and 
dries  up  like  the  grass  of  the  field."  And 
therefore  he  lifts  his  eyes  towards  eternal  fe- 
licity. His  poems  assume  a  graver  character, 
and  the  gloomy  feelings  and  dark  anticipations, 
common  to  old  men,  oflen  find  utterance  in 
them.  He  was  deeply  versed  in  the  history  of 
the  saints.  He  had  travelled  much,  and  the  old 
heroic  spirit  of  Germany  breathes  with  manly 
vigor  in  his  patriotic  songs.  For  Walther  was 
a  true  poet ;  his  voice  was  heard  with  respect 
and  admiration,  and  he  stood  among  the  fore- 
most men  of  his  age. 

There  is  a  tradition  that  Walther  was  buried 
beneath,  a  tree,  within  the  precincts  of  the  Min- 
ster at  WQrtzburg,  and  that  he  directed  in  his 
will  that  the  birds  should  be  fed  at  stated  times 
on  his  tomb.  This  is  the  subject  of  one  of  the 
pictures  recently  executed  at  Munich,  which  is 
thus  described  by  Raczynski,  in  his  great  work 
on  German  art.  **  The  picture  in  the  middle  of 
the  second  wall  shows  us  the  figure  of  the  poet 


reclining  on  the  tomb.  About  it  are  flying  little 
birds,  which  the  children  of  the  choir  are  feed- 
ing. This  picture,  executed  by  a  modem  artist 
with  great  simplicity,  is  the  most  pleasing  of  all. 
The  idea  is  taken  fh>m  an  old  tradition.  Wal- 
ther, according  to  all  the  testimonies,  died  at 
Wortzburg ;  his  tomb  was  found  in  the  court 
of  the  new  Minster,  surrounded  by  the  luxuri- 
ant vegetation.  A  tree  with  heavy  branches 
bent  over  the  tombstone,  and  in  its  foliage  were 
sporting  thousands  of  little  birds,  drawn  thitlier 
by  the  water  and  the  food  which,  according  to 
the  last  will  of  Walther,  were  doily  placed  upon 
his  tomb.  At  a  later  period,  this  birds'  food 
was  altered  by  the  monks  into  small  loaves  for 
themseWes,  on  the  anniversary  of  the  poet's 
birth.  An  epitaph  in  Latin  verse  explains  this 
pious  legacy." 

The  poems  of  Walther  have  been  published 
by  Lachmann  in  the  original  text  (Berlin,  1827 
-  28),  and  translated  into  modem  German  by 
Simrock  and  Wackernagel. 

When  from  the  sod  the  flowerets  spring. 
And  smile  to  meet  the  sun's  bright  ray, 
When  birds  their  sweetest  carols  sing, 

In  all  the  morning  pride  of  May, 
What  lovelier  than  the  prospect  there  ? 
Can  earth  boast  any  thing  more  &ir  ? 
To  me  it  seems  an  almost  heaven. 
So  beauteous  to  ray  eyes  that  vision  bright  is 
given. 

But  when  a  lady  chaste  and  fair. 
Noble,  and  clad  in  rich  attire. 
Walks  through  the  throng  with  gracious  air. 

As  sun  that  bids  the  stars  retire,  — 
Then,  where  are  all  thy  boastings.  May  ? 
What  hast  thou  beautiful  and  gay. 
Compared  with  that  supreme  delight  ? 
We  leave  thy  loveliest  flowers,  and  watch  that 
lady  bright. 

Wouldst  thou  believe  me,  —  come  and  place 

Before  thee  all  this  pride  of  May  ; 
Then  look  but  on  my  lady's  face, 

And  which  is  best  and  brightest  say  : 
For  me,  how  soon  (if  choice  were  mine) 
This  would  I  take,  and  that  resign. 
And  say,  **  Though  sweet  thy  beauties,  May, 
I  'd  rather  forfeit  all  than  lose  my  lady  gay  !  " 

*T  WAS  summer, —  through  tlie  opening  grass 

The  joyous  flowers  upsprang. 
The  birds  in  all  their  different  tribes 

Loud  in  the  woodlands  sang  : 
Then  forth  I  went,  and  wandered  far 

The  wide  green  meadow  o'er ; 
Where  cool  and  clear  the  fountain  played. 

There  strayed  I  in  that  hour. 

Roaming  on,  the  nightingale 

Sang  sweetly  in  my  ear ; 
And  by  the  greenwood's  shady  side 

A  dream  came  to  me  there ; 


MINNESINGERS. 


195 


Fast  by  the  fountain,  where  bright  flowen 

Of  sparkling  hoe  we  see, 
Close  sheltered  from  the  summer  heat. 

That  vision  came  to  me. 

AH  care  was  banished,  and  repose 
Came  o*er  my  wearied  breast. 

And  kingdoms  seemed  to  wait  on  me, 
For  I  was  with  the  blest 

Tet,  while  it  seemed  as  if  awajr 

My  spirit  soared  on  high. 
And  in  the  boundless  joys  of  heayen 

Was  rapt  in  ecstasy, — 
E'en  then,  my  body  revelled  still 

In  earth's  festivity ; 
And  surely  never  was  a  dream 

So  sweet  as  this  to  me. 

Thus  I  dreamed  on,  and  might  have  dwelt 

Still  on  that  rapturous  dream, 
When,  hark  !  a  raven's  luckless  note 

(Sooth,  't  was  a  direful  scream  ! ) 
Broke  up  the  vision  of  delight. 

Instant  my  joy  was  past : 
O,  had  a  stone  but  met  my  hand, 

That  hour  had  been  his  last ! 


HEINRICH  VON  MORUNQ. 

Vert  little  is  known  of  this  poet.     He  lived 
in  the  first  half  of  the  thirteenth  century. 

Mr  lady  dearly  loves  a  pretty  bird. 

That  sings,  and  echoes  back  her  gentle  tone ; 
Were  I,  too,  near  her,  never  should  be  heard 

A  songster's  note  more  pleasant  than  my  own ; 
Sweeter  than  sweetest  nightingale  I  'd  sing. 
For  thee,  my  lady  fair. 
This  yoke  of  love  I  bear  : 
Deign  thou  to  comfort  me,  and  ease  my  sorrow- 
ing. 

Were  but  the  troubles  of  my  heart  by  her 
Regarded,  I  would  triumph  in  my  pain ; 
But  her  proud  heart  stands  firmly,  and  the  stir 
Of  passionate  grief  o'ercomes  not  her  disdain. 
Yet,  yet  I  do  remember  how  before 
My  eyes  she  stood  and  spoke. 
And  on  her  gentle  look 
My  earnest  gaze  was  fixed :  O,  were  it  so  once 
more! 

Hast  thou  seen 
My  heart's  true  queen 
At  the  window  gazing } 
Her  whose  love 
Can  care  remove. 
All  my  sorrows  easing? 
Like  the  sun  at  first  uprising. 
She  was  shrouded. 
And  o'erclooded 
Was  my  spirit, — now  rejoicing. 


Is  there  none 
Whose  heart  can  own 
A  generous,  kindly  feeling  ? 
Let  him  aid  me 
Find  that  lady 
Who  fit>m  me  is  stealing ; 
That  her  beauteous  smile  may  cheer  me 
Ere  I  go; 
For  love  and  woe 
To  the  silent  grave  fest  bear  me. 

Then  upon 
Mj  burial-stone 
Men  shall  write  how  dearly 
She  was  prized. 
And  I  despised, 
I  that  loved  sincerely  ; 
Then  the  passing  swain  shall  see 
My  complaining. 
Her  disdaining ; 
Such  sad  fete  she  dealt  to  me. 


BURKHART  VON  HOHENFELS. 

This  poet  also  lived  in  the  first  half  of  the 
thirteenth  century.  Many  of  his  poems  were 
published  by  Bodmer. 

LiKK  the  sun's  uprising  light 
Shines  that  maid,  before  whom  fede 
Other  charms,  however  bright ; 
As  the  stars  at  break  of  day. 
Late  so  brilliant,  fiide  away. 

When  my  spirit  light  had  flown 
Wanton  forth  in  pleasure's  quest. 
Then  those«beaming  eyes  have  shone 
O'er  the  rover's  path,  and  led 
Home  to  her  from  whom  it  sped. 

When  again  its  wing  it  took 
Falcon-like  for  joy  to  soar. 
Ne'er  the  gentle  spell  it  broke ; 
Soon  again  it  sought  its  home 
In  that  breast  it  wandered  from. 

O'er  it  fear  was  6ver  coming 
Lest  its  mistress,  at  the  thought 
That  for  other  loves  't  was  roaming. 
Vengeful  all  its  joys  might  blight ; 
Therefore  back  it  winged  its  flight. 


GOTTFRIED  VON  NIFEN. 

GoTTFRiKD  TON  NiFxif  slso  bclongs  to  the 
early  part  of  the  thirteenth  century.  Some  of 
his  songs  were  published  by  Bodmer,  and  others 
by  Benecke  in  his  **  Erg&nzung  der  Sammlung 
von  Minnesingern."  In  a  war  with  the  Bish- 
op of  Costnitz,  he  and  his  brother  were  taken 
prisoners  by  the  martial  prelate. 


196 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


Up,  up  !  let  as  greet 
The  season  so  sweet ! 

For  winter  is  gone, 
And  the  flowers  are  springing. 
And  little  birds  singing, 
Their  soft  notes  ringing, 

And  bright  is  the  sun ! 
Where  all  was  dressed 
In  a  snowy  vest. 
There  grass  is  growing. 
With  dewdrops  glowing, 

And  flowers  are  seen 

On  beds  so  green. 

All  down  in  the  grove, 
Around,  above. 

Sweet  music  floats ; 
As  now  loudly  vying. 
Now  soflly  sighing. 
The  nightingale  's  plying 

Her  tuneful  notes. 
And  joyous  at  spring 
Her  companions  sing. 
Up,  maidens,  repair 
To  the  meadows  so  fair. 

And  dance  we  away 

This  merry  May ! 

Tet,  though  May  is  blooming, 
And  summer  is  coming. 

And  birds  may  sing. 
What  boots  me  the  joy. 
If  my  fair,  too  coy. 

This  heart  will  wring ; 
If  that  auburn  hair, 
Those  eyes  so  fair, 
Those  lips  so  smiling. 
Are  only  beguiling 

And  piercing  my  heart 

With  witching  art  ? 


DIETMAR  VON  AST. 

DiETMAR  VON  AsT,  AisT,  or  EisT,  in  the 
Thurgau,  belongs  to  the  twelfth,  or,  at  the  latest, 
to  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century.  In 
point  of  literary  merit,  he  is  one  of  the  best  of 
the  Minnesingers.  Some  of  his  pieces  are  giv- 
en by  Pischon,  Vol.  I.  p.  570. 

Bt  the  heath  stood  a  lady 

AH  lonely  and  fair ; 
As  she  watched  for  her  lover, 

A  falcon  flew  near. 
*•  Happy  falcon  !  "  she  cried, 

"  Who  can  fly  where  he  list, 
And  can  choose  in  the  forest 

The  tree  he  loves  best ! 

^*  Thus,  too,  had  I  chosen 

One  knight  for  mine  own, 
Him  my  eye  had  selected, 

Him  prized  I  alone  : 


But  other  fair  ladies 

Have  envied  my  joy  ; 
And  why  ?  for  I  sought  not 

Their  bliss  to  destroy. 

*«  As  to  thee,  lovely  summer. 
Returns  the  birds*  strain. 

As  on  yonder  green  linden 
The  leaves  spring  again. 

So  constant  doth  grief 

-   At  my  eyes  overflow, 

And  wilt  not  thou,  dearest. 
Return  to  me  now  ? 

*•  Yes,  come,  my  own  hero. 

All  others  desert ! 
When  first  my  eye  saw  thee, 

How  graceful  thou  wert ; 
How  fair  was  thy  presence, 

How  graceful,  how  bright ! 
Then  think  of  me  Only, 

My  own  chosen  knight !  " 

There  sat  upon  the  linden-tree 

A  bird  and  sang  its  strain ; 
So  sweet  it  sang,  that,  as  I  heard, 

My  heart  went  back  again : 
It  went  to  one  remembered  spot, 

I  saw  the  rose-trees  grow, 
And  thought  again  the  thoughts  of  love 

There  cherished  long  ago. 

A  thousand  years  to  me  it  seems 

Since  by  my  fair  I  sat. 
Yet  thus  to  have  been  a  stranger  long 

Was  not  my  choice,  but  fate  : 
Since  then  I  have  not  seen  the  flowers, 

Nor  heard  the  birds*  sweet  song ; 
My  joys  have  all  too  briefly  passed, 

My  griefi  been  all  too  long. 


CHRISTIAN  VON  HAMLE. 

NoTHino  is  known  of  the  history  of  this  po- 
et, except  that  he  flourished  about  the  middle 
of  the  thirteenth  century. 

Would  that  the  meadow  could  speak  I 

And  then  would  it  truly  declare 
How  happy  was  yesterday. 

When  my  lady-love  was  there  ; 
When  she  plucked  its  flowers,  and  gently  pressed 
Her  lovely  feet  on  its  verdant  breast. 

Meadow,  what  transport  was  thine. 
When  my  lady  walked  across  thee, 

And  her  white  hands  plucked  the  flowers. 
Those  beautiful  flowers  that  emboss  thee  ! 

O,  suffer  me,  then,  thou  bright  green  sod. 

To  set  my  feet  where  my  lady  trod  ! 

Meadow,  pray  thou  for  the  ease 

Of  a  heart  that  with  love  is  panting  ! 


MINNESINGERS. 


197 


And  ao  will  I  pray,  that,  her  faet 
On  thy  sod  my  lady  planting. 
No  wintry  anowa  may  oyer  lie  there. 
And  my  heart  be  green  aa  yoor  Teatare  fiur. 


RUDOLPH  VON  ROTHENBERG. 

This  poet  sprang  from  a  noble  fitmily  of  the 
same  name  in  the  Aar-gau,  in  the  time  of  Fred- 
eric the  Second.  He  appears  to  have  taken 
part  in  one  of  the  cruaadea. 

A  sTRAiroER  pilgrim  apoke  to  me. 
Unquestioned,  of  my  lady  bright : 

He  told  me  of  her  beauty  rare, 

How  kind  she  waa,  how  courteooa,  fur ; 
A  tale  it  waa  of  aoft  delight. 

That  o'er  my  heart  came  pleaaantly. 

**  Heaven  grant  my  love  a  happy  day ! " 
Each  other  greeting  thua  denied, 

Still  does  my  spirit  fondly  aay, 

Ever,  at  morning's  earliest  ray ; 
And,  ne'er  forgot,  at  eventide. 

My  kind  **  goodnight  "  I  constant  pay. 

Almost  by  reason  waa  my  frame 
Deserted,  when  I  left  her  last, 

When  fair  she  beamed  upon  my  eye, 

Bright  as  the  glowing  evening  sky ; 
Joy  in  her  &vor  was  o'ercast 

By  sorrowing  thoughts  that  o'er  me  came. 

She  bade  me,  when  I  from  her  went, 
My  sorrowing  song  to  her  convey ; 

And  I  would  pour  it  now  to  her, 

Could  I  but  find  a  messenger, 

Who,  bearing  to  her  hand  the  lay. 

Might  gracefully  my  song  present. 

And  should  one  herald  fail,  away 

Straight  would  I  send  a  thousand  more ; 

And  should  they  all  convey  the  song. 

And  dwell  in  concert  soft  and  long 
Upon  the  strain,  —  perhaps  that  hour 

A  thankful  word  my  toil  might  pay. 


HEINRICH  HERZOG  VON  ANHALT. 

This  prince,  sumamed  '*  the  Fat,'*  was  a  poet 
of  considerable  distinction  in  his  time.  He 
died  in  1267. 

Stat  !  let  the  breeze  still  blow  on  me 

That  passed  o'er  her,  my  heart's  true  queen ! 

Were  she  not  sweet  as  sweet  can  be. 
So  soft  that  breeze  had  never  been. 

Overcome,  my  heart  to  her  bows  down ; 

Tet  Heaven  protect  thee,  lady,  still ! 
O,  were  those  roseate  lips  my  own, 

I  might  defy  e'en  age's  chill ! 


Before  that  loveliest  of  the  land 

Well  may  the  boaster's  tongue  run  low : 

I  view  thoae  eyes,  that  lily  hand. 

And  still  toward  where  ahe  tarriea  bow. 

O,  might  I  that  fair  form  enfold, 
Aa  evening  sweetly  closed  on  us ! 

No, — that  were  mora  than  heart  could  hold ; 
Enough  for  me  to  praiae  her  thus. 


COUNT  KRAFT  OF  TOGGENBURG. 

This  poet  belonged  to  the  thirteenth  century. 
His  death  took  place  in  1270. 

DoKS  any  one  seek  the  soul  of  mirth, 
Let  him  hie  to  the  greenwood  tree. 

And  there,  beneath  the  verdant  shade, 
The  bloom  of  the  aummer  see ; 
For  there  sing  the  birds  right  merrily, 

And  there  will  the  bounding  heart  upapring 

To  the  lofty  clouds  on  joyful  wing. 

On  the  hedgerows  spring  a  thousand  flowen, 
And  he,  from  whose  heart  sweet  May 

Hath  banished  care,  finds  many  a  joy ; 
And  I,  too,  would  be  gay, 
Were  the  load  of  pining  care  away ; 

Were  my  lady  kind,  my  soul  were  light, 

Joy  crowning  joy  would  raise  its  flight 


The  flowen,  leaves,  hills,  the  vale,  and  mead, 
And  May  with  all  its  light. 

Compared  with  the  roses,  are  pale  indeed. 
Which  my  lady  bean ;  and  bright 
My  eyea  will  shine,  as  they  meet  my  aight, 

Thoae  beautifbl  lipa  of  rosy  hue, 

Aa  red  aa  the  rose  juat  steeped  in  dew. 


STEINMAR. 

This  poet  belongs  to  the  middle  of  the  thir- 
teenth century.  He  sprang  from  a  family  in 
the  Zflrich-gau,  or  the  Tyrol. 

With  the  graceful  com  upspringing. 
With  the  birds  around  me  singing, 
With  the  leaf-crowned  forests  ^waving. 
Sweet  May-dews  the  herbage  laving, 
With  the  flowers  that  round  me  bloom. 
To  my  lady  dear  I  '11  come  : 
All  things  beautiful  and  bright, 
Sweet  in  sound  and  fair  to  sight ; 
Nothing,  nothing  is  too  rare 
For  my  beauteous  lady  fair ; 

Every  thing  I  '11  do  and  be. 

So  my  lady  solace  me. 

She  is  one  in  whom  I  find 
AH  things  fair  and  bright  combined ; 
When  her  beauteous  form  I  see, 
Kings  themselves  might  envy  me, 
42 


198 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


Joy  with  joy  is  gilded  o*er, 
Till  the  heart  can  hold  no  more. 
She  18  bright  aa  morning  son, 
She  my  fiureat,  loveliest  one  ; 
For  the  honor  of  the  fair, 
I  will  sing  her  beauty  rare ; 

Every  thing  I  '11  do  and  be, 

So  my  lady  solace  me. 

Solace  me,  then,  sweetest! — be 
Such  in  heart  as  I  to  thee ; 
Ope  thy  beauteous  lips  of  love, 
Call  me  thine,  and  then  above 
Merrily,  merrily  I  will  sail 
With  the  light  clouds  on  the  gale. 
Dear  one,  deign  my  heart  to  bless, 
Steer  me  on  to  happiness. 
Thou,  in  whom  my  soul  confideth. 
Thou,  whose  love  my  spirit  guideth ! 

Every  thing  I  '11  do  and  be, 

So  my  lady  solace  me. 


CONRAD  VON  WURTZBURG. 

Conrad  von  Wurtzburg  flourished  in  the 
latter  part  of  the  thirteenth  century.  He  died 
in  1287.  His  poems  are  very  numerous,  and 
have  much  merit. 


See  how  from  the  meadows  pass 
Brilliant  flowers  and  verdant  grass ! 

All  their  hues  now  they  lose  :  o*er  them  hung. 
Mournful  robes  the  woods  invest. 
Late  with  leafy  honors  dressed  : 

Yesterday  the  roses  gay  blooming  sprung, 
Beauteously  the  fields  adorning ; 

Now  their  sallow  branches  fail : 
Wild  her  tuneful  notes  at  morning 
Sung  the  lovely  nightingale  ; 

Now  in  woe,  mournful,  low,  is  her  song. 

Nor  for  lily  nor  rose  sighs  he. 
Nor  for  birds'  sweet  harmony. 
He  to  whom  winter's  gloom  brings  delight : 
Seated  by  his  leman  dear. 
He  forgets  the  altered  year ; 
Sweetly  glide  at  eventide  the  moments  bright. 
Better  this  than  calling  posies ; 
For  his  lady's  love  he  deems 
Sweeter  than  the  sweetest  roses ; 
Little  he  the  swain  esteems 
Not  possessing  that  best  blessing,  —  love's  de- 
light. 


OTHO,  MARGRAVE  OF  BRANDEN- 
BURG. 

This  prince  reigned  from  1366  to  1304.  He 
was  called  (^Otto  mit  dem  Ffeile,'*  Otho  with 
the  Arrow. 


Again  appears  the  cheerful  May, 
On  many  a  heart  its  joy  it  pours, 

A  thousand  flowers  their  sweets  display, 
And  what  more  blooming  than  the  bowers  ? 

Sweet  is  the  various  music  there. 

New  clad  in  leaves  the  wild  woods  are, 
And  many  a  pensive  heart  this  hour  to  joy  re- 
stores. 

And  all  the  live-long  day  I  '11  strive 

For  favor  in  my  lady's  eyes ; 
And  must  I  die  in  gloom,  nor  live 

To  win  and  wear  that  peerless  prize, 
Yet  am  I  still  consoled  to  know 
That  she  the  death-wound  doth  bestow. 
That  from  her  rosy  lips  the  fatal  sentence  flies. 


Make  room  unto  my  loved  lady  bright. 

And  let  me  view  her  body  chaste  and  fair ; 
Emperors  with  honor  may  behold  the  sight. 

And  must  confess  her  form  without  compare. 
My  heart,  when   all  men  praise  her,  higher 

swells ; 
Still  must  I  sing  how  far  the  maid  excels, 
And  humbly  bow  toward  the  region  where  she 
dwells. 

O  lady-love,  be  thou  my  messenger  ! 

Say,  I  adore  her  from  my  inmost  soul. 
With  fiiith  entire,  and  love  no  maid  but  her ; 

Her  beauties  bright  my  senses  all  control ; 
And  well  she  might  my  sorrowing  fears  beguile : 
If  once  her  rosy  lips  on  me  would  smile. 
My  cares  would  all  be  gone,  and  ease  my  heart 
the  while. 

Two  bitter  woes  have  wounded  me  to  death  ; 
Well  may  ye  ween,  all  pleasures  did  they 
chase; 
The  blowing  flowers  are  faded  on  the  heath ; 
Thus  have  I  sorrow  from  her  lovely  face. 
'T  is  she  alone  can  wound  my  heart  and  heal : 
But  if  her  heart  my  ardent  love  could  feel, 
No  more  my  soul  would  strive  its  sorrows  to 
conceal. 


THE  CHANCELLOR. 

The  name  of  the  person  designated  by  this 
title  is  unknown.  An  ancient  ballad  of  **  The 
twelve  old  Masters,"  calls  him  '*  a  fisher  in 
Steiermark." 

Who  would  summer  pleasures  try, 
Let  him  to  the  meadows  hie. 
O'er  the  mountain,  in  the  vale. 
Gladsome  sounds  and  sights  prevail : 
In  the  fields  fresh  flowers  are  springing. 
In  the  boughs  new  carols  singing. 
Richly  in  sweet  harmony 
There  the  birds  new  music  ply. 


MINNESINGERS. 


199 


This  is  ail  thine  own,  sweet  May  ! 
As  thy  softer  breezes  play, 
Snow  and  froet-work  melt  away. 

Old  and  young,  come  forth  !  for  ye 
Winter-bound  again  are  free  ; 
Up  !  ye  shall  not  grieve  again. 
Look  upon  that  verdant  plain. 
Its  gloomy  robe  no  more  it  wears ; 
How  beauteoosly  its  ftce  appears  ! 
He  who  'mid  the  flowers  enjoys 
The  sweetness  of  his  lady's  eyee, 
Let  him  cast  his  cares  away, 
And  give  the  meed  of  thanks  to  May. 

From  the  heart's  most  deep  recess. 
Hovering  smiles,  intent  to  bless, 
Gather  on  my  lady's  lips ; 
Smiles,  that  other  smiles  eclipse  ; 
Smiles,  more  potent,  eare«dispelling. 
Than  the  bank  with  flowers  sweet-smelling. 
Than  the  birds'  melodious  measures. 
Than  our  choicest  woodland  treasures, 
Than  the  flower-besprinkled  plains. 
Than  the  nightingale's  sweet  strains ; 
Fairer,  sweeter,  beauty  reigns. 


HEINRICH  HERZOG  VON  BRESLAU. 

Hen RT,  the  fourth  of  that  name,  entitled  Her- 
zog  Heinrich  von  Pressela,  reigned  from  1266 
to  1299.  His  poem,  •«  The  Poet's  Complaint," 
has  been  much  admired. 


To  thee,  O  May,  I  must  complain,  — 

0  Summer,  I  complain  to  thee,  — 
And  thee,  thou  flower-bespangled  Plain,  — 

And  Meadow,  dazzling  bright  to  see ! 
To  thee,  O  Greenwood,  thee,  O  Sun, 

And  thee,  too.  Love,  my  song  shall  be 
Of  all  the  pain  my  lady's  scorn 

Relentlessly  inflicts  on  me. 
Yet,  would  ye  all  with  one  consent 
Lend  me  your  aid,  she  might  repent : 
Then,  for  kind  heaven's  sake,  hear,  and  give 

me  back  content ! 

MAT,  Ac. 

What  is  the  wrong  ?     Stand  forth  and  tell  us 

what; 
Unless  just  cause  be  shown,  we  hear  thee  not. 

POST. 

She  lets  my  fimcy  food  on  bliss ; 
But  when,  believing  in  her  love, 

1  seek  her  passion's  strength  to  prove, 
She  lets  me  perish  merciless ; 

Ah  !  woe  is  me,  that  e'er  I  knew 

Her  from  whose  love  such  misery  doth  ensue  ! 

MAT. 

I,  May,  will  straight  my  flowers  command, 

My  roses  bright,  and  lilies  white. 
No  more  for  her  their  charms  expand. 


And  I,  bright  Summer,  will  restrain 

The  birds'  sweet  throats ;  their  tuneftil  notes 
No  more  shall  charm  her  ear  again. 

FLAUf. 

When  on  the  Plain  she  doth  appear. 
My  flowerets  gay  shall  fade  away  ; 
Thus  crossed,  perchance  to  thee  she'll   turn 
again  her  ear. 

MBAO. 

And  I,  the  Mead,  will  help  thee  too ; 

Gazing  on  me,  her  fate  shall  be. 
That  my  bright  charms  shall  blind  her  view. 


And  I,  the  Greenwood,  break  my  bowers 

When  the  fair  maid  flies  to  my  shade. 
Till  she  to  thee  her  smile  restores. 


I,  Son,  will  pierce  her  flrozen  heart. 

Till  from  the  blaze  of  my  bright  rays 
Vainly  she  flies,  —  then  learns  a  gentler  part. 

Lova. 
I,  Love,  will  banish  instantly 

Whatever  dear  and  sweet  I  bear, 
Till  she  in  pity  turn  to  thee. 


Alas  !  must  all  her  joys  thus  flee  ? 

Nay,  rather  I  would  joyless  die. 

How  great  soe'er  my  pain  may  be. 


Seek'st  thou  revenge  ?  —  saith  Love, —  then  at 

my  nod 
The  paths  of  joy  shall  close,  so  lately  trod. 

POST. 

Nay,  then,— O,  leave  her  not  thus  shorn  of  bliss ! 
Leave  me  to  die  forlorn,  so  hers  be  happiness. 


ALBRECHT  VON  RAPRECHTSWEIL. 
Or  this  poet  nothing  is  known. 

Ones  more  mounts  my  spirit  gay, 
Once  more  comes  the  bloom  of  May ; 
See  !  upon  the  branches  spring 
Green  buds,  almost  opening. 
And  the  nightingale  so  fair 
Sings  herself  to  slumber  there. 
Honored  be  the  songstress  dear. 
She  who  trains  the  branches  here  ; 
Ever  may  she  happy  be 
Who  inspires  the  birds  and  me 
With  this  gladsome  gayety. 

She  has  angel  loveliness ; 
Would  she  deign  my  heart  to  bless,  — 
She  that  sends  me  health  and  joy,  — 
Blest  above  all  bliss  were  I, 


200 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


Heayen  would  then  be  mine  on  earth, 
For  in  her  lies  all  my  mirth. 
With  each  lovely  color  she 
Decks  her  fair  fkce  daintily ; 
Red,  and  white,  and  auburn  there 
Blend  their  beauties  rich  and  rare ; 
And  embosomed  in  her  mind 
All  things  fair  and  pure  we  find. 


ULRICH  VON  LICHTENSTEIN. 

Ulrich  toh  Lichtxnstein,  a  celebrated 
Minnesinger  about  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  has  left  the  romance,  **  Frauendienst  '* 
(Lady-service)  ',  a  curious  and  interesting  pic- 
ture of  his  age.  It  is  in  reality  the  chivalric 
life  of  the  author ;  "  having  served,"  he  says, 
**•  thirty-three  years  as  a  true  knight,  when  he 
wrote  his  book.'*  —  He  was  educated  in  the 
chivalric  virtues  by  the  Margrave  Henry  of 
Austria,  who  taught  him  to  talk  of  the  ladies, 
to  ride  on  horseback,  and  to  write  soft  verses. — 
This  romance  is  a  series  of  wild  adventures,  il- 
lustrated by  **  dance-songs,"  **  watch-songs,"  &c. 

« **  Ladt  beauteous,  lady  pure. 
Lady  happy,  lady  kind, 
Love,  methinks,  has  little  power, 
So  proud  thy  bearing,  o'er  thy  mind. 
Didst  thou  feel  the  power  of  love. 
Then  would  those  fair  lips  unclose, 
And  be  taught  in  sighs  to  move." 

*t  What  is  love,  then,  good  sir  knight  ? 

Is  it  man  or  woman  ?  say ; 
Tell  me,  if  I  know  it  not. 
How  it  comes  to  pass,  I  pray. 

Thou  shouldst  tell  me  all  its  story, 
Whence,  and  where,  it  cometh  here, 
That  my  heart  may  yet  be  wary." 

*<  Lady,  love  so  mighty  is, 

AH  things  living  to  her  bow ; 
Various  is  her  power,  but  I 

Will  tell  thee  what  of  her  I  know. 
Love  is  good,  and  love  is  ill, 
Joy  and  woe  she  can  bestow. 
Spreading  life  and  spirit  still.** 

«*<?an  love  banish,  courteous  knight. 

Pining  grief  and  wasting  woe. 
Pour  gay  spirits  on  the  heart, 
Polish,  grace,  and  ease  bestow  ? 
If  in  her  these  powers  may  meet, 
Great  is  she,  and  thus  shall  be 
Her  praise  and  honor  great.'* 

**  Lady,  I  will  say  yet  more  : 

Lovely  are  her  gifts,  her  hand 
Joy  bestows,  and  honor  too ; 

The  virtues  come  at  her  command, 
Joys  of  sight  and  joys  of  heart 
She  bestows,  as  she  may  choose, 
And  splendid  fortune  doth  impart.** 


**  How  shall  I  obtain,  sir  knight, 

All  these  gifts  of  lady-love? 
Must  I  bear  a  load  of  care  ? 

Much  too  weak  my  frame  would  prove. 
Grief  and  care  I  cannot  bear ; 
Can  I,  then,  the  boon  obtain  ? 
Tell  me,  sir  knight,  then,  how  and  where.** 

**  Lady,  thou  shouldst  think  of  me 

As  I  of  thee  think,  —  heartily : 
Thus  shall  we  together  blend 

Firm  in  love*8  sweet  harmony,  — 
Thou  still  mine,  I  still  thine.'* 

"  It  cannot  be,  sir  knight,  with  me ; 
Be  your  own,  I  *I1  still  be  mine.*' 


GOESU  VON  EHENHEIM. 

This  poet,  of  whom  only  a  few  verses  re- 
main, belongs  to  the  first  half  of  the  thirteenth 
century. 

Now  will  the  foe  of  every  flower 
Send  forth  the  tempest  of  his  rage  ; 
List !  how  his  winds  the  battle  wage. 

And  blow  the  fields  and  woodlands  o'er  ! 

Him  naught  withstands  :  his  giant  power 
Tears  from  the  plat  the  rose  away. 
And  withers  up  each  floweret  gay ; 

So  sharp  his  rage  is  to  devour. 

For  this  the  meads  are  sorrowing. 
The  birds  are  dumb,  no  longer  song 
Bursts  the  mute  groves  and  hills  among, 

Chilled  by  cold  snows ;  —  yet  still  my  love  I 
sing. 


THE  THURINGIAN. 

Thk  name  of  this  poet  is  unknown.  He 
has  been  supposed  by  some  to  be  the  Land- 
grave of  Thuringia,  the  patron  of  the  Minne- 
singers  at  the  beginning  oif  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, and  by  others  to  be  the  same  as  Christian 
von  Lupin. 

Ths  pleasant  season  must  away, 

The  song  of  birds  no  more 
Must  echo  from  the  verdant  spray ; 

Chill  frost  asserts  its  power. 
Where  now  is  gone  thy  bloom, 

Thy  flowers  so  fair  ? 
The  verdant  pride  of  mead  and  grove. 
The  leaf-crowned  forest,  where  ? 
In  the  whitening  frost  their  bloom  is  lost. 
And  gone  are  their  joys  as  the  things  that  were. 

Nor  frost  nor  snow  o'er  me  have  power 
E'er  since  my  heart  hath  known 

Those  laughter-loving  lips,  whose  charms. 
Just  like  a  rose  new-blown, 


MINNESINGERS. 


901 


More  iweet  eaeh  pMBtDg  hour. 

The  last  oatrie ; 
So  lovelj  f hinee  that  lady  fidr, 
Of  deathleaa  memory, 
Whoae  form  ao  bright  ia  mj  heart'a  delight. 
Lake  the  eastern  day  to  the  watching  eye. 


WINCESLAUS,  KING  OF  BOHEMIA. 

This  king  belongs  to  the  middle  of  the  thir- 
teenth century.  Two  songs  and  a  watch-song 
by  him  haye  been  preaerred. 

Now  that  stem  winter  each  blossom  is  blighting, 
And  birds  in  the  woodlands  no  longer  we  hear, 

I  will  re[Mur  to  a  scene  more  inyiting. 

Nor  will  he  repent  who  shall  follow  me  there. 

Instead  of  the  flowers  the  plain  ao  adorning, 

Beautiiul  fiiir  ones  shall  bloom  like  the  morning ; 

O,  what  a  yivid  and  glorions  dawning  ! 

Sweet  smiles,  sprightly  oonTcrse,  the  drooping 
heart  cheer. 

Dares  any  one  now,  as  in  joy  he  repoaes. 
His  happy  honn  crowned  by  the  smiles  of 
the  fiiir. 
Still  loTc  and  lament  for  the  sammer's  past 


ni,  then,  deserves  he  a  blessing  ao  rare. 
Mine  be  the  joys  whieh  his  heart  cannot 

ure; 
Might  I  behold  bnt  my  heart's  dearest  treasure, 
Forgotten  were  all  in  that  exquisite  pleasure, 
£*en  the  tale  I  once  told  thee,  -—  forgive  it, 
my  foir! 

Beautiful  one,  to  my  heart  ever  nearest. 

The  solace  <^  joy  that  ramaineth  to  me 
Rests  in  thy  fovor,  thou  brightest  and  dearest. 

Me  shall  thy  beauty  from  misery  free ; 
Long  may  it  cheer  me,  to  happiness  guide  me, 
And  O  might  it  be,  when  thou  smilest  beside  me, 
In  that  blessed  moment  such  joy  might  betide 
me, 
To  touch  those  bright  lips  as  they  smile  up- 


LUTOLT  VON  SEVEN. 

LorrHOLD  toh  Savkkx,  or  Lfltolt  von  Seven, 
was  the  lord  of  Hagenau.   He  died  about  1330. 

In  the  woods  and  meadows  green. 
May  shines  forth  so  pleasantly. 
That  the  lovely  prospect  there 

Joy  enough  might  bring  to  me : 
But  I  covet  for  my  mind 
Solace  none. 
Save  this  alone, 
That  my  lady  should  be  kind. 
26 


Happy,  whom  the  aong  of  birds 

Gladdens,  and  the  bloom  of  May ; 
He  may  take  his  fill  of  each. 

Freely  revel  and  be  gay : 
He  may  take  his  choice  of  joy ; 
Flowers  fresh  springing. 
Birds  sweet  singing. 
All  IB  loveliest  harmony ! 

Me  my  lady's  fovor  glads 

More  than  flowerets  red  or  fiur ; 
Song  I  want  not,  for  her  grace 

Frees  me  firom  each  pining  care. 
Well,  then,  may  her  noble  smile 
Pleasure  give. 
Pain  relieve. 
And  my  heart  of  grief  beguile. 


JOHANN  HADLOUB. 

JoHAHir  Hadlovb,  a  native  of  Zflrich,  lived 
at  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century.  With 
him  and  two  or  three  contemporaries  closes  the 
line  of  true  Minnesingers,  and  for  a  long  time 
also  the  poetic  fame  of  Germany.  He  was  the 
friend  of  Rudiger  von  Manesse,  the  judicious 
patron  and  protector  of  the  Minnesingers,  whose 
poems  he  collected  and  copied.  This  collection, 
embracing  works  of  one  hundred  and  thirty-six 
Minnesingers,  was  published  by  Bodmer  and 
Breitinger. 

Far  as  I  journey  flrom  my  ladj  fliir, 
I  have  a  messenger  who  quickly  goes. 
Morning,  and  noon,  and  at  the  evening's  close ; 
Where'er  she  wanders,  he  pursues  her  there. 

A  restless,  faithful,  secret  messenger 
Well  may  he  be,  who,  from  my  heart  of  hearts. 
Charged  with  love's  deepest  secrets,  thus  de- 
parts. 
And  wings  his  way  to  her  ! 
'T  is  every  thought  I  form  that  doth  pursue 
Thee,  lady  fair ! 
Ah !  would  that  there 
My  wearied  self  had  leave  to  follow  too  ! 


I  SAW  yon  infottt  in  her  arms  caressed, 

And  as  I  gazed  on  her  my  pulse  beat  high : 

Gently  she  clasped  it  to  her  snowy  breast. 
While  I,  in  rapture  lost,  stood  musing  by : 

Then  her  white  hands  around  his  neck  she  flung. 
And  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  and  tenderly 

Kissed  his  fiiir  cheek,  as  o'er  the  babe  she  hung. 

And  he,  that  happy  infknt,  threw  his  arms 
Around  her  neck,  imprinting  many  a  kiss ; 

Joying,  as  I  would  joy,  to  see  such  charms. 
As  though  he  knew  how  blest  a  lot  were  his. 

How  could  I  gaze  on  him  and  not  repine  ? 
(«Alas !"  I  cried, «( would  that  I  shared  the  bliss 

Of  that  embrace,  and  that  such  joy  were  mine !  " 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


Straight  she  was  gone ;  and  then  that  lorely 
child 
Ran  joyfully  to  meet  my  warm  embrace : 
Then  fancy  with  ibnd  thoughts  my  soul  be- 
guiled ;  — 
It  was  herself!    O  dream  of  love  and  grace  ! 
I  clasped  it,  where  her  gentle  hands  had  pressed, 
I  kissed  each  spot  which  bore  her  lips'  sweet 
trace, 
And  joy  the  while  went  bounding  through  my 
breast. 


WATCH-SONGS. 

The  watch-song  was  a  species  of  ballad, 
cultivated  by  the  Minnesingers,  representing 
stolen  interviews  between  the  lover  and  his 
mistress.  They  begin  generally  with  a  parley 
between  the  knight  and  the  warder  of  the  cas- 
tle where  his  lady-love  is  dwelling,  and  end 
with  the  reluctant  parting  of  the  lovers. 

Thk  sun  is  gone  down, 

And  the  moon  upward  springeth, 
The  night  creepeth  onward. 

The  nightingale  singeth. 
To  himself  said  a  watchman, 

«*  Is  any  knight  waiting 
In  pain  for  his  lady. 

To  give  her  his  greeting  ? 

Now,  then,  for  their  meeting  I " 

His  words  heard  a  knight, 
In  the  garden  while  roaming : 
'  <*  Ah  !  watchman,"  he  said, 
**  Is  the  daylight  fast  coming. 

And  may  I  not  see  her, 

And  wilt  not  thou  aid  me  ?  " 

«*  Go,  wait  in  thy  covert. 
Lest  the  cock  crow  r^veill6. 
And  the  dawn  should  betray  thee." 

Then  in  went  that  watchman 

And  called  for  the  lair. 
And  gently  he  roused  her : 

**  Rise,  lady  !  prepare  ! 
New  tidings  I  bring  thee. 

And  strange  to  thine  ear; 
Come,  rouse  thee  up  quickly. 

Thy  knight  tarries  near ; 

Rise,  lady  !  appear  ! " 

<«  Ah,  watchman !  though  purely 

The  m6on  shines  above, 
Tet  trust  not  securely 

That  feigned  tale  of  love  : 
Far,  fiir  from  my  presence 

My  own  knight  is  straying ; 
And  sadly  repining, 

I  mourn  his  long  staying, 

And  weep  his  delaying." 

"  Nay,  lady  !  yet  trust  me, 
No  falsehood  is  there." 


Then  up  sprang  that  lady 

And  braided  her  hair. 
And  donned  her  white  garment, 

Her  purest  of  white ; 
And,  her  heart  with  joy  trembling. 

She  rushed  to  the  sight 

Of  her  own  faithful  knight. 


I  HXARD  before  the  dawn  of  day 

The  watchman  loud  proclaim ; 
"  If  any  knightly  lover  stay 

In  secret  with  bis  dame. 
Take  heed,  the  sun  will  soon  appear ; 
Then  fly,  ye  knights,  your  ladies  dear, 
Fly  ere  the  daylight  dawn  ! 

^  Brightly  gleams  the  firmament, 

In  silvery  splendor  gay. 
Rejoicing  that  the  night  is  spent, 

The  lark  salutes  the  day : 
Then  fly,  ye  lovers,  and  be  gone ! 
Take  leave,  before  the  night  is  done, 
And  jealous  eyes  appear  !  " 

That  watchman's  call  did  wound  my  heart. 

And  banished  my  delight : 
**  Alas  !  the  envious  sun  will  part 

Our  loves,  my  lady  bright !  " 
On  me  she  looked  with  downcast  eye. 
Despairing  at  my  mournful  cry, 
**  We  tarry  here  too  long !  " 

Straight  to  the  wicket  did  she  speed  : 
*t  Good  watchman,  spare  thy  joke  ! 

Warn  not  my  love,  till  o'er  the  mead 
The  morning  sun  has  broke  : 

Too  short,  alas  !  the  time,  since  here 

I  tarried  with  my  leman  dear. 

In  love  and  converse  sweet." 

«<  Lady,  be  warned  !  on  roof  and  mead 

The  dewdrops  glitter  gay  ; 
Then  quickly  bid  thy  leman  speed, 

Nor  linger  till  the  day ; 
For  by  the  twilight  did  I  mark 
Wolves  hying  .to  their  covert  dark. 
And  stags  to  covert  fly." 

Now  by  the  rising  sun  I  viewed 

In  tears  my  lady's  face  : 
She  gave  me  many  a  token  good. 

And  many  a  soft  embrace. 
Our  parting  bitterly  we  mourned ; 
The  hearts,  which  erst  with  rapture  burned. 
Were  cold  with  woe  and  care. 

A  ring,  with  glittering  ruby  red. 

Gave  me  that  lady  sheen. 
And  with  me  from  the  castle  sped 

Along  the  meadow  green  ; 
And  whilst  I  saw  my  leman  bright. 
She  waved  on  high  her  'kerchief  white  : 
''  Courage  !  To  arms !  "  she  cried. 


THE   HELDENBUCH. 


203 


In  the  raging  fight  each  pennon  white 

Reminds  me  of  her  love ; 
In  the  field  of  blood,  with  mournful  mood, 

I  see  her  'kerchief  move ; 


Through  foes  I  hew,  whene'er  I  yiew 
Her  ruby  ring,  and  blithely  sing, 
«*  Lady,  I  fight  for  thee  !  " 


THE  HELDENBUCH,  OR  BOOK  OP  THE  HEROES. 


This  is  the  title  of  a  collection  of  old  Ger- 
man poems,  embodying  a  great  variety  of  na- 
tional traditions,  from  the  time  of  Attila  and 
the  irruption  of  the  German  nations  into  the 
Roman  Empire.  They  were  written  at  differ- 
ent times,  by  various  poets,  the  oldest  of  them 
belonging  to  the  Swabian  period.  Among  their 
authors,  the  names  of  Heinrich  von  Oflerdingen 
and  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach  are  enumerated. 
Some  of  the  old  poems  were  remodelled  in 
1472,  by  Kaspar  von  der  Roen,  a  Frank,  and  the 
oldest  printed  copies  give  the  revised  text.  An 
edition  was  published  at  Berlin,  in  1820  —  25, 
under  the  tide  of  '*  Der  Helden  Buch,  in  der 
Ursprache,  herausgegeben  von  Friedrich  Hein- 
rich von  der  Hagen,  und  Anton  Primisser." 
It  fi^rms  the  second  and  third  volumes  of 
•^  Deutsche  Gedichte  des  Mittelalters,"  the  first 
volume  of  which  appeared  in  1808. 

The  first  part  contains  the  poem  of  "  Gu- 
drun,"  consisting  of  6824  lines ;  '*  Biterolf  and 
Dietlieb,"  consisting  of  13510  lines;  <«The 
Great  Rose-garden,"  consisting  of  2464  lines ; 
and  a  part  of  the  ^*Heldenbuch"  of  Kaspar  von 
der  Roen.  The  second  part  contains  the  re- 
mainder, together  with  fingments  of  «*  The  Song 
of  Hildebrand." 

The  poem  of  **  Gudrun "  is  made  up  of  a 
variety  of  shorter  pieces,  and  consists  of  three 
parts.  The  first  relates  the  adventures  of  Ha- 
gen, son  of  Siegebant,  the  king  of  Ireland, 
who  was  stolen  by  a  griffin,  and  grew  up  in 
the  forests ;  and  then,  returning  home  a  stout 
and  stately  hero,  succeeded  to  the  throne  of 
Ireland.  The  second  relates  the  adventures 
of  Hagen's  beautifiil  daughter  Hilde,  who  is 
wooed  and  carried  off*  by  King  Hetel  of  Hege- 
lingen.  The  third  and  most  important  part 
relates  the  fortunes  of  Gudrun,  the  daughter  of 
Hetel  and  Hilde,  who  is  betrothed  to  Herwig  of 
Seeland,  but  is  seized  and  borne  away  into  cap- 
tivity by  Hartmut,  king  of  Normandy.  Under 
all  her  trials  she  remains  fiiithful  to  Herwig ; 
and  at  last,  after  several  years  of  endurance,  is 
rescued  by  her  brother  Ortwin,  and  her  lover, 
whom  she  thereupon  marries. 

The  poems  of  «« Biterolf  and  Dietlieb"  and 
^*  The  Great  Rose-garden  "  come  within  the 
circle  of  the  adventures  of  the  Nibelungen. 
Many  of  the  personages  are  the  same  in  both  ; 
and  the  battles  are  but  the  preludes  to  the  **  Ni- 
belungen Noth,"  with  which  they  have  the  clos- 
est connexion. 

But  what  is  usually  understood  by  the  ^*  Hel- 


denbuch  "  is  the  collection  of  poems,  as  it  was 
reproduced  under  this  title  by  Kaspar  von  der 
Roen,  consisting  of  four  parts.  The  following 
analysis  of  these  poems  is  given  by  Carlyle.* 

*«  *  The  Hero-Book,  which  is  of  new  cor- 
rected and  improved,  adorned  with  beautifiil 
Figures.  Printed  at  Frankfurt  on  the  Mayn, 
through  Weygand  Han,  and  Sygmund  Feyera- 
bend. 

"  *  Part  Firwt  saith  of  Kaiser  Otnit  and  the 
little  King  Elbericb,  how  they  with  great  peril, 
over  sea,  in  Heathendom,  won  fix>m  a  king  his 
daughter  (and  how  he  in  lawful  marriage  took 
her  to  wifo).' 

^*  From  which  announcement  the  reader  al- 
ready guesses  the  contents:  how  thu  little 
King  Elbericb  was  a  Dwarf,  or  Elf,  some  half- 
span  long,  yet  fiiU  of  cunning  practices  and 
the  most  helpfiil  activity ;  nay,  stranger  still, 
had  been  Kaiser  Otnit  of  Lampartei  or  Lom- 
bardy 's  fiither,  —  having  had  his  own  ulterior 
views  in  that  indiscretion :  how  they  sailed 
with  Messina  ships  into  Paynim  land ;  fought 
with  that  unspeakable  Turk,  King  Machabol, 
in  and  about  his  fortress  and  metropolis  of 
Montebur,  which  was  all  stuck  round  with 
Christian  heads ;  slew  from  seventy  to  a  hun- 
dred thousand  of  the  Infidels  at  one  heat ;  saw 
the  lady  on  the  battlements;  and  at  length, 
chiefly  by  Dwarf  Elberich's  help,  carried  her 
off  in  triumph ;  wedded  her  in  Messina ;  and 
without  difficulty,,  rooting  out  the  Mahometan 
prejudice,  converted  her  to  the  creed  of  Mother 
Church.  The  fiur  runaway  seems  to  have  been 
of  a  gentle,  tractable  disposition,  very  different 
firom  old  Machabol ;  concerning  whom  it  is 
here  chiefly  to  be  noted,  that  Dwarf  Elbericb, 
rendering  himself  invisible  on  their  first  inter- 
view, plucks  out  a  handful  of  hair  firom  his 
chin  ;  thereby  increasing  to  a  tenfold  pitch  the 
royal  choler ;  and,  what  is  still  more  remark- 
able, furnishing  the  poet  Wieland,  six  centuries 
afterwards,  with  the  critical  incident  in  his 
*  Oberon.'  As  for  the  young  lady  herself,  we 
cannot  but  admit  that  she  was  well  worth  sail- 
ing to  Heathendom  for;  and  shall  here  give 
the  description  of  her,  as  she  first  appeared  on 
the  battlements  during  the  fight,  in  a  version 
as  verbal  and  literal  as  the  plainest  prose  can 
make  it.  Considered  as  a  detached  passage,  it 
is  perhaps  the  finest  we  have  met  with  in  the 
<Heldenbuch.' 


*  Gau.tu*b  Miscellanies,  Vol.  n.,  pp.  326-333. 


204 


GERMAN  POETRT. 


"  *  Her  heart  burnt  (with  anxiety)  aa  beautiful 
ju8t  aa  a  red  ruby,  like  the  lull  moon  her  eyea 
(eyelingg,  pretty  eyea)  gave  aheen.  Herself 
had  the  maiden  pure  well  adorned  with  rosea, 
and  also  with  pearls  small.  No  one  there  com- 
forted the  maid.  She  was  fair  of  body,  and  in 
the  waist  slender ;  right  aa  a  (golden)  candle- 
stick well  fashioned  everywhere :  her  two  hands 
proper,  so  that  she  wanted  naught ;  her  little 
nails  &ir  and  pure,  that  you  could  see  yourself 
therein.  Her  hair  was  beautifully  girt  with 
noble  silk  (band)  fine ;  ahe  let  it  flow  down, 
the  lovely  maidling.  She  wore  a  crown  with 
jewels,  it  waa  of  gold  so  red  :  for  Elberich  the 
very  small  the  maid  had  need  (to  console  her). 
There  in  front  of  the  crown  lay  a  carbuncle- 
stone,  which  in  the  palace  fair  even  aa  a  taper 
seemed ;  on  her  head  the  hair  waa  glossy  and 
alao  fine,  it  shone  aa  bright  even  aa  the  aun'a 
sheen.  The  maid  she  stood  alone,  right  aad 
was  her  mind ;  her  color  it  waa  pure,  lovely  aa 
milk  and  blood:  out  through  her  pure  locka 
shone  her  neck  like  the  snow.  Elberich  the  very 
small  waa  touched  with  the  maiden's  sorrow.' 

**  Happy  man  waa  Kaiser  Otnit,  blessed 
with  such  a  wife,  after  all  his  travail ;-— had 
not  the  Turk  Machabol  cunningly  aent  him,  in 
revenge,  a  box  of  young  dragons,  or  dragon- 
eggs,  by  the  hands  of  a  caitiff  Infidel,  contriver 
of  the  mischief;  by  whom  in  due  course  of 
time  they  were  hatched  and  nursed,  to  the  in- 
finite  woe  of  all  Lampartei,  and  ultimately  to 
the  death  of  Kaiaer  Otnit  himaell^  whom  they 
swallowed  and  attempted  to  digeat,  once  with- 
out effect,  but  the  next  time  too  fatally,  crown 
and  all ! 

**•  *  Part  Second  announceth  (mddet)  of  Herr 
Hugdietrich  and  his  son  Wolfdietrich ;  how 
they,  for  justice'  sake,  ofl  by  their  doughty  acta 
auccoured  distressed  persons,  with  other  bold 
heroes  that  stood  by  them  in  extremity.' 

M  Concerning  which  Hugdietrich,  Emperor 
of  Greece,  and  hia  son  Wolfdietrich,  one  day 
the  renowned  Dietrich  of  Bern,  we  can  here 
aay  little  more  than  that  the  former  trained 
himself  to  sempstresa*  work,  and  fi>r  many 
weeka  plied  hia  needle,  before  he  could  get 
wedded  and  produce  Wolfdietrich  ;  who,  com- 
ing into  the  world  in  this  clandestine  manner, 
waa  let  down  into  the  castle-ditch,  and  like 
Romulua  and  Remua  nuraed  by  a  wolf,  whence 
his  name.  However,  afier  never-imagined  ad- 
ventnrea,  with  enchanters  and  enchantresses,  pa- 
gans and  giants,  in  all  quarters  of  the  globe,  he 
finally,  with  utmoat  efibrt,  alaughtered  those 
Lombardy  dragons ;  then  married  Kaiaer  Otnit'a 
widow,  whom  he  had  rather  flirted  with  before ; 
and  so  lived  universally  respected  in  hia  new 
empire,  perfbrming  yet  other  notable  acbieve- 
menta.  One  strange  property  he  bad,  aome- 
timea  oaeful  to  him,  aometimea  hortfhl :  that  hia 
breath,  when  he  became  angry,  grew  flame,  red 
hot,  and  would  take  the  temper  out  of  aworda. 
We  find  him  again  in  the  *  Nibelnngen,*  among 
King  EtzeVa  (Attila'a)  fi>llowers ;  a  staid,  cau- 


tioua,  yet  still  invincible  man ;  on  which  oeca- 
aion,  though  with  great  reluctance,  he  ia  forced 
to  interfere,  and  doea  ao  with  effect.  Dietrich 
ia  the  favorite  hero  of  all  thoae  Southern  fic- 
tions, and  well  acknowledged  in  the  Northern 
also,  where  the  chief  man,  however,  aa  we 
ahall  find,  is  not  he,  but  Siegfried. 

(« <  Part  Third  ahoweth  of  the  Roae-garden 
at  Worma,  which  waa  planted  by  Chrimhild, 
King  Ghibich's  daughter ;  whereby  afterwards 
most  part  of  those  Heroes  and  Gianta  cnme  to 
deatruction  and  were  slain.' 

<*  In  thia  Third  Fart,  the  Southern  or  Lom- 
bard Heroes  come  into  contact  and  collision 
with  another  aa  notable  Northern  claas,  and 
fi>r  us  much  more  important.  Chrimhild, 
whoae  ulterior  hiatory  makea  auch  a  figure  in 
the  *  Nibelungen,'  had,  it  would  aeem,  near  the 
ancient  city  of  Worma,  a  Rose-garden,  aome 
seven  Englub  miles  in  circuit ;  fenced  only  by 
a  silk  thread ;  wherein,  however,  ahe  main- 
tained twelve  stout  fighting  men;  aeveral  of 
whom,  aa  Hagen,  Volker,  her  three  brothera, 
above  all  the  gallant  Siegfiied,  her  betrothed, 
we  shall  meet  with  again :  theae,  so  unspeak- 
able waa  their  proweaa,  sufficed  to  defend  the 
silk-thread  Garden  against  all  mortals.  Our 
good  antiquary.  Von  der  Hagen,  imagines  that 
Uiia  Rose-garden  business  (in  the  primeval  Tra- 
dition) glances  obliquely  at  the  Ecliptic  with 
its  Twelve  Signs,  at  Jupiter's  fight  with  the 
Titans,  and  we  know  not  what  confused  skir- 
mishing in  the  Utgard,  or  Asgard,  or  Midgard, 
of  the  Scandinaviana.  Be  thia  aa  it  may, 
Chrimhild,  we  are  here  told,  being  very  beao- 
tifhl,  and  very  wilflil,  boaata,  in  the  pride  of 
her  heart,  that  no  heroes  on  earth  are  to  be 
compared  with  hera ;  and  hearing  accidentally 
that  Dietrich  of  Bern  has  a  high  character  in 
thia  line,  forthwith  challengea  him  to  viait 
Worms,  and,  with  eleven  picked  men,  to  do  bat- 
tle there  against  those  other  twelve  championa 
of  Christendom  that  watch  her  Rose-garden. 
Dietrich,  in  a  towering  passion  at  the  style  of  the 
message,  which  waa  *  surly  and  stout,'  instantly 
pitchea  upon  his  eleven  seconds,  who  also  are 
to  be  principals ;  and  with  a  retinue  of  other 
aixty  thousand,  by  quick  stagea,  in  which  ob- 
staclea  enough  are  overcome,  reachea  Worma, 
and  declares  himself  ready.  Among  these 
eleven  Lombard  heroea  of  his  are  Ukewiae 
several  whom  we  meet  with  again  in  the  *  Ni- 
belungen ' ;  beaide  Dietrich  himaelf^  we  have 
the  old  Duke  Hildebrand,  Wolf  hart,  Ortwin. 
Notable  among  them,  in  another  way,  ia  Monk 
Ilaan,  a  truculent,  graybearded  fellow,  equal  to 
any  Friar  Tuck  in  *  Robin  Hood.' 

**The  conditiona  of  fight  are  soon  agreed  on : 
there  are  to  be  twelve  aucceasive  duela,  each 
challenger  being  expected  to  find  his  match ; 
and  the  prize  of  victory  ia  a  Roee-garland  from 
Chrimhild,  and  dm  Hdswn  ynd  tin  K^nem^  tbat 
ia  to  aay  virtually,  one  kiaa  from  her  fkir  lips, 
to  each.  But  here,  as  it  ever  should  do,  pride 
gels  a  fidl ;  for  Chrimhild'a  buUy-bectora  are. 


TH£  HELDENBUCH. 


806 


in  divers  ways,  all  guoceMively  ftlled  to  the 
ground  by  the  Bernera  ;  some  of  whom,  aa  old 
Hildebrand,  will  not  eveii  take  her  kiae  when 
it  la  due :  eyea  Siegfiied  himself^  moat  reloe- 
tantly  engaged  with  by  Dietrich,  and  for  a 
while  Tictorioua,  ia  at  laat  forced  to  aeek  shelter 
in  her  lap.  Nay,  Monk  Ilaan,  after  the  regular 
fight  ia  over,  and  hia  part  in  it  well  performed, 
calla  oat,  in  succeaaion,  fifty-two  other  idle 
championa  of  the  Garden,  part  of  them  gianta, 
and  routs  the  whole  fintemity ;  thereby  earn- 
ing, besides  his  own  regular  allowance,  fifty- 
two  spare  garlanda,  and  fiftj-two several  kisses; 
in  the  course  of  which  latter,  Chrimhild's 
cheek,  a  just  punishment  as  seemed,  was 
scratched  to  the  drawing  of  blood  l>y  hia  tough 
beard.  It  only  remaina  to  be  udded,  that  King 
Ghibieh,  Chrimhild's  father,  is  now  fhin  to  do 
homage  for  his  kingdom  to  Dietrich ;  who  re- 
turns triumphant  to  hia  own  country ;  where, 
also.  Monk  Ilsan,  according  to  promise,  distrib- 
utes these  fifty-two  garlands  among  hb  lellow- 
fiiars,  emshing  a  garlaad  on  the  bare  crown 
of  each,  till  *•  the  red  blood  ran  over  their  ears.' 
Under  which  hard,  but  not  undeserred  treal- 
ment,  they  all  agreed  to  pray  for  remission  of 
Ilsan's  sins :  indeed,  such  as  continued  refrac- 
tory he  tied  together  by  the  beards,  and  hung 
pair- wise  over  poles;  whereby  the  stoutest 
soon  gave  in. 

" '  Sb  endeth  ben  this  dttty 
Of  flirilb  fron  womui'i  pnds : 
God  on  oar  grioft  Uke  pttj. 
Add  Mary  slUl  b  J  w  aUdo  I ' 
u « In  Part  Fovrth  is  announced  (jgtmtU)  of 
the  little  King  Laurin,  the  Dwarf,  how  he  en- 
compassed his  Rose-garden  with  so  great  man- 
hood and  art-magic,  till  at  last  he  was  van- 
quished by  the  Heroes,  and  forced  to  become 
their  Juggler,  with,'  Ac.,  dkc. 

<(  Of  which  Fourth  and,  happily,  last  Part  we 
shall  here  say  nothing;  inasmuch  as,  except 
that  certain  of  our  old  heroes  again  figure  there, 
it  has  no  coherence  or  connexion  with  the  rest 
of  the  ( Heldenbuch ' ;   and  is  simply  a  new 
tale,  which,  by  way  of  episode,  Heinrich  von 
Ofterdingen,  as  we  learn  fVom  hie  own  words, 
had  subsequently  appended  thereto.     He  says : 
" '  Heinrich  ron  Oftardfngea 
ThiB  story  hath  been  einging, 
Tb  the  >>7  of  prinoae  bold: 
They  gave  him  ailrer  and  gold, 
Moreover  peuniee  and  gannents  rick: 
Here  endeth  this  book,  the  which 
Doth  af  ng  our  noUe  Heroes'  story : 
God  help  OS  all  to  heavenly  glory  I ' 
M  Such  is  some  outline  of  the  famous  *  Hel- 
denbuch ' ;  on  which  it  is  not  our  business  here 
to  add  any  criticism.     The  ftct  that  it  has  so 
long  been  popular  betokens  a  certain  worth  in 
it ;  the  kind  and  degree  of  which  is  also  in 
aome  measure  apparent.     In  poetry,  <  the  rude 
man,'  it  has  been  said,  *■  requires  only  to  see 
something  going  on ;  the  man  of  more  refine- 
ment wishes  to  feel;    the  truly  refined  man 
must  be  made  to  reflect.'     For  the  first  of  these 


elaases  our  *  Hero  Book,'  as  has  been  apparent 
enough,  provides  in  abundance ;  for  the  other 
two  acantily ;  indeed,  fi>r  the  second  not  at  all. 
Nevertheless,  our  estimate  of  thia  work,  which, 
as  a  series  of  aniiqoe  traditions,  may  have 
conaiderable  meaning,  is  apt  rather  to  be  too 
low.  Let  na  remember  that  this  is  not  the 
original  *  Heldenbuch '  which  we  now  see ;  but 
only  a  irersion  of  it  into  the  knight-errant  dia* 
lect  of  the  thirteenth,  indeed,  partly  of  the 
fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries,  with  all  the 
fantastic  monstrosities,  now  so  trivial,  pertain- 
ing to  that  style;  under  which  disguises  the 
really  antique  earnest  groundwork,  interesting 
as  old  Thought,  if  not  as  old  Poetry,  is  all  but 
quite  obscured  firom  us.  But  antiquarian  dili- 
gence is  now  busy  with  the  *  Heldenbuch '  also, 
from  which  what  light  is  in  it  will  doubtless  be 
elicited,  and  here  and  there  a  deformity  re- 
moved. Though  the  Ethiop  cannot  change  his 
skin,  there  is  no  need  that  even  he  ahould  go 
abroad  unwashed." 


I OTNIT. 

sot  OTNTT  AND  DWABF  ELBERICH. 

•«  If  thou  wilt  seek  the  adventure,  don  thy  ar- 
mor strong ; 

Far  to  the  left  thou  ride  the  towering  rocks 
along: 

But  bide  thee,  champion,  and  await,  where 
grows  a  linden-tree ; 

There,  flowing  flt>m  the  rock,  a  well  thine  eyes 
will  see. 

**  Far  around  the  meadow  ^lead  the  branches 

green. 
Five  hundred  armed  knighta  may  stand  beneath 

the  shade,  I  ween. 
Below  the  linden-tree  await,  and  thou   vrilt 

meet  ffall  soon 
The  marvellous   adventnre;    there  must  the 

deed  be  done." 


And  now  the  noble  champion  to  a  garden  did 

he  pass, 
Where  all  with  lovely  flowers  sprinkled  was 

the  grass; 
The  birds  right  sweetly  chanted,  loud  and  merry 

they  sung : 
Rapidly  his  noble  steed  passed  the  mead  along. 

Through  the  clouda  with  splendor  gleamed  the 

aun  so  cheerfully ; 
And  suddenly  the  prince  beheld  the  rock  and 

the  linden-tree. 
To  the  ground  the  earth  was  pressed,  that  saw 

the  champion  good ; 
And  there  he  found  a  foot-path   small,  with 

little  fbet  was  trod. 

Quickly  rode  the  fearless  king  along  the  rocky 

mount. 
Where  he  viewed  the  linden-tree  standing  by 

the  fount : 

R  


206 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


The  linden-tree  with  leaves  so  green  was  laden 

heavily ; 
On  the  branches  many  a  guest  chanted  merrily : 

Many  a  duel  sang  the  birds,  with  loud  and  joy- 
ous cheer. 

Then  spake  the  noble  emperor,  '*  Rightly  did  I 
speer." 

Up  spake  the  champion  joyfully,  "  The  linden 
have  I  found  " ; 

By  the  bridle  took  his  steed,  and  leaped  upon 
the  ground. 

By  the  hand  the  noble  courser  led  the  cham- 
pion stout, 

And  eagerly  he  looked  the  linden-tree  about : 

He  spake :  ^*  No  tree  upon  the  earth  with  thee 
may  compare.'*  — 

He  saw  where  in  the  grass  lay  a  child  so  fair. 

Much  did  the  hero  marvel  who  that  child 
might  be : 

Upon  his  little  body  knightly  gear  had  he ; 

So  rich,  no  princess*  son  nobler  arms  might 
bear; 

Richly  were  they  dighted  with  gold  and  dia- 
monds fhir. 

And  as  the  child  before  him  lay  all  in  the  grass 

so  green. 
Spake  Otnit,  **  Fairer  infant  in  the  world  may 

not  be  seen. 
I  rode  to  seek  adventures  all  the  murky  night, 
And  along  with  me  I  *11  bear  thee,  thou  iniant 

fiiir  and  bright.*' 

Lightly  he  weened  the  child  to  take,  and  bear 

him  o*er  the  plain. 
But  on  his  heart  he  struck  him  with  wondrous 

might  and  main ; 
That  loudly  cried  Sir  Otnit,  writhing  with  pain 

and  woe, 
*•  Where  lies  thy  mighty  power  hid  ?  —  for  full 

weighty  was  the  blow." 

Forced  by  the  hero*s  strength,  he  knelt  upon 
his  knee : 

**  Save  me,  noble  Otnit,  for  thy  chivalry ! 

A  hauberk  will  I  give  thee,  strong,  and  of  won- 
drous might : 

Better  armor  never  bore  champion  in  the  fight. 

"Not  eighty  thousand  marks  would  buy  the 

hauberk  bright. 
A  sword  of  mound  I  '11  give  thee,  Otnit,  thou 

royal  knight : 
Through  armor,  both  of  gold  and  steel,  cuts 

the  weapon  keen ; 
The  helmet  could  its  edge  withstand  ne*er  in 

this  world  was  seen. 

"  Better  blade  was  never  held  in  hero's  hand  : 
I  brought  it  from  afar,  Almary  bight  the  land : 
'T  was  wrought  by  cunning  dwai%,  clear  as  the 

clearest  glass : 
I  found  the  glittering  falchion  in  the  mountain 

Zeighelsass." 


n WOLFDIETRICH. 

WOLPDIETBICH'S  INFANCY. 

In  the  moat  4he  new-bom  babe  meanwhile  in 

silence  lay, 
Sleeping  on  the  verdant  grass,  gently,  all  the 

day; 
From  the  swathing  and  the  bath  the  child  had 

stinted  weeping : 
No  one  saw  or  heard  its  voice  in  the  meadow 

sleeping. 

But,  prowling  for  his  prey,  roved  a  savage  wolf 

about; 
Hens  and  capons  for  his  young  oft  in  the  moat 

he  sought: 
In  his  teeth  the  infant  suddenly  he  caught ; 
And  to  the  murky  forest  his  sleeping  prey  he 

brought. 

Unto  a  hollow  rock   he  ran   the  forest-path 

along: 
There  the  two  old  wolves  abode,  breeding  up 

their  young : 
Four  whelps,  but  three  days  old,  in  the  hollow 

lay; 
No  wiser  than  the  child  they  were,  for  they 

never  saw  the  day. 

The  old  wolf  threw  the  babe  before  his  savage 

brood; 
To  the  forest  had  he  brought  it,  to  serve  them 

for  their  food : 
But  blind  they  were,  and  sought  about  their 

mother's  teat  to  gain  ; 
And  safoly  lay  the  infant  young,  sleeping  in 

the  den. 


WOLFDIETRICH  AND  THE  GIANTS. 

Rapidly  the  Greeks  pursued,  all  the  day,  until 

the  night : 
Hastily  the  heroes  fled,  while  their  steeds  had 

strength  and  might ; 
To  the  forest  green  they  hied  them,  there  lay 

they  all  concealed. 
Till  the  morning  chased   the  night,  and   the 

rising  sun  revealed. 

Down  they  laid  them  on  the  grass  gently  to 
repose 

(But  long  they  rested  not,  for  with  terror  they 
arose) : 

Their  bloody  armor  they  unlaced,  their  wea- 
pons down  they  laid ; 

By  a  fountain  cool  they  rested,  beneath  a  lin- 
den's shade. 

But  one  did  keep  his  armor  on  ;  WolfBietericb 

he  bight ; 
Would  not  lay  down  his  weapons,  nor  unlace 

his  helmet  bright ; 
Silently  he  wandered  through  the  forest  wide, 
And  left  his  weary  champions  by  the  fountain's 

side. 


THE  HELDENBUCH. 


207 


Twelve  giants  found  the  knights  all  on  the 

grass  reclined : 
Silently  did  creej^.  along  those  sworn  brothers 

of  the  fiend ; 
In  their  hands  huge  iron  poles  and  &lchions 

did  thej  hold ; 
Naked  and  unarmed,  they  seized  and  bound  the 

heroes  bold. 

Quick  they  sent  the  tidingi  to  the  castle  of 

Tremound : 
Glad  was  Palmund,  giant  fierce,  when  he  saw 

the  champions  bound ; 
Cast   them  in  a  dungeon   dark;    heayily   he 

chained  them : 
Of  their  woe  and  sad  mischance  there  to  God 

they  plained  them. 

Scomfiilly  fierce  Palmund  spake  with  bitter 
taunt: 

"  Al&n  in  the  field  ye  conquered ;  but  where 
is  now  your  vaunt  ? 

Would  I  had  in  prison  dark  King  Hoghdie- 
trich's  son  ! 

He  should  feed  on  bread  and  water,  in  a  dun- 
geon all  alone." 

But  now  Wolfdieterich  back  to  the  fountain 

sped. 
Beneath  the  linden's  shade,  where  he  weened 

the  kemps  were  laid : 
All  around  he  sought  them :  wofully  he  cried, 
«<  Alas,  that  e'er  I  left  them  by  the  fountain's 

side  ! " 

He  threw  him  on  the  grass,  and  sighed  in 

mournful  mood; 
Many  a  blow  upon  his  breast  struck  the  hero 

good; 
Loudly  on  their  names  he  called,  the  forest  all 

around  : 
Up  the   giants  started,  when  they  heard  his 

voice  resound. 

*<  Arise,  and  seize  your  weapons  ! "  Palmund 

cried  aloud ; 
«t  Quickly  to  my  prison  bring  that  champion 

proud." 
Many  fidls  they  caught,  running  down   the 

mountain. 
Ere  they  viewed  Wolfdieterich  standing  by  the 

fountain. 

Giant  Wilker  led  them  on ;  before  the  king  he 
sprung. 

Stamping  on  the  grass  with  his  pole  of  iron 
long: 

«« Little  wight !  "  he  shouted, «« straight  thy  fal- 
chion yield ; 

Captive  will  I  lead  thee  quickly  o'er  the  field.'* 

M  Proudly  I  bore  my  wei^n  ttom  all  the  Gre- 
cian host; 

No  hand  but  this  shall  wield  it,  for  all  thy 
taunting  boast ; 


If  thou  wilt  gain  the  blade,  hotly  must  thou 

fight: 
Come  near,  and  shield  thee  well ;  I  defy  thee, 

monstrous  wight !  " 


WOLFDIETBICH  AND  WILD  ELSE. 

Wbsn  soundly  slept  Sir  Bechtnng,  came  the 

rough  and  savage  dame. 
Running  where  the  hero  stood  watching  by  the 
^  't  flame : 
T^n  four  feet  did  she  crawl  along,  like  to  a 

The  champion  cried,  **  From  savage  beasts  why 
hast  thou  wandered  here  ?  " 

Up  and  spake  the  hairy  Else  :  •*  Gentle  I  am 
and  mild : 

If  thou  wilt  clip  me,  prince,  from  all  care  I 
will  thee  shield ; 

A  kingdom  will  I  give  thee,  and  many  a  spa- 
cious land ; 

Thirty  castles,  fidr  and  strong,  will  I  yield  to 
thy  command." 

With  horror  spake  Wolfdieterich :   "  Thy  gifts 

will  I  not  take. 
Nor   touch   thy   laithly  body,  for  thy  savage 

kingdom's  sake : 
The  devil's  mate  thou  art,  then  speed   thee 

down  to  hell : 
Much  I  marvel  at  thy  visage,  and  I  loathe  thy 

horrid  yell." 

She  took  a  spell  of  grammary,  and  threw  it  on 

the  knight : 
Still  he  stood,  and  moved  not  (I  tell  the  tale 

aright): 
She  took  from  him  his  fiilchion,  unlaced  his 

hauberk  bright : 
Mournfully  Wolfdietrich  cried,  **Gone  is  all 

my  might. 

**  If  my  faithful  kemps  eleven  should  from  their 

sleep  awake, 
How  would  they  laugh,  that  woman's   hand 

could  from  me  my  weapon  take ! 
Scornfully  the  knights  would  say,  that,  like  a 

coward  slave. 
My  falchion  I  had  yielded,  this  wretched   life 

to  save." 

But  vain  were  his  laments;  for  through  the 

forest  dark. 
With  arts  of  witching  grammary,  a  pathway 

she  did  mark : 
Following  through  the  woods,  with  speed  along 

he  passed ; 
For  sixty  miles  he  wandered,  till  he  found  the 

Else  at  last. 

**  Wilt  thou  win  me  for  thy  wifo,  hero  young 

and  fair?" 
Wrathfully  Wolfdieterich   spake   with   angry 

cheer : 


908 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


«« Restore  my  armor  speedily;  give  back  my 

weapon  bright, 
Which  thou  with  witchiii|^  malioe  didst  steal 

this  hinder  night." 

**  Then  yield  thy  gentle  body,  thou  weary 
wight,  to  me ; 

With  honors  will  I  crown  thy  locks  right  glo- 
riously." 

**  With  the  devil  may'st  thou  sleep ;  little  car^ 
I  ibr  my  life : 

Well  may  I  spare  the  love  of  such  a  laithly 
wife." 

Another  ^ell  d  might  she  thiew  apon  the  he- 
ro good ; 

Fearfully  she  witched  him;  motionless  he  stood : 

He  slept  a  sleep  of  grammary,  for  mighty  was 
the  spell : 

Down  upon  his  gtittering  shield  on  the  sod  he 
fell. 

All  above  his  ears  his  golden  hair  she  cut ; 
Like  a  fool  she  dight  him,  that  his  champions 

knew  him  not:  .^ 

Witless  roved  the  hero  fer  a  year  the  forest 

round; 
On  the  earth  his  food  he  gathered,  as  in  the 

book  is  found. 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OP  TOtJTH. 

Now  roved  Wolfdieterich,  the  prince  without  a 

peer, 
Around  the  murky  forest,  witless  for  a  year; 
But  God  his  sorrows  pitied,  when  he  saw  the 

hero  sbent ; 
Quickly  to  the  ugly  witch  message  did  he  send. 

An  angel  bright  before  her  suddenly  she  viewed : 
**  Say,  wilt  thou  bring,"  he  questioned,  **  to  his 

death  the  hero  good  ? 
God  has  sent  his  sond,  to  warn  thee,  woman 

fell; 
If  thou  wouldst  save  thy  lifb,  quickly  undo  the 

spell." 

When  the  threatening  message  the  savage  wo* 

man  heard. 
And  that  at  God's  supreme  command  the  angel 

had  appeared, 
Rapidly  she  sped  her  where  roved  the  champion 
Around  the  murky  forest,  witless  and  alone. 

There,  naked,  like  an  innocent,  run  the  hero 

bold: 
Straight  the  spell  of  grammary  fh>m  his  ear  she 

did  unfold : 
His  wits  he  soon  recovered,  when  the  spell 

was  from  his  ear, 
But  his  visage  and  his  form  were  black  and  foul 

of  cheer. 

<*  Wilt  thou  win  me  for  thy  wife  ?  gentle  hero, 

say. 
Speedily  he  answered  to  the  lady,  «  Nay ; 


Never  will  I  wed  thee,  here  I  pledge  my  fky. 
Till  in  holy  fount  thy  sins  are  washed  away." 

(*  Son  of  kings,  O,  care  thee  not !     If  thou  my 

love  wilt  gain, 
Soon,  baptized  in  holy  fi>unt,  will  I  wash  me 

clean :     * 
In  joy  and  sweet  delight  merry  shalt  thou  be. 
Though  now  my  body  rough  and  black  with 

loathing  thou  dost  «ee." 

**  No,  since  my  knights  are  loet,  not  for  woman*9 

love  I  long. 
When  wild  about  tho  woods  drove  ne  thy 

mqgic  strong." 
**  To  thy  brothers  hied  they,  gentle  hero,  hark ! 
But  heavily  they  chained  them;   threw  them 

in  dungeon  dark." 

'*  How  may  I  woo  thee  in  the  woods  ?  lady, 

quickly  speak ; 
Or  how  embrace  thy  hairy  form,  or  kiss  thy 

bristly  cheek  ? " 
"Fear  not:   I  will  guide  thee  safely  to  my 

realm  > 
Give  thee  back  thy  fiilchion,  thy  luiuberk,  and 

thy  helm." 

By  the  hand  she  led  Wolfdietrich  unto  the  for- 
est's end ; 

To  the  sea  she  guided  him ;  a  ship  lay  on  the 
strand : 

To  a  spacious  realm  she  broiight  him,  bight  the 
land  of  Troy. 

**WiIt  thou  take  me  to  thy  wife,  all  around 
thou  shalt  enjoy." 

To  a  rich  and  gorgeous  chamber  she  led  the 

wondering  knight : 
There  stood  a  well  of  youth,  flowing  clear  and 

bright ; 
The  left  side  was  full  cold,  but  warmly  flowed 

the  right : 
She  leaped  into  the  wondrous  well,  praying  to 

God  of  might. 

Rough  Else,  the  mighty  que<»n,  in  the  baptism 

did  he  call 
Lady  Siegbeminn,  ^  the  fairest  dame  of  all. 
Her  bristly  hide  she  lefl  all  in  the  flowing  tide : 
Never  gazing  champion  lovelier  lady  eyed. 

Her  shape  was  formed  for  love,  aUnder,  fiur, 

and  tall. 
Straight  as  is  the  taper  burning  in  the  hall ; 
Brightly  gleamed  her  cheeks,  like  the  opening 

rose: 
Wondering  stood  Wolfdieterich,  and  forgot  his 

pains  and  woes. 

"  Wilt  thou  win  ne  to  thy  love  ?  gentle  hero, 

say." 
Quickly  spake  Wolfdieterich,  —  <»  Gladly,  by 

my  fay; 

1  The  name  ie  compounded  of  tuf,  lictorji  and  mlmw, 
lore. 


THE   HELDENBUCH. 


209 


Mirror  of  ladies  lovely,  fain  would  I  lay  thee 

near. 
But,  alaa !  my  fonn  is  laithly,  and  black  am  I 

of  cheer." 

To  the  loving  youth  she  said,  **  If  beauteous 

thou  wilt  be. 
In  the  flowing  fountain  bathe  thee  speedily ; 
Fair  thy  visage  will  become,  as  before  a  year ; 
Nobly,  champion  bold  and  brave,  will  thy  form 

appear.'* 

Black  and  foul  he  leaped  into  the  well  of  youth. 
But  white  and  fair  he  issued,  with  noble  form, 

forsooth. 
In  his  arms,  with  gentle  love,  did  he  clip  the 

maid; 
Merrily  he  kissed  the  dame,  as  she  led  him  to 

her  bed. 


WOIFDIETRICH  AND  THE  SfTAG  WTIH  GOLDEN 
HORNa 

Thxt  sped  them  to  the  forest  in  the  merry 

month  of  May, 
When  for  the  glowing  summer  the  fruit-trees 

blossomed  gay. 
A  gorgeous  tent  was  pitched  upon  the  meadow 

green : 
Straight  a  stag  of  noble  form  before  the  tent 


Round  his  spreading  antlers  was  wound  the 

glittering  gold ; 
Full  of  joy  and  marvel,  gazed  on  the  stag  the 

hero  bold : 
T  was  done  with  arts  of  magic,  by  a  giant  fierce 

and  wild, 
With  subtle  sleights  to  win  to  his  bed  Dame 

Sieghminn  mild. 

And  when  WolfHieterich  beheld  the  noble  deer. 
Hearken  how  the  hero  spake  to  bis  gentle  peer : 
*^  Await  thou,  royal  lady ;  my  meiny  soon  re- 
turns; 
With  my  hounds  I  '11  hunt  the  stag  with  the 
golden  horns." 

To  their  palfreys  speedily  the  king  and  his 

meiny  flew : 
Through  the  woods  they  chased  the  stag,  with 

many  a  loud  halloo. 
But  silently  the  giant  came  where  the  lady  lay ; 
With  the  tent  he  seized  her,  and  bore  the  prize 

away. 

O'er  the  sea  he  brought  the  dame,  to  a  distant 

land. 
Where,  deep  within  a  forest,  his  castle  strong 

did  stand. 
Though  for  half  a  year  they  sought  all  around 

that  lady  foir. 
They  never  found  the  castle  where  she  lay  in 

woe  and  care. 

87 


Around  the  forest  hunted  Wolfdietrich  and  his 
men; 

Down  they  brought  the  noble  stag,  and  proudly 
turned  again : 

Merrily  they  spurred  tl^^ugh  the  wood  with 
speed. 

Where  they  leti  the  gorgeous  tent  on  the  ver- 
dant mead. 


WOLFDIETRICH  IN  THE  GIANTS  CASTLK 

Hk  led  the  weary  pilgrim  into  the  castle-hall. 
Where  brightly  burned  the  fire,  and  many  a 

taper  tall :  ^ 

On  a  seat  he  sat  him  down,  and  made  him  right 

good  cheer : 
His  eyes  around  the  hall  cast  the  hero  without 

foar. 

With  anxious  care  he  looked  for  his  lady  bright, 
And  he  viewed  the  gorgeous  tent  once  in  the 

•    forest  pight. 
Cheerfully  the  hero  thought,  •*  Rightly  have  I 

sped: 
In  the  perilous  adventure  God  will  be  mine 

aid!" 

From  the  glittering  flame  straight  the  champion 
sprung ; 

Sharply  he  eyed  the  tent,  which  the  giant  stole 
with  wrong. 

Wondering,  spake  Sir  Tressan, — "  Weary  palm- 
er, stay; 

Rest  thee  by  the  ^re^  for  long  has  been  thy 
way." 

Up  and  spake  Wolfdieterich, —  **  Strange  mar- 
vels have  I  seen. 

And  heard  of  bold  adventures,  in  lands  where 
I  have  been ; 

Once  I  saw  an  emperor,  Otnit  is  his  name,. 

Would  dare  defy  thee  boldly,  for  mighty  is  his 
fkme." 

When  he  bad  spoke  the  speech  to  the  giant  old,- 
Grimly  by  the  fire  sat  him  down  the  palmer 

bold; 
Waiting  with  impatience,  long  the  time  him 

thought 
Till  into  the  glittering  hall  the  supper-meat  was 

brought. 

But  to  call  them  to  their  meat,  loud  did  a  horn 

resound : 
Soon  entered  many  high-bom  men,  and  stood 

the  hall  around : 
In  the  giant's  courtly  hall,  winsome  dwarfs  ap. 

peared, 
Who  the  castle  and  the  mount  with  cunning 

arts  had  reared. 

Among  the  dwarfs  the  gentle  queen  up  to  the 

deas  was  led : 
The  palmer  straight  she  welcomed,  her  cheeks 

with  blushes  red : 

a2 


210 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


«« With  that  palmer  will  I  sit  at  the  board,"  she 

cried  : 
Soon  they  placed  Wolfdieterich  by  the  lady's 

side. 


Suddenly  Sir  Tressan  seized  his  struggling  bride. 
Ho !  how  soon  Wolfdieterich  his  sclaveyn  threw 

aside  ! 
Out  he  drew  his  fidchion :  (*  Hold ! "  spake  he 

wrathfully ; 
**  That  lovely  bride  of  thine,  Sir  Giant,  leave 

to  me." 

Dar'st  thou  fight  me,  silly  swain  ? "  cried  Sir 
Tressan  fierce ; 

**  But  shame  befiill  the  champion  who  an  un- 
armed knight  would  pierce ! 

Dight  thee  in  hauberk  quickly ;  and  he  who  in 
the  fight 

Strikes  his  opponent  down,  let  him  take  the 
lady  bright." 

Glad  was  the  palmer  when  he  heard  that  thus 

the  giant  said. 
Speedily  the  cunning  dwarfi  upon  the  ground 

have  laid, 
Right  between  the  champions,  three  weighty 

coats  of  mail : 
"  Palmer,  choose  in  which  thou  wilt  the  giant 

fierce  assail." 

Here  lay  an  ancient  hauberk,  fast  was  every 

ring; 
There  lay  two  of  glittering  gold,  fit  for  the 

mightiest  king : 
But  soon  the  palmer  seized  the  hauberk  old  and 

black. 
"  Who  bade  thee  take  that  hauberk  old  ?  "  in 

wrath  the  giant  spake. 


WOLFDIETRICH  AND  SIB  BELUGAN. 

"  I4P0K  to  thy  foot,  Sir  Knight,"  spake  the  hea- 
then Belligan  ; 

<(  Thou  must  leave  it  here  to  pledge,  nor  bear 
it  hence  again ; 

Fast  unto  the  ground  I  will  pin  it  with  my 
knife; 

Such  is  my  skill  and  mastery :  Christian,  guard 
thy  life!" 

The  heathen  threw  the  weapon  rathly  through 

the  air ; 
But    cunningly  Wolfdieterich   leaped   quickly 

from  the  chair. 
And  down  upon  the  sticks  again  he  did  alight : 
No  bird  in  air  had  done  it,  to  tell  the  truth 

aright. 

Foully  cursed  the  pagan,  when  he  had  tint  that 

throw, 
And  to  Mahomet,  his  god^  he  plained  him  of 

his  woe  : 


*^  Never  will  I  leave  thee,  thou  god  of  might 

and  main. 
If  thou  wilt  grant  thy  help,  when  I  throw  the 

knife  again. 

«« Who  taught  thee  thus  to  leap  ?  say,  thou  bold 

compeer." 
But   Sir   Wolfdieterich    spake    with    cunning 

cheer : 
"  Say  no  more.  Sir  Belligan  :  what  boots  that 

speech  of  thine  ?  I 

With  thy  second  throw,  alas  !  I  must  lose  this    ' 

life  of  mine." 

Again  the  heathen  cried,  "  That  leap  I  learned 
of  yore. 

From  my  noble  master,  Bechtung ;  right  won- 
drous was  his  lore. 

Say,  is  thy  name  Wolfdieterich,  and  art  thou 
bred  in  Greece  P 

If  thou  be,  thou  shalt  baptize  me,  and  our  en- 
mity shall  cease." 

But  when  the  Christian  knight  his  fear  and 

terror  viewed, 
**  May  knight  be  bom  of  savage  wolves  ?  "  cried 

the  champion  good : 
"  Alas !    my  rank  I  must  conceal ;   but  thou 

shalt  know  my  name. 
When  thrice  thy  blows  have  missed.     Come, 

renew  the  bloody  game." 

Again  with  wrath  the  pagan  heaved  his  hand 

on  high ; 
Again  he  threw  the  weapon,  and  prayed  lor 

victory : 
Two  locks  from  the  hero's  temple  he  cut  with 

cunning  skill. 
As  if  the  shears  had  clipped  them ;  but  he  did 

none  other  ill. 

Speedily  Wolfdieterich  cried  to  God  his  life  to 

save. 
*^  Heathen   hound,   how  cunningly   a  tonsure 

thou  canst  shave ! 
I  shall  need  a  priest  no  more,  to  shrive  me  of 

my  sin ; 
By  the  help  of  God  on  high,  I  hope  the  fight 

to  win." 

**Have  I  not  hit  thee  yet.'*'  spake  Belligan 

with  wrath. 
**  Ay,  thou  hast  shaved  my  crown,  but  done  no 

other  Bcath  : 
As  yet  I  bear  no  wound,  then  throw  the  other 

knife  : 
If  once  again  thy  weapon  miss,  it 's  I  hare 

gained  the  strife." 

"  Christian,  guard  thy  heart !  "  cried  the  hea- 
then king  accursed ; 

<«  Soon  a  bloody  well  from  thy  side  shall  burst. 

Keen  is  the  trusty  weapon,  and  bears  the  name 
of  Death  ! 

Thou  need'st  not  guard  thy  Hfb;  thou  haat 
breathed  thy  latest  breath." 


THE  HELDENBUCH. 


311 


The  Christian  wound  St.  George's  shirt  bis 
body  all  about : 

Quickly  passed  the  weapon  keen  through  the 
buckler  stout ; 

But  from  the  wondrous  shirt  to  the  ground  the 
kniib  did  sUrt, 

Shivered  into  splinters,  nor  touched  the  cham- 
pion's heart. 

i«  I  have  stood  thy  throws,  Sir  Belligan,"  spake 
the  knight  aloud : 

^  Better  I  can  cast  than  thou  the  knift^  tbou 
pagan  proud ! " 

^<  Boast  not  of  thy  cunning,"  cried  King  Belli- 
gan; 

**Thy  knives  with  msgic  art  are  dight,  thou 
foolish  Christian  man." 

Safe  he  thought  his  body ;  but  the  knight  bade 

him  beware 
His  right  foot  and  his  left  eye,  that  the  heathen 

cried,  with  care, 
«•  How  may  I  guard  them  both  >   In  this  foarfol 

stound, 
Save   me  from   that  Christian  foil,  with   thy 

power.  Sir  Mahonnd  !  " 

WolfSietrich  quickly  threw  the  knifo,  and  he 

heaved  his  hand  on  high ; 
He  pinned  the  right  foot  on   the  chair,  and 

laughing  did  he  cry, 
(t  My  skill  it  is  but  little ;  much  I  foared  thy 

flight. 
So  I  pinned  thee  to  the  chair  :  now  thou  canst 

not  quit  my  sight." 

The  second  knifo  he  threw,  and  he  hit  him  in 

the  side  : 
**  Heathen,  thou  must  die,  for  all  thy  boast  and 

pride." 
Wofully  spake  Belligan, — **  Knight  without  a 

peer, 
Quickly  tell  thy  name,  for  much  thy  throws  I 

fear." 

^  I  am  the  king  of  Greece,  Wolfdietrich  is  my 

name." 
Trembling,  cried  the  pagan,  *<  Save  me,  thou 

knight  of  fome ! 
In  the  fount  thou  ahalt  baptize  me,  and  teach 

me  Christian  lore : 
Save  me,  noble  champion  I  I  pray  thee,  throw 

no  more." 

**  Tbou  must  die,  Sir  Belligan ;  many  Christians 
hast  thou  shent : 

Alas  !  I  view  their  bloody  heads  upon  thy  bat- 
tlement." 

The  pagan  bade  his  meiny  his  gods  before  him 
bring: 

Vainly  by  their  might  he  weened  to  quell  the 
Grecian  king. 

But  over  them  Wolfilieterich  signed  the  holy 

crofls. 
And  instantly  the  idols  folse  broke  down  to 

dust  and  drosi. 


Up  and  spake  foir  Marpaly, — **  He  works  with 

magic  sleight : 
Much  1   dread   the  malice  of  that  Christian 

knight." 

With  sorrow  cried  Sir  Belligan,  **  Mahoun,  help 
vrith  thy  might ! 

I  will  give  thee  to  thy  spouse  Marpaly  the 
bright." 

Laughing,  cried  the  champion,  **A  god  foil 
strange  is  thine ! 

Does  he  aeek  to  spouse  the  dame .'  but  his  mar- 
row he  shall  tine. 

"  Guard  thy  heart,  Sir  King ;    I  warn  thee, 

guard  it  well ; 
Quickly  will  I  pierce  it  with  this  weapon  foil ; 
If  I  foil  asunder  straight  thy  heart  to  cleave. 
This  head  upon  the  battlement,  in  forfeit,  will 

I  leave." 

Speedily  Wolfoieterich  the  third  knifo  heaved 

on  high : 
Trembling  stood  Sir  Belligan,  for  he  folt  his 

death  was  nigh. 
The  pagan's  heart  asunder  with  cunning  skill 

he  cleft : 
Down  upon  the  grass  he  foil,  of  lifo  bereft. 


WOLFDIETBICH  AND  THE  FIEND& 

With  magic  art  all  o'er  the  lake  a  broad  bridge 
threw  the  dame ; 

But  onward  as  they  rode,  still  narrower  it  be- 
came : 

In  wonder  stood  the  hero ;  to  the  maiden  he 
'gan  say, 

(<  Damsel,  truly  tell,  who  has  borne  the  bridge 
away  ?  " 

<*  Little  care  I  though  thou  drown,"  cried  Dame 

Marpaly. 
(*Then   graithe    thee,"   spake   Wolfoieterich ; 

*<  't  is  thou  must  plunge  with  me." 
"  No  harm  the  waves  can  do  me ',  with  magic 

sm  I  dight." 
**  Then  speed  we  to  the  castle  back,"  cried  the 

Christian  knight. 

Back  the  foarless  hero  turned  his  trusty  horse ; 
But  down  the  bridge  was  broken,  by  the  lady's 

magic  force. 
In  his  sorrow,  cried  the  champion,  **  Help,  God, 

in  this  my  need  ! 
Say,  how  may  we  hither  pass?  damsel,  right 

arede. 

From  the  courser  Marpaly  suddenly  would  fly. 
"  Stay  thee   here,  thou  woman  fell !   quickly 

must  thou  die." 
Piteously  she  wept,  prayed  him  her  lifo  to  save. 
He  tied  her  to  his  body  fost,  and  plunged  into 

the  wave. 


212 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


In  the  name  of  God  be  leaped  into  the  lake 

amain; 
But  the  water  suddenly  was  gone ;  on  the  mead 

he  stood  again. 
'^Lady,  say,   how  passed  the  waters?     How 

bloomed  the  mead  so  green?  " 
*'  Alas !  *'  she  cried,  **  thy  God  is  strong,  or  dead 

thou  sure  hadst  been. 

"  Let  me  pass,  Wolfiiieterich,  for  thy  chivalry ! 
Knightly  deed  it  were  not,  but  evil  treachery. 
If  thy  hand  thou  didst  imbrue  in  gentle  lady's 

blood." 
Straight  her  bonds  he  loosened,  and  she  leaped 

from  the  courser  good. 

Suddenly,  upon  the  mead  her  garments  down 
she  threw. 

And  showed  her  beauteous  form  to  the  won- 
dering champion's  view. 

Her  hands  she  clapped  together,  on  the  hero 
did  she  look, 

And  straight,  by  arts  of  grammary,  a  raven's 
form  she  took. 

High  upon  a  tree  perched  the  raven  black. 

'*  The  devil's  fere  thou  art ;  to  hell,  then,  speed 

thee  back ! 
Had  I  done  thy  will,  by  the  foul  fiend  had  I 

lain." 
He  grasped  his  courser's  bridle,  and  away  he 

rode  amain. 

But  suddenly  around  him  a  laithly  fog  she  cast; 

Fouler  it  grew,  and  thicker  still,  as  he  onward 
passed ; 

And  straight  beside  his  courser  stood  a  cham- 
pion fell ; 

A  club  the  black  man  brandished,  and  seemed 
the  hound  of  hell. 

Up   and  spake   Wolfdieterich,  —  "Say,  thou 

doughty  knight, 
Why  wilt  thou  give  me  battle  ?    I  have  done 

thee  no  despite." 
But  fiercely  struck  tbe  monster  on  his  helm  a 

blow  of  might : 
Down  he  fell  upon  the  mead,  and  saw  nor  day 

nor  night. 

Full  of  shame  he  rose  again;  his  glittering 
shield  he  clasped. 

Run  against  the  fiend  of  hell,  and  fast  his  fal- 
chion grasped  : 

In  the  dreadful  stour  he  took  the  monster's  life. 

Fondly  he  weened  the  fight  was  done,  nor 
thought  of  further  strife. 

But  suddenly  two  other  fiends,  fouler  than  the 

other, 
Brandished  on  high  their  iron  clubs,  to  avenge 

their  fallen  brother. 
Down  they  struck  him  to  the  ground,  in  deadly 

swoon  he  fell ; 
Gone  was  all  his  strength,  and  his  face  grew 

wan  and  pale. 


But  God  on  high  was  with  him :  quickly  he 

arose, 
Run  upon  the  hell-hounds,  and  struck  them 

mortal  blows. 
When  the  two  were  dead,  behold  1  by  his  side 

four  others  stood. 
And  rushed  upon  the  Christian,  thirsting  for  his 

blood. 

Hotter  was  the  battle,  bolder  the  champion  grew ; 
Quick  his  might  o'ercame  them ;  to  the  ground 

the  fiends  he  threw ; 
Down  he  filled  the  four,  dead  lay  they  by  his 

side; 
But,  alas !  upon  the  plain,  eight  fouler  he  de- 

scried. 

The  uncouth  champions  black  upon  the  hero 

rushed ; 
With  their  weighty  clubs  of  steel  him  to  the 

ground  they  pushed; 
Mickle  was  his  pain  and  woe ;  his  force  was 

well-nigh  spent : 
Loudly  of  his  sorrow  to  the  heavens  did  he 

lament. 

Again  he  grasped  his  buckler,  and  from  the 

plain  arose ; 
Again,  with  his  good  falchion,  he  dealt  them 

heavy  blows. 
And  all  tbe  evil  hell-hounds  rathly  made  he 

bleed ; 
Deep  were  the  wounds  his  weapon  carved; 

dead  fbll  they  on  the  mead. 

But  the  battle  was  not  over ;  he  came  in  great- 

er  pain ; 
Sixteen  fouler  fiends  than  they  stood  upon  the 

plain; 
And  as  their  clubs  they  wielded,  the  champion 

cried  amain, 
'*  When  a  fiend,  alas !  I  vanquish,  two  fiercer 

come  again." 

Amongst  the  hell-hounds  fierce  he  rushed,  and 

thought  to  be  awroke  : 
With  their  iron  clubs  they  struck  him,  that  his 

helmet  seemed  to  smoke. 
He  feared  his  fatal  hour  was  nigh ;  astounded 

and  dismayed. 
On  the  ground  in  crucial  form  he  fell,  and  called* 

to  Heaven  fi>r  aid. 

O'er  him  stood  the  fi>ul  fiends,  and  with  their 

clubs  of  steel 
Struck  him  o'er  the   helmet,  that  in  deadly 

swound  he  fell : 
But  God  his  sorrow  saw ;  to  the  fiends  his  sond 

he  sent : 
From  the  earth  they  vanished,  with  howling 

and  lament. 

And  with  them  to  the  deep  abyss  they  bore  the 

sorceress  fell : 
Loudly  did  she  shriek,  when  they  cast  her  into 

hell. 


THE  HELDENBUCH. 


213 


The  Christian  hero  thanked  his  God ;  from  th« 

ground  he  rose  with  speed ; 
Joyfblly  he  sheathed  his  sword,  and  mounted 

on  his  steed. 


THE  TOURNAMENT. 

CovirT  Hkrm AK  spurred  his  courMr,  and  gal- 
lopped  o*er  the  plain ; 

With  anger  burned  bis  heart,  and  be  hoped  the 
prize  to  gain : 

Against  tbe  Grecian  hero  be  ran  with  enrious 
Ibrce, 

But  he  could  not  stand  the  shock,  and  tumbled 
from  bis  horse. 

Firmly  sat  Wolfdieterich,  bis  shield  repelled 
the  spear, 

From  bis  courser  to  the  ground  leaped  he  with- 
out fear ; 

But  Sir  Herman  bowed  full  courteously  to  tbe 
unknown  knigbt : 

«« Take  the  gold,  thou  champion,  for  I  may  not 
stand  thy  migbt." 

M  Nay,"  cried  tbe  king  of  Greece,  '*  it  must  not. 

Count,  be  so. 
For  first  before  tbe  lady  my  power  must  I  show.*' 
A  long  and  weighty  spear  be  chose,  as  in  tbe 

book  is  told ; 
And  tbe  spear  a  fathom  in  the  ground  thrust 

tbe  hero  bold. 

Amongst  tbe  knights  resounded  a  loud,  a  joyful 

cry, 
When,   witbouten    stirrups,  on  his  steed  he 

leaped  on  bigb. 
Count  Herman  on  bis  couiser  mounted,  full  of 

care  j 
But  tbrougb  bis  shirt  of  mail  ran  tbe  sweat  of 

fear. 

0*er  the  court  in  full  career  tbe  Grecian  did 

advance. 
And  above  tbe  saddle-bow  he  bit  him  with  tbe 

lance  : 
Little  could  tbe  count  withstand  that  thrust  of 

might  and  main ; 
Fathoms  eight  it  cast  him  down  upon  the  plain. 


WOLFDIETRICH*S  PENANCE. 

Strictly  Sir  Wolfdieterich  kept  his  holy  state. 

But  to  cleanse  bim  of  his  sins  he  begged  a  pen- 
ance great : 

His  brethren  bade  bim  on  a  bier  in  tbe  church 
to  lay. 

There  to  do  bis  penance  all  the  nigbt  until  tbe 
day. 

When  the  nigbt  was  come,  to  the  church  tbe 

bero  sped: 
Sudden  all  tbe  gbosts   appeared  wbo  by  his 

sword  lay  dead : 


Many  a  fearful  blow  they  struck  on  the  cham- 

pion  good ; 
Ne'er  such  pain  and  woe  be  felt  when  on  tbe 

field  he  stood. 

Sooner  bad  he  battle  fought  with  thousands  in 
tbe  field. 

Striking  dints  with  felcbions  keen  on  his  glit- 
tering shield. 

Half  tbe  nigbt  against  tbe  gbosts  he  waged  tbe 
battle  fierce : 

But  the  empty  air  be  struck,  wben  he  weened 
tbeir  breasts  to  pierce. 

Little  recked  they  for  his  blows :  with  bis  ter- 
ror and  bis  woe. 

Ere  half  the  night  was  past,  hu  hair  was  white 
as  snow. 

And  wben  tbe  monks  to  matins  sped,  they  found 
him  pale  and  cold  : 

Tbere  tbe  gbosts  in  deadly  swoon  had  left  the 
champion  bold. 


HL— THE  GARDEN  OF  ROSES. 

FRIAR  ILSAN  IN  THE  GARDEN  OF  ROSES. 

'MoNOST  tbe  roses  Staudenfuss  trod  with  mickle 

pride; 
With  rage  and  with  impatience,  his  foe  be  did 

abide ; 
Much  be  feared  no  Longobard  would  dare  to 

meet  his  blade : 
But  a  bearded  monk  lay  ready  for  tbe  figbt 

arrayed. 

**Brotber  Ilsan,  raise  thine  eyes,"  spake  Sir 

Hildebrand, 
*<  Where,   'mongst    tbe    blooming    roses,    our 

tbreatening  foe  does  stand  : 
Staudenfuss,  the  giant  bight,  bom  upon  tbe 

Rhine. 
Up,  and  sbrive  bim  of  bis  sins,  holy  brother 

mine ! " 

M  It 's  I  will  figbt  him,"  cried  tbe  monk ;  »  my 

blessing  shall  be  gain  ; 
Never  'mongst  the  roses  shall  be  wage  the  figbt 

again." 
Straight  above  bis  coat  of  mail  his  friar's  cowl 

he  cast, 
Hid  bis  sword  and  buckler,  and  to  tbe  garden 

passed. 

Among  tbe  blooming  roses  leaped  tbe  grisly 

monk : 
With  laugbter  ladies  viewed  bis  beard,  and  his 

visage  brown  and  shrunk ; 
As  be  trod  witb  angry  step  o'er  tbe  flowery 

green. 
Many  a  maiden  laughed  aloud,  and  many  a 

knight,  I  ween. 

Up  spake  Lady  Cbrimbild,—**  Father,  leave 

thine  ire ! 
Qo  and  chant  thy  matins  with   tby  brothers 

in  tbe  cboir." 


214 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


**  Gentle  lady,"  cried  the  monk,  **  roses  must  I 

have, 
To  deck  my  dusky  cowl  in  guise  right  gay  and 

brave." 

Loudly  laughed  the  giant,  when  he  saw  his 

beard  so  rough  : 
**  Should  I  laughing  die  to-morrow,  I  had  not 

laughed  enough : 
Has  the  kemp  of  Bern  sent  his  fool  to  fight  ?" 
««  Giant,  straight  thy  hide  shall  feel  that  I  have 

my  wits  aright." 

Up  heaved  the  monk  his  heavy  fist,  and  he 
struck  a  weighty  blow, 

Down  among  the  roses  he  felled  his  laughing 
foe. 

Fiercely  cried  Sir  Staudenfuss,  ^  Thou  art  the 
devil's  priest ! 

Heavy  penance  dost  thou  deal  with  thy  wrin- 
kled fist." 

Together  rushed  the   uncouth   kemps;    each 

drew  his  trusty  blade ; 
With  heavy  tread  below  their  fbet  they  crushed 

the  roses  red ; 
All  the  garden  flowed  with  their  purple  blood  ; 
Each  did  strike  full  sorry  blows  with   their 

falchions  good. 

Cruel  looks  their  eyes  did  cast,  and  fearful  was 

their  war, 
But  the  friar  cut  his  enemy  o'er  the  head  a 

bloody  scar; 
Deeply  carved  his  trusty  sword  through  the 

helmet  bright : 
Joyful  was  the  hoary  monk,  for  he  had  won 

the  fight. 

They  parted  the  two  champions  speedily  asun- 
der : 

The  friar's  heavy  interdict  lay  the  giant  under. 

Up  arose  Queen  Chrimhild,  to  Sir  Ilsan  has  she 
sped. 

On  his  bald  head  did  she  lay  a  crown  of  roses 
red. 

Through  the  garden  roved  he,  as  in  the  merry 
dance ; 

A  kiss  the  lady  gave  him,  where  madly  he  did 
prance. 

«^Hear,  thou  lady  fair;  more  roses  must  I 
havej 

To  my  two-and-fifly  brothers  I  promised  chap- 
lets  brave. 

**  If  ye  have  not  kemps  to  fight,  I  must  rob  thy 

garden  fair. 
And  right  sorry  should  I  be  to  work  thee  so 

much  care." 
"Fear  not,  the  battle   shalt  thou  wage  with 

champions  bold  and  true : 
Crowns  and  kisses  may'st  thou  gain  for  thy 

brothers  fifty-two." 


Up  spake  the  queen,  —  "  Monk  Ilsan,  see  your 

chaplets  ready  dight ; 
Champions  two-and-fifty  stand  waiting  fbr  the 

fight." 
Ilsan  rose,  and  donned  his  cowl,  and  run  against 

them  all ; 
There  the  monk  has  given  them  many  a  heavy 

&11. 

To  the  ground  he  felled  them,  and  gave  them 

his  benison ; 
Beneath  the  old  monk's  falchion  lay  twelve 

champions  of  renown : 
And  full  of  fear  and  sorrow  the  other  forty 

were; 
Their  right  hand  held  they  forth,  begged  him 

their  lives  to  spare. 

Rathly  ran  the  monk,  to  the  Queen  Chrimhild 

he  hied : 
**Lay  thy  champions  in  the  grave,  and  leave 

thy  mickle  pride  : 
I  have  dight  them  for  their  death  ;  I  did  shrive 

them  and  anoint  them  : 
Never  will  they  thrive  or  speed  in  the  task  thou 

didst  appoint  them. 

"  When  again  thy  roses  blow,  to  the  feast  the 

monk  invite." 
The  Lady  Chrimhild  gave  him  two-and-fifly 

chaplets  bright. 
**  Nay,  Lady  Queen,  remind  thee  !    By  the  holj 

order  mine, 
I  claim  two-and-fifly  kisses  firom  your  lips  so 

red  and  fine." 

And  when   Chrimhild,  the  queen,  gave   him 

kisses  fifly-two, 
With  his  rough  and  grisly  b'eard  fUll  sore  he 

.    made  her  rue. 
That  from  her  lovely  cheek  'gan  flow  the  rosy 

blood : 
The  queen  was  full  of  sorrow,  but  the  monk  it 

thought  him  good. 

Thus  should  unfaithful  maiden  be  kissed,  and 

made  to  bleed, 
And  feel  such  pain  and  sorrow,  fbr  the  mischief 

she  did  breed. 


FRIAR  ILSAN'S  RETURN  TO  THE  CONVENT. 

**  Brothers  mine,  approach  !  coronets  I  bring : 
Come,  your  bald  heads  will  I  crown,  each  one 

like  a  king." 
He  pressed  a  thorny  chaplet  on  each  naked 

crown, 
That  o'er  their  rugged  visages  the  gory  flood 

ran  down. 

They  sighed  that  all  their  prayers  fbr  his  death 

had  been  in  vain  ; 
Loud  they  roared,  but  silently  they  cursed  him 

in  their  pain. 


THE   HELDENBUCH. 


215 


"  Brothers  we  are,"  so  spake  the  monki  "  then 

must  ye  have  your  share  ; 
For  me  to  bear  the  pain  alone,  in  sooth  it  were 

not  fair. 

^  See  how  richly  ye  are  dight !  beauteous  still 

ye  were ; 
Now  ye  are  crowned  with  roses,  none  may  with 

ye  compare." 
The  abbot  and  the  prior  and  all  the  convent 

wept. 
But  no  one,  for  his  life,  ibrth  against  him  stepped. 

ti  Ye  must  help  to  bear  my  sins,  holy  brethren 

all; 
For  if  ye  do  not  pray  for  me,  dead  to  the  ground 

ye  fall." 
A  few  there  were  who  would  not  pray  for 

Monk  Ilsan*s  soul : 
He  tied  their  beards  together,  and  hung  them 

o*er  a  pole. 

Loud  they  wept,  and  long  they  be^jped,  **  Broth- 
er, let  us  go ; 

At  vesper  and  at  matins  will  we  pray  for  you." 

Ever  since,  where'er  he  went,  they  knelt,  and 
feared  his  wrath ; 

Helped  to  bear  his  heavy  sins,  until  his  wel- 
come death. 


IV.— THE  LITTLE  GARDEN  OF  ROSES. 
KINO  LAUHIN  THE  DWABF. 

WiTTicH,  the  mighty  champion,  trod  the  roses 

to  the  ground. 
Broke  down  the  gates,  and  ravaged  the  garden 

far  renowned : 
Gone  was  the  portals'  splendor,  by  the  heroes 

bold  destroyed; 
The  fragrance  of  the  flowers  was  past,  and  all 

the  garden's  pride. 

But  as  upon  the  grass  they  lay  withouten  fear, 
No  heed  they  had  of  danger,  nor  weened  their 

fee  was  near : 
Behold,  where  came  a  little  kemp,  in  warlike 

manner  dight ; 
A  king  he  was  o'er  many  a  land,  and  Laurin 

was  he  bight. 

A  lance  with  gold  was  wound  about,  the  little 
king  did  bear : 

On  the  lance  a  silken  pennon  fluttered  in  the  air ; 

Thereon  two  hunting  greyhounds  lively  were 
portrayed  ; 

They  seemed  as  though  they  chased  the  roe- 
buck through  the  glade. 

His  courser  bounded  like  a  fewn,  and  the  gold- 
en fbot-cloth  gay 

Glittered  with  gems  of  mound  brighter  than 
the  day. 


Firmly  in  his  hands  he  grasped  a  golden  rein ; 
And  with  rubies  red  his  saddle  gleamed,  as  he 
pricked  along  the  plain. 

In  guise  right  bold  and  chivalrous  in  the  stir- 
rups rich  he  stood : 

Not  the  truest  blade  could  cut  his  pusens  red  as 
blood: 

Hardened  was  his  hauberk  in  the  gore  of  drag- 
ons fierce, 

And  his  golden  bruny  bright  not  the  boldest 
knight  might  pierce. 

Around  his  waist  a  girdle  he  wore  of  magic 

power ; 
The  strength  of  twelve  the  strongest  men  it 

gave  him  in  the  stour. 
Deeds  of  noble  chivalry  and  manhood  wrought 

the  knight ; 
Still  had  he  gained  the  victory  in  every  bloody 

fight. 

Cunning  he  was,  and  quaint  of  skill,  and,  when 
his  wrath  arose, 

The  kemp  must  be  of  mickle  might  could  stand 
his  weighty  blows. 

Little  was  King  Laurin,  but  from  many  a  pre- 
cious gem 

His  wondrous  strength  and  power  and  his  bold 
courage  came. 

Tall  at  times  his  stature  grew,  with  spells  of 

grammary ; 
Then  to  the  noblest  princes  fellow  might  he 

be: 
And  when  he  rode,  a  noble  blade  bore  he  in  his 

hand; 
In  many  fights  the  sword  was  proved  worth  a 

spacious  land. 

Silken  was  his  mantle,  vrith  stones  of  mound 

inlaid. 
Sewed  in  two-and-seventy  squares  by  many  a 

cunning  maid. 
His  helmet,  strong  and  trusty,  was  ferged  of  the 

weighty  gold. 
And  when  the  dwarf  did  bear  it,  his  courage 

grew  more  bold.  ^ 

In  the  gold,  with  many  gems,  a  bright  carbun- 
cle lay. 

That  where  he  rode  the  darkest  night  was 
lighter  than  the  day. 

A  golden  crown  he  bore  upon  his  helmet  bright ; 

With  richer  gems  and  finer  gold  no  mortal  king 
is  dight. 

Upon  the  crown  and  on  the  helm  birds  sung 
their  merry  lay ; 

Nightingales  and  larks  did  chant  their  meas- 
ures blithe  and  gay ; 

As  if  in  greenwood  flying,  they  tuned  their 
minstrelsy : 

With  hand  of  master  were  they  wrought,  and 
vrith  spells  of  grammary. 


216 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


On  hiB  arm  he  bore  a  gilded  buckler  bright ; 
There  many  sparhawks,  tame  and  wild,  were 

portrayed  with  cunning  sleight, 
And  a  eavage  leopard  ranging,  prowling  through 

the  wood, 
Right  in  act  to  seize  his  prey,  thirsting  for  their 

blood. 


THE  COURT  OP  LriTLE  KINO  LAURIN. 

Before  the  hollow  mountain  lay  a  meadow 

green; 
So  fair  a  plain  upon  this  world  never  may  be 

seen  : 
There  with  the  fruit  full  many  a  tree  was  laden 

heavily ; 
No  tongue  e*er  tasted  sweeter,  fairer  no  eye 

might  see. 

All  the  night  and  all  the  day  the  birds  full 

sweetly  sung, 
That  the  forest  and  the  plain  to  their  measures 

loudly  rung ; 
There  they  tuned  their  melody,  and  each  one. 

bore  his  part. 
That  with  their  merry  minstrelsy  they  cheered 

each  hero's  heart. 

And  o'er  the  plain  were  ranging  beasts  both 
wild  and  tame, 

Playing,  with  merry  gambols,  many  a  lusty 
game: 

On  the  noble  champions  fondly  'gan  they 
fawn: 

Each  mom,  beneath  the  linden-tree,  they  sport- 
ed on  the  lawn. 

The  meadow  seemed  so  lovely,  the  flowers 
bloomed  so  fair. 

That  he  who  had  the  plain  in  rule  would  know 
nor  woe  nor  care. 

Up  and  spake  the  knight  of  Bern,  —  "  So  high 
my  heart  doth  rise. 

So  full  of  joy  the  meadow,  that  I  hold  it  para- 
dise." 

Up   spake   hero  Wolfort,  —  **  Bless  him  who 

brought  us  here ! 
So  fair  a  sight  did  ne'er  before  to  mortal  eye 

appear." 
**  Enjoy  the  scene,  young  kemps,"  cried  Hilde- 

brand  the  proud ; 
"Fair  day  should  in  the  evening  be  praised 

with  voice  aloud." 

But  Wittich  spake  a  warning  word,  —  "  Hark 
to  my  rede  aright ! 

The  dwarf  is  quaint,  and  full  of  guile,  then  be- 
ware his  cunning  sleight ; 

Arts  he  knows  right  marvellous :  if  to  his  hoU 
low  hill 

We  follow,  much  I  dread  me,  he  will  breed  us 
dangerous  ill." 


"Fear  not,"  cried  King  Laurin;   "doubt  not 

my  faith  and  truth ; 
The  meadow  blithe  your  own  shall  be,  and 

my  treasures  all,  forsooth." 
Proudly  cried  bold  Wolfort,  —  "  Wittich,  stay 

thee  here ; 
Enter  not  the  hollow  hill,  if  his  treachery  thou 

fear." 

"Never,"  cried  fierce  Wittich;  "here  will  I 

not  stay." 
In  wrath  he  left  his  courser ;  without  fear  he 

sped  away : 
Before  the  mountain-gate  he  run,  there  hung  a 

horn  of  gold ; 
Quick  he  blew  a  merry  strain :   loud  laughed 

Sir  Dietrich  bold. 

Soon  toward  the  mountain  sped  the  little  knight, 

And  with  him  all  the  heroes  of  high  renown 
and  might : 

King  Laurin  blew  upon  the  horn  a  louder  note, 
and  shrill. 

From  all  the  mountains  echoing,  and  resound- 
ing on  the  hill. 

Quickly  ran  the  chamberlain  where  he  found 

the  golden  key. 
And  threw  the  spacious  portals  open  speedily  : 
King  Laurin  led  his  guests  through  the  golden 

gate; 
There  many  dwarfe,  alert  and  fair,  their  coming 

did  await. 

When  through  another  gate  of  steel  the  noble 

knights  had  passed, 
At  the  little  king's  command,  were  closed  the 

portals  fast. 
A  necromancer,  old  and  sage,  dwelt  in  the  hoi. 

low  hill ; 
Soon  he  came  to  Laurin,  and  asked  his  master's 

will. 

"  Look  upon  those  strangers,"  spake  the  little 

knight ; 
"Kemps  they  are  of  high  emprise,  and  love 

the  bloody  fight : 
Cast  upon  them,  master  mine,  for  the  love  of 

me, 
A  magic  spell,  that  none  of  them  may  the  oth- 

ere  see." 

Upon  the  knights  his  magic  charms  cast  the 

sorcerer  fell ; 
None  could  behold  his  brothers,  so  mighty  was 

the  spell. 
Loudly  cried  Sir  Wittich,  "  Mark  my  counsel 

now; 
I  told  ye  that  the  little  king  would  breed  ye 

cares  enow. 

"What  think  ye  now,  Sir  Wolfort.^ "  spake  the 

hero  stem : 
"  I  warned  ye  all  to  shun  the  dwarf,  and  speed 

ye  back  to  Bern." 


THE  NIBELUNGENLIED. 


217 


Aboat  the  cavern  roved  they,  in  mickle  woe 

and  care : 
Fiercely  to  the  king  they  cried,  **  Is  this  thy 

promised  &n?** 

But  up  spake  little  Lauiin :  "  Fear  not,  my  no- 
ble guests ; 

All  my  courtiers  shall  obey  quickly  your  be- 
hests.*' 

Many  a  winsome  dwarf  was  seen,  graithed  in 
rich  attire; 

Garments  bright  with  gold  and  gems  bore  each 
little  sire. 

From  the  gems  full  mighty  strength  had  the 
dwarfish  chivalry : 

Quaintly  they  danced,  and  on  their  steeds  they 
rode  right  cunningly; 

Far  they  cast  the  heavy  stone,  and,  in  their  war- 
like game, 

Thej  broke  the  lance,  and  tourneyed  before 
the  knights  of  fame. 

There  many  harpers  tuned  their  lay,  and  played 
with  mirth  and  glee, 

Loudly,  in  the  royal  hall,  their  merry  min- 
strelsy. 

Before  the  table  high  appeared  four  learned 
singing  men. 

Two  short,  and  two  of  stature  tall,  and  sung  in 
courtly  strain. 

Soon  to  the  table  sped  the  king,  and  bade  his 

meiny  all 
Wait  upon  his  noble  guests,  in  the  royal  hall : 
*'  Chosen  knights  and  brave  they  are,"  he  spoke 

with  friendly  cheer : 
Guile  was  in  his  heart,  and  cunning;   but  his 

treachery  bought  he  dear. 

Similt,  the  lady  fair,  heard  of  the  royal  feasts : 
Of  her  meiny  did  she  spier,  '*Who  are  the 

stranger  guests?  " 
*«  Noble  knights  of  German  birth,"   spake  a 

kemp  of  stature  small ; 
^'Irfiurin  bids  ye  speed  to  court,  for  well  ye 

know  them  all." 

Quickly  spake  the  lady,— ^' Up,  my  damsels 

fair! 
Deck  ye  in  your  richest  guise,  for  to  court  we 

mil  repair." 


Soon  they  dight  them  royally  in  glittering  array ; 
Full  blithe  they  were  to  speed  to  court  with 
.  Similt,  the  gentle  may. 

There  came  many  a  minstrel,  tuning  his  lay  of 

mirth; 
Shawms  and   trumpets  shrill  they  blew,  the 

sweetest  on  the  earth. 
There  full  many  a  song  was  sung  by  learned 

singing  men ; 
Of  war  and  chivalrous  emprise  they  tuned  the 

noble  strain. 

Now  to  court,  in  bright  array,  all  the  maids  are 

gone. 
With  many  a  knight  not  two  fi»et  long;   one 

leaped,  the  other  run ; 
Merry  were  they  all:   and  before  the  lovely 

dame. 
Two  tall,  two  little  gleemen  sung  the  song  of 

fame. 

Before  the  queen  they  chanted  the  merry  min- 
strelsy. 

And  all  who  heard  their  master-notes  dwelt  in 
mirth  and  glee. 

There  fiddlers  quaint  appeared,  though  small 
their  stature  were. 

Marching,  two  and  two,  before  the  lady  &ir. 

Similt  into  the  palace  came,  with  her  little 

maidens  all ; 
Garments  they  wore  which  glittered  brightly 

in  the  hall. 
Of  ffar  and  costly  ciclatoun,  and  brooches  of  the 

gold: 
No  richer  guise  in  royal  courts. might  mortal 

man  behold. 

The  gentle  Lady  Similt  bore  a  golden  crown ; 
There  full  many  a  precious  stone  around  the 

cavern  shone ; 
But  one  before  the  others  glittered  gorgeously ; 
The  wight  who  wore  that  noble  gem  ever  blithe 

must  be. 

And  now  the  spell  was  ta*en  away  from  the 

champions  bold : 
Full  glad  they  were  when  openly  their  fores 

they  might  behold. 
Right  noble  cheer  was  offered  to  the  champions 

brave ; 
In  royal  guise  the  foast  was  held  the  whole  day 

in  the  cave. 


THE  NIBELUNGENLIED. 


Thk  *<  Nibelnngenlied "  is  the  greatest  and 
most  complete  of  all  the  German  popular  epics. 
The  historical  basis  of  the  poem  is  found  in 
the  fifVh  and  sixth  centuries  of  the  Christian 
era ;  and  the  name,  Nibelungen,  is  said  to  be 


derived  from  an. ancient  and  powerful  Burgun- 
dian  race,  whose  terrible  downfall  is  the  subject 
of  the  work.  The  traditions  upon  which  it  is 
founded  are  connected  with  the  old  Scandina- 
vian sagas,  particularly  the  '*  Wilkina-Saga." 
S 


218 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


It  belongs  partly  to  the  Bame  cycle  of  adven- 
tures, characters,  and  traditions  as  the  *«Hel- 
denbuch,*'  and  springs  from  the  same  great  he- 
roic age  of  Germany.  The  present  form  of  the 
poem  is  undoubtedly  the  work  of  a  single  author, 
who,  with  a  soundness  of  judgment  and  felicity 
of  genius  rarely  equalled,  combined  the  separate 
songs,  sagas,  and  traditions  relating  to  Attila  and 
the  Huns,  and  their  connexions  with  the  Bur- 
gundian  tribe,  into  one  beautiful  and  harmonious 
whole  ',  and  this  poet,  according  to  the  conjec- 
ture of  William  Schlegel,  Von  der  Hagen,  and 
others,  was  the  Minnesinger,  Heinrich  von  Ofl- 
erdingen.  The  fabulous  Klingsor  of  Hungary 
has  also  been  mentioned,  but  his  claims  are 
feebly  supported. 

The  scene  of  the  poem  is  on  the  Rhine  and 
in  Austria  and  Hungary.  The  poem  opens  with 
a  description  of  Chrimhild,  the  principal  heroine 
of  the  piece,  her  three  brothers.  King  GOnther, 
King  Ghernot,  and  "  Ghiseler  the  Toung,"  who 
held  their  court  at  Worms,  on  the  Rhine,  and  of 
their  principal  warriors,  Hagen  of  Tronek  and 
Dankwart  his  brother,  Ortwin  and  Eckewart 
and  Ghere,  and  Folker  of  Alsace.  The  ominous 
dream  of  Chrimhild,  which  she  told  **with 
fear  '*  to  her  mother.  Dame  Ute,  and  the  inter- 
pretation by  the  latter,  are  then  related.  This 
dream,  and  the  interpretation,  which  are  after- 
wards terribly  fulfilled,  stamp  the  character  of 
a  solemn  and  mysterious  destiny  upon  the  whole 
poem. 

Then  follows  the  adventure  of  Siegfried,  the 
son  of  King  Siegmund  and  Queen  Siegelind, 
of  Netherland.  In  his  youth  he  has  visited  many 
lands,  performing  feats  of  arms  and  displaying 
all  gentleness  and  courtesy  of  behaviour.  Hav- 
ing thus  been  trained  to  the  practice  of  every 
knightly  virtue,  when  the  time  arrives  that  he 
shall  be  received  into  the  order  of  chivalry, 
his  father  makes  a  splendid  festival,  and  his 
mother  distributes  costly  gifts.  Having  heard 
of  the  matchless  beauty  of  Chrimhild,  he  re- 
solves to  visit  Worms  to  woo  her ;  and  arrives 
at  the  gate  of  this  renowned  city  with  great 
pomp  and  splendor.  As  he  approaches  with  his 
attendants.  King  GOnther  inquires  of  Hagen 
who  these  strangers  are ',  whereupon  the  old 
warrior  relates  the  marvellous  exploits  of  Sieg- 
fried, the  conquest  of  the  Nibelungen,  the  poa- 
sesjion  of  the  hoard,  or  treasure,  the  magic  cap, 
and  the  bathing  in  the  dragon's  blood,  which 
rendered  him  invulnerable  save  in  a  spot  be- 
tween his  shoulders,  where  a  leaf  fell  upon  him 
as  he  bathed.  Siegfried  is  courteously  received 
by  GOnther  and  bis  knights,  but  his  haughty  lan- 
guage rouses  the  ire  of  the  champions,  and  Ort- 
win and  Hagen  defy  him.  Their  wrath,  how- 
ever,  is  soon  appeased,  and  Siegfried  passes  a 
whole  year  at  Worms,  taking  part  in  all  the  rev- 
els and  joustings,  and  excelling  all  the  Burgun- 
dian  champions.  But  he  has  not  yet  seen  the 
Lady  Chrimhild,  though  she  has  stolen  many  a 
glance  at  him  from  the  window.  At  length  King 
Lodger  of  Saxony  and  King  Liudgast  of  Den- 


mark threaten  King  Gonther  with  war,  unless  he 
will  pay  them  tribute.  Siegfried  joins  the  Bur- 
gundian  knights,  drives  the  Saxons  out  of 
Hessia,  conquers  and  captures  ^ng  Liudgast ; 
whereupon  a  bloody  battle  follows,  and,  chiefly 
through  the  bravery  of  Siegfried,  the  mighty 
host  of  Danes  and  Saxons  is  defeated,  and 
Lodger  himself  surrenders.  Ghemot's  messen- 
gers carry  to  Worms  the  news  of  the  victory. 
Chrimhild  sends  for  one  of  them  to  her  cham- 
ber at  evening,  to  hear  from  him  the  tidings  of 
Siegfried's  warlike  deeds.  The  victorious  army, 
returning  with  the  captive  kings,  is  received 
with  joyful  welcome.  GOnther  liberates  the 
kings  when  they  have  sworn  fealty  to  him,  and 
prepares  a  high  festival,  to  which,  on  Whitsun- 
day morning,  five  thousand  guests  or  more  as- 
semble. Chrimhild  and  her  women  are  busy 
in  making  the  most  magnificent  preparations 
for  the  mighty  revel ;  and  she  and  her  mother 
are  commanded  to  grace  it  with  their  presence. 
And  this  is  the  first  time  that  Siegfried  be- 
holds Chrimhild.  For  twelve  days  the  feast 
continues,  and  each  day  the  hero  sees  the 
lady  of  his  love.  The  kings  are  allowed  to 
depart  unransomed,  and  Siegfried  also  proposes 
to  leave  the  court,  but  is  easily  persuaded  by 
Ghiseler  to  remain. 

The  fame  of  the  beauty  of  Brunhild,  a  prin- 
cess of  matchless  strength  in  Iceland,  moves 
King  GOnther  to  seek  to  win  her.  He  requests 
Siegfried  to  aid  him  in  the  doubtful  enterprise, 
and  promises  him  his  sister  as  a  reward.  Sieg- 
fried consents ;  takes  with  him  the  mii|;ic  cap, 
which  makes  him  invisible  and  gives  him  the 
strength  of  twelve  men ;  and  well  it  is  for 
GOnther  that  such  magical  aid  is  at  hand,  for 
Brunhild  is  a  terrible  Amazon,  who  forces  all 
her  suitors  to  contend  with  her  in  the  games 
of  throwing  the  spear,  leaping,  and  hurling  the 
stone,  under  penalty  of  losing  their  lives  in  case 
of  defeat.  Chrimhild  prepares  them  splendid 
garments,  which  cost  her  and  her  maidens  seven 
weeks*  hard  work  to  get  ready  ;  and  Gonther, 
Siegfiried,  Hagen,  and  Dankwart  set  out  from 
Worms,  embarking  in  a  ship,  which  Siegfried 
pilots.  On  the  twelfth  day  they  reach  the  castle 
of  Isenstein  in  the  country  of  Brunhild.  It  is 
agreed  that  Siegfried  shall  appear  in  the  char- 
acter of  vassal  to  GOnther.  They  land  in  full 
view  of  a  troop  of  fair  women,  among  whom 
Brunhild  stands ;  the  castle  is  opened  to  receive 
them,  and  they  enter,  after  having  given  up 
their  arms,  which  old  Hagen  reluctantly  con- 
sents to  do.  Brunhild  approaches  her  guests, 
and  inquires  of  Siegfried  wherefore  they  have 
come.  He  replies,  that  his  sovereign  lord,  King 
GOnther,  is  a  suitor  for  her  love.  The  condi- 
tions are  explained,  and  the  preparations  for  the 
contest  speedily  made.  Siegifried  returns  to  the 
ship,  and  puts  on  the  tarn-cap,  which  makes 
him  invisible.  Bmnhild  aims  herself,  and 
the  Burgundians  very  naturally  begin  to  get  a 
little  frightened  for  their  king.  Old  Hagen, 
even,  grows  nervous,  and  exclaims : 


THE  NIBELUN6ENLIED. 


319 


"And  how  is  H  now,  KlngOttntlMrl  hon  muit  70H  ilDo 

yonrliiel 
The  kdjr  you  would  gain,  well  nay  aha  ba  tha  darU'a  wife." 

Bj  the  aid  of  the  invuible  SiegfKed,  GOn- 
ther  conquefs  Brunhild  in  each  of  the  three 
trialfl,  and  ehe  ia  compelled,  by  her  own  terms, 
to  take  him  for  her  lord  and  master.  As  Brun- 
hild, before  ehe  consents  to  follow  GUnther  to 
Worms,  calls  her  relatives  and  vassals  together, 
Siegined,  to  calm  the  fears  of  the  Bargundians, 
assembles  from  the  Nibelangen  land  a  thoasand 
heroes,  and  then  Brunhild  departs  with  GOn- 
ther.  SiegfKed  is  sent  forward  to  Worms  to 
announce  their  approach.  Ute  and  Chrimhild 
receive  the  tidings  joyfully,  and  make  great 
preparations  for  their  reception.  Brunhild  is 
royally  welcomed,  and  all  sit  down  to  a  mag- 
nificent feast,  during  which  Siegfried  reminds 
the  king  of  his  promise  to  give  him  his  sister 
to  wife.  Gonther  willingly  keeps  his  word,  and 
Siegfried  and  Chrimhild  celebrate  their  mar^ 
riage  festival  together  with  the  king,  that  same 
night ;  but  Brunhild  laments  that  her  sister-in- 
law  should  marry  beneath  her  rank,  a  mere 
vassal,  and  though  GOnther  assures  her  that 
he  is  a  powerful  monarch,  she  refoses  to  be 
satisfied.  When  they  retire  to  their  cham- 
ber, she  renews  her  entreaties  to  be  informed 
of  the  true  reason  of  his  giving  hie  sister  to 
SiegfKed.  A  singular  kind  of  quarrel  follows 
this  first  matrimonial  jar,  in  which  the  strength 
of  the  Amazon  is  more  than  a  match  for  the 
king ;  she  ties  his  hands  and  feet  together  with 
her  girdle,  hangs  him  on  a  nail  in  the  wall,  and 
goes  to  sleep,  leaving  him  to  make  the  best  he 
can  of  his  very  anomalous  situation.  The  next 
day  the  unlucky  monarch  complains  sorely  to 
Siegfried,  saying : 

*' With  ahame  and  woa  I  sped ; 
I  have  brought  the  evil  deril,  and  took  her  to  my  bed." 

But  Siegfried  proves  to  be  a  friend  in  need, 
and  by  the  aid  of  his  tarn-cap  subdues  the 
strong-armed  princess,  depriving  her,  in  the 
contest,  of  her  ring  and  girdle,  which  he  after- 
wards presents  to  his  wife.  Fourteen  days  of 
revelry  having  ended,  the  guests  take  their  de- 
parture, loaded  with  presents. 

Siegfried  also  now  bethinks  him  of  return- 
ing home.  Arriving  with  Chrimhild  at  the  cas- 
tle of  Santen,  where  his  parents  dwell,  they  are 
magnificently  received.  Siegmund  and  Siege- 
lind  are  overjoyed  with  the  beauty  of  their 
daughter.  ISiegmund  resigns  the  kingdom  into 
the  hands  of  his  son,  who  reigns  in  all  honor 
for  the  space  of  ten  years.  Meantime  a  son  is 
bom  to  them,  whom  they  name  GOnther;  a 
son  is  also  bom  to  Brunhild  and  Gflnther,  who 
receives  the  name  of  Siegfiried,  and  is  educated 
with  the  greatest  care.  But  Brunhild  has  not 
yet  forgotten  that  SiegfKed  u  liegeman  to  her 
lord,  and  wonders  that  he  renders  so  little  ser- 
vice. At  her  request,  Gonther  invites  SiegfKed, 
Chrimhild,  and  Siegmund  to  Worms.  The  in- 
vitation is  accepted,  and  they  are  received  with 


courtesy  at  the  Burgundian  court.  Eleven  days 
pass  away  in  knightly  pastimes,  when  a  dispute 
takes  place  between  the  two  queens  with  re- 
gard to  the  merits  of  their  respective  husbands ; 
Chrimhild  saying  that  her  lord  excels  the  other 
champions  as  much  as  the  moon  the  stars, 
while  Brunhild  places  GOnther  far  above  him, 
jmd  declares  that  SiegfKed  is  but  his  vassal. 
The  dispute  waxes  warm,  and  Chrimhild  swears 
she  will  enter  the  church  before  the  queen,  and 
be  held  in  higher  honor ;  but  Brunhild  ex- 
claims :  ^*  No !  a  vassal's  wife  shall  never  go 
before  a  king's  "  ;  Chrimhild  retorts  and  calls 
her  opponent  Siegfried's  leman,  and  enters  the 
minster  before  the  weeping  Brunhild.  Chrim- 
hild afterwards,  being  asked  for  proofs  of  the 
accusation,  shows  the  girdle  and  ring  which 
Siegfiried  had  taken  from  Brunhild.  The  latter 
complains  to  her  husband,  who  calls  SiegfKed 
to  account,  saying  to  him,  ^*  I  am  sore  troubled ; 
my  wife,  Brunhild,  hath  told  me  a  tale,  that 
thou  hast  boasted  of  being  the  first  to  have  her 
love;  thus  saith  thy  wife,  Chrimhild."  To 
which  SiegfKed  replies,  **  If  she  hath  spoken 
thus,  it  shall  be  the  worse  for  her ;  before  all 
thy  men,  I  will  swear  by  my  high  oath,  that  I 
have  never  said  the  thing." 

And  now  the  tragical  part  of  the  story  begins. 
The  death  of  SiegfKed  is  plotted  between  Brun- 
hild and  Hagen,  and  C^Qnther  at  last  consents 
to  the  assassination.  False  messengers  are  sent, 
as  if  from  King  Lodger,  to  threaten  war,  and 
SiegfKed's  aid  is  required.  Hagen  hypocriti- 
cally promises  Chrimhild  to  defend  her  hus- 
band, and  draws  from  her  an  account  of  the 
fetal  spot  between  his  shoulders,  where  the 
dragon's  blood  has  not  hardened  bis  skin  ;  she 
promises  to  embroider  a  cross  over  the  place, 
and  Hagen  joyfoUy  departs.  But  another  em- 
bassy comes,  announcing  peace.  A  great  hunt 
is  prepared ;  SiegfKed  takes  leave  of  his  wife, 
who  is  filled  with  anxiety  while  thinking  of 
her  conversation  with  Hagen.  So  they  cross 
the  Rhine;  SiegfKed  enters  a  forest  alone 
with  his  hound*;  makes  great  havoc  with  the 
wild  beasts,  and  among  other  exploits  catches 
a  bear  alive,  who  does  a  deal  of  mischief  among 
the  eatables.  Hagen  has  treacherously  omitted 
the  wine,  an  J  SiegfKed,  thirsty  with  Uie  labors 
of  the  chase,  while  stooping  to  drink  from  a 
spring,  is  stabbed  by  him  in  the  back.  The 
dead  body  is  carried  to  the  palace,  and  placed 
by  the  ferocious  Hagen  before  the  door  of 
Chrimhild's  chamber,  where  she  finds  it  as  she 
goes  out  to  morning  mass.  She  breaks  forth  in- 
to vehement  lamentations,  and  charges  the  deed 
at  once  to  the  machinations  of  Brunhild  and 
the  hand  of  Hagen.  The  fether  of  Siegfiied 
and  the  Nibelungen  champions  are  roused  from 
sleep,  and  are  only  hindered  by  Chrimhild's 
entreaties  fit>m  avenging  the  murder  on  the 
spot.  A  sound  of  mourning  is  heard  in  all  di- 
rections ;  and  when  the  test  is  tried,  the  blood 
flows  from  the  wounds  at  the  approach  of  Ha- 
gen, which  shows   him  to  be  the   murderer. 


220 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


Siegfiied  is  buried  with  great  pomp,  costly  offer- 
ings are  made  for  the  repose  of  his  soul,  and  his 
death  is  sorrowfully  lamented.  At  the  grave, 
Chrimhild  causes  the  coffin,  all  studded  with 
silver  and  gold  and  steel,  to  be  broken  open, 
that  she  may  once  more  behold  her  husband. 

After  the  burial,  Siegmund  proposes  to  Chrim- 
hild to  return  with  him;  but  by  the  urgent 
prayers  of  Ute,  Ghern'ot,  and  Ghiseler,  she  is 
persuaded  to  remain  in  Burgundy,  especially  as 
she  has  no  kindred  in  Nibelungen-land.  Sieg- 
mund and  his  knights  depart  without  taking 
leave.  Chrimhild  dwells  at  Worms,  near  the 
tomb  of  her  husband,  four  years  and  a  half, 
without  speaking  a  word  to  GOnther  and  Ha- 
gen,  who  at  last  advises  the  king  to  be  recon- 
ciled with  his  sister  in  order  to  obtain  the 
Nibelungen  treasure  ;  this  is  accomplished,  but 
Chrimhild  forgets  not  the  crime  of  Hagen. 
The  treasure  is  brought  to  the  Rhine,  twelve 
wagons  passing  twelve  times  to  and  fro,  heav- 
ily laden.  She  is  so  liberal  in  her  gifls,  that 
Hagen 's  fears  are  roused  for  the  safety  of  the 
Burgundians,  and  he  counsels  the  king  to  take 
the  treasure  from  her ;  the  king  demurs,  and 
the  grim  old  warrior  steals  it  himself,  in  the 
absence  of  the  princess,  and  sinks  it  in  the 
Rhine,  whereby  Chrimhild*s  hate  is  still  more 
increased.  For  thirteen  long  years  after  Sieg- 
fried's death,  she  lives  faithful  to  his  memory, 
and  ever  mourning  his  loss. 

About  this  time  it  chances  that  Dame  Hel- 
che,  wife  of  Etzel,  dies,  and  the  pagan  king 
looks  about  him  for  another.  His  friends  ad- 
vise him  to  send  into  the  Burgundian  land  and 
demand  the  proud  widow.  Dame  Chrimhild. 
He  has  some  scruples  at  first,  since  he  is  a 
pagan,  but  Rodiger  of  Bechlar  puts  them  to 
rest  and  takes  it  upon  himself  to  do  the  wooing. 
With  a  retinue  of  five  hundred  men,  he  passes 
through  Vienna,  where  they  are  supplied  with 
magnificent  dresses,  and  goes  to  Bechlar  to  visit 
the  wealthy  Grotelind,  his  wife,  and  the  young 
margravine,  his  daughter,  and  thence  through 
Bavaria  to  the  Rhine,  where  they  are  kindly  re- 
ceived. GQnther  favors  the  proposal  of  the  em- 
bassy, but  old  Hagen,  foreboding  mischief,  ad- 
vises against  it.  Chrimhild,  too,  who  is  still  over- 
whelmed in  sorrow,  at  first  refuses  to  listen  to 
the  messengers,  though  supported  by  the  pray- 
ers of  her  mother  and  her  brothers ;  until  RQdi- 
ger  hints  that  he  will  fulfil  her  commands,  and 
with  all  his  men  swears  fealty  to  her.  Now 
she  consents,  prepares  for  her  journey,  and 
departs  with  a  train  of  a  hundred  maidens. 
Eckewart  goes  with  her,  and  Ghiseler  and 
Ghernot  accompany  her  as  far  as  the  Danube, 
but  GQnther  goes  only  a  short  distance  from  the 
city.  On  the  way,  they  are  entertained  by 
Bishop  Pellegrin,  the  brother  of  Ute,  and  by 
Gotelind,  the  wife  of  Rodiger,  and  hu  daughter, 
the  fair  Dietelind.  At  Vienna,  the  nuptials  of 
Chrimhild  and  Etzel  are  celebrated  with  festiv- 
ities that  last  seventeen  days,  and  rich  gifb  are 
distributed  -,  but  still  Chrimhild's  eyes  are  filled 


with  tears  at  thinking  of  Siegfried.  Finally 
they  pass  into  the  land  of  the  Huns,  where 
the  noble  Chrimhild  is  received  with  all  honor- 
able observance  into  Etzel's  castle. 

Thirteen  years  Queen  Chrimhild  has  dwelt 
in  the  land  of  the  Huns.  She  has  borne  a  son, 
named  Ortwin,  but  still  she  longs  to  avenge  the 
murder  of  Siegfried.  By  her  entreaty,  Etzel 
invites  the  Burgundians  to  visit  his  court.  The 
good  fiddlers  Sftmelin  and  Wftrbelin  bear  the 
message,  charged  by  Chrimhild  not  to  leave 
Hagen  of  Tronek  behind.  Hagen  and  Rumolt 
dissuade  from  the  journey  with  all  their  might, 
but  to  no  purpose ;  the  invitation  is  accepted, 
great  preparations  are  made  for  the  journey,  and 
the  messengers  return  wit^  rich  presents.  Volk- 
er,  the  noble  fiddler,  joins  the  champions ;  and, 
with  the  anxious  forebodings  of  those  who  stay 
behind,  the  company  set  out.  From  this  time 
forth,  the  Burgundians  bear  the  name  of  Nibe- 
lungen. In  twelve  days  they  reach  the  Danube ; 
and  there  occurs  the  adventure  with  the  mer- 
maids, from  whom  they  receive  an  ominous  warn- 
ing. At  length,  Hagen,  his  thousand  knights, 
and  nine  thousand  vassals,  are  all  ferried  over 
the  river,  and  the  boat  is  destroyed,  that  any  cow- 
ard, who  should  wish  to  run  away,  may  perish 
here.  They  continue  their  march,  and  by  night 
are  attacked  by  Else  and  Gelfirat.  Arriving  at 
Fassau,  they  are  hospitably  entertained  by  Bish- 
op Pellegrin.  As  they  approach  RQdiger*s 
marches,  he  meets  them,  and  conducts  them  to 
a  least,  at  which  the  margravine,  his  daughter, 
is  betrothed  to  Ghiseler.  After  four  days,  tliey 
continue  their  journey,  having  received  rich 
presents,  Hagen  taking  the  shield  of  Rudung, 
and  Volker  twelve  rings  for  his  hands.  Rodi- 
ger accompanies  the  departing  guests,  and  mes- 
sengers precede  them  to  the  land  of  the  Huns ; 
Chrimhild  hears  of  their  coming  with  joy,  and 
hopes  that  the  hour  of  vengeance  is  at  hand. 

As  the  heroes  enter  Etzel's  country,  Dietrich 
of  Berne  meets  them  with  his  men,  and  warns 
them  solemnly,  but  they  will  not  return.  Chrim- 
hild receives  the  Nibelungen  with  dissembling 
heart,  kisses  Ghiseler  and  takes  him  by  the  hand, 
whereat  old  Hagen  ftstens  his  helmet  tighter. 
Chrimhild  taxes  Hagen  with  his  crime,  and  he 
hesitates  not  to  confess  it ;  she  instigates  her  men 
to  take  vengeance  on  him,  but  the  Huns  with- 
draw in  fear  from  the  Nibelungen  heroes.  At 
evening  they  feast  in  a  large  and  splendid  hall. 
Hagen  anticipates  some  evil  design  during  the 
night,  and,  with  Volker,  undertakes  to  stand 
sentinel.  As  the  night  advances,  the  bold  fid- 
dler, Volker,  sees  helmets  shining,  and  says  to 
Hagen,  **  I  see  armed  people  stand  before  the 
house ;  I  think  they  mean  to  assail  us.*'  But 
as  the  Huns  approach,  they  see  the  mighty 
warders,  and  shrink  from  the  conflict.  In  the 
morning,  the  guests  go  to  the  church,  and  Ha- 
gen, ever  suspicious,  makes  them  put  on  their 
armor.  Etzel  wonders  at  this,  but  Hagen  in- 
forms him  it  is  the  custom  in  Burgundy  to  go 
armed  three  days,  on  high  festivals.    The  mom- 


THE   NIBELUNGENLIED. 


831 


ing  mass  is  succeeded  by  knightly  games,  in 
which  Volker  stabs  a  rich  Hun  through  tlie  body 
with  his  spear.  An  immense  uproar  follows, 
and  a  fierce  battle  is  on  the  point  of  breaking 
out,  but  Etzel  interferes  and  stops  it.  The  Bur- 
gundians  and  the  Huns  sit  at  the  banquet  in 
arms.  Chrimhild  now  applies  to  Dietrich,  but 
without  success,  to  avenge  her  on  Hagen ;  but 
at  last,  by  promises,  she  persuades  Blodelin  to 
undertake  the  deed.  He  attacks  Dankwart  with 
his  men,  who,  having  vainly  urged  him  to  desist 
fit>m  the  fight,  strikes  off  his  head.  Blodelin's 
men  then  fiill  upon  Dankwart's  vassals,  and, 
being  supported  by  two  thousand  Huns,  slay 
them  all,  and  Dankwart  fights  his  way  alone  to 
the  banqueting  hall,  where  Etzel  and  many  of 
the  Christian  host  are  feasting.  He  tells  the  tale 
to  Hagen,  who  bids  him  guard  the  door  that  no 
Hon  may  escape,  and  begins  the  slaughter  by 
cutting  off  the  head  of  Etzel's  son,  Ortlieb, 
which  rolls  into  Chrimhild's  lap.  A  terrible 
and  bloody  fight  ensues,  and  the  Burgundians 
throw  seven  thousand  slain  Huns  out  of  the 
banquet  hall.  Chrimhild  promises  great  treas- 
ures to  him  who  shall  kill  GQnther.  Iring  of 
Denmark  attempts  it,  but  is  struck  to  the  ground 
by  Ghiseler,  and  is  compelled  to  hasten  back 
to  his  friends ;  and  when  the  battle  is  renewed, 
he  &ll8  by  Hagen 's  hand,  and  all  who  assail 
the  old  warrior  meet  with  a  like  fate.  Having 
fought  till  night,  the  kings  propose  a  truce  to 
Etzel ;  but  as  Chrimhild  demands  the  surrender 
of  Hagen,  and  Ghiseler  haughtily  refuses  to  de- 
sert  a  faithful  friend,  they  are  driven  back  into 
the  hall,  which  Chrimhild  causes  to  be  set  on 
fire.  The  heat  of  the  conflagration  so  torments 
the  heroes,  that  they  have  to  quench  their  thirst 
with  the  blood  of  the  slain ;  but  in  the  morning 
six  hundred  brave  men  are  still  alive.  The  on- 
slaught is  again  renewed.  Rodiger  looks  upon 
the  scene  of  slaughter  with  sorrow  and  tears.  In 
wrath  he  slays  a  Hun  nvho  reproaches  him  with 
.  doing  nothing  for  Etzel ;  Etzel  and  Chrimhild 
{  then  demand  his  aid  as  their  vassal,  and  Chrim- 
hild reminds  him  that  he  has  already  sworn 
fealty  to  her  in  Worms.  On  their  knees  they 
implore  him ;  slowly  and  reluctantly,  and  with 
a  heavy  heart,  he  at  length  consents,  and  pro- 
ceeds with  his  men  to  the  attack.  The  Bur- 
gundians fall  by  Rfldiger's  hand,  until  he  and 
Gbernot  slay  each  other  in  the  fight.  Rfldiger's 
men  are  all  killed  or  wounded,  and  many  of  the 
wounded  are  drowned  in  the  blood.  Old  Etzel 
bewails  the  death  of  Radiger  so  loudly  that  the 
sound  is  like  tlie  roar  of  a  lion.  The  lamenta- 
tion is  heard  by  Dietrich  and  his  men,  who 
rush  to  the  hall  and  demand  the  body  of  RQdiger, 
when  the  conflict  is  fiercely  renewed  by  reason 
of  Volker's  scoffing  speech.  Volker  slays  Die- 
trich's nephew,  Siegestab  of  Berne,  and  is  him- 
self killed  by  bold  Hildebrand.  Wolfiurt  and 
Ghiseler  kill  each  other,  and  Hildebrand  alone 
of  Dietrich's  men  remains.  Hagen  rushes  upon 
him  to  avenge  the  death  of  Volker,  but  he  es- 
capes with  a  wound.   Dietrich  sorrowfully  arms 


himself,  reproaches  Hagen  and  Ganther  with 
the  woe  they  have  brought  upon  him,  and  com- 
mands them  to  surrender  as  hostages.  Hagen 
refuses  with  an  oath,  and  a  battle  between  them 
begins.  Dietrich  inflicts  a  deep  wound  on  Ha- 
gen, overpowers  him,  and  delivers  him  bound 
to  Chrimhild,  charging  her  to  spare  his  life. 
Then  he  subdues  Ganther,  and  gives  him  up  in 
like  manner  to  the  queen.  She  takes  a  ferocious 
vengeance,  by  slaying  them  both ;  but  old  Hil- 
debrand, indignant  at  her  cruelty,  springs  upon 
her  and  stabs  her  to  the  heart;  and  Dietrich 
and  Etzel  with  bitter  tears  bewail  these  dire 
mischances. 

The  Lament  {He  Klage)  is  an  addition  by  a 
later  hand.  It  contains  the  lamentations  of  Etzel, 
Hildebrand,  and  Dietrich  over  the  dead,  and 
Etzel's  penitential  confession  of  his  sin  in  apos- 
tatizing from  the  Christian  fiiith,  for  which  God 
has  punished  him.  One  after  another  the  prin- 
cipal champions  are  taken  up,  and  their  deaths 
bewailed. 

This  great  romantic  epic  is  a  poem  well  cal- 
culated to  rouse  the  enthusiasm  of  a  people 
like  the  Germans.  Nothing  can  exceed  the 
delight  with  which  that  old  poem  was  studied, 
when,  within  the  memory  of  man,  the  new- 
bom  nationality  of  German  feeling  rose  to  an 
unexampled  pitch,  and  led  to  an  excess  of  ad- 
miration for  every  thing  that  belonged  to  Ger- 
man antiquity,  which  is,  perhaps,  without  a  par- 
allel in  modem  tim^s.  'This  swelling  enthusi- 
asm is,  at  present,  somewhat  abated ;  but  the 
poem  of  the  Nibelungen  still  maintains  its  hold 
upon  the  German  mind,  and  is  acknowledged 
by  other  nations  to  be  a  most  interesting  and 
remarkable  monument  of  early  Teutonic  genius. 
Students  of  German  literature  must  admit  that 
the  unknown  author  of  this  poem  shows  a  bold 
hand  in  drawing  characters,  a  deep  and  passion- 
ate feeling,  a  sense  of  just  proportion,  and  a 
plastic  power  in  moulding  the  rude  materials 
of  the  old  German  language  into  metrical  forms 
of  considerable  beauty  and  melody.  The  gi- 
gantic figures  of  the  chivalrous  heroic  age  are 
set  before  us  in  all  their  majestic  proportions ; 
their  passions  are  delineated  with  a  tremendous 
strength  of  expression ;  and  their  superhuman 
deeds  are  told  with  a  confidence  equal  to  that  of 
Homer,  when  he  chants  the  resistless  prowess  of 
the  godlike  Achilles.  The  characters  of  Ganther, 
Siegfried,  and  Hagen  are  conceived  and  repre- 
sented with  admirable  distinctness  and  power; 
they  move  before  us  in  the  poem  like  so  many 
living  forms  of  more  than  mortal  strength,  brave- 
ry, and  beauty.  The  poet  is  no  less  felicitous  in 
the  delineation  of  his  heroines.  Brunhild,  with 
her  Amazonian  strength  of  will  and  strength 
of  arm,  which  nothing  short  of  the  magic  aid 
of  the  tarn-cap  can  conquer,  and  Chrimhild, 
with  her  feminine  beauty  and  gentleness,  her 
smiles,  blushes,  and  tears,  are  represented  with 
great  tact,  propriety,  and  consistency.  The  din 
of  war,  the  terrible  onset,  the  clash  of  shields, 
and  the  shivering  of  spears  are  described  in  the 
b9 


222 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


*  Nibelungenlied '  with  the  graphic  force  and  the 
Bounding  energy  of  verse  which  we  so  mach 
admire  in  the  lUad.  There  is,  too,  in  the  poem, 
a  minuteness  of  homely  details,  an  unshrinking 
readiness  to  go  into  the  plainest  and  most  un- 
poetical  matters,  as  we  should  now  regard  them, 
which  remind  us  often  of  the  cooking  in  Achil- 
les's  tent,  and  the  **  domestic  manufactures  "  at 
the  houses  of  Hector  and  Ulysses.  When  Gdn- 
ther  prepares  to  go  a- wooing  the  terrible  Brun- 
hild, the  weaving,  stitching,  and  sewing,  the 
silks,  and  satins,  and  furs,  the  gold  and  em- 
broidery,  that  occupy  the  fidr  fingers  of  the 
ladies  of  the  household,  are  an  amusing  illustra- 
tion of  the  fondness  for  finery,  the  passion  for 
gorgeous  costume,  which  marked  the  characters 
of  the  semi-barbarous  barons  who  stormed  to 
and  fro  in  the  Middle  Ages.  The  poet  re- 
mained unconsciously  true  also  to  the  ancient 
maxim,  that  woman  was  ever  the  direful  cause 
of  war.  A  quarrel  between  the  two  heroines, 
Chrimhild  and  Brunhild,  leads  first  to  the  as- 
sassination of  the  noble  Siegfried.  The  gen- 
tle Chrimhild  cherishes  henceforth  in  her 
heart  nothing  but  a  hoarded  and  ever  increasing 
desire  for  revenge.  The  poet  has  ventured  on 
the  bold  experiment  of  changing  her  mild  and 
lovely  character  into  one  of  fearful  ferocity,  yet 
all  the  stages  of  the  transformation  are  marked 
by  a  clear  poetic  probability.  She  consents  to 
marry  Attila,  or  Etzel,  king  of  the  Huns,  for 
the  purpose  of  exacting  from  Hagen,  and  all  the 
Burgundian  court,  a  terrible  retribution  for  her 
beloved  and  ever  deplored  Siegfried's  murder. 
Considering  the  wild  passions  that  had  their 
run  unrestrained  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  the 
poetical  coloring  which  the  creative  imagin- 
ation in  all  ages  lavishes  upon  its  scenes  to 
heighten  their  effect,  we  must  admit  that  the 
bard  of  the  Nibelungen  has  traced  the  changes 
in  Chrimhild's  character  with  a  hand  at  once 
delicate  and  masterly.  The  interest  of  the  story 
rises  to  the  very  end.  The  most  enthusiastic 
lover  of  battle-scenes  must  be  satisfied  with  the 
deluge  of  blood  which  is  shed  after  the  arrival 
of  the  Burgundians  in  the  land  of  the  Huns. 
The  terrible  energy,  with  which  these  extraor- 
dinary  passages  are  written,  again  reminds  us 
of  the  Iliad,  and  of  the  bloody  revenge  which 
Achilles  takes  for  the  death  of  Patroclus. 

The  enthusiasm  of  the  Germans  for  this  sin- 
gular poem  was  perfectly  natural.  They  did 
not  hesitate  to  compare  it  with  the  Iliad,  and 
some  of  the  more  extravagant  worshippers  of 
the  Middle  Ages  ventured  to  place  it  even 
higher  than  the  old  Grecian  epic.  This,  how- 
ever, is  a  claim  which  the  cooler  opinions  of 
the  present  time  promptly  reject.  With  all  its 
extraordinary  merits  of  impersonation  and  de- 
scription, its  fiery  utterance  of  passion,  its  elab- 
orate arrangement  and  combination,  its  genuine 
epic  sweep  of  incident  and  language,  it  falls  far 
below  the  Iliad  in  variety,  consistency,  just  pro- 
portion, and  completeness,  and  in  melody  of 
verse.     The  German  language  of  the  twelfth 


and  thirteenth  centuries  is  not  to  be  compared 
for  a  moment  with  the  richness,  grace,  and 
plastic  beauty  of  the  Greek,  as  it  flowed  from 
the  harmonious  lips  of  Homer.  Heinrich 
Heine,  in  his  amusing  letters  on  German  litera- 
ture, translated  by  Mr.  Haven,  says :  "  For  a 
long  time  nothing  else  was  spoken  of  but  the 
*  Nibelungenlied,'  and  the  classic  philologistB 
were  not  a  little  vexed  when  they  heard  this 
epos  compared  with  the  Iliad,  and  when  it 
was  even  a  contest  which  of  the  two  were  the 
more  excellent  The  public  on  that  occasion 
looked  precisely  like  a  child  whom  some  one 
asks, '  Had  you  rather  have  a  horse  or  a  cake 
of  gingerbread.'* 

*'  Nevertheless,  this  *  Nibelungenlied '  is  a 
poem  of  nervous  energy.  A  Frenchman  can 
hardly  form  an  idea  of  it,  much  less  of  the  lan- 
guage in  which  it  is  written.  It  is  a  language 
of  stone,  and  the  verses  are,  as  it  were,  rhyth- 
mical stone  blocks.  Here  and  there,  fh>m  out 
the  rifts,  red  flowers  well  forth  like  drops  of 
blood,  or  the  lank  ivy  trails  downward  like 
green  tears.  Of  the  giant  passions  that  stir 
themselves  in  this  poem,  no  idea  whatever  can 
be  formed  by  a  race  of  men  so  diminutive  and 
gentle  as  our  own.  Picture  to  yourselves  a 
serene  summer  night;  the  stars  pallid  as  silver, 
yet  large  as  suns,  stepping  forth  into  the  blue 
heavens ;  and  all  the  gothic  domes  of  Europe 
giving  themselves  a  rendezvous  upon  some 
illimitable  plain.  Lo!  the  Strasburg  Minster 
advances  with  calm  and  measured  step;  the 
Dome  of  Cologne,  the  Campanile  of  Florence, 
the  Cathedral  of  Rouen,  and  many  others,  fol- 
lowing in  her  train,  and  graciously  paying  their 
court  to  Notre-Dame-de-Paris.  True,  their  step 
is  somewhat  helpless,  some  among  them  limp 
a  little  by  the  way,  and  oftentimes  one  cannot 
but  smile  at  their  wavering;  this  smile,  how- 
ever, soon  ceases  when  we  see  their  stormy 
passions  kindling,  and  how  they  strive  to  mur- 
der one  another.  Notre-Dame-de-Paris  raises, 
in  desperation,  both  her  stony  arms  to  heaven, 
suddenly  grasps  a  sword,  and  strikes  from  her 
body  the  head  of  the  mightiest  of  all  the  domes. 
But  no  !  even  then  you  can  form  to  yourself  no 
idea  of  the  leading  characters  of  the  *  Nibelun- 
genlied ' ;  no  tower  is  so  high,  and  no  stone  so 
hard,  as  the  wrathful  Hagen  and  the  levengeful 
Chrimhild." 


In  the  preceding  analysis  it  has  been  men- 
tioned that  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen  is  sup- 
posed by  many  to  be  the  author  of  the  **  Nibe- 
lungenlied "  in  its  present  form.  A  brief  notice 
of  his  life  is,  therefore,  here  subjoined.  He  was 
a  native  of  Eisenach,  and  his  life  falls  in  the 
twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries.  He  is  said  to 
have  passed  a  part  of  his  youth  in  Austria,  at 
the  court  of  Leopold  the  Seventh.  He  held  a 
distinguished  rank  as  a  Minnesinger,  and  at  the 
court  of  Hermann,  landgrave  of  Thuringia,  sang 


THE  NIBELUNOENLIED. 


the  pnises  of  his  emperor  in  the  ftmooi  conteit 
at  the  Wartburg,  with  Wolfram  tod  Eachenbach 
for  his  opponent.  Besidee  the  '*  Nibelungen- 
lied "  nothing  remains  of  his  poetry  except 
some  passages  of  the  ^  War  of  the  Wartburg." 
A  pert  of  the  *' Heldenboch,"  however,  the 
u  King  Laurin,"  is,  with  some  confidence,  at- 
tribated  to  him.  In  modem  times,  NoTslis  has 
made  him  the  hero  of  the  beautifu]  romance 
which  bears  his  name. 


FROM  THE  NIBELUNGENUED. 

THE  NIBELUNGEN. 

Iv  ancient  song  and  story  manrels  high  are  told 
Of  knights   of  high  emprise  and  adventures 

manifold ; 
Of  joy  and  merry  feasting,  of  lamenting,  woe, 

and  fear, 
Of  champions'  bloody  battles,  many  marvels 

shall  ye  hear. 

A  noble  maid,  and  feir,  grew  up  in  Burgundy ; 
In  all  the  land  about  fairer  none  might  be  : 
She  became  a  queen  AUl  high ;  Chrimhild  was 

she  bight; 
But  for  her  matchless  beauty  foil  many  a  blade 

of  might. 

For  loTO  and  for  delight  was  framed  that  lady 

Many  a  champion  bold  sighed  for  the  gentle 

may  : 
Full  beauteous  was  her  form,  beauteous  without 

compare; 
The  virgin's  virtues  might  adorn  many  a  lady 

fair. 

Three  kings  of  might  and  power  had  the  maid- 
en in  their  care,  — 

King  Gonther  and  King  Ghemot  (champions 
bold  they  were), 

And  Ghiseler  the  young,  a  chosen,  peerless 
blade: 

The  lady  was  their  sieter,  and  much  they  loved 
the  maid. 

These  lords  were  mild  and  gentle,  bom  of  the 

noblest  blood ; 
Unmatched  for  power  and  strength  were  the 

heroes  good : 
Their  realm  was  Burgundy,  a  realm  of  mickle 

might ; 
Since  then,  in  the  land  of  Etzel,  dauntless  did 

they  fight 

At  Worms,  upon  the  Rhine,  dwelt  they  with 

their  meiny  bold ; 
Many  champions   served  them,  of  countries 

manifold. 
With  praise  and  honor  nobly,  even  to  their 

latest  day. 
When,  by  the  hate  of  two  noble  dames,  dead 

on  the  ground  they  lay. 


Bold  were  the  kings,  and  noble,  as  I  before 

have  said ; 
Of  virtues  high  and  matchless,  and  served  by 

many  a  blade ; 
By  the  best  of  all  the  ohampions  whose  deeds 

were  ever  sung ; 
Of  trust  and  troth  withouten  foil ;  hardy,  bold, 

and  strong. 

There  was  Hagen  of  Tronek,  and  Dankwart, 

Hagen's  brother 
(For  swiftness  was  he  femed),  with  heroes 

many  other ; 
Ortwin  of  Metz,  with  Eckewart  and  Ghere, 

two  margraves  they ; 
And  Folker  of  Alsace ;  no  braver  was  in  his  day. 

Rumolt  was  caterer  to  the  king;   a   chosen 

knight  was  he ; 
Sir  Sindold  and  Sir  Hunold  bore  them  foil 

manfolly ; 
In  court  and  in  the  presence  they  served  the 

princes  three. 
With  many  other  knights ;  bolder  none  might  be. 

Dankwart  was  the  marshal ;  his  nephew  Orte- 

win 
Was  sewer  to  the  king ;  much  honor  did  he 

win : 
Sindold  held  the  cup  the  royal  prince  before  : 
Chamberlain  was  Hunold :  braver  knights  ne'er 

hauberk  bore. 

Of  the  court's  gay  splendor,  of  all  the  cham- 
pions free. 

Of  their  high  and  knightly  worth,  and  of  the 
chivalry, 

Which  still  they  held  in  honor  to  their  latest 
day, 

No  minstrel,  in  his  song,  could  rightly  sing  or 
say. 

One  night  the  Queen  Chrimhild  dreamed  her, 
as  she  lay,  ' 

How  she  had  trained  and  nourished  a  fidcon 
wild  and  gay. 

When  suddenly  two  eagles  fierce  the  gentle 
hawk  have  slain : 

Never,  in  this  world,  folt  she  such  bitter  pain. 

To  her  mother,  Dame  Ute,  she  told  her  dream 

with  fear: 
Full    mourafolly  she   answered  to  what  the 

maid  did  spier : 
"The  fidcon   whom   you  nourished,  a  noble 

knight  is  he ; 
God  take  him  to  his  ward !  thou  must  lose  him 

suddenly." 

M  What  speak  you  of  the  knight.'  dearest  moth- 
er, say  : 

Without  the  love  of  champion,  to  my  dying  day. 

Ever  thus  feir  will  I  remain,  nor  take  a  wedded 
fere. 

To  gain  such  pain  and  sorrow,  though  the 
knight  were  without  peer." 


224 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


'*  Speak  thou  not  too  ruhly,"  her  mother  spake 

again; 
**  If  ever  in  this  world  thoa  heartfelt  joy  wilt 

gain, 
Maiden  must  thou  be  no  more;   leman  must 

thou  have : 
God  will  grant  thee  for  thy  mate  some  gentle 

knight,  and  brave." 

«  O,  leave  thy  words,  lady  mother,  nor  speak 

of  wedded  mate ! 
Full  many  a  gentle  maiden  has  found  the  truth 

too  late ; 
Still  has  their  fondest  love  ended  with  woe  and 

pain: 
Virgin  will  I  ever  be,  nor  the  love  of  leman 

gain. 

In  virtues  high  and  noble  that  gentle  maiden 

dwelt 
Full  many  a  night  and  day,  nor  love  for  leman 

felt; 
To   never  a  knight  or  champion   would   she 

plight  her  truth, 
Till  she  was  gained  for  wedded  fere  by  a  right 

noble  youth. 

That  youth  he  was  the  falcon  she  in  her  dream 

beheld. 
Who  by  the   two  fierce  eagles  dead  to  the 

ground  was  felled : 
But  since  right  dreadftd  vengeance  she  took 

upon  his  foen ; 
For  the  death  of  that  bold  hero  died  full  many 

a  mother's  son. 


CHRIMHILD. 

And  now  the  beauteous  lady,  like  tfte  rosy 
mom, 

Dispersed  the  misty  cloada ;  and  he,  who  long 
had  borne 

In  his  heart  the  maiden,  banished  pain  and 
care, 

As  now  before  his  eyes  stood  the  glorious  maid- 
en fair. 

From  her  broidered  garment  glittered  many  a 

gem. 
And  upon  her  lovely  cheek  the  rosy  red  did 

gleam : 
Whoever  in  his  globing  soul  had  imaged  lady 

bright 
Confessed  that  fiiirer  maiden  never  stood  before 

his  sight. 

And  as  the  moon,  at  night,  stands  high  the  stars 
among. 

And  moves  the  murky  clouds  above,  with  lustre 
bright  and  strong ; 

So  -stood  before  her  maidens  the  maid  without 
compare : 

Higher  swelled  the  courage  of  many  a  cham- 
pion there. 


And  full  of  love  and  beauty  stood  the  child  of 

Siegelind, 
As  if  upon  the  parchment  by  master's  hand 

designed  : 
He  gained  the   prize  of  beauty  from  all  the 

knightly  train ; 
They  swore  that  lady  never  a  lovelier  mate 

could  gain. 


SlfiQFRIED  AT  THE  FOUNTAIN. 

Ih  gorgeous  guise  the  hero  did  to  the  fountain 

ride*: 
Down  unto  his  spurs  his  sword  hung  by  his 

side; 
His  weighty  spear  was  broad,  of  mighty  length, 

and  strong ; 
A  horn,  of  the  gold  so  red,  o*er  the  champion's 

shoulder  hung. 

Of  fairer  hunting  garments  ne'er  heard  I  say 

before : 
A  coat  of  the  black  velvet  the  noble   hero 

Wore; 
His  hat  was  of  the  sable,  full  richly  was  it 

dight; 
Ho,  with  what  gorgeous  belts  was  hong  his 

quiver  bright ! 

A  fleece  of  the  panther  wild  about  the  shaf^ 
was  rolled ; 

A  bow  of  weight  and  strength  bore  the  hunts- 
man bold : 

No  hero  on  this  middle  earth,  but  Sir  Siegfried, 
I  avow. 

Without  some  engine  quaint,  could  draw  the 
mighty  bow. 

His  garment  fair  was  made  of  the  savage  lynx's 
hide; 

With  gold  the  fur  was  sprinkled  richly  on  ev- 
ery side ; 

There  many  a  golden  leaf  glittered  right  gor- 
geously. 

And  shone  with  brightest  splendor  round  the 
huntsman  bold  and  free. 

And  by  his  side  hung  Balmung,  that  sword  of 
mickle  might; 

When  in  the  field  Sir  Siegfried  struck  on  the 
helmets  bright. 

Not  the  truest  metal  the  noble  blade  with- 
stood: 

ThAs  right  gloriously  rode  the  huntsman  good. 

If  right  I  shall  arede  the  champion's  hunting 
guise, 

Well  was  stored  his  quiver  with  shafts  of  won- 
drous size ; 

More  than  a  span  in  breadth  were  the  heads  of 
might  and  main : 

Whom  with  those  arrows  sharp  he  pierced, 
quickly  was  he  slain. 


THE  NIBELUNGENLIED. 


235 


HAOEN  AT  THE  DANUBE. 

H AOXH  of  Tronek  rode  before  the  noble  beet, 
GuidiDg  the  Niblong  knights,  their  leader  and 

their  boast : 
Now  from  his  horse  the  champion  leaped  opon 

the  ground ; 
Full  soon  unto  an  oak  the  coarser  has  he  bound. 


The  ferryman  he  sought  by  the  riyer  far  and 

wide : 
I    He   heard  the  water  hollering  closely  by  his 

side : 
In  a  fountain  fair,  sage  women  he  espied. 
Their  lovely  bodies  bathing  all  in  the  cooling 

tide. 

And  when  he  saw  the  mermaids,  he  sped  him 

silently ; 
But  soon  they  heard  his  fbotsteps,  and  quickly 

did  they  hie. 
Glad  and  joyful  in  their  hearts,  that  they  'scaped 

the  hero's  arm : 
From  the  ground  he  took  their  garments,  did 

them  none  other  harm. 

Up  and  spake  a  mermaid,  Hildburg  was  she 

hight: 
*<  Noble  hero  Hagen,  your  fiite  will  I  rede  aright. 
At  King  Etzel's  court  what  adventures  ye  shall 

have, 
If  back  thou  give  our  garments,  thou  champion 

bold  and  brave." 

Like  bird»  they  flew  before  him  upon  the  wa- 
tery flood, 

And  as  they  flew,  the  mermaid's  form  thought 
him  so  fair  and  good. 

That  he  believed  full  well  what  of  his  fate  she 
■poke ; 

But  for  the  hero's  boldness  she  thought  to  be 
awroke. 

«« Well  may  ye  ride,"  she.  said,  «^  to  the  rich 

King  Etzel's  court ; 
I  pledge  my  head  in  troth,  that  in  more  royal 

sort 
Heroes  never  were  received  in  countries  far 

and  near. 
Nor  with  greater  honors ;  then  hie  ye  without 

fear." 

Glad  of  their  speech  was  Hagen,  right  joyous 

in  his  heart : 
He  gave  them  back  their  garments,  and  sped 

him  to  depart : 
Bat  when  their  bodies  they  had  dight  in  that 

full  wondrous  guise. 
Rightly  the  journey  to  the  Huns  told  the  women 


Then  spake  the  other  mermaid,  Sighlind  was 

her  name : 
•'I  will  warn  thee,  son  of  Aldrian,  Hagen,  thou 

knight  of  fame ; 


For  the  garmento  fiiir,  my  sister  loudly  did  she  lie: 
Foully  must  ye  all  be  shent,  if  to  the  Huns  ye 
hie. 

"Turn  thee  back,  Sir  Hagen,  back  unto  the 
Riiine, 

Nor  ride  ye  to  the  Huns  with  those  bold  fores 
of  thine ; 

Ye  are  trained  unto  year  death  into  King  Et- 
zel's land : 

All  who  ride  to  Hungary  their  death  may  they 
not  withstand." 

Up  and  spake  Sir  Hagen, —  "  Foully  dost  thou 
lie: 

How  might  it  come  to  pass,  when  to  the  Huns 
we  hie, 

That  I,  and  all  our  champions  bold,  should  to 
the  death  be  dight  ?  " 

The  Niblung  knights'  adventures  they  told  un- 
to the  knight. 

Lady  Hildburg  spoke:  —  "Turn  ye  back  to 

Burgundy : 
None  will  return  from  Etzel,  of  all  your  knights 

so  free; 
None  but  the  chaplain  of  the  king ;  your  cruel 

fote  to  tell. 
Back  to  Lady  Brunhild  comes  he  safo  and  well." 

Fiercely  spake  Sir  Hagen  to  that  prophetic 
maid, — 

*«  Never  to  King  Ganther  your  tidings  shall  be 
said, 

Htfw  he  and  all  his  champions  must  die  at  Et- 
zel's court. 

How  may  we  pass  the  Danube  ?  ladies  sage, 
report." 

"  If  yet  thou  wilt  not  turn  back  to  Burgundy, 
Speed  ye  up  the  river's  edge,  where  thou  a 

house  wilt  see ; 
There  dwells  a  forryman  bold ;  no  other  may'st 

thou  find : 
But  speak  him  fair  and  courteously,  and  bear 

my  saw  in  mind. 

**  He  will  not  bring  you  over,  for  savage  is  his 

mood. 
If  angrily  ye  call  him,  with  wrathful  words, 

and  lewd : 
Give  him  the  gold  and  silver,  if  he  guides  you 

o'er  the  flood : 
Ghelfirat  of  Bavaria  serves  the  champion  good. 

**  If  he  will  not  pass  the  river,  call  o'er  the  flood 

aloud, 
That  your  name  is  Amelrich :  he  was  a  hero 

proud. 
Who  for  wrath  and  enmity  left  Bavaria's  land : 
Soon  will  he  ferry  over  from  the  fhrther  strand." 

Hagen  then  dissped  him  from  the  mermaids 


The  champion  said  no  more,  but  bowed  in  cour- 
teous guise : 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


He  hied  bim  down  the  river,  and  on  the  further 

side 
The  house  of  that  proud  ferrjrman  quickly  has 

he  spied. 

Loud  and  oft  Sir  Hagen  shouted  o*er  the  flood : 
"Now  fetch  me  over  speedily,"  so  spake  the 

hero  good : 
*'  A  bracelet  of  the  rich  red  gold  will  I  give 

thee  to  thy  meed  : 
To  cross  the  swelling  Danube  full  mickle  have 

I  need." 

Rich  and  right  proud  of  mood  was  that  ferryman 

bold; 
Full  seldom  would  he  serve  for  silver  or  for 

gold: 
His  servants  and  his  hinds  haughty  of  mind  they 

were. 
Alone  the  knight  of  Tronek  stood  in  wrath  and 

care. 

With  wondrous  force  he  shouted,  that,  with  the 

dreadful  sound, 
Up  and  down  the  river  did  the  waves  and  rocks 

rebound : 
"  Fetch  ye  over  Sir  Amelrich,  soon  and  speedily. 
Who  left  Bavaria's  land  for  wrath  and  enmity." 

A  weighty  bracelet  on  his  sword  the  hero  held 

full  soon, 
That  to  the  sun  the  gold  so  red  &ir  and  brightly 

shone  : 
He  bade  him  bring  him  over  to  the  noble  Ghel- 

frat's  land  : 
Speedily  the  ferryman  took  the  rudder  in  his 

hand. 

O'er  the  swelling  Danube  rowed  he  speedily ; 

But  when  his  uncle  Amelrich  in  the  boat  he 
did  not  see, 

Fearful  grew  his  wrath,  to  Hagen  loud  he 
spake, — 

"  Leave  the  boat,  thou  champion,  or  thy  bold- 
ness will  I  wreak." 

Up  he  heaved  the  rudder,  broad,  and  of  mickle 

weight. 
And  on  the  hero  Hagen  he  struck  with  main 

and  might; 
In  the  ship  he  felled  him  down  upon  his  knee : 
Never  such  fierce  ferryman  did  the  knight  of 

Tronek  see. 

He  seized  a  sturdy  oar,  right  wrathful  was  his 
mood; 

Upon  the  glittering  helmet  he  struck  the  cham- 
pion good. 

That  o'er  his  head  he  broke  the  oar  with  all  his 
might : 

But  for  that  blow  the  ferryman  soon  to  the 
death  was  dight. 

Up  started  hero  Hagen,  unsheathed  his  trusty 

blade, 
Grasped  it  strongly  in  his  hand,  and  off  he 

struck  his  head  *. 


Loudly  did  he  shout,  as  he  threw  it  on  the 

ground : 
Glad  were  the  knights  of  Burgundy  when  they 

heard  his  voice  resound. 


HAGEN  AND  YOLKER  THE  FTODLEB. 

'T  WAS  then  the  hero  Hagen  across  his  lap  he 

laid, 
Glittering  to  the  sun,  a  broad  and  weighty  blade ; 
In  the  hilt  a  jasper  stone,  greener  than  the  grass : 
Well  knew  the  Lady  Chrimhild  that  Siegfried's 

sword  it  was. 

When  she  beheld  sword  Balmung,  woe  and 

sorrow  did  she  feel : 
The  hilt  was  of  the  precious  gold,  the  blade 

of  shining  steel : 
It  minded  her  of  all  her  woes :  Chrimhild  to 

weep  began  : 
Well,  I  ween.  Sir  Hagen  in  her  scorn  the  sword 

had  drawn. 

Volker,  knight  of  courage  bold,  by  his  side  sat  he : 
A  sharp  and  mighty  fiddlestick  held  the  hero 

free ; 
Much  like  a  glittering  sword  it  was ;  sharp,  and 

broad,  and  long : 
Fierce,  without  all  f^ar,  sat  there  the  champions 

strong. 

Before  the  palace  door  Volker  sat  him  on  a 

stone ; 
Bolder  and  more  knight-like  fiddler  ne'er  shone 

the  sun  upon  : 
Sweetly  from  his  strings  resounded  many  a  lay ; 
And  many  thanks  the  heroes  to  the  knight  of 

fiune  did  say. 

At  first  his  tones  resounded  loudly  the  hall 
around ; 

The  champion's  strength  and  art  was  heard  in 
every  sound: 

But  sweeter  lays,  and  softer,  the  hero  now  began, 

That  gently  closed  bis  eyes  fViU  many  a  way- 
tired  man. 


DEATH  OF  OUNTHER,  HAGEN,  AND  CHRIMHHJ). 

"  Thev  I  '11  bring  it  to  an  end,"  spake  the  noble 

Siegfried's  wife. 
Grimly  she  bade  her  meiny  take  King  GQnther's 

life. 
Off  they  struck  his  head ;  she  grasped  it  by  the 

hair: 
To  the  woffal  kemp  of  Tronek  the  bloody  head 

she  bare. 

When  the  sorrowing  hero  his  master's  head  did 

see. 
Thus  to  Lady  Chrimhild  spake  ha  wrathfblly : 
*<  Thou  hast  brought  it  to  an  end,  and  quenched 

thy  bloody  ^irst ; 
All  thy  savage  murders  I  prophesied  at  first. 


HALB   SUTER. 


227 


**  The  noble  king  of  Burgundy  lies  weltering  in 

his  blood. 
With    Ghiseler    and   Volker,   Dankwart    and 

Ghernot  good. 
Where  was  sunk  the  Niblnng  treasure  knows 

none  but  Grod  and  I : 
Never,  thou  fiend-like  woman,  that  treasure 

shalt  thou  nigh." 

*<Foullj  hast  thou  spoken,"  thus  she  spake 

with  eager  word ; 
'*  But  still  I  hold  in  my  right  hand  Balmung, 

that  noble  sword. 
That  bore  my  Siegfried  dear,  when  by  your 

treacherous  deed 
Basely  he  was  murdered;   nor  shall  you  the 

better  speed."  ^ 

From  out  the  sheath  she  drew  that  blade  so 

good  and  true ; 
She  meant  the  noble  champion  with  his  life  the 

deed  should  rue  : 
Up  she  beared  the  falchion,  and  off  she  struck 

his  head. 
Loudly  mourned  King  Etsel,  when  he  saw  the 

hero  dead. 

He  wept  and  mourned  aloud  :  "  O,  woe  !  by 

woman's  hand 
Lies  low  the  boldest  champion,  the  noblest  in 

the  land. 
Who  ever  shield  and  trusty  sword  to  the  bloody 

combat  bore  ! 
Though  he  was  my  fiercest  foe,  I  shall  mourn 

him  evermore." 

Up  and  spake  old  Hildebrand,  —  ^*Thus  she 

shall  not  speed ; 
She  has  dared  to  strike  the  champion  dead,  and 

it  'b  I  will  'quite  the  deed : 


Full  oft  he  wrought  me  wrong,  oft  I  felt  his 

direful  wrath ; 
But  bloody  vengeance  will  I  have  for  the  noble 

hero's  death." 

Wrathfblly  Sir  Hildebrand  to  Queen  Chrimhild 

he  hied : 
Grimly  he  struck  his  falchion  all  through  the 

lady's  side : 
In  sooth  she  stood  aghast,  when  she  viewed 

the  hero's  blade : 
What  might  her  cries  avail  her  ?  On  the  ground 

the  queen  fell  dead. 

There  bled  full  many  a  champion,  slaughtered 

on  that  day ; 
Among  them  Lady  Chrimhild,  cut  in  pieces, 

lay. 
Dietrich  and  King  Etzel  began  to  weep  and 

mourn  « 

For  their  kemps  and  for  their  kindred  who 

there  their  lives  had  lorn. 

Men  of  strength  and  honor  weltering  lay  that 
morrow: 

All  the  knights  and  vassals  had  mickle  pain 
and  sorrow. 

King  Etzel 's  merry  feast  was  done,  but  with 
mourning  did  it  end  : 

Thus  evermore  does  Love  with  pain  and  sor- 
row send. 

What  sithence  there  befell  I  cannot  sing  or 
say,— 

Heathens  bold  and  Christians  f\ill  sorely  wept 
that  day. 

With  many  a  swain  and  lady,  and  many  maid- 
ens young, — 

Here  ends  the  tale  adventurous,  hight  the  Ni- 
blung  song. 


THIRD  PERIOD.-CENTURIES  XIV.,  XV. 


HALB   SUTER. 

Halb  Svter  was  a  native  of  Lucerne.  Noth- 
ing further  is  known  of  his  life.  The  song  of 
*<  The  Battle  of  Sempach  "  was  composed,  prob. 
ably,  not  &r  from  the  date  of  the  event,  1366. 
It  was  preserved  in  Tschudi's  "Chronicle," 
from  which  it  has  been  several  times  repub- 
lished.   

THE  BATTLE  OF  SEMPACH. 

"T  WAS  when  among  our  linden-trees 
The  bees  had  housed  in  swarms 

(And  gray-haired  peasants  say  that  these 
Betoken  foreign  arms), — 


Then  looked  we  down  to  Willisow, 

The  land  was  all  in  flame ; 
We  knew  the  Archduke  Leopold 

With  all  his  army  came. 

The  Austrian  nobles  made  their  vow. 
So  hot  their  heart  and  bold, 

<«On  Switzer  carles  we  '11  trample  now. 
And  slay  both  young  and  old." 

With  clarion  loud,  and  banner  proud, 

From  Zarich  on  the  lake. 
In  martial  pomp  and  fair  array, 

Their  onward  march  they  make. 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


"  Now  list,  ye  lowland  nobles  all,  — 
Te  seek  the  mountain  strand. 

Nor  wot  ye  what  shall  be  your  lot 
In  such  a  dangerous  land. 

«*I  rede  ye,  shrire  ye  of  your  sins, 

Before  ye  farther  go ; 
A  skirmish  in  Helvetian  hills 

May  send  your  souls  to  woe." 

"  But  where  now  shall  we  find  a  priest 
Our  shrift  that  he  may  hear?  " 

"  The  Switzer  priest  *  has  ta'en  the  field, 
He  deals  a  penance  drear. 

"  Right  heavily  upon  your  head 

He  '11  lay  his  hand  of  steel ; 
And  with  his  trusty  partisan 

Your  absolution  deal.'* 

*T  was  on  a  Monday  morning  then, 
The  corn  was  steeped  in  dew. 

And  merry  maids  had  sickles  ta'en, 
When  the  host  to  Serapach  drew. 

The  stalwart  men  of  fair  Lucerne 

Together  have  they  joined  ; 
The  pith  and  core  of  manhood  stern, 

Was  none  cast  looks  behind. 

It  was  the  lord  of  Hare-castle, 

And  to  the  Duke  he  said, 
"Yon  little  band  of  brethren  true 

Will  meet  us  undismayed." 

"  O  Hare-castle,  thou  heart  of  hare  !  " 

Fierce  Oxenstern  replied. 
"  Shalt  see,  then,  how  the  game  will  fare," 

The  taunted  knight  replied. 

There  was  lacing  then  of  helmets  bright. 

And  closing  ranks  amain ; 
The  peaks  they  hewed  from  their  boot- 
points 

Might  well-nigh  load  a  wain.' 

And  thus  they  to  each  other  said, 

"  Yon  handful  down  to  hew 
Will  be  no  boastful  tale  to  tell, 

The  peasants  are  so  few." 

The  gallant  Swiss  Confederates  there 

They  prayed  to  God  aloud. 
And  he  displayed  his  rainbow  fair 

Against  a  swarthy  cloud. 


1  An  the  Swlas  clergy  who  wars  able  to  bear  arms  jbaght 
in  thi«  patriotic  war. 

*  Thia  aeema  to  allude  to  the  preposteroua  fashion,  du^ 
In^  the  Middle  Ages,  of  wearing  boots  with  the  points  or 
peaka  turned  upwards,  and  ao  long,  that  In  aome  caaea  they 
were  ftatened  to  the  knees  of  the  wearer  with  small  chaina. 
When  they  alighted  to  fight  upon  foot,  it  would  aeem  that 
the  Austrian  gentlemen  found  it  neceaaary  to  cut  off  these 
peaks,  that  they  might  more  with  the  necessary  activity. 


Then  heart  and  pulse  throbbed  more  and 
more 

With  courage  firm  and  high. 
And  down  the  good  Confederates  bore 

On  the  Austrian  chivalry. 

The  Austrian  Lion  ^  'gan  to  growl, 

And  toss  his  mane  and  tail ; 
And  ball,  and  shaft,  and  crossbow  bolt 

Went  whistling  forth  like  hail. 

Lance,  pike,  and  halbert  mingled  there, 
The  game  was  nothing  sweet ; 

The  boughs  of  many  a  stately  tree 
Lay  shivered  at  their  feet. 

The  Austrian  men-at-arms  stood  fast, 
So  close  their  spears  they  laid ; 

It  chafed  the  gallant  Winkelreid, 
Who  to  his  comrades  said,  — 

«*  I  have  a  virtuous  wife  at  home, 

A  wife  and  infant  son ; 
I  leave  them  to  my  country's  care, — 

This  field  shall  soon  be  won. 

'*  These  nobles  lay  their  spears  right  thick. 

And  keep  full  firm  array; 
Yet  shall  my  charge  their  order  break, 

And  make  my  brethren  way." 

He  rushed  against  the  Austrian  band. 

In  desperate  career. 
And  with  his  body,  breast,  and  hand, 

Bore  down  each  hostile  spear. 

Four  lances  splintered  on  his  crest, 

Six  shivered  in  his  side ; 
Still  on  the  serried  files  he  frfessed,  — 

He  broke  their  ranks,  and  died. 

This  patriot's  self-devoted  deed 

First  tamed  the  Lion's  mood. 
And  the  four  forest  cantons  freed 

From  thraldom  by  his  blood. 

Right  where  his  charge  had  made  a  lane. 

His  valiant  comrades  burst. 
With  sword,  and  axe,  and  partisan, 

And  hack,  and  stab,  and  thrust. 

The  daunted  Lion  'gan  to  whine. 

And  granted  ground  amain  ; 
The  Mountain  Bull  *  he  bent  his  brows. 

And  gored  his  sides  again. 

Then  lost  was  banner,  spear,  and  shield. 

At  Sempach,  in  the  flight ; 
The  cloister  vaults  at  Konigsfield 

Hold  many  an  Austrian  knight. 


'  A  pun  on  the  Archduke's  name,  Leopold. 
4  A  pun  on  the  «rtw,  or  wild-buU,  which  gires  name  to 
the  canton  of  Uri. 


BONER. 


329 


It  was  the  Archduke  Leopold, 

So  lordly  would  he  ride. 
But  he  came  against  the  Switzer  churls. 

And  they  slew  him  in  his  pride. 

The  heifer  said  unto  the  bull, 

**  And  shall  I  not  complain  ? 
There  came  a  foreign  nobleman 

To  milk  me  on  the  plain. 

*•  One  thrust  of  thine  outrageous  horn 
Has  galled  the  knight  so  sore. 

That  to  the  churchyard  he  is  borne. 
To  range  our  glens  no  more." 

An  Austrian  noble  left  the  stour. 

And  fast  the  flight  'gan  Uke ; 
And  he  arrived  in  luckless  hour 

At  Sempach  on  the  lake. 

He  and  his  squire  a  fisher  called 
(His  name  was  Hans  Ton  Rot), 

*•  For  love,  or  meed,  or  charity, 
Receive  us  in  thy  boat !  *' 

Their  anxious  call  the  fisher  heard. 

And,  glad  the  meed  to  win. 
His  shallop  to  the  shore  he  steered. 

And  took  the  fliers  in. 

And  while  against  the  tide  an^  wind 

Hans  stoutly  rowed  his  way. 
The  noble  to  his  follower  signed 

He  should  the  boatman  slay. 

The  fisher's  back  was  to  them  turned, 

The  squire  his  dagger  drew, 
Hans  saw  his  shadow  in  the  lake. 

The  boat  he  overthrew. 

He  whelmed  the  boat,  and,  as  they  strove. 
He  stunned  them  with  his  oar : 

**  Now  drink  ye  deep,  my  gentle  Sirs, 
You  '11  ne'er  stab  boatman  more. 

«« Two  gilded  fishes  in  the  lake 

This  morning  have  I  caught ; 
Their  silver  scales  may  much  avail, 

Their  carrion  flesh  is  naught." 

It  was  a  messenger  of  woe 
Has  sought  the  Austrian  land : 

(*  Ah,  gracious  lady  !  evil  news ! 
My  lord  lies  on  the  strand. 

**  At  Sempach,  on  the  battle-field. 
His  bloody  corpse  lies  there." 

**  Ah,  gracious  God  ! "  the  lady  cried, 
«« What  tidings  of  despair  !  " 

Now  would  you  know  the  minstrel  wight 

Who  sings  of  strife  so  stem  ? 
Albert  the  Sonter  is  he  hight, 

A  burgher  of  Lucerne. 


A  merry  man  was  he,  I  wot. 
The  night  he  made  the  lay. 

Returning  from  the  bloody  spot. 
Where  God  had  judged  the  day. 


DLRICH  BONER. 

Ulricb  BoirsK  appears  to  have  been  a 
preaching  monk  in  the  first  part  of  the  four- 
teenth century,  and  is  hence  called  a  Knight  of 
God.  He  was  born  at  Berne,  in  Switzerland, 
and  enjoyed  the  patronage  of  Johann  von  Rink- 
enberg,  a  knight  and  a  Minnesinger,  to  whom 
he  dedicated  his  collection  of  fables,  call^sd  the 
**'  Edelstein."  This  work  early  attained  a  wide 
circulation,  and  has  been  successively  repub- 
lished by  Bodmer  (Zorich,  1757-58),  and  by 
Benecke  (Berlin,  1816-18).  The  last  is  the 
most  valuable  edition. 

THE  FROO  AND  THE  STEER. 

OP  HIM  THAT  STBIVam  ATTEM.  MOmi  BONOS  TBAJf  ■■ 
SBOOLD. 

A  FROG  with  frogling  by  his  side 

Came  hopping  through  the  plain,  one  tide : 

There  he  an  ox  at  grass  did  spy ; 

Much  angered  was  the  frog  thereby ; 

He  said :  **  Lord  God,  what  was  my  sin. 

Thou  madest  me  so  small  and  thin  ? 

Likewise  I  have  no  handsome  foature. 

And  all  dishonored  is  my  nature. 

To  other  creatures  far  and  near. 

For  instance,  this  same  grazing  steer." 

The  frog  would  fain  with  bullock  cope, 

'Gan  brisk  outblow  himself  in- hope. 

Then  spake  his  frogling :  ^*  Father  o*  me. 

It  boots  not,  let  thy  blowing  be ; 

Thy  nature  hath  forbid  this  battle. 

Thou  canst  not  vie  with  the  black-cattle." 

Nathless  let  be  the  firog  would  not. 

Such  prideful  notion  had  he  got ; 

Again  to  blow  right  sore  *gan  he. 

And  said :  '*  Like  ox  could  I  but  be 

In  size,  within  this  world  there  were 

No  frog  so  glad,  to  thee  I  swear." 

The  son  spake :  "  Father,  me  is  woe 

Thou  shouldst  torment  thy  body  so ; 

I  fear  thou  art  to  lose  thy  life  ; 

Come,  follow  me,  and  leave  this  strifo : 

Good  fother,  take  advice  of  me. 

And  let  thy  boastfol  blowing  be." 

Frog  said :  «•  Thou  need'st  not  beck  and  nod, 

I  will  not  do  't,  so  help  me  God  ! 

Big  as  this  ox  is,  I  must  turn. 

Mine  honor  now  it  doth  concern." 

He  blew  himself,  and  burst  in  twain : 

Such  of  that  blowing  was  his  gain. 

The  Jike  hath  ofl  been  seen  of  such 
Who  grasp  at  honor  overmuch ; 
They  must  with  none  at  all  be  doing, 
But  sink  full  soon  and  come  to  ruin. 
T 


230 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


He,  that,  with  wind  of  pride  accursed, 
Much  pufTs  himself,  will  surely  burst; 
He  meu  miswishes  and  misjudges. 
Inferiors  scorns,  superiors  grudges, 
Of  all  his  equals  is  a  hater. 
Much  grieved  he  is  at  any  better : 
Wherefore  it  were  a  sentence  wise, 
Were  his  whole  body  set  with  eyes, 
Who  envy  hath,  to  see  so  well 
What  lucky  hap  each  man  befell, 
That  so  he  filled  were  with  fury, 
And  burst  asunder  in  a  hurry ; 
And  so  full  soon  betid  him  this 
Which  to  the  fit>g  betided  is. 


VEIT  WEBER. 

Veit  Wkbkb  lived  in  the  latter  half  of  the 
fifteenth  century.  He  belonged  to  Freyburg,  in 
the  Brisgau,  and  is  known  as  the  author  of  five 
battle-songs,  preserved  in  Diebold  Schilling's 
"Chronicle  of  the  Burgundian  Wars";  the 
best  of  them  all  is  the  ballad  on  the  battle  of 
Murten  (Morat).  Nothing  further  is  known  of 
his  life,  except  that  he  alludes  to  himself  in  his 
poems,  as  being  **well  known  at  Fryburg  in 
Brisgowe,"  and  as  one  **  who  passed  his  li^  in 
song,"  because  he  could  not  help  it,  and  says 
that  he  was  present  in  the  fight  of  Murten. 

The  battle  of  Murten  (Morat),  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  in  the  Burgundian  wars,  took 
place  on  the  10th  of  June,  1476.  Charles  the 
Bold,  duke  of  Burgundy,  after  the  battle  of 
Granson,  assaulted  Murten  with  an  army  of 
40,000  men.  This  town  was  fortified  with  walls, 
towers,  and  a  double  trench.  On  one  side  lay 
a  wooded  and  hilly  country  ;  on  the  other,  a  lake 
of  considerable  depth,  which,  having  formerly 
been  wider,  was  now  bordered,  here  and  there, 
by  deep  morasses.  Towards  Wifflisburg  stretch- 
ed a  broad  harvest  field.  The  town  itself  was 
surrounded  on  all  sides,  except  towards  the  lake, 
and  a  communication  with  the  confederates  was 
opened  in  the  night,  by  means  of  a  small  boat. 
The  storm  was  begun  by  Count  Romont ;  the 
Burgundians,  having  thrown  down  a  part  of  the 
wall,  rushed  forward  with  a  shout  of  victory ; 
they  were  vigorously  repulsed,  and  the  gunners 
who  served  the  heavy  artillery  were  shot  from 
the  city.  The  loss  of  seven  hundred  men,  in 
the  first  onset,  disheartened  the  besiegers,  and 
the  breach  in  the  wall  was  repaired  at  night. 
The  Swiss  soon  after  were  succoured  by  their 
confederates,  and  by  Ren^,  the  duke  of  Lor- 
raine. The  confederates  attacked  the  army 
of  the  duke,  though  much  inferior  to  him  in 
numbers ;  the  garrison  of  Murten  joined  in  the 
assault,. and  the  victory  was  complete.  The 
field  of  battle  was  covered  with  the  dead.  Sev- 
eral thousand  cuirassiers  and  Lombards,  in  de- 
spair,  attempted  to  wade  through  the  lake, 
which  was  covered  far  out  with  reeds.  The 
marshy  bottom  sank  under  the  weight  of  men 


and  horses,  and  many  perished;  others  were 
shot;  and  one  cuirassier  alone  saved  his  life. 
Between  the  Burgundian  camp  and  Wifflisburg 
fifteen  thousand  lay  dead.  Some  of  the  sur- 
vivors hid  themselves  until  night  in  the  forest ; 
many  of  the  camp  followers  took  refuge  in  the 
ovens  of  the  neighbouring  villages.  To  explain 
this  curious  fact,  it  should  be  mentioned  that  the 
ovens  in  Switzerland  are  sometimes  built  in  the 
open  air,  outside  the  houses,  and  large  enough  to 
bold  several  persons.  The  duke  himself  escaped 
with  «  few  horsemen,  by  riding  hard,  chiefly  at 
night,  until  he  reached-  the  Lake  of  Geneva. 
The  camp  was  found  abundantly  supplied  with 
provisions.  Splendid  armor,  gorgeous  tents, 
costly  dresses  and  trappings,  the  military  chest, 
and  the  superbly  furnished  quarters  of  Charles, 
fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Swiss. 

For  a  graphic  description  of  this  battle,  see 
Jobann  von  Mailer's  *'  Geschichte  Scbweizer- 
ischer  Eidgenossenschaft,"  Part  V.,  ch.  1. 

The  following  ballad  is  translated  from  the 
modernized  text,  which  is  found  in  the  Ger- 
man collections.  In  some  passages,  however, 
the  expressions  of  the  old  German  original  of 
Veit  Weber,  on  account  of  their  more  direct 
and  descriptive  character,  have  been  restored. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  MUKTKN. 

The  tidings  flew  from  land  to  land. 

At  Murten  lies  Burgund  ; 
And  all  make  haste,  for  fatherland. 

To  battle  with  Burgund. 

In  the  field  before  a  woodland  green. 
Shouted  the  squire  and  knight ; 

Loud  shouted  Ren6  of  Lorraine, 
**  We  '11  forward  to  the  fight!  " 

The  leaders  held  but  short  debate ; 

Too  long  it  still  appeared;  — 
^*  Ah,  Qod !  when  ends  the  long  debate.^ 

Are  they  perchance  afeard  ? 

"  Not  idle  stands  in  heaven  high 

The  sun  in  his  tent  of  blue ; 
We  laggards  let  the  hours  go  by ! 

When  shall  we  hack  and  hew  ?" 

# 

Fearfully  roared  Carl's  cannonade ; 

We  cared  not  what  befell ; 
We  were  not  in  the  heat  dismayed, 

If  this  or  that  man  fell. 

Lightens  in  circles  wide  the  sword. 
Draws  back  the  mighty  spear; 

Thirsted  for  blood  the  good  broadsword. 
Blood  drank  the  mighty  spear. 

Short  time  the  foemen  bore  the  fray, 

Soldier  and  champion  fled. 
And  the  broad  field  of  battle  lay 

Knee-deep  with  spears  o'erspread. 

Some  in  the  forest,  some  the  brake. 
To  hide  from  the  sunlight  sought ; 

Many  sprang  headlong  into  the  lake. 
Although  they  thirsted  not. 


ANONYMOUS  POEMS. 


831 


Up  to  the  chin  they  waded  in ; 

Like  ducks  twam  here  and  there ; 
As  they  a  flock  of  ducks  had  been. 

We  shot  them  in  the  mere. 

After  them  on  the  lake  we  sail. 
With  oars  we  smote  them  dead. 

And  piteously  we  heard  them  wail ; 
The  green  lake  turned  to  red. 

Up  on  the  trees  clomb  many  high. 
We  shot  them  there  like  crows ; 

Their  feathers  helped  them  not  to  fly, 
No  wind  to  waft  them  blows. 

The  battle  raged  two  leagues  aroand, 

And  many  foemen  lay 
All  hacked  and  hewed  upon  the  ground, 

When  sunset  closed  the  day ; 
And  they  who  yet  alive  were  found 

Thanks  to  the  night  did  pay. 

A  camp  like  any  market-place 
Fell  to  the  Switzer's  hand ; 


Carl  made  the  beggars  rich  apace 
In  needy  Switzerland. 

The  game  of  chess  is  a  kingly  play ;  -— 
'T  is  a  Leaguer  now  that  tries ; 

He  took  from  the  king  his  pawns  away ; 
His  flank  unguarded  lies. 

His  castles  were  of  little  use. 
His  knights  were  in  a  strait ; 

Turn  him  whatever  way  he  choose, 
There  threatens  him  checkmate. 

Veit  Weber  had  his  hand  on  sword. 

Who  did  this  rhyme  indite  : 
Till  evening  mowed  he  with  the  sword ; 

He  sang  the  stour  at  night. 

He  swung  the  bow,  he  swung  the  sword, 

Fiddler  and  fighter  true, 
Champion  of  lady  and  of  lord, 

Dancer  and  prelate  too. 

Amen. 


ANONYMOUS  POEMS  OF  UNCERTAIN  DATE. 


SONG  OF  HILDEBRAND. 

"  It  's  I  will  speed  me  ftr  away,'*  cried  Master 

Hildebrand ; 
"  Who  will  be  my  trusty  guide  to  Bern,  in  the 

Lombard  land? 
I  have  not  passed  the  weary  road  since  many  a 

day,  I  ween ; 
For  more  than  two-and-thirty  years  Dame  Utto 

have  I  not  seen." 

Up  and  spake  Duke  Amelung,-^**If  thou  wilt 

ride  to  Bern, 
Who  will  meet  thee  on  the  heath  ?    A  youth 

right  brave  and  stem  : 
Who  will  meet  thee  on  the  march  P  ^    Alebrand 

the  young : 
Though  with  twelve  of  the  boldest  knights  thou 

pass,  thou  must  fight  that  hero  strong." 

^  And  if  he  break  a  lance  with  me  in  his  high 

and  fiery  mood, 
I  will  hew  asunder  his  buckler  green,  that  fiut 

shall  stream  his  blood ; 
Asunder  his  hauberk  will  I  hew  with  a  slanting 

blow  of  might : 
I  ween  for  a  year  to  his  mother  he  will  plain 

him  of  the  fight." 

« 
«« Nay,"  cried  Dietrich,  lord  of  Bern,  « battle 

shah  thou  not  wage 
Against  the  youthful  Alebrand,  for  in  sooth  I 

love  the  page : 

1  Borders,  frontier. 


I  rede  thee,  knight,  to  do  my  will,  and  ask  him 

courteously 
To  let  thee  pass  along  in  peace,  fi>r  the  love  of 

me." 

When  he  rode  through  the  garden  of  roses,  right 

on  the  march  of  Bern, 
He  came  in  pain  and  heavy  woe  with  a  hero 

young  and  stem : 
Against  him  rushed,  with   couchant  lance,  a 

hero  brave  and  bold : 
•(  What  seek'st  thou  in  my  father's  land  ?    Say 

on,  thou  champion  old. 

**  A  brany  *  clear  and  bright  thou  bear'st,  like 

sons  of  mighty  kings ; 
I  ween  thou  deem'st  to  strike  me  blind  with 

thy  hauberk's  glittering  rings. 
Bide  at  home  in  quiet,  I  rede  thee,  man  of  age ; 
Sit  thee  down  by  thy  good  fire-side." — Loud 

laughed  the  hero  sage. 

**  And  why  should  I  in  quiet  be,  and  sit  by  the 

chimney-side  ? 
I  have  pledged  me,  night  and  day,  to  wander 

far  and  wide ; 
To  wander  o'er  the  world,  and  fight,  until  my 

latest  day  : 
I  tell  thee,  young  and  )>oasting  knight,  for  that 

my  beard  grows  gray." 

<«It  's  I  will  pull  thy  beard  of  gray,  I  tell  thee, 

ancient  man. 
That  all  adown  thy  furrowed  cheeks  the  purple 

blood  shall  run  : 

3  Cuirass. 


232 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


Thy  hauberk  and  thy  buckler  green  yield  with- 
out further  strife ; 

My  willing  captive  must  thou  be,  if  thou  wilt 
keep  thy  life." 

**  My  hauberk  and  my  buckler  green  renown 

and  bread  have  gained, 
And  well  I  trust  in  Christ  on  high  in  the  stour 

my  life  to  defend." 
They  left  their  speech,  and  rapidly  drew  out 

their  falchions  bright. 
And  what  the  heroes  bold  desired  they  had  in 

the  bloody  fight. 

I  know  not  how  Sir  Alebrand  dealt  a  heavy 

slanting  blow, 
That  the  ancient  knight  astounded  at  his  heart 

with  pain  and  woe, 
And  hastily  he  started  back  seven  fathoms  fiur, 

I  ween, — 
**Say,  did  not  a  woman   teach   thee,  young 

knight,  that  dint  so  keen  ?  " 

"  Foul  shame  it  were,  if  women  taught  me  to 

wield  the  brand : 
Many  a  gallant  knight  and  squire  dwell  in  my 

father's  land ; 
Many  earls  and  knights  of  high  renown  in  the 

court  of  my  father  dwell. 
And  what  I  have  not  learnt  as  yet  they  can 

teach  me  right  and  well." 

<<  He  who  will  scour  old  kettles,  black  and  foul 

his  hands  will  be  : 
Even  so,  young  kemp,  from  the  champion  old 

will  soon  betide  to  thee  ; 
And  quickly  shalt  thou  shrive  thee  upon  the 

blooming  heath. 
Or  else,  thou  youthful  hero,  thou  must'  graithe 

thee  for  thy  death." 

He  caught  him  by  the  middle,  where  the  young 

man  weakest  was. 
And  heavily  he  cast  him  behind  him,  on  the 

grass; 
**  Now  say  to  me,  thou  champion  young,  thy 

confessor  will  I  be } 
If  thou  art  of  the  Wolfing  race,  thou  shalt  gain 

thy  life  from  me." 

(« Thou  speak'st  to  me  of  savage  wolves  that 

roam  the  woods  about ; 
Of  noble  Grecian  blood  I  came,  of  high-bom 

champions  stout ;    * 
My  mother  is  Lady  Utta,  a  duchess  of  main  and 

might ; 
And  Hildebrand,  the  ancient  kemp,  my  dearest 

fkiher  bight." 

'*  If  Utta  be  thy  mother,  who  rules  o*er  many  a 
land, 

I  am  thy  dearest  father,  the  ancient  Hilde- 
brand." 

Soon  has  he  doffed  his  helmet  green ;  on  his 
cheek  he  kissed  the  swain  : 

<«  Praised  be  God  !  we  are  sound  and  safe,  nor 
ever  will  battle  again." 


'*  Father,  dearest  father  mine,  the  wounda  I 
dealt  to  thee. 

Gladly  would  I  bear  them  thrice  on  my  head, 
right  joyfully." 

*^  O,  bide  in  quiet,  my  gentle  son  !  my  wounds 
will  soon  be  well ; 

But,  thanked  be  God  in  heaven !  we  now  to- 
gether will  dwell." 

The  fight  began  at  the  hour  of  none,  they  fought 

till  the  vesper-tide  : ' 
Up  rose  the  youthful  Alebrand,  and  into  Bern 

they  ride  : 
What  bears  he  on  his  helmet  ?    A  little  cross 

of  gold ; 
And  what  on  his  right  hand  bears  he  ?    Hia 

dearest  father  old. 

He  led  him  into  his  mother's  hall,  set  him 

highest  at  the  board ; 
When  he  gave  him  meat  and  drink,  his  mother 

cried  aloud,  with  angry  word, 
*'  O  son,  my  son,  so  dear  to  me  !  *t  is  too  much 

honor  to  place 
So  high  a  captive  champion,  the  highest  at  the 

deas." 

**  Rest  in  quiet,  my  mother  dear ;  let  him  sit  at 

the  tahle  head : 
Upon  the  blooming  heath  so  green  he  had  well- . 

nigh  struck  me  dead. 
O,  hearken,  lady  mother  mine !   captive  shall 

he  not  be ; 
It  is  my  ftther.  Old  Hildebrand,  that  kemp  so 

dear  to  thee." 

It  was  the  Lady  Utta,  her  heart  was  blithe  and 

glad; 
Out  she  poured  the  purple  wine,  and  drank  to 

the  ancient  blade. 
What  bore  in  his  mouth  Sir  Hildebrand  ?     A 

ring  of  the  gold  it  was. 
And  for  his  lady.  Dame  Utta,  he  has  dropped  it 

in  the  glass. 


THE   NOBLi;   MORINGER. 

O,  WILL  you  hear  a  knightly  tale  of  old  Bohe- 
mian day  f 

It  was  the  noble  Moringer  in  wedlock  bed  he 
lay; 

He  halsed  ^  and  kissed  his  dearest  dame,  that 
was  as  sweet  as  May, 

And  said,  **  Now,  lady  of  my  heart,  attend  the 
words  I  say. 

^*  *T  is  I  have  vowed  a  pilgrimage  unto  a  distant 

shrine. 
And  I  must  seek  Saint  Thomas'  land,  and  leave 

the  land  that 's  mine  ; 


'  The  hoar  of  none  Is  three  o'clock  la  the  afteroooo ; 
Teepertide  at  six. 
1  Embraced. 


ANONYMOUS   POEMS. 


233 


Here  shalt  thou  dwell  the  while  in  state,  lo 

thou  wilt  pledge  thy  fiij, 
Thai  thoQ  for  my  return  wilt  wail  MTen  tweWe- 

montha  and  a  day." 

Then   oat  and   spoke   that  lady  bright,  sore 

troobled  in  her  cheer, 
"•  Now  tell  me  true,  thou  noble  knight,  what 

order  tak'st  thou  here  ? 
And  who  shall  lead  thy  raasal  band,  and  hold 

thy  lordly  sway, 
And  be  thy  lady's  guardian  true,  when  thou  art 

lar  away  ?  " 

Oul  spoke  the  noble  Moringer,  <*  Of  that  have 

thou  no  care. 
There  *8  many  a  yaliant  gentleman  of  me  holds 

living  fair : 
The  trustiest  shall  rule  my  land,  my  yassals,  and 

my  state. 
And  be  a  guardian  tried  and  true  to  thee,  my 

loTely  mate. 

**  As  Christian  man,  I  need  must  keep  the  vow 

which  I  have  plight : 
When  I  am  far  in  foreign  land,  remember  thy 

true  knight ; 
And  cease,  my  dearest  dame,  to  grieve,  for  rain 

were  sorrow  now. 
But  grant  thy  Moringer  his  leave,  since  Qod 

bath  heard  his  vow.' 

It  was  the  noble  Moringer  from  bed  he  made 

him  boune. 
And  met  him  there  his  chamberlain,  vrith  ewer 

and  with  gown : 
He  flung  the  mantle  on  his  back,  't  was  forred 

with  miniver, 
He  dipped  his  hand  in  water  cold,  and  bathed 

his  forehead  fair. 

**  Now  hear,"  be  said,  *<  Sir  Chamberlain,  true 

vassal  art  thou  mine. 
And  such  the  trust  that  I  repose  in  that  proved 

worth  of  thine. 
For  seven  years  shalt  thou  rule  my  towers,  and 

lead  my  vassal  train, 
And  pledge  thee  for  my  lady's  faith  till  I  return 

again." 

The  chamberlain  was  blunt  and  true,  and  stur- 
dily said  he, 

*'  Abide,  my  lord,  and  rule  your  own,  and  take 
this  rede  from  me,  — 

That  woman's  fiuth  's  a  brittle  trust — Seven 
twelve-months  didst  thou  say  .' 

I  '11  pledge  me  for  no  lady's  truth  beyond  the 
seventh  fair  day." 

The  noble  baron  turned  him  round,  his  heart 

was  full  of  care. 
His  gallant  esquire   stood  him   nigh,  he  was 

Marstetten's  heir. 
To  whom  he  spoke  right  anxiously,  *^Thou 

trusty  squire  to  me. 
Wilt  thou  receive  this  weighty  trust  when  I 

am  o'er  the  sea  ? 
30 


"  To  watch  and  ward  my  castle  strong,  and  to 

protect  my  land, 
And  to  the  hunting  or  the  host  to  lead  my  vaa> 

sal  band; 
And  pledge  thee  for  my  lady's  faith,  till  seven 

long  years  are  gone. 
And  guard  her  as  Our  Lady  dear  was  guarded 

by  Saint  John  ?  " 

Marstetten's  heir  was  kind  and  true,  but  fiery, 
hot,  and  young. 

And  readily  he  answer  made  with  too  presump- 
tuous tongue : 

^  My  noble  lord,  cast  care  away,  and  on  your 
journey  wend, 

And  trust  this  charge  to  me  until  your  pilgrim* 
age  have  end. 

**  Rely  upon  my  plighted  faith,  which  shall  be 
truly  tried. 

To  guard  your  lands,  and  ward  your  -towers, 
and  with  your  vaasals  ride ; 

And  for  your  lovely  lady's  faith,  so  virtuous 
and  so  dear, 

I  '11  gage  my  head  it  knows  no  change,  be  ab- 
sent thirty  year." 

The  noble  Moringer  took  cheer  when  thus  be 
heard  him  speak, 

And  doubt  forsook  his  troubled  brow,  and  sor- 
row left  his  cheek ; 

Along  adieu  he  bids  to  all, — hoists  topsaib 
and  away. 

And  wanders  in  Saint  Thomas'  land  seven 
twelve-months  and  a  day. 

It  was  the  noble  Moringer  within  an  orchard 

slept. 
When  on  the  baron's  slumbering  sense  a  boding 

vision  crept. 
And  whispered  in  his  ear  a  voice,  *•  'T  is  time. 

Sir  Knight,  to  wake ; 
Thy  lady  and  thy  heritage  another  master  take. 

"  Thy  tower  another  banner  knows,  thy  steeds 

another  rein, 
And  stoop  them  to  another's  will  thy  gallant 

vassal  train ; 
And  she,  the  lady  of  thy  love,  so  faithfhl  once 

and  fiiir, 
This  night  within  thy  father's  hall  she  weds 

Marstetten's  heir." 

It  u  the  noble  Moringer  starts  up  and  tears  his 

beard  : 
"  O,  would  that  I  had  ne'er  been  bom  !   what 

tidings  have  I  heard  ! 
To  lose  my  lordship  and  my  lands  the  less 

would  be  my  care. 
But,  God !  that  e'er  a  squire  untrue  should  wed 

my  lady  foir ! 

«« O  good  Saint  Thomas,  hear ! "  he  prayed, "  my 

patron  saint  art  thou  ! 
A  traitor  robs  me  of  my  land,  even  while  I  pay 

my  vow ; 

t2 


334 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


My  wife  he  brings  to  infamy  that  waa  80  pore 

of  name, 
And  I  am  far  in  foreign  land,  and  mutt  endure 

the  shame." 

It  was  the  good  Saint  Thomas  then  who  heard 
his  pilgrim's  prayer, 

And  sent  a  sleep  so  deep  and  dead  that  it  over- 
powered his  care ; 

He  waked  in  fiiir  Bohemian  land,  oatstretebed 
beside  a  rill, 

High  on  the  right  a  castle  stood,  low  on  the  left 
a  mill. 

The  Moringer  he  started  up  as  one  fh>m  spell 

unbound, 
And  dizzy  with  surprise  and  joy  gazed  wildly 

all  around  : 
"  I  know  my  father's  ancient  towers,  the  mill, 

the  stream  I  know  ; 
Now  blessed  be  my  patron  saint  who  cheered 

his  pilgrim's  woe  ! " 

He  leant  upon  his  pilgrim's  staff,  and  to  the 

mill  he  drew ; 
So  altered  was  his  goodly  form  that  none  their 

master  knew : 
The  baroQ  to  the  miller  said,  "  Good  friend,  for 

charity, 
Tell  a  poor  palmer,  in  your  land  what  tidings 

may  there  be  ? " 

The  miller  answered  him  again,  *'  He  knew  of 

little  news, 
Save  that  the  lady  of  the  land  did  a  new  bride- 

groom  choose  : 
Her  husband  died  in  distant  land,  such  is  the 

constant  word ; 
His  death  sits  heavy  on  our  souls,  he  was  a 

worthy  lord. 

**  Of  him  I  held  the  little  mill  which  wins  me 

living  free ; 
God  rest  the  baron  in  his  grave,  he  still  was 

kind  to  me  ! 
And  when  Saint  Martin's  tide  comes  round, 

and  millers  take  their  toll. 
The  priest  that  prays  for  Moringer  shall  have 

both  cope  and  stole." 

It  was  the  noble  Moringer  to  climb  the  hill 

began, 
And  stood  before  the  bolted  gate  a  woe  and 

weary  man  : 
"  Now  help  me,  every  saint  in  heaven  that  can 

compassion  take. 
To  gain  the  entrance  of  my  hall  this  woful 

match  to  break !  " 

His  very  knock  it  sounded  sad,  his  call  was  sad 
and  slow. 

For  heart  and  head,  and  voice  and  hand,  were 
heavy  all  with  woe  ; 

And  to  the  warder  thus  he  spoke  :  **  Friend,  to 
thy  lady  say, 

A  pilgrim  from  Saint  Thomas'  land  craves  har- 
bour for  a  day. 


**  I  've  wandered  many  a  weary  step,  my 
strength  is  well-nigh  done. 

And  if  she  turn  me  firom  her  gate,  I  *11  see  do 
morrow's  sun ; 

I  pray,  for  sweet  Saint  Thomas'  sake,  a  pil- 
grim's bed  and  dole. 

And  for  the  sake  of  Moringer's,  her  once  loved 
husband's  soul." 

It  was  the  stalwart  warder  then  he  came  his 
dame  before : 

^*  A  pilgrim,  worn  and  travel-toiled,  stands  at 
the  castle-door. 

And  prays,  for  sweet  Saint  Thomas'  sake,  for 
harbour  and  for  dole. 

And  for  the  sake  of  Moringer,  thy  noble  hus- 
band's soul." 

The  lady's  gentle  heart  was  moved :  '*  Do  up 
the  gate,"  she  said, 

**And  bid  the  wanderer  welcome  be  to  banquet 
and  to  bed ; 

And  since  he  names  my  husband's  name,  so 
that  he  lists  to  stay. 

These  towers  shall  be  his  harbourage  a  twelve- 
month and  a  day." 

It  was  the  stalwart  warder  then  undid  the  por- 
tal broad. 

It  was  the  noble  Moringer  that  o'er  the  thresh- 
old strode  -. 

*'  And  have  thou  thanks,  kind  Heaven,"  he  said, 
«( though  from  a  man  of  sin. 

That  the  true  lord  stands  here  once  more  his 
castle-gate  within ! " 

Then  up  the  halls  paced  Moringer,  his  step  was 

sad  and  slow ; 
It  sat  full  heavy  on  his  heart,  none  seemed  their 

lord  to  know : 
He  set  him  on  a  lowly  bench,  oppressed  with 

woe  and  wrong; 
Short  space  he  sat,  but  ne'er  to  him  seemed 

little  space  so  long. 

Now  spent  was  day,  and  feasting  o'er,  and  come 
was  evening  hour. 

The  time  was  nigh  when  new-made  brides  re- 
tire to  nuptial  bower : 

"Our  castle's  wont,"  a  bridesman  said,  **hath 
been  both  firm  and  long. 

No  guest  to  harbour  in  our  halls  till  he  shall 
chant  a  song." 

Then  spoke  the  youthful  bridegroom,  there  as 

he  sat  by  the  bride  : 
"My   merry   minstrel  folk,"  quoth   he,  "lay 

shalm  and  harp  aside  ; 
Our  pilgrim  guest  must  sing  a  lay,  the  castle's 

rule  to  hold. 
And  well  his  guerdon  will  I  pay  with  garment 

and  with  gold." 

"Chill  flows  the  lay  of  fioxen  age,"  'twas  thus 

the  pilgrim  sung, 
^*  Nor  golden  meed,  nor  garment  gay,  unlocks 

his  heavy  tongue : 


ANONYMOUS  POEMS. 


835 


Once  did  I  sit,  thoQ  bridegroom  gay,  at  board 

as  rich  as  thine. 
And  by  my  side  as  fiur  a  bride  with  all  her 

charms  was  mine. 

**  But  time  traced  furrows  on  my  fiice,  and  I 

grew  silver-haired. 
For  locks  of  brown,  and  cheeks  of  youth,  she 

left  this  brow  and  beard ; 
Once  rich,  but  now  a  palmer  poor,  I  tread  Iife*8 

latest  stage, 
And  mingle  with  your  bridal  mirth  the  lay  of 

frozen  age." 

It  waa  the  noble  lady  there  this  woAil  lay  that 

hears. 
And  for  the  aged  pilgrim's  grief  her  eye  was 

dimmed  with  tears ; 
She  bade  her  gallant  cupbearer  a  golden  beaker 

take. 
And  bear  it  to  the  palmer  poor  to  quaff  it  for 

her  sake. 

It  was  the  noble  Moringer  that  dropped  amid 

the  wine. 
A  bridal  ring  of  burning  gold  so  costly  and  so 

fine  : 
Now  listen,  gentles,  to  my  song,  it  tells  you  but 

the  sooth, 
T  was  with  that  very  ring  of  gold  he  pledged 

his  bridal  truth. 

Then  to  the  cupbearer  he  said,  *<  Do  me  one 

kindly  deed. 
And  should  my  better  days  return,  full  rich 

shall  be  thy  meed ', 
Bear  back  the  golden  cup  again  to  yonder  bride 

And  crave  her,  of  her  courtesy,  to  pledge  the 
palmer  gray." 

The  cupbearer  was  courtly  bred,  nor  was  the 

boon  denied. 
The  golden  cup  he  took  again,  and  bore  it  to 

the  bride : 
•*  Lady,"  he  said,  "  your  reverend  guest  sends 

this,  and  bids  me  pray. 
That,  in  thy  noble  coartesy,  thou  pledge  the 

palmer  gray." 

The  ring  hath  caught  the  lady's  eye,  she  views 

it  close  and  near } 
Then  might  you  hear  her  shriek  aloud,  "  The 

Moringer  is  here ! " 
Then  might  you  see  her  start  from  seat,  while 

tears  in  torrents  fbll ; 
But  whether  't  was  for  joy  or  woe,  the  ladies 

best  can  tell. 

Bot  loud  she  uttered  thanks  to  Heaven,  and 

every  saintly  power. 
That   had   returned  the  Moringer  before  the 

midnight  hour ; 
And  loud  she  uttered  vow  on  vow,  that  never 

was  there  bride 
That  had  like  her  preserved  her  troth,  or  been 

BO  sorely  tried. 


«*  Yes,  here  I  claim  the  praise,"  she  said,  "  to 

constant  matrons  due, 
Who  keep  the  troth  that  they  have  plight  so 

steadfastly  and  true ; 
For  count  the  term  howe'er  you  will,  so  that 

you  count  aright, 
Seven  twelvemonths  and  a  day  are  out  when 

bells  toll  twelve  to-night." 

It  was  Marstetten  then  rose  up,  his  ftlchion 

there  he  drew. 
He  kneeled  before  the  Moringer,  and  down  his 

weapon  threw : 
**  My  oath  and  knightly  faith  are  broke,"  these 

were  the  words  he  said, 
**Then  take,  my  liege,  thy  vassal's  sword,  and 

take  thy  vassal's  head." 

The  noble  Moringer  he  smiled,  and  then  aloud 

did  say, 
**  He  gathers  wisdom  that  hath  roamed  seven 

twelvemonths  and  a  day : 
My   daughter   now   hath   fifteen    years,   fiime 

speaks  her  sweet  and  fair ; 
I  give  her  for  the  bride  you  lose,  and  name  her 

for  my  heir. 

"The  young  bridegroom  hath  youthful  bride, 

the  old  bridegroom  the  old. 
Whose  faith  was  kept  till  term  and  tide  so 

punctually  were  told : 
But  blessings  on  the  warder  kind  that  oped  my 

castle-gate. 
For  had  I  come  at  morrow  tide,  I  came  a  day 

too  late." 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  YOUNG  COUNT. 

I  STOOD  on  a  high  mountain. 

And  looked  on  the  Rhine  so  wide ; 
A  little  skiff  came  swimming, 
A  little  skiff  came  swimming, 
Wherein  three  knights  did  ride. 

And  of  these  knights,  the  youngest 

He  was  the  count  his  heir ; 
He  promised  he  would  marry  me. 
He  promised  he  would  marry  me. 
Although  so  young  he  were. 

He  took  from  off  his  finger 

A  ring  of  gold  so  red  : 
"  Thou  fairest,  finest,  take  it. 
My  own  heart's  dearest,  take  it. 

And  wear  it  when  I  'm  dead." 

»  What  shall  I  do  with  the  ringlet. 
If  I  dare  not  wear  it  before  ? " 

«<  Say  only  thou  hast  found  it. 

Say  only  thou  hast  found  it. 
In  the  grass  before  the  door." 


236 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


"  Nay,  why  should  I  be  lying  ? 

It  would  not  behoove  me  well ; 
The  young  count  he  is  ray  husband, 
The  young  count  he  is  my  husband, 

Much  rather  I  would  tell/' 

*'  Wert  thou  but  richer,  maiden, 

Hadst  thou  but  a  little  gear. 
In  sooth  I  then  would  take  thee. 
In  sooth  I  then  would  take  thee. 

For  then  we  equals  were." 

'*  And  though  I  have  not  riches, 

Tet  of  honor  I  have  some ; 
That  honor  I  will  keep  it. 
That  honor  I  will  keep  it. 

Until  my  equal  come.*' 

('  But  if  there  come  no  equal. 
What  then  wilt  thou  begin  ? " 

**  Then  I  will  seek  a  cloister. 

Then  I  will  seek  a  cloister. 
To  live  as  a  nun  therein." 

'T  was  after  three  months'  time  had  passed. 

The  count  dreamed  heavily ; 
As  if  his  own  heart's  dearest. 
As  if  his  own  heart's  dearest. 

In  a  cloister  he  did  see. 

**  Arise,  my  groom,  and  hasten. 

Saddle  mine  and  saddle  thy  steed ; 
We  '11  ride  o'er  hill  and  valley. 
We  '11  ride  o'er  hill  and  valley ; 
The  maiden  is  worth  all  speed." 

And  when  they  came  to  the  cloister. 
They  gently  knocked  at  the  door : 
<*  Come  out,  thou  fairest,  thou  fine. 
Come  out,  thou  heart's  dearest  mine. 
Come  ibrth  to  thy  lover  once  more !  " 

**  But  wherefore  should  I  hasten 

To  thee  before  the  door  ? 
My  hair  is  clipped  and  veiled. 
My  hair  is  clipped  and  veiled. 

Thou  'It  have  me  never  more." 

The  count  with  fright  is  silent. 

Sits  down  upon  a  stone  ; 
The  bitter  tears  he  's  weeping. 
The  bitter  tears  he  's  weeping. 

Till  life  and  joy  are  gone. 

With  her  snow-white  hands  the  maiden 

She  digs  the  count  his  grave ; 
From  her  dark-brown  eyes  so  lovely. 
From  her  dark-brown  eyes  so  lovely. 

The  holy  water  she  gave. 

Thus  to  all  young  lads  't  will  happen, 

Who  for  riches  covet  sore ; 
Fair  wives  they  all  are  wishing. 
Fair  wives  they  all  are  wishing. 

But  for  gold  and  silver  more. 


SONG  OF  THE  THREE  TAILORS. 

Ohcb  on  a  time  three  tailors  there  were, 

O  dear,  O  dear,  O  dear ! 
Once  on  a  time  three  tailors  there  were. 
And  a  snail,  in  their  fright,  they  mistook  for  a 
bear. 

O  dear,  O  dear,  O  dear ! 

And  of  him  they  had  such  a  terrible  sense. 
They  hid  themselves  close  behind  a  fence. 

"  Do  you  go  first,"  the  first  one  he  said ; 

The  next  one  he  spake, "  I  'm  too  much  afiraid." 

The  third  he  fain  would  speak  also. 
And  said, «« He  '11  eat  us  all  up,  I  know." 

And  when  now  together  they  all  came  out, 
They  seized  their  weapons  all  about. 

And  as  now  they  marched  to  the  strife  so  sad, 
They  all  began  to  feel  rather  bad. 

But  when  on  the  foe  they  rushed  outright. 
Then  each  one  grew  choke-full  of  fight. 

(*  Come  out  here,  come  out,  you  devil's  brute ! 
If  you  want  to  have  a  good  stitch  in  your  suit*' 

The  snail  he  stuck  out  his  ears  from  within ; 
The  tailors  they  trembled,  — «« 'T  is  a  dreadful 
thing!" 

And  as  the  snail  his  shell  did  move, 

The  tailors  threw  down  their  weapons  forsooth. 

And  when  the  snail  crept  out  of  his  shell, 
The  tailors  they  all  ran  away  pell-mell. 


THE  WANDERING  LOVER. 

Mr  love  he  is  journeying  far  away. 

But  I  cannot  tell  why  I  'm  so  sad  all  the  day ; 

Perhaps  he  is  dead,  and  gone  to  his  rest. 

And  that  is  the  reason  my  heart  *s  so  oppressed. 

When  I  with  my  love  to  the  church  did  repair. 
False  tongues  at  the  door  awaited  us  there ; 
The  one  it  said  this,  and  the  other  said  that. 
And  this  is  the  reason  my  eyes  are  so  wet 

The  thistles  and  thorns,  they  hurt  very  sore, 
But  false,  false  tongues,  they  hurt  far  more  ; 
And  no  fire  on  earth  ever  burns  so  hot 
As  the  secret  love  of  which  none  doth  wot 

My  heart's  dearest  treasure,  there  *s  one  thing 

I  crave,. 
That  thou  wilt  stand  by,  when  I  'm  laid  in  the 

grave, 
When  in  the  cold  grave  my  body  they  lay. 
Because  I  have  loved  thee  so  truly  for  aye ! 


ANONYMOUS  POEMS.                                              237   1 

THE  CASTLE  IN  AUSTRIA. 

•«  O  father,  dearest  ftther  mine  ! 

My  death  thou  shalt  not  avenge. 

1 

T  would  bring  to  my  soul  but  heavy  pains; 

Thbrk  lies  a  castle  in  Austria, 

Let  me  die  in  innocence. 

Right  goodlj  to  behold. 

Walled  up  with  marble  stones  so  ftir, 

^  It  is  not  for  this  lifo  of  mine. 

With  silver  and  with  red  gold. 

Nor  for  my  body  proud ; 

'T  is  but  for  my  dear  mother's  sake. 

Therein  lies  captive  a  young  boy, 

For  life  and  death  he  lies  bound. 

FuU  forty  &thoms  under  the  earth. 

Not  yet  three  days  had  passed  away. 

'Midst  vipers  and  snakes  around. 

When  an  angel  from  heaven  came  down : 

«« Take  ye  the  boy  from  the  scaffold  away, 

His  ftther  came  fit>m  Rosenbeig, 

Else  the  city  shall  sink  under  ground ! " 

Before  the  tower  he  went : 

**  My  son,  my  dearest  son,  how  hard 

And  not  six  months  had  passed  away. 

Is  thy  imprisonment !  '* 

Ere  his  death  was  avenged  amain ; 

And  upwards  of  three  hundred  men 

«•  O  father,  dearest  iather  mine, 

For  the  boy's  lifo  were  slain. 

So  hardly  I  am  bound. 

Full  forty  ftthoms  under  the  earth. 

Who  is  it  that  hath  made  this  lay. 

Hath  sung  it,  and  so  on  ? 

That,  in  Vienna  in  Austria, 

His  &ther  went  before  the  lord : 

Three  maidens  fair  have  done. 

"  Let  looee  thy  captive  to  me ! 

I  have  at  home  three  casks  of  gold. 

» 

And  these  for  the  boy  I  '11  gi'e." 

THE  DEAD  BRIDEGROOM. 

*<  Three  casks  of  gold,  they  help  you  not. 

That  boy,  and  he  must  die  ! 

Thkbk  went  a  boy  so  stilly, 

He  wears  round  his  neck  a  golden  chain ', 

To  the  window  small  went  he  : 

Therein  doth  his  ruin  lie." 

«*Art  thou  within,  my  fair  sweetheart? 

Rise  up  and  open  to  me." 

*' And  if  he  thus  wear  a  golden  chain, 

He  hath  not  stolen  it;  nay  I 

«« We  well  may  speak  together. 

'             A  maiden  good  gave  it  to  him  ; 

But  I  may  not  open  to  thee  ; 

i                 For  true  love,  did  she  say." 

For  I  have  plighted  my  faith  to  one, 

And  want  no  other  but  he." 

They  led  the  boy  forth  from  the  tower, 

And  the  sacrament  took  he  : 

•'The  one  to  whom  thou  'rt  plighted, 

M  Help  thou,  rich  Christ,  from  heaven  high, 

Fair  sweetheart,  I  am  he ; 

It 's  come  to  an  end  with  me  !  " 

Reach  me  thy  snow-white  little  hand. 

And  then  perhaps  thou  'It  see." 

They  led  him  to  the  scaffold  place. 

Up  the  ladder  he  must  go : 

«« But  nay  !  thou  smellest  of  the  earth  ; 

And  thou  art  Death,  I  ween  ! " 

But  a  short  respite  allow  !  " 

<*  Why  should  I  not  smell  of  the  earth, 

When  I  have  lain  therein  ? 

**  A  short  respite  I  must  not  grant ; 

Thou  wouldst  escape  and  fly  : 

«« Wake  up  thy  father  and  mother. 

Reach  me  a  silken  handkerchief 

Wake  up  thy  fnends  so  dear ; 

Around  his  eyes  to  tie." 

The  chaplet  green  shalt  thou  ever  wear, 

Till  thou  in  heaven  appear." 

**  O  do  not,  do  not  bind  mine  eyes ! 

I  must  look  on  the  world  so  fine  ; 

I  see  it  to-day,  then  never  more. 
With  these  weeping  eyes  of  mine." 

THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

His  ftther  near  the  scaffold  stood. 

SwKET  nightingale  !  thyself  prepare. 

And  his  heart,  it  almost  rends  : 

The  morning  breaks,  and  thou  must  be 

**  O  son,  O  thou  my  dearest  son, 

My  faithful  messenger  to  her, 

Thy  death  I  will  avenge  ! " 

My  best  beloved,  who  waits  for  thee. 

238 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


She  in  her  garden  for  thee  stays, 

And  many  an  anxious  thought  will  spring, 
And  many  a  sigh  her  breast  will  raise, 

Till  thou  good  tidings  from  me  bring. 

So  speed  thee  up,  nor  longer  stay ; 

Go  forth  with  gay  and  frolic  song; 
Bear  to  her  heart  my  greetings,  —  say 

That  I  myself  will  come  ere  long. 

And  she  will  greet  thee  many  a  time, 

**  Welcome,  dear  nightingale !  **  will  say ; 

And  she  will  ope  her  heart  to  thee. 
And  all  its  wounds  of  love  display. 

Sore  pierced  by  Iove*s  shafts  is  she ; 

Thou,  then,  the  more  her  grief  assail ; 
Bid  her  from  every  care  be  free  : 

Quick  !  haste  away,  my  nightingale  ! 


ABSENCE. 

If  I  a  small  bird  were. 
And  little  wings  might  bear, 

I  'd  fly  to  thee  : 
But  vain  those  wishes  are  : 

Here,  then,  my  rest  shall  be. 

When  far  from  thee  I  bide. 
In  dreams  still  at  thy  side 

I  've  talked  with  thee  ; 
And  when  I  woke,  I  sighed. 

Myself  alone  to  see. 

No  hour  of  wakeful  night 

But  teems  with  thoughts  of  light,- 

Sweet  thoughts  of  thee, — 
As  when,  in  hours  more  bright, 

Thou  gav'st  thy  heart  to  me. 


THE  FAITHLESS  ONE. 

Last  evening  by  my  fair  I  sat. 
And  now  on  this  we  talked,  now  that ; 
Freely  she  sat  by  me,  and  said 
She  loved  with  love  unlimited. 

Last  evening,  when  from  her  I  parted. 
In  dearest  friendship,  faithful-hearted, 
Her  sacred  vow  she  plighted  me. 
In  joy  or  sorrow,  mine  to  be. 

Last  eve,  at  leaving  her,  she  clung 
Close  to  my  side,  and  on  me  hung ; 
And  far  along  she  went  with  me. 
And,  O,  how  kind  and  dear  was  she  ! 

To-day,  when  to  her  side  I  came. 
How  cool,  how  altered,  that  proud  dame ! 
All  was  reversed ;  and  back  I  turned. 
By  her,  who  was  my  true  love,  spumed. 


THE   NIGHTINGALE. 

SwxxT  nightingale  !  I  hear  thee  sing,  — 
Thy  music  makes  my  heart  upspring : 
O,  quickly  come,  sweet  bird,  to  me. 
And  teach  me  to  rejoice  like  thee  ! 

Sweet  nightingale  !  to  the  cool  wave 
I  see  thee  haste,  thy  limbs  to  lave. 
And  quaff  it  with  thy  little  bill. 
As  *t  were  the  daintiest  beverage  still. 

Sweet  bird  !  where*er  thy  dwelling  be. 
Upon  the  linden's  lofty  tree. 
Beside  thy  beauteous  partner,  there, 
O,  greet  a  thousand  times  my  fair  ! 


THE  HEMLOCK  TREE. 

O  HEMLOCK  tree  !  O  hemlock  tree  !  how  faith- 
All  are  thy  branches  ! 
Green  not  alone  in  summer  time. 
But  in  the  winter's  frost  and  rime ! 
O  hemlock  treei  O  hemlock  tree  !  how  faithful 
are  thy  branches ! 

O  maiden  fair !  O  maiden  fair  !  how  faithless  is 
thy  bosom  ! 
To  love  me  in  prosperity. 
And  leave  me  in  adversity ! 
O  maiden  fair !  O  maiden  fiur  !  how  faithless  is 
thy  bosom ! 

The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou  tak'st  for 

thine  example  ! 

So  long  as  summer  laughs  she  sings. 

But  in  the  autumn  spreads  her  wings. 

The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou  tak*st  for 

thine  example ! 

The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook,  is  mir- 
ror of  thy  falsehood  ! 
It  flows  so  long  as  falls  the  rain. 
In  drought  its  springs  soon  dry  again. 
The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook,  is  mir- 
ror of  thy  falsehood ! 


SILENT  LOVE. 

Who  love  would  seek. 
Let  him  love  evermore 

And  seldom  speak : 
For  in  love's  domain 
Silence  must  reign ; 

Or  it  brings  the  heart 

Smart 
And  pain. 


LUTHER.— KNAUST. 


239 


FOURTH  PERIOD.-CENTI/RY  XVL 


MARTIN  LUTHER. 

Martiv  Luthkr  wu  born  Nov.  10,  1483, 
at  Eiflleben.  At  the  age  of  foarteen,  he  waa 
plac«d  at  school  Id  Magdeburg,  whence  he  a^ 
terwards  went  to  Eisenach.  In  1501,  he  en- 
tered the  UniTorsity  of  Erfurt.  He  was  destined 
at  first  for  the  law,  bat  circunistanoes  afterwards 
led  him  to  embrace  the  monastic  lif^.  His 
great  distinction,  of  course,  lies  in  the  extraor- 
dinary influence  he  has  exercised  upon  the  re- 
ligions state  of  the  world ,  but  this  subject  does 
not  come  within  the  range  of  the  present  work. 
His  poetical  talent  was  shown  in  the  depart- 
ment of  sacred  poetry.  He  purified  and  adapted 
old  German  poems  to  the  serrice  of  the  temple, 
translated  Latin  hymns,  and  was  the  author  of 
about  fi>rty  pieces  in  German,  all  distinguish- 
ed fi>r  their  vigor,  and  highly  esteemed  down 
to  the  present  day.  He  died  on  the  18th  of 
February,  1546,  at  Eisleben,  and  was  buried 
in  the  castle  church  of  Wittenberg.  A  collec- 
tion of  eight  of  Luther's  hymns  was  first  pub- 
lished at  Wittenberg  in  1524 ;  another,  the  fol- 
lowing year,  containing  forty.  A  new  edition 
was  published  at  Berlin  in  1817-18. 


PSALM. 

A  9 AFX  stronghold  our  Grod  is  still, 

A  trusty  shield  and  weapon  ; 
He  'II  help  us  clear  from  all  the  ill 
That  hath  us  now  o'ertaken. 
The  ancient  Prince  of  Hell 
Hath  risen  with  purpose  fell ; 
Strong  mail  of  craft  and  power 
He  weareth  in  this  hour  : 
On  earth  is  not  his  fellow. 

With  force  of  arms  we  nothing  can ; 

Full  soon  were  we  down-iidden, 
But  for  us  fights  the  proper  Man, 
Whom  God  himself  hath  bidden. 
Ask  ye.  Who  is  this  same  ? 
Christ  Jesus  is  his  name, 
The  Lord  Zebaoth*s  Son  : 
He,  and  no  other  one, 
Shall  conquer  in  the  battle. 

And  were  this  world  all  devils  o'er 

And  watching  to  devour  us, 
We  lay  it  not  to  heart  so  sore, 
Not  they  can  overpower  us. 
And  let  the  Prince  of  111 
Look  grim  as  e'er  he  will. 
He  harms  us  not  a  whit : 
For  why  ?     His  doom  is  writ, 
A  word  shall  quickly  slay  him. 


God's  word,  for  all  their  craft  and  force. 

One  moment  will  not  linger. 
But,  spite  of  Hell,  shall  have  its  course : 
"T  is  written  by  his  finger. 
And  though  they  take  our  Hfb, 
Goods,  honor,  children,  wife, 
Yet  is  their  profit  small : 
These  things  shall  vanish  all, 
The  City  of  God  remaineth. 


HEINRICH  KNAUST. 

KiTAUST  was  bom  in  1541,  and  died  in  1577. 
Three  of  his  poems  may  be  fbund  in  Eriach,  I., 
71.  The  following  quaint  specimen  will  suffice. 

DIGNTTT  OF  THE  CLERESL 

Fapbr  doth  make  a  rustle. 

And  it  can  rustle  well ; 
To  find  it  is  no  puzzle, 

Sith  aye  it  rustle  will. 

In  every  place  'twill  rustle, 

Where'er  's  a  little  bit ; 
So,  too,  the  scholars  rustle, 

Withouten  all  deceit. 

Of  tag  and  rag  they  make 

The  noble  writer's  stuff; 
One  might  with  laughter  shake, 

I  tell  you  true  enough. 

Old  tatters,  cleanly  washen. 

Thereto  they  do  prepare  ; 
Lift  many  from  the  ashen. 

That  erst  sore  want  did  bear. 

The  pen  behind  the  ear. 
All  pointed  sharp  to  write. 

Doth  hidden  anger  stir : 
Foremost  the  clerk  doth  sit. 

Before  all  other  wights, 
Sith  him  a  clerk  they  call, 

The  princes  he  delights, — 
They  love  him  most  of  all. 

The  clerk  full  well  they  name 
A  treasure  of  much  cost ;  — 

Though  he  's  begrudged  the  same, 
Nathless  he  keeps  the  post 

Before  the  clerk  must  bend 

Oft  many  a  warrior  grim, 
And  to  the  comer  wend. 

Although  it  please  not  him. 


240 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


FIFTH  PERIOD.-CENTURY  XVIL 


SIMON   DACH. 

This  poet  wag  boni  in  1605,  and  died  in 
1659.  He  was  Professor  of  Poetry  at  Konigs- 
berg.  His  poems  are  lyrical,  eonsisting  of  pop- 
ular and  sacred  songs ;  and  breathing  the  sim- 
ple, devout  spirit  of  a  quiet  scholar.  Ten  of  his 
poems  are  given  in  Erlach,  III.  Those  which 
follow  are  favorable  specimens  of  his  manner. 
The  first  is  from  the  Low  German,  and,  though 
apparently  written  in  a  tone  of  great  tenderness, 
b,  in  fact,  a  satire  upon  the  lady  of  his  love, 
who  proved  untrue  to  him.  In  after-life  he 
could  not  forgive  himself  for  having  taken  this 
poetical  revenge.  The  song  seemed  to  haunt 
him  even  on  his  death-bed,  and,  afier  a  violent 
spaam  of  pain,  he  exclaimed,  "  Ah !  that  was 
for  the  song  of  *  Anke  von  Tharaw.'  " 

ANNIE  OF  THAKAW. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  true  love  of  old. 
She  is  my  life,  and  my  goods,  and  my  gold. 

'^Annie  of  Tharaw,  her  heart  once  again 
To  me  has  surrendered  in  joy  and  in  pain. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  riches,  my  good. 
Thou,  O  my  soul,  my  flesh  and  my  blood ! 

Then  come  the  wild  weather,  come  sleet  or 

come  snow, 
We  will  stand  by  each  other,  however  it  blow. 

Oppression,  and  sickness,  and  sorrow,  and  pain. 
Shall  be  to  our  true  love  as  links  to  the  chain. 

As  the  palm-tree  standeth  so  straight  and  so 

tail. 
The  more  the  hail  beats,  and  the  more  the  rains 

fall, 

So  love  in  our  hearts  shall  grow  mighty  and 
strong. 

Through  crosses,  through  sorrows,  through  man- 
ifold wrong. 

Shouldst  thou  be  torn  from  me  to  wander  alone 
In  a  desolate  land  where   the  tun   is   scarce 
known. 

Through  forests  I  'II  follow,  and  where  the  sea 

flows. 
Through  ice,  and  through  iron,  through  armies 

of  foes. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  light  and  my  sun. 

The  threads  of  our  two  lives  are  woven  in  one. 


Whate'er  I  have  bidden  thee  thou  hast  obeyed, 
Whatever  forbidden  thou  hast  not  gainsaid. 

How  in  the  turmoil  of  life  can  love  stand. 
Where  there  is  not  one  heart,  and  one  mouth, 
and  one  hand  ? 

Some  seek  for  dissension,  and   trouble,   and 

strife; 
Like  a  dog  and  a  cat  live  such  man  and  wife. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  such  is  not  our  love. 

Thou  art  my  lambkin,  my  chick,  and  my  dove. 

Whate'er  my  desire  is,  in  thine  may  be  seen ; 
I  am   king  of  the   household,  —  thou   art  its 
queen. 

It  is  this,  O  my  Annie,  my  heart's  sweetest  rest, 
That  makes  of  us  twain  but  one  soul  in  one 
breast 

This  turns  to  a  heaven  the  hut  where  we  dwell ; 
While  wrangling  soon  changes  a  home  to  a  hell. 


BLESSED  ARie  THE  DEAD. 

O,  HOW  blest  are  ye  whose  toils  are  ended  ! 
Who,  through  death,  have  unto  God  ascended ! 
Ye  have  arisen 
From  the  cares  which  keep  us  still  in  prison. 

We  are  still  as  in  a  dungeon  living, 

Still  oppressed  with  sorrow  and  misgiving ; 

Our  undertakings 

Are  but  toils,  and  troubles,  and  heart-breakings. 

Te,  meanwhile,  are  in  your  chambers  sleeping. 
Quiet,  and  set  free  fi*om  all  our  weeping; 
No  cross  nor  trial 
Hinders  your  enjoyments  with  denial. 

Christ  has  wipiad  away  your  tears  for  ever ; 
Ye  have  that  for  which  we  still  endeavour. 
To  you  are  chanted 
Songs  which  yet  no  mortal  ear  have  haunted. 

Ah !  who  would  not,  then,  depart  with  gladness. 
To  inherit  heaven  fbr  earthly  sadness  ? 
Who  here  would  languish 
Longer  in  bewailing  and  in  anguish  ? 

Come,  O  Christ,  and  loose  the  chains  that  bind 

us! 
Lead  us  forth,  and  cast  this  world  behind  as ! 
With  thee,  the  Anointed, 
Finds  the  soul  its  joy  and  rest  appointed. 


8ANCTA  CLARA. 


841 


ABRAHAM  A  SANCTA  CLARA. 

Abbaham  a  Sajtcta  Claba,  whoM  real 
name  was  Ulrich  Me|»erle,  was  born  at  Krft- 
henheimstetten,  Swabia,  in  1643.  In  1662  he 
joined  the  barefooted  friara  of  the  order  of 
Saint  AngUBtine,  and  applied  himaelf  to  the 
■tndy  of  philosophy  and  theology  in  a  monas- 
tery at  Vienna.  He  began  his  career  as  a 
preacher  in  the  conyent  of  Taxa,  in  Bayaria, 
and  soon  afterward  was  called  to  preach  at 
the  imperial  court  of  Vienna,  where  he  con- 
tinned  until  his  death,  in  1709. 

Abraham  a  Sancta  Clara  is  the  most  gro- 
tesque and  eccentric  of  all  the  popular  preach- 
ers that  Grermany  has  produced.  In  one  of 
his  discourses  he  exclaims  :  **  By  permission  of 
the  Almighty,  I  knock  at  the  door  of  hell,  and 
ask  this  or  that  one  the  reason  of  his  condem- 
nation. ( Holla !  thou  who  art  boiling  in  red 
hot  iron,  like  a  pea  in  a  hot  kettle,  what  was 
the  cause  of  thy  condemnation  ?  '  '1,'  said  he, 
*was  giyen  to  wild  lusts,  but  resolyed  to  leaye 
off  my  wicked  life,  and  repent,  but  was  sud- 
denly cut  off,  so  that  procrastination  caused  my 
eternal  death.' 

*<  The  same  answer  I  received  from  a  hun- 
dred thousand  wretched  sinners.  O,  how  true 
is  it,  as  the  poet  says : 

'*  'Tbe  imTen  eras  oft  cUmsb  Uw  psM 
Unto  our  aonlB'  oalTation ; 
The  fatal  to-morrow  produc«th  sorrow 
And  final  condemnation  I ' 

^  And  even,  silly  souls,  if  you  are  not  cut 
off  by  sudden  death,  but  have  time  to  repent 
giyen  you  on  your  death-bed,  still  such  late 
repentance  seldom  ayaileth  much  in  the  sight 
of  God  ;  as  Saint  Augustine  saith,  *  The  repent- 
ance of  a  sick  man,  I  fear,  is  generally  sickly ; 
that  of  a  dying  man  generally  dies  away.  For 
when  thou  canst  sin  no  longer,  it  is  not  that 
thou  desertest  sin,  but  that  sin  deserts  thee.' 

u  (rod,  in  the  Old  Testament,  has  admitted  all 
kinds  of  beasts  as  acceptable  offerings ;  but  he 
excludeth  the  swan  alone,  though  the  swan 
with  its  white  yesture  agreeth  well  with  the 
liyery  of  the  angels,  because  this  feathered 
creature  is  the  image  of  a  sinner  who  puts  off 
repentance  till  death ;  for  the  swan  is  silent 
through  his  whole  life,  and  doth  not  sing  till 
his  life  is  at  its  close." 

Passages  of  great  beauty  occur  likewise  in 
these  discourses,  and  at  times  the  reader  is  re- 
minded of  Jeremy  Taylor.  For  example,  when 
he  says  :  **  I  seem  to  see  in  fancy  holy  Bacho- 
mins  in  the  wilderness,  where  he  chose  him  a 
dwelling  among  hollow  clefls  of  rocks,  which 
abode  consisted  in  naught  but  four  crooked 
posts,  with  a  transparent  coyering  of  dried 
boughs.  And  he,  when  wearied  with  singing 
psalms,  resorting  to  labor,  lest  the  Old  Serpent 
should  catch  him  unemployed,  and  weaying 
rude  coyerings  of  thatch,  sits  by  a  rock,  where- 
from  flow  forth  silyer  yeins  of  water,  which 
make  a  pleasing  murmur  in  their  crystal  de- 


scent, while  around  him  on  the  green  boughs 
play  the  birds  of  the  forest,  who,  with  their 
natural  cadences,  and  the  clear-sounding  flutes 
of  their  throats,  joining  fUmo  cA^ro,  transform 
the  wood  into  a  concert ;  and  the  agile  deer, 
the  bleating  hares,  the  chirping  insects,  are  his 
constant  companions,  unharmed  and  unharm- 
ing,  all  which  furnishes  him  with  solace  and 
contentment.  But  it  seemeth  to  me  that  our 
deyout  hermit  delighteth  himself  more  espe- 
cially in  the  echo  which  sends  him  back  his  loud 
sighs  and  petitions ;  as  when  the  holy  anchorite 
cries,  *  O  merciful  Christ ! '  the  echo,  that  un- 
embodied  thief,  steals  away  the  words,  and  re- 
turns them  back  to  him.  But  is  he  too  sorely 
tempted,  and  doth  he  exclaim,  in  holy  impa- 
tience, *•  O  thou  accursed  deyil ! '  the  echo  lays 
aside  its  deyout  language,  and  sounds  back  to 
him,  <  Thou  accursed  deyil ! '  In  a  word,  as  a 
man  treats  Echo,  so  does  Echo  treat  him. 

**Now  God  is  just  like  this  yoice  of  the 
woods.  For  it  is  an  unquestioned  truth,  that, 
as  we  demean  ourselyes  toward  God,  so  he 
demeaneth  himself  toward  us." 

See  «« The  Knickerbocker,"  Vol.  X.,  where 
other  extracts  may  be  found.  The  following 
yerses,  it  hardly  need  be  said,  are  not  quoted 
for  their  beauty,  but  for  their  oddity.  They 
are  from  **  Judas,  the  Arch-Rogue." 

8AIMT  ANTHONY'S  SERMON  TO  THE  FISHE& 

Saivt  Avthokt  at  church 

Was  left  in  the  lurch. 

So  he  went  to  the  ditches 

And  preached  to  the  fishes. 
They  wriggled  their  tails. 
In  the  sun  glanced  their  scales. 

The  carps,  with  their  spawn. 

Are  all  thither  drawn  ; 

Haye  opened  their  jaws, 

Eager  for  each  clause. 
No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  carps  so  edified. 

Sharp-snouted  pikes. 

Who  keep  fighting  like  tikes. 

Now  swam  up  harmonious 

To  hear  Saint  Antonius. 
No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  pikes  so  edified. 

And  that  yery  odd  fish. 

Who  loyes  flist-days,  the  cod-fish,  — 

The  stock-fish,  I  mean,  — 

At  the  sermon  was  seen. 
No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  cods  so  edified. 

Gt>od  eels  and  sturgeon, 

Which  aldermen  gorge  on, 

Went  out  of  their  way 

To  hear  preaching  that  day. 
No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  eels  so  edified. 
U 


242 


GERMAN    POETRY. 


Crabs  and  turtles  also, 
Who  always  move  slow, 
Made  haste  from  the  bottom. 
As  if  the  devil  had  got  'em. 
No  sermon  beside 
Had  the  crabs  so  edified. 

Fish  great  and  fish  small, 
Lords,  lackeys,  and  all. 
Each  looked  at  the  preacher 
Like  a  reasonable  creature. 
At  God's  word, 
They  Anthony  heard. 


The  sermon  now  ended. 
Each  turned  and  descended ; 
The  pikes  went  on  stealing, 
The  eels  went  on  eeling. 

Much  delighted  were  they. 
But  preferred  the  old  way. 

The  crabs  are  backsliders, 

The  stock-fish  thick-siders. 

The  carps  are  sharp-set. 

All  the  sermon  forget. 

Much  delighted  were  they. 
But  preferred  the  old  way. 


SIXTH   PERIOD.— FROM  1700  TO  1770. 


JOHANN  JACOB  BODMER. 

J.  J.  BoDMER  was  bom  July  19th,  1698,  at 
Greifensee,  near  Zorich,  where  his  father  was 
a  preacher.  At  the  Gymnasium  in  ZOrich,  he 
studied  poetry  and  the  languages.  In  1725, 
he  was  appointed  Professor  of  Helvetian  His- 
tory, and,  ten  years  later,  became  a  member  of 
the  great  council  in  Zorich.  He  died  January 
2d,  1783.  He  had  ability  and  great  literary 
activity,  but  not  much  poetical  genius.  He 
promoted  a  taste  for  English  literature,  and  for 
the  study  of  the  Middle  Ages.  The  literary 
principles  of  Gottsched,  who  fiivored  the  French 
taste,  found  in  him  a  vigorous  opponent.  His 
principal  work  is  the  **  Noachide,"  in  hexame- 
ter verse  (Zarich,  1752).  He  edited  a  collec- 
tion of  the  Minnesingers,  translations  of  ancient 
English,  and  selections  of  Swabian  ballads. 
He  also  translated  Milton's  **  Paradise  Lost." 
Several  of  the  Greek  poets  he  rendered  into 
German  hexameters.  The  following  short  ex- 
tract is  the  close  of  the  eighth  book  of  the 
"  Noachide." 

THE  DELUGR. 

Now  on  the  shoreless  sea,  intermixed  with  the 

corses  of  sinners. 
Floated  the  bodies  of  saints,  by  the  side  of  the 

beasts  of  the  forest. 
All  that  the  food-bearing  earth  had  enabled  to 

live  on  its  surface 
Death  from  one  zone  to  another  pursued  with 

all-conquering  fury. 
O,  how  the  face  of  the  country  was  changed, 

how  deformed  the  creation  ! 
Where  bnt  recently  Spring  in  his  garment  of 

flowers  was  straying. 
Listening  the  nightingale's  song  from  the  dew- 

sprent  bower  of  roses. 
Hidden  he  wears  the  dank   prisoner's   dress, 

which  the  flood  overcast  him. 


Sulphurous  vapors  ascend  fi'om  the  deep ;  and 

volcanic  eruptions 
Scatter  the  ores  of  the  mine  with  pobonous 

hisses  to  heaven. 


FREDERIC  HAGEDORN. 

Fkkdkric  HAOKDOiur  was  bom  at  Hamburg 
in  1708.  He  studied  first  at  the  Hamburg 
Gymnasium,  and  afterwards  went  to  the  Uni- 
versity of  Jena,  where  he  devoted  himself  to 
the  law.  The  death  of  his  father  recalled  him 
before  the  completion  of  his  studies.  In  1729, 
he  accompanied  Baron  Soehlenthal,  the  Danish 
minister,  to  England,  as  his  secretary.  He  re- 
mained there  about  two  years,  in  which  time 
he  made  himself  master  of  the  English  lan- 
guage, and  acquired  much  knowledge  of  Eng- 
lish literature.  His  earliest  remaining  poem 
is  a  paraphrase  of  Pope's  "  Universal  Prayer." 
In  1733,  he  received  the  appointment  of  Sec- 
retary to  the  English  Factory  at  Hamburg,  with 
a  yearly  salary  of  a  hundred  pounds.  He  con- 
tinued in  this  situation,  giving  certain  stated 
hours  to  the  duties  of  his  office,  and  the  rest  of 
his  time  to  reading  and  composition,  until  his 
death,  which  took  place  suddenly  in  1754. 
His  manner  of  life  was  not  unlike  that  of 
Charles  Lamb.  His  character  was  amiable,  and 
he  was  much  respected.  As  a  poet,  he  imitated 
English  and  French  models.  His  principal 
works  are  songs,  poetical  narratives,  epistles, 
and  fables.  They  were  published  at  Hamburg 
in  1729,  again  in  1600,  and  finally  in  1825,  in 
five  volumes. 


THE  MERRY  SOAP-BOILEE. 

A  STKADT  and  a  skilful  toiler, 
John  got  his  bread  as  a  soap-boiler, 


HAGEDORN.^HALLER. 


243 


Earned  all  he  wished,  his  heart  was  light, 

He  worked  and  sang  from  mom  till  night 

E'en  during  meals  his  notes  were  heard. 

And  to  his  beer  were  oft  preferred ; 

At  breakfiist,  and  at  sapper,  too. 

His  throat  had  double  work  to  do ; 

He  oftener  sang  than  said  his  prayers. 

And  dropped  asleep  while  humming  airs : 

Until  his  every  next-door  neighbour 

Had  learned  the  tunes  that  cheered  his  labor, 

And  every  passer-by  could  tell 

Where  merry  John  was  wont  to  dwell. 

At  reading  he  was  rather  slack. 

Studied  at  moet  the  almanac. 

To  know  when  holidays  were  nigh. 

And  put  his  little  savings  by ; 

But  sang  the  more  on  vacant  days, 

To  waste  the  less  his  means  and  ways. 

'T  is  always  well  to  live  and  learn. 

The  owner  of  the  soap-concern  — 

A  fat  and  wealthy  burgomaster, 

Who  drank  hb  hock,  and  smoked  his  knoster. 

At  marketing  was  always  apter 

Than  any  prelate  in  the  chapter. 

And  thought  a  pheasant  in  sour  krout 

Superior  to  a  turkey-poult ; 

But  woke  at  times  before  daybreak 

With  heart-burn,  gout,  or  liver-ache  — 

Oft  heard  our  sky-lark  of  the  garret 

Sing  to  his  slumber,  but  to  mar  it 

He  sent  for  John,  one  day,  and  said  : 
**  What  's  your  year's    income   from    yonr 
trade  ?  " 

^  Master,  I  never  thought  of  counting 

To  what  my  earnings  are  amounting 

At  the  year's  end  :  if  every  Monday 

I  've  paid  my  meat  and  drink  for  Sunday, 

And  something  in  the  box  unspent 

Remains  for  fuel,  clothes,  and  rent, 

I  've  husbanded  the  needful  scot. 

And  feel  quite  easy  with  my  lot 

The  maker  of  the  almanac 

Must,  like  your  worship,  know  no  lack. 

Else  a  red-letter  eamless  day 

Would  oflener  be  struck  away." 

*<  John,  yon  've  been  long  a  faithful  fellow. 
Though  always  merry,  seldom  mellow. 
Take  this  rouleau  of  fifty  dollars, 
My  parses  glibly  slip  their  collars ; 
But  before  breakfast  let  this  singing 
No  longer  in  my  ears  be  ringing : 
When  once  your  eyes  and  lips  unclose, 
I  must  forego  my  morning  doze." 

John  blushes,  bows,  and  stammers  thanks, 
And  steals  away  on  bended  shanks, 
Hiding  and  hugging  his  new  treasure, 
As  had  it  been  a  stolen  seizure. 
At  home  he  bolts  his  chamber-door. 
Views,  counts,  and  weighs  his  tinkling  store. 


Nor  trusts  it  to  the  savings-box 

Till  he  has  screwed  on  double  locks. 

His  dog  and  he  play  tricks  no  more, 

They  're  rival  watchmen  of  the  door. 

Small  wish  has  he  to  sing  a  word. 

Lest  thieves  should  climb  his  stair  unheard. 

At  length  he  finds,  the  more  he  saves, 

The  more  he  frets,  the  more  he  craves ; 

That  his  old  freedom  was  a  blessing 

111  sold  for  all  he  *s  now  possessing. 

One  day,  he  to  his  master  went 
And  carried  back  his  hoard  unspent. 
**  Master,"  says  he,  **  I  've  heard  of  old, 
Unblest  is  he  who  watches  gold. 
Take  back  your  present,  and  restore 
The  cheerfulness  I  knew  before. 
I  '11  take  a  room  not  quite  so  near. 
Out  of  your  worship's  reach  of  ear. 
Sing  at  my  pleasure,  laugh  at  sorrow. 
Enjoy  to-day,  nor  dread  to-morrow. 
Be  still  the  steady,  honest  toiler. 
The  merry  John,  the  old  soap-boiler." 


ALBRECHT  VON  HALLER. 

Albrkcht  voir  Hallxr  was  bom  in  1708. 
He  showed  a  taste  for  letters  and  poetry  at  a 
very  early  age.  In  his  fifteenth  year  he  went 
to  the  University  of  TQbingen,  and  afterwards 
to  Leyden  and  Basle.  He  took  his  medical 
degree  in  1727,  soon  after  which  he  visited 
England.  He  returned  to  Berae  in  1730,  in- 
tending to  establish  himself  in  his  profession  in 
his  native  place.  In  1732,  he  made  a  journey 
through  the  Alps,  after  which  he  published  his 
first  poem.  In  1736,  he  was  made  Professor 
of  Medicine  at  Gottingen ;  in  1749,  he  was 
ennobled  by  the  emperor ;  in  1753,  returned 
to  Berne,  and  died  in  1777.  He  was  distin- 
guished in  many  departments  of  knowledge ; 
poet,  anatomist,  physiologist,  botanist,  &c.  His 
poetical  works  were  published  at  Berne,  in 
1732;  the  twelfth  edition  appeared  in  1828. 
His  scientific  works  were  numerous,  and  won 
for  him  the  highest  reputation  as  a  student  and 
discoverer. 

EXTRACT  FBOM  DORIS. 

Thx  light  of  day  is  almost  gone. 
The  purple  in  the  west  that  shone 

Is  Aiding  to  a  grayer  hue  : 
The  moon  uplifb  her  silver  horns. 
The  cool  night  strews  her  slumber-corns. 

And  slakes  the  thirsty  earth  with  dew. 

Come,  Doris,  to  these  beeches  come. 
Let  us  the  quiet  dimness  roam. 

Where  nothing  stirs  but  you  and  I : 
Save  when  the  west  wind's  gentle  breath 
Is  heard  the  wavering  boughs  beneath. 

Which  strive  to  beckon  silently. 


244 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


How  the  green  night  of  leafy  treee 
Inyiles  to  dreams  of  carelen  ease, 

And  cradles  the  contented  soul ; 
Recalls  the  ambitious  range  of  thooght 
To  nsten  on  some  homely  cot. 

And  make  a  life  of  loTe  its  whole  \ 

Speak,  Doris,  feels  thy  conscious  heart 
The  throbbing  of  no  gentle  smart, 

Dearer  than  plans  of  palaced  pride  ? 
Gaze  not  thine  eyes  with  softer  glance, 
Glides  not  thy  blood  in  swifter  dance. 

Bounds  not  thy  bosom,  —  by  my  side  ? 

Thought  questions  thought  with  restless  task ; 
I  know  thy  soul  begins  to  ask. 

What  means  this  ail,  what  troubles  me  ? 
O,  cast  thy  vain  reserve  away, 
Let  me  its  real  name  betray ! 

Far  more  than  that  I  feel  for  thee. 

Thou  startlest,  and  thy  virtue  frowns. 
And  the  chaste  blush  my  charge  disowns. 

And  lends  thy  cheek  an  angrier  glow ; 
With  mingled  feelings  thrills  thy  frame, 
Thy  love  is  stifled  by  thy  shame. 

Not  by  thy  heart,  my  Doris,  no  ! 

Ah  !  lift  those  fringed  lids  again, 
Accept,  accept  the  proffered  chain. 

Which  love  and  fete  prepare  to  bind : 
Why  wilt  thou  longer  strive  to  fly  ? 
Be  overtaken,  —  I  am  nigh. 

To  doubt  is  not  to  be  unkind. 


CHRISTIAN  FURCHTEGOTT  GELLERT. 

Crristiav  Fcrchtxgott  Gxllxbt  was  bom 
at  Haynichen,  in  Saxony,  in  1715.  His  fether 
was  a  poor  clergyman  with  thirteen  children. 
He  was  sent  first  to  the  "  Prince *s  School,"  at 
Meissen,  and  in  1734  entered  the  University 
at  Leipsic,  where  he  studied  theology.  His 
timidity  was  so  great  that  he  renounced  preach- 
ing, after  one  unsuccessful  effort,  and  became 
successively  private  teacher,  and  Professor  Ex- 
traordinary of  Philosophy.  He  took  part  in 
the  Bremish  *'  Beitrage,"  and,  for  a  time,  edited 
a  periodica]  work,  called  "Materials  to  ferm 
the  Heart  and  Understanding,"  in  which  his 
earliest  compositions  were  first  published.  He 
wrote  a  novel,  **The  Swedish  Connteas,"  sev- 
eral dramatic  pieces,  odes,  tales,  a  collec- 
tion of  febles,  and  a  variety  of  miscellanies. 
He  died  in  1769.  His  character  was  gentle 
and  amiable,  and  strongly  marked  by  a  pious 
resignation  to  the  will  of  Providence.  Hia  in- 
fluence waa  extraordinary.  Several  editions  of 
his  works  have  been  publiahed;  the  last  in 
Leipsic,  1840. 


THE  WIDOW. 

Dobihda's  youthfiil  spouse. 
Whom  as  herself  she  loved,  and  better,  too, — 
«  Better  ? "  —  methinks  I  hear  some  caviller  say. 
With  scornful  smile ;  but  let  him  smile  away ! 

A  true  thing  is  not  therefore  the  less  true, 
Let  laughing  cavillers  do  what  they  may. 
Suffice  it,  death  snatched  from  Dorinda's  arms — 
Too  early  snatched,  in  all  his  glowing  charms  — 
The  best  of  husbands  and  the  best  of  men ; 
And  I  can  find  no  words,  —  in  vain  my  pen. 
Though  dipped  in  briny  tears,  would  fain  por- 
tray. 
In  lively  colors,  all  the  young  wife  felt. 
As  o'er  his  couch  in  agony  she  knelt. 
And  clasped  the  hand,  and  kissed  the  cheek,  of 

clay. 
The  priest,  whose  business  't  was  to  soothe  her, 

came; 
All  friendship  came,  —  in  vain  ; 
The  more  they  soothed,  the  more  Dorinda  cried. 
They  had  to  drag  her  ftom  the  dead  one's  side. 
A  ceaseless  wringing  of  the  hands 
Was  all  she  did  ;  one  piteous  '« Alas  !  " 
The  only  sound  that  from  her  lips  did  pass : 
Full  four-and-twenty  hours  thus  she  lay. 
Meanwhile,  a  neighbour  o'er  the  way 
Had  happened  in,  well  skilled  in  carving  wood. 
He  saw  Dorinda's  melancholy  mood. 
And,  partly  at  her  own  request. 
Partly  to  show  his  reverence  for  the  blest. 
And  save  his  memory  from  untimely  end. 
Resolved  to  carve  in  wood  an  image  of  his  friend. 
Success  the  artist's  cunning  hand  attended  ; 
With  most  amazing  speed  the  work  was  ended ; 

And  there  stood  Stephen,  large  as  life. 
A  masterpiece  soon  makes  its  way  to  light ; 
The  folk  ran  up  and  screamed,  so  soon  as  Ste- 
phen met  their  sight, 
**  Ah,  Heavens !  Ah,  there  he  is !  Tes,  yea,  't  is 
he! 

0  happy  artist !  happy  wife  ! 

Look  at  the  laughing  features  !     Only  see 
The  open  month,  that  seems  as  if 't  would  speak ! 

1  never  saw  before,  in  all  my  life. 

Such  nature,  —  no,  I  vow,  there  could  not  be 
A  truer  likeness ;  so  he  looked  to  me. 
When  he  stood  godfether  last  week." 

They  brought  the  wooden  spouse. 
That  now  alone  the  widow's  heart  could  cheer, 

Up  to  the  second  story  of  the  house. 
Where  he  and  she  had  slept  one  blessed  year. 
There  in  her  chamber,  having  turned  the  key. 

She  shot  herself  with  him,  and  sought  relief 

And  comfort  in  the  midst  of  bitter  grief. 
And  held  herself  as  bound,  if  she  would  be 
For  ever  worthy  of  his  memory. 
To  weep  away  the  remnant  of  her  life. 
What  more  could  one  desire  of  a  wife  ? 

So  sat  Dorinda  many  weeks,  heart-broken. 
And  had  not,  my  inionnant  said. 

In  all  that  time,  to  living  creature  spoken. 
Except  her  house-dog  and  her  serving-masd. 

And  this,  after  ao  many  weeks  of  woe. 


OELLERT.— KLEI8T. 


945 


Was  the  fine  day  that  aha  bad  dared  to  glance 
Out  cf  her  window :  and  to-day,  bj  chance, 

Just  aa  she  looked,  a  stranger  stood  below. 
Up  in  a  twinkling  came  the  house-maid  running, 
And  said,  with  look  of  sweetest,  hal^hid  cunning, 
**  Madam,  a  gentleman  would  speak  with  you, 
A  loyely  gentleman  as  one  would  wish  to  riew, 
Almost  as  loyely  as  your  blessed  one  ; 
He  has  some  business  with  you  must  be  done, — 
Busineas,  he  said,  he  could  not  trust  with  me." 
*«  Most  just  make  up  some  story,  then,"  said  she, 

M I  cannot  leave,  one  moment,  my  dear  man ; 

In  short,  ge  down  and  do  the  best  you  can  ; 
Tell  him  I  'm  sick  with  sorrow ;  for,  ah  me ! 

It  were  no  wonder " 

M  Bladam,  't  will  not  do ; 
He  has  already  had  a  glimpse  of  you. 
Up  at  your  window,  as  he  stood  below  ; 

Tou  must  come  down  ;  now  do,  I  pray. 

The  stranger  will  not  thus  be  sent  away. 
He  *s  something  weighty  to  impart,  I  know. 
I  should  think,  madam,  you  might  go." 
A  moment  the  young  widow  stands  perplexed. 
Fluttering  *twixt  memory  and  hope  ',  the  next. 
Embracing,  with  a  sudden  glow. 
The  image  that  so  long  had  soothed  her  woe, 
She  lets  the  stranger  in.     Who  can  it  be  ? 
A  suitor  ?     Ask  the  maid ;  already  she 
Is  listening  at  the  key-hole ;  but  her  ear 
Only  Dorinda>  plaintiye  tone  can  hear. 
The  afternoon  slips  by.     What  can  it  mean  ? 
The  stranger  goes  not  yet,  has  not  been  seen 
To  leave  the  house.  Perhaps  he  makes  request — 
Unheard-of  boldness !  — to  remain,  a  guest .' 
Dorinda  comes  at  length,  and,  sooth  to  say, 
alone.  — 

Where  is  the  image,  her  dear,  sad  delight?— 
**  Maid,"  she  begins,  **  say,  what  shall  now  be 
done .' 

The  gentleman  itUl  be  my  guest  to-night 
Go,  instantly,  and  boil  the  pot  of  fish." 
**Te8,  madam,  yes,  with  pleasure, — as  you  wish." 
Dorinda  goes  back  to  her  room  again. 

The  maid  ransacks  the  house  to  find  a  stick 
Of  wood  to  make  a  fire  beneath  the  pot, — in  vain. 

She  cannot  find  a  single  one ;  then  quick 
She  calls  Dorinda  out,  in  agony. 
<*  Ah,  madam,  hear  the  solemn  truth,"  says  she  : 
*<  There 's  not  a  stick  of  fish- wood  in  the  house. 

Suppose  I  take  that  image  down  and  split  it  ? 
That 

Is  good,  hard  wood,  and  to  our  purpose  pat." 
«The   image?     No,  indeed! — But— well  — 

yes,  do ! 
What  need   you   havu  been   making  all  this 

touse?" 
^  But,  ma*am,  the  image  is  too  much  far  me ; 
I  cannot  lift  it  all  alone,  you  see ;  — 
*T  would  go  out  of  the  window  easily." 
•«  A  lucky  thought !    and  that  will  split  it  for 
you,  too. 

The  gentleman  in  fiitnro  lives  with  me ', 

1  may  no  longer  nurse  this  misery." 
Up  went  the  sash,  and  out  the  blessed  Stephen 
flew. 


EWALD   CHRISTIAN   VON   KLEIST. 

EwALn  Christias  vos  Kleist  was  bom  in 
1715,  at  Zeblin,  in  Pomeranm.  He  studied  at 
the  Jesuit  College  in  Cron,  then  at  the  Gymna^ 
sium  in  Dantzic,  and  in  1731  commenced  the 
study  of  law  at  the  University  of  Konigsberg. 
Through  the  influence  of  some  relations  in  Den- 
mark, he  became  a  Danish  ofiicer  in  1736.  He 
afterwards  entered  the  service  of  Frederic  the 
Great.  In  1743,  he  fought  a  duel,  and  became 
acquainted  with  Gleim.  He  subsequently  rose 
to  the  rank  of  Major.  He  was  present  in  several 
battles,  and  lost  his  leg  in  the  engagement  at 
Kunersdorf^  which  caused  his  death  twelve 
days  afterwards.  His  naturally  thoughtfiil  tem- 
perament, acted  upon  by  an  unfortunate  attach- 
ment, and  a  dislike  of  his  profession,  gave  a 
melancholy  character  to  his  poems.  His  works 
are  chiefly  songs,  odes,  elegies,  and  the  poem 
entitled  **  Spring,"  which  is  the  most  important 
of  his  productions.  He  also  composed  idyls,  and 
an  epic  in  three  cantos.  His  works  have  been 
several  times  published;  the  latest  edition  is 
that  of  Berlin,  2  vols.,  1839.  Wolfgang  Men- 
zel  remarks  of  him,  that  he  <*  became  the  Ger- 
man Thomson,  whose  *  Seasons '  he  imitated 
in  the  poem  of  'Spring,*  which  has  become 
so  celebrated.  He  was  much  distinguished  by 
refined  sentiments  and  beautiful  imagery;  but 
he  shared  the  fiuilts  of  this  species  of  poetry, 
which  knew  not  how  to  express  a  fine  sentiment 
directly,  but  could  only  do  so  through  the  me- 
dium and  in  the  mirror  of  reflection,  and  which, 
without  intending  it,  perhaps,  played  the  co- 
quette a  little  wiSk  its  charms." 

SOHS  FOR  REST. 

O  siLVKR  brook,  my  leisure's  early  soother, 
When  wilt  thou  murmur  lullabies  again  ? 

When  shall  I  trace  thy  sliding  smooth   and 
smoother. 
While  kingfishers  along  thy  reeds  complain  ? 

Afiir  firom  thee,  with  care  and  toil  oppressed. 

Thy  image  still  can  calm  my  troubled  breast. 

O  ye  fair  groves,  and  odorous  violet  valleys, 
Girt  with«a  garland  blue  of  hills  around ; 

Thou  quiet  lake,  where,  when  Aurora  sallies. 
Her  golden  tresses  seem  to  sweep  the  ground : 

Soft  mossy  turf,  on  which  I  wont  to  stray. 

For  me  no  longer  bloom  thy  flowerets  gay. 

Thou,  who,  behind  the  linden's  fragrant  boughs, 
Wouldst  lurk  to  hear  me  blow  the  mellow 
flute. 

Speak,  Echo,  shall  I  never  know  repose  ? 
Must  every  muse  I  wooed  henceforth  be  mute  ? 

How  oft,  while,  pleased,  in  the  thick  shade  I  lay, 

Doris  I  named,  and  Doris  thou  wouldst  say ! 

Far  now  are  fled  the  pleasures  once  so  dear. 
Thy  welcome  words  no  longer  meet  my  calls. 

No  sympathetic  tone  assails  the  ear. 

Death  from  a  thousand  mouths  of  iron  bawls : 

u2 


246 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


There  brook  and  meadow  harmless  joys  bestow, 
Here  grows  but  danger,  and  here  flows  but  woe. 

As  when  the  chilly  winds  of  March  arise, 

And  whirl  the  howling  dust  in  eddies  swift, 
The  sunbeams  wither  in  the  dimmer  skies, 
O'er  the  young  ears  the  sand  and  pebbles 
drift: 
So  the  war  rages,  and  the  furious  forces 
The  air  with  smoke  bespread,  the  field  with 
corses. 

The  vineyard  bleeds,  and  trampled  is  the  corn, 
Orchards  but  heat  the  kettles  of  the  camp. 

Her  youthful  friend  the  bride  beholds,  forlorn. 
Crushed  like  a  flower  beneath  the  horse's 
tramp : 

Vain  is  her  shower  of  tears  that  bathes  the  dead, 

As  dews  on  roses  plucked,  and  soon  to  fade. 

There  flies  a  child  ;  his  aid  the  father  lends. 
But  writhing  falls,  by  random  bullets  battered ; 

With  his  last  breath  the  boy  to  God  commends. 
Nor  knows  that  both  by  the  same  blow  were 
shattered : 

So  Boreas,  when  he  stirs  his  mighty  wings. 

The  blooming  hop,  and  its  supportance,  flings. 

As  when  a  lake,  which  gushing  rains  invade. 
Breaks  down  its  dams,  and  fields  are  over- 
flowed : 
So  floods  of  fire  across  the  region  spread. 

And  standing  com   by  crackling  flames   is 
mowed ; 
Bellowing  the  cattle  fly ;  the  forests  bum, 
And  their  own  ashes  the  old  stems  inum. 

What  art  and  skill  have  built  with  cost  an^  toil 
Corinthian  sculptures  all  in  vain  attire : 

The  pride  of  cities  falls,  a  fiery  spoil. 

And  many  a  marble  fiine  and  gilded  spire. 

Whose  haughty  head  the  clouds  of  heaven  sur- 
round, 

Tumbles  in  ruin ;  quakes  the  solid  ground. 

The  people  pale  rush  out  to  quench  the  fire. 
And   tread   a  pavement   formed    of   corses 
strewn  y 
Who  from  his  burning  house  escapes  entire 
Falls  in  the  streets,  by  splitting  "bombs  o*er- 
thrown  : 
For  water,  blood  of  men  the  palace  fills. 
Which  hisses  on  the  floor  as  it  distils. 

Though  sets  the  sun,  the  ruddy  skies  are  bright; 

All  night  is  day,  where  conflagrations  glare ; 
Heaven  borrows  firom  below  a  purpler  light. 

And  roofs  of  copper  cataract  from  the  air: 
Balls  hiss,  flames  roar,  artillery  thunders  loud. 
And  moon  and  stars  their  pallid  lustre  shroud. 

As  when  their  way  a  host  of  comets  bend 
Back  into  chaos  from  the  ether's  top. 

So  with  their  tails  of  fire  the  bombs  ascend. 
And  thronging,  bursting,  thundering,  tearing, 
drop: 


The  earth  with  piecemeal  carcasses  is  sown  ; 
Limbs,  bowels,  brains,  in  wild  disorder  strewn. 

The  treacherous  ground  is  often  undermined. 
And   cloud  ward    hurls  a   long    Incumbent 
weight ; 

Forts  built  on  rocks  their  frail  foundation  find. 
And  call  the  echoes  to  proclaim  their  fate  : 

Vale,  field,  and  hill  receive  the  mingled  scath. 

As  Hecla  scatters  in  her  day  of  wrath. 

Like  the  fond  lover,  whose  too  dazzling  flame 
Forbids  him  to  discern,  ye  're   mocked   by 
fate. 

If  fortune  give  me  neither  wealth  nor  fame. 
At  least  I  do  not  grudge  them  to  the  great. 

A  heart  at  ease,  a  home  where  friends  resort, 

I  would  not  change  for  tinsel,  or  fi>r  court. 

Thou  best  of  carpets,  spread  thee  at  my  feet ! 
Meadow,  brook,  reeds,  beside   you  let  me 
dwell ! 
Gold  is  but  sand,  not  worth  these   murmurs 
sweet ; 
These  branchy  shades  all  palace-roofi  excel. 
When  of  your  hills  my  wandering  visions  dream. 
The  world  's  as  little  to  me  as  they  seem. 


JOHANN  WILHELM  LUDWIG   GLEIM. 

This  poet  was  bom  in  1719,  at  Ermsleben, 
in  the  principality  of  Halberstadt.  In  1738,  be 
went  to  the  University  of  Halle,  to  study  law. 
In  1740,  he  left  the  University,  went  to  Pots- 
dam, where  he  became  a  private  tutor,  and 
afterwards  was  appointed  Secretary  to  Prince 
William  of  Scbwedt.  Here  he  formed  an  inti- 
mate friendship  with  Kleist.  After  various 
changes  of  fortune,  Gleim  was  appointed  Secre- 
tary of  the  Cathedral  Chapter  of  Halberstadt,  and 
afterwards  Canon  of  the  Walbeck  institution. 
He  died  in  1803.  His  poetical  genius  was  not 
remarkable ;  but  he  loved  letters  and  science, 
and  lived  on  terms  of  cordial  friendship  with 
the  principal  authors  of  his  age.  His  *<  War- 
songs  of  a  Grenadier"  are,  perhaps,  his  best 
poetical  productions.  He  wrote,  besides.  Ana- 
creontic, erotic,  Petrarchian  songs ;  songs  after 
the  Minnesingers,  epistles,  fables,  and  a  didactic- 
religious  poem,  called  **  Halladat,  or  the  Red 
Book."  His  works  were  published  by  Korte, 
Halberstadt,  1811-13,  who  also  wrote  his  life. 

WAR-SONG. 

Wk  met,  a  hundred  of  us  met. 

At  curfew,  in  the  field ; 
We  talked  of  heaven  and  Jesus  Christ, 

And  all  devoutly  kneeled  : 

When,  lo !  we  saw,  all  of  us  saw, 

The  star-lit  sky  unclose. 
And  heard  the  fiir-high  thunders  roll 

Like  seas  where  storm-wind  blows. 


GLEIM.  — KLOPSTOCK. 


247 


We  listened,  in  amazement  lost, 

As  still  as  stones  for  dread, 
And  heard  the  war  proclaimed  above, 

And  sins  of  nations  read. 

The  sound  was  like  a  solemn  psalm 

That  holy  Christians  sing ; 
And  by-and-by  the  noise  was  ceased 

Of  all  the  angelic  ring : 

Tet  still,  beyond  the  cloven  sky, 

We  saw  the  sheet  of  fire; 
There  came  a  voice,  as  from  a  throne, 

To  all  the  heavenly  choir, 

Which  spake :  *«  Though  many  men  must  (all, 

I  will  that  these  prevail ; 
To  me  the  poor  man's  cause  is  dear." 

Then  slowly  sank  a  scale. 

The  hand  that  poised  was  lost  in  clouds, 

One  shell  did  weighty  seem : 
But  sceptres,  scutcheons,  mitres,  gold 

Flew  up,  and  kicked  the  beam. 


THE  INVITATION. 

I  HAVE  a  cottage  by  the  hill ; 

It  stands  upon  a  meadow  green ; 
Behind  it  flows  a  murmuring  rill. 

Cool-rooted  moss  and  flowers  between. 

Beside  the  cottage  stands  a  tree, 

That  flings  its  shadow  o'er  the  eaves ; 

And  scarce  the  sunshine  visits  me, 

Save  when  a  light  wind  rifts  the  leaves. 

A  nightingale  sings  on  a  spray 

Through  the  sweet  summer  time  night-long. 
And  evening  travellers,  on  their  way, 

Linger  to  hear  her  plaintive  song. 

Thou  maiden  with  the  yellow  hair. 
The  winds  of  life  are  sharp  and  chill ; 

Wilt  thou  not  seek  a  shelter  there. 
In  yon  lone  cottage  by  the  hill  ? 


THE  WANDERER. 

Mr  native  land,  on  thy  sweet  shore 
Lighter  heaves  the  breast ; 

Could  I  visit  thee  once  more, 
How  I  should  be  blest ! 

Heart  so  anxious  and  so  pained, 

Fitting  is  thy  woe ; 
My  native  land,  what  have  I  gained 

By  wandering  from  thee  so  ? 

Fresher  green  bedecks  thy  fields, 

Fairer  blue  thy  skies ; 
Sweeter  shade  thy  fi>reBt  yields. 

Thy  dews  have  brighter  dies. 


Thy  sabbath-bells  a  sweeter  note 

Echo  far  and  near ; 
Thy  nightingale's  melodious  throat 

Sweeter  thrills  the  ear. 

Softer  flow  thy  lavish  streams 
Through  the  meadow's  bloom  ; 

Ah !  how  bright  the  wanderer's  dreams . 
'Neath  thy  linden's  gloom ! 

Fair  thy  sun  that  flings  around 

Genial  light  and  heat. — 
To  my  father's  household  gate 

Let  me  bend  my  feet ; 
There,  forgetting  ail  the  [ 
I  will  rest  in  peace  at  last ! 


FRIEDRICH  GOTTLIEB  KLOPSTOCK. 

This  celebrated  poet  was  bom  at  Quedlin- 
burg,  in  1724.  His  childhood  was  spent  at 
Friedeberg,  but  he  was  subsequently  placed  at 
the  Gymnasium  of  Quedlinburg.  At  the  age 
of  sixteen,  he  went  to  Schulpfi>rte,  where  he 
studied  the  ancient  languages,  and  acquired 
that  classical  taste,  which  afterwards  exercised 
so  remarkable  an  influence  on  his  writings. 
Even  at  this  early  period  he  had  conceived  the 
project  of  writing  an  epic  poem.  In  1745,  he 
went  to  Jena,  to  study  theology,  and  there 
composed  the  first  canto  of  the  **  Messiah."  In 
1746,  he  removed  to  Leipsic,  where  he  became 
acquainted  with  the  circle  of  writers  who  pub- 
lished the  "BrtBmische  Beltrllge,"  in  which 
work  the  first  three  cantos  of  the  *<  Messiah  " 
appeared,  in  1748,  and  excited  unbounded  admi- 
ration. This  same  year,  he  became  acquainted 
with  Frederica  Schmidt,  in  Langensalza,  whom 
he  celebrated  under  the  name  of  Fanny.  To 
dissipate  the  chagrin  arising  from  a  disappointed 
attachment  for  this  lady,  he  visited  ZOrich,  on 
the  invitation  of  Bodmer,  in  1750 ;  and  in  the 
following  year  he  was  summoned  to  Copenha- 
gen, through  the  influence  of  Bernstorf,  and 
received  a  small  pension  to  give  him  leisure 
for  the  completion  of  his  poem.  On  his  way 
thither,  he  became  acquainted  with  Margaretha 
or  Meta  Moller,  a  warm  and  enthusiastic  ad- 
mirer of  his  poems,  and  a  person  of  much  spirit 
and  talent.  An  attachment  sprang  up  between 
them,  and  they  were  married  in  1754.  She 
died  in  1758.  In  1764,  he  wrote  his  "  Her- 
manns Schlacht"  (Battle  of  Arminius),  and 
soon  after  engaged  in  his  investigations  into  the 
German  language.  After  the  downfall  of  the 
minister,  Bernstorf,  in  1771,  Klopstock  returned 
to  Hamburg  in  the  character  of  Danish  Secre- 
tary of  Legation,  and  in  1775  became  a  coun- 
cillor of  the  margraviate  of  Baden.  He  fin- 
ished his  **  Messiah  "  in  Hamburg.  In  1792, 
he  married  a  second  wife,  Johanna  von  Wind- 
ham.    He  died  in  1803. 

In  private  he  was  social  and  amiable,  fond  of 


248 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


children  and  of  skating.  As  an  epic  poet,  his 
**  Messiah  *'  gave  him  an  immense  reputation  ; 
he  has  been  pronounced  the  first  lyric  poet  of 
modem  times,  and  some  even  rank  him  higher 
than  Pindar.  He  shows  a  genuine  classic  taste, 
and  a  deep  feeling  of  the  spirit  of  antiquity. 
The  principal  measures  of  the  ancients  he  re- 
produced in  the  German  with  remarkable  skill 
and  felicity.  His  elegies  are  composed  in  the 
ancient  elegiac  distich.  His  tragedies  and  dra- 
mas had  but  little  success. 

Menzel  has  given  a  very  good  summary  of 
his  character.*  **  Klopstock,  the  German  Ho- 
mer, stands  before  all  the  German  Horaces, 
Anacreons,  Pindars,  Theocrituses,  and  JEsops. 
It  was,  in  truth,  he,  who,  by  the  powerful  influ- 
ence of  his  *  Messiah '  and  his  '  Odes,'  gave 
the  antique  taste  its  supremacy,  not,  however, 
in  defiance,  but  operating  rather  in  favor,  of  the 
German  and  Christian  manner.  Religion  and 
'native  land  were  with  him  the  highest  themes; 
but  as  to  form,  he  regarded  the  ancient  Greek 
as  the  most  perfect,  and  thought  to  unite  the 
most  beautifiil  substance  with  the  most  beantifiil 
form,  by  exalting  Christianity  and  Germanism 
in  Grecian  fashion,  —  an  extraordinary  error, 
certainly,  but  perfectly  natural  to  the  extraor- 
dinary character  manifested  in  the  progress  of 
his  age.  The  English,  it  is  true,  did  not  feil  to 
produce  an  effect  on  Klopstock,  for  his  *  Mes- 
siah '  is  only  a  pendant  to  Milton's  *  Paradise 
Lost ' ;  but  Klopstock  was  by  no  means,  on 
this  account,  a  mere  imitator  of  the  English ; 
on  the  contrary,  his  merit  in  regard  to  German 
poetry  is  as  peculiar  as  it  is  great.  He  sup- 
planted the  hitherto  prevailing  French  alexan- 
drines and  doggerels  by  the  Greek  hexameter, 
and  the  other  metres,  the  Sapphic,  Alcaic,  and 
'  iambic,  of  the  ancients.  By  this  means,  not 
only  the  French  fustian  and  senseless  rhyming 
were  set  aside,  and  the  poet  was  compelled  to 
think  more  of  the  meaning  and  substance  than 
of  the  rhyme,  but  the  German  language  also 
was  remoulded  by  the  attention  paid  to  rhyth- 
mical harmony,  and  attained  a  flexibility  which 
would  have  been  serviceable  to  the  poets,  even 
if  they  afterwards  threw  aside  the  Greek  form, 
as  a  mere  study  and  exercise.  Moreover,  Klop- 
stock, although  he  wanted  to  be  a  Greek  in 
form,  still  always  meant  to  be  only  a  German 
in  spirit;  and  it  was  he  who  introduced  the 
patriotic  enthusiasm,  and  that  worship  of  every 
thing  German,  which  have  never  disappeared 
since,  in  spite  of  all  new  foreign  fiishions,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  have  broken  out  against  what 
is  foreign,  oflen  to  the  extreme  of  injustice  and 
absurdity.  Strangely  as  it  sounds,  when  he, 
the  son  of  the  French  age  of  perukes,  calls 
himself  a  bard  in  Alcaic  verses,  and  thus  blends 
together  three  wholly  heterogeneous  ages, — 
the  modem,  the  antique,  and  the  old  German, 
—  sUll,  this  was  the  beginning  of  that  proud 


*  Mbnssl's  Germaa  Litaratare,  translated  by  C.  C.  Fkl- 
TOH.    VoL  n.,  pp.  370-373. 


revival  of  German  poetry,  which  finally  ven- 
tured to  cast  oflT  the  foreign  fetters,  and  to  drop 
that  humble  demeanour  which  had  been  custom- 
ary since  the  peace  of  Westphalia.  It  was, 
indeed,  needfol  that  one  should  again  come, 
who  might  freely  smite  his  breast,  and  cry, '  I 
am  a  German  ! '  Finally,  his  poetry,  as  well 
as  his  patriotism,  had  its  root  in  that  sublime 
moral  and  religious  fkith  which  his  *  Messiah ' 
celebrates;  and  he  it  was,  who,  along  with 
Gellert,  lent  to  modem  German  poetry  that 
dignified,  earnest,  and  pious  character,  which  it 
has  never  lost  again,  in  spite  of  all  the  extrava- 
gances of  fency  and  wit,  and  which  foreign 
nations  have  constantly  admired  most  in  us,  or 
looked  upon  with  distant  respect.  When  we 
call  to  mind  the  influence  of  the  frivolous  old 
French  philosophy,  and  the  scoffing  of  Voltaire, 
we  begin  to  comprehend  what  a  mighty  dam 
Klopstock  set  up  against  that  foreign  influence 
in  Geraian  poetry. 

"  His  patriotism,  therefore,  and  his  elevated 
religious  character,  have,  still  more  than  the 
improvements  he  introduced  into  the  German 
language,  conferred  upon  him  that  reverential 
respect  which  he  will  always  maintain.  They 
have  had  the  effect  of  securing  to  him  for  ever 
the  admiration  of  those  who  could  hardly  read 
him  through ;  which  fumishes  matter  for  Les- 
sing's  ridicule.  It  is  true  that  Klopstock  loses 
every  thing,  if  he  is  closely  examined  and 
judged  by  single  parts.  We  must  look  upon 
him  at  a  certain  distance,  and  as  a  whole. 
When  we  undertake  to  read  him,  he  appears 
pedantic  and  tedious ;  but  when  we  have  once 
read  him,  and  then  recall  his  image  to  memory, 
he  becomes  great  and  majestic.  Then  his  two 
ideas,  country  and  religion,  shine  forth  in  their 
simplicity,  and  make  upon  us  the  impression  of 
sublimity.  We  think  we  see  a  gigantic  spirit 
of  Ossian,  striking  a  wondrous  harp,  high  among 
the  clouds.  If  we  approach  him  more  nearly, 
he  dissolves  into  a  thin  and  wide-spread  mass 
of  vapor.  But  that  first  impression  has  wrought 
a  powerfol  efiect  upon  our  souls,  and  attuned 
us  to  lofty  thoughts.  Although  too  metaphysi- 
cal and  cold,  he  has  still  given  us,  in  the  high- 
est ideas  of  his  poetry,  two  great  troths,  —  the 
one,  that  our  un-Gerraanized  poetry,  long  alien- 
ated from  its  native  soil,  must  take  root  there 
again,  and  there  only  can  grow  up  to  a  noble 
tree ;  the  other,  that,  as  all  poetry  must  have 
its  source  in  religion,  so,  too,  it  must  find  there 
its  highest  aim." 

Klopstock's  works  were  published  at  Leipsic, 
in  twelve  quarto  volumes,  1798-1617;  again, 
in  870.,  1823 ;  and  again  in  1829. 


ODE  TO  GOD. 

Thou  Jehovah 
Art  named,  but  I  am  dust  of  dust ! 
Dust,  yet  eternal !  for  the  immortal  soul 
Thou  gav'st  me,  gav'st  thou  for  eternity, 


KLOPSTOCK. 


249 


Brealh'dst  into  her,  to  form  thy  image, 
Sublime  desires  for  peace  and  bliss, 
A  thronging  host !     But  one,  more  beautifii] 
Than  all  tlM  rest,  is  as  the  queen  of  all,  •— 
Of  thee  the  last,  divinest  image. 
The  fiurest,  most  attractive,  —  Love ! 
Thou  feelest  it,  though  as  the  Eternal  One : 
It  feel,  rejoicing,  the  high  angels,  whom 

Thou  mad'st  celestial,  —  thj  last  image. 
The  fairest  and  divinest,  —  Love  ! 
Deep  within  Adam's  heart  thou  plantedst  it : 
In  his  idea  of  perfection  made. 

For  him  create,  to  him  then  broughteat 
The  mother  of  the  human  race. 
Deep  also  in  my  heart  thou  plantedst  it: 
In  my  idea  of  perfection  made. 

For  me  create,  from  me  thou  leadest 
Her  whom  my  heart  entirely  loves. 
Towards  her  my  soul  is  all  outshed  in  tears, — 
My  full  soul  weeps,  to  stream  itself  away 

Wholly  in  tears !     From  me  thou  leadest 
Her  whom  I  love,  O  God !  fi*om  me,  — 
For  so  thy  destiny,  invisibly. 
Ever  in  darkness  works,  —  tar,  ftr  away 

From  my  fbnd  arms  in  vain  extended,  — 
But  not  away  from  my  sad  heart ! 
And  yet  thou  knowest  why  thou  didst  con- 
ceive, 
And  to  reality  creating  call. 

Souls  so  susceptible  of  feeling, 
And  for  each  other  fitted  so. 
Thou  know'st.  Creator  !     But  thy  destiny 
Those  souls,  thus  bom  as  for  each  other,  parts  : 
High  destiny,  impenetrable, — 
How  dark,  yet  how  adorable  ! 
But  life,  when  with  eternity  compared. 
Is  like  the  swift  breath  by  the  dying  breathed, 
The  last  breath,  wherewith  flees  the  spirit 
That  aye  to  endless  life  aspired. 
What  once  was  labyrinth  in  glory  melts 
Away,  —  and  destiny  is  then  no  more. 
Ah,  then,  with  rapturous  rebeholding. 
Thou  givest  soul  to  soul  again  ! 
Thought  of  the  soul,  and  of  eternity. 
Worthy  and  meet  to  soothe  the  saddest  pain : 
My  soul  conceives  it  in  its  greatness ; 
But,  O,  I  feel  too  much  the  life 
That  here  I  live  !     Like  immortality. 
What  seemed  a  breath  fearfully  wide  extends ! 
I  see,  I  see  my  bosom's  anguish 
In  boundless  darkness  magnified. 
God  !  let  this  life  pass  like  a  fleeting  breath  ! 
Ah,  no  ! — But  her  who  seems  designed  for  me 
Give,  —  easy  for  thee  to  accord  me,  — 
Give  to  my  trembling,  tearful  heart ! 
(The  pleasing  awe  that  thrills  me,  meeting  her  ! 
The  suppressed  stammer  of  the  undying  soul, 
That  has  no  words  to  say  its  feelings. 
And,  save  by  tears,  is  wholly  mute  ! ) 
Give  her  unto  my  arms,  which,  innocent. 
In  childhood,  ofl  I  raised  to  thee  in  heaven, 
When,  with  the  fervor  of  devotion, 
I  prayed  of  thee  eternal  peace  ! 
With  the  same  eflfort  dost  thou  grant  and  take 
From  the  poor  worm,  whose  hours  are  centuries. 


His  brief  felicity,  —  the  worm,  man. 
Who  blooms  his  season,  droops  and  dies  ! 
By  her  beloved,  I  beautiful  and  blest 
Will  Virtue  call,  and  on  her  heavenly  form 
With  fixed  eye  will  gaze,  and  only 
Own  that  for  peace  and  happiness 
Which  she  prescribes  for  me.    But,  Holier  One, 
Thee  too,  who  dwell'st  afar  in  higher  state 
Than  human  virtue, —  thee  I  '11  honor, 
Only  by  God  observed,  more  pure. 
By  her  beloved,  will  I  more  zealously. 
Rejoicing,  meet  before  thee,  and  pour  forth 
My  fuller  heart,  Eternal  Father, 
In  hallelujahs  fbrventer. 
Then,  when  with  me  she  thine  exalted  praise 
Weeps  up  to  heaven  in  prayer,  with  eyes  that 
swim 
In  ecstacy,  shall  I  already 
With  her  that  higher  life  enjoy. 
The  song  of  the  Messiah,  in  her  arms 
Quaffing  enjoyment  pure,  I  noblier  may 
Sing  to  the  good,  who  love  as  deeply, 
And,  being  Christians,  f^el  as  we ! 


THE  LAKE  OF  ZURICH. 

Fair  is  the  majesty  of  all  thy  works 

On  the  green  earth,  O  Mother  Nature,  fair ! 

But  fairer  the  glad  face 

Enraptured  with  their  view. 
Come  fVom   the  vine-banks   of  the   glittering 

lake,— 
Or,  hast  thou  climbed  the  smiling  skies  anew. 

Come  on  the  roseate  tip 

Of  evening's  breezy  wing. 
And  teach  my  song  with  glee  of  youth  to  glow. 
Sweet  Joy,  like  thee,  —  with  glee  of  shouting 
youths. 

Or  feeling  Fanny's  laugh. 

Behind  us  far  already  Uto  lay,  — 

At  whose  foot  Zarich  in  the  quiet  vale 

Feeds  her  free  sons :  behind, 

Receding  vine-clad  hills. 
Unclouded  beamed  the  top  of  silver  Alps  ; 
And  warmer  beat  the  heart  of  gazing  youtlis, 

And  warmer  to  their  fair 

Companions  spoke  its  glow. 
And  Haller's  Doris  sang,  the  pride  of  song; 
And  Hiissel's  Daphne,  dear  to  Kleist  and  Gleim ; 

And  we  youths  sang,  and  felt 

As  each  were  —  Hagedorn. 

Soon  the  green  meadow  took  us  to  the  cool 
And  shadowy  forest,  which  becrowns  the  isle. 

Then  cam'st  thou,  Joy,  thou  cam'st 

Down  in  full  tide  to  us ; 
Yes,  Goddess  Joy,  thyself!  We  felt,  we  clasped, 
Best  sister  of  Humanity,  thyself; 

With  thy  dear  Innocence 

Accompanied,  thyself  I 

Sweet  thy  inspiring  breath,  O  cheerful  Spring, 
When  the  meads  cradle  thee,  and  thy  soft  airs 


250 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


Into  the  hearts  of  youths 
And  hearts  of  virgins  glide  ! 
Thou  makest  Feeling  conqueror.    Ah !  through 

thee, 
Fuller,  more  tremulous  heaves  each  blooming 
breast ; 
With  lips  spell-freed  by  thee 
Young  Love  unfaltering  pleads. 

Fair  gleams  the  wine,  when  to  the  social  change 
Of  thought,  or  heart-felt  pleasure,  it  invites ; 

And  the  Socratic  cup. 

With  dewy  roses  bound. 
Sheds  through  the  bosom  bliss,  and  wakes  re- 
solves. 
Such  as  the  drunkard  knows  not,  proud  resolves, 

Emboldening  to  despise 

Whate'er  the  sage  disowns. 

Delightful  thrills  against  the  panting  heart 
Fame's  silver  voice,  —  and  immortality 

Is  a  great  thought,  well  worth 

The  toil  of  noble  men. 
By  dint  of  song  to  live  through  afler-times, — 
Often  to  be  with  rapture's  thanking  tone 

By  name  invoked  aloud. 

From  the  mute  grave  invoked, 

To  form  the  pliant  heart  of  sons  unborn, 

To  plant  thee,  Love,  thee,  holy  Virtue,  there, — 

Gold-heaper,  is  well  worth 

The  toil  of  noble  men. 

But  sweeter,  fairer,  more  delightful  't  is 

On  a  friend's  arm  to  know  one's  self  a  friend ! 

Nor  is  the  hour  so  spent 

Unworthy  heaven  above. 

Full  of  affection,  in  the  airy  shades 

Of  the  dim  forest,  and  with  downcast  look 

Fixed  on  the  silver  wave, 

I  breathed  this  pious  wish  : 
"  O,  were  ye  here,  who  love  me  though  afar, 
Whom,  singly  scattered  in  our  country's  lap, 

In  lucky,  hallowed  hour, 

My  seeking  bosom  found  ; 
Here  would  we  build  us  huts  of  friendship,  here 
Together  dwell  for  ever ! "  —  The  dim  wood 

A  shadowy  Tempe  seemed  ; 

Elysium  all  the  vale. 


TO  YOUNG. 

Dix,  aged  prophet !  Lo,  thy  crown  of  palms 
Has  long  been  springing,  and  the  tear  of  joy 

Quivers  on  angel-lids 

Astart  to  welcome  thee ! 
Why  linger  ?     Hast  thou  not  already  built 
Above  the  clouds  thy  lasting  monument  ? 

Over  thy  "  Night  Thoughts,"  too, 

The  pale  freethinkers  watch. 
And  feel  there  *s  prophecy  amid  the  song. 
When  of  the  dead-awakening  trump  it  speaks, 

Of  coming  final  doom, 

And  the  wise  will  of  Heaven. 


Die !     Thou  hast  taught  me  that  the  name  of 

death 
Is  to  the  just  a  glorious  sound  of  joy ! 

But  be  my  teacher  still. 

Become  my  genius  there ! 


MY  REOOYERY. 

RxcovBRT,  daughter  of  Creation,  too. 
Though  not  for  immortality  designed. 

The  Lord  of  life  and  death 

Sent  thee  from  heaven  to  me  ! 
Had  I  not  heard  thy  gentle  tread  approach. 
Not  heard  the  whisper  of  thy  welcome  voice^ 

Death  had  with  iron  foot 

My  chilly  forehead  pressed. 
'Tis  true,  I  then  had  wandered  where  the  eartbs 
Roll  around  suns ;  had  strayed  along  the  patli 

Where  the  maned  comet  soars 

Beyond  the  armed  eye ; 
And  with  the  rapturous,  eager  greet  had  hailed 
The  inmates  of  those  eartbs  and  of  those  suns ; 

Had  hailed  the  countless  host 

That  throng  the  comet's  disc ; 
Had  asked  the  novice  questions,  and  obtained 
Such  answers  as  a  sage  vouchsafes  to  youth  ; 

Had  learned  in  hours  far  more 

Than  ages  here  unfold ! 
But  I  had  then  not  ended  here  below 
What,  in  the  enterprising  bloom  of  life. 

Fate  with  no  light  behest 

Required  me  to  begin. 
Recovery,  daughter  of  Creation,  too. 
Though  not  for  immortality  designed, 

The  Lord  of  life  and  death 

Sent  thee  from  heaven  to  me  ! 


THE  CHOIB& 

Dear  dream,  which  I  must  ne'er  behold  fblfilled. 
Thou  beamy  form,  more  fair  than  orient  day. 

Float  back,  and  hover  yet 

Before  my  swinuning  sight ! 

Do  they  wear  crowns  in  vain,  that  they  forbear 
To  realize  the  heavenly  portraiture  ? 
Shall  marble  hearse  them  all. 
Ere  the  bright  change  be  vnrought  ? 

Hail,  chosen  ruler  of  a  freer  world  ! 

For  thee  shall  bloom  the  never  fading  song, 

Who  bidd'st  it  be,  —  to  thee 

Religion's  honors  rise. 

Yes  !  could  the  grave  allow,  of  thee  I  'd  sing: 
For  once  would  Inspiration  string  the  lyre, — 

The  streaming  tide  of  joy, 

My  pledge  for  loftier  verse. 

Great  is  thy  deed,  my  wish.  He  has  not  known 
What  't  is  to  melt  in  bliss,  who  never  folt 

Devotion's  raptures  rise 

On  sacred  Music's  wing : 


RAMLER. 


251 


Ne'er  iweetly  trembled,  when  adoring  choirs 
Mingle  their  hallowed  aongs  of  solemn  praise ', 

And,  at  each  awful  pause. 

The  unseen  choirs  above. 

Long  float  around  my  forehead,  blissful  dream  ! 
I  hear  a  Christian  people  hymn  their  God, 

And  thousands  kneel  at  once, 

Jehovah,  Lord,  to  thee  ! 

The  people  sing  their  Saviour,  sing  the  Son ; 
Their  simple  song  according  with  the  heart, 

Tet  lofty,  such  as  lifts 

The  aspiring  soul  from  earth. 

On  the  raised  eyelash,  on  the  burning  cheek. 
The  young  tear  quivers  >  for  they  view  the  goal. 

Where  shines  the  golden  crown. 

Where  angels  wave  the  palm. 

Hush  !  the  clear  song  wells  forth.     Now  flows 

along 
Music,  as  if  poured  artless  from  the  breast ; 

For  so  the  master  willed 

To  lead  its  channelled  course. 

Deep,  strong,  it  seizes  on  the  swelling  heart, 
Scorning  what  knows  not  to  call  down  the  tear. 

Or  shroud  the  soul  in  gloom. 

Or  steep  in  holy  awe. 

Borne  on  the  deep,  slow  sounds,  a  holy  awe 
Descends.     Alternate  voices  sweep  the  dome, 
Then  blend  their  choral  force, — 
The  theme.  Impending  Doom^  ^ 

Or  the  triumphal  Hail  to  him  toko  rose^ 
While  all  the  host  of  heaven  o'er  Sion's  hill 

Hovered,  and,  praising,  saw 

Ascend  the  Lord  of  Life. 

One  voice  alone,  one  harp  alone,  begins ', 
But  soon  joins  in  the  ever  fuller  choir. 

The  people  quake.     They  feel 

A  glow  of  heavenly  fire. 

Joy  !  joy  !  they  scarce  support  it  Rolls  aloud 
The  organ's  thunder,  —  now  more  loud  and 
more,^— 

And  to  the  shout  of  all 

The  temple  trembles  too. 

Enough !  I  sink  !   The  wave  of  people  bows 
Before  the  altar,  —  bows  the  front  to  earth ; 

They  taste  the  hallowed  cup, 

Devoutly,  deeply,  still. 

One  day,  when  rest  my  bones  beside  a  fane. 
Where  thus  assembled  worshippers  adore, 

The  conscious  grave  shall  heave. 

Its  flowerets  sweeter  bloom  ; 


A  The  words  In  luUcs  are  paangea  from  an  Eutar-hymn 
of  Luther's^  very  popokr  in  Gennanj. 


And  on  the  morn  that  from  the  rock  He  sprang, 
When  panting  Praise  pursues  his  radiant  way, 
I  '11  hear,  —  He  rose  again 
Shall  vibrate  through  the  tomb. 


CARL  WILHELM   RAMLER. 

Carl  Wilhklm  Rahlxr  was  bom  at  Col- 
berg,  in  Pomerania,  in  1725.  His  education 
commenced  at  the  Orphan  School  in  Stettin, 
whence,  in  1740,  he  removed  to  Halle.  In 
1746,  he  became  a  preceptor  in  Berlin,  where 
he  formed  the  acquaintance  of  Kleist,  Sulzer, 
and  Leasing.  In  1748,  be  was  appointed  Pro- 
fessor of  Logic  and  Elegant  Literature  in  the 
Berlin  Academy  for  Cadets.  He  employed 
himself  in  various  literary  undertakinp,  in  ad- 
dition to  the  duties  of  his  professorship.  In 
1787,  he  became  one  of  the  managers  of  the 
national  theatre,  and  received  a  pension  and  a 
seat  in  the  Academy.  He  resigned  his  professor- 
ship in  1790,  and  the  directorship  of  the  thea- 
tre in  1796.     He  died  in  1798. 

Of  his  writings,  his  odes  in  the  manner  of 
Horace  acquired  the  most  popularity ;  indeed,  he 
is  considered,  next  to  Klopstock,  the  author  of 
the  best  odes  of  the  time.  His  works  were 
published  at  Berlin,  in  1800  and  1801.  The. 
character  of  his  productions  is,  however,  cold 
correctness,  and  he  was  too  much  of  an  imita- 
tor, to  retain  a  strong  hold  upon  the  minds  of 
his  countrymen. 


ODE  TO  WINTER. 

Storms  ride  the  air,  and  veil  the  sky  in  clouds. 
And  chase  tlie  thundering  streams  athwart  the 

land : 
Bare  stand  the  woods ;  the  social  linden's  leaves 
Far  o'er  the  valleys  whirl. 

The  vine,  —  a  withered  stalk  !  But  why  bewail 
The  godlike  vine  .'     Friends,  come  and  quaff 

its  blood  ! 
Let  Autumn  with  his  emptied  horn  retire ; 
Bid  fir-crowned  Winter  hail ! 

He  decks  the  flood  with  adamantine  shield. 
Which  laughs  to  scorn  the  shafts  of  day.  Amazed, 
The  tenants  of  the  wood  new  blossoms  view  : 
Strange  lilies  strew  the  ground. 

No  more  in  tottering  gondolas  the  brides 
Tremble  ;  on  gliding  cars  they  boldly  scud  : 
Hid  in  her  fur-clad  neck,  the  favorite's  hand 
Asks  an  unneeded  warmth. 

No  more,  like  fishes,  plunge  the  bathing  boys ; 
On  steel-winged  shoes  they  skim  the  hardened 

wave : 
The  spouse  of  Venus  in  the  glittering  blade 
The  lightning's  swiftness  hid. 


252 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


O  Winter !  call  th j  coldest  east- wind ;  drive 
The  lingering  waniors  from  Bohemia  back ; 
With  them  my  Kleist :  for  him  Lyooris  Btaya, 
And  hit  friend's  tawny  wine. 


ODE  TO  CONCORD. 

Not  always  to  the  heaven*s  harmonious  spheres, 
O  Concord,  listen,  —  wander  earth  again  ! 

Beneath  thy  plastic  step, 

The  peopled  cities  climb. 
The  chain,  the  scourge,  the  axe  beside  thee  bears 
Deaf  Nemesis,  —  to  aveoge  the  wedlock's  stain. 

The  pillage  of  the  cot. 

The  spilth  of  brother's  blood. 
From  the  warm  ashes  of  their  plundered  homes. 
On  thee,  with   clasped   hands,  with   pleading 
tongue, 

The.  lonely  grandsire  calls. 

The  widowed  mother  calls,  « 

And  she, — the  flower  of  virgins  now  no  more, — 
Doomed  aye  to  shed  the  unavailing  tear. 

And  nurse,  with  downcast  eye. 

Some  ruffian's  orphan  brat. 
Bind  with  thy  cords  of  silk  the  armed  hands 
Of  hateful  kings ;  reach  out  thy  golden  cup, 

Whose  sweet  nepenthe  heals 

The  feverish  throb  of  wrath ; 
And  hither  lead  Hope,  crowned  with  budding 

blooms, 
'And  callous-handed  Labor,  singing  loud. 

And  Plenty,  scattering  gifts 

To  dancing  choirs  of  glee. 
The  war-steed's  hoof  mark  hide  with  greening 

ears; 
Twine  round  the  elm  once  more  the  trampled 
vine  ; 

And  from  the  grass-grown  street 

The  rugged  ruin  shove. 
So  shall,  new  nurseries  of  sons  unborn. 
More  towns  arise,  —  and.  Concord,  rear  to  thee. 

Taught  by  the  milder  arts. 

The  marble  fanes  of  thank. 


GOTTHOLD   EPHRAIM   LESSING. 

This  great  poet,  and  still  greater  critic,  was 
born  in  1729,  at  Kamenz,  a  town  in  Upper  Lu- 
satia.  He  was  sent  in  his  twelfth  year  to  the 
**  Prince's  School  "  at  Meissen,  where  he  de- 
voted himself  to  the  ancient  languages  and 
the  mathematics  with  ardor  and  success.  In 
1746,  he  entered  the  University  of  Leipsic,  but 
was  satisfied  with  none  of  the  teachers  except 
Ernesti.  Instead  of  studying  theology,  ha  oc- 
cupied  himself  with  the  fine  arts  and  the  thesr 
tre.  Here  he  wrote  his  Anacreontics.  In  1750, 
he  went  to  Berlin,  and  contributed  to  some  of 
the  periodicals.  He  afterwards  studied  at  Wit- 
tenberg;  but  in  1753  returned  to  Beriin,  and 
formed  a  connection  with  Mendelssohn  and  Ni- 
colai.  He  also  wrote  in  Voss's  "  Gazette."  Here 
he  became  the  founder  of  German  scientific 


criticism.  In  1755,  he  wrote  the  tragedy  of 
<*  Sarah  Sampson,"  the  first  Crennan  tragedy  of 
common  life.  In  the  same  year  he  set  out  oa 
a  tour,  as  travelling  companion  to  a  Leipsio 
merchant,  Mr.  Winkler,  but  returned  to  Leipsic 
on  account  of  the  breaking  oat  of  the  Sevea 
Tears'  War.  He  assisted  in  editing  the  «<  Li- 
brary of  Belles  Lettres,"  was  a  contributor  to 
the  **  Literary  Epistles,"  and  began  the  '*  EmilisL 
Galotti "  about  this  period.  In  1760,  he  became 
a  member  of  the  Royal  Academy  of  Science* 
at  Berlin,  then  secretary  of  General  TaueD-> 
zien  in  Breslau,  and  wrote  **  Minna  von  Bam- 
helm  "  and  "  Laocoon," — the  latter  appearing  in 
1765.  In  1767,  he  accepted  an  invitation  from 
the  proprietors  of  the  theatre  in  Hamburg,  and 
removed  to  that  city,  where  he  wrote  the  **  Dim- 
maturgie."-  In  1770,  he  was  appointed  libra- 
rian at  WolfenbOttel ;  while  in  this  situation,  he 
publbhed  some  works  that  involved  him  in  a 
vehement  theological  controversy.  In  1775, 
he  travelled  in  Italy ;  and  in  1779,  he  pub- 
lished- his  *'  Nathan  the  Wise,"  the  most  cele- 
brated of  his  dramatic  works,  in  which  he  aet 
the  example  of  the  finished  iambic  pentameter, 
afterwards  used  by  Goethe  and  Schiller.  He 
died  in  Brunswick,  in  1781.  His  numerous 
works  embrace  almost  every  department  of  let- 
ters. They  were  published  at  Berlin,  1771 
-94,  in  thirty  parts;  again,  1825-28,  in  thirty- 
two  parts  ;  and,  finally,  at  Leipsic,  1638  -  40, 
in  thirteen  volumes,  octavo. 

The  following  passages  are  from  the  sketch 
of  Lessing's  character  by  Wolfgang  Menzel,* 
and,  though  in  some  parts,  perhaps,  too  highly 
colored,  show  the  estimation  in  which  he  is  still 
held  in  Germany. 

'*  When  we  consider  Lessing  as  a  poet,  we 
must  not  fi>rget  that  he  had  first  to  work  himself 
free  from  the  Gallomania,  Gnecomania,  and 
Anglomania,  by  criticism,  and  that  he  was  oc- 
cupied with  a  hundred  other  things  besides  po- 
etry. Hence  his  earlier  poetical  studies  and 
essays,  as  well  as  his  occasional  poetical  trifles, 
on  which  he  himself  set  but  little  value,  are 
to  be  broadly  distinguished  firom  the  classical 
works  of  his  full  poetical  maturity ;  tliat  is,  from 

*  Minna  von  Barnhelm,'  'Emilia  Galotti,' and 

*  Nathan,' — each  of  which  would  alone  be  suffi- 
cient to  rank  him  with  the  greatest  poets  of  all 
ages.  The  spirit  and  form  of  these  works  are 
alike  important. 

**  Honor  stands  forth  as  the  inmost  principle 
of  the  poetry  of  Lessing.  We  can  understand 
why  the  poets  and  critics,  whose  principle,  on 
the  contrary,  had  been  hitherto  the  utter  ab- 
sence of  honor,  overlook  this  circumstance,  and 
have  contrived  fairly  to  forget  it,  in  their  eulo- 
gies of  Lessing.  So  much  the  more  reason  for 
me  to  return  to  it. 

**  I  say,  still  further,  that  honor  was  the  prin- 
ciple  of  Lessing's  whole  life.  He  composed  in 
the  same  spirit  that  he  lived.     He  had  to  con- 

♦  Gennan  Litaratara,  YoL  IL,  p.  389. 


LESSING. 


353 


tend  with  obstaclM  his  whole  life  long ;  but  he 
never  bowed  down  hia  head.  He  straggled, 
not  for  posts  of  honor,  but  for  hii  own  indepen- 
dence. He  might,  with  his  extraordinary  abil- 
itj,  have  rioted  in  the  favor  of  the  great,  like 
Goethe ;  but  he  scorned  and  hated  -this  favor,  as 
un^vorthy  a  free  man.  His  long  continaance 
in  private  life,  his  services,  as  secretary  of  the 
brave  General  Tauenzien,  during  the  Seven 
Years'  War,  and  afterwards  as  librarian  at  Wolf- 
enbottel,  proved  that  he  did  not  aspire  to  high 
places.  He  declared  that  he  would  resign  the 
latter  situation  at  once,  when  the  censorship 
undertook  to  impose  restraints  upon  his  liberal 
opinions.  He  ridiculed  Gellert,  Klopstock,  and 
all  who  bowed  their  laurelled  brows  before 
beads  encircled  with  golden  crowns;  and  he 
himself  shunned  all  contact  with  the  great,  ani- 
mated by  that  stainless  spirit  of  pride,  to  which 
the  Jfoli  me  iangere  is  an  inborn  principle." 

^  Such  was  Leasing  himself,  and  such  we  find 
him  in  his  Major  Tellheim,  in  Odoardo  Ga- 
lotti,  and  in  Nathan.  Humanity  and  wisdom 
were  never  so  intimately  connected  with  the 
romantic  essence  of  manly  honor ;  and  no  mod- 
ern poet  —  I  repeat  it,  no  one  —  has  known 
how  to  represent  this  grace  of  manliness  so  well 
as  Lessing. 

**  And  what  charming  daughters  has  this  aus- 
tere father !  What  enchantment  is  there  in 
Minna,  Emilia,  Recha!  Who,  except  Shak- 
speare,  has  understood  the  nature  of  woman,  in 
its  sweet  softness,  noble  simplicity,  laughing 
vivacity,  and  sacred  purity,  like  Lessing  ?  We 
are  amazed  at  the  lovely  miracles  of  fiction,  and 
would  fain  converse  with  these  so  natural  crea- 
tions, as  if  they  were  standing  before  us. 

^  Leasing  was  the  first  of  our  modern  poets 
who  reconciled  the  ideals  of  poetry  with  real 
life,  —  who  dared  to  bring  upon  the  stage  he- 
roes in  modem  costume,  heroes  of  to-day.  Up 
to  this  time,  we  knew  only  the  manly  virtues 
of  the  ancient  Romans  from  the  French  come- 
dy. Lessing  showed,  by  his  Tellheim,  and 
Odoardo,  that,  even  in  the  present  prosaic 
world,  a  hero,  a  man  of  honor,  may  still  exist 

**  By  this  modern  costume,  by  the  naturalness 
of  bis  dramatic  characters,  and  by  the  prose 
which  he  brought  into  the  field  against  the  old 
French  alexandrine  as  well  as  the  Greek  hex- 
ameter, he  exerted  a  great  influence  on  the  sub- 
sequent age,  and  became  the  creator  of  the 
proper  modem  German  poetry,  which  under- 
took to  picture  life  as  it  now  is,  while  hitherto 
nothing  but  what  was  ancient  and  fbreign  had 
been  imitated. 

*•*'  The  Anglomaniacs,  who  also  came  fbrward, 
as  friends  of  the  natural  style,  with  pictures 
of  the  present  and  of  common  life,  —  Nicolai, 
Mailer  von  Itzehoe,  and  others,  —  were  later 
than  Lessing,  and  followed  the  impulse  which 
he  first  gave.  Then  came  Goethe  and  Schil- 
ler, whose  first  prose  dramas — *Gdtz,'  'Cla- 
vigo,'  «The  Robbers,*  « Cabal  and  Love'  — 
everywhere  betray  the  influence  of  Lessing's 


school,  and,  without  his  example,  would  never 
have  existed. 

'« Lessing  was  also  the  first,  who,  in  his 
*  Emilia  Galotti,'  delineated  a  modem  prince. 
Before  that  time  we  knew  nothing  but  stiff 
stage  kings,  with  crown  and  sceptre  ',  or  infa- 
mous court  poems,  in  which  the  orgies  of  Ver- 
sailles were  celebrated  under  the  form  of  paste- 
ral  poetry.  Lessing  surprised  the  world  at 
once  with  a  picture  of  courts  that  was  as  new 
as  it  was  true.  Who  can  deny  that  he  produced 
a  powerful  effect.'  Lessing's  simple  picture  of 
courts  had  a  much  greater  influence  on  the 
political  opinions  of  the  Germans  than  the  later 
revolutionary  philosophers  of  France.  Schiller 
proceeded  liler  this  manner ;  and,  though  Iff- 
land's  princes  figured  as  very  excellent  charac- 
ters, he  made  up  for  it  by  representing  their 
ministers  as  so  much  the  worse.  The  immoral- 
ity of  the  courts  became  a  stock  article  of  the 
stage  throughout  Germany,  and  the  courts,  still 
secure,  took  it  all  very  easily. 

'^Lessing's  *  Nathan'  forms,  in  its  subject- 
matter,  the  luminous  point  of  the  liberal  culture 
which  had  become  prevalent  in  the  eighteenth 
century.  The  neglect  which  his  Jewish  friend, 
the  amiable  Mendelssohn,  still  at  times  experi- 
enced, suggested  to  him  the  idea  of  this  master- 
piece, in  which  the  profoundest  understanding 
is  united  with  the  noblest  sentiments.  This 
immortal  poem,  of  the  mildest,  nay,  I  might  say, 
of  the  sweetest  wisdom,  is  likewise  of  great 
importance  to  German  literature  by  its  form ; 
for  it  is  the  parent  of  the  numberless  iambic 
tragedies  which  were  brought  into  fashion  by 
Schiller  and  Goethe,  first  after  Lessing. 

**  But  no  poet  has  again  attained  the  early 
charm  of  the  German  iambus,  with  which,  in 
Lessing's  *  Nathan,'  it  takes  a  deep  and  won- 
derful hold  of  the  affections,  gently  winning  its 
way  to  the  heart.  Goethe  cultivated  only  the 
melody  and  outward  splendor,  —  Schiller,  only 
the  overpowering  vigor  of  this  verse  ;  and  both 
of  them,  as  well  as  their  innumerable  imitators, 
departed  widely  from  the  delightful  naturalness 
and  unpretending  simplicity  which  it  assumed 
under  the  management  of  Lessing.  The  dra- 
matic iambus  has  become  too  lyric ;  in  Lessing, 
it  was  nearer  prose,  and  much  more  dramatic." 


EXTRACT  FROM  NATHAN    THE  WISE. 

SITTAH,  8ALADIN,  AND  NATHAN. 

[Scene.— An  Audience  Boom  in  the  Sultan'e  Pakce.] 

SAUiDiif  (giving  directions  at  the  door). 
HxRX,  introduce  the  Jew,  whene'er  he  comes, — 
He  seems  in  no  great  haste. 


SRTAH. 

May  be,  at  first. 

He  was  not  in  the  way. 


Ah,  sister,  sister ! 


254 


GERMAN    POETRY. 


Tou  seem  aa  if  a  combat  were  impending. 

SALAOIir. 

With    weapona  that  I   have  not   learned    to 

wield. — 
Must  I  disguise  myself?     I  use  precautions  ? 
I  lay  a  snare  P     When,  where  gained  I  that 

knowledge  P 
And  this,  for  what?     To  fish  for  money, — 

money,  — 
For  money  from  a  Jew.     And  to  such  arts 
Must  Saladin  descend,  at  last,  to  come  at 
The  least  of  little  things  ? 

srrrAH. 
Each  little  thing. 
Despised  too  much,  finds  methods  of  revenge. 


*T  is  but  too  true.  And  if  this  Jew  should  prore 
The  fair,  good  man,  as  once  the  dervb  painted  — 

SriTAR. 

Then  difficulties  cease.     A  snare  concerns 
The  avaricious,  cautious,  fearful  Jew ; 
And  not  the  good,  wise  man :  for  be  is  ours 
Without  a  snare.     Then  the  delight  of  hearing 
How  such  a  man  speaks  out ;  with  what  stern 

strength 
He  tears  the  net,  or  with  what  prudent  foresight 
He  one  by  one  undoes  the  tangled  meshes ! 
That  will  be  all  to  boot. 


That  I  shall  joy  in. 

srrTAB. 
What,  then,  should  trouble  thee?    For  if  he  be 
One  of  the  many  only,  a  mere  Jew, 
You  will  not  blush,  to  such  a  one  to  seem 
A  man  as  he  thinks  all  mankind  to  be. 
One  that  to  him  should  bear  a  better  aspect 
Would  seem  a  fool,  —  a  dupe. 


So  that  I  must 

Act  badly,  lest  the  bad  think  badly  of  me  ? 

SITTAB. 

Yes ;  if  you  call  it  acting  badly,  brother. 
To  use  a  thing  after  its  kind. 


There  's  nothing. 

That  woman's  wit  invents,  it  can  't  embellish. 


Embellish?  — 


mntAU. 


■ALADIN. 

But  their  fine-wrought  filagree 
In  my  rude  band  would  break.     It  is  for  those 
That  can  contrive  them  to  employ  such  weapons : 
They  ask  a  practised  wrist     But  chance  what 

may, 
Well  as  I  can 


Trust  not  yourself  too  little. 

I  answer  for  you,  if  you  have  the  will. 

Such  men  as  you  would  willingly  persuade  us 

It  was  their  swords,  their  swords  alone«.that 

raised  them. 
The  lion  's  apt  to  be  ashamed  of  hunting 
In  fellowship  of  the  fox; —  't  is  of  his  fellow, 
Not  of  the  cunning,  that  he  is  ashamed. 

SALADUf. 

You  women  would  so  gladly  level  man 

Down  to  yourselves  !•—  Gro,  I  have  got  my  lesson. 


What! 


I  go? 


SALADIH. 

Had  you  the  thought  of  staying? 


In  your  immediate  presence  not,  indeed ; 
But  in  the  by-room. 

SALADIir. 

You  could  like  to  listen. 

Not  that,  my  sister,  if  I  may  insist. 

Away  !  the  curtain  rustles,  —  he  is  come. 

Beware  of  staying,  —  I  '11  be  on  the  watch. — 

[While  Situh  retlrai  throuf  h  one  door,  Nathan  entara 
at  another,  and  Saladin  aeata  himaeir. 

Draw  nearer,  Jew ;  yet  nearer ;  here,  quite  by 

me, 
Without  all  fear. 

HATBAV. 

Remain  that  fbr  thy  foes  ! 


SACADIH. 

Your  name  is  Nathan  ? 

Yes. 

MATHAM. 

Nathan  the  Wise? 

No. 

BALAnnr. 

If  not  thou, 

the  people  calls  thee  so. 

BATHAV. 

May  be,  the  people. 

BALAVIB. 

Fancy  not  that  I 

Think  of  the  people's  voice  contemptnoosly , 
I  have  been  wishing  much  to  know  the  man 
Whom  it  has  named  the  Wise. 

BATBAB. 

And  if  it  named 

Him  so  in  scorn?    If  wise  meant  only  prudent; 

And  prudent,  one  who  knows  his  interest  well  ? 

aALAD». 

Who  knows  hb  real  interest,  then  must  mean. 


LESSING. 


255 


Then  were  the  interested  the  meet  prudent ; 
Then  wise  and  prudent  were  the  aame. 

BALABUK. 

I  hear 

Yon  proving  what  your  speeches  contradict. 

Ton  know  man's  real  interests,  which  the  peo- 

pie 
Knows  not,  —  at  least,  have  studied  how  to 

know  them. 
That  alone  makes  the  sage. 


Which  each  imagines 
Himself  to  be. 


Of  modestj  enough ! 
Ever  to  meet  it,  where  one  seeks  to  hear 
Dry  truth,  is  vexing.    Let  us  to  the  purpose ;  - 
Bat,  Jew,  sincere  and  open 

HATHAJI. 

I  will  serve  thee 

So  as  to  merit.  Prince,  thj  fhrther  notice. 


Serve  me  .*  —  how  ? 


Thou  shalt  have  the  best  I  bring,  — 
Shalt  have  them  cheap. 

SALADUr. 

What  speak  you  of?  —  your  wares  ? 
My  sister  shall  be  called  to  bargain  with  you 
For  them  (so  much  for  the  sly  listener) ;  —  I 
Have  nothing  to  transact  now  with  the  mer- 
chant 

HATHAN. 

Doubtless,  then,  you  would  learn  what,  on  my 

journey, 
I  noticed  of  the  motions  of  the  foe. 
Who  stirs  anew.     If  unreserved  I  may  -^— 

SALADIK. 

Neither  was  that  the  object  of  my  sending : 
I  know  what  I  have  need  to  know  already. 
In  short,  I  willed  your  presence 

KATBAM. 

Sultan,  order. 

SALADIM. 

To  gain  instruction  quite  on  other  points. 
Since  yon  are  a  man  so  wise,  —  tell  me,  which 

law, 
Which  faith,  appears  to  yon  the  better  ? 

MATHAN. 

Sultan, 

I  am  a  Jew. 

SALADn. 

And  I  a  Mussulman : 

The  Christian  stands  between  us.     Of  these 

three 
Religions  only  one  can  be  the  true. 


A  man  like  you  remains  not  just  where  birth 
Has  chanced  to  cast  him,  or,  if  he  remains  there. 
Does  it  from  insight,  choice,  from  grounds  of 

preference. 
Share,  then,  with  me  your  insight, — let  me  hear 
The  grounds  of  preference,  which  I  have  wanted 
The  leisure  to  examine, — learn  the  choice 
These  grounds  have  motived,  that  it  may  be 

mine. 
In  confidence  I  ask  it.     How  you  startle. 
And  weigh  me  with  your  eye  !    It  may  well  be 
I  'm  the  first  sultan  to  whom  this  caprice, 
Methinks  not  quite  unworthy  of  a  sultan. 
Has  yet  occurred.    Am  I  not?   Speak,  then, — 

speak. 
Or  do  you,  to  collect  yourself,  desire 
Some  moments  of  delay  ?     I  give  them  you.  — 

i Whether  she 's  listening  ?  —  I  must  know  of  her 
f  I  *ve  done  right. —)     Reflect,  —  I  '11  soon 
return. 

[Sdadia  tteps  into  the  room  to  which  Situh  had  retired. 

MATHAK. 

Strange  !    How  is  this  ?    What  wills  the  sulun 

of  me  ? 
I  came  prepared  with  cash, —  he  asks  truth. 

Truth  ? 
As  if  truth,  too,  were  cash,  —  a  coin  disused, 
That  goes  by  weight,  —  indeed,  't  is  some  such 

thing;  — 
But  a  new  coin,  known  by  the  stamp  at  once. 
To  be  flung  down  and  told  upon  the  counter. 
It  is  not  that.     Like  gold  in  bags  tied  up. 
So  truth  lies  hoarded  in  the  wise  man's  head, 
To   be   brought  out.  —  Which,   now,   in   this 

transaction. 
Which  of  us  plays  the  Jew  ?  He  asks  fi>r  truth, — 
Is  truth  what  he  requires,  his  aim,  his  end  ? 
That  this  is  but  the  glue  to  lime  a  snare 
Ought  not  to  be  suspected,  —  't  were  too  little. 
Tet  what  is  found  too  little  for  the  great  ? 
In  feet,  through  hedge  and  pale  to  stalk  at  once 
Into  one's  field  beseems   not,  —  firiends  look 

round. 
Seek  for  the  path,  ask  leave  to  pass  the  gate.  — 
I  must  be  cautious.     Tet  to  damp  him  back. 
And  be  the  stubborn  Jew,  is  not  the  thing ; 
And  wholly  to  throw  off'  the  Jew,  still  less. 
For,  if  no  Jew,  he  might  with  right  inquire. 
Why  not  a  Mussulman  ?  —  Tes,  —  that   may 

serve  me. 
Not  children  only  can  be  quieted 
With  stories.  —  Ha !  he  comes ;  —  well,  let  him 

come. 

BALAOiN  (ratumtng). 
So  there  the  field  is  clear.— I  'm  not  too  quick  ? 
Thou  hast  bethought  thyself  as  much  as  need 

is?  — 
Speak,  no  one  hears. 

WATHAir. 

Might  the  whole  world  but  hear  us  ! 

SALAOIir. 

Is  Nathan  of  his  cause  so  confident  ? 


256 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


Yes,  that  I  call  the  sage,  —  to  veil  no  truth  ; 
For  truth  to  hazard  all  things,  life  and  goods. 


Ay,  when  't  is  necessary,  and  when  useful. 


Henceforth  I  hope  I  shall  with  reason  bear 
One  of  my  titles,  —  **  Betterer  of  the  world 
And  of  the  law." 


In  truth,  a  noble  title. 

But,  Sultan,  ere  I  quite  unfold  myself^ 

Allow  me  to  relate  a  tale. 

SALASnC. 

Why  not? 

I  always  was  a  friend  of  tales  well  told. 

MATBAjr. 

Well  told,  —  that 's  not  precisely  my  affair. 

SALAOUf. 

Again  so  proudly  modest  ?  —  Come,  begin. 


In  days  of  yore,  there  dwelt  in  East  a  man 
Who  from  a  valued  hand  received  a  ring 
Of  endless  worth :  the  stone  of  it  an  opal. 
That  shot  an  ever  changing  tint :  moreover. 
It  had  the  bidden  virtue  him  to  render 
Of  God  and  man  beloved,  who,  in  this  view. 
And  this  persuasion,  wore  it.     Was  it  strange 
The  Eastern  man  ne'er  drew  it  off  his  finger. 
And  studiously  provided  to  secure  it 
For  ever  to  his  bouse  ?    Thus  he  bequeathed  it, 
First,  to  the  most  beloved  of  his  sons,  — 
Ordained  that  he  again  should  leave  the  ring 
To  the  most  dear  among  his  children,  —  and. 
That  without  heeding  birth,  the  favorite  son. 
In  virtue  of  the  ring  alone,  should  always 
Remain  the  lord  o'  th'  house.  —  You  hear  me, 
Sultan  ? 

SALADIir. 

I  understand  thee,  —  on. 


From  son  to  son. 

At  length  this  ring  descended  to  a  fiither 

Who  had  three  sons  alike  obedient  to  him  ; 

Whom,  therefore,  he  could  not  but  love  alike. 

At  times  seemed  this,  now  that,  at  times  the  third 

(Accordingly  as  each  apart  received 

The  overflowings  of  his  heart),  most  worthy 

To   heir   the   ring,  which,  with   good-natured 

weakness. 
He  privately  to  each  in  turn  had  promised. 
This  went  on  for  a  while.  But  death  approached, 
And  the  good  father  grew  embarrassed.     So 
To  disappoint  two  sons,  who  trust  his  promise. 
He  could  not  bear.     What 's  to  be  done .'     He 

sends 
In  secret  to  a  jeweller,  of  whom. 
Upon  the  model  of  the  real  ring. 


He  might  bespeak  two  others,  and  commanded 
To  spare  nor  cost  nor  pains  to  make  them  like. 
Quite  like  the  true  one.  This  the  artist  managed. 
The  rings  were  brought,  and  e'en  the  father's  eye 
Could  not  distinguish  which  had  been  the  model. 
Quite  overjoyed,  he  summons  all  his  sons. 
Takes  leave  of  each  apart,  on  each  bestows 
His  blessing  and  his  ring,  and  dies. — Thou 
hear'st  me  ? 

sALAsnr. . 
I  hear,  I  hear.    Come,  finish  with  thy  tale  ;  — 
Is  it  soon  ended  ? 

NATSAV. 

It  is  ended.  Sultan  ; 

For  all  that  follows  may  be  guessed  of  course. 
Scarce  is  the  fiither  dead,  each  with  his  rin^ 
Appears,  and  claims  to  be  the  lord  o'  th'  house. 
Comes  question,  strife,  complaint,  —  all  to  no 

end; 
For  the  true  ring  could  no  more  be  distinguished 
Than  now  can — the  true  faith. 

BALADXM. 

How,  how  ? — is  that 

To  be  the  answer  to  my  query  ? 


No, 

But  it  may  serve  as  my  apology ; 

If  I  can  't  venture  to  decide  between 

Rings  which  the  father  got  expressly  made. 

That  they  might  not  be  known  from  one  another. 

SALAMH. 

The  rings, ^do  n't  trifle  with  me ;  I  must  think 
That  the  religions  which  I  named  can  be 
Distinguished,  e'en  to  raiment,  drink,  and  food. 

NATHAN. 

And  only  not  as  to  their  grounds  of  proof. 
Are  not  all  built  alike  on  history. 
Traditional,  or  written  ?     History 
Must  be  received  on  trust,  —  is  it  not  so  ? 
In  whom  now  are  we  likeliest  to  put  trust  f 
In  our  own  people  surely,  in  those  men 
Whose  blood  we  are,  in  them  who  fit>m  our 

childhood 
Have  given  us  proofs  of  love,  who  ne'er  de- 
ceived us. 
Unless  't  were  wholesomer  to  be  deceived. 
How  can  I  less  believe  in  my  forefathers 
Than  thou  in  thine  P     How  can  I  ask  of  thee 
To  own  that  thy  fore&thers  falsified. 
In  order  to  yield  mine  the  praise  of  truth  ? 
The  like  of  Christians. 


By  the  living  God  ! 

The  man  is  in  the  right,  —  I  must  be  silent. 

NATBAN. 

Now  let  us  to  our  rings  return  once  more. 
As  said,  the  sons  complained.  Each  to  the  judge 
Swore  from  fiis  fiither's  hand  immediately 
To  have  received  the  ring,  as  was  the  case  ; 


LESSING. 


257 


After  he  bad  loDg  obtained  the  fttber's  prom- 
ise 
One  day  to  bave  the  ring,  aa  ako  was. 
The  father,  each  asserted,  could  to  him 
Not  have  been  false :  rather  than  so  suspect 
Of  such  a  father,  willing  as  be  might  be 
With  charity  to  judge  bis  brethren,  he 
Of  treacherous  fbrgery  was  bold  to  accuse  them. 


Well,  and  the  judge,  —  I  'm  eager  now  to  hear 
What  thou  wilt  make  him  saj.     Go  on,  go  on. 


The  judge  said,  **  If  ye  summon  not  the  fiuber 
Before  my  seat,  I  cannot  give  a  sentence. 
Am  I  to  guess  enigmas  ?     Or  expect  ye 
That  the  true  ring  should  here  unseal  its  lips  ? 
But  hold,  —  you  tell  me  that  the  real  ring 
Enjoys  the  hidden  power  to  make  the  wearer 
Of  God  and  man  beloved  :  let  that  decide. 
Which  of  you  do  two  brothers  love  the  best? 
You  're  silent.     Do  these  love-exciting  rings 
Act  inward  only,  not  without  f     Does  each 
Love  but  himself?     Te  *re  all  deceived  deceiv- 
ers,— 
None  of  your  rings  is  true.     The  real  ring. 
Perhaps,  is  gone.     To  hide  or  to  supply 
Its  loss,  your  fiober  ordered  three  for  one." 

SALAnnr. 
O,  charming,  charming ! 


*'  And,"  the  judge  continued, 

**  If  you  will  take  advice,  in  lieu  of  sentence. 

This  is  my  counsel  to  you,  —  to  take  up 

The  matter  where  it  stands.     If  each  of  you 

Has  had  a  ring  presented  by  bis  father. 

Let  each  believe  his  own  the  real  ring. 

*T  is  possible  the  father  chose  no  longer 

To  tolerate  the  one  ring's  tyranny ; 

And  certainly,  as  he  much  loved  you  all. 

And  loved  you  all  alike,  it  could  not  please 

him. 
By  favoring  one,  to  be  of  two  the  oppressor. 
Let  each  feel  honored  by  this  free  affection 
Un  warped  of  prejudice  ;  let  each  endeavour 
To  vie  with  both  his  brothers  in  displaying 
The  virtue  of  his  ring ;  assist  its  might 
With  gentleness,  benevolence,  forbearance. 
With  inward  resignation  to  the  Godhead  ; 
And  if  the  virtues  of  the  ring  continue 
To   show  themselves  among  your  children's 

children. 
After  a  thousand  thousand  years,  appear 
Before  this  judgment-seat,-— a  greater  one 
Than  I  shall  sit  upon  it,  and  decide." — 
So  spake  the  modest  judge. 


God! 

nXTBAX. 

Saladin, 

FeePst  tbou  thyself  this  wiser,  promised  man  ? 
33 


SALADIK. 

I,  dust,  —  I,  nothing,  —  God  ? 

[PreclpitatM  himnlf  upon  Nathu  and 
hl>  hand,  which  hs  does  not  quit,  Un 


hold  of 
of 


KATHAM. 

What  moves  thee,  Sultan  ? 


Nathan,  my  dearest  Nathan,  't  is  not  yet 
The  judge's  thousand  thousand  years  are  past, — 
His  judgment-seat 's  not  niine.     Go,  go,  but 
love  me. 


Has  Saladin,  then,  nothing  else  to  order  ? 

SALADUf. 

No. 
Nothing  ? 


Nothing  in  the  least,  —  and  wherefore  ? 

HATBAM. 

I  could  have  wished  an  opportunity 
To  lay  a  prayer  before  you. 


Speak  fteely. 


Is  there  need 

Of  opportunity  for  that  ? 


I  have  come  from  a  long  journey,  from  collecting 
Debts,  and  I  've  almost  of  hard  cash  too  much ; — 
The  times  look  perilous,  —  I  know  not  where 
To  lodge  it  safoly ;  —  I  was  thinking  thou  — 
For  coming  wars  require  large  sums  —  cooldst 
use  it 

SALAOnf. 

Nathan,  I  ask  not  if  tbou  saw'st  Al-Hafi,  — 
I  '11  not  examine  if  some  shrewd  suspicion 
Spurs  thee  to  make  this  offer  of  thyself. 


Suspicion  ?  — 

SALAsnr. 
I  deserve  this  oflbr.     Pardon ! 
For  What  avails  concealment  ?    I  acknowledge 
I  was  aboot 

NAniAir. 
To  ask  the  same  of  me  ? 


Yes. 


Then  *t  is  well  we  're  both  accommodated. 
That  I  can  't  send  thee  all  I  have  of  treasure 
Arises  from  the  templar;  —  thou  must  know 

him;  — 
I  have  a  weighty  debt  to  pay  to  him. 


A  templar?  How  ?  thou  dost  not  with  thy  gold 
Support  my  direst  foes  ? 

v2 


258 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


MATHAH. 

I  speak  of  him 

Whose  life  the  saltim 

BALAOXH. 

What  art  thoa  recalling  ? 

I  had  forgot  the  youth.    Whence  is  he  ?  know'st 
thou? 

HATHAM. 

Hast  thou  not  heard,  then,  how  thy  clemency 
To  him  has  fallen  on  me  ?    He,  at  the  risk 
Of  his  new-spared  existence,  from  the  flames 
Rescued  mj  daughter. 


My  brother. 


SALADIH. 

Ha !  Has  he  done  that  ? 

He  looked  like  one  that  would. 

too. 

Whom  he 's  so  like,  had  done  it.  Is  he  here  still? 
Bring  him  to  me.     I  have  so  often  Ulked 
To  Sittah  of  this  brother,  whom  she  knew  not, 
That  I  must  let  her  see  his  counterfeit. 
Go,  fetch  him.     How  a  single  worthy  action. 
Though  hut  of  whim  or  passion  bom,  gives  rise 
To  other  blessings  !     Fetch  him. 

NATHAN. 

In  an  instant. 

The  rest  remains  as  settled. 

BALAOUt. 

O,  I  wish 

I  had  let  my  sister  listen !     Well,  I  '11  to  her. 

How  shall  I  make  her  privy  to  all  this  ? 


SALOMON  GESSNER. 

Salomon  Gessnbr  was  born  at  ZOrich  in 
1730.  Conrad  Gessner,  a  voluminous  writer 
in  the  sixteenth  century,  was  one  of  his  ances- 
tors. The  father  of  the  poet  was  a  bookseller, 
and  a  member  of  the  Great  Council.  He  was 
placed  under  the  instruction  of  Bodmer,  but 
with  little  benefit.  At  length,  being  appien- 
ticed  by  his  father  to  a  bookseller  in  Berlin,  he 
became  acquainted  with  Gleim,  Kleist,  Lessing, 
and  Raroler.  At  the  expiration  of  ten  years, 
he  returned  to  Ztlrich,  and  became  a  partner  in 
the  firm,  as  a  bookseller.  His  *« Idyls"  first 
appeared  in  1756,  and  gave  him  at  once  a  high 
reputation.  His  "  Death  of  Abel "  was  published 
in  1758 ;  and,  in  1762,  an  epi!s  poem,  under  the 
tide  of  «*  The  First  Navigator."  He  showed 
also  a  talent  for  drawing  and  painting,  and  the 
last  of  his  works  was  the  **  Letters  on  Land- 
scape Painting."  He  died  in  1788.  His  works 
abound  in  delicate  and  beautiful  descriptions 
of  natural  scenery,  but  are  deficient  in  vigor 
and  action.  Their  predominant  character  is 
sentimentality.  The  most  successful  among 
them  was  "The  Death  of  Abel."  The  latest 
edition  of  his  works  is  that  of  Leipsic,  2  vols., 
1841.  ^  * 


A  SCENE  FROM  THE  DELUGE 
I. 
Now  beneath  the  flood  of  might 

Shrouded  the  marble  turreta  are, 
And  'gainst  each  insular  mountain  height 
The  black,  big  waves  are' billowing  flu*; 
And,  lo !  befbre  the  surging  death, 
Isle  after  isle  still  vanisheth  ! 

Remains  one  lonely  speck  above 

The  fury  of  the  climbing  flood  : 
A  grisly  crowd  still  vainly  strove 

To  win  that  safer  altitude  ; 
And  the  cries  of  despair  still  rang  on  the  air. 
As  the  rushing  wave  pursued  in  ita  pride, 
And  dashed  them  from  ita  slippery  side  I 

O,  is  not  yonder  shore  less  steep, 
Ye  happier  few  ?  escape  the  deep  ! 
Upon  ite  crest  the  crowd  assembles,  — 
Lo  !  the  peopled  mountain  trembles ! 
The  rushing  waters  exalt  it  on  high  ;  — 

Shaken  and  shivered  from  brow  to  base. 
It  slides  amain,  unwieldily, 
Into  the  universal  sea ; 
And  instantly  the  echoing  sky 

Howls  to  the  howl  of  the  hapless  race 
That  burden  the  hill,  or  under  it  die  I 

Yonder,  the  torrent  of  waters,  behold  ! 
Into  the  chaos  of  ocean  hath  rolled 
The  virtuous  son,  with  his  sire  so  old  ! 
He,  strengthened  with  duty,  and  proud  of  his 
strength. 
Sought  from  that  desolate  island,  now  sunken. 
To  conquer  the  perilous  billows  at  length,  — 
But  their  very  last  sob  the  mad  waters  have 
drunken ! 

To  the  deluge's  dire,  unatonable  tomb 

Yon  mother  abandons  the  children  she  tried. 

In  vain,  to  preserve ;  and  the  watery  gloom 
Swells  over  the  dead,  as  they  float  side  by  aide : 
And  she  hath  plunged  after ! — how  madly  she 
died! 

II. 
From  forth  the  waters  waste  and  wild 
The  loftiest  summit  sternly  smiled  ; 
And  that  but  to  the  sky  disclosed 

Ite  rugged  top,  and  that  sad  pair, 
Who,  to  this  hour  of  wrath  exposed. 

Stood  in  the  howling  storm-blast  there. 
Semin,  the  noble,  young,  and  free. 

To  whom  this  world's  most  lovely  one 
Had  vowed  her  heart's  idolatry, — 
His  own  beloved  Zemira, — set 
On  this  dark  mountain's  coronet ;  — 

And  they  were  mid  the  flood  alone  ! 

Broke  on  them  the  wild  waters ;  —  all 
The  heaven  was  thunder,  and  a  pall ; 

Below,  the  ocean's  roar ; 
Around,  deep  darkness,  save  the  flash 
Of  lightning  on  the  waves,  that  dash 

Without  a  bed,  or  shore. 


GESSNER. 


259 


And  eyery  cload  from  the  lowering  sky 
Threatened  dettmction  fierce  and  nigh ; 
And  erery  surge  rolled  drearily, 
With  carcasses  borne  on  ooze  and  foam, 
Yawning,  as  to  its  moving  tomb 
It  looked  for  further  prey  to  come. 

Zemira  to  her  fluttering  breast 

Folded  her  lover ;  and  their  hearts 
Throbbed  on  each  other,  unrepressed. 

Blending  as  in  one  bosom,  —  while 
The  raindrops  on  her  faded  cheek 

With  her  tears  mingled,  but  not  a  smile ;  - 
In  horror,  nothing  now  can  speak, — 

Such  horror  nothing  now  imparts  ! 

*«  There  is  no  hope  of  safoty, — none, 
My  Semin, — my  beloved  one ! 
O,  woe !  O,  desolation  !  Death 
Sways  all, — above,  around,  beneath: 
Near  and  more  near  he  climbs, — and,  O, 
Which  of  the  waves  besieging  so 
Will  whelm  us  ?    Take  me  to  thy  cold 
And  shuddering  arms'  beloved  fold ! 
My  God !  look !  what  a  wave  comes  on  ! 

It  glitters  in  the  lightning  dim,  •— 
It  passes  over  us  !  "  — 

'Tis  gone,—- 

And  senseless  sinks  the  maid  on  him. 


Semin  embraced  the  fainting  maid,  — 

Words  fUtered  on  his  quivering  lips. 
And  be  was  mute,  —  and  all  was  shade, 

And  all  around  him  in  eclipse. 
Was  it  one  desolate,  hideous  spot  ? 
A  wreck  of  worlds  ?  —  He  saw  it  not ! 
He  saw  but  her,  beloved  so  well. 

So  death-like  on  his  bosom  lay. 
Felt  the  cold  pang  that  o'er  him  fell. 

Heard  but  his  beating  heart.     Away, 
Grasp  of  hard  Agony's  iron  hand  ! 

Off  from  his  heart  thine  icy  touch ! 
Off  from  his  lips  thy  colorless  band  ! 

Off  from  his  soul  thy  wintry  clutch  ! 

Love  conquers  Death,  —  and  he  hath  kissed 

Her    bleached    cheeks,    by   the    cold    rain 
bleached ; 
He  hath  folded  her  to  his  bosom ;  and,  list ! 

His  tender  words  her  heart  have  reached : 
She  hath  awakened,  and  she  looks 

Upon  her  lover  tenderly, 
Whose  tenderness  the  Flood  rebukes. 

As  on  destroying  goeth  he. 

**  O  God  of  Judgment !  "  she  cried  aloud, 

**  Refuge  or  pity  is  there  none  ? 
Waves  rave,  and  thunder  rends  the  cloud. 

And  the  winds  howl, — *  Be  vengeance  done ! ' 
Our  years  have  innocently  sped, — 

My  Semin,  thou  wert  ever  good  : 
Woe  's  me  !  my  joy  and  pride  have  fled  ! 

All  but  my  love  is  now  subdued  ! 
And  thou,  to  me  who  gavest  life, 
Tom  from  my  side,  I  saw  thy  strife 


With  the  wild  surges,  and  thy  head 

Heave  evermore  above  the  water. 
Thine  arms  exalted  and  outspread. 

For  the  last  time,  to  bless  thy  daughter ! 
The  earth  is  now  a  lonely  isle  ! 

Tet  't  were  a  paradise  to  me, 
Wert,  Semin,  thou  with  me  the  while,  — 

O,  let  me  die  embracing  thee  ! 
Is  there  no  pity,  God  above  ! 
For  innocence  and  blameless  love  ? 
But  what  shall  innocence  plead  before  thee  ? 
Great  God  !  thus  dying,  I  adore  thee  !  " 

IV. 

Still  his  beloved  the  youth  sustains. 

As  she  in  the  storm-blast  shivers  :  — 
^  'T  is  done  !  no  hope  of  life  remains  ! 

No  mortal  howls  among  the  riven  ! 
Zemira !  the  next  moment  is 

Our  last,  —  gaunt  Death  ascends !     Lo !  he 
Doth  clasp  our  thighs,  and  the  abyss 

Yearns  to  embrace  us  eagerly  ! 

**  We  will  not  mourn  a  common  lot,  — 
Life,  what  art  thou,  when  joyfullest. 
Wisest,  noblest,  greatest,  best, — 
Life  longest,  and  that  most  delightest  ? 

A  dewdrop,  by  the  dawn  begot. 
That  on  the  rock  to-day  is  brightest. 

To-morrow  doth  it  fade  away. 

Or  fall  into  the  ocean's  spray. 

«  Courage  !  beyond  this  little  life 

Eternity  and  bliss  ate  rife. 

Let  us  not  tremble,  then,  my  love. 

To  cross  the  narrow  sea,  —  but  thus 
Embrace  each  other ;  and  above 

The  swelling  surge  that  pants  for  us 
Our  souls  shall  hover  happily. 
Triumphant,  and  at  liberty  ! 

"  Ay,  let  us  join  our  hands  in  prayer 
To  Him  whose  wrath  hath  ravaged  here : 
His  holy  doom  shall  mortal  man 
Presume  to  judge,  and  weigh,  and  scan  ? 
He  who  breathed  life  into  our  dust 
May  to  the  just  or  the  unjust 
Send  death  ;  but  happy,  happy  they 
Who  've  trodden  Wisdom's  pleasant  way ! 

«<  Not  life  we  ask,  O  Lord  !     Do  thou 
Convey  us  to  thy  judgment-seat ! 

A  sacred  faith  inspires  me  now,  — 

Death  shall  not  end,  but  shall  complete. 

Peal  out,  ye  thunders ;  crush  and  scathe  ! 

Howl,  desolation,  ruin,  wrath  ! 

Entomb  us,  waters !  —  Evermore 

Praised  be  the  Just  One  !     We  adore  ! 

Our  mouths  shall  praise  him,  as  we  sink. 

And  the  last  thought  our  souls  shall  think  !  " 

V. 

Her  soul  was  brave,  —  her  soul  was  glad,  — 

Her  aspect  was  no  longer  sad,  — 

Amid  the  tempest  and  the  storm. 

She  raised  her  hands, — she  raised  her  form  : 


260 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


Sbe  felt  the  great  and  mighty  hope, 

And  she  was  strong  with  Death  to  cope :  — 

**  Praise,  O  my  mouth,  the  Lord  Most  High ! 

My  eyes,  weep  tears  of  ecstasy, 

Until  ye  're  sealed  by  death,-*- then  ye 

Shall  gaze  on  heaven's  felicity  ! 

Beloved,  but  late  from  us  bereaved^ 

We  come  to  you,  for  whom  we  grieved  : 

Anon,  and  we  again  shall  meet 

Before  Grod's  throne  and  judgment-seat. 

The  just  assembled  I  behold  : 

Lo  !  Mercy's  courts  for  them  unfold  !  — 

Howl,  desolation  !    Thunder,  peal  ! 

Ye  are  but  voices  to  reveal 

The  justice  of  the  Lord  Most  High : 

Break  on  us,  waves !     Hail !    Death  is  nigh  ! 

And  nearer  yet  he  comes,  and  raves 

Upon  the  blackness  of  the  waves  ! 

O  Semin  !  now  he  grasps  my  throat !  — 

Semin  !  embrace  me,  —  leave  me  not ! 

The  billow  lifts  me,  —  help  !  —  I  float !  " 


"  I  do  embrace  thee  !  "  the  youth  replied, — 
<*  Zemira  !  I  embrace  thee  !  —  Death  ! 

Thee  also  I  embrace  !  "  he  cried,  — 

*<  I  welcome  thee  with  my  parting  breath  !  — 

Lo  !  we  are  here  !     All  lauded  be 

The  Just  One  everlastingly  !  " 

They  spake,  —  while  them  the  monstrous  del- 
uge spray 
Swept,  in  each  other's  arms,  away,  —  away  ! 


JOHANN   GEORG  JACOBL 

JoHANif  Georo  Jacobi  was  bom  at  DOs- 
seldorf  in  1740.  In  1758,  he  went  to  the 
University  of  G<)ttingen  to  study  theology,  and 
afterwards  continued  his  studies  at  Helmstadt. 
He  was  made  Professor  of  Philosophy  in  Halle, 
where  he  published  a  periodical  called  **  The 
Iris/'  He  formed  a  close  intimacy  with  Gleim, 
and  became,  in  1769,  a  canon  in  Halberstfldt. 
In  1784,  he  was  appointed  by  Joseph  the  Sec- 
ond to  a  Professorship  of  Belles  Lettres  in  the 
University  of  Freyburg,  in  the  Brisgau.  He 
died  in  1814.  His  works  are  marked  by  two 
different  manners.  His  earlier  productions  — 
the  Anacreontic  songs,  and  epistles  to  Gleim 
—  are  modelled  after  the  French  poets;  his 
later  works  are  more  vigorous  and  earnest  He 
excelled  in  the  epistle  and  the  song ;  but  was 
less  successful  in  comedy.  An  edition  of  his 
works  was  published  at  Zorich,  in  seven  vol- 
umes, 1807-13,  and  a  new  edition  in  1826,  in 
four  volumes. 

«*  Jacobi  is  one  of  the  few  German  writers 
who  have  formed  their  taste  on  French  models. 
He  has  imitated,  in  his  verses,  the  easy,  playful 


style  of  the  poets  of  that  nation  ;  and  has,  in 
particular,  avowed  his  admiration  of  Cfaapelle, 
Chaulieu,  and  Gresset.  Their  works  were  the 
sources  firom  whence  he  derived  the  soft  and 
tender  tone  of  his  compositions,  and  the  easy 
flow  and  charming  euphony  of  his  numbers. 
In  his  descriptions  of  the  innocent  and  cheerful 
pleasures  of  life,  he  has  closely  followed  Gleim ; 
and,  indeed,  he  owes  a  great  portion  of  his  art 
to  that  poet's  society  and  instruction.  His  ma- 
turer  efforts  display  a  more  manly  character, 
and  not  unfrequently  unite  with  his  natural 
simplicity  and  grace  much  richness  of  imagina- 
tion and  profundity  of  thought.  His  dramatic 
pieces  bear  the  lowest,  and  his  lyrical  effusions 
the  highest  rank  among*his  compositions."  * 


SONG. 

Tkll  me,  where  's  the  violet  fled, 

Late  so  gayly  blowing ; 
Springing  'neath  fair  Flora's  tread. 

Choicest  sweets  bestowing  ? — 
Swain,  the  vernal  scene  is  o'er, 
And  the  violet  blooms  no  more  ! 

Say,  where  hides  the  blushing  rose, 
Pride  of  fragrant  morning ; 

Garland  meet  for  beauty's  brows  ; 
Hill  and  dale  adorning  ? — 

Gentle  maid,  the  summer  's  fled. 

And  the  hapless  rose  is  dead  ! 

Bear  me,  then,  to  yonder  rill, 

Late  so  fireely  flowing, 
Watering  many  a  daffodil 

On  its  margin  glowing.  — 
Sun  and  wind  exhaust  its  store ; 
Yonder  rivulet  glides  no  more  ! 

Lead  me  to  the  bowery  shade, 
Late  with  roses  flaunting; 

Loved  resort  of  youth  and  maid. 
Amorous  ditties  chanting.  — 

Hail  and  storm  with  fury  shower ; 

Leafless  mourns  the  rifled  bower ! 

Say,  where  bides  the  village  maid. 

Late  yon  cot  adorning  ? 
Oft  I  've  met  her  in  the  glade, 

Fair  and  fresh  as  morning.  — 
Swain,  how  short  is  beauty's  bloom  ! 
Seek  her  in  her  grassy  tomb  ! 

Whither  roves  the  tuneful  swain. 

Who,  of  rural  pleasures. 
Rose  and  violet,  rill  and  plain. 

Sung  in  deflest  measures  ? — 
Maiden,  swift  life's  vision  flies, 
Death  has  closed  the  poet's  eyes  ! 


*  Specimens  of  the  German  Ljric  Pbets  (Loodon,  18S3>, 
p.  47. 


WIELAND. 


261 


SEVENTH  PERIOD.— FROM  1770  TO  1844. 


CHRISTOPH   MARTIN   WIELAND. 

This  iUiutriouB  writer  was  born  on  the  5th 
of  September,  1733,  at  Oberholaeheini,  near 
Biberach,  where  his  father  was  a  Protestant 
clergyman.  His  poetical  genius  displayed  itself 
very  early;  he  composed  German  and  Latin 
Terses  in  his  twelfth  year.  In  1747,  he  was 
sent  to  school  in  Klosterberg,  near  Magdeburg, 
wbere  he  studied  not  only  the  ancient  classics, 
hot  the  principal  authors  of  England  and 
France.  After  leaving  Klosterberg,  he  passed 
a  year  and  a  half  in  Erfurt,  preparing  for  the 
Unirersity.  In  1750,  he  returned  to  his  native 
place,  and  the  same  year  entered  the  University 
of  Tabingen,  to  study  law ;  but  his  attention 
was  chiefly  occupied  with  literature,  and,  in 
1751,  he  wrote  his  "Ten  Moral  Letters,"  ad- 
dressed to  Sophia  von  Gattermann,  with  whom 
ho  had  some  time  before  fallen  in  love,  and  a 
didactic  poem  called  "Anti-Ovid."  He  also 
wrote  an  epic  poem  on  the  subject  of  Arminius, 
which  procured  him  an  invitation  from  Bodmer 
to  visit  2orich,  and  reside  with  him  as  his  lit- 
erary companion.  He  lived  at  Bodmer's  house 
until  1754,  occupied  with  the  study  of  Greek, 
and  of  the  leading  German  authors,  who  had 
given  a  new  impulse  to  the  national  literature. 
He  also  wrote  much  and  hastily  during  this 
period.  He  left  Bodmer's  house  in  1754,  and 
became  a  tutor,  and  in  1760  returned  to  Biber- 
ach.  Here  be  studied  the  French  philosophers, 
and  translated  twenty-eight  of  Shakspeare*s 
plays.  Here,  also,  he  became  acquainted  with 
Count  Stadion,  whose  taste,  talents,  and  ac- 
quirements exerted  a  marked  influence  upon 
his  character.  The  spirit  of  his  writings 
changed  from  the  somewhat  mystical  and  re- 
ligious tendency,  which  had  hitherto  character- 
ized them,  to  a  voluptuous,  not  to  say  licentious 
tone.  He  wrote,  at  this  period,  the  "Don 
Sylvio  di  Rosalva,  or  the  Victory  of  Nature 
over  Fanaticism."  In  1766,  he  published  "Aga- 
tbon,"  and,  in  1768,  the  didactic  poem  of"  Mu- 
sarion."  In  1769,  he  was  appointed  professor 
in  Erfurt,  and  while  holding  this  place  wrote 
naany  works.  In  1772,  he  was  invited  by  the 
widowed  Duchess  Amalie  of  Weimar  to  su- 
perintend the  education  of  her  sons.  Here  he 
had  leisure  to  continue  his  literary  and  poet- 
ical labors,  turned  his  attention  to  dramatic 
poetry,  and  wrote  "  The  Choice  of  Hercules," 
and  the  "  Alcestis."  He  also  took  charge  of 
the  **  German  Mercury."  Goethe  and  Herder 
came  to  Weimar  soon  after,  and,  in  conjunction 
with  them,  Wieland  labored  with  great  success, 
more  than  twenty  years.  His  principal  poetic 
work,  the  romantic  epic  of  "  Oberon,"  appeared 
in  1780.     Besides  his  original  works,  only  a 


part  of  which  have  been  enumerated,  he  pre- 
pared translations  of  Horace  and  Lucian,  and 
of  Cicero's  Letters.  He  lived  for  a  time  on 
an  estate  near  Weimar,  called  Osmanstadt, 
which  the  profits  of  his  literary  works  had  ena- 
bled him  to  purchase ;  but  he  sold  it  in  1803,  for 
economical  reasons,  and  returned  to  Weimar. 
He  died  on  the  20th  of  January,  1813. 

Notwithstanding  the  objections  that  have  been 
justly  urged  against  many  of  his  writinp,  the 
personal  character  of  Wieland  was  free  from 
moral  blemish.  In  private  he  was  amiable, 
upright,  friendly,  and  hospitable.  He  was  a 
great  master  of  style,  both  in  prose  and  poetry ; 
his  fancy  was  lively,  his  invention  prolific,  and 
his  manner  graceful.  His  works  are  very  vo- 
luminous. They  were  published  at  Leipsic,  by 
Goschen,  in  1794-1802,  in  thirty-six  parts, 
with  six  supplementary  volumes,  a  very  ele- 
gant edition  in  quarto ;  again  in  1818,  in  forty- 
nine  volumes;  again  in  1825,  in  fifty-three 
volumes.  A  selection  of  his  letters  appeared 
in  1815,  in  two  volumes.  His  life  was  written 
by  Gmber,  in  two  parts,  1815 ;  republished  in 
1827,  in  four  parts.  His  "Oberon"  is  well 
known  to  the  English  public  through  Mr.  Sothe- 
by's translation. 

As  the  moral  censures  to  which  his  works 
have  been  subjected  are  mentioned  in  the  pre- 
ceding notice,  it  is  but  just  to  subjoin  a  part  of 
Wolfgang  Menzers  high-wrought  eulogy,  al- 
though it  is  marked  by  the  partiality  of  a  warm 
admirer.* 

"  It  was  Wieland  who  transplanted  the  lively 
Athenian  spirit  to  the  German  forests  and  the 
Gothic  cities,  but  not  without  a  dash  of  the 
lighter  and  more  trifling  genius  of  the  French. 
Wieland  united  in  his  own  character  the  Gal- 
lomania and  the  Gnecomania.  He  was  edu- 
cated in  the  first,  and  did  not  devote  himself  to 
the  second  until  a  later  period ;  but  he  per- 
ceived at  once  the  partial  and  wrong  direction 
which  Klopatock  and  Voss  had  taken,  and  led 
the  Germans  back  from  their  demure  formality 
to  the  agreeable  movement  of  the  Grteco-Gallic 
graces.  German  poetry,  although  in  the  time 
of  the  Minnesingers  moving  with  a  cheerful 
and  easy  grace,  had  been  disguised  by  the  Mas- 
tersingers  in  starched  and  buckram  drapery,  and, 
after  the  Thirty  Tears'  War,  in  full-bottomed 
wigs  and  hoop  petticoats,  and  then  was  utterly 
at  a  loss  what  to  do  with  her  hands,  and  played 
the  simpleton  with  her  fan.  If  mighty  geniuses, 
like  Klopstock  and  Leasing,  threw  this  trum- 
pery aside,  and  broke  away  from  the  minuet, 
daring  to  take  their  own  course,  yet  vigor  had 
to  be  satisfied  in  them  before  others  could  re- 

*  Genmui  Litacatara,  Vol.  IT.,  pp.  379-396. 


GERMAN    POETRY. 


turn  to  gracefulDess ;  and  the  principal  tendency 
of  their  efforts  aspired  after  what  was  higher, 
in  order  to  occupy  themselves  chiefly  with  that. 
To  prepare  a  suitable  reception  for  this  grace- 
fulness again,  there  needed  a  mind  of  peculiar 
genius,  in  whom  this  tendency  alone  manifested 
itself. 

**Wieland — the  cheerful,  amiable,  delicate 
Wieland — a  genius  overflowing,  inexhaustible 
in  agreeableness,  ease,  raillery,  and  wit — made 
-  his  appearance.  One  must  know  the  whole 
stiff,  distorted,  ceremonious,  and  sentimental 
age  which  preceded  him,  to  be  able  to  appre- 
ciate justly  the  free  and  soaring  flight  of  this 
genius,  and  to  excuse,  as  it  deserves,  what  we, 
judging  from  the  higher  point  of  view  of  the 
present  age,  to  which  he  has  raised  us  on  his 
own  shoulders,  might,  perhaps,  find  reason  to 
except  to  in  his  writings. 

"Wieland  first  restored  to  German  poetry 
the  unrestrained  spirit,  the  free  look  of  the 
child  of  the  world,  the  natural  grace,  the  love 
and  desire  of  cheerful  pleasantry,  and  the  pow- 
er of  supplying  it.  Daring,  humorous,  and  im- 
posing, he  cut  off  the  pig- tails  of  the  cockneys, 
disrobed  the  blushing  beauty  of  the  odious  hoop 
petticoats,  and  taught  the  Germans,  not  to  play 
with  lambkins  naked  in  the  ideal  and  idyllic 
world,  in  the  narrow  spirit  of  the  earlier  pas- 
toral poets,  but  to  find  nature  again  of  them- 
selves in  the  world  as  it  is,  by  throwing  off 
their  unnatural  habits,  and  to  move  their  unfet- 
tered limbs  in  an  easy  and  confident  harmony. 

«*  His  whole  being  was  penetrated  with  that 
spirit  of  agreeableness,  joyousness,  freedom,  and 
confidence;  free,  delicate,  and  witty,  easy, 
nimble,  and  inexhaustible  in  pleasantry,  as  a 
natural  and  healthy  condition  of  life  always 
requires,  and  as  is  still  moiQB  required  by  the 
antagonism  of  a  harsh  and  severe  age.  There- 
fore he  detected,  with  unfailing  skill,  whatever 
of  attractive  grace  distinguishes  our  forefathers 
and  other  nations,  and  easily  acquired  the  diffi- 
cult art  of  refining  his  own  mind  thereby,  of 
breathing  it  into  his  own  poetry,  and  of  explain- 
ing to  the  Germans  in  what  it  ought  to  be  imi- 
tated. But  it  was  this  grace,  almost  exclusively, 
which  he  placed  before  every  thing  else,  in  his 
extensive  study  of  the  ancient  and  foreign  poe- 
tiy,  as  the  thing  that  most  particularly  claimed 
his  attention,  and  was  to  him  of  the  most  im- 
portance.    In  this  he  stands  alone. 

"  Wieland's  genius  was  most  powerfully 
drawn  towards  Greece.  There  he  found  all 
the  ideals  of  his  grace ;  there  he  drank  the 
pure  draught  of  life  and  of  nature.  But  few 
minds  have  been  at  home  in  that  abode  of  the 
beautiful,  each  in  a  different  way  from  the 
others.  A  mode  of  lif^  like  the  Greek  is  too 
great  to  be  wholly  comprehended  by  a  single 
mind.  Only  an  existence  conceived  and  nur^ 
tured  in  that  very  life  could  entitle  one  to 
make  this  claim.  But  we  stand  afar  from  that 
world,  and  it  is  given  only  to  here  and  there  a 
traveller  to  discover  it  again,  and  merely  as  a 


transient  pilgrim  in  a  strange  land.  Wieland 
made  the  harmony  and  grace,  with  which  the 
whole  life  of  the  Greeks  was  pervaded,  a  part 
of  his  own  mind.  Had  any  modern  European 
whatever,  before  Wieland,  recognized  and  ap- 
propriated to  himself  the  Grecian  grace  ?  Be- 
fore this,  the  excellent  form  of  man,  the  natural 
beauty  of  his  figure,  had  been  covered  with 
helm  and  harness;  afterwards,  with  perukes, 
andyHstfTM,  and  endless  waistcoats,  and  ruflles, 
and  hoop  petticoats.  In  this  matter,  Wieland  did 
for  poetry  what  Winckelmann  did  for  plastic 
art.  He  tought  us  to  recognize  and  embody 
natural  beauty  again,  after  the  model  of  the 
Greeks;  but  it  can  hardly  be  affirmed,  al- 
though he  has  undeniably  seized  upon  one  of 
the  most  prominent  aspects  of  the  Greek  char- 
acter, that  he  has  entirely  penetrated  the  depth 
of  Grecian  genius,  or  that  he  has  sounded  the 
depth  of  the  romantic  spirit.  The  plastic 
beauty  of  Greek  architecture  and  statuary,  the 
gladness  and  harmony  of  the  Greek  enjoyment 
of  life,  the  mirror-clear  smoothness  of  the 
Greek  philosophy,  reached  to  him  their  full, 
overhanging  blossoms  over  the  high  walls  of 
time,  but  nothing  more.  His  Greek  novels, 
therefore,  correspond  to  the  Greek  genius  only 
in  a  certain  sense,  and  are,  in  other  respects, 
the  productions  of  Wieland  and  his  age,  in 
which  they  are  naturalized.  French  taste,  too, 
has  its  part  and  lot  therein. 

**His  feelings  inclined  to  th^  French  with 
just  the  same  original  want  that  was  experi- 
enced by  Frederic  the  Great,  and  others  of  his 
time, — only  that  the  one  satisfied  it  as  a  philoso- 
pher and  king,  the  other  as  a  poet.  In  that 
knowledge  of  the  world,  in  the  capacity  for 
the  safe  and  clear-headed  management  of  affairs, 
and  of  every  relation  of  life,  which  is,  at  the 
same  time,  the  source  of  all  their  art,  the  French 
had  very  long  surpassed  as  Germans.  After 
Voltaire,  however,  their  best  writers  had  shown 
such  a  spirit  of  routine,  that,  in  fact,  there  was 
but  little  difference  between  them  and  the  most 
witty  authors  of  the  later  period  of  antiquity,  par- 
ticularly Lucian.  Now,  when  we  find,  in  truth, 
that  Wieland,  in  his  romantic  poems,  took  for 
models,  not  only  Ariosto,  but  also  Voltaire  and 
Parny ;  in  his  novels,  not  only  Lucian  and 
Cervantes,  but  also  Cribillon,  Diderot,  and 
Gazette,  —  we  cannot  help  admiring  the  uner- 
ring tact  and  skill,  with  which,  amidst  all  his 
levity,  he  could  set  aside  the  real  obscenity 
and  the  moral  poison  of  those  French  authors, 
whose  genius  was  as  great  as  their  corruption, 
and  added  to  the  antique  Grace,  and  the  Grace 
of  France,  the  third  and  youngest  of  all,  the 
German  Grace,  a  pleasing  and  simple  one, 
coquetting,  it  is  true,  but  still  coquetting  with 
her  innocence.  The  manner  in  which  Wieland 
tempered  down  French  frivolity  does  far  more 
honor  to  his  taste  than  his  adoption  of  it  merits 
reproach.  He  has  often  been  severely  cen- 
sured, and  has  been  called  the  seducer  of  our 
pure  and  moral  nation ;  and,  in  particular,  the 


WIELAND. 


263 


new-fangled,  old-German  Nazarenes,  and  the 
sighers,  have  for  a  long  time  wanted  to  damn 

him  utterly But,  so  far  from  seducing 

an  nncormpted  generation,  Wieland  has  done 
much  more  to  lead  back  a  generation,  already 
perverted  by  the  Gallomania,  to  decency  and 
moderation,  to  lively  and  intellectual  social  en- 
joyments; and  the  later  sentimental,  and,  in 
part,  the  romantic  poets,  under  the  mask  of 
transcendently  sublime  sentiments,  were  the 
first  to  spread  abroad  the  poison  of  a  morbid 
voluptuousness,  which  was  wholly  foreign  to 
the  sound-hearted  Wieland.  In  general,  laugh- 
ing pleasure  is  not  dangerous,  —  only  the  seri- 
ous, musing,  weeping,  and  praying  is  so, — the 
voluptuousness  found  in  the  writings  of  Goethe, 
Heinse,  Frederic  Schlegel,  and  the  like.  The 
senses,  guarded  by  the  understanding,  are  frank 
and  smiling  graces,  cheerful  companions ;  it  is 
only  when  they  put  on  the  disguise  of  sublime 
and  noble  sentiments,  and  under  this  mask 
reign  over  the  affections,  that  they  become  foul 
poisons  that  kill  in  secret." 

EXTRACT  FROM  OBERON. 

Now  through  the  outward  court  swift  speeds 
the  knight ; 
Within  the  second  from  his  steed  descends ; 
Along  the  third  his  pace  majestic  bends : 
Where'er  he  enters,  dazzled  by  his  sight, 
The  guards  make  way,  —  his  gait,  his  dress, 

his  air, 
A  nuptial  guest  of  highest  rank  declare. 
Now  he  advances  towards  an  ebon  gate. 
Where  with  drawn  swords  twelve  Moors  gigan- 
tic wait. 
And  piecemeal  hack  the  wretch  who  steps 
unbidden  there. 

But  the  bold  gesture  and  imperial  mien 
Of  Huon,  as  he  opes  the  lofty  door. 
Drive  back  the  swords  that  crossed  his  path 
before. 
And  at  his  entrance  flamed  with  lightning  sheen. 
At  once,  with  rushing  noise,  the  valves  unfold : 
High  throbs  the  bosom  of  our  hero  bold. 
When,  locked  behind  him,  harsh  the  portals 

bray: 
Through  gardens  decked  vrith  columns  leads 
the  way. 
Where  towered  a  gate  incased  with  plates  of 
massy  gold. 

There  a  large  forecourt  held  a  various  race 
Of  slaves,  a  hapless  race,  sad  harem  slaves. 
Who  die  of  thirst  *mid  joy's  overflowing  waves ! 

And  when  a  man,  whom  emir  honors  grace. 
Swells  in  hb  state  before  their  hollow  eye, 
Breathless  they  bend,  with  looks  that  seem 
to  die. 

Beneath  the  weight  of  servitude  oppressed ; 

Bow  down,  with  folded  arms  across  the  breast, 
Nor  dare  look  up  to  mark  the  pomp  that  glit- 
ters by. 


Already  cymbals,  drums,  and  fifes  resound  ; 

With  song  and  (tring  the  festive  palace  clangs ; 

The  sultan's  head  already  heaving  hangs. 
While  vinous  vapors  float  his  brain  around  : 

Already  mirth  in  fVeer  current  flows. 

And  the  gay  bridegroom,  wild  with  rapture, 
glows. 
Then,  as  the  bnde,  in  horror  turned  away. 
Casts  on  the  ground  her  looks  that  never  stray, 

Huon  along  the  hall  with  noble  fi^edom  goes. 

Now  to  the  table  he  advances  nigh. 
And  with  uplifted  brow  in  wild  amaze 
The  admiring  guests  upon  the  stranger  gaze  : 
Fair  Rezia,  tranced,  with  fiuicinated  eye 

Still  views  her  dream,  and  ever  downward 

bends : 
The  sultan,  busy  with  the  bowl,  suspends 
All  other  thoughts :  Prince  Babekan  alone. 
Warned  by  no  vision,  towards  the  guest  un- 
known. 
All  fearless  of  his  fate,  his  length  of  neck 
extends. 

Soon  as  Sir  Huon's  scornful  eyes  retrace 
The  man  of  yesterday,  that  he,  the  same 
Who  lately  dared  the  Christian  God  defame. 

Sits  at  the  lefl,  high-plumed  in  bridal  grace. 
And  bows  the  neck  as  conscious  of  his  guilt : 
Swift  as  the  light  he  grasps  the  sabre's  hilt ', 

Off  at  the  instant  flies  the  heathen's  head  ; 

And,  o'er  the  caliph  and  the  banquet  shed. 
Up  spirts  his  boiling  blood,  by  dreadful  ven- 
geance spilt ! 

As  the  dread  visage  of  Medusa  fell. 

Swift  flashing  on  the  sight,  with  instant  view 
Deprives  of  life  the  wild-revolted  crew ; 
While  reeks  the  tower  with  blood,  while  tu- 
mults swell. 
And    murderous   frenzy,  fierce    and   fiercer 

grown. 
Glares  in  each  eye,  and  maddens  every  tone, — 
At  once,  when  Perseus  shakes  the  viper  hair, 
Each  dagger  stiffens  as  it  hangs  in  air. 

And  every  murderer  stands  transformed  to 
living  stone ! 

Thus,  at  the  view  of  this  audacious  feat. 

The  jocund  blood  that  warmed  each  merry 

guest 
Suspends  its  frozen  eburse  in  every  breast : 
Like  ghosts,  in  heaps,  all-shivering  from  their 
seat 
They  start,  and  grasp  their  swords,  and  mark 

their  prey ; 
But,  shrunk  by  fear,  their  vigor  dies  away : 
Each  in  its  sheath  their  swords  remain  at  rest : 
With  powerless  fury  in  his  look  expressed. 
Mute  sunk  the  caliph  back,  and  stared  in 
wild  dismay. 

The  uproar  which  confounds  the  nuptial  hall 
Forces  the  dreamer  from  her  golden  trance : 
Round  her  she  gazes  with  astonished  glance. 

While  yells  of  frantic  rage  her  soul  appall : 


264 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


But,  as  she  turns  her  face  towards  Huon*s  side, 

How  throbs  his  bosom,  when  he  sees  his 

•       bride!  — 
<«  T  is  she, — 't  is  she  herself!  '*  he  wildly  calls : 
Down  drops  the  bloody  steel ;  the  turban  falls ; 

And  Rezia  knows  her  knight,  as  float  hb 
ringlets  wide. 

«« T  is  he  !'*  she  wild  exclaims :  yet  yirgin  shame 

Stops  in  her  rosy  mouth  the  imperfect  sound : 

How  throbs  her  heart,  what  thrill ings  strange 

confound. 

When,  with  impatient  speed,  the  stranger  came. 

And,   love-emboldened,   with   presumptuous 

arms 
Clasped,  in  the  sight  of  all,  her  angel  charms ! 
And,  O,  how  fiery  red,  how  deadly  pale 
Her  cheek,  as  love  and  maiden  fear  assail. 
The  while  he  kissed  her  lip  that  glowed  with 
sweet  alarms ! 

Twice  had  his  lip  already  kissed  the  maid :  — 
**  Where  shall  the  bridal  ring,  O,  where  be 

found?" 
Lo !  by  good  fortune,  as  he  gazes  round, 

The  elfin  ring  shines  suddenly  displayed. 
Won  from  the  giant  of  the  iron  tower  : 
Now,  all-unconscious  of  its  magic  power. 

This  ring,  so  seeming  base,  the  impatient  knight 

Slips  on  her  finger,  pledge  of  nuptial  rite :  — 
*<  With  this,  O  bride  beloved !  I  wed  thee 
from  thu  hour !  " 

Then,  for  the  third  time,  at  these  words,  again 
The  bridegroom  kissed  the  soft  reluctant  fidr : 
The  sultan  storms  and  stamps  in  wild  de- 
spair :  — 
"Thou  sufferest,  then,  —  inexpiable  stain  !  — 
This   Christian  dog   to  shame   thy   nuptial 

day?  — 
Seize,  seize  him,  slaves! — ye  die,  the  least 
delay ! 
Haste  !  drop  by  drop,  firom  every  throbbing  vein. 
By  lengthened  agonies  his  life-blood  drain, — 
Thus  shall  the  pangs  of  hell  his  monstrous 
guilt  repay !  '* 

At  once,  in  flames,  before  Sir  Huon's  eyes, 
A  thousand  weapons  glitter  at  the  word ; 
And,  ere  our  hero  snatches  up  his  sword. 

On  every  side  the  death-storms  fiercely  rise  : 
On  every  side  he  turns  his  brandished  blade : 
By  love  and  anguish  wild,  at  once  the  maid 

Around  him  wreathes  her  arm,  his  shield  her 
breast. 

Seizes  his  sword,  by  her  alone  repressed :  — 
«*  Back  !  daring  slaves ! "  she  cries, "  I,  I  the 
hero  aid  I 

^  Back ! — to  that  breast,  —  here,  here  the  pas- 
sage lies !  — 
No  other  way  than  through  the  midst  of 

mine!"  — 
And  she,  who  lately  seemed  Love's  bride  di- 
vine. 
Now  flames  a  Gotgon  with  Medusa's  eyes  ! 


And  ever,  as  the  emirs  near  inclose. 
She  dares  with  fearless  breast  their  swords 
oppose :  — 
**•  Spare  him,  my  father !  spare  him !  and,  O  thou. 
Destined  by  late  to  claim  my  nuptial  vow. 
Spare  him !  —  in  both  your  lives  the  blood  of 
Rezia  flows ! " 

The  sultan's  frenzy  rages  uncontrolled  : 

Fierce  on  Sir  Huon  storm  the   murderous 
train  ; 

Tet  still  his  glittering  fiilchion  flames  in  vain. 
While  Rezia's  gentle  hand  retains  its  hold : 

Her  agonizing  shrieks  his  bosom  rend. 

And  what  remains  the  princess  to  defend  ? 
What  but  the  horn  can  rescue  her  from  death  ? — 
Sofl  through  the  ivory  flows  his  gentle  breath. 

And  from  its  spiry  folds  sweet  fairy  tones 
ascend. 

Soon  as  its  magic  sounds,  the  powerless  steel 
Falls  without  struggle  from  the  lifted  hand : 
In  rash  vertigo  turned,  the  emir  band 

Wind  arm  in  arm,  and  spin  the  giddy  reel : 
Throughout  the  hall  tumultuous  echoes  ring; 
All,  old  and  young,  each  heel  has  Hermes' 
wing: 

No  choice  is  left  them  by  the  fairy  tone : 

Pleased  and  astonished,  Rezia  stands  alone 
By  Huon's  side  unmoved,  while  all  around 
them  spring. 

The  whole  divan,  one  swimming  circle,  glides 
Swift  without  stop :  the  old  bashaws  click 

time : 
As  if  on  polished  ice,  in  trance  sublime. 

The  iman  hoar  with  some  spruce  courtier  slides : 
Nor  rank  nor  age  from  capering  refrain  : 
Nor  can  the  king  his  royal  foot  restrain  -, 

He,  too,  muQt  reel  amid  the  frolic  row. 

Grasp  the  grand  vizier  by  his  beard  of  snow, 
And  teach  the  aged  man  once  more  to  bound 
amain. 

The  dancing  melodies,  ne'er  heard  before. 
From  every  crowded  antechamber  round, 
First  draw  the  eunuchs  forth  with  airy  bound ; 

The  women  next,  and  slaves  that  guard  the  door. 
Alike  the  merry  madness  seizes  all. 
The  harem's  captives,  at  the  magic  call. 

Trip  gaily  to  the  tune,  and  whirl  the  dance : 

In  party-colored  shirts  the  gardeners  prance. 
Rush  'mid  the  youthful  nymphs,  and  mingle 
in  the  ball. 

Entranced,  with  fearful  joy,  while  doubt  alarms, 
Fair  Rezia  stands  almost  deprived  of  breath  :— 
"  What  wonder !  at  the  time  when  instant 
death 
Hangs  o'er  us,  that  a  dance  the  god  disarms ! 
A  dance  thus  rescues  from  extreme  distress ! " 
**Some  friendly  genius    deigns    our  union 
bless," 
Sir  Huon  says.     Meanwhile  amid  the  throng 
With  eager  step  darts  Sherasmin  along, 

And  towards  them  Fatma  hastes  unnoticed 
through  the  press. 


WIELAND. 


265 


**  Haate ! "  Sheraraim  exeUinu ;  <*  not  now  the 
hoar 
To  pry  with  cnrioot  leuara  on  the  dance, -^ 
All    is    prepared,  —  the    steeds    impatient 
prance, — 
While  rares  the  castle,  while   unharred  the 
tower. 
And  every  gate  wide  open,  why  delay  ? 
By  lock  I  met  Dame  Fatma  on  the  way, 
Cloee-packed,   like  beast  of  harden,  for  the 

flight." 
•« Peace!   't  b  not  yet  the  time,"  repliea  the 
knight ; 
*«A  dreadfiil  task  impends,-^ for  that  most 
Huon  stay." 

Pale  Rezia  shaddera  at  the  dreadfiil  soand. 
And  looks  with  longing  eye,  that  seems  to 

**  Why,  on  the  brink  of  ruin,  why  delay  ? 
O,  hasten  !  let  oar  footsteps  fly  the  ground. 
Ere  bursts  the  transient  cJiarm  that  binds 

their  brain, 
And  rage  and  vengeance  lepossess  the  train !" 
Hoon,  who  reads  the  language  of  her  eyes. 
With  looks  of  answering  love  alone  replies, 
Clasps  to  his  heart  her  hand,  nor  dares  the 
deed  explain. 

And  now  the  fidry  tones  to  soft  repose 

Melt  in  the  air :  each  head  swims  giddy  round, 
And  every  limb  o'ertired  forgets  to  bound ; 
Wet  every  thread,  and  every  pore  o'erflows. 
The  breath  half^stopped  scarce  heaves  with 

struggling  pain ; 
The  drowsy  blood  alow  creeps  through  every 
vein; 
Involuntary  joy,  like  torture,  thrills  : 
The  king,  as  from  a  bath,  in  streams  distils. 
And  pants  upon  his  couch,  amid  the  exhaust* 
ed  train.. 

Stiff,  without  motion,  scarce  with  sense  endued, 
Down,  one  by  one,  the  overwearied  dancers 

foil. 
Where  swelling  bolsters  heave  around  the 
wall: 
Emirs,  and  lowly  slaves,  in  contrast  rude. 
Mix  with  the  harem  goddesses,  as  chance 
Tangles  the  mazes  of  the  frantic  dance  : 
At  once  together  by  a  whirlwind  blown. 
On  the  same  bed,  in  ill-paired  union  thrown. 
The    groom    and  fovorite   lie  confosed    in 
breathless  trance. 

Sir  Huon,  mindfbl  of  the  fovoring  hour. 
While  rests  in  peaceful  silence  all  around. 
Pursues  his  task,  by  plighted  promise  bound : 

Leaves  his  foir  angel  in  the  old  man's  power. 
Gives  him  the  ivory  horn,  and  cautions  well 
By  timely  use  the  danger  to  repel ; 

Then  boldly  hastens  forward  to  the  place 

Where  gasps  the  sultan  wearied  with  the  race. 
And,  heaving  with  his  breath,  the  billowy 
pillows  swell. 
34 


In  awfol  silence,  with  expanded  wing, 
SoA-breathing  expectation  stilly  broods ; 
And  thoagh,  by  fita,  thick  drowsiness  intrudes. 

The  languid  dancers  that  surround  the  king 
Strive  to  unbolt  their  slumber-closing  eje. 
To  view  the  stranger  as  he  passes  by  ; 

Who,  after  such  a  deed,  with  hand  unarmed. 

And  courteous  posture,  ventures,  unalarmed, 
To  fit>nt  the  lightning  glance  of  injured  ma- 
jesty. 

Low  on  his  knee  Sir  Huon  humbly  bends : 
With  cool,  heroic  look,  and  genUe  tone 
Begins:— *« Imperial  Charles,  before  whose 
throne 
I  bow,  his  fiuthftil  vassal  hither  sends. 

To  hail  thee,  Asia's  lord !  with  greeting  fair. 
And  beg  (forgive  what  duty  bids  declare  ! 
For,  as  my  arm,  my  tongue  obeys  his  laws),  — 
And  beg, — great  Sir ! — four  grinders  from  your 
jaws, 
And  from  your  reverend  beard  a  lock  of  sil- 
ver hair ! " 

He  speaks  it,  and  is  silent,  —  and  stands  still. 
In  expectation  of  the  sultan's  word. 
Soon  as  the  caliph  had  the  message  heard,  — 

But  words,  alas  !  are  wanting  to  my  will ; 
I  cannot  paint,  while  pride  and  rage  conspire. 
How  every  feature  writhes  with  maniac  ire, 

How  from  his  throne  he  darts,  how  fiercely  stares, 

How  from  his  eye  incessant  lightning  glares, 
While  every  bursting  vein  high  boils  with 
living  fire. 

He  stares,  would  curse,  but  fury  uncontrolled 
In  his  blue  lip  breaks  short  the  imperfect 

sound  :  — 
*«  Tear  out  his   heart !    to  dust   the'  villain 
pound ! 
Hack,  hack  him  limb  by  limb,  a  thousand  fold ! 
With  searching  awls  explore  each  secret  vein ! 
Crack  joint  by  joint,  each   tortured   sinew 
strain  ! 
Roast  him, — to  all  the  winds  his  ashes  cast ! 
Him,  and  his  Emperor  Charles,  whom  light- 
nings blast ! 
Teeth  ?  beard  ? — beneath  this  roof.' — to  me  ? 
—  it  burns  my  brain  I 

"  Who  is  this  Charles,  who  thus  presumptuous 
dares 
Against  us  swell  himself?  Why  comes  he  not. 
Since  thus  he  longs,  in  person,  on  the  spot. 

To  take  my  grinders,  and  my  silver  hairs?  " 
'*  Ah,  ah  !  "  exclaims  a  hoary-headed  khan, 
•(  Whate'er  he  be,  no  doubt,  that  mighty  man 

Is  not  with  overweight  of  brains  oppressed ! 

He  should,  at  least,  who  makes  the  mad  request, 
In  firont  of  myriads  march,  (hen  execute  the 
plan." 

**  Caliph  of  Bagdad,"  says  the  tranquil  knight. 
With  noble  pride,  "  let  all  be  silent  here ! 
Mark  me, — the  emperor's  awfol  task  severe. 

And  the  bold  promise  that  I  dared  to  plight, 
W 


266 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


Long  on  my  soul,  ere  now,  have  heavy  aat : 
Yet  bitter,  Monarch,  is  the  force  of  Fate  ! 
What  power  on  earth  her  sovereignty  with- 
stands ? 
Whatever  to  do  or  suffer  Fate  commands. 
Must  be  performed,  and  borne,  with  patient 
mind  sedate. 

**  Here  stand  I,  like  thyself^  a  mortal  man, 
Alone,  in  proud  defiance  of  thy  train, 
At  risk  of  life  my  honor  to  maintain : 

Yet  honor  bids  propose  another  plan, — 
Abjure  thy  fiiith,  from  Mahomet  recede, 
With  pious  lip  profess  the  Christian  creed ; 

Erect  the  cross  in  all  these  Eastern  lands : 

So  wilt  thou  more  perform  than  Charles  de- 
mands ; 
Charles  shall  remain  content,  and  thou  from 
trouble  freed. 

**  Yes,  on  myself  the  terms  I  undertake ; 

No  rash  offence  shall  wound  imperial  pride ; 

And  he  who  dares  these  holy  terms  deride 
Shall  in  my  blood  at  will  his  vengeance  slake. 

Thus  young,  thus  lonely,  as  thou  seest  me 
here. 

Thy  own  experience.  Caliph,  makes  it  clear 
That  some  unseen  protector  guides  my  way : 
He  can  the  rage  of  all  thy  host  allay. 

Choose,  then,  the  better  part,  and   bow  to 
truth  thine  ear." 

Like  a  commissioned  angel  of  the  skies. 
In  awful  beauty  and  commanding  mien, 
While  Huon  stands,  by  wondering  mortals 
seen. 
And,  though  destruction  flames  before  his  eyes, 
Speaks   his    high    mandate   with   unshaken 

mind; 
Rezia,  from  far,  towards  him  alone  inclined. 
Her  beauteous  neck  in  graceful  guise  extends. 
Towards  him  her  cheek  by  love  illumined  bends. 
Yet  fearful  how  at  last  these  wonders  will 
unwind. 

Scarce  had  our  knight  the  last  proposal  made, 
Than  the  old  caliph,  hell  within  his  breast. 
Raves,  shrieks,  and  stamps  the  ground,  like 
one  possessed : 
On  each  swollen  feature  frenzy  stood  displayed. 
Not  less  enraged,  around  their  fiery  king 
Up  from  their  seats  at  once  the  pagans  spring. 
And  foam,  and  threat,  and  horrid  vengeance 

swear ; 
Swords,  lances,  daggers,  clatter  in  the  air ; 
All  press  on  Mahom*s  foe,  and  closely  round 
enring. 

On  as  they  rush,  the  intrepid  knight  in  haste 
Wrenches  a  pole  from  one   that  near  him 

stood; 
And  armed  as  with  a  mace,  in  fearless  mood, 

Where'er  he  swings  it,  spreads  destructive  waste ; 
Thus,  ever  fighting,  presses  near  the  wall : 
A  golden  bowl,  that  graced  the  banquet-ball, 


Serves  him  at  once  for  weapon  and  for  shield. 
Already  to  his  might  the  foremost  yield. 

And  itretched  befi>re  his  feet  the  gasping 
heathens  fall ! 

Brave  Sherasmin,  the  guardian  of  the  fair. 
Who  thinks  he  views,  amid  the  press  afio-. 
His  fi>rmer  lord  victorious  in  the  war. 

Glows  at  the  scene  with  wild,  triumphant  air : 
But  roused  by  Rezia's  agonizing  cries. 
The  fond  delusion  of  the  dreamer  flies; 

He  sees  the  youth  close  girt  by  heathen  foes, — 

Sets  to  his  lip  the  horn,  and  loudly  blows. 
As  one  by  Heaven  ordained  to  bid  the  dead 
arise. 

Loud  rings  the  castle  with  rebellowing  shocks ; 
Night,  tenfold  midnight,  swallows  up  the  day ; 
Ghosts  to  and  fro  like  gleams  of  lightning 
play; 
The  stony  basis  of  the  turret  rocks ; 

Clap  after  clap,  and  peals  on  peals  resound  : 

Terrors  unknown  the  heathen  race  confound ; 

Sight,  hearing  lost,  they  stagger,  drunk  with 

fear; 
Drops  from  each  nerveless  hand  the  sword  and 
spear. 
And  stiff  upon  the  spot  all  lie  in  groups  around. 

With  miracle  on  miracle  oppressed, 

The  caliph  struggles  with  the  pangs  of  death ; 
His  arm  hangs  loose,  deep  drawn  his  heavy 
breath, 
Scarce  beats  his  pulse,  it  flutters,  sinks  to  rest. 
At  once  the  storm  is  hushed  that  roared  so 

loud; 
While,  sweetly  breathing  o'er  the  prostrate 
crowd, 
A  lily  vapor  sheds  around  perfume. 
And,  like  an  angel  image  on  a  tomb. 

The  fairy  spright  appears,  arrayed  in  silver 
cloud ! 


GOTTLIEB  CONRAD  PFEFFEL. 

This  distinguished  author  was  bom  in  1736, 
at  Colmar,  in  Alsatia.  In  bis  fifteenth  year,  he 
commenced  the  study  of  law  in  Halle,  but  his 
studies  were  interrupted  by  a  disease  in  the 
eyes,  which  terminated,  in  1757,  in  total  blind- 
ness. He  married  in  1759,  and  the  next  year 
published  bis  first  poetical  attempts.  In  1763, 
he  became  a  court  councillor  of  Darmstadt  In 
1773,  he  established  a  school  in  Colmar,  which 
continued  until  it  was  overthrown  by  the  French 
Revolution.  In  1803,  he  was  made  President 
of  the  Protestant  Consistory  at  Colmar.  He 
died  the  1st  of  May,  1809. 

As  a  poet,  he  was  distinguished  in  fable  and 
poetical  narrative.  He  wrote  also  epistles,  di- 
dactic poems,  ballads,  lyrical  poems,  and  pieces 
for  the  stage.     His  poetical  works  were  pub- 


PFEFFEL CLAUDIUS. 


267 


lisbed  at  TQbingaD  and  Stuttgart,  in  ten  parts, 
1803  - 10.  A  selection  from  his  fiibles  and  po- 
etical narratives  was  published  by  Hauff,  Stutt- 
gart and  Tubingen,  in  two  volumes,  1640. 


THE  TOBACOCVPIPSL 

**Old  man,  God  bless  you!   does  your  pipe 
ttote  sweetly  ? 
A  beauty,  by  my  soul ! 
A  red  clay  flower-pot,  rimmed  with  gold  so 
neatly! 
What  ask  you  for  the  bowl  ?  '* 

**  O  Sir,  that  bowl  for  worlds  I  would  not  part 
with; 
A  brave  man  gave  it  me, 
Who  won  it  —  now  what  think  you? — of  a 
bashaw, 
At  Belgrade's  victory. 

«< There,  Sir,  ah!  there  was  booty  worth  the 
showing,  — 

Long  life  to  Prince  Eugene  ! 
Like  after-grass  you  might  have  seen  us  mowing 

The  Turkish  ranks  down  clean." 

*'  Another  time  I  '11  hear  your  story : 

Come,  old  man,  be  no  fool ; 
Take  these  two  ducats,  —  gold  for  glory,  — 

And  let  me  have  the  bowl !  " 

"I  'm  a  poor  churl,  as  you  may  say,  Sir; 

My  pension  's  all  I  'm  worth  : 
Tet  I  'd  not  give  that  bowl  away,  Sir, 

For  all  the  gold  on  earth. 

*«Ju8t  hear  now!    Once,  as  we  hussars,  all 
merry, 

Hard  on  the  foe's  rear  pressed, 
A  blundering  rascal  of  a  janizary 

Shot  through  our  captain's  breast. 

**  At  once  across  my  horse  I  hove  him,  — 
The  same  would  he  have  done,  — 

And  from  the  smoke  and  tumult  drove  him 
Safe  to  a  nobleman. 

**  I  nursed  him ;  and,  before  his  end,  bequeathing 

His  money  and  this  bowl 
To  me,  he  pressed  my  hand,  just  ceased  his 
breathing. 

And  so  he  died,  brave  soul ! 

**  The  money  thou  must  give  mine  host,— > so 
thojigbt  I, — 

Three  plunderings  suffered  he : 
And,  in  remembrance  of  my  old  friend,  brought  I 

The  pipe  away  with  me. 

**  Henceforth  in  all  campaigns  with  me  I  bore  it, 

In  flight  or  in  pursuit ; 
It  was  a  holy  thing,  Sir,  and  I  wore  it 

Safo-sheltered  in  my  boot. 


**  This  very  limb,  I  lost  it  by  a  shot.  Sir, 

Under  the  walls  of  Prague : 
First  at  my  precious  pipe,  be  sure,  I  caught.  Sir, 

And  then  picked  up  my  leg." 

**  Tou  move  me  even  to  tears,  old  Sire : 
What  was  the  brave  man's  name  ? 

Tell  me,  that  I,  too,  may  admire 
And  venerate  his  fome." 

"  They  called  him  only  the  brave  Walter ; 

His  form  lay  near  the  Rhine." 
*•  God  bless  your  old  eyes !  't  was  my  fother. 

And  that  same  form  is  mine. 

^Come,  friend,  you  've    seen    some  stormy 
weather ; 

With  me  is  now  your  bed ; 
We  '11  drink  of  Walter's  grapes  together. 

And  eat  of  Walter's  bread." 

**  Now  -—  done  !  I  march  in,  then,  to-morrow : 

Tou  're  his  true  heir,  I  see ; 
And  when  I  die,  your  thanks,  kind  master. 

The  Turkish  pipe  shall  be." 


MATTHIAS  CLAUDIUS. 

This  amiable  man  and  agreeable  writer  was 
bom  in  1740,  at  Reinfoldt  in  Holstein,  near 
Lobeck.  He  lived  for  some  time  in  Wands- 
beck.  In  1776,  he  was  appointed  to  a  public 
office  in  Darmstadt,  but  returned  to  Wandsbeck 
the  next  year.  He  was  a  frequent  contributor 
to  the  **  Wandsbeck  Messenger."  He  died  in 
1818.  A  collection  of  his  works,  completed  in 
1812,  was  published  under  the  title  of  *«  Asmus 
omnia  sua  secum  portans,  or  the  Collective 
Works  of  the  Wandsbeck  Messenger."  A  new 
edition  in  four  volumes  was  published  at  Ham- 
burg in  1838. 

The  most  prominent  characteristic  of  Claudi- 
us, as  a  writer,  is  a  certain  simplicity  and  hearty 
good-humor.  He  wrote  excellent  popular  songs, 
simple  ballads,  fiibles,  epigrams,  tales,  and  dia- 
logues. 

Menzel  *  remarks  of  him :  ■*  Claudius  formed 
the  transition  from  pedantry  to  the  naive  poe- 
try. The  celebrated  *  Wandsbeck  Messenger ' 
noiakes,  when  we  read  it  now-a-days,  a  singular 
and  more  touching  than  agreeable  impression. 
Not  that  its  beauties  are  not  always  beautiful, 
its  vigorous  common  sense  always  sensible ;  but 
the  form,  the  language,  belong  to  an  age  long 
since  departed.  It  appears  to  us  as  if  we  saw 
one  of  our  great-grandfothers,  with  the  lofty 
nightcap,  jump  up  fit>m  an  easy  chair,  and  skip 
through  a  wedding  dance.  The  ftin  is  sincerely 
meant,  but  somewhat  ungainly.  Had  not  the 
inborn  good-nature,  and  tameness  and  timidity 


*  Germsn  Lltentare,  Vol.  m.,  pp.  60,  61. 


268 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


vcbooled  by  the  pressure  of  his  private  affairs, 
laid  too  manj  restraints  upon  the  poet's  satire, 
it  would  certainly,  with  his  great  talents,  have 
grown  up  to  something  distinguished.  But  Clau- 
dius did  not  belong  to  the  moce  fortunate  class 
of  poets,  who,  like  Lessing,  Wieland,  Herder, 
ThQmmel,  Rabner,  and  Lichtenberg,  raised 
themselves  above  the  common  wants  of  a  petty 
and  dependent  existence,  partly  by  a  better  po- 
sition in  civic  life,  partly  by  the  force  of  their 
own  genius,  or,  at  least,  by  their  good- humor; 
he  belonged  rather  to  those  who,  like  Voss, 
Borger,  Moritz,  Stilling,  Schubart,  Seume, 
could  not  free  themselves,  their  whole  life  long, 
from  the  feeling  of  narrow  circumstances,  and 
the  pressure  of  want;  who,  with  all  their  long- 
ing for  fireedom,  with  all  their  defiance  of  fate, 
still  bore  upon  their  brow,  ineffaceably  im- 
pressed, the  Cain-mark  of  low  life  and  vulgar 
awkwardness." 

RHINE- WINK 

With  laurel  wreathe  the  glass's  vintage  mellow, 

And  drink  it  gaily  dry  ! 
Through  farthest  Europe,  know,  my  worthy 
fellow. 

For  such  in  vain  ye  '11  try. 

Nor  Hungary  nor  Poland  e'er  could  boast  it ; 

And  as  for  Gallia's  vine. 
Saint  Veit,  the  Ritter,  if  he  choose,  may  toast 
it,— 

We,  Germans,  love  the  Rhine. 

Our  fatherland  we  thyik  for  such  a  blessing. 

And  many  more  beside ; 
And  many  more,  though  little  show  possessing, 

Well  worth  our  love  and  pride. 

Not  everywhere  the  vine  bedecks  our  border, 

As  well  the  mountains  show. 
That  harbour  in  their  bosoms  foul  disorder ; 

Not  worth  their  room  below. 

Thuringia's  hills,  for  instance,  are  aspiring 

To  rear  a  juice  like  wine ; 
But  that  is  all ;  nor  mirth  nor  song  inspiring. 

It  breathes  not  of  the  vine. 

And  other  hills,  with  buried  treasures  glowing, 

For  wine  are  far  too  cold ; 
Though  iron  ores  and  cobalt  there  are  growing. 

And  chance  some  paltry  gold. 

The  Rhine, —  the  Rhine,  —  there  grow  the  gay 
plantations ! 

O,  hallowed  be  the  Rhine  ! 
Upon  his  banks  are  brewed  the  rich  potations 

Of  this  consoling  wine. 

Drink  to  the  Rhine  !  and  every  coming  morrow 

Be  mirth  and  music  thine ! 
And  when  we  meet  a  child  of  care  and  sorrow, 

We  '11  send  him  to  the  Rhine. 


WINTER. 

▲  SOHO  TO  BB  SUXO  BBBim  TRB  STOVB. 

Old  WiiTTEa  is  the  man  for  me,  — 
Stout-hearted,  sound,  and  steady  ; 

Steel  nerves  and  bones  of  brass  hath  he ; 
Come  snow,  come  blow,  he  's  ready. 

If  ever  man  was  well,  't  is  he ; 

He  keeps  no  fire  in  his  chamber. 
And  yet  fi'om  cold  and  cough  is  free 

In  bitterest  December. 

He  dresses  him  out-doors  at  mom, 
Nor  needs  he  first  to  warm  him  ; 

Toothache  and  rheumatis*  he  '11  scorn. 
And  colic  don't  alarm  him. 

In  summer,  when  the  woodland  rings. 
He  asks,  **  What  mean  these  noises?  *' 

Warm  sounds  he  hates,  and  all  warm  things 
Most  heartily  despises. 

But  when  the  fox's  bark  is  loud ; 

When  the  bright  hearth  is  snapping ; 
When  children  round  the  chimney  crowd. 

All  shivering  and  clapping ; 

When  stone  and  bone  with  fVost  do  break, 
And  pond  and  lake  are  cracking, — 

Then  you  may  see  his  old  sides  shake. 
Such  glee  his  frame  is  racking. 

Near  the  north  pole,  upon  the  strand, 

He  has  an  icy  tower ; 
Likewise  in  lovely  Switzerland 

He  keeps  a  summer  bower. 

So  up  and  down, — now  here,  —  now  there, — 

His  regiments  manoeuvre ; 
When  he  goes  by,  we  stand  and  stare, 

And  cannot  choose  but  shiver. 


THE  HEN. 

Was  once  a  hen  of  wit  not  small 

(In  ftct,  't  was  most  amazing). 
And  apt  at  laying  eggs  withal. 
Who,  when  she  'd  done,  would  scream  and 
bawl. 

As  if  the  house  were  blazing. 
A  turkey-cock,  of  age  mature. 

Felt  thereat  indignation ; 
'T  was  quite  improper,  he  was  sure, 
He  would  no  more  the  thing  endure ; 

So,  after  cogitation, 
He  to  the  lady  straight  repaired, 
And  thus  his  business  he  decAu^d  : 

"  Madam,  pray  what 's  the  matter. 
That  always,  when  you  've  laid  an  egg, 

Tou  make  so  great  a  clatter  f 
I  wish  you  'd  do  the  thing  in  quiet ; 
Do  be  advised  by  me,  and  try  it ! " 
**  Advised  by  you  ?  "  the  lady  cried. 
And  tossed  her  head  with  proper  pride ; 


HERDER. 


M  And  what  do  you  know,  now  I  pnj, 
Of  the  fiwhiona  of  the  present  day, 
Ton  creature  i^orant  and  low  ? 
However,  if  you  want  to  know. 
This  ia  the  reason  why  I  do  it : 
I  lay  my  egg,  and  then  review  it !  *' 


NIOHTSONG. 

The  moon  is  up,  in  splendor. 
And  golden  stars  attend  her ; 

The  heavens  are  calm  and  bright; 
Trees  cast  a  deepening  shadow. 
And  slowly  off  the  meadow 

A  mist  is  rising,  silver-white. 

Night*s  curtains  now  are  closing 
Round  half  a  world,  reposing 

In  calm  and  holy  trust ; 
All  seems  one  vast,  still  chamber. 
Where  weary  hearts  remember 

No  more  the  sorrows  of  the  dust 


JOHANN  GOTTFRIED  VON  HERDER. 


This  accomplished  man,  and  distinguished 
author,  was  born,  August  25th,  1744,  at  Mob- 
rungen,  in  East  Prussia,  where  his  father  was 
a  sort  of  usher  in  a  school,  and  in  circumstances 
of  great  poverty.  He  was  employed  as  a  copy- 
bt  by  Mr.  Trescho,  the  clergyman  of  the  place, 
who  discovered  his  talents,  and  gave  him  les- 
sons vrith  his  own  children  in  Latin  and  Greek. 
A  Russian  suigeon,  who  lived  in  the  clergy- 
man's house,  being  pleased  with  young  Herder's 
manners,  took  him  to  KSnigsberg  and  Peters- 
burg, in  order  to  educate  him  as  a  surgeon ;  but 
he  soon  applied  himself  to  theology  and  phi- 
loeophy,  and  obtained  an  appointment  as  teacher 
in  Frederic's  College.  At  this  time  he  became 
acquainted  with  Kant,  and  made  great  acquire- 
ments in  theology,  philosophy,  philology,  nat- 
ural and  civil  history,  and  politics.  In  1765, 
he  was  appointed  teacher  in  the  Cathedral 
School  at  Riga,  where  he  wrote  the  «*  Frag- 
ments," and  the  *'  Kritische  Wftlder  " ;  in  1767, 
became  a  preacher,  in  connection  with  the 
school,  and  the  same  year  was  offered  the  su- 
perintendence of  Saint  Peter's  School,  in  Pe- 
tersburg, which  he  declined.  In  1768,  he  ac- 
cepted the  offer  of  travelling  tutor  to  the  prince 
of  Holstein-Eutin,  but,  on  account  of  a  weak- 
ness of  the  eyes,  he  proceeded  only  as  far  as 
Strasburg,  where  he  became  acquainted  with 
Goethe.  In  1770,  he  was  appointed  Court 
Preacher  and  Consistorial  Councillor  in  BOcke- 
burg.  His  distinguished  reputation  ss  a  theo- 
logian procured  for  him  the  offer  of  a  profes- 
sorship at  Gottingen,  in  1775 ;  but,  before  he 
had  assumed  the  office,  he  received  the  appoint- 
ment of  Court  Preacher,  General  Superintend- 
ent, and  Upper  Consistorial  Councillor  at  Wei- 


mar. He  arrived  at  Weimar  in  1776,  and 
became  at  once  a  prominent  and  honored  mem- 
ber of  the  splendid  literary  circle  which  sur- 
rounded the  grand-duke's  court.  In  1801,  he 
was  made  President  of  the  High  Consistory, 
and  ennobled.     He  died  in  1803. 

Herder's  character  was  pure  and  elevated ; 
his  genios  was  great  and  comprehensive.  As 
a  theologian,  poet,  and  philosopher,  he  stood 
among  the  foremost  men  of  his  age. 

**He  looked  upon  all  individuals  and  nap 
tions,"  says  Menxel,*  speaking  of  his  gteat  prin- 
ciple, the  law  of  evolution  and  progress,  **  only 
as  the  matter,  and  all  institutions  and  careers 
of  life  as  the  form  under  which  that  evolution 
is  reduced  to  reality.  By  this  principle,  he 
united  them  all  into  one  spirit  and  one  life. 
His  •  Ideas  towards  the  Philosophy  of  the  His- 
tory of  the  Human  Race '  show  us  his  genius 
on  the  broadest  scale,  and  embrace  all  his  views 
and  all  his  tendencies,  according  to  a  regular 
order.  But  the  execution  could  not  satisfy  this 
plan.  No  form  would  have  been  adequate  to 
it.  He  felt  this  well ;  he  indicated  by  the  title 
the  fragmentary  character  of  the  work,  and  left 
it  to  the  right  judgment  of  contemporaries  and 
posterity  to  recognize  all  his  remaining  writings 
as  additions  to  or  fragments  of  this  work  contin- 
ued. 

**  He  began  his  great  picture  of  the  progress 
of  the  world  with  the  representation  of  the 
physical  world  as  a  scene  of  progress  and 
change.  We  cannot  but  acknowledge  that  he 
produced  a  highly  poetical  effect  thereby  upon 
his  age,  and  that  he  contributed  no  less  towards 
the  enriching  of  science,  or  at  least  the  im- 
provement of  its  methods.  A  great  living  pic- 
ture of  nature,  which  would  have  been  intelli- 
gible and  familiar  even  to  the  uninitiated,  had 
hitherto  been  wanting  among  the  Grermans. 
The  most  comprehensive  view  of  the  whole, 
the  evolution  of  beauty  in  the  single  parts, 
here  unite  to  produce  the  most  brilliant  effect. 
While  others  have  coldly  constructed  for  us  the 
whole  frame  of  nature  as  a  mechanical  piece  of 
wheel-work,  he  breathed  into  it  an  organic  life, 
and  awakened  a  warm  feeling  of  love  for  its 
beauty  in  every  breast.  While  others  had 
counted  off  at  their  fingers'  ends  the  single 
phenomena  of  nature,  numbered  and  classified 
one  afler  another,  he  caused  them  all  to  appear 
as  members  of  one  organism,  and  elevated  each 
by  placing  it  in  its  natural  position.  The  stone 
did  not  appear  wrapped  in  the  cotton  of  the 
mineralogical  cabinet,  but  in  the  living  bosom 
of  the  earth,  where  it  had  grown ;  the  plant 
was  not  seen  vrithered  in  the  herbarium,  but 
fresh  on  the  mead,  by  the  hill-side,  still  grow- 
ing from  its  moistened  root,  with  the  smell  of 
earth  upon  it ;  the  animal,  not  stuffed  or  in  a 
cage,  hut  in  the  fireedom  of  the  forest  and  the 
field,  of  the  air  and  the  water ;  the  eye,  not  set 
in  a  ring,  but  beaming  firom  a  beautifiil  counte- 

*  Osnnan  Literatora,  Vol.  n.,  pp.  423-428. 
w2 


270 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


nance ;  man,  not  in  the  solitude  of  the  studj,  but 
like  Adam  among  the  creatures  of  the  first  days 
of  creation,  like  Cssar  among  men,  like  Christ 
in  heaven. 

**  The  moral  world  appeared  to  him  elevated 
above  nature,  but  only  as  the  flower  is  elevated 
above  its  stalk,  and  is  pervaded  by  the  same 
life.  The  same  principle  of  natural  growth 
and  evolution,  but  only  at.  a  higher  stage,  ap- 
peared to  him  to  reign  over  thb  higher  sphere 
of  creation  also,  and  he  ottered  the  great 
thought, — that  (he  life  of  the  individual  man 
and  the  life  of  the  whole  human  race  are  sub- 
jected to  the  same  laws  of  evolution.  He 
placed  a  reason  of  mankind  by  the  side  of  the 
reason  of  the  man :  the  former  guided  by  an 
everlasting  Providence  in  the  life  of  nations ; 
the  latter  imparted  to  man  as  a  divine  inherit- 
ance, and  only  an  efflux  of  a  supreme  and  uni- 
versal reason.  Both,  acting  upon  each  other, 
struggle  to  attain  the  highest  goal  of  the  im* 
provement  of  the  human  race,  and  the  em- 
bellishment of  human  life.  To  that  end,  all 
the  powers  of  mankind  put  forth  their  blos- 
soms. Guided  by  this  lofky  view,  Herder 
searched  the  depths  of  the  human  soul,  fol- 
lowed out  all  the  bearings  of  private  life,  of 
manners,  of  education,  of  states,  of  religions,  of 
sciences  and  arts ;  the  history  of  institutions, 
of  nations,  and  of  the  whole  human  race  ;  and 
showed  the  same  tendency,  the  one  identical 
principle  of  life,  extending  through  them  all. 
Every  individual  object  was  considered  by  him 
only  as  a  member  of  the  whole.  His  numer- 
ous fragmentary  writings  were  always  more 
occupied  with  pointing  out  the  connection  than 
the  separation  of  the  single  phenomena  of  the 
life  of  man. 

**  Among  the  writings  in  which  he  takes  that 
which  is  of  universal  interest  to  man,  without 
regard  to  particular  nations,  for  the  subject  of 
his  consideration,  next  to  the  *  Ideas,'  the  *  Meta- 
criticism*  is  chiefly  distinguished  for  philoso- 
phy, and  « Calliope '  for  esthetics.  His  works 
on  the  Bible,  on  politics,  on  education  and 
manners,  upon  which  his  numerous  essays  and 
fragments  are  employed,  are  circumscribed 
within  narrower  circles  of  discussion.  In  the 
*  Adrastea,*  be  has  felt  himself  impelled  to  de- 
vote a  special  attention  to  modem  history,  since 
he,  too,  is  a  child  of  the  present  age.  All  these 
works  are  distinguished  both  by  the  truth  and 
clearness  with  which  the  subjects  are  brought 
at  once  before  us,  and  particularly  by  the  &ct 
that  they  are  never  solitary  efforts,  never  leave 
an  unsatisfied  foeling  behind,  but  always  refer 
to  a  great  and  harmonious  view  of  the  world, 
and  make  us  see  the  whole  in  single  parts,  just 
as  they,  when  united,  form,  at  length,  the 
whole. 

**  Herder's  sublime  genius,  however,  did  not 
limit  itself  to  tracing  out  the  development  of 
the  powers  of  the  soul  as  they  lie  in  individual 
men,  to  the  complete  formation  of  the  flower, 
to  which  these  individuals  may  bring  them. 


He  discovered,  on  the  contrary,  that  a  still  higher 
development  will  be  attained  in  the  variety  of 
natures,  both  of  nations  and  of  individuals.  In 
this,  he  thought,  consisted  the  highest  and  last 
form  to  which  the  course  of  human  progress 
was  subjected;  and  therefore  the  just  appre- 
ciation of  this  was  the  crowning  glory  of  his 
system.  In  nationality.  Herder  recognized  the 
cradle  of  a  still  higher  culture  than  could  pos- 
sibly be  attained  by  men  themselves ;  but  the 
cradle  of  the  highest  culture  was,  he  thought, 
the  variety  of  human  nature.  As  he  placed 
the  moral  world  of  mankind  above  nature,  so 
he  placed  the  civilized  and  polished  above 
the  rude  nation,  and  the  man  of  genius  above 
the  ordinary  man.  This  highest  view,  how- 
ever, stood  in  the  most  intimate  connection  with 
his  entire  system ;  and  he  unfolded  the  spirit 
of  nations  only  for  its  important  bearing  upon 
the  spirit  of  mankind  and  the  world,  and  the 
spirit  of  great  geniuses  only  with  relation  to  ail 
of  them  together* 

**  To  thb  last  view  we  are  indebted  for  his 
noblest  works,  and  for  the  noblest  part  of  all 
of  them.  With  a  warmth  of  feeling,  such  as 
is  possible  only  in  Germany,  and  which  his 
example  has  made  a  conscious  will  and  a  law 
to  the  Germans,  he  penetrated  the  peculiar 
character,  both  of  the  Germans  and  of  every 
foreign  nation,  and  of  their  men  of  genius,  and 
showed  how  the  most  fragrant  flowers  of  all 
nobleness  and  beauty  have  blossomed  among 
them.  Out  of  all  these  flowers  he  wreathes  a 
sacred  garland  for  the  genius  of  humanity,  and 
deserves  himself  to  be  reverenced  as  its  worthi- 
est priest.  Far  fh>m  all  the  vanity  of  attribut- 
ing special  honor  to  the  German  nation,  he 
secured  to  it,  unconsciously,  the  greatest;  for, 
by  his  own  great  example,  he  showed  that  the 
German  spirit  was  capable  of  receiving  the 
broadest  and  most  comprehensive  culture.  As 
in  various  parts  of  hb  *  Ideas '  and  other  works 
he  has  represented  the  spirit  of  nations  under 
the  forms  it  has  assumed  in  their  history  and 
institutions,  always  with  reference  to  their 
progress  towards  the  noble  and  the  beantifol, 
towards  humanity,  generally ;  it  seemed,  also, 
to  his  correct  judgment,  an  object  worthy  of 
special  regard,  to  conjure  up  thb  spirit  in  the 
poetry  of  nations.  Hence  he  collected  the 
*  Voices  of  the  Nations,'  one  of  his  noblest 
works,  where  he  brought  together  the  most 
beautifol  and  characterbtic  popular  songs,  from 
all  quarters  of  the  world,  into  a  great  song-book 
of  mankind.  The  lofty  spirit  of  thb  collection, 
and,  again,  the  rich  variety  and  marvellous 
beauty  of  the  parts,  did  not  fail  of  their  effect 
Afler  this,  a  higher  importance  was  attributed 
to  poetry,  by  and  for  itself,  and  its  relation  to 
popular  life ;  or  rather,  it  has  been  recognized 
in  poetry  and  unfolded  firom  it  Since  then, 
an  animated  intercourse  between  living  minds 
and  the  dead  has  been  extended  over  the  whole 
earth.  We  have  explored  all  nations,  all  ages, 
and  brought  up  the   hidden   treasures  which 


HERDER. 


871 


Herder  had  marked  with  fire.  From  the  fiur 
India,  Peraia,  Arabia;  from  the  Finnic  and 
SclaYonian  North ;  from  Scandinavia,  Scotland, 
Ungland ;  from  Spain ;  even  from  the  New 
World,  the  gold  of  poetry,  under  Herder's 
goidanoe,  has  been  piled  up  in  an  ever  inereaa- 
ing  hoard  in  German  literature.*' 

Man  J  editions  of  hb  separate  works  have  ap- 
peared. The  most  recent  edition  of  his  collec- 
tive works  is  that  which  was  pnblished  at  Stutt- 
gart and  TobingeD,  in  sixty  parts,  1887-30. 
His  lift  was  written  by  his  wife,  in  two  parts, 
TaMngen,  1890 ;  afterwards  by  Doring,  Wei- 
mar, 1823. 


VOICE  OF  A  SON. 

vaoM  TBS  oaiBC  AiftaoLoeT. 

Cbuxi^  ye  Fates,  was  my  lot,  unpermitted  to 
gaze  on  the  daylight 
But  for  a  few  short  years,  soon  to  descend  to 
the  shades ! 
Was  I,  then,  horn  but  in  vain  ?  nor  allowed  to 
requite  to  my  mother 
AH  that  she  bore  at  my  birth,  all  she  bestow- 
ed on  my  growth  ? 
Orphan  of  fiither  betimes,  on  her  I  was  thrown 
for  snpportance. 
Doubling  the  toil  of  her  hand,  doubling  the 
cares  of  her  soul. 
Tet  was  she  never  employed  to  prepare  me  the 
torches  of  Hymen, 
Saw  from  the  promising  sprout  no  compen- 
sation of  ihiit. 
Mother,  thy  grief  is  the  bitterest  pang  I  have 
suffered  from  Fortune, 
That  I  have  lived  not  enough  aught  of  thy 
love  to  repay. 

ESTHONIAN  BRIDiX  SONG. 

DxcK  thyself;  maiden. 

With  the  hood  of  thy  mother ; 

Put  on  the  ribands 

Which  thy  mother  once  wore : 

On  thy  head  the  band  of  duty. 

On  thy  forehead  the  band  of  care. 

Sit  in  the  seat  of  thy  mother, 

And  walk  in  thy  mother's  footsteps. 

And  weep  not,  weep  not,  maiden : 

If  thou  weepest  in  thy  bridal  attire, 

Thou  wilt  weep  all  thy  life. 

CHANCE. 

FBOM  TBS  OBIBHTAb  AMTHOLOaT. 

Rare  luck  makes  not  a  rule.  One  day  it  pleased 
The  Persian  king  to  place  a  precious  ring 
On  a  tall  staff,  and  offer  it  a  prize 
To  any  archer  who  should  hit  it  there. 
The  better  marksmen  soon  assembled  round : 
They  shot  with  skill,  yet  no  one  touched  the 
ring. 


A  boy,  who  sat  upon  the  palace-roof. 

Let  fly  his  arrow,  and  it  hit  the  mark. 

On  him  the  monarch  then  bestowed  the  prise. 

The  lad  threw  bow  and  arrows  on  the  fin : 

^  That  all  my  glory  may  remain  to  me, 

This  my  first  shot,"  he  said,  **  shall  be  my  last." 


TO  A  DRAGONFLY. 

Flutter,  flutter  gently  by. 
Little  motley  dragon-fly. 

On  thy  four  transparent  wings ! 
Hover,  hover  o'er  the  rill. 
And  when  weary  sit  thee  still 

Where  the  water-lily  springs ! 

More  than  half  thy  little  life. 
Free  from  passion,  ine  from  strife, 

Underneath  the  wave  was  sweet; 
Cool  and  calm  content  to  dwell. 
Shrouded  by  thy  pliant  shell. 

In  a  dank  and  dim  retreat 

Now  the  njrmph  transformed  may  roam, 
A  sylph  in  her  aerial  home. 

Where'er  the  xephyrs  shall  invite ; 
Love  is  now  thy  curious  care. 
Love  that  dwells  in  sunny  air. 

But  thy  very  love  is  flight. 

Heedless  of  thy  coming  doom, 
O'er  thy  birthplace  and  thy  tomb 

Flutter,  little  mortal,  still ! 
Though  beside  thy  gladdest  hour 
Fate's  destroying  mandates  lower, 

Length  of  life  but  lengthens  ill. 

Confide  thy  offspring  to  the  stream, 
That,  when  new  summer  suns  shall  gleam. 

They,  too,  may  quit  their  watery  cell ; 
Then  die  !  —  I  see  each  weary  limb 
Declines  to  fly,  declines  to  swim : 

Thou  lovely  short-lived  sylph,  fiurewell ! 


THE  ORGAN. 

O,  TILL  me,  who  contrived  thb  wondrous  frame, 
Full  of  the  voices  of  all  living  things,  — 
This  temple,  which,  by  Grod's  own  breath  in- 
spired, 
So  boldly  blends  the  heart-appalling  groan 
Of  wailing  Misereres  with  the  sofl 
Tones  of  the  plaintive  flute,  and  cymbal's  clang, 
And  roar  of  jubilee,  and  hautboy *s  scream, 
With  martial  clarion's  blast,  and  with  the  call 
Of  the  loud-sounding  trump  of  victory  ? 

From  lightest  shepherd's  reed  the  strain  as- 
cends 
To  tymbal's  thunder  and  the  awakening  trump 
Of  judgment !  Graves  are  opening !   Hark !  the 

dead 
Are  stirring ! 


272 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


How  the  tones  hang  hovering  now 
On  all  creation's  mightj  outspread  wings, 
Expectant,  and  the  breezes  murmur !    Hark ! 
Jehovah  comes !  He  comes !  His  thunder  speaks ! 

In  the  soft-breathing,  animated  tone 
Of  human  words  speaks  the  All-merciful, 
At  length :  the  trembling  heart  responds  to  him ; 
Till,  now,  all  voices  and  all  souls  at  once 
Ascend  to  heaven,  upon  the  clouds  repose,  — 
One  Hallelujah  !  —  Bow,  bow  down  in  prayer ! 

Apollo  tuned  the  light  guitar;  the  son 
Of  Maia  strung  the  lyre  ;  mighty  Pan 
Hollowed  the  flute.     Who  was  this  mightiest 

Pan, 
That  blent  the  breath  of  all  creation  here  ? 


Cecilia,  noblest  of  the  Roman  maids. 
Disdained  the  music  of  the  feeble  strings. 
Praying  within  her  heart,  '*  O,  that  I  might 
But  hear  the  song  of  praise,  the  which,  of  old. 
Those  holy  three  *  sang  in  the  glowing  flames,  — 
The  song  of  the  creation!  " 

Then  there  came 
An  angel  who  had  oft  appeared  to  her 
In  prayer,  and  touched  her  ear.   Entranced,  she 

heard 
Creation's  song.    Stars,  sun,  and  moon,  and  all 
Heaven's  host,  and  light  and  darkness,  day  and 

night. 
The  rolling  seasons,  wind  and  frost  and  storm, 
And  dew  and  rain,  hoar-frost  and  ice  and  snow, 
Mountain  and  valley  in  their  spring  attire. 
And  fountains,  streams,  and  seas,  and  rock  and 

wood. 
And  all  the  birds  of  heaven  and  tribes  of  earth, 
And  every  thing  that  bath  breath,  praised  the 

Lord, 
The  holy  and  the  merciful. 

She  sank 
In  adoration :  **  Now,  O  angel,  might  I 
But  hear  an  echo  of  this  song !  " 

With  speed 
He  sought  the  artist  whom  Bezaleel's 
Devoted  soul  inspired  :  in  his  hand 
He  placed  the  measure  and  the  number.    Soon 
Uprose  an  edifice  of  harmonies. 
The  Gloria  of  angels  rang.     With  one 
According  voice,  great  Christendom  intoned 
Her  lofly  Credo,  blessed  bond  of  souls. 
And  when,  at  holy  sacrament,  the  chant, 
"  He  comes !  Blessed  be  he  who  cometh  ! "  rang. 
The  spirits  of  the  saints  came  down  from  heaven, 
And  took  the  oflering  in  devotion.     Earth 
And  heaven  became  a  choir.    The  reprobate 
Shook,  at  the  temple's  door,  and  seemed  to  bear 
The  trump  whose  clang  proclaimed  the  day  of 
wrath. 

With  all  the  Christian  hearts  Cecilia 

t  Shadnch,  Meahach,  tud  AbadiMco. 


Rejoiced,  for  she  had  found  what  every  heart 
Seeks  with  strong  yearning  in   the   hour  of 

prayer,— 
Union  of  spirits,  —  Christian  unity. 

«  How  shall  I  name,"  said  she,  *<  this  many- 
armed 
River  which  seizes  us  and  bears  us  on 
To  the  wide  sea  of  the  eternities?  " 
('  Call  it,"  the  angel  said,  «<  what  thou  didst 

wish  : 
Call  it  the  Oroan  of  the  mighty  soul, 
Which  sleeps  in  all,  which  stirs  all  nations' 

hearts. 
Which  yearns  to  intone  the  everlasting  song 
Of  universal  nature,  and  to  find 
In  richest  labyrinth  of  hearts  and  sounds 
Devotion's  richest,  fullest  harmony." 


A  LEGENDABT  BAIXAD. 

Ahong  green,  pleasant  meadows. 

All  in  a  grove  so  wild, 
Was  set  a  marble  image 

Of  the  Virgin  and  her  child. 

There,  oft,  on  summer  evenings, 
A  lovely  boy  would  rove. 

To  play  beside  the  image 
That  sanctified  the  grove. 

Oft  sat  his  mother  by  him. 

Among  the  shadows  dim. 
And  told  how  the  Lord  Jesus 

Was  once  a  child  like  him. 

<*  And  now  from  highest  heaven 
He  doth  look  down  each  day. 

And  sees  whate'er  thou  doest. 
And  hears  what  thou  dost  say." 

Thus  spake  the  tender  mother  : 
And  on  an  evening  bright. 

When  the  red,  round  sun  descended, 
'Mid  clouds  of  crimson  light. 

Again  the  boy  was  playing. 

And  earnestly  said  he, 
(« O  beautiful  Lord  Jesus, 

Come  down  and  play  with  me ! 

"  I  '11  find  thee  flowers  the  fairest. 
And  weave  for  thee  a  crown ; 

I  will  get  thee  ripe,  red  strawberries. 
If  thou  wilt  but  come  down. 

"Oholy,  holy  Mother, 

Put  him  down  from  off  thy  knee  ! 
For  in  these  silent  meadows 

There  are  none  to  play  with  me.'* 

Thns  spake  the  boy  so  lovely : 
The  while  his  mother  heard. 

And  on  his  prayer  she  pondered. 
But  spake  to  him  no  word. 


KNEBEL. 


873 


That  sel&ama  night  she  dreamad 

A  lovely  dream  of  joy, 
She  thought  she  saw  young  Jeaua 

There,  playing  with  the  boy. 

**  And  for  the  fhuts  and  flowera 
Which  thou  haat  brought  to  me, 

Rich  bleasingB  shall  be  given 
A  thousand  fiJd  to  thee. 

«« For  in  the  fields  of  heaven 

Thou  shalt  roam  with  me  at  will. 

And  of  bright  fVuits  celestial 

Thou  shalt  have,  dear  child,  thy  fill." 

Thos  tenderly  and  kindly 

The  fiiir  child  Jesus  spoke, 
And,  fiill  of  careful  musings, 

The  anxious  mother  woke. 

And  thus  it  wss  accomplished. 
In  a  short  month  and  a  day. 

That  lovely  boy,  so  gentle, 
Upon  his  deaUibed  lay. 

And  thus  he  spoke  in  dying : 

«« O  mother  dear,  I  see 
The  beautiful  child  Jesus 

A  coming  down  to  me  ! 

**  And  in  his  hand  he  beareth 
Bright  flowers  as  white  as  snow, 

And  red  and  juicy  strawberries, — 
Dear  mother,  let  me  go ! " 

He  died,  and  that  ibnd  mother 
Her  tears  could  not  restrain ; 

But  she  knew  he  was  with  Jesus, 
And  she  did  not  weep  again. 


CARL  LUDWIG  VON  KNEBEL. 

This  poet  was  bom  in  1744,  at  Wallerstein, 
in  Fran  ken.  He  was  educated  in  Anspach,  by 
Uz,  and  afterwards  became  an  officer  in  Pots- 
dam. In  1774,  he  was  appointed  tutor  to  the 
Prince  Constantine  in  Weimar,  and  there  lived 
in  the  society  of  Goethe,  Herder,  and  Wieland. 
He  removed  afterwards  to  Ilmenau,  and  finally 
to  Jena.  His  death  took  place  in  1834,  at  the 
age  of  ninety  years.  He  was  a  distinguished 
Ijrric  poet,  and  an  excellent  translator.  His 
poems  were  published  anonymously  in  1815,  at 
Leipflic.  His  translation  of  the  Elegies  of  Pro- 
pertius  appeared  in  1798,  and  that  of  Lucretius, 
in  1821.  His  **  Remains  and  Correspondenee  " 
were  published  by  Vamhagen  von  Ense  and 
Theodore  Mundt,  at  Leipsic,  in  1835,  and  re* 
published  in  1840. 

MOONUGHT. 

Darker  than  the  day. 
Clearer  than  the  night. 
Shines  the  mellow  moonlight. 
36 


From  the  rocky  heights 
Shapes  in  shimmer  clad 
Mistily  are  mounting. 

Pearls  of  silver  dew. 
Soft-distilling,  drop 
On  the  silent  meadows. 

Might  of  sweetest  song 
With  the  gloomy  woods 
Philomela  mingleth. 

Far  in  ether  wide 
Tawns  the  dread  abyss 
Of  deep  worlds  uncounted. 

Neither  eye  nor  ear. 
Seeking,  findeth  here 
The  end  of  mazy  thinking. 

Evermore  the  wheel 
Of  unmeasured  Time 
Turns  round  all  existence ; 

And  it  bears  away 

Swift,  how  swift  !  the  prey 

Of  fleet-flitting  mortals. 

Where  soft  breezes  blow. 
Where  thou  seest  the  row 
Of  smooth-shining  beeches ; 

Driven  from  the  flood 
Of  the  thronging  Time, 
Lina's  hut  receives  me. 

Brighter  than  aloft 

In  night's  shimmering  star. 

Peace  with  her  is  shining. 

And  the  vale  so  sweet. 
And  the  sweet  moonlight. 
Where  she  dwells,  is  sweeter. 


ADRASTEA. 

Wkk*  ye  that  law  and  right  and  the  rule  of 
life  are  uncertain,  — 
Wild  as  the  wandering  wind,  loose  as  the 
drift  of  the  sand  ? 
Fools !  look  round  and  perceive  an  order  and 
measure  in  all  things ! 
Look  at  the  herb  as  it  grows,  look  at  the  life 
of  the  brute : 
Every  thing  lives  by  a  law,  a  central  balance 
sustains  all ; 
Water,  and  fire,  and  air,  wavy  and  wild 
though  they  be. 
Own  an  inherent  power  that  binds  their  rage ; 
and  without  it 
Earth  would  burst  every  bond,  ocean  would 
yawn  into  hell. 
Lifb  and  breath,  what  are  they  ?  the  system  of 
laws  that  sustains  thee 
Ceases  :  and,  mortal,  say  whither  thy  being 
hath  fled ! 


274 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


What  thoo  art  in  thyself  is  a  type  of  the  com- 
mon creation ; 
For,  in  the  universe,  life,  order,  existence,  are 
one. 
Look  to  the  world  of  mind  ;  hath  loul  no  law 
that  controls  it  ? 
Elements  many  in  one  haild  op  the  temple  of 
thought ; 
And  when  the  building  is  just,  the  feeling  of 
truth  is  the  offspring  : 
Truth,  how  great  is  thy  might,  e'en  in  the 
breast  of  the  child  ! 
Constant  swayeth  within  us  a  living  balance 
that  weighs  all. 
Truth    and    order  and  right,  measures  and 
ponders  and  feels. 
Passions  arouse  the  breast ;  the  tongue,  swiftp 
seized  by  the  impulse. 
Wisely  (if  wisdom  there  be)  follows  the  law 
of  the  soul : 
Thus,  too,  ruleth  a  law,  a  sure  law,  deep  in  the 
bosom. 
Blessing  us  when  we  obey,  punishing  when 
we  offend. 

Far  by  the  sacred  stream  where  goddess  Ganga 
is  worshipped. 
Dwells  a  race  of  mankind  purer  in  heart  and 
in  life  : 
From  the  stars  of  the  welkin  they  trace  their 
birth  ;  and  the  ancient 
Earth  more  ancient  than  they  knoweth  no 
people  that  lives. 
Simple  and  sweet  is  their  food :  they  eat  no 
flesh  of  the  living, 
And  from  the  blood  of  the  brute  shrinks  the 
pure  spirit  away ; 
For  in  the  shape  of  another  it  sees  itself  met- 
amorphosed. 
And,  in  the  kindred  of  form,  owneth  a  nature 
the  same. 
Children  of  happier  climes,  of  suns  and  moons 
that  benignly 
Shine,  hath  dew  from  above  watered  your 
sensitive  souls  ? 
Say,  what  power  of  the  gods  hath  joined  your 
spirits  in  wedlock 
To  the  delicate  flowers,  gentle  and  lovely  as 
they  ? 
Under  blossoming  groves,  and  sweet  and  preg- 
nant with  ambra, 
Gaugeth  the  spirit  divine  purer  the  measure 
of  right  ? 
Pure  is  the  being  of  God  they  teach,  his  nature 
is  goodness : 
Passions  and  stormy  wrath  stir  not  the  bosom 
of  Brahm. 
But  by  the  fate  of  the  wicked  the  wicked  are 
punished ;  unfading 
Sorrow  and  anguish  of  soul  fbllow  the  doers 
of  sin; 
In  their  bosom  is  hell,  the  sleepless  voice  of 
accusing 
Speaks ;    and  gnaweth  a  worm,  never,  O, 
never  to  die  ! 


GOTTFRIED   AUGUST  BURGER. 

This  poet  was  bom  in  1748,  at  Wolmerv- 
wende,  near  Halberstadt,  where  his  father  was 
preacher.  The  development  of  his  powers  was 
slow  and  not  very  promising  at  first,  though  he 
began  early  to  make  verses  on  the  model  of 
the  hymn*books.  At  the  age  often  he  went  to 
Aschersleben  to  reside  with  his  grandfiither, 
who  undertook  his  support ;  thence  he  was  sent 
to  school  in  Halle,  and,  in  1764,  began  the 
study-  of  theology  in  the  University  there ;  but, 
in  1768,  he  removed  tti  Gottingen  for  the  pur- 
pose of  studying  law.  The  irregularities  of  his 
conduct  were  such  that  his  grandfather  with- 
drew his  support;  but  he  received  assistance 
from  several  distinguished  young  men,  with 
whom  he  lived  on  terms  of  intimacy,  and  in 
conjunction  with  whom  he  studied  the  ancient 
classics,  the  literature  of  France,  Italy,  Spain, 
and  England,  giving  particular  attention  to 
Shakspeare  and  the  old  English  ballads.  In 
1772,  he  received  a  small  judicial  ofllce  in  AI- 
tengleichen,  near  Gottingen,  and  devoted  him- 
self assiduously  to  the  cultivation  of  poetry. 
He  maintained  a  close  connection  with  the 
Grottingen  circle  of  poets,  and  attracted  much 
attention  by  his  writings.  In  1774,  he  married, 
but  his  marriage  proved  unhappy.  His  wife  died 
a  few  years  after,  and  he  married  her  sister,  for 
whom  he  had  long  cherished  a  violent  passion. 
This  second  wife  was  his  celebrated  McUy; 
she  died  within  a  year  of  her  marriage,  in  1786. 
In  1789,  he  was  appointed  Professor  Extraor- 
dinary in  Gottingen.  In  1790,  he  was  married 
a  third  time,  to  a  young  lady  in  Swabia,  who  had 
publicly  offered  him  her  hand  in  a  poem.  This 
marriage  also  proved  unhappy,  and  he  was  di- 
vorced two  years  afler.  His  misery  was  increas- 
ed by  pecuniary  embarrassments,  fit>m  which  he 
had  never  been  free ;  and  he  died,  in  1794,  in 
circumstances  of  great  wretchedness. 

BOrger  is  a  poet  of  fiery  and  original  genius. 
His  ballads  are  among  the  noblest  in  the  German 
language.  His  great  aim  was  to  make  poetry 
popular,  and  his  success  in  this  respect  was 
brilliant.  Schiller,  however,  criticised  him  with 
a  severity,  which  is  now  admitted  to  have  been 
unjust.  He  is  chiefly  known  as  a  writer  of  bal- 
lads, of  which  his  "  Ellenore  "  is  the  best.  This 
remarkable  composition  has  been  rendered  fa- 
miliar to  English  reader?  by  the  translations  of 
Taylor  and  Scott.  Others  also  have  tried  their 
hands  upon  it. 

Menzel  *  says  of  him :  **  It  was  BOrger,  pre- 
eminently, who  cultivated  the  reviving  taste 
for  ballads,  introduced  by  Stolberg;  but  he 
stuck  fast,  at  the  same  time,  in  the  honest 
old  gentleman's  nightcap,  and  even  partly 
in  the  Grascomania.  He  was  not  bom  for  so 
vigorous  an  opposition  as  Schubert;  and  the 
more  refined  development  of  the  legendary  po- 

*  Gennan  LItenture,  Vol.  m.  pp  138, 139. 


BttRGER. 


275 


etrj  he  had  to  leave  to  the  school  of  Tieck  and 
Schlegel.  He  is  an  interesting  phenomenon  on 
the  boundary  line  between  tbe  heterogeneous 
parties  which  marked  the  progress  of  romanti- 
cism. His  poetical  forms  are  distinguished  bj 
a  beantiful  rhythm.  Ek>me  of  his  ballads,  par- 
ticularly •EUenore/  are  sore  of  immortality. 
He  has  excited  a  universal  sympathy,  inasmuch 
as  he  became  a  victim  to  poetry.  It  was  a  part 
of  the  &lse  poetical  enthusiasm  of  his  age  to 
sacrifice  common  sense  for  a  fow  verses.  A 
maiden  made  proposals  of  marriage  to  poor 
Barger  by  a  poem ;  enchanted  with  this,  he 
fiucied  the  marriage  of  a  poet  and  poetess  must 
be  a  paradise  oh  earth ;  and  he  was — deceived." 
Bttrger's  works  were  published  at  (}dttingen 
in  1794;  again  in  1829-34;  again  in  1835; 
and,  finally,  in  1841.  A  sketch  of  his  lifo  was 
published  by  Altholf;  Gottingen,  1798. 

ELLENORE. 

At  break  of  day  firom  fiightfiil  dreams 

Upstarted  Ellenore : 
<*  My  William,  art  thou  slayn,"  she  sayde, 

■*  Or  dost  thou  love  no  more  ?  " 

He  went  abroade  with  Richard's  host 

The  paynim  foes  to  quell ; 
But  he  no  word  to  her  had  writt, 

An  he  were  sick  or  well. 

With  blore  of  trump  and  thump  of  drum 

His  foliow-soldyers  come, 
Their  helms  bedeckt  with  oaken  boughs, 

They  seeke  their  long*d-for  home. 

And  evry  road  and  evry  lane 

Was  foil  of  old  and  young. 
To  gaze  at  the  rejoycing  band. 

To  haile  with  gladsom  toung. 

«<  Thank  God !  "  their  wives  and  children 
sayde, 

**  Welcome  !  "  the  brides  did  saye ; 
But  greet  or  kiss  gave  Ellenore 

To  none  upon  that  daye. 

And  when  the  soldyers  all  were  bye, 

She  tore  her  raven  hair. 
And  cast  herself  upon  the  growne. 

In  forious  despair. 

Her  mother  ran  and  lyfte  her  up. 

And  clasped  in  her  arm  : 
**  My  child,  my  child,  what  dost  thou  ail  ? 

God  shield  thy  life  from  harm !  " 

**  O  mother,  mother !  William  *s  gone  ! 

What 's  all  besyde  to  me  ? 
There  is  no  mercie,  sure,  above  ! 

All,  all  were  spar*d  but  he !  " 

**  Kneele  downe,  thy  paternoster  saye, 
'T  will  calm  thy  troubled  spright : 


Tbe  Lord  is  wise,  the  Lord  is  good ; 
What  he  hath  done  is  right" 

^  O  mother,  mother !  saye  not  so ; 

Most  cruel  is  my  fiite : 
I  prayde,  and  prayde ;  but  watte  avaylde  ? 

T  is  now,  alas !  too  late." 

*<  Our  Heavenly  Father,  if  we  praye. 

Will  help  a  suffnng  child : 
€k>,  take  the  holy  sacrament ; 

So  shal  thy  grief  grow  mild." 

«*  O  mother,  what  I  foele  within 

No  sacrament  can  staye ; 
No  sacrament  can  teche  the  dead 

To  bear  the  sight  of  daye." 

«  May-be,  among  the  heathen  folk 
Thy  William  false  doth  prove. 

And  put  away  his  foith  and  troth, 
And  take  another  love. 

"  Then  wherefor  sorrowe  for  his  loss .' 

Thy  moans  are  all  in  vain  : 
But  when  his  soul  and  body  parte, 

His  fiJsehode  brings  him  pain." 

M  O  mother,  mother !  gone  is  gone : 

My  hope  is  all  forlorn ; 
The  grave  my  only  safoguard  u : 

O,  had  I  ne'er  been  bom  ! 

**  Go  out,  go  out,  my  lamp  of  life, 

In  grizely  darkness  die ! 
There  is  no  mercie,  sure,  above  ! 

For  ever  let  me  lie !  " 

«<  Almighty  God!  O,  do  not  judge 

My  poor  unhappy  child ! 
She  knows  not  what  her  lips  pronounce. 

Her  anguish  makes  her  wild. 

«  My  girl,  forget  thine  earthly  woe, 
And  think  on  God  and  bliss ; 

For  so,  at  least,  shal  not  thy  soul 
Its  heavenly  bridegroom  miss." 

»  O  mother,  mother !  what  is  bliss. 

And  what  the  fiendis  cell  ? 
With  him  *t  is  heaven  anywhere ; 

Without  my  William,  hell. 

"  Go  out,  go  out,  my  lamp  of  lifo. 

In  endless  darkness  die  ! 
Without  him  I  must  loathe  the  earth. 

Without  him  scome  the  skie." 

And  so  despair  did  rave  and  rage 

Athwarte  her  boiling  veins ; 
Against  the  providence  of  God 

She  hurlde  her  impious  strains. 

She  bet  her  breast,  and  wrung  her  hands. 

And  rollde  her  tearless  eye, 
From  rise  of  mom,  til  the  pale  stars 

Again  orespred  the  skye. 


276 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


When,  harke  !  abroade  she  herde  the  tramp 

Of  nimble- hoofed  steed ; 
She  herde  a  knight  with  clank  alighte. 

And  climbe  the  stair  in  speed. 

And  soon  she  herde  a  tinkling  hand, 

That  twirled  at  the  pin ; 
And  thro  her  door,  that  opend  not, 

These  words  were  breathed  in :  — 

<*  What  ho  !  what  ho !  thj  door  undo : 

Art  watching  or  asleepe .' 
Mj  love,  dost  yet  remember  me  ? 

And  dost  thou  laugh  or  weepe  ?  '* 

"  Ah  !  William  here  so  late  at  night.' 
O,  I  haye  wachte  and  wak'd ! 

Whense  art  thou  come  ?     For  thy  return 
My  heart  has  sorely  ak'd." 

"  At  midnight  only  we  may  ride ; 

I  come  ore  land  and  see : 
I  mounted  late,  but  soone  I  go ; 

Aryse,  and  come  with  mee." 

•'  O  William,  enter  first  my  bowre, 

And  give  me  one  embrace  : 
The  blasts  athwarte  the  hawthorn  hiss ; 

Awayte  a  little  space." 

"  Tho  blasts  athwarte  the  hawthorn  hiss, 

I  may  not  harbour  here ; 
My  spurs  are  sett,  my  courser  pawes, 

My  hour  of  flight  is  nere. 

*<  All  as  thou  lyest  upon  thy  couch, 

Aryse,  and  mount  bebinde ; 
To-night  we  'le  ride  a  thousand  miles, 

The  bridal  bed  to  finde." 

**  How  ?  ride  to-night  a  thousand  miles  ? 

Thy  love  thou  dost  bemock : 
Eleven  is  the  stroke  that  still 

Rings  on  within  the  clock." 

*•  Looke  up ;  the  moon  is  bright,  and  we 

Outstride  the  earthly  men  : 
I  *le  take  thee  to  the  bridal  bed. 

And  night  shal  end  but  then." 

**  And  where  is,  then,  thy  house,  and  home, 

And  bridal  bed  so  meet  ?  " 
"  'T  is  narrow,  silent,  chilly,  low, 

Six  planks,  one  shrouding  sheet." 

**  And  is  there  any  room  for  me. 
Wherein  that  I  may  creepe  ?  " 

**  There .'s  room  enough  for  thee  and  me, 
Wherein  that  we  may  sleepe. 

^  All  as  thou  lyest  upon  thy  couch, 

Aryse,  no  longer  stop; 
The  wedding-guests  thy  coming  wayte, 

The  chamber-door  is  ope." 


All  in  her  sarke,  as  there  she  lay, 

Upon  his  horse  she  sprung ; 
And  with  her  lily  hands  so  pale 

About  her  William  clung. 

And  hurry-skurry  off  they  go, 

Unheeding  wet  or  dry ; 
And  horse  and  rider  snort  and  blow. 

And  sparkling  pebbles  fly. 

How  swift  the  flood,  the  mead,  the  wood. 

Aright,  aleft,  are  gone  ! 
The  bridges  thunder  as  they  pass. 

But  earthly  sowne  is  none. 

Tramp,  tramp,  across  the  land  they  speede ; 

Splash,  splash,  across  the  see : 
*<  Hurrah  !  the  dead  can  ride  apace ; 

Dost  feare  to  ride  with  mee  ? 

**  The  moon  is  bright,  and  blue  the  night ; 

Dost  quake  the  blast  to  stem  ? 
Dost  shudder,  mayd,  to  seeke  the  dead  ?  " 

**  No,  no,  but  what  of  them  ?  " 

How  glumly  sownes  yon  dirgy  song ! 

Night-ravens  flappe  the  wing : 
What  knell  doth  slowly  tolle  ding  dong  ? 

The  psalms  of  death  who  sing  ? 

Forth  creepes  a  swarthy  funeral  train, 

A  corse  is  on  the  biere ; 
Like  croke  of  todes  from  lonely  moores. 

The  chauntings  meete  the  eere. 

**  Go,  beare  her  corse,  when  midnight 's  past, 
With  song,  and  tear,  and  wail ; 

I  've  gott  my  wife,  I  take  her  home, 
My  hour  of  wedlock  hail ! 

*<  Leade  forth,  O  dark,  the  chaunting  quire. 

To  swelle  our  spousal-song : 
Come,  preest,  and  reade  the  blessing  soone ; 

For  our  dark  bed  we  long." 

The  bier  is  gon,  the  dirges  hush ; 

His  bidding  all  obaye, 
And  headlong  rush  thro  briar  and  bush. 

Beside  his  speedy  waye. 

Halloo  !  halloo  !  bow  swift  they  go. 

Unheeding  wet  or  dry  ! 
And  horse  and  rider  snort  and  blow. 

And  sparkling  pebbles  fly. 

How  swift  the  hill,  how  swift  the  dale. 

Aright,  aleft,  are  gon  ! 
By  hedge  and  tree,  by  thorp  and  town, 

They  gallop,  gallop  on. 

Tramp,  tramp,  across  the  land  they  speede ; 

Splash,  splash,  across  the  see : 
'*  Hurrah  !  the  dead  can  ride  apace } 

Dost  feare  to  ride  with  mee  ? 


BURGER. 


877 


**  Look  up,  look  up !  an  airy  cr9w 

In  roundel  daunces  reete  : 
The  mooo  is  bright,  and  blue  the  night, 

Mayat  dimly  aee  them  wbeele. 

"  Come  to,  come  to,  ye  ghoatly  crew, 

Gome  to,  and  follow  me, 
And  daunoe  for  us  the  wedding  dauDce, 

When  we  in  bed  ahal  be." 

And  brush,  brush,  brush,  the  ghostly  crew 
Came  wheeling  ore  their  heads, 

AH  rustling  like  the  witberd  leaves 
That  wide  the  whirlwind  spreads. 

Halloo  !  halloo  !  away  they  go, 

Unheeding  wet  or  dry ; 
And  horse  and  rider  snort  and  blow, 

And  sparkling  pebbles  fly. 

And  all  that  in  the  moonshyne  lay 

Behind  them  fled  aflur ; 
And  backward  scudded  OTcrhead 

The  skie  and  eyery  star. 

Tramp,  tramp,  acroes  the  land  they  speede ; 

Splash,  splash,  across  the  see : 
<*  Hurrah !  the  dead  can  ride  apace ; 

Dost  ieare  to  ride  with  mee  ? 

^  I  weene  the  cock  prepares  to  crowe ; 

The  sand  will  soone  be  run : 
I  snuffe  the  early  morning  air ; 

Downe,  downe  !  our  work  is  done. 

*'  The  dead,  the  dead  can  ride  apace : 

Our  wed-bed  here  is  fit : 
Our  race  is  ridde,  our  journey  ore, 

Our  endless  union  knit.*' 

And,  lo  !  an  yron-grated  gate 

Soon  biggens  to  their  yiew : 
He  crackde  his  whyppe;  the  locks,  the 
bolts. 

Cling,  clang !  assunder  flew. 

They   passe,   and  't  was  on  graves  they 
trodde: 

"  'T  is  hither  we  are  bound  "  : 
And  many  a  tombstone  ghastly  white 

Lay  in  the  moonshyne  round. 

And  when  he  from  his  steed  alytte. 

His  armure,  black  as  cinder. 
Did  moulder,  moulder  all  awaye. 

As  were  it  made  of  tinder. 

His  head  became  a  naked  skull ; 

Nor  hair  nor  eyne  had  he  : 
His  body  grew  a  skeleton, 

Whilome  so  blithe  of  ble. 

And  at  his  dry  and  honey  heel 

No  spur  was  left  to  bee  : 
And  in  his  witberd  hand  you  might 

The  scythe  and  hour-glass  see. 


And,  lo !  his  steed  did  thin  to  smoke, 
And  chamel-fires  outbreathe ; 

And  pal'd,  and  bleachde,  then  ranishde 
quite 
The  mayd  ftom  undemeathe. 

And  hollow  bowlings  hung  in  air, 
And  shrekes  i^om  vaults  arose : 

Then  knewe  the  mayd  she  might  no  more 
Her  living  eyes  unclose. 

But  onward  to  the  judgment-seat, 
Thro  mist  and  moonlight  dreare. 

The  ghostly  crew  their  flight  persewe, 
And  hoUowe  in  her  eare  : 

"  Be  patient ;  tho  thyne  herte  should  breke, 
Arrayne  not  Heaven's  decree  : 

Thou  nowe  art  of  thy  bodie  reft, 
T^y  soul  forgiven  bee !  " 


THE  BRAVE  MAN. 

High  sounds  the  song  of  the  valiant  man. 
Like  clang  of  bells  and  organ-tone. 

Him,  whose  high  soul  brave  thoughts  control. 
Not  gold  rewards,  but  song  alone. 

Thank  Heaven  for  song  and  praise,  that  I  can 

Thus  sing  and  praise  the  valiant  man ! 

The  thaw-wind  came  from  southern  sea, 

Heavy  and  damp,  through  Italy, 
And  the  clouds  before  it  away  did  flee. 

Like  frighted  herds,  when  the  wolf  they  see. 
It  sweeps  the  fields,  through  the  forest  breaks. 
And  the  ice  bursts  away  on  streams  and  lakes. 

On  mountain-top  dissolved  the  snow ; 

The  falls  with  a  thousand  waters  dashed  ; 
A  lake  did  o'erflow  the  meadow  low, 

And  the  mighty  river  swelled  and  splashed. 
Along  their  channel  the  waves  rolled  high, 
And  heavily  rolled  the  ice-cakes  by. 

On  heavy  piers  and  arches  strong, 
Below  and  above  of  massive  stone, 

A  bridge  stretched  wide  across  the  tide. 
And  midway  stood  a  house  thereon. 

There  dwelt  the  tollman,  with  child  and  wife; 

O  tollman  !  tollman  !  flee,  for  thy  life ! 

And  it  groaned  and  droned,  and  around  the  house 
Howled  storm  and  wind  with  a  disriSal  sound ; 

And  the  tollman  aloof  sprang  forth  on  the  roof. 
And  gazed  on  the  tumult  around  : 

"  O  merciful  Heaven  !  thy  mercy  show  ! 

Lost,  lost,  and  forlorn!  who  shall  rescue  me 
now.?" 

Thump !  thump !  the  heavy  ice-cakes  rolled. 
And  piled  on  either  shore  they  lay ; 

From  either  shore  the  wild  waves  tore 
The  arches  with  their  piers  away. 

The  trembling  tollman,  with  wife  and  child. 

He  howled  still  louder  than  storm-winds  wild. 
X 


278 


GERMAN    POETRY. 


Thump  !  thump  !  the  heayy  ice-cakes  rolled, 
And  piled  at  either  end  they  lay ; 

All  rent  and  dashed,  the  stone  piers  crashed, 
As  one  by  one  they  shot  away. 

To  the  middle  approaches  the  overthrow  ! 

O  merciful  Heaven  !  thy  mercy  show ! 

High  on  the  distant  bank  there  stands 
A  crowd  of  peasants  great  and  small ; 

Each  shrieking  stands,  and  wrings  his  hands. 
But  there  *s  none  to  save  among  them  all. 

The  trembling  tollman,  with  wife  and  child, 

For  rescue  howls  through  the  storm-winds  wild. 

When  soundest  thou,  song  of  the  valiant  man. 
Like  clang  of  bells  and  organ-tone  ? 

Say  on,  say  on,  my  noble  song ! 

How  namest  thou  him,  the  valiant  one  ? 

To  the  middle  approaches  the  overthrow  ! 

O  brave  ipan  !  brave  man  !  show  thyself  now ! 

Swift  galloped  a  count  forth  from  the  crowd, 
On  a  gallant  steed,  a  count  full  bold. 

In  his  hand  so  free  what  holdeth  he  ? 
It  is  a  purse  stuffed  full  of  gold. 

*'  Two  hundred  pistoles  to  him  who  shall  save 

Those  poor  folks  from  death  and  a  watery  grave !" 

Who  is  the  brave  man  ?    Is  it  the  count  ? 

Say  on,  my  noble  song,  say  on  ! 
By  Him  who  can  save  !  the  count  was  brave, 

And  yet  do  I  know  a  braver  one. 
O  brave  man  !  brave  man  !  say,  where  art  thou  ? 
Fearfully  the  ruin  approaches  now  ! 

And  ever  higher  swelled  the  flood. 
And  ever  louder  roared  the  blast. 

And  ever  deeper  sank  the  heart  of  the  keep- 
er;— 
Preserver !  preserver !  speed  thee  fast ! 

And  as  pier  after  pier  gave  way  in  the  swell. 

Loud  cracked  and  dashed  the  arch  as  it  fell. 

*^  Halloo  !  halloo  !  to  the  rescue  speed  ! " 
Aloft  the  count  his  purse  doth  wave ; 

And  each  one  hears,  and  each  one  fears ; 
From  thousands  none  steps  forth  to  save. 

In  vain  doth  the  tollman,  with  wife  and  child. 

For  rescue  howl  through  the  storm-winds  wild. 

See,  stout  and  strong,  a  peasant  man. 

With  staff  in  hand,  comes  wandering  by ; 

A  kirtle  of  gray  hw  limbs  array  ; 
In  form  and  foature,  stem  and  high. 

He  listened,  the  words  of  the  count  to  hear. 

And  gazed  on  the  danger  that  threatened  near. 

And  boldly,  in  Heaven's  name,  into 
The  nearest  fishing-boat  sprang  he ; 

Through  the  whirlwind  wide,  and  the  dashing 
tide. 
The  preserver  reaches  them  happily. 

But,  alas  !  the  boat  is  too  small,  too  small, 

At  once  to  receive  and  preserve  them  all ! 


And  thrice  he  forced  his  little  boat 

Through  whirlwind,  storm,  and  dashing  wave ; 
And  thrice  came  he  ftiU  happily. 

Till  there  was  no  one  left  to  save. 
And  hardly  the  last  in  safety  lay. 
When  the  last  of  the  ruins  rolled  away. 

Who  is,  who  is  the  valiant  man  ? 

Say  on,  my  noble  song,  say  on  ! 
The  peasant,  I  know,  staked  his  lifo  on  the 
throw, 

But  for  the  sake  of  gold  't  was  done. 
Had  the  count  not  prombed  the  gold  to  him, 
The  peasant  had  risked  neither  life  nor  limb. 

"  Here,"  said  the  count,  **  my  valiant  fiiend, 
Here  is  thy  guerdon,  take  the  whole  ! " 

Say,  was  not  this  high-mindedness  ? 

By  Heaven  !  the  count  hath  a  noble  soul ! 

But  higher  and  holier,  sooth  to  say. 

Beat  the  peasant's  heart  in  his  kirtle  gray. 

**  My  lifo  cannot  be  bought  and  sold  : 

Though  poor,  I  'm  not  by  want  oppressed : 

But  the  tollman  old  stands  in  need  of  thy  gold; 
He  has  lost  whatever  he  possessed." 

Thus  cried  he,  with  hearty,  honest  tone, 

And,  turning  away,  went  forth  alone. 

High  soundest  thou,  song  of  the  valiant  man, 
Like  clang  of  bells  and  organ-tone. 

Him,  whose  high  soul  brave  thoughts  control. 
Not  gold  rewards,  but  song  alone. 

Thank  Heaven  for  song  and  praise,  that  I  can 

Thus  sing  and  praise  the  valiant  man  ! 


CHRISTIAN   GRAF  ZV  STOLBERG. 

This  poet  was  bom  on  the  15th  of  October, 
1748,  at  Hamburg.  He  studied  at  Grottingen, 
and  was  afterwards  made  a  gentleman  of  the 
bed-chamber  at  the  Danish  court.  In  1777,  be 
was  appointed  Jlmimann^  or  bailiff,  at  TremsbQt- 
tel,  in  Holstein ;  in  1800,  Danish  chamberlain. 
He  then  retired  to  his  estate,  called  Windebye, 
near  Eckemforde.  He  died  in  1821.  He  wrote 
poems,  ballads,  tragedies  with  chorasea,  hymns, 
idyls,  and  translations  from  the  Greek. 

TO  MT  BROTHER. 

Up  !  take  thou  eagle's  wings,  and  fly. 

My  song,  and,  with  thee,  fly 

My  jubilant  good-morrow, 

To  him  who  is  to  me 
What  never  mortal  was  to  mortal. 

Red  gleams  already  wake, 

Announcing  the  glad  day 
Which  called  thee,  dear  one,  into  lifo ! 
See,  how  he  pranketh  in  autumnal  pomp  ! 
Proud,  and  in  solemnizing  act,  he  comes. 
Clipped  with  the  dancing  hours,  and  greeted  by 


CHR.   STOLBERG HOLTY. 


279 


The  sun,  the  moon,  and  timeous  star ! 

Haste,  O  fraternal  kiss, 
That  hoverest  on  mj  panting  Up ! 

Swift  glide  on  the  first  beam  — 
As  full  of  fire,  as  quick  to  animate  — 

To  him  who  is  to  me 
What  never  mortal  was  to  mortal. 

Pillow  thee  gently  on  his  lips ; 

Scare  not  the  morning  dream, 
That  moistly  clasps  the  slumbering  one 
With  winding  ivy  wreaths  ; 
There  let  thy  honey  trickle,  and  my  form 

HoYor  before  his  conscious  soul. 
Languishing  with  the  sickness  of  desire, — 

O,  for  my  presence  languishing  !  — 
Then  suddenly  wake  him  with  the  throbbing 
wing 
Of  Loye,  and  call  it  loud 
In  burning  words  to  him  :  — 
That  he  may  be  to  me 
What  nerer  mortal  was  to  mortal. 

My  brother !  in  my  eye 

Trembleth  the  tear  of  joy ; 

Than  friend,  than  brother  more, 

That  thou  —  that  thou  art  e*en, 

My  hearths  most  trusted  one  ! 
Say,  ever  dawned  a  thought  to  thee  or  me, 
Whereof  the  veil  thou  might'st  not  lift, 

Or  I  might  not  partake  ? 
As,  through  the  power  miraculous 
Of  holy  Nature,  hidden,  deep. 
The  chord  of  lute,  untouched,  the  singer's  tones 

Doth  warble  tremblingly ; 

O  Mother  Nature  !  thus 

Our  twin  souls  she  attuned 
To  ever  sounding  harmony ! 
Sounding,  when  the  fiery  blood 
Bums  in  the  bosom  juvenile  ; 
Sounding,  when  down  the  pallid  cheeks 
The  tears  of  softened  feeling  flow. 

Ah  !  thou  who  art  to  me 
What  never  mortal  was  to  mortal ! 
Inspired  and  guided  by  the  Muses, 
Associates  dear,  to  whom  thou  saidst, 
"  Thou  art  my  sister. 
And  thou  my  bride  !  " — 
(Oft,  in  the  silent  night,  ye  visit  us, 
Te  Muses!  —  thou  my  brother  visitest; 
And  thou,  in  solitary  hall, 
Intoxicatest  me  with  joy. 

Thy  wooer,  Goddess  dear !  — ) 
Ha !  I  know  them  too ! 
Sister  and  bride ! 
Guided  by  them, 
Soar  I  to  thee, 
0*er  land,  and  o'er  sea,  to  thee,  to  thee ! 
Pours,  gushes  out  to  thee 
My  overflowing  heart. 

Brother !  to  us  the  lovely  lot 
Is  fiillen,  our  heritage  is  fair ! 
But,  ah  !  why  trickles  now  the  tear 


Within  the  cup  of  jubilee .' 

Ah  !  wherefore  are  we  now  apart,— 

To-day  apart  ? 
As  for  the  dew  the  summer  field. 
As  pants  the  sun  for  ocean's  lap, 
As  strives  the  vine  for  shady  elm, 
O,  so  strive  I,  so  pant  I  after  thee  i 
Thou  — thou  who  art  to  me 
What  never  mortal  was  to  mortal ! 

Return,  thou  day  of  joy. 
With  blessing  big,  thy  steps 
Trickling  with  milk, 
With  honey. 
And  with  the  blood  of  the  vine  ! 
Come  ever  with  autumnal  pomp 

Thy  temples  garlanded ! 
Ah  !    so  draws  nigh  at  hand  to  us 
Our  autumn  too ! 

So  it  may  come,  our  temples  be 
With  pomp  autumnal  garlanded ; 

And  with  fruits,  —  O  !  with  fhiits. 
Ay,  laden  with  imperishable  wealth  ! 

Nor  find  us  then,  fair  day. 

As  on  this  day,  apart ! 

O,  the  fulfilling !  the  fulfilling ! 
Fulfilling  of  the  most  intense  desire  ! 

Clearly  mine  eye  pervades     ^ 

The  future  far ;  it  sees 
What  golden  days  the  path  of  life  conclude ! 

Winter  at  last  arrives ; 
Age  friendly  and  benign 
Takes  us  both  by  the  hand,  and  leads  us  — 
O  joy  !  unseparated  then  ! 

Best  fiither !  and,  O  thou. 
Who  borest  and  who  suckledst  me. 

Best  mother !  — 
Thither,  where  'mong  the  trees  of  life. 

Where  in  celestial  bowers. 
Under  your  fig-tree,  bowed  with  fruit. 
And  warranting  repose. 
Under  your  pine,  inviting  shady  joy. 
Unchanging  blooms 
Eternal  spring ! 


LUDWIG    HEINRICH    CHRISTOPH 
HOLTY. 

The  poet  Holty  was  born  December  21st, 
1748,  at  Mariensee,  in  Hanover,  where  bis  fiith- 
er  was  a  preacher.  His  early  education  was  su- 
perintended by  his  father.  He  gave  precocious 
indications  of  a  love  of  learning,  but  his  health 
was  feeble  from  his  childhood  up.  He  was  sent 
to  school  in  Celle,  and  in  17^  entered  the 
University  of  Gottingen  as  a  student  of  theolo- 
gy. He  occupied  himself  much  with  poetry, 
and  assisted  in  forming  the  Poetical  Society. 
He  died  September  1st,  1776.     He  was  a  poet 


280 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


of  a  tentimenta]  and  melancholy  cast,  but,  at 
the  same  time,  fond  of  wit.  He  wrote  odes, 
songs,  ballads,  and  idyls.  His  works  were 
published  by  Stolberg  and  Voas,  at  Hamburg, 
1783 ;  by  Voss  in  1804  and  1814.  A  new  edi- 
tion appeared  at  Kdnigsberg  in  1833. 


DEATH  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALR 

She  is  no  more,  who  bade  the  May-month  hail; 

Alas  !  no  more  ! 
The  songstress  who  enlivened  all  the  vale,  — 

Her  songs  are  o'er ; 
She,  whose  sweet  tones,  in  golden  evening  hours. 

Rang  through  my  breast. 
When,  by  the  brook  that  murmured  'mong  the 
flowers, 

I  lay  at  rest. 

How  richly  gurgled  from  her  deep,  lull  throat 

The  silvery  lay. 
Till  in  her  caves  sweet  Echo  caught  the  note, 

Far,  far  away ! 
Then  was  the  hour  when  village  pipe  and  song 

Sent  up  their  sound. 
And  dancing  maidens  lightly  tripped  along 

The  moonlit  ground. 

A  youth  lay  listening  on  the  green  hill-side, 

Far  down  the  grove, 
While  on  his  rapt  face  hung  a  youthful  bride 

In  speechless  love. 
Their  hands  were  locked  oft  as  thy  silvery  strain 

Rang  through  the  vale ; 
They  heeded  not  the  merry,  dancing  train, 

Sweet  nightingale ! 

They  listened  thee  till  village  bells  from  far 

Chimed  on  the  ear, 
And,  like  a  golden  fleece,  the  evening  star 

Beamed  bright  and  clear. 
Then,  in  the  cool  and  fanning  breeze  of  May, 

Homeward  they  stole, 
Full  of  sweet  thoughts,  breathed,  by  thy  tender 

lay. 
Through  the  deep  soul. 


HARVEST  SONG. 

SicKLXs  sound ; 
On  the  ground 
Fast  the  ripe  ears  &I1 ; 
Every  maiden's  bonnet 
Has  blue  blossoms  on  it ; 
Joy  is  over  all. 

Sickles  ring, 
Maidens  sing 
To  the  sickle's  sound  ; 
Till  the  moon  is  beaming. 
And  the  stubble  gleaming. 
Harvest  songs  go  round. 


All  are  springing. 

All  are  singing. 

Every  lisping  thing. 

Man  and  master  meet ; 

From  one  dbh  they  eat ; 

Each  is  now  a  lung. 

Hans  and  Michael 
Whet  the  sickle. 
Piping  merrily. 
Now  they  mow ;  each  maiden 
Soon  with  sheaves  is  laden, 
Busy  as  a  bee. 

Now  the  blisses, 
And  the  kisses ! 
Now  the  wit  doth  flow 
Till  the  beer  is  out ; 
Then,  with  song  and  shout. 
Home  they  go,  yo  ho  ! 


WINTER  SONG. 

SuHHER  joys  are  o'er ; 

Flowerets  bloom  no  more  ; 
Wintry  winds  are  sweeping : 
Through  the  snow-drifls  peeping, 

Cheerful  evergreen 

Rarely  now  is  seen. 

Now  no  plumed  throng 
Charms  the  woods  with  song ; 

Ice-bound  trees  are  glittering ; 

Merry  snow-birds,  twittering. 
Fondly  strive  to  cheer 
Scenes  so  cold  and  drear. 

Winter,  still  I  see 

Many  charms  in  thee ; 
Love  thy  chilly  greeting. 
Snow-storms  fiercely  beating, 

And  the  dear  delights 

Of  the  long,  long  nights. 


ELEGT  AT  THE  GRATE  OF  MT  FATHER. 

Blest  are  they  who  slumber  in  the  Lord ; 

Thou,  too,  O  my  father,  thou  art  blest ; 
Angels  came  to  crown  thee  ;  at  their  word. 

Thou  hast  gone  to  share  the  heavenly  rest. 

Roaming  through  the  boundless,  starry  sky. 
What  is  now  to  thee  this  earthly  clod  ? 

At  a  glance  ten  thousand  suns  sweep  by. 
While  thou  gazest  on  the  face  of  God. 

In  thy  sight  the  eternal  record  lies ; 

Thou  dost  drink  from  life's  immortal  wells ; 
Midnight's  mazy  mist  before  thee  fliea, 

And  in  heavenly  day  thy  spirit  dwells. 

Tet,  beneath  thy  dazzling  viotor's-crown. 
Thou  dost  send  a  father's  look  to  me  ; 

At  Jehovah's  throne  thou  fallest  down. 
And  Jehovah,  hearing,  answereth  thee. 


GOETHE. 


281 


Father,  O,  when  life's  last  drops  are  wasting, — 
Those  dear  drops  which  God's  own  urn  hath 
given, — 

When  my  soul  the  pangs  of  death  is  tasting. 
To  my  dying  bed  come  down  from  heaven  ! 

Let  thy  cooling  palm  wave  freshly  o*er  me, 
Sinking  to  the  dark  and  silent  tomb ; 

Let  the  awAil  vales  be  bright  before  me, 
Where  the  flowers  of  resurrection  bloom. 

Then  with  thine  my  soul  shall  soar  through 
heaven. 

With  the  same  unfading  glory  blest ; 
For  a  home  one  star  to  us  be  given,  — 

In  the  Father's  bosom  we  shall  rest. 

Then  bloom  on,  gay  tuf^  of  scented  roses ; 

O'er  his  grave  your  sweetest  fragrance  shed  ! 
And,  while  here  his  sacred  dust  reposes. 

Silence,  reign  around  his  lowly  bed ! 


COUNTRf  LIFE. 

Happy  the  man  who  has  the  town  escaped  ! 
To  him   the  whistling   trees,  the   murmuring 
brooks, 

The  shining  pebbles,  preach 

Virtue's  and  wisdom's  lore. 

The  whispering  grove  a  holy  temple  is 
To  him,  where  God  draws  nigher  to  his  soul ; 
Each  verdant  sod  a  shrine. 
Whereby  he  kneels  to  HeaVfen. 

The  nightingale  on  him  sings  slumber  down, — 
The  nightingale  rewakes  him,  fluting  sweet. 
When  shines  the  lovely  red 
Of  morning  through  the  trees. 

Then  he  admires  thee  in  the  plain,  O  God  !  — 
In  the  ascending  pomp  of  dawning  day,  — 
Thee  in  thy  glorious  sun,  — 
The  worm, — the  budding  branch. 

Where  coolness  gushes,  in  the  waving  grass, 
Or  o*er  the  flowers  streams  the  fountain,  rests : 

Inhales  the  breath  of  prime, 

The  gentle  "airs  of  eve. 

His  straw-decked  thatch,  where  doves  bask  in 

the  sun, 
And  play  and  hop,  invites  to  sweeter  rest 

Than  golden  halls  of  state 

Or  beds  of  down  aflTord. 

To  him  the  plumy  people  sporting  chirp. 
Chatter,  and  whistle,  on  his  basket  perch, 
And  from  his  quiet  hand 
Pick  crumbs,  or  peas,  or  grains. 

Ofl  wanders  he  alone,  and  thinks  on  death ; 

And  in  the  village  churchyard  by  the  graves 
Sits,  and  beholds  the  cross,  — 
Death's  waving  garland  there, — 
36 


The  stone  beneath  the  elders,  where  a  text 
Of  Scripture  teaches  joyfully  to  die,  — 

And  with  his  scythe  stands  Death, — 

An  angel,  too,  with  palms. 

Happy  the  man  who  thus  hath  'scaped  the  town ! 

Him  did  an  angel  bless  when  he  was  bom, — 
The  cradle  of  the  boy 
With  flowers  celestial  strewed. 


JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE. 

This  world>renowned  and  versatile  author, 
tbe  greatest  name  in  German  literature,  was 
born  at  Frankfort  on  the  Mayn,  the  28th  of 
August,  1 749.  His  father  was  a  man  of  vari- 
ous culture,  and  held  the  rank  of  Imperial 
Councillor.  He  spared  no  pains  to  unfold  the 
abilities  of  his  son,  which,  it  was  soon  apparent, 
were  of  a  distinguished  order.  His  house  was 
filled  with  pictures  and  engravings,  which  early 
developed  young  Goethe's  powers  of  observing 
and  discriminating  works  of  art  When  the 
Seven  Tears'  War  broke  out,  the  Count  de 
Thorane,  the  UeutenarU  du  roi  of  the  French 
army  in  Germany,  was  quartered  in  Goethe's 
house.  _The  count's  taste  for  pictures,  and  his 
conversations  with  the  artists  of  Frankfort,  in 
which  young  Goethe  was  allowed  to  partici- 
pate, exercised  a  strong'  influence  on  his  taste 
and  character.  He  seized  this  opportunify  also 
of  learning  the  French  language.  In  1765,  he 
went  to  Leipsic  and  entered  the  University, 
where  Gottsched  was  still  living ;  but  Ernesti 
and  Gellert  chiefly  occupied  his  attention.  He 
followed  no  regular  course  of  studies  during 
his  residence  in  Leipsic,  but  devoted  himself 
principally  to  poetry  and  art;  he  constantly 
practised  drawing,  and  even  attempted  engrav- 
ing. In  1768,  he  returned  to  Frankfort,  witli 
his  health  much  impaired.  He  was  aflfection' 
ately  nursed  by  a  lady  named  Von  Klettenberg, 
under  whose  influence  he  was  led  to  study 
the  science  of  chemistry  and  the  mystico- 
alchemical  v^rks,  the  effect  of  which  is  seen  in 
the  «*  Faust."  In  1770,  he  went  to  the  Univer- 
sity of  Strasburg  to  study  law,  according  to 
the  wish  of  his  father,  but  his  favorite  pursuits 
were  chemistry  and  anatomy.  Here  he  became 
acquainted  with  Herder,  whose  views  in  poetry 
and  taste  in  art  had  a  marked  influence  upon 
his  life.  Here;  too,  he  wrote  a  treatise  on 
Gothic  architecture.  In  1771,  he  took  his  de- 
gree as  Doctor  of  Laws,  and  wrote  a  disserta- 
tion on  a  legal  subject.  Soon  after,  he  returned 
home,  and  in  1773  published  his  **  Gotz  von 
Berlichingen,"  which  instantly  and  strongly 
excited  the  public  attention  ;  the  <*  Sorrows  of 
Werther"  appeared  in  the  following  year.  In 
1776,  he  was  invited  to  Weimar  by  the  young 
duke,  Karl  August,  a  circumstance  that  fixed 
his  career  and  destiny.  He  received  the  rank  of 
Councillor  of  Legation,  then  of  Priyy  Council- 
x2     . 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


lor,  and  in  1782  he  was  made  President  of  the 
Chamber  and  ennobled.  In  1786,  he  jyiade  a 
journey  to  Italy  and  Sicily,  in  which  he  spent 
two  years,  and  afler  his  return  was  appointed 
Prime  Minister  of  Weimar.  He  accompanied 
the  duke  of  Weimar  during  the  campaign  of 
1792.  He  received  many  orders ;  among  the 
rest,  that  of  Alexander-Newski,  from  the  Em- 
peror of  Russia,  and  the  Grand  Cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor,  from  the  Emperor  Napoleon. 
He  died  on  the  22d  of  March,  1832. 

His  works  embrace  almost  every  department 
of  literature  and  many  of  the  sciences.  They 
have  exercised  an  immense  influence,  not  only 
in  Germany,  but  over  the  whole  civilized  world. 
For  half  a  century  he  stood  at  the  head  of  the 
literature  of  Germany,  though  not  without  the 
vigorous  opposition  of  an  able  and  resolute 
party.  To  discuss  his  various  merits  and  defects, 
however,  would  require  more  space  than  can 
be- given  to  them  here.  His  countrymen  are 
fond  of  calling  him  vidseUig,  or  many-sided. 
The  following  portraits,  drawn  by  different  ar- 
tists, may  be  considered  as  side-views,  taken 
from  different  points. 

GOETHE  IN  1776.     BY  GLEIM. 

"Shortly  after  Goethe  had  written  his' Wer- 
ther,*  I  came  to  Weimar,  and  wished  to  know 
him.  I  had  brought  with  me  the  last  Gottin- 
gen  *  Musen- Aimanach,'  as  a  literary  novelty, 
and  read  here  and  there  a  piece  to  the  com- 
pany in  which  I  was  passing  the  evening. 
While  I  was  reading,  a  young  man,  booted  and 
spurred,  in  a  short  green  shooting-jacket  thrown 
open,  had  come  in  and  mingled  with  my  audi- 
ence. I  bad  scarcely  remarked  his  entrance. 
He  sat  down  opposite  to  me,  and  listened  very 
attentively.  I  scarcely  knew  what  there  was 
about  him  that  struck  me  particularly,  except  a 
pair  of  brilliant  black  Italian  eyes.  But  it  was 
decreed  that  I  should  know  more  of  him. 

"  During  a  short  pause,  in  which  some  gen- 
tlemen and  ladies  were  discussing  the  merits 
of  the  pieces  I  had  read,  laudi^  some  and 
censoring  others,  the  gallant  young  sportsman 
(for  such  I  took  him  to  be)  arose  from  his  chair, 
and,  bowing  with  a  most  courteous  and  ingra- 
tiating air  to  me,  offered  to  relieve  me  from 
time  to  time  in  reading  aloud,  lest  I  should  be 
tired.  I  could  do  no  less  than  accept  so  polite 
an  offer,  and  immediately  handed  him  the  book. 
But,  O  Apollo  and  all  ye  Muses,  —  not  forget- 
ting the  Graces, — what  was  I  then  to  hear!  At 
first,  indeed,  things  went  on  smoothly  enough. 
'  Die  Zephyr'a  lauschum. 
Die  Btohe  rauschten, 
Die  Sonne 

Vertmitet  ihre  Licht  mil  Wonne.' 
The  somewhat  more  solid,  substantial  fare  of 
Voss,  Leopold  Stolberg,  and  BOrger,  too,  were 
delivered  in  such  a  manner  that  no  one  had 
any  reason  to  complain. 

"  All  at  once,  however,  it  was  as  if  some 


wild  and  wanton  devil  had  taken  possession  -of 
the  young  reader,  and  I  thought  I  saw  the  Wild 
Huntsman  bodily  before  me.  He  read  poems 
that  had  no  existence  in  the  Almanach  ;  be 
broke  out  into  all  possible  modes  and  dialects. 
Hexameters,  iambics,  doggerel  verses,  one  after 
another,  or  blended  in  strange  confusion,  came 
tumbling  out  in  torrents. 

"  Wbtit  wild  and  humorous  fantasies  did  he 
not  combine  that  evening  !  Amidst  them,  came 
such  noble,  magnificent  thoughts,  thrown  in, 
detached,  and  flitting,  that  the  authors  to  whom 
he  ascribed  them  must  have  thanked  God  on 
their  knees,  if  they  had  fallen  upon  their  desks. 

"  As  soon  as  the  joke  was  discovered,  a  uni- 
versal merriment  spread  through  the  room.  He 
put  every  body  present  out  of  countenance  in 
one  way  or  another.  Even  my  Miecenasship, 
which  I  had  always  regarded  it  as  a  sort  of 
duty  to  exercise  towards  young  authors,  poets, 
and  artists,  had  its  turn.  Though  he  praised  it 
highly  on  the  one  side,  he  did  not  forget  to 
insinuate,  on  the  other,  that  I  claimed  a  sort  of 
property  in  the  individuals  to  whom  I  had 
afforded  support  and  countenance.  In  a  little 
fable  composed  extempore  in  doggerel  verses,  be 
likened  me,  wittily  enough,  to  a  worthy  and 
most  enduring  turkey-hen,  that  sits  on  a  great 
heap  of  eggs  of  her  own  and  other  people's, 
and  hatches  them  with  infinite  patience  ;  but 
to  whom  it  sometimes  happens  to  haye  a  chalk 
egg  put  under  her  instead  of  a  real  one }  a  trick 
at  which  she  takes  no  offence. 

**  *  That  is  cither  Goethe  or  the  devil,*  cried 
I  to  Wieland,  who  sat  opposite  to  me  at  the 
table.  ^  Both,'  replied  he  ;  *  he  has  the  devil 
in  him  again  to-day  ; '  and  then  be  is  like  a 
wanton  colt  that  flings  out  before  and  behind, 
and  you  do  well  not  to  go  too  near  him.'  "  * 

INTERVIEW  WITH  GOETHE.  BY  HAUFP. 

'^'The  clock  at  length  struck,  and  we  de- 
parted. The  residence  of  the  poet  is  beautiful. 
A  tasteful  walk,  decorated  with  statues,  leads 
to  the  dwelling.  We  were  silently  conducted, 
by  a  servant,  to  the  parlour,  the  style  of  which 
is  neat,  chaste,  and  elegant.  My  young  com- 
panion gazed  at  the  paintingb,  sculptured  walls, 
and  furniture,  in  admiration  of  wonder.  Such 
a  *  poet's  room '  was  quite  unlike  the  narrow 
one  of  his  fancy.  His  exalted  preconceived 
ideas  of  the  poet  were  now  greatly  heightened 
by  the  grandeur  that  surrounded  him ;  and  his 
trepidation  at  the  impending  interview  began 
to  betray  itself  by  the  mantling  of  the  color  in 
his  handsome  countenance,  by  the  beatings  of 
his  heart,  by  the  frequency  of  his  glances  at  the 
door. 

*f  I  had  here  a  little  time  to  reflect  upon  the 
character  and  fortunes  of  Goethe.  How>  insig- 
nificant is  the  splendor  of  birth,  compared  wit6 


*  Chancteristica  of  Goethe,  by  Sarah  Avarat  (3  vols. 
London,   1833>.  Vol.  H.,  pp.  25-99. 


GOETHE. 


883 


the  wealth  of  an  emiDently  gifted  mind !  Thia 
son  of  an  obscure  citizen  of  FrankA>rt  has 
reached  the  utmost  point,  that,  in  the  ordinary 
nature  of  things,  lies  open  to  the  attainment  of 
man.  Goethe  has  broken  his  own  path ;  a  path 
in  which  none  had  preceded,  none  haye  fol- 
lowed him.  He  has  shown  that  what  man  wiU 
he  eon, 

'^The  door  opened,  —  it  was  Goethe.  A 
stately,  beautiful  old  man !  Eyes  clear  and 
youthful ;  forehead  capacious,  majestic ;  the 
mouth  cheerful,  fine,  and  noble.  He  Nras  at- 
tired in  a  fine  suit  of  block ;  on  his  breast  was 
a  brilliant  star.  But  he  allowed  us  little  time 
for  a  survey.  We  were  welcomed  with  the 
greatest  sincerity  and  affability  of  manner,  and 
invited  to  seats. 

•«0,  had  I  but  been  introduced  as  some 
learned  Iroquois,  or  one  of  the  chivalrous  spir- 
its from  Mississippi !  Could  I  but  have  inform- 
ed him  of  the  extent  of  his  fame  beyond  the 
Ohio,  —  of  the  opinions  of  the  planters  of  Lou- 
isiana of  himself  and  his  <  Wilhelm  Meister ' ! 
Then  I  might  have  been  a  colloquial  partaker 
in  this  interview ;  but,  alas  !  my  fortunate  com- 
panion, who  was  an  American,  had  the  con- 
versation all  to  himself. 

^How  false  are  oAen  our  notions  of  the 
manner  in  which  we  should  deport^ourselves 
with,  and  ihe  kind  of  entertainment  we  shall 
receive  from,  renowned  men  !  If  the  object  of 
our  reverence  has  attained  notoriety  as  a  wit, 
we  expect  to  meet  a  sort  of  electrifying  machine 
in  constant,  sparkling  operation.  Is  he  a  dra- 
matist, we  fancy  we  shall  bear  a  talking  trage- 
dy. If  a  writer  of  Romances,  we  feel  that  we* 
are  approaching  something  novel.  But  a  roan 
like  Goethe,  who  *  rides  in  every  saddle,'  how 
interesting,  how  instructive,  how  momentous 
must  be  the  interview,  and  what  an  efibrt  does 
it  not  require,  on  our  part,  to  sustain  it ! 

*'  So  thougbt  the  American  before  this  visit 
to  Goethe.  His  mind  now  flew  in  confusion, 
first,  through  the  four  chambers  of  his  brain, 
then  down  to  the  two  apartments  of  bis  heart, 
without  being  able  to  shape  an  idea,  which  he 
dared  to  utter.  Then  how  much  was  he  re- 
lieved, when  the  poet  addressed  him  as  Hans 
addressed  Kutz  in  the  *  Kneipe ' !  He  inquired 
about  the  weather  in  America.  The  counte- 
nance of  my  companion  began  to  light  up,  the 
sluices  of  his  eloquence  were  soon  opened, 
and  he  talked  about  the  Canadian  mists,  about 
the  spring  storms  of  New  York,  and  praised  the 
nmbrellas  which  are  manufactured  in  Franklin 
street,  Philadelphia. 

**  It  soon  appeared  as  if  I  were  not  in  the 
company  of  Gkiethe,  but  with  my  old  associates 
of  the  hotel,  —  such  was  the  frankness  and  fa- 
miliarity of  the  conversation. 

**Tbe  time  passing  agreeably,  we  found  that 
our  stay  was  prolonged  &r  beyond  the  time  we 
bad  purposed  to  tarry,  and  we  took  our  leave 
under  the  most  bland  and  cordial  civilities. 

**In  silent  astonishment,  my  transatlantic  com- 


panion followed  me  to  the  public  house.  The 
excitement  of  the  animated  interview  still  col- 
ored his  features,  and  he  seemed  highly  gratified 
with  the  visit  Arriving  at  our  room,  ha  threw 
himself  heroically  upon  two  chairs  and  ordered 
a  bottle  of  champagne.  The  cork  shot  joyfully 
against  the  ceiling ;  two  glasses  were  filled ; 
and  the  health  of  the  great  poet  was  drunk 
with  « three  times  three.'  "  * 

GOETHE  AND  BETTINE. 
^  The  house  lies  opposite  the  fountain  ;  how 
deafening  did  the  water  sound  to  roe !  I  as- 
cended the  simple  staircase ;  in  the  wall  stand 
statues  which  command  silence :  at  least,  I 
could  not  be  loud  in  this  sacred  hall.  All  is 
friendly,  but  solemn.  .  In  the  rooms,  simplicity 
is  at  home.  Ah,  how  inviting  !  *  Fear  not,'  said 
the  modest  walls,  *As  will  come,  and  will  be  — 
and  more  he  will  not  wish  to  be  —  as  thou  art ' ; 
—  and  then  the  door  opened,  and  there  As 
stood,  solemnly  grave,  and  looked  with  fixed 
eyes  upon  me.  I  stretched  my  hands  towards 
him,  I  believe.  I  soon  lost  all  consciousness. 
Goethe  caught  me  quickly  to  his  heart.  *  Poor 
child,  have  I  frightened  you.' '  These  were  the 
first  words  with  which  bis  voice  penetrated  to 
my  heart.  He  led  me  into  his  room,  and  placed 
me  on  the  sofa  opposite  to  him.  There  we 
were,  both  mute  ;  at  last  he  broke  the  silence  : 
^Tou  have  doubtless  read  in  the  papers,  that 
we  suffered,  a  few  days  ago,  a  great  loss,  by  the 
death  of  the  Duchess  Amalia.' ' — *■  Ah/  said  I, 
^I  don't  read  the  papers.' — *  Indeed  !  I  had 
believed  that  every  thing  which  happens  in 
Weimar  would  have  interested  you.'  —  *  No, 
nothing  interests  me  but  you  alone ;  and  I  am 
far  too  impatient  to  pore  over  newspapers.'  — 
*You  are  a  kind  child.' — A  long  pause,  —  I, 
fixed  to  that  tiresome  sofii  in  such  anxiety.  You 
know  how  impossible  it  is  for  me  to  sit  still,  in 
such  a  well  bred  manner.  Ah,  mother,  is  it 
possible  so  far  to  forget  one's  self?  I  suddenly 
said,  *  Can't  stay  here  upon  the  sofa,'  and  sprang 
up.  *  Well,'  said  he,  *  make  yourself  at  home.' 
Then  I  flew  to  his  neck,  — he  drew  roe  on  his 
knee,  and  locked  me  to  bis  heart.  Still,  quite 
still  it  was, — every  thing  vanished,  I  had  not 
slept  for  so  long, — years  had  passed  in  sighing 
afler  him.  I  fell  asleep  on  his  breast;  and 
when  I  awoke,  I  began  a  new  life,  t 

GOETHE  AS  A  PATRIOT.  BY  BORNE. 
**  Goethe  might  have  rendered  himself  as 
strong  as  Hercules  in  freeing  his  country  from 
the  filth  it  contains,  but  he  merely  procured  for 
himself  the  golden  apples  of  the  Hesperides,  of 
which  he  retained  possession ;  and,  satisfied 
with  that,  he  placed  himself  at  the  feet  of 
Omphale,  where  he  remained  stationary.    How 

*  Haufp.  Merooiren  dea  Satan,  Chap.  XVI.  Worka 
(4  roU.  Siutt^rt,  1840),  Vol.  II.,  p.  231 

t  GorrRB's  Correapondance  with  a  Child  (2  Tola.  Lowell, 
1841).    Vol.  I.,  pp.  10,  11. 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


completely  opposite  was  the  course  pursued  by 
the  great  poets  and  orators  of  Italy,  France,  and 
England  !      Dante,  a  warrior,  statesman,  and 
diplomatist,  beloved  and  hated,  protected  and 
persecuted,  by  mighty  princes,  remained  withal 
unaffected  by  either,  and  sang  and  fought  in 
the  cause  of  justice.     Alfieri  was  a  nobleman, 
haughty  and  rich ;  and  yet  he  panted  up  the  hill 
of  Parnassus,  to  proclaim  from  its  summit  uni- 
versal freedom.     Montesquieu  was  a  servant  of 
the  state;   and  yet  he  sent  forth  his  *  Persian 
Letters,'  in  which  he  mocked  at  courts,  and 
his  » Spirit  of  the   Laws,'  wherein  he  exposed 
the  defecte  of  the  French  government.   Voltaire 
was  a  courtier ;  but  he  only  courted  the  great  in 
smooth  words,  and  never  sacrificed  his  princi- 
ples to  them.     He  wore,  it  is  true,  a  well  pow- 
dered wig,  and   was  fond  of  lace  ruffles,  silk 
coats  and  stockings;   but  when  he  heard  the 
cry  of  the  persecuted,  he  did  not  hesitate  to 
wade  through    the   mud   to  their   rescue,  and 
with  his  own  ennobled  hands  snatch  from  the 
scaffold  the  unjustly  condemned  victim.    Rous- 
seau  was  a  poor,  sickly  beggar,  and  needed 
aid ;   but  he  was  not  seduced  by  lender  care ; 
neither  could  friendship,  even  from  the  great, 
produce  a  change  in   his  principles.     He  con- 
tinued  proud  and  free,  and  died  in  poverty. 
Milton,  whilst  engaged  in  the  composition  of 
his  divine  poetry,  forgot  not,  though  in  poverty, 
the  necessities  of  his  fellow-citizens,  but  labored 
for  liberty  and  right.      Such  men   were   also 
Swifl,  Byron,  &c. ;  and  such  are,  at  the  present 
moment,  Moore,  Campbell,  and   others.     But 
how  has  Goethe  exhibited  himself  to  his  coun- 
trymen and  to  the  world  ?     As  the  citizen  of  a 
free  city,  he  merely  recollected  that  he  was  the 
grandson  of  a  may9r,  who,  at  the  coronation  of 
the  emperor  of  Germany,  was  allowed  to  hold 
the  temporary  office  of  Chamberlain.     As  the 
child  of  honest  and  respectable  parents,  he  was 
delighted  when  once  a  dirty  boy  in  the  street 
called   him  a  bastard,  and  wandered   forth  in 
imagination  (the  imagination  of  a  future  poet) 
the  son  of  some  prince,  questioning  himself  as 
to  which  he  might  perchance  belong.      Thus 
he  was,  and  thus  he  remained.     Not  once   has 
he  ever  advanced  a  poor,  solitary  word  in  his 
country's  cause,— he,  who,  from  the  lofly  height 
which  he  had  attained,  might  have  spoken  out 
what  none  other  but  himself  could  dare  to  pro- 
nounce.    Some  few  years  since,  he  petitioned 
*  their  high  and  highest  Mightinesses '  of  the 
German   Confederation    to   grant   his  writings 
their  all-powerful  protection  against  piracy ;  but 
he  did  not  remember  to  include  in  his  prayer 
an  extension  of  ahe  same  privilege  to  his  liter- 
ary contemporaries.     Ere  I  would  have  allow- 
ed my  fingers  to  pen  thus  k  prayer  for  my  indi- 
vidual  right,  and  that  only,  I  would  have  per- 
mitted them  to  be  lamed  and  maimed  by  the 
ruler's  edge,  like  h  school-boy  !  "  ♦ 


ooT  ?^^    Oleanlngf  from  Germany  (London,  193^.   pp. 
381,  3tS. 


GOETHE'S  OWN  VIEW  OF  THIS  SUBJECT. 
"  I  SHOULD  like  to  know  what  is  the  mean- 
ing of  those  phrases :  —  *  Love  your  country,* 
*  Be  an  active  patriot,'  and  so  forth.  If  a  poet 
has  employed  himself  during  a  long  life  in  com- 
bating pernicious  prejudices,  overcoming  narrow 
views,  elevating  the  intellect,  and  purifying  the 
taste  of  the  country,  what  could  he  possibly  do 
better  than  this .?  How  could  he  be  more  patri- 
otic ?  To  make  such  impertinent  and  unthank- 
ful depiands  upon  a  poet  is  as  if  I  should  de- 
mand of  the  head  of  a  regiment  to  become  a 
ringleader  in  all  political  novelties,  and  neglect 
thereby  his  soldiers  and  their  discipline.  The 
head  of  a  regiment  ought  to  have  no  other 
fatherland  than  his  regiment ;  and  his  best  way 
to  become  a  patriot  is,  to  have  no  concern  with 
politics,  but  in  so  far  as  they  affect  the  discharge 
of  his  duties,  and  to  direct  his  whole  energies 
to  the  training  and  conversation  of  hxB  troops, 
to  the  end,  that,  when  his  fiitherland  really  re- 
quires their  service,  they  may  be  able  to  acquit 
themselves  like  men. 

<*  I  hate  all  intermeddling  with  subjects  that 
one  does  not  understand,  as  I  hate  sin  itself; 
and,  of  all  intermeddling  bunglers,  political 
bunglers  are  to  me  the  most  odious,  for  their 
handiwork  involves  thousands  and  millions  in 
destruction. 

"  You  know  well  it  is  not  my  custom  to  con- 
cern myself  much  about  what  people  say  or 
write  of  me ;  but  I  have  heard,  and  I  know 
very  well,  that,  though  I  have  worked  like  a 
slave  all  my  life  long  {so  sauer  ich  es  mir  auch 
mein  Lebelang  habe  toerden  lassen)^  there  are 
nevertheless  certain  people  who  consider  all 
that  I  have  done  as  worse  than  nothing,  for  no 
other  reason  than  because  I  have  uniformly  re- 
fused to  mix  myself  up  with  party  politics.  To 
please  these  gentlemen,  I  must  have  become  a 
member  of  a  Jacobin  club,  and  a  preacher  of 
murder  and  bloodshed!  But  enough  of  this 
sorry  theme,  lest  I  should  lose  my  reason  in 
attempting  to  reason  against  that  which  is  alto- 
gether unreasonable."  * 

BifENZEL'S  VIEW  OF  GOETHE. 
"  GoKTHK  had  all  Lessing's  subtilty,  and  a 
much^richer  imagination,  but  without  his  man- 
liness; and  all  the  softness,  sensibility,  and  uni- 
versal resignation  of  Herder,  but  without  his 
faith.  In  relation  to  the  beautiful  treatment  of 
every  subject  he  chose  to  handle,  he  was  in- 
disputably the  greatest  of  our  poets;  but  he  felt 
no  enthusiasm  for  any  thing  but  himself,  and  all 
the  subjects  he  treated  were  employed  merely 
to  portray  and  to  flatter  himself.  As  in  his 
study  at  Weimar  he  managed,  by  an  artful  dis- 
position of  the  light,  to  appear,  on  the  first  salu- 
tation of  a  visiter,  under  the  most  fiivorable  pic 
torial  light  and  shade,  so  all  his  works  were 
merely  the  same  kind  of  artificial  means  of  illu- 


»  EcKBRMANw.  Geoprtlche  mil  Goelho.  2  Toto.  Lcipalg. 
1836.    8to.— Foreign  Quarterly  Rovtaw,  VoL  XVIU. 


GOETHE. 


285 


minating  hinifleUl  For  the  world  he  had  no 
fljmpathy,  except  to  far  aa  it  served  him  for  the 
aame  end.  Of  the  cathedral  at  Cologne  he 
desired  to  have  a  little  <  show  chapel '  in  his 
garden ;  all  he  cared  for  was  the  fiuihion ;  but 
the  august  and  solemn  spirit  which  dwelt  in 
the  cathedral  passed  with  him  for  nothing.  He 
not  only  had  no  feeling  for  the  exigencies  of  the 
country,  bat  they  were  absolutely  odious  to 
him.  He  not  only  berhymed  Napoleon,  because 
Napoleon  flattered  him,  but  shut  himself  up 
during  the  great  war  of  liberation,  and  prose- 
cuted the  study  of  Chinese,  out  of  disgust  for 
an  age  which  acknowledged  something  more 
important  than  himself.  This  man  appeared  to 
his  contemporaries  to  be  the  greatest  of  men, 
because  he  could  not  flatter  himself  without 
speaking  from  the  heart,  as  it  were,  of  an  innu- 
merable  multitude  of  other  selfish  creatures; 
because  he  smoothed  over  all  the  inclinations^ 
which  the  boasted  aristocracy  of  the  refined,  in 
his  deeply  degraded  nation,  at  that  time  shared 
with  him.  Lessing  had  frightened  the  weak- 
lings;  they  had  wondered  at  him,  but  had 
turned  away  in  disgust.  Goethe  was  their  dar- 
ling, because  he  persuaded  them  that  their 
weakness  was  beautiful."* 

The  following  is  a  part  of  the  powerful  and 
elaborate,  but  hostile,  analysis  of  Goethe's  char- 
acter and  influence,  in  the  same  writer's  "  Ger- 
man Literature." 

'*  The  entire  phenomenon  of  Goethe,  the  sum 
and  substance  of  all  his  qualities  and  manifes- 
tations, is  a  reflex,  a  closely  compressed  and 
variously  colored  image  of  his  age.  But  this 
was  an  age  of  national  degeneracy ;  of  political 
imbecility  and  disgrace ;  of  a  malicious  unbelief; 
of  a  coquettish  and  sensual  cant ;  of  a  deep  de- 
moralization ;  of  a  passion  for  pleasure,  smooth- 
ed over  by  an  appearance  of  taste,  under  the 
mask  of  refined  manners;  of  contempt  for  every 
public  interest,  and  an  anxious  care  for  self. 
All  these  sad  phenomena  of  the  times,  which  oc- 
casioned the  downfall  of  the  German  empire,  and 
brought  about  the  triumph  of  France  Over  our 
despised  and  neglected  country,  Goethe  has  not 
resisted  like  a  hero,  or  bewailed  like  a  prophet. 
He  has  merely  given  back  their  images,  and 
poetically  embellished  them ;  nay,  not  merely 
applauded  them  indirectly,  but  in  express  terms. 

*'*'  We  recognize  in  Groethe  the  exact  opposite 
of  Lessing.  As  Lessing  emancipated  the  "Ger- 
man  mind  from  foreign  influence,  Goethe  sub- 
jected it  to  this  influence  by  toying  with  every 
people  under  the  sun ;  and  as  Lessing  opposed 
the  sentimental  style  with  all  the  force  and 
gracefulness  of  his  manly  spirit,  so  Goethe  ad- 
hered to  that  effeminate  enervation  of  the  age, 
and  led  the  affections  to  its  snares  by  the  sweet- 
ness of  his  strains.  To  all  the  luxurious,  soft, 
efleminate  vices  that  have  made  their  way  into 
German  Kterature  by  the  sentimental  spirit, 
and  to  all   the  fklse,   perverted,  and   foppish 

*  Mbnzbl.  Geachichie  der  Deutachen  (StuUgart  and 
Tubingen,  1837).  pp.  1054, 1065. 


mannerisms  that  have  been  introduced  by  aping 
foreigners,  Goethe  lent  the  most  powerful  aid, 
and  elevated  imbecility  and  unnaturalness  to  a 
law.  The  only  good  which  he  had  with  this 
bad  tendency,  and  that  by  which  he  attained  so 
great  powei;,  was  his  form^  —  his  talent  of  lan- 
guage, of  representation,  of^ress. 

**  When  we  pierce  through  the  many-colored 
cloud  of  the  Goethean  form,  we  perceive  ego- 
tism to  be  the  inmost  essence  of  his  poetry,  as 
of  his  whole  life ;  not,  however,  the  egotism  of 
the  hero  and  the  heaven-storming  Titan,  but 
only  that  of  the  Sybarite  and  the  actor,  the  ego- 
tism of  the  passion  for  pleasure  and  the  vanity 
of  art.  Goethe  referred  every  thing  to  himself, 
made  himself  the  centre  of  the  world ;  exclud- 
ed fl'om  his  neighbourhood,  and  from  contact 
with  himself,  every  thing  that  did  not  minister 
to  his  desires;  and  really  exercised  a  magic 
sway  over  weak  souls  by  his  talent :  but  he  did 
not  make  use  of  his  power  and  his  high  rank 
to  elevate,  improve,  and  emancipate  men,  or  to 
announce  and  support  any  great  idea  whatever, 
or  to  fight  in  the  battles  which  his  contempora- 
ries were  waging,  for  right,  fi'eedom,  honor,  and 
country.  By  no  means.  He  only  carried  the 
world  away  with  him,  like  the  stage  princess,  — 
td  enjoy  it,  to  play  his  part  before  it,  to  get  ad- 
miration and  pay.  If  he  but  found  applause, 
he  cared  nothing  for  the  sufferings  of  his  coun- 
try ;  nay,  be  took  occasion  to  utter  his  venom- 
ous hate  against  the  free  and  mighty  movements 
of  the  times,  the  moment  he  was  disagreeably 
affected  and  disturbed  by  them.  The  prevail- 
ing feebleness  of  his  age,  the  aping  of  foreign 
manners,  which  had  become  the  fashion  even 
before  him,  as  well  as  the  sentimental  tone  of 
the  day,  made  it  easy  for  him  to  turn  bis  own 
weaknesses  to  good  account ;  and,  when  he  had 
at  length  gained  sufficient  fiime  and  applause 
by  his  really  extraordinary  talent,  he  gave  him- 
self up,  like  an  adored  stage-princess,  to  all  his 
pleasures  and  petty  caprices.  He  not  only 
ceased  to  put  the  leaA  disguise  upon  his  ego- 
tism, but  made  it  a  matter  of  pride,  and  imposed 
upon  his  slavish  readers  by  the  unabashed  dis- 
play of  his  thousand  vanities. 

'*  But  Goethe's  age  is  past,  never  to  return. 
A  wakeful  life  has  succeeded  to  the  place  of 
the  soft  slumbers  which  conjured  up  his  varie- 
gated dreams  before  him.  Goethe's  profound- 
est  doctrine,  which  he  laid  down  in  *  Wilhelm 
Meister's  Apprenticeship,'  was,  *  Seriousness 
surprises  us.'  Tes ;  it  must  surprise  those,  who, 
taken  up  with  sports  and  dreams,  have  paid  no 
heed  to  the  realities  about  them.  Against  this  se- 
riousness Goethe  turned  to  a  chrysalis,  and  wove 
the  insect  web  around  him,  and  buried  himself 
among  his  ten  thousand  bawbles ;  and  his  disci- 
ples have  encircled  him  with  a  laurel  grove  like 
a  wall.  But  he  is  now  dead ;  his  pleasore-garden 
is  as  desolate  as  Versailles,  and  the  spirit  of  the 
age,  passing  earnestly  by,  bestows  scarcely  a 
transient  look  upon  the  ostentatious  sepulchre." 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


JEAN  PAUL'S  VIEW  OF  GOETHE. 
"  On  the  second  day,  I  threw  away  my  fool- 
ish prejadices  in  favor  of  great  authors.  They 
are  like  other  people.  Here,  every  one  knows 
that  they  are  like  the  earth,  that  looks  from  a 
distance,  from  heaven,  like  a  shining  moon,  but, 
when  the  foot  is  upon  it,  it  is  found  to  be  made 
orboue  de  Paris  (Paris  mud).  An  opinion  con- 
cerning Herder,  Wieiand,  or  Goethe,  is  as  much 
contested  as  any  other.  Who  would  believe 
that  the  three  watch-towers  of  our  literature 
avoid  and  dislike  each  other?  I  will  never 
again  bend  myself  anxiously  before  any  great 
man,  only  before  the  virtuous.  Under  this  im- 
pression, I  went  timidly  to  meet  Goethe.  Ev- 
ery one  had  described  him  as  cold  to  every  thifig 
upon  the  earth.  Madame  von  Kalb  said,  *  He 
no  longer  admires  any  thing,  not  even  himself 
Every  word  is  ice.  •  Curiosities,  merely,  warm 
the  fibres  of  his  heart.'  Therefore  I  askej 
Knebel  to  petrify  or  incrust  me  by  some  min- 
eral spring,  that  I  might  present  myself  to  him 
like  a  statue  or  a  fossil.  Madame  von  Kalb  ad- 
vised  me,  above  all  things,  to  be  cold  and  self- 
possessed,  and  I  went  without  warmth,  merely 
from  curiosity.  His  house,  palace  rather,  pleased 
me ;  it  is  the  only  one  in  Weimar  in  the  Italian 
style,  —  with  such  steps!  a  Pantheon  full  of 
pictures  and  statues.  Fresh  anxiety  oppressed 
my  breast.  At  last  the  god  entered,  cold,  one- 
syllabled,  without  accent.  *The  French  are 
drawing  towards  Paris,*  said  Knebel.  « Hm  ! ' 
said  the  god.  His  face  is  massive  and  animated, 
his  eye  a  ball  of  light.  But,  at  last,  the  conver- 
sation led  from  the  campaign  to  art,  publica- 
tions,  &c.,  and  Goethe  was  himself  His  con- 
versation is  not  so  rich  and  flowing  as  Herder's, 
but  sharp-toned,  penetrating,  and  calm.  At 
last  he  read,  that  is,  played  for  us,  an  unpub. 
lished  poem,  in  which  his  heart  impelled  the 
flame  through  the  outer  crust  of  ice,  so  that  be 
pressed  the  hand  of  the  enthusiastic  Jean  Paul. 
(It  was  my  face,  not  my  voice ;  for  I  said  not  a 
word.)  He  did  it  again  when  we  took  leave, 
and  pressed  me  to  call  again.  By  Heaven  !  we 
will  love  each  other !  He  considers  his  poetic 
course  as  closed.  His  reading  is  like  deep- 
toned  thunder,  blended  with  sofl-whispering 
rain-drops.     There  is  nothing  like  it."  * 


MADAM  CATALAN!  AND  QOETHE. 

.  »*  Her  want  of  literary  attainments,  joined 
to  her  vivacity  in  conversation,  sometimes  pro- 
duced ludicrous  scenes.  When  at  the  court  of 
'  Weimar,  she  was  placed,  at  a  dinner-party,  by 
the  side  of  Goethe,  as  a  mark  of  respect  to  her 
on  the  part  of  her  royal  host.  The  lady  knew 
nothing  of  Goethe,  but,  being  struck  by  his 
majestic  appearance,  and  the  great  attention  of 
which  he  was  the  object,  she  inquired  of  the 


♦  Life  of  Jean  Paul  Frederic  RIchter  <2  rota.  Boston. 
1842).     Vol.L,pp,329,330. 


gentleman  on  the  other  side  what  was  his 
name.  <  The  celebrated  Goethe,  Madam,'  was 
the  answer.  *  Pray,  on  what  instrument  does 
he  play  ?•*  was  the  next  question.  *  He  is  no  per- 
former. Madam, — he  is  the  renowned  author  of 
»»  Werther."  * — *  O,  yes,  yes,  I  remember,'  said 
Catalani ;  and  turning  to  the  venerable  poet, 
she  addressed  him,  —  *■  Ah,  Sir,  what  an  admirer 
I  am  of  "  Werther ! "  ' 

"A  low  bow  was  the  acknowledgment  for 
so  flattering  a  compliment.  *  I  never,'  contin- 
ued the  lively  lady,  —  *  I  never  read  any  thing 
half  so  laughable  in  all  my  life.  What  a  cap- 
ital farce  it  is.  Sir  ! ' —  *  Madam,*  said  the  poet, 
looking  aghast,  —  "  The  Sorrows  of  Werther  "  a 
farce  ?  ' —  *  O,  yes  ;  never  was  any  thing  so  ex- 
quisitely ridiculous ! '  rejoined  Catalfini  heartily, 
as  she  enjoyed  the  remembrance.  And  it  turned 
out  that  she  had  been  talking  all  the  While  of  a 
ridiculous  parody  of  *  Werther,'  which  had  been 
performed  at  one  of  the  minor  theatres  of  Paris, 
and  in  which  the  sentimentality  of  Goethe's 
tale  had  been  unmercifully  ridiculed.  The  poet 
did  not  get  over  his  mortification  the  whole 
evening ;  and  the  fair  singer's  credit  at  the 
court  of  Weimar  was  sadly  impaired  by  this  dis- 
play of  her  ignorance  of  the  illustrious  Goethe 
and  «The  Sorrows  of  Werther.'  "* 

HEINE'S  VIEW  OF  OOETHE. 
"  In  some  future  articles  I  shall  speak  of  the 
new  poets  who  flourished  under  the  imperial 
reign  of  'Goethe.  They  resemble  a  young  for- 
est, whose  trees  first  show  their  own  magnitude, 
after  the  oak  of  a  hundred  years,  whose  branch- 
es had  towered  above  and  overshadowed  them, 
has  fallen.  There  was  not  wanting,  as  already 
stated,  an  opposition  that  strove  with  embit- 
tered zeal  against  Goethe,  this  majestic  tree. 
Men  of  the  most  warring  opinions  united  them- 
selves for  the  contest.  The  adherents  of  the 
old  faith,  the  orthodox,  were  vexed  that  in  the 
trunk  of  the  vast  tree  no  niche  with  its  holy 
image  was  to  be  found  ;  nay,  that  even  the 
naked  Dryads  of  paganism  were  permitted  there 
to  play  their  witchery  ;  and  gladly,  with  con- 
secrated axe,  would  they  have  imitated  the 
holy  Boniface,  and  levelled  the  enchanted  oak 
with  the  ground.  The  partisans  of  the  new 
faith,  the  apostles  of  liberalism,  were  vexed, 
on  t^e  other  hand,  that  this  tree  could  not 
serve  as  the  tree  of  liberty,  or,  at  any  rate,  aa 
a  barricade.  In  fact,  the  tree  was  too  high,  no 
one  could  plant  the  red  cap  upon  its  summit, 
or  dance  the  C&rmagnole  beneath  its  branches. 
The  many,  however,  venerated  this  tree,  for 
the  very  reason  that  it  reared  itself  with  such 
independent  grandeur,  and  so  graciously  filled 
the  world  with  its  odor,  while  its  branches, 
streaming  magnificently  toward  heaven,  made 
it  appear  as  if  stars  were  only  the  golden  fruit 
of  its  wondrous  limbs. 


*  Hogarth.    Memoirs  of  the  Musical  Drama. 


GOETHE. 


287 


**In  truth,  that  accordance  of  personal  ap- 
pearance with  genius,  which  we  ever  desire  to 
see  in  distinguished  men,  was  found  in  perfec- 
tion  in  Gk>ethe.  His  outward  appearance  was 
just  as  imposing  as  the  word  that  lives  in  bis 
writings.  Even  his  form  was  symmetrical,  ex- 
pressive of  joy,  nobly  proportioned,  and  one 
might  study  the  Grecian  art  upon  it  as  well  as 
upon  an' antique. 

**'  His  eyes  were  calm  as  those  of  a  god.  It 
is  the'  peculiar  characteristic  of  the  gods,  that 
their  gaze  is  ever  steady,  and  their  eyes  roll 
not  to  and  fro  in  uncertainty.  Therefore,  when 
Agni,  Yaruna,  Tama,  and  Indra  assume  the 
form  of  Nala,  at  the  marriage  of  Damayantis, 
she  discovers  her  beloved  by  the  twinkle  of  his 
eye ',  for,  as  I  have  said,  the  eyes  of  the  gods 
are  ever  motionless.  The  eyes  of  Napoleon 
had  this  peculiarity;  therefore  I  am  persuaded 
that  he  was  a  god.  The  eye  of  Goethe  re- 
mained, in  his  latest  age,  just  as  divine  as  in 
his  youth.  Time,  indeed,  bad  covered  his  head 
with  snow,  but  could  never  bow  it.  To  tlie 
last  be  bore  it  proud  and  lofly ;  and  when  he 
spoke  he  became  still  more  majestic,  and  when 
he  stretched  forth  his  hand  it  was  as  if  his  fin- 
ger were  to  prescribe  to  the  stars  their  courses 
in  the  heavens.  Around  his  mouth  some  pro- 
fess to  have  seen  a  trait  of  egotism,  but  even 
this  is  peculiar  to  the  immortal  gods,  and  espe- 
cially to  the  Father  of  the  gods,  the  mighty  Ju- 
piter, to  whom  Goethe  has  already  been  com- 
pared. Verily,  when  I  visited  him  in  Weimar, 
and  stood  in  his  presence,  I  involuntarily  turned 
my  eyes  one  side,  to  see  if  the  eagle,  with  the 
thunderbolts  in  his  beak,  were  not  attendant 
upon  him.  I  was  just  on  the  point  of  address- 
ing him  in  Greek ;  but,  when  I  perceived  that 
he  spoke  German,  I  told  him,  in  that  language, 
*  That  the  plums,  upon  the  road  between  Jena 
and  Weimar,  had  an  excellent  relish.'  Many 
a  long  winter  night  had  I  thought  with  myself, 
how  much  that  was  lofty  and  profound  I  should 
say  to  Goethe,  if  ever  I  should  see  him ;  and, 
when  at  last  I  saw  him,  I  told  him  that  the 
Saxon  plums  were  excellent!  —  And  Goethe 
smiled.  He  smiled  with  those  very  lips  with 
which  he  once  had  kissed  the  beauteous  Leda, 
Europa,  Danae,  6emele,  and  so  many  other 
princesses  or  common  nymphs."* 

NIEBUHR'S  VIEW  OF  GOETHE. 

^  Odr  fathers,  before  we,  now  advanced  in 
years,  were  bom,  recognized  in  *G6tz,*  and 
the  other  poems  of  a  young  man  who  was  of 
the  same  age  as  Valerius  in  his  first  consulship 
(twenty-three),  the  poet  who  would  rise  far 
above  all  our  nation  possessed,  and  who  could 
never    be    excelled.      This    acknowledgment 


*  Hanta.  Letters  Auxiliary  to  the  History  of  Modem 
Polite  Literature  in  Oermany.  Translated  by  G.  W.  Havsn 
(Boston,  1S36).  pp.  56-68,  31,  82. 


Goethe  has  been  enjoying  for  more  than  half  a 
century ;  the  third  generation  of  mature  men 
already  look  up  to  him  as  the  first  man  of  the 
nation,  without  a  second  and  a  rival,  and  the 
children  hear  his  name  as  the  Greeks  did  that 
of  Homer.  He  has  lived  to  see  our  literature, 
especially  on  his  account,  recognized  and  hon- 
ored in  foreign  countries:  but  he  has  outlived 
its  time  of  poetry  and  youth,  and  has  been  left 
solitary.'*  * 

CARLYLE'S  VIEW  OF  GOETHE. 
«*BoT,  as  was  once  written,  *  Though  our 
clock  strikes  when  there  is  a  change  from  hour 
to  hour,  no  hammer  in  the  horologe  of  Time 
peals  through  the  universe  to  proclaim  that 
there  is  a  change  from  era  to  era.'  The  true 
beginning  is  oftenest  unnoticed,  and  unnotice- 
able.  Thus^  do  men  go  wrong  in  their  reckon, 
ing ;  and  grope  hither  and  thither,  not  knowing 
where  they  are,  in  what  course  their  history 
runs.  Within  this  last  century,  for  instance, 
with  its  wild  doings  and  destroyings,  what  hope, 
grounded  in  miscalculation,  ending  in  disap- 
pointment !  How  many  world-famous  victories 
were  gained  and  lost,  dynasties  founded  and 
subverted,  revolutions  accomplished,  constitu- 
tions sworn  to ;  and  ever  the  *  new  era  *  was 
come,  was  coming,  yet  still  it  came  not,  but  the 
time  continued  sick  !  Alas !  all  those  were  but 
spasmodic  convulsions  of  the  death-sick  time ; 
the  crisis  of  cure  and  regeneration  to  the  time 
was  not  there  indicated.  The  real  new  era  was 
when  a  Wise  Man  came  into  the  world,  with 
clearness  of  vision  and  grestness  of  soul  to  ac- 
complish this  old  high  enterprise,  amid  these 
new  difficulties,  yet  again  :  a  Life  of  Wisdom. 
Such  a  man  became,  by  Heaven's  preappoint- 
ment,  in  very  deed,  the  Redeemer  of  the  time. 
Did  he  not  bear  the  curse  of  the  time  f  He  was 
filled  full  with  its  skepticism,  bitterness,  hollow- 
ness,  and  thousand-fold  contradictions,  till  his 
heart  was  like  to  break ;  but  he  subdued  all 
this,  rose  victorious  over  this,  and  manifoldly 
by  word  and  act  showed  others  that  come  after 
how  to  do  the  like.  Honor  to  him  who  first, 
( through  the  impassable,  paves  a  road ! '  Such, 
indeed,  is  the  task  of  every  great  man ;  nay,  of 
every  good  man  in  one  or  the' other  sphere, — 
since  goodness  is  greatness,  and  the  good  man, 
high  or  humble,  is  ever  a  martyr,  and  a  *  spirit- 
ual hero  that  ventures  forward  into  the  gulf  for 
our  deliverance.'  The  gulf  into  which  this 
man  ventured,  which  he  tamed  and  rendered 
habitable,  was  the  greatest  and  most  perilous  of 
all,  wherein,  truly,  all  others  lie  included :  Tks 
whole  distraettd  existence  of  man  in  an  age  of 
vnbelirf.  Whoso  lives,  whoso  with  earnest 
mind  studies  to  live  wisely  in  that  mad  ele- 
ment, may  yet  know,  perhaps  too  well,  what 
an  enterprise  was  here ;  and  for  the  chosen  of 
our  time,  who  could  prevail  in  that  same,  have 

*  NiSBURK.    History  of  Rome  (3  vols.  London,  1842). 
VoL  III.,  pp.  125,  126,  note. 


288 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


the  higher  reverence,  and  a  gratitude  such  as 
belongs  to  no  other. 

**  How  far  he  prevailed  in  it,  and  by  what 
means,  with  what  endurances  and  achieve- 
ments,  will  in  due  season  be  estimated  ]  those 
volumes  called  *  Goethe's  Works'  will  receive 
no  further  addition  or  alteration ;  and  the  record 
of  his  whole  spiritual  endeavour  lies  written 
there,  —  were  the  man  or  men  but  ready  who 
could  read  it  rightly  !  A  glorious  record ;  where- 
in he  that  would'  understand  himself  and  his 
environment,  and  struggles  for  escape  out  of 
darkness  into  light,  as  for  the  one  thing  needful, 
will  long  thankfully  study.  For  the  whole 
chaotic  time,  what  it  has  suffered,  attained,  and 
striven  afler,  stands  imaged  there ;  interpreted, 
ennobled,  into  poetic  clearness.  From  the  pas- 
sionate longings  and  wailings  of  *  Werther,* 
spoken  as  from  the  heart  of  all  Europe ;  onwards 
through  the  wild,  unearthly  melody  of  *  Faust ' 
(like  th^  spirit-song  ^  falling  worlds) ;  to  that 
serenely  smiling  wisdom  of  *  Meisters  Lehijah- 
re,'  and  the  *  German  Hafiz,' — what  an  interval ! 
and  all  enfolded  in  an  ethereal  music,  as  from 
unknown  spheres,  harmoniously  uniting  all ! 
A  long  interval ;  and  wide  as  well  as  long ;  for 
this  was  a  universal  man.  History,  science,  art, 
human  activity  under  every  aspect;  the  laws 
of  light  in  his  '  Farbenlehre ' ;  the  laws  of  wild 
Italian  life  in  his  *Benvenuto  Cellini ' ;  —  noth- 
ing escaped  him,  nothing  that  he  did  not  look, 
into,  that  he  did  not  see  into.  Consider,  too, 
the  genuineness  of  whatsoever  he  did;  his 
l^earty,  idiomatic  way;'  simplicity  with  lofli. 
ness,  and  nobleness,  and  aerial  grace ;  —  pure 
works  of  art,  completed  with  an  antique  Gre- 
cian polish,  as  *  Torquato  Tasso,'  as  *  Iphige- 
nie  ' ;  proverbs,  *  Xenien,' —  patriarchal  sayings, 
which,  since  the  Hebrew  Scriptures  were  closed, 
we  know  not  where  to  match  ;  in  whose  home- 
ly depths  lie  often  the  maienay  for  voluniei/'  * 

BL^Hid^slhe  numerous  edition«  of  Uh  separate 
works,  the  (bllQwing  collective  edUions  may  be 
fnetitioned  I  — that  published  nt  Slmtgart  and 
Tubingen,  1827-35,  in  fifty-sii  vftluniK* ;  the 
coniplele  Eind  newly  nrranged  edition  of  hia 
works  in  forty  volumei,  lbt40  ;  and  the  benuti* 
fill  edition  in  two  large  volumes,  lJr!:56-38. 
His  life  was  written  by  H.  Donng,  W^&lmar, 
1698.  The  "Correspondence  between  Go«the 
and  Zelter,"  six  volumes,  appeared  at  Berlin, 
lJ^33-34;  "Goethe's  Correspondenre  with  a 
Child,"  thr^Q  volumes,  Berlin,  1832;  second 
edrtion,  1837;  his  "  Leitera  to  the  Countess 
Aiiguste  zu  Stolberg,*'  Leipzig,  18 39;  bis  "  Cor- 
respondence with  Schiller,"  in  di  parts,  Stutt- 
gart, 1628^29. 

Goethe's  genius  hns  been  Amply  illustrated 
by  many  English  writers,  particularly  by  Mrs. 
AiiEftin,  CnrlyJe,  and  Taylor.  His  »  Fausi "  ha^ 
been  translated  eight  or  nine  times  ;  his  "  Wil- 

*  Cabltlb     Dri Ileal  and  Miflri?UanMtii  E««y»  (4  Tola. 

Eoauia,  isssfl.  VoL  m,,  pp.  aoo-acft 


helmMeister"  has  been  excellently  rendered  by 
Carlyle.  Among  bis  scientific  works,  his  **  Far- 
benlehre," or  Theory  of  Colors,  has  excited  re- 
cently much  attention  in  the  valuable  transla- 
tion of  Mr.  Eastlake. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  FAUST. 
DEDICATION. 

Agaih  ye  come,  again  ye  throng  around  me,. 

Dim,  shadowy  beings  of  my  boyhood's  dream  ! 
Still  shall  I  bless,  as  then,  your  spell  that  bound 
me?  • 

Still  bend  to  mists  aiid  vapor8,*a8  ye  seem  ? 
Nearer  ye  come !  —  I  yield  me,  as  ye  found  me 

In  youth,-your  worshipper ;  and  as  the  stream 
Of  air  that  folds  you  in  its  magic  wreaths 
Flows    by   my   lips,    youth's   joy   my   bosom 
'  breathes. 

Lost  forms  and  loved  oneib  ye  are  with  you 
bringing. 
And  dearest  images  of  happier  days  ; 
First-love  and  friendship  in  your  path  upspring- 

Like  old  Tradition's  half-remembered  lays ; 

And  long-slept  sorrows  waked,  whose  dirge-like 

singing 

Recalls  my  life's  strange  labyrinthine  maze. 

And  names  the  heart-mourned,  many  a  stern 

doom. 
Ere  their  year's  summer,  summoned  to  the  tomb. 

They  hear  not  these  my  last  songs,  they  whose 
greeting 
Gladdened  my  first,. —  my  spring-time  friends 
have  gone ; 
And  gone,  fast  journeying  from  that  place  of 
meeting. 
The  echoes  of  their  welcome,  one  by  one. 
Though  stranger-crowds,  my  Ij  si  toners  since,  are 
beating 
Time  to  my  music,  their  applauding  lone 
More  grieves  timn  glads  me,  while  lite  tried  and 

tnie, 
If  yet  on  easUi,  are  wandering  far  and  few. 

A  longing  long  unfelt,  a  deep- drawn  sighing 
For  tlie  far  Spirit-Worid^o'erpowersme  now; 

My  gong's  faint  voice  sinks  fainter,  like  the  dying 
Tones  of  the  wind- harp  swinging  from   the 
bough ; 

And  my  cimnged  heart  Ihrobs  warm,  —  no  more 
denying 
Tears  to  my  eyes,  or  sadness  to  my  brow; 

The  Near  afar  off  seemsj  the  Distant  nigh. 

The  Now  a  dream ,  the  Past  r^lity. 

THE    DATHEDHAI^^ 

[Margnret  vndneirt  a  numTser  nf  ppople.    Evil  Spirit  be- 
hind Mar^mtj 

BviL  apinrr. 
How  difTerenl  was  it  with   ihee,  Margaret, 
When,  still  full  of  hmocence, 


GOETHE. 


28d 


f  hon  coiDest  to  the  altar  h^re,  — 

Out  of  the  well  worn  litUe  book 

Lisped 8t  prayers, 

HoJf  chiM-spott, 

Half  God  in  the  hevt ! 

Where  iflthj  head? 

Id  thy  heart 

What  crime  ? 

P  raj  est  thou  for  thy  mother^p  ioul,  —  who 

Slept  over  into  1  on g, long  pain  throngh  thee? 

Whcwe  hiood  on  thy  threshold?  — 

And  under  thy  heart 

Sure  it  not  quickening  even  now^ 

Torturing  itaelf  and  thee 

With  its  foreboding  pnaa^nce  ? 


Wo* !  woe  ! 

Wouid  that  I  were  free  from  the  thoughts 
That  come  over  me  and  across  me. 
Despite  of  me  1 

CBXifRTSt. 

Dits  ita,  difj  illa^ 
Solifet  sadum  imJavUl^, 


>nti  ipiuf. 
Horror  seizes  th^e  \ 
The  trump  sounds  ! 
The  graves  tremble  ! 
And  ihj  heart 

From  the  repose  of  its  asbes^ 
For  fiery  torment 
Brought  to  life  again. 
Trembles  up ! 


[OrfKD  plmys. 


Would  that  I  were  hence  ! 
I  f^^\  as  if  the  organ 
Stifled  my  breath,  — 
A  9  if  the  anthem 
DisBofTed  my  heart's  core  ! 

CHORirS, 

Judex  ergo  citwl  sedehU^ 
i^uidquid  latet  adparehitj 
Ai7  iJiultum  TemaTifhU. 


I  feel  so  thronged  1 
The  wall-pillars 
Close  on  me  ! 
The  TSutted  roof 
Presses  on  me  l^Air  ! 


Hide  thyself!     Sin  and  shame 

Remdn,  unhidden. 
Air?     Light? 
Woe  to  thee ! 


QHui  ^m  miser  tunc  dictunUj 
Quern  patronum  rogaiuruSj 
Cum  viz  Justus  sit  sixurus  f 


■TIL   IPfBlT. 


The  glorified  from  thee 


Avert  their  facegt. 

The  pure  shudder 

To  reach  thee  their  hands. 

Woe  I 


^id  ntflt  miHT  tunc  ^durusf 

Neighbour  I  your  smelling-bottle  ! 

[Sbfl  itrwos  aifs;. 


MAY-DAY    KIGBT. 
lBeate.—Jbo  Hart*  Monnuliij  n.  dMolale  Otmntry-J 

trSFinSTQPHXLSB. 

Wo[;Lt}  you  not  like  a  broomstick  ?   As  &r  me^ 

I  wish  I  had  a  good  stout  ram  to  ride ; 

For  we  are  still  far  from  the  appointed  place. 


This  knotted  stafi*  is  help  enough  for  me, 
Whilst  I  feel  freith  upon  my  legu.     What  good 
Is  there  in  making  short  a  pleasant  way  ? 
To  creep  along  the  labyrinths  of  the  rales, 
And  climb    thoie  rocks,  where  ever-babbling 

epringi 
Frecipitate  themselves  in  waterfjdls. 
Is  the  true  sport  that  seasons  such  a  path.' 
Already  Spring  kindles  tlie  birchen  spray. 
And  the  hoar  pines  slready  feel  her  breath : 
Shall  she  not  work  also  within  our  limbs  ? 


Nothing  of  such  an  influence  do  I  feel : 

Mj  body  is  all  wintry^  and  I  wish 

Tbe  flowers  upon  our  path  were  frost  and  snow. 

But  see,  how  melancholy  rises  now, 

Dimly  uplifling  her  belated  beam, 

The  blank  unwelcome  round  of  the  red  moon, 

And  gives  so  bad  a  light,  that,  every  step. 

One  stumbles  'gainst  some  crag  !     With  your 

permiHaioo, 
I'll  call  an  Ignis-fatuus  to  our  aid : 
I  see  one  yonder  burning  jollily. 
Halloo,  my  friend  l  may  I  request  that  you 
Would  fftvor  US  with  your  bright  company  ? 
Why  should  you  blaze  away  there  to  no  purpose  ? 
Pray,  be  so  good  as  hgbt  us  up  this  way, 

19KJS-FATSVB, 

With  reverence  be  it  spoken,  I  will  try 
To  overcome  the  Ijghtneas  of  my  nature  : 
Our  course,  you  know,  is  generally  zigzag. 

VBPHISTOVRELSB. 

Ha  !  hal  your  worship  thinks  you  have  to  deal 
With  men.  Go  straight  on,  in  the  Devil's  name, 
Or  I  shall  puff  your  flickering  life  out. 


Well, 

I  see  you  are  the  master  of  the  house ; 
1  will  accommodate  myself  to  you. 
Only  consider,  thai  to-njght  this  mountain 
Is  all  enchanted^  and  if  Jack -a- Lantern 
T 


290 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


Shows  you  his  way,  though  you  should  miss 

your  own, 
Tou  ought  not  to  be  too  exact  with  him. 

FAUST,  MXPHisTOpBXLU,  and  I0MI8-FATDVS  (In  sltemata 
chorus). 
The  limits  of  the  sphere  of  dream. 

The  bounds  of  true  and  false,  are  past. 
Lead  us  on,  thou  wandering  Gleam, 
Lead  us  onward,  far  and  fast. 
To  the  wide,  the  desert  waste. 

But  see,  how  swift  advance  and  shift 

Trees  behind  trees,  row  by  row,  — 
How,  clift  by  clifl,  rocks  bend  and  lift 

Their  frowning  foreheads  as  we  go ! 

The  giant-snouted  crags,  ho !  ho  ! 

How  they  snort,  and  how  they  blow  I 

Through  the  mossy  sods  and  stones 
Stream  and  streamlet  hurry  down, 
A  rushing  throng  !     A  sound  of  song 

Beneath  the  vault  of  heaven  is  blown  : 
Sweet  notes  of  love,  the  speaking  tones 
Of  this  bright  day,  sent  down  to  say 
That  paradise  on  earth  is  known, 
Resound  around,  beneath,  above. 
All  we  hope  and  all  we  love 

Finds  a  voice  in  this  blithe  strain. 
Which  wakens  hill  and  wood  and  rill, 
And  vibrates  far  o'er  field  and  vale, 
And  which  Echo,  like  the  tale 
Of  old  times,  repeats  again. 

Tu-whoo  !  tu-whoo !  near,  nearer  now 
The  sound  of  song,  the  rushing  throng  i 

Are  the  screech,  the  lapwing,  and  the  jay. 

All  awake,  as  if  't  were  day  ? 

See,  with  long  legs  and  belly  wide, 
A  salamander  in  tbe  brake  ! 
Every  root  is  like  a  snake. 

And  along  the  loose  hill-side. 
With  strange  contortions,  through  the  night, 
Curls,  to  seize  or  to  affright ; 
And,  animated,  strong,  and  many. 
They  dart  forth  polypus-antennoB, 
To  blister  with  their  poison  spume 
The  wanderer.    Through  the  dazzling  gloom 
The  many-colored  mice,  that  thread 
Tbe  dewy  turf  beneath  our  tread. 
In  troops  each  other's  motions  cross. 
Through  the  heath  and  through  the  moes ; 
And,  in  legions  intertangled. 

The  fire-flies  flit,  and  swarm,  and  throng, 
Till  all  the  mountain  depths  are  spangled. 

Tell  me,  shall  we  go  or  stay  ? 
Shall  we  onward  ?     Come  along ! 

Every  thing  around  is  swept 
Forward,  onward,  far  away  ! 

Trees  and  masses  intercept 
The  sight,  and  wisps  on  every  side 
Are  puffed  up  and  multiplied. 

Now  vigorously  seize  my  skirt,  and  gain 


This  pinnacle  of  isolated  crag. 

One  may  observe  with  wonder,  from'  this  point. 

How  Mammon  glows  among  the  mountains. 

FAUST. 

Ay,- 

And  strangely,  through  the  solid  depth  below, 
A  melancholy  light,  like  the  red  dawn. 
Shoots  from  the  lowest  gorge  of  the  abyss 
Of  mountains,  lightening  hitherward :  there,  rise 
Pillars  of  smoke;  here,  clouds  float  gently  by; 
Here  the  light  bums  soft  as  the  enkindled  air. 
Or  the  illumined  dust  of  golden  flowers ; 
And  now  it  glides  like  tender  colors  spreading; 
And  now  bursts  forth  in  fountains  from  tbe  earth ; 
And  now  it  winds,  one  torrent  of  broad  light. 
Through  the  far  valley,  with  a  hundred  veins; 
And  now  once  more,  within  that  narrow  comer, 
Masses  itself  into  intensest  splendor. 
And  near  us,  see,  sparks  spring  ont  of  the  ground. 
Like  golden  sand  scattered  upon  the  darkness; 
The  pinnacles  of  that  black  wall  c^  mountains. 
That  hems  us  in,  are  kindled. 


Rare,  in  faith ! 

Does  not  Sir  Mammon  gloriously  illuminate 

His  palace  for  this  festival  ?     It  is 

A  pleasure  which  you  had  not  known  before. 

I  spy  the  boisterous  guests  already. 

FAUST. 

How 

The  children  of  the  wind  rage  in  the  air  ! 

With  what  fierce  strokes  they  ftill  upon  my  neck ! 


Cling  tightly  to  the  old  ribs  of  the  crag. 
Beware  !  for  if  with  them  thou  warrest. 

In  their  fierce  flight  towards  the  wilder- 
ness. 
Their  breath  will  sweep  thee  into  dust,  and 
drag 
Thy  body  to  a  grave  in  the  abyss. 
A  cloud  thickens  the  night. 
Hark !  how  the  tempest  crashes  through  tbe 
forest ! 
The  owls  fly  out  in  strange  affright ; 
The  columns  of  the  evergreen  palaces 
Are  split  and  shattered  ; 
The  roots  creak,  and  stretch,  and  groan ; 
And,  ruinously  overthrown. 

The  trunks  are  crushed  and  shattered 
By  the  fierce  blast's  unconquerable  stress ; 
Over  each  other  crack  and  crash  they  all, 
In  terrible  and  intertangled  fall : 
And  through  the  ruins  of  the  shaken  mountain 

The  airs  hiss  and  howl,  — 
It  is  not  the  voice  of  the  fountain. 

Nor  the  wolf  in  his  midnight  prowl. 

Dost  thou  not  hear  ? 
Strange  accents  are  ringing 

Aloft,  afar,  anear ; 
The  witches  are  singing ! 
The  torrent  of  a  raging  wizard-song 
Streams  the  whole  mountain  along. 


QOETHE. 


391 


The  Btabbl«  ia  yellow,  the  corn  k  green^ 

Now  to  the  brocken  the  witches  go ; 
The  mighty  multitude  here  may  be  seen 

Crathering,  wizard  and  witch,  below. 
Sir  Urean  ia  aitting  aloft  in  the  air ; 

Hey  oyer  atock  !  and  hey  oyer  atone  ! 

'Twizt  witches  and  incabi,  what  shall  be 
done? 
Tell  it  who  dare  !  tell  it  who  dare  ! 


Upon  a  aow-swine,  whose  larrows  were  Dine, 
Old  Baubo  rideth  alone. 


Honor  her  to  whom  honor  is  due  : 
Old  Mother  Baubo,  honor  to  you  ! 
An  able  sow,  with  old  Baubo  upon  her. 
Is  worthy  of  glory,  and  worthy  of  honor ! 
The  legion  of  witches  is  coming  behind, 
Darkening  the  night,  and  outspeediog  the 
wind. 

A  voica. 
Which  way  comest  thou  ? 

A  Toica. 

Oyer  Ilsenstein. 
The  owl  was  awake  in  the  white  moonshine : 
I  saw  her  at  rest  in  her  downy  nest. 
And  she  stared  at  me  with  her  broad,  bright  eye. 

Toicas. 
And  you  may  now  as  well  take  your  course  on 

to  hell. 
Since  you  ride  by  so  fast  on  the  headlong  blast. 

A  Toica. 
She  dropped  poison  upon  me  as  I  passed. 
Here  are  the  wounds 


Come  away  !  come  along ! 
The  way  is  wide,  the  way  is  long,  — 
But  what  is  that  for  a  Bedlam  throng  ? 
Stick  with  the  prong,  and  scratch  with  the 

broom; 
The  child  in  the  cradle  lies  strangled  at  home. 
And  the  mother  is  clapping  her  hands. 


We  glide  in 
Like  snails,  when  the  women  are  all  away ; 
And  irom  a  house  once  given  oyer  to  sin 
Woman  has  a  thousand  steps  to  stray. 

SHXI-CBOaVS  u. 

A  thousand  steps  must  a  woman  take, 
Where  a  man  but  a  single  spring  will  make. 


Come  with  us,  come  with  as,  from  Felunsee. 


With  what  joy  would  we  fly  through  the  upper 
sky! 


We  are  washed,  we  are  'nointed,  stark  naked 
are  we; 
But  our  toil  and  our  pain  are  Ibr  oyer  in  yain. 

Bom  oBOBimas. 
The  wind  is  still,  the  stars  are  fled, 
The  melancholy  moon  is  dead ; 
The  magic  notes,  like  spark  on  spark, 
Drizzle,  whistling  through  the  dark. 
Come  away ! 

yOIOSS    BSLOW. 

Stay,  O,  sUy ! 

VOIOBS   ABOVa. 

Out  of  the  crannies  of  the  rocks 
Who  calls  ? 

yOICBS  BBbOW. 

O,  let  me  join  your  flocka ! 
I  three  hundred  yeara  have  striven 
To  catch  your  skirt  and  mount  to  heaven, — 
And  still  in  vain.     O,  might  I  be 
With  company  akin  to  me  ! 


Some  on  a  ram  and  some  on  a  prong, 
On  poles  and  on  broomsticks,  we  flutter  along; 
Forlorn  is  the  wight  who  can  rise  not  to-night. 

A  RALr-WXTCH  BBLOW. 

I  have  been  tripping  this  many  an  hour  : 
Are  the  others  already  so  far  before  ? 
No  quiet  at  home,  and  no  peace  abroad  ! 
And  less,  methinks,  is  found  by  the  road. 

onoavs  of  witchbs. 
Come  onward  away !  aroint  thee,  aroint ! 
A  witch,  to  be  strong,  must  anoint, — anoint, — 
Then  every  trough  will  be  boat  enough  ; 

With  a  rag  for  a  sail  we  can  sweep  through 

the  sky ;  — 
Who  flies  not  to-night,  when  means  he  to  fly  ? 

BOTH  OHOaVBBS. 

We  cling  to  the  skirt,  and  we  strike  on  the 

ground : 
Witch-legions  thicken  around  and  around ; 
Wizard-swarms  cover  the  heath  all  ever. 

rrhayi 


What  thronging,  dashing,  raging,  ruatling ! 

What  whispering,  babbling,  hissing,  bustling ! 

What  glimmering,  spurting,  stinking,  burning ! 

As  heaven  and  earth  were  overturning  ! 
There  is  a  true  witch  element  about  us. 
Take  hold  on  me,  or  we  shall  be  divided :  — - 
Where  are  you  ? 


Here! 


VAOST  (ftom  a  dkCanee). 


What! 

I  must  exert  my  authority  in  the  house. 

Place  fl>r  young  Voland.  —  Pray,  make  way, 

good  people  ! 
Take  hold  on  me.  Doctor,  and  with  one  step 


GERMAN    POETRY. 


Let  us  escape  from  this  unpleasant  crowd  : 
Thej  are  too  mad  for  people  of  my  sort. 
Just  there  shines  a  peculiar  kind  of  light,  — 
Something  attracts  me  in  those  bushes.    Come 
Thu  waj :  we  shall  slip  down  there  in  a  minute. 

FAUST. 

Spirit  of  contradiction  !     Well,  lead  on, — 
*T  were  a  wise  feat  indeed  to  wander  out 
Into  the  brocken,  upon  May-daj  night. 
And  then  to  isolate  one's  self  in  scorn, 
Disgusted  with  the  humors  of  the  time. 


See  yonder,  round  a  many-colored  flame 
A  merry  club  is  huddled  all  together : 
Even  with  such  little  people  as  sit  there, 
One  would  not  be  alone. 


Would  that  I  were 

Up  yonder  in  the  glow  and  whirling  smoke. 
Where  the  blind  million  rush  impetuously 
To  meet  the  evil  ones  !  there  might  I  soIto 
Many  a  riddle  that  torments  me. 


Yet 

Many  a  riddle  there  is  tied  anew 
Inextricably.     Let  the  great  world  rage  ! 
We  will  stay  here  safe  in  the  quiet  dwellings. 
'T  is  an  old  custom.     Men  have  ever  built 
Their  own  small  world  in  the  great  world  of  all. 
I  see  young  witches  naked  there,  and  old  ones 
Wisely  attired  with  greater  decency. 
Be  guided  now  by  me,  and  you  shall  buy 
A  pound  of  pleasure  with  a  dram  of  trouble. 
I  hear  them  tune  their  instruments,  —  one  must 
Get  used  to  this  damned  scraping.     Come,  I  '11 

lead  you 
Among  them ;  and  what  there  you  do  and  see 
As  a  fresh  compact  'twizt  us  two  shall  be.  — 
How  say  you  now  ?  This  space  is  wide  enough : 
Look  forth,  you  cannot  see  the  end  of  it. 
A  hundred  bonfires  burn  in  rows,  and  they 
Who  throng  around  them  seem  innumerable ; 
Dancing  and  drinking,  jabbering,  making  love. 
And  cooking,  are  at  work.  Now  tell  me,  friend. 
What  is  there  better  in  the  world  than  this  ? 

FAVST. 

In  introducing  us,  do  you  assume 
The  character  of  wizard  or  of  devil  ? 

mrai8T0FHBE.BS. 

In  truth,  I  generally  go  about 

In  strict  incognito ;  and  yet  one  likes 

To  wear  one's  orders  upon  gala-days. 

I  have  no  ribbon  at  my  knee ;  but  here. 

At  home,  the  cloven  foot  u  honorable. 

See  you  that  snail  there? — she  comes  creeping 

up, 
And  with  her  feeling  eyes  hath  smelt  out  some- 
thing: 
I  could  not,  if  I  would,  mask  myself  here. 
Come  now,  we  'II  go  about  from  fire  to  fire : 


I  'U  be  the  pimp,  and  you  shall  be  the  lover.  — 
[Tb  loaM  old  womao,  who  sra  siitinff  round  a  hasp 
of  gUmmaring  coals. 
Old  Gentlewomen,  what  do  yon  do  out  here  ? 
You  ought  to  be  with  the  young  rioters. 
Right  in  the  thickest  of  the  revelry  ;  — 
But  every  one  is  best  content  at  home. 


Who  dare  confide  in  right  or  a  just  claim  ? 

So  much  as  I  had  done  for  them !  and  now — 
With  women  and  the  people  't  is  the  same. 

Youth  will  stand  foremost  ever— age  may  go 
To  the  dark  grave  unhonored. 


Now-ardajrs, 
People  assert  their  rights ;  they  go  too  ftr  : 
But  as  for  me,  the  good  old  times  I  praise  : 
Then  we  were  all  in  all ;  't  was  something 
worth 
One's  while  to  be  in  place  and  wear  a  star ; 
That  was  indeed  the  golden  age  on  earth. 

FASVailV. 

We,  too,  are  active,  and  we  did  and  do 
What  we  ought  not,  perhaps;  and  yet  we  now 
Will  seize,  whilst  all  things  are  whirled  round 

and  round, 
A  spoke  of  Fortune's  wheel,  and  keep  our 

ground. 


Who  now  can  taste  a  treatise  of  deep  sense 
And  ponderous  volume  ?  'T  is  impertinence 
To  write  what  none  will  read ;  therefore  will  I 
To  please  the  young  and  thoughtless  people 
try. 

MapxiSTOFHiLis  (who  at  onca  appears  to  hava  grown 

raryold). 
I  find  the  people  ripe  fi>r  the  last  day. 
Since  I  last  came  up  to  the  wizard  mountain ; 
And  as  my  little  cask  runs  turbid  now. 
So  is  the  world  drained  to  the  dregs. 


Look  here. 

Gentlemen  !  do  not  hurry  on  so  ftst. 

And  lose  the  chance  of  a  good  pennyworth. 

I  have  a  pack  full  of  the  choicest  wares 

Of  every  sort,  and  yet  in  all  my  bundle 

Is  nothing  like  what  may  be  found  on  earth ; 

Nothing  that  in  a  moment  will  make  rich 

Men  and  the  world  with  fine,  malicious 

chief: 

There  is  no  dagger  drunk  with  blood ;  no  bowl 
From  which  consuming  poison  may  be  drained 
By  innocent  and  healthy  lips ;  no  jewel, 
The  price  of  an  abandoned  maiden'a  shame ; 
No  sword  which  cuts  the  bond  it  cannot  loose. 
Or  stabs  the  wearer's  enemy  in  the  back ; 
No 


Gossip,  you  know  little  of  these  times. 

What  has  been  has  been  ;  what  is  done  is  past 

They  shape  themselves  into  the  innovations 


GOETHE. 


993 


They  breed,  and  innoTation  drags  us  with  it. 
The  torrent  of  the  crowd  sweeps  oyer  us : 
Tou  think  to  impel,  and  are  yourself  impelled. 

FAUSi: 

Who  is  that  yonder  ? 


Mark  her  well.     It  is 
Lilith. 

FAUST. 

Who? 


Lilith,  the  first  wife  of  Adam. 

Beware  of  her  fair  hair,  for  she  excels 

All  women  in  the  magic  of  her  locks; 

And  when  she  winds  them  round  a  young  man's 

neck. 
She  will  not  ever  set  him  free  again. 

FAUST. 

There  sit  a  girl  and  an  old  woman, — they 
8eem  to  be  tired  with  pleasure  and  with  play. 

There  is  no  rest  to-night  for  any  one  : 
When  one  dance  ends,  another  is  begun. 
Come,  let  us  to  it  v  we  shall  haye  rare  fiin. 
[Fanst  dancei  and  sings  with  a  giri,  and  Mephiatopha- 
las  with  an  old 


aaoGTO-PBAirrAsifisT. 
What  is  this  cursed  multitude  about  ? 
Have  we  not  long  since  proved,  to  demonstration. 
That  ghosts  move  not  on  ordinary  foet  ? 
But  these  are  dancing  just  like  men  and  women. 

TBB  oiaL. 
What  does  he  want,  then,  at  our  ball  ? 

FAUST. 

O,  he 

Is  far  above  us  all  in  his  conceit ! 

Whibt  we  enjoy,  he  reasons  of  enjoyment ; 

And  any  step  which  in  our  dance  we  tread^ 

If  it  be  left  out  of  his  reckoning, 

Is  not  to  be  considered  as  a  step. 

There  are  fow  things  that  scandalize  him  not : 

And  when  you  whirl  round  in  the  circle  now, 

As  he  went  round  the  wheel  in  bis  old  mill, 

He  says  that  you  go  wrong  in  all  respects, 

Especially  if  you  congratulate  him 

Upon  the  strength  of  the  resemblance. 


Fly! 

Vanish !    Unheard-of  impudence !   What !  still 

there? 
In  this  enlightened  age,  too,  since  you  have  been 
Proved  not  to  exist? — But  this  infernal  brood 
Will  hear  no  reason  and  endure  no  rule. 
Are  we  so  wise,  and  is  the  p<md  still  haunted  ? 
How  long  have  I  been  sweeping  out  thu  rubbish 
Of  superstition,  —  and  the  world  will  not 
Come  clean  vrith  all  my  pains !     It  is  a  case 
Unheard  of. 

THS  aoL. 
Then  leave  off  teasing  us  so. 


I  tell  you.  Spirits,  to  your  Aces  now, 
That  I  ahonld  not  regret  this  despotism 
Of  spirits,  but  that  mine  can  wield  it  not 
To-night  I  shall  make  poor  work  of  it ; 
Tet  I  will  take  a  round  with  you,  and  hope, 
Before  my  last  step  in  the  living  dance, 
To  beat  the  poet  and  the  devil  together. 


At  last  he  will  sit  down  in  some  foul  puddle ! 
That  is  his  way  of  solacing  himself; 
Until  some  leech,  diverted  with  his  gravity. 
Cures  him  of  spirits  and  the  spirit  together.  — 
[T»  Ffeuit,  wbo  hM  seeadsd  from  Um  dsnea. 
Why  do  you  let  that  fair  girl  pass  from  you, 
Who  sang  so  sweetly  to  you  in  the  dance  ? 

FAUST. 

A  red  mouse,  in  the  middle  of  her  singing. 
Sprang  from  her  mouth. 


That  was  all  right,  my  friend ; 
Be  it  enough  that  the  mouse  was  not  gray. 
Do  not  disturb  your  hour  of  happiness 
With  close  consideration  of  such  trifles. 

FAUST. 

Then  saw  I 


What  ? 

FAUST. 

Seest  thou  not  a  pale. 

Fair  girl,  standing  alone,  far,  far  away  ? 

She  drags  herself  now  forward  with  slow  steps, 

And  seems  as  if  she  moved  with  shackled  feet: 

I  cannot  overcome  the  thought  that  she 

Is  like  poor  Margaret. 


.Let  it  be,  —  pass  on,  — 

No  good  can  come  of  it,  —  it  is  not  well 

To  meet  it,  —  it  is  an  enchanted  phantom, 

A  lifoless  idol ;  with  its  numbing  look. 

It  freezes  up  the  blood  of  man ;  and  they 

Who  meet  its  ghastly  stare  are  turned  to  stone. 

Like  those  who  saw  Medusa. 

FAUST. 

O,  too  true ! 

Her  eyes  are  like  the  eyes  of  a  fresh  corpse 
Which  no  beloved  band  has  closed,  alas ! 
That  is  the  breast  which  Margaret  yielded  to 

me, — 
Those  are  the  lovely  limbs  which  I  enjoyed  ! 


It  is  all  magic,  poor,  deluded  fool  ! 

She  looks  to  every  one  like  his  first  love. 

FAUST. 

O,  what  delight !  what  woe !  I  cannot  turn 
My  looks  from  her  sweet,  piteous  countenance. 
How  strangely  does  a  single  blood-red  line. 
Not  broader  than  the  sharp  edge  of  a  knife, 
Adorn  her  lovely  neck ! 


394                                                  GERMAN 

POETRY. 

HBPBimOPHBLAS. 

Then  gather  up  thy  spirits  once ; 

Ay,  she  can  cany 

Thy  blood  is  youthsome  yet : 

Her  head  under  her  arm,  upon  occasion ; 

To  youth  like  thine  there  wanteth  not 

Perseus  has  cut  it  off  for  her.     These  pleasures 

The  strength  to  seek  and  get 

End  in  delusion.  —  Gain  this  rising  ground,  — 

It  is  as  airy  here  as  in  the  Prater  ', 

«*  Ah,  no  !  to  get  it,  that  were  rain  : 

And  if  I  am  not  mightily  deceived, 

It  stands  off  all  to    far; 

I  see  a  theatre.  —  What  may  this  mean  ? 

It  dwells  so  high,  it  shines  so  fair,^ 

As  fair  as  yonder  star." 

ATnNDAHT. 

Quite  a  new  piece,  —  the  last  of  seven ;  for 't  is 

The  stars  we  do  not  seek  to  have ; 

The  custom  now  to  represent  that  number. 

We  but  enjoy  their  light. 

*T  is  written  by  a  dilettante,  and 

As  we  look  up  in  ecstasy. 

The  actors  who  perform  are  dilettanti. 

On  every  pleasant  night 

Excuse  me,  Gentlemen  ;  but  I  must  vanish, — 

I  am  a  dilettante  curtain-lifter. 

*«  And  I  look  up  in  ecstasy. 

Full  many  a  lovely  day ; 

So  leave  me  to  my  mood  at  night. 

THE  LOVED  ONE  EVER  NEAB. 

To  weep  while  weep  I  may." 

I  THINK  of  thee,  when  the  bright  sunlight  shim- 

mers 

THE  SALUTATION  OF  A  SPIRIT. 

Across  the  sea ; 

When  the  clear  fountain   in  the   moonbeam 

High  on  the  castle's  ancient  walls 

glimmers. 

The  warrior's  shade  appears. 

I  think  of  thee. 

Who  to  the  bark  that  's  passing  calls, 

And  thus  its  passage  cheers  :  — 

I  see  thee,  if  far  up  the  pathway  yonder 

The  dust  be  stirred  ; 

^  Behold  !  these  sinews  once  were  strong. 

If  fidnt  steps  o'er  the  little  bridge  to  wander 

This  heart  was  firm  and  bold ; 

At  night  be  heard. 

'Mid  war  and  glory,  feast  and  song. 

My  earthly  years  were  told. 

I  hear  thee,  when  the  tossing  waves'  low  rum- 

bling 

«<  Restless  through  half  of  life  I  ran. 

Creeps  up  the  hill ; 

In  half  have  sought  for  ease. 

I  go  to  the  lone  wood  and  listen,  trembling, 

What  then  ?     Thou  bark,  that  sail'st  with 

When  all  is  still. 

man. 

Haste,  haste  to  cleave  the  seas ! " 

I  am  with  thee,  wherever  thou  art  roaming,  — 

And  thou  art  near  ! 

The  sun  goes  down,  and  soon  the  stars  aie 

TO  THE  MOON. 

coming : 
Would  thou  wert  here ! 

FiLLKST  hill  and  vale  again. 

Still,  with  softening  light ! 

Loosest  from  the  world's  cold  chain 

SOLACE  IN  TEARS. 

All  my  soul  to-night ! 

Comb,  tell  me  why  this  sadness  now, 

Spreadest  round  me,  far  and  nigh. 

When  all  so  glad  appears  ? 

Soothingly,  thy  smile ; 

One  sees  it  in  thine  eyes,  my  friend : 

From  thee,  as  from  friendship's  eye, 

Thou  *st  surely  been  in  tears. 

Sorrow  shrinks  the  while. 

^*And  if  I  go  alone  and  weep. 

Every  echo  thrills  my  heart ;  — 

*T  is  grief  I  can  't  impart ; 

Glad  and  gloomy  mood. 

And  't  is  so  sweet,  when  tears  will  flow^ 

Joy  and  sorrow,  both  have  part 

And  ease  the  heavy  heart." 

In  my  solitude. 

Thy  gladsome  friends,  they  call  to  thee : 

River,  river,  glide  along ! 

O,  come  unto  our  breast  I 

I  am  sad,  iJas ! 

And  whatsoe'er  thy  heavy  loes. 

Fleeting  things  are  love  and  song,  «- 

Confide  it  to  the  rest. 

Even  so  they  pass  ! 

««Te  talk  and  stir,  and  do  not  dream 

I  hare  had  and  I  haye  lost 

What  't  is  that  ails  poor  me  : 

What  I  long  for  yet; 

Ah,  no  !  't  is  nothing  I  have  lost. 

Ah !  why  will  we,  to  our  cost. 

Though  somewhat  wanting  be." 

Simple  joys  forget? 

GOETHE. 


896 


River,  riyer,  glide  along, 

Without  stop  or  stay  ! 
Murmur,  whisper  to  mjr  Bong, 

In  melodious  play,  — 

Whether  on  a  winter's  night 
Rise  thy  swollen  floods. 

Or  in  spring  thou  hast  delight 
Watering  the  young  budis. 

Happy  he,  who,  hating  none, 
Leayes  the  world's  dull  noise, 

And,  with  trusty  friend  alone, 
Quietly  enjoys 

What,  for  ever  unexpressed. 
Hid  from  common  sight. 

Through  the  mazes  of  the  breast 
Softly  steals  by  night ! 


VANITAa 

I  'ts  set  my  heart  upon  nothing,  you  see ; 

Hurrah! 
And  so  the  world  goes  well  with  me. 

Hurrah! 
And  who  has  a  mind  to  be  fellow  of  mine. 
Why,  let  him  take  hold  and  help  me  drain 
These  mouldy  lees  of  wine. 

I  set  my  heart  at  first  upon  wealth ; 

Hurrah! 
And  bartered  away  my  peace  and  health ; 

But,  ah  ! 
The  slippery  change  went  about  like  air ; 
And  when  I  had  clutched  me  a  handflil  here, 
Away  it  went  there. 

I  set  my  heart  upon  woman  next ; 

Hurrah! 
For  her  sweet  sake  was  ofl  perplexed ; 

But,  ah  1 
The  false  one  looked  for  a  daintier  lot. 
The  constant  one  wearied  me  out  and  out. 
The  best  was  not  easily  got 

I  set  my  heart  upon  travels  grand. 

Hurrah  ! 
And  spumed  our  plain  old  fatherland ; 

But,  ah ! 
Naught  seemed  to  be  juet  the  thing  it  should. 
Most  comfortless  beds  and  indifferent  food, 
My  tastes  mieunderstood. 

I  set  my  heart  upon  sounding  fame ; 

Hurrah  ! 
And,  lo !  I  *m  eclipsed  by  some  upstart's  name; 

And,  ah  ! 
When  in  public  life  I  loomed  quite  high, 
The  folks  that  passed  me  would  look  awry  : 
Their  very  worst  friend  was  I. 

And  then  I  set  my  heart  upon  war. 

Hurrah! 
We  gained  some  battles  with  eclat. 

Hurrah  ! 


We  troubled  the  foe  with  sword  and  flame, — 
And  some  of  our  friends  &red  quite  the  same. 
I  lost  a  leg  for  &me. 

Now  I  'ye  set  my  heart  upon  nothing,  you  see ; 

Hurrah  ! 
And  the  whole  wide  world  belongs  to  me. 

Hurrah! 
The  feast  begins  to  run  low,  no  doubt ; 
But  at  the  old  cask  we  '11  have  one  good  bout : 
Come,  drink  the  lees  all  out ! 

MAHOMEPS  SONG. 

Sxs  the  rocky  spring. 

Clear  as  joy. 

Like  a  sweet  star  gleaming  t 

O'er  the  clouds,  he 

In  his  youth  was  cradled 

By  good  spirits, 

'Neath  the  bushes  in  the  clifls. 

Fresh  with  youth. 

From  the  cloud  he  dances 

Down  upon  the  rocky  pavement ; 

Thence,  exulting. 

Leaps  to  heaven. 

For  a  while  he  dallies 

Round  the  summit. 

Through  its  little  channels  chasing 

Motley  pebbles  round  and  round ; 

Quick,  then,  like  determined  leader. 

Hurries  all  his  brother  etreamlets 

Off  with  him. 

There,  all  round  him  in  the  vale. 

Flowers  spring  up  beneath  his  footstep. 

And  the  meadow 

Wakes  to  feel  his  breath. 

But  him  holds  no  shady  vale, 

No  cool  blossoms, 

Which  around  bis  knees  are  clinging, 

And  with  loving  eyes  entreating 

Passing  notice ;  —  on  he  speeds. 

Winding  snake-like. 

Social  brooklets 

Add  their  waters.     Now  he  rolls 

O'er  the  plain  in  silvery  splendor. 

And  the  plain  his  splendor  borrows ; 

And  the  rivulets  from  the  plain 

And  the  brooklets  from  the  bill-sides 

All  are  shouting  to  him  :  "  Brother, 

Brother,  take  thy  brothers  too. 

Take  us  to  thy  ancient  Father, 

To  the  everlasting  ocean. 

Who  e'en  now,  with  outstretched  arms. 

Waits  for  ue,  — 

Arms  outstretched,  alas !  in  vain, 

To  embrace  his  longing  ones ', 

For  the  greedy  sand  devours  us ; 

Or  the  burning  sun  above  us 

Sucks  our  life-blood ;  or  some  hillock 

Hems  us  into  ponds.     Ah  !  brother. 

Take  thy  brothers  from  the  plain. 

Take  thy  brothers  from  the  hill-sides 


296 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


With  thee,  to  our  Sire  with  thea  !  "  -^ 

«« Come  ye  all,  then  !  '*  — 

Now,  more  proadlj. 

On  he  swells ;  a  countless  race,  they 

Bear  their  glorious  prince  aloft ! 

On  he  rolls  triumphantly. 

Giving  names  to  countries.     Cities 

Spring  to  being  'neath  his  foot. 

Onward,  with  incessant  roaring. 
See  !  he  passes  proudly  by 
Flaming  turrets,  marble  mansions,  — 
Creatures  of  his  fulness  all. 

Cedar  houses  bears  this  Atlas 
On  his  giant  shoulders.     Rustling, 
Flapping  in  the  playful  breezes. 
Thousand  flags  about  his  head  are 
Telling  of  his  majesty. 

And  so  bears  he  all  his  brothers, 
And  his  treasures,  and  his  children, 
To  their  Sire,  all  joyous  roaring. 
Pressing  to  his  mighty  heart 


SONG  OF  THE  SPDUTSL 

Thb  soul  of  man  is 
Like  the  water : 
From  heaven  it  cometh. 
To  heaven  it  mounteth. 
And  thence  at  once 
'T  must  back  to  earth. 
For  ever  changing. 

Swift  from  the  lofty 
Rock  down  darteth 
•  The  flashing  rill ; 
Then  softly  sprinkleth 
With  dewy  kisses 
The  smooth,  cold  stone ; 
And,  fast  collected, 
Veiled  in  a  mist,  rolls, 
Low  murmuring, 
Adown  the  channel. 

If  jutting  cliflSi 

His  course  obstruct,  down 

Foams  he  angrily. 

Leap  after  leap, 

To  the  bottom. 

In  smooth  green  bed  he 
Glideth  along  through  the  meadow, 
And  on  the  glassy  lake 
Bask  the  bright  sUrs  all 
Sweetly  reflected. 

Wind  is  the  water's 
Amorous  wooer ; 
Wind  from  its  depths  np- 
Heaves  the  wild  waves. 

Soul  of  a  mortal, 
How  like  thou  to  water ! 
Fate  of  a  mortal. 
How  like  to  the  wind  \ 


PROMETHEUS. 

Blacksn  thy  heavens,  Jove, 

With  thunder-clouds. 

And  exercise  thee,  like  a  boy 

Who  thistles  crops. 

With  smiting  oaks  and  mountain-tops ! 

Tet  must  leave  me  standing 

My  own  firm  Earth ; 

Must  leave  my  cottage,  which  thou  didst 

not  build. 
And  my  warm  hearth. 
Whose  cheerful  glow 
Thou  enviest  me. 

I  know  naught  more  pitiful 
Under  the  sun  than  ^ou,  Oods ! 
Ye  nourish  scantily, 
With  altar-taxes 
And  with  cold  lip-service. 
This  your  majesty ;  — 
Would  perish,  were  not 
Children  and  beggars 
Credulous  fools. 

When  I  was  a  child. 

And  knew  not  whence  or  whither, 

I  would  turn  my  wildered  eye 

To  the  sun,  as  if  up  yonder  were 

An  ear  to  hear  to  my  complaining,  — 

A  heart,  like  mine. 

On  the  oppressed  to  feel  compassion. 

Who  helped  me. 

When  I  braved  the  Titans'  insolence  ? 

Who  rescued  me  from  death. 

From  slavery  ? 

Hast  thou  not  all  thyself  accomplished, 

Holy-glowing  heart  ? 

And,  glowing  young  and  good, 

Most  ignorantly  thanked 

The  slumberer  above  there  ? 

I  honor  thee .'     For  what  ? 

Hast  thou  the  miseries  lightened 

Of  the  down-trodden  ? 

Hast  thou  the  tears  ever  banished 

From  the  afflicted  ?    ' 

Have  I  not  to  manhood  been  moulded 

By  omnipotent  Time, 

And  by  Fate  everlasting,  — 

My  lords  and  thine  ? 

Dreamedst  thou  ever 

I  should  grow  weary  of  living, 

And  fly  to  the  desert, 

Since  not  all  our 

Pretty  dream-buds  ripen  i 

Here  sit  I,  fiuhion  men 

In  mine  own  image, — 

A  race  to  be  like  me. 

To  weep  and  to  suflTer, 

To  be  happy  and  to  enjoy  themselves,  — 

All  careless  of  tAes  too, 

Asl! 


F.  L.  8TOLBERG. 


897 


FRIEDRICH   LEOPOLD   GRAF  ZV 
8TOLBER6. 

This  writer,  a  younger  brother  of  Christiaii 
Stolberg,  waa  bom  Noyember  7th,  1750,  at 
Bramstedt.  Like  his  brother,  he  was  Gentle- 
man of  the  Bedchamber  at  the  Danish  court. 
In  1777,  he  was  the  Minister  at  Copenhagen 
from  the  Ecclesiastical  See  of  Lobeck ;  in  1789, 
Ambassador  at  Berlin ;  in  1791,  President  at 
Eutin.  In  1800,  he  resigned  his  official  em- 
ployments and  went  to  Monster.  Soon  after, 
he  joined  the  Catholic  Church,  and  wrote  much 
in  its  defence.  In  1812,  he  removed  to  Taten- 
feld,  near  Bielefeld,  and  afterwards  to  Bonder- 
mQhlen  in  OsnabrQck.  His  last  days  were  em- 
bittered by  a  violent  controversy  with  Voas. 
He  died  December  6th,  1819. 

He  was  a  poet  of  a  rich  imagination,  and  of 
great  enthusiasm  for  country  and  religion.  His 
poems  are  chiefly  lyrical.  He  wrote  ballads, 
odes,  lyrical  poems,  and  excellent  popular 
songs ;  besides  didactic  poems,  dramas,  transla- 
tions of  a  part  of  the  **  Iliad,"  and  of  four  trag- 
edies of  £schylu8,  and  many  other  miscella- 
neous works.  An  edition  of  the  writings  of 
the  two  brothers  was  published  at  Hamburg,  in 
twenty  parts ;  of  the  poems,  at  Leipsic,  in  1821, 
and  at  Vienna,  1821. 

86no  of  freedom. 

Why  dost  thou  linger  thus,  O  morning  sun  ? 
Do  the  cool  waves  of  ocean  stay  thy  march  ? 

Why  dost  thou  linger  thus. 

Sun  of  our  day  of  fame  ? 
Rise  !  a  free  people  waits  to  hail  thy  ray. 
Turn  from  yon  world  of  slaves  thine  eye  of  fire ; 

On  a  free  people  shed 

The  glories  of  thy  beam  ! 
He  climbs,  he  climbs  aloof^  and  gilds  the  hills ; 
A  rosier  radiance  dances  on  the  trees ; 

Sparkling,  the  silver  brook 

To  the  dim  valley  flies. 

Now  thou  art  bright,  fair  stream  ;  but  once  we 

saw 
Blood  in  thy  waves,  and  corses  in  thy  bed, 

And  grappling  warriors  choked 

Thy  swollen  and  troubled  flood. 
With  fluttering  hair  the  flying  tyranto  sped, — 
Pale,  trembling,  headlong,  to  thy  waters  sped, — 

Into  thine  angry  wave 

Pursuing  fVeemen  sprang. 
Blood  of  the  horses  dyed  thy  azure  stream, — 
Blood  of  the  riders  dyed  thy  azure  stream,  — 

Blood  of  the  tyrant's  slaves, — 

Blood  of  the  tyrant's  slaves. 
Red  was  the  meadow,  red  thy  rushy  brink. 
Reeking  with  slaughter.     In  the  bush  of  thorn 

Clothes  of  the  flying  stuck. 

Hair  of  the  dying  stuck. 

At  the  rock's  foot  the  nation-eurber  lay  ; 
Apollyon's  sceptre-wielding  arm  vras  stiflT, 

38  


Broken  his  long,  long  sword. 

Wounded  his  groaning  horse. 
Dumb  the  blasphemer's,  the  commander's  tongue, 
Nor  hell  nor  man  gave  heed :  his  conscious  eye 

Still  rolled,  as  if  to  ask 

The  brandished  spear  for  death  ; 
But  not  a  son  of  Germany  vouchsafed 
With  pitying  hand  the  honorable  steel. 

Was  not  the  curse  of  God 

Upon  his  forehead  stamped  ? 
As  o'er  her  prey  the  screaming  eagle  planes. 
O'er  him  was  seen  the  wrath  of  Heaven  to  lower. 

He  lay  till  midnight  wolves 

Tore  out  the  unfeeling  heart. 

But,  ah !  the  young  heroic  Henry  fell ; 

The  castle-walls  of  Remling  rang  with  groans ; 

Mother  and  sister  wept 

Their  fallen,  their  beloved ; 
His  lovely  wife  not  e'en  a  parent's  hope 
Could  lift  above  the  crushing  load  of  woe, — 

She,  and  the  babe  unborn. 

Partook  his  early  tomb. 

Not  one  of  all  the  slavish  crew  escaped. 
Like  to  the  fellow  leaves  which  storm-winds 
throw. 

Their  corses  fer  and  wide 

Lay  weltering  in  the  field ; 
Or  floated  on  the  far-polluted  stream, 
Welcome  not  now  where  health  or  pity  dwells. 

Back  from  the  bloody  wave 

The  thirsting  horse  withdrew  ; 
The  harmless  herd  gazed  and  forebore  to  taste  ; 
The  silent  tenants  of  the  wood  fbrebore  ; 

Only  the  vulture  drank. 

The  raven,  and  the  wolf. 

The  glee  of  the  victor  is  loud  on  the  hill ; 
Like  nightingales  singing  where  cataracts  rush, 

The  song  of  the  maiden. 

The  warriors'  music. 
In  thundering  triumph  are  mingled  on  high. 
Or  call  on  the  echoes  to  bound  at  the  dance. 

With  drum  and  with  cymbal. 

With  trumpet  and  fife. 
High  in  the  air  the  eagle  soars  of  song. 
Beneath  him  hawks,  our  lesser  triumphs,  flit ; 

O'er  the  last  battle  now 

His  steadier  wing  is  poised. 

Fierce  glowed  the  iVK>n ;  the  sweat  of  heroes 

bathed 
The  trampled  grass  ;  and  breezes  of  the  wood 

Reached  but  the  foe,  who  strove 

Three  hours  in  doubtful  fight. 
Like  standing  halm  that  rocks  beneath  the  wind. 
The  hostile  squadrons  billow  to  and  fro ; 

But  slow  as  ocean  ebbs. 

The  sons  of  freedom  cede, — 
When  on  their  foaming  chargers  ferward  sprang 
Two  youths,  their  sabres  lightening ;  and  their 
name, 

Stolberg; — behind  them  rode. 

Obeying,  thousand  friends. 


298 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


Vehement,  as  down  the  rock  the  floodj  Rhine 
Bhowera  its  loud  thunder  and  eternal  foam, — 

Speedy,  as  tigers  spring, 

They  struck  the  startled  ibe. 
The   Stolbergs  fought    and    sank;    but    they 

achieved 
The  lovely  bloody  death  of  freedom  won. 

Let  no  base  sigh  be  heard 

Beside  their  early  grave ! 
Time  was,  their  grandsire  wept  a  burning  tear 
Of  youthful  hope  that  he  might  perish  so ; 

Upon  his  harp  it  fell, 

To  exhale  not  quite  in  vain ; 
Then,  through  the  mist  of  future  years,  he  saw 
Battles  of  freedom  tinge  the  patrial  soil, 

Saw  his  brave  children  fall. 

And  smiled  upon  their  doom. 

Sunk  was  the  sun  of  day  ;  with  roseate  wing 
The  evening  fanned  the  aged  Rhine  ;  but  still 

The  battle  thundered  loud. 

And  lightened  &r  and  wide. 
Glad,  from  the  eaves  of  heaven,  through  purple 

clouds, 
Herman  and  Tell,  Luther  and  Elopstock,  leaned. 

And  godlike  strength  of  soul 

And  German  daring  gave. 
To  the  pale  twilight  wistful  looked  the  foe ; 
Dimmed  was  the  frown  of  scorn,  the  blush  of 
shame; 

They  fled,  wide  o*er  the  field 

Their  scattering  legions  fled. 
With  dripping  swords  we  followed  might  and 

main. 
They  hoped  the  mantle  of  the  night  would  hide. 

When  o'er  the  fires  arose. 

Angry  and  fell,  the  moon. 
Night  of  destruction,  dread  retribu tress, 
Be  dear  and  holy  to  a  nation  freed  ! 

The  country's  birth-day  each 

More  than  his  own  should  prize,  — 
More  than  the  night  which  gave  his  blushing 

bride. 
Thy  song  of  triumph  in  our  cities  shout, 

The  song  which  heroes  love,  »> 

The  song  to  freedom  dear ! 
Voices  of  virgins  mingle  in  the  lay. 
As  floats  its  music  o'er  rejoicing  crowds : 

So  murmur  waterfalls 

Beside  the  ocean's  roar. 

Germania,  thou  art  free  !     Germania  free ! 
Now  may'st  thou  stately  take  thy  central  stand 

Amid  the  nations ;  now 

Exalt  thy  wreathed  brow. 
Proud  as  thy  Brocken,  when  the  light  of  dawn 
Reddens  its  forehead,  while  the  mountains  round 

Still  in  wan  twilight  sleep. 

And  darkness  shrouds  the  vale. 

Welcome,  great  century  of  Liberty, 

Thou  fiurest  daughter  of  slow-teeming  Time  ! 

With  pangs  unwont  she  bare, 

But  hailed  her  mighty  child ; 


Trembling,  she  took  thee  with  maternal  arm ; 
Glad  shudders  shook  her  frame ;  she  kissed  thy 
front, 

And  from  her  quivering  lip 

Prophetic  accents  broke  :  — 
**  Daughter,    thou    tak'st  away   thy  mother's 

shame ; 
Thou  hast  avenged  thy  weeping  sisters'  woe. 

Each  to  the  yawning  tomb 

Went  with  unwilling  step  : 
Each  in  her  youth  had  hoped  to  wield  thy  sword 
And  hold  thy  balance,  dread  retributress  ! 

Bold  is  thy  rolling  eye. 

And  strong  thy  tender  hand  ; 
And  soon  beside  thy  cradle  shall  be  heard 
The  tunes  of  warfare  and  the  clash  of  arms,  — 

And  thou  shalt  hear  with  smiles, 

As  on  thy  mother's  breast. 
I  see  thee  quickly  grow  ;  with  giant  step. 
With  streamy  golden  hair,  with  lightening  eye. 

Thou  shall  come  forth,  and  thrones 

And  tyrants  tread  to  dust. 
Thy  urn,  though  snatched  with  bloody  hand, 

shall  pour 
O'er  Germany  the  stream  of  liberty ; 

Each  flower  of  paradise 

Delights  to  crown  its  brink." 


THE  STREAM  OF  THE  ROCK. 

Unpbrishino  youth ! 
Thou  leapest  from  forth 
The  cleft  of  the  rock. 
No  mortal  eye  saw 
The  mighty  one's  cradle ; 
No  ear  ever  heard 
The  lofty  one's  lisp  in  the  murmuring  spring. 

How  beautiful  art  thqn, 

In  silvery  locks ! 

How  terrible  art  thou. 
When   the  clifli    are   resounding  in  thnoder 
around  ! 

Thee  feareth  the  fir-tree : 

Thou  crushest  the  fir-tree. 

From  its  root  to  its  crown. 

The  cliffs  flee  before  thee : 

The  clifli  thou  engraspest, 
And  hurlest  them,  scornful,  like  pebbles  adown. 

The  sun  weaves  around  thee 

The  beams  of  its  splendor ; 
It  painteth  with  hues  of  the  heavenly  iris 
The  aproUing  clouds  of  the  silvery  spray. 

Why  speedest  thou  downward 
Toward  the  green  sea  ? 
Is  it  not  well  by  the  nearer  heaven  .' 
Not  well  by  the  sounding  cliff*.' 
Not  well  by  the  o'erhanging  forest  of  oaks  ? 
O,  hasten  not  so 
Toward  the  green  sea  ! 
Touth !   O,  now  thou  art  strong,  like  a  god ! 
Free,  like  a  god  ! 


F.  L.   8TOLBER6. 


299 


Beneath  thee  is  smiling  the  peacefolleft  itillneit, 
The  tremulous  swell  of  the  slumberous  sea. 
Now  silvered  o*er  by  the  swimming  moonshine. 
Now  golden  and  red  in  the  light  of  the  west ! 

Touth,  O,  what  is  this  silken  quiet, 

What  is  the  smile  of  the  friendly  moonlight, 

The  purple  and  gold  of  the  evening  sun, 

To  him  whom  the  feeling  of  bondage  oppresses? 

Now  streamest  thou  wild. 

As  thy  heart  may  prompt ! 
But  below,  oft  ruleth  the  fickle  tempest. 
Oft  the  stillness  of  death,  in  the  subject  sea ! 

O,  hasten  not  so 
Toward  the  green  sea  ! 
Touth,  O,  now  thou  art  strong,  like  a  god,— 
Free,  like 'a  god  ! 


TO  THE  spA- 

Thou  boundless,  shining,  glorious  Sea, 
With  ecstasy  I  gaze  on  thee; 
Joy,  joy  to  him  whose  early  beam 
Kisses  thy  lip,  bright  Ocean-stream ! 

Thanks  for  the  thousand  hours,  old  Sea, 
Of  sweet  communion  held  with  thee ; 
Oft  as  I  gazed,  thy  billowy  roll 
Woke  the  deep  feelings  of  my  soul. 

Drunk  with  the  joy,  thou  deep-toned  Sea, 
My  spirit  swells  to  heaven  with  thee  ; 
Or,  sinking  with  thee,  seeks  the  gloom 
Of  nature's  deep,  mysterious  tomb. 

At  evening,  when  the  sun  grows  red, 
Descending  to  his  watery  bed. 
The  music  of  thy  murmuring  deep 
Soothes  e'en  the  weary  earth  to  sleep. 

Then  listens  thee  the  evening  star. 
So  sweetly  glancing  from  afer ; 
And  Luna  hears  thee,  when  she  breaks 
Her  light  in  million-colored  flakes. 

Oft,  when  the  noonday  heat  is  o*er, 
I  seek  with  joy  the  breezy  shore. 
Sink  on  thy  boundless,  billowy  breast. 
And  cheer  me  with  refreshing  rest. 

The  poet,  child  of  hearenly  birth. 
Is  suckled  by  the  mother  Earth  ; 
But  thy  blue  bosom,  holy  Sea, 
Cradles  his  infimt  fentasy. 

The  old  blind  minstrel  on  the  shore 
Stood  listening  thy  eternal  roar. 
And  golden  ages,  long  gone  by, 
Swept  bright  before  his  spirit's  eye. 

On  wing  of  swan  the  holy  flame 
Of  melodies  celestial  came. 
And  Iliad  and  Odyssey 
Rose  to  the  music  of  the  Sea. 


TO  THE  EYENINO  STAR.  , 

Emiwbilb  on  me,  leader  of  silent  eve. 
Thou  glancedst  joys  brief  as  the  dying's  smiles. 
The  evanescent  hues 
That  play  i'  th'  western  breeze  ! 

Tet,  dear  to  me,  dear  as  to  thirsty  halm 

The  early  dews;  but,  ah  !  they  vanished  soon  ! 

Now  seldom  looks  thine  eye. 

And  troubled  then,  on  me  ! 

Hast  thou  a  veil  ?  or  shedd'st  thou  blinding  tears  ? 
Art  thou,  as  I,  the  prey  of  carking  cares  ? 

An  heir  of  woe.'  and  are 

Thy  radiant  brethren  heirs  ? 

Is  yon  blue  vest,  ftill  of  enlightening  suns. 
And  set  with  moons,  only  a  web  of  grief? 

And  do  the  spheres  resound 

With  everlasting  moan  ? 

Or  am  I  alone  wretched  ?    Thou  art  mute, 
Inexorable !  yet,  a  Saviour,  thou 

Bringest  the  welcome  eve. 

No  ruddy  mom  precedes. 

THE  SEA& 

Thou  pleasest  mine  ear. 

Thy  murmur  I  know. 
The  siren  song  of  thy  billows  ! 
Baltic,  thou  claspest  me. 
With  loving  arms,  often 

To  thy  cool  bosom  ! 

Thou  art  fair  f 
Nymph,  how  feir ! 
Betrothed  of  the  wood-covered  shore. 
Oft  the  zephyr  escapes  from  the  tops  of  the 

grove. 
And  glides  over  thy  billows  with  hovering  wing ! 

Thou  art  feir ! 
Nymph,  how  ftir ! 
Tet  is  the  goddess 
Fairer  than  thou ! 
Louder  than  thou 
Thunders  Atlantic, 
Rises,  white  in  her  pride,  and  shakes  the  shores 
with  her  feot. 

Stronger  and  freer  than  thou. 
Dances  she  her  own  dance. 
Nor  waits  for  the  voice  of  the 
Mastering  wind ; 
Rises  and  sinks. 
When,  veiled  within  clouds. 
In  his  secret  chamber  slumbers  the  tempest's 
head. 

I  saw  the  keel,  once. 
Of  the  lightning-armed  vessel 
Hasten  over  her  here ;  — 
Then  the  pennon  sank, 
And  the  quivering  streamer  sank. 
But  the  breezes  in  Hellebek's  beeches  were  still. 


300                                                  GERMAN 

POETRY. 

By  what  name 

Still  hovered  lightly. 

Shall  m  J  Boog  make  thee  known  ? 

Ay,  in  my  soul's  twilight. 

Boreal-main,  ocean,  goddess,  the  infinite, 

By  Ra^el  created,  the  forms  of  gods. 

The  earth-girding  one,  cradle  of  the  all-enlight- 

Yet haunted  me,  breathed  firom 

ening 

The  genius  of  Rafiiel, 

Sun,  the  heaven-wandering 

His  pencil's  devices. 

Moon,  and  the  numberless 

Like  shapes  of  evanishing  visions  about 

Stars,  which  there,  in  melodious 

Then  trembled  the  earth. 

Dance,  themselves  mirror,  both  when  the  flood 

Then  panted  the  air. 

rises  and  sinks. 

And  it  rushed  through  the  lyre  with  terrible 

sound,  — 

On  thy  great  waters 

When,  veiled  all  in  clouds. 

Gk>d's  spirit  did  brood, 

Stood,  wrathfbl,  before  me, 

While  yet  the  earth  lay 

A  terrible  one. 

In  silence  and  sorrow,  — 

My  hair  rose  erect. 

The  joys  of  a  mother  not  known ! 

My  eyes  stared  aghast. 

Over  thee  hovered 

Yet  spake  I  to  him :  — 

In  mystical  motion. 

Flowing  and  ebbing. 

"  Fiery  one  !     Who  art  thou  ? 

Tet  visibly,  the  Omnipotent's  breath  ! 

Thou  angry,  threatening  shape  ! 

More  mighty  than  shadows, 

On  rapture's  ecstatic 

Yet  as  terrible  ;  spare  me  !  " 

Pinions  upsoaring, 

(Here  the  semblance  aerial  blazed  abroad,  as 

Flew  my  spirit  to  thee  ! 

firom  iEtna, 

Goddess,  I  pray  thee. 

Billow-like  dashing,  vapors  upblaze.) 

Take  me,  O  Goddess  ! 

«*  Yes,  it  is  thou  !  thou  art 

Take  me  into  thy  bosom  of  power  ! 

Michael  Angelo !  spare  me, 

Ah  !  but  thou  passedst  me, 

O  jealous  Spirit ! 

Proud,  and  in  thunder,  by  ! 

Lower  the  flaming 

Then  grasped  I  the  pinions 

Torch  of  the  pencil ! 

Of  the  birds  of  the  billows. 

Thou  plungest  in  brightness 

And  swam  for  the  margins  stretching  aftr. 

Thy  pencil  beneath  ! 

Thou  thunderedst  louder. 

How  long  I  mistook  thee  ! 

From  thy  strand  of  the  rock ! 

Although  thou  life  givest 

There  hastened  I  on 

Unto  the  cold  marble, 

To  the  strand  of  the  rock; 

Yet  look  not  my  heart 

.  Then  hastened  I  down  -, 

Thy  marble  into !  — 

There  clasped  I  thee,  (Goddess, 

(Ha!  how  thou  lookest 
With  Sirius'  look!—.) 

With  sinewy  arm. 

In  the  hall  of  the  rock! 

I  saw  of  the  pencil 

Over  me  toppled 

The  magic,  the  wonder. 

Menacing  summits ; 

And  the  whiteness  of  terror 

Vortices  wildly 

And  the  redness  of  joy 

Thronged  through  the  clefts  of  the  rocks. 

Did  shiver  me  through. 

Then  hasten,  impelled  on 

And,  covered  with  kisses, 

The  wings  of  the  storm. 

How  gladsome  was  I, 

The  red-troubled  clouds, 

Embraced  in  the  bosom 

And  fleece-mantled  sky, 

Of  a  goddess  immortal ! 

To  the  hovering  shapes  on  the  trembling  sea !  " 

Hail  to  thee,  hail. 

He  heard  it,  and  paused 

Goddess!  and  thank 

With  milder  solemnity. 

For  the  blessed  enjoyment 

High  over  the  melting  clouds  quick  he  arose. 

In  the  hall  of  the  rock! 

He  stilled  the  lulled  air,— 

The  lyre  yet  emitted 

A  murmur  of  love. 

MICHAEL  ANOELO. 

While  to  its  sound  vanished  the  spirit  appeased. 

Tet  seize  I  the  lyre, — 

It  trembleth  yet 

With  Rafael's  praises; 

JOHANN  HEINRICH  VOSS. 

Yet  tremble  thereon 

Of  the  still  horror 

This  celebrated  scholar  and  author  was  born 

Tears  that  were  trickled. 

February  20th,  1751,  at  Sommersdorf,  in  Meck- 

In trance  beatific, 

lenburg,  where   his  father  was  a  farmer.     He 

Began  I  to  swoon,  —  yet 

went  to  school  in  Penzlin,  till   his  fourteenth 

voss. 


301 


year ;  bat  in  1766,  be  was  placed  at  lebool  ia 
New  Brandeoborg.  He  became  a  priTate  tutor 
in  order  to  obtain  tbe  meant  of  entering  the 
University.  Poetry  and  the  classics  early  en- 
gaged his  attention,  and  his  recreations,  after 
six  hours  of  daily  teaching,  were  musto  and 
Greek.  In  1772,  through  the  influence  of  Boje, 
he  was  drawn  to  Gottingen,  where  he  joined 
the  poetical  circle  to  whom  German  literature 
is  greatly  indebted.  He  studied  theology,  but 
soon  gave  his  whole  time  to  philology,  under 
the  teaching  of  Heyne,  with  whom,  however, 
he  afterwards  quarrelled.  In  1775,  he  took  up 
his  residence  in  Wandsbeck  ;  in  1778,  he  was 
appointed  Rector  at  Otterndorf,  in  Hadeln.  In 
1782,  he  went  to  Eutin,  and  became  a  Court 
Councillor  in  1786.  In  1802,  he  laid  down 
his  office,  and  lived  privately  at  Jena.  In 
1805,  he  went  to  Heidelberg  to  assist  in  organ- 
izing the  University,  and  became  a  Court  Coun- 
cillor of  Baden.  He  continued  in  Heidel- 
berg until  his  death,  which  took  place  Maich 
29th,  1826. 

He  was  a  man  of  great  ability  and  learning, 
a  classically  cultivated  taste,  and  immense  lite- 
rary industry,  but  not  of  high  creative  imagina- 
tion. His  original  works  are  idyls,  **  Luise,"  a 
sort  of  pastoral  epic  in  hexameters,  songs,  odes, 
elegies,  and  epigrams.  An  important  part  of 
his  literary  influence  and  reputation  is  (bunded 
upon  his  numerous  translations.  Among  these 
are  the  «' Iliad"  and  «« Odyssey,"  in  German 
hexameters ;  the  whole  of  Virgil  and  Horace ; 
afterwards,  Hesiod,  Theocritus,  Bion,  and  Mos- 
chos;  Tibullus  and  Lygdamus;  Aristophanes 
and  Aratus;  —  besides  Uiese,  he  undertook  a 
translation  of  Shakspeare,  which  was  never 
completed.  His  merits  as  a  translator  have  been 
very  differently  estimated  by  different  writers. 
Pyschon  says,  •<  As  a  translator,  he  is  highly 
ftimed ;  but  he  forces  the  German  language  into 
Hellenic  and  Vossian  fetters,  and  represents 
Shakspeare  and  Horace  often  in  a  wholly  un- 
German  style."  Menzel's  judgment  is  more 
severe,  and  perhaps  somewhat  prejudiced.  It 
may  be  citeid  as  an  extreme  opinion  against 
Voes  and  his  system ;  and  we  may  remark,  that, 
whatever  may  be  the  defects  of  Voss's  style  as 
a  translator,  he  at  least  led  the  way  to  a  more 
close  and  faitliflil  adherence  to  the  original  than 
had  been  common  before  his  day.  He  was  the 
firvt  to  show  that  the  proper  object  of  translat- 
ing is,  not  to  reproduce  the  work  as  it  may  be 
imagined  the  author  would  have  written  it,  had 
he  written  in  tbe  language  of  the  translator, 
bat  to  reproduce  it  just  as  it  is  in  the  language 
in  which  the  author  actually  wrote. 

"  Voss  cultivated  the  antique  taste  in  relation 
to  the  form.  Hero  he  is  the  master.  The 
proper  GrsBcomania  began  with  him.  Voss  is 
the  error  to  which  Klopstock  inclined,  the 
extreme  6f  the  whole  of  this  false  tendency  in 
our  poetry.  It  could  not  go  fhrther  astray.  A 
freak  of  nature,  by  which  sometimes  the  strang- 
est things  become  objects  of  appetite,  impelled 


Voss,  the  most  extraordinary  of  all  literary 
pedants,  to  a  tragicomical  passion  for  Grecian 
grace,  which  he  imitated  by  the  most  ludicrous 
capers.  For  more  than  half  a  century,  he  un- 
dertook the  Sisyphean  toil  of  rolling  the  rough 
runestone  of  the  German  language  up  the  Gre- 
cian Parnassus;  but 

'Bmtk  tgsin  down  to  tho  plain  rftboonded  tbe  nggsd  rock 
•wifUy.' 
*«  He  had  the  fixed  idea,  that  the  German 
language  must  be  fitted  to  the  Greek  in  me- 
chanical fashion,  syllable  for  syllable.  He  con- 
founded his  peculiar  talent  for  these  philological 
trifles,  and  the  predilection  which  flowed  out 
of  it,  with  a  universal  capacity  and  with  a 
universal  want  of  the  German  language  and 
poetry,  as  if  a  rope-dancer  were  to  insist  upon 
every  body's  dancing  on  the  rope.  The  most 
obvious  means  of  trailing  the  German  language 
over  tbe  espalier  of  the  Greek  was  naturally 
translations.  Here  the  German  language  was 
brought  so  near  the  Greek,  that  it  was  forced 
to  follow  all  its  movements,  like  a  wild  elephant 
harnessed  to  a  tame  one.  Voss  is  celebrated 
as  the  most  ftithful  translator,  but  only  so  far 
as  regards  the  materials  of  language  and  its 
mechanical  laws ;  spirit  and  soul  have  always 
vanished  under  his  clumsy  fingers.  In  his 
translations  he  has  banished  the  peculiar  char- 
acter and  tbe  natural  grace  of  the  German 
language,  and  put  a  strait  jacket  upon  the  love- 
ly captive,  which  allowed  her  to  move  only  in 
a  stiff,  unnatural,  and  constrained  manner.  His 
great  merit  consists  in  having  introduced  into 
the  language  of  literature  a  great  number  of 
good,  but  antiquated,  words,  or  those  used  only 
among  the  common  people.  He  was  forced  to 
this,  because  it  was  necessary  that  he  should 
have  a  wide  range  of  words  to  choose  from,  in 
order  to  fill  out  always  the  prescribed  Greek 
measure  with  the  greatest  exactness.  He  has, 
moreover,  like  Klopstock,  developed  the  pow- 
en  of  the  German  language,  by  these  difficult 
Greek  exercises;  just  as  the  money-diggers, 
though  they  found  no  money,  yet  made  the 
soil  more  fbrtile.  I  am  very  far  from  denying 
him  this  merit  with  regard  to  the  language, — 
a  service  as  laborious  as  it  was  useful ;  but  his 
studies  cannot  pass  for  masterpieces ,  they  were 
only  the  apparatus,  tbe  scaffolding,  the  school, 
and  not  the  work  of  art  itself.  They  were 
distortions  of  the  language,  in  order  to  show 
how  fkr  its  capability  extended,  but  did  not 
exhibit  the  grace  of  its  proper  movement.  No 
one  could  talk  as  Voss  wrote.  Every  body 
would  have  thought  it  vexatious  and  ridiculous, 
who  had  been  required  to  arrange  his  words 
like  Voss.  They  never  sound  like  any  thing 
but  a  stiff  translation,  even  when  he  does  not 
in  fact  translate.  These  translations,  however, 
are  often  so  slavishly  close,  and,  therefore,  not 
German,  that  they  are  unintelligible,  until  we 
read  the  original.  And  yet  that  fidelity  could 
not  express  the  spirit  and  the  peculiar  character 
of  the  foreign  author,  together  with  the  sound 
Z 


302 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


of  the  words.  On  the  contrarj,  the  painful 
stiffness  of  constraint  is  the  universal  badge  of 
all  his  translations;  and  in  this  they  are  all 
alike ;  this  was  the  last,  upon  which  he 
stretched  them  all.  Whether  Voss  translates 
Hesiod,  Homer,  Theocritus,  Virgil,  Ovid,  Hor- 
ace, Shakspeare,  or  an  old  Minnesong,  every- 
where we  hear  only  the  goat-footed  steed  of 
his  prose  trotting  along ;  and  even  the  mighty 
genius  of  Shakspeare  cannot  force  him  out  of 
his  own  heat  for  a  moment."  * 

The  collected  poems  of  Voss  were  published 
at  Konigsberg,  in  seven  parts,  in  1802 ;  again, 
with  last  corrections,  in  1825.  His  translations 
have  been  many  times  republished.  His  life 
was  written  by  Paulus,  Heidelberg,  1826. 


THE  BEGGAR.    AN  IDYL. 

JVBOBN. 

Why  !  my  heart's  child  !  Thy  dog  salutes  thee, 

— see, — 
Glad-whining ;  and  thy  sheep,  too,  bleats,  by 

thee, — 
With  bread  made  gentle.     Why  in  the  dew  so 

early? 
The  morning  air  blows  cold ;  scarce  reddens  yet 
The  sun  above  the  fir-hill.     In  my  fold 
At  night  I  'm  almost  frozen.     Come,  and  kiss 
Me  warm  again. 


Thou  frozen  ?     In  the  rose-moon  ? 

O  lambkin,  weak  and  tender,  that  e'en  lies 

I'  th'  mid-day  sun,  and  trembles !     Take  the 

kiss, — 
Thy  lip  is  warm  enough,  thou  false  one !     So 
Is  thy  hand  too. 

iDxonr. 
Why  in  such  haste  ?     Thine  eyes 
Are  not  so  clear  as  wont,  and  smile  compelled. 


Beloved,  hear,  and  vex  me  not     Testreen 
I  knitted  in  the  bower,  pleased  to  behold 
The  field  of  rye-grass  wave  in  the  golden  gleam. 
And  hear  the  yellow-hammer,  cuckoo,  and  quail 
In  emulation  sing,  and  thought  the  while 
The  same  delighted  JQrgen.     Then  there  came 
The  old  lame  Tiess,  and  begged.     **  Father," 

said  I, 
«*  Is  all  the  bread  consumed  I  let  yon  bake 
Last  holiday.'     Sure,  you  grow  shameless!" 

Tiess 
Would  speak,  but  I  was  angry  and  o'ermled 

him. 
<*  God  may  again  assist  you,  Tiess !     The  host 
Supply  you  brandy  gratis  !     Go  !  "     But  then 
I  saw  hu  bald  head  tremble  in  the  gleam 
Of  the  evening  sun,  and  a  big  tear  flow  down 
From  his  gray  twinkling  eyes.     **  Speak  yet," 

said  I; 


*  MmzBL.    Oermaa  Litanturs,  VoL  n.,  pp.  373-376. 


«« Father,  ho#  is  it  ?  "  «« Maiden,"  answered  he, 
**  I  beg  not  for  myself,  but  for  the  old  curate, — 
Good  God  !  whom  they  to  us  degraded  !     He 
Lies  in  the  wood,  with  the  poor  forester. 
Who  has  his  house  of  children  full,  and  wants ! " 
««0  father !  " — I  sprang  up,  and  had  almost 
Embraced  him, — **you  are  a  good  man  '.  Come 

here." 
Then  took  I  what  my  hand  might  seize,  and 

stuffed 
His  wallet  full  of  sausages,  and  groata. 
Bacon,  and  cheese,  and  bread.    **  Now,  &ther, 

yet 
A  glass  of  kflmmelschnapP "  **  No,  maiden,  no; 
My  head 's  too  weak.     God  recompense  you ! " 

Forth 
He  hobbled  on  his  crutch  unto  the  wood 
In  moonlight,  that  he  might  not  be  observed. 

jUaoBN. 
Well  know  I  Father  Tiess.  His  comrade  told  me. 
That  when  a  soldier,  in  the  fbeman'a  land. 
He  rather  gave  than  took.     O,  great  reproach ! 
Our  curate  is  so  poor  the  beggar  tends  him. 
And  we  wist  not  of  it ! 


I  dreamed  of  him,  — 

How  good  he  was,  in  preaching,  catechizing. 
To  counsel  and  to  comfort  in  all  chances. 
And  at  the  sick-bed.     Toung  and  old,  all  loved 

him. 
And  when  some  sneak  accused  him  of  false 

doctrine. 
So  that  he  ultimately  lost  at  once 
His  office  and  his  bread, — all  prayed  and  wept. 
Till  he  himself  commanded  their  obedience. 
Wild  from  my  dream  I  roused,  and  found  with 

tears 
My  cushion  mobtened.     Scarce  the  cock  had 

crowed, 
I  rose,  and  peas  out  of  the  garden  took. 
And  yellow  wurzel,  with  this  pair  of  pigeons,— 
And  hasten  now  to  the  old  man  therewith. 
The  huntsman's  wife,  besides,  brings  in  a  basket 
His  breakftst  to  his  bed  :  he  may  be  glad  once. 

jObobm. 
Glad  is  he  ever,  though  he  suffer  wrong. 
He  who  acts  honestly  trusts  God  in  sunshine 
And  storm,  —  so  taught  he.     Tet  he  was  dis- 
graced ! 
Take  also,  Mary,  my  good-hearted  maid. 
This  piece  of  Dutch  cheese  in  the  basket;  yes, 
And  say,  I  '11  bring  a  lamb  to  him  at  evening. 
Fie !  shall  a  man  of  hunger  die,  because 
He  teacheth  what  God  saith,  not  men's  tradi- 
tions? 
Wolves  in  sheep's  clothing !  hang  your  heads 

for  shame ! 
Nathless,  God  be  your  judge  !     Old  Tiess,  and 

thou. 
Have  so  subdued  my  heart,  that  it  resolves, 
Sunday,  please  God,  to  share   their  evening 
meal. 


TIEDGE. 


303 


EXTRACT  FROM  LUISE. 

Mat  the  blessing  of  God,  my  dearest  and  love- 
liest daughter, 
Be  with  thee  !  yea,  the  blessing  of  God  on  this 

earth  and  in  hearen  ! 
Young  have  I  been,  and  now  am  old,  and  of  joy 

and  of  sorrow, 
In  this  uncertain  life,  sent  by  God,  mach,  much 

have  I  tasted : 
God  be  thanked   for  both  !     O,  soon  shall  I 

now  with  my  fttthers 
Lay  my  gray  head  in  the  grave  !  how  ftin!  for 

my  daughter  is  happy : 
Happy,  because  she  knows  this,  that  our  God, 

like  a  fiither  who  watches 
Carefully  over  bis  children,  us  blesses  in  joy 

and  in  sorrow. 
Wondrously  throbs  my  heart  at  the  sight  of  a 

bride  young  and  beauteous. 
Dressed  and  adorned,  while  she  leans,  in  affec- 
tionate, childlike  demeanour. 
On  the  arm  of  the  bridegroom,  who  through 

life's  path  shall  conduct  her  : 
Ready  to  bear  with  him  boldly,  let  whatsoever 

may  happen ; 
And  feeling  with  him,  to  exalt  his  delight  and 

lighten  his  sorrow ; 
And,  if  It  please  God,  to  wipe  fVom  his  dying 

forehead  the  last  sweat ! 
Even  such  my  presentiments  were,  when,  after 

the  bridal, 
I  my  young  wife  led  home.  Happy  and  serious, 

I  showed  her,  at  distance. 
All  the  extent  of  our  fields,  the  church-tower, 

and  the  dwellings,  and  this  one, 
Where  we  together  have  known  so  maoh  both 

of  good  and  of  evil. 
Thou,  my  only  child  !  then  in  sorrow  I  think 

of  the  others, 
When  my  path  to  the  church  by  their  blooming 

graves  doth  conduct  me. 
Soon,  thou  only  one,  wilt  thou  track  that  way 

whereon  I  came  hither, — 
Soon,  soon  my  daughter's  chamber,  soon  't  will 

be  desolate  to  me, 
And  my  daughter's  place  at  the  table !    In  vain 

shall  I  listen 
For  her  voice  afar  off,  and  her  footsteps  at  dis- 
tance approaching ! 
When  with  tby  husband  on  that  way  thou  from 

me  art  departed, 
Sobs  will  escape  me,  and  thee  my  eyes  bathed 

in  tears  long  will  follow  ; 
For  I  am  a  man  and  a  father, — and  my  daugh- 
ter, who  heartily  loves  me. 
Heartily  love !    But  I  will  in  faith  raise  my  head 

up  to  heaven, 
Wipe  my  eyes  from  their  tears,  and  with  folded 

hands  myself  humble 
£'en  in  prayer  before  Grod,  who,  as  a  fiither 

watches  his  children, 
Both  in  joy  and  in  sorrow  us  blesses,  for  we  are 

his  children. 


Tea,  for  this  is  the  law  of  the  Eternal,  that 

lather  and  mother 
Ever  they  shall  forsake,  who  as  husband  and 

wifo  are  united. 
Go,  then,  in  peace,  my  child !  forsake  thy  fom- 

ily  and  thy 
Father's  dwelling, — go,  by  the  youth  guided, 

who  to  thee  must  hence  be 
Father  and  mother !  Be  to  him  like  a  vine  that 

is  fruitful 
In  his  house  ;  round  his  table  thy  children  like 

branches  of  olive 
Flourish  !     80  will  the  man  be  blessed  in  the 

Lord  who  confideth. 
Lovely  and  fair  to  be  is  nothing ;  but  a  God- 
fearing wifo  brings 
Honor  and  blessing  both  !  for  and  if  the  Lord 

build  the  house  not. 
Surely  the  builders  but  labor  in  vain. 


CHRISTOPH  AUGUST  TIEDGE. 

This  lyric  poet  was  bom  Dec.  13,  1752,  at 
Gardelegen,  in  the  Altmark,  Prussia.  He  was, 
for  a  time,  a  private  teacher  in  a  noble  family 
in  Ellrich,  where  he  became  acquainted  with 
Gleim.  In  1792,  he  was  made  Private  Secreta- 
ry of  the  Canon  of  Stedem ;  afterwards  be  lived 
in  Magdeburg,  Halle,  and  Berlin.  In  1819,  he 
removed  to  Dresden,  where  he  died  in  1840. 
He  was  not  a  poet  of  very  vigorous  genius,  but 
his  works  are  delicate  and  graceful.  He  be- 
came known,  first,  by  his  **  Letters  of  Two  Lov- 
ers " ;  these  were  followed  by  his  elegies,  "  Ura- 
nia," a  poem  abounding  in  fine  passages,  and 
several  other  works  of  less  note. 

Tiedge's  works  were  published  by  A.  G.  Eber- 
hard,  Halle,  1823-29,  in  eight  volumes.  The 
fourth  edition,  in  ten  volumes,  appeared  in  1841. 
The  lift  of  Tiedge  was  written  by  Falkenstein, 
in  1841. 

Of  Tiedge's  sentimentality,  Menzel  *  remarks, 
rather  ill-naturedly :—  «<  He  was  of  a  soA,  almost 
womanish,  nature ;  and  these  natures,  we  know, 
work  themselves  up  into  such  a  state  of  emo- 
tion by  the  force  of  fancy,  that  they  can  cry  be- 
tween the  soup  and  the  boiled ;  so  that  they  can 
see  nothing,  bear  nothing,  do  nothing,  without 
giving  it  a  sentimental  twang.  Hence,  also, 
Tiedge  by  no  means  observes  so  judicious  a 
measure  as  Matthisson,  and  cannot  govern  him- 
self so  well ;  but  gives  a  loGse  rein  to  bis  melan- 
choly, and  bathes  in  the  stream  of  tears  he  has 
himself  shed,  with  a  foeling  of  comfort ;  and 
would  not  merely,  like  Matthisson,  please  peo- 
ple, but  infect  them  too,  and  sweep  away  every 
thing  by  the  stream  of  tears.  In  his  *  Urania,' 
^ ,  he  guides  this  stream,  like  another  milky  way, 
through  heaven,  and  dissolves  astronomy  into 
amazement,  ecstasy,  and  admiration  of  the  great- 


*  German  Lltanttura,  VoL  HI.,  pp.  81, 82. 


304 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


neie  of  God,  Borrow  for  our  littlenofls,  and,  final- 
ly, tears  of  emotion,  of  thanks,  and  of  resigna- 
tion." 

TO  THB  MEMORY  OP  k6rNER. 

Pboudlt,  e'en  now,  the  yoang  oak  waved  on 
high, 
Hung  round  with  youthful  green  full  gor- 
geously; 
And  calmly  graceful,  and  yet  bold  and  firee, 
Reared  its  majestic  head  in  upper  sky. 

Hope  said,  **How  great,  in  coming  days, 
shall  be 
That  tree's  renown  !  "  Already,  fiur  or  nigh, 
No  monarch  of  the  forest  towered  so  high. 

The  trembling  leaves  murmured  melodiously 
As  love's  soil  whisper }  and  its  branches  rung 

As  if  the  master  of  the  tuneful  string. 
Mighty  Apollo,  there  his  lyre  had  hung. 
But,   ah !    it  sank.    A  storm  had   bowed   its 
pride !  — 
Alas !  untimely  snatched  in  life's  green  spring, 
My  noble  youth,  the  bard  and  hero,  died ! 

Where  sleeps  my  youth  upon  his  coontry's 
breast? 
Show  me  the  place  where  ye  have  laid  him 
down. 
'Mid  his  own  music's  echoes  let  him  rest, 

And  in  the  brightness  of  hii  fitir  renown. 
Large  was  his  heart ;  his  free  soul  heavenward 
pressed; 
Alternate  songs  and  deeds  his  brow  did  crown. 
Where  sleeps  my  youth  upon  bis  country's 
breast? 
Show  me  the  place  where  ye  have  laid  him 
down. 
**  The  youth  lies  slumbering  where  the  battle- 
ground 
Drank  in  the  blood  of  noble  hearts  like  rain  " ; 
There,  youthful  hero,  in  thine  ear  shall  sound 
A  grateful  echo  of  thy  harp's  last  strain : 
**  O  Father,  bless  thou  me !  "  shall  ring  again ; 
That  blessing  thou  in  calmer  world  hast  found. 

Te  who  so  keenly  mourn  the  loved  one's  death, 
Go  with  me  to  the  mound  that  marks  his 
grave. 
And  breathe  awhile  the  consecrated  breath 
Of  the  old  oak  whose  boughs  high  o'er  him 

wave. 
Sad  Friendship  there  hath  laid  the  young  and 
brave; 
Her  hand  shall  guide  us  thither.     Hark  !  she 

saith, 
**  Beneath  the  hallowed  oak's  cool,  peaceful 
breath 
These  hands  had  dug  the  hero's  silent  grave ; 
Yet  were  the  dear  remains  forbid  to  rest 
Where  lip  to  lip  in  bloody  strife  was  pressed, 
And  ghastly  death  stares  from  the  mouldering 

heap; 
A  statelier  tomb  that  sacred  dust  mnst  keep ; 
A  German  prince  hath  spoken  :  This  new  guest. 
And  noblest,  in  a  princely  hall  shall  sleep." 


There  rests  the  Muses'  son,  —  his  conflicts  o'er. 
Forget  him  not,  my  German  country,  thon  ! 
The  wreath  that  twined  around  his  yoathlul 
brow 
May  deck  his  urn, — but  him,  alas!  no  more. 
Dost  ask,  thou  herdsmaid,  fbr  those  songs  of 
yore? 
Though  fled  his  form,  his  soul  is  with  us  now. 
And  ye  who  mourn  the  hero  gone  before. 

Here  on  his  grave  renew  the  patriot  vow ; 

Through  freedom's  holy  struggle  he  hath  made. 

Ye  noble  German  sons,  his  heavenward  way. 

Feel  what  he  felt,  while  bending  o'er  his  clay ; 

Thus  honor  him,  while,  in  the  green-arched 

shade, 
Sweet  choirs  of  nightingales,  through  grove  and 
glade. 
Awake  the  memory  of  his  kindling  lay. 


THE  WAVE  OF  UPE. 

^*  Whithbr,  thou  tnibid  wave  ? 
Whither,  with  so  much  haste, 
As  if  a  thief  wert  thou  ?  " 

«« I  am  the  Wave  of  Life, 
Stained  with  my  margin's  dost ; 
From  the  struggle  and  the  strife 
Of  the  narrow  stream  I  fly 
To  the  sea's  immensity. 
To  wash  from  me  the  slime 
Of  the  muddy  banks  of  time.'* 


LUDWIG  THEOBUL  KOSEGARTEN. 

Ths  poet  Kosegarten  was  bom  February  let, 
1758,  at  GrevismQhlen,  in  Mecklenbuig.  He 
studied  at  Greiftwald,  then  became  a  private 
tutor  in  the  family  of  a  Pomeranian  nobleman. 
In  1792,  he  was  appointed  a  preacher  at  Al- 
tenkirchen,  in  the  island  of  Rflgen.  On  this 
island  he  lived  quietly  and  happily  ;  occupying 
his  leisure  hours  with  literature  and  poetry, 
until,  in  1807,  he  was  appointed  ProfiMsor  of 
History  in  Greifswald.  He  died  October  26th, 
1818.  He  was  a  poet  of  deep  feeling  and 
lively  imagination,  but  sometimes  indulged  in 
fiJse  pathos.  He  wrote  epic  idyls,  legends, 
lyric  and  elegiac  poems,  dramas,  and  novels. 
He  also  translated  from  the  English,  especially 
Richardson's  **  Clarissa."  His  works  were  pub- 
lished at  Greifswald,  in  1824-25.  His  life 
was  written  by  his  son,  J.  G.  L.  Kosegarten, 
in  1826. 


THE  AMEN  OF  THE  STONES. 

Blihd  with  old  age,  the  Venerable  Bede 
Ceased  not,  for  that,  to  preach  and  publish  forth 
The  news  from  heaven, — the  tidings  of  great 

joy- 

From  town  to  town, — through  all  the  villages, — 


KOBE  GARTEN.  — SCHILLER. 


305 


With  tnutjr  guidance,  roamed  the  aged  saint, 
And  preached  the  word  with  all  the  fire  of  youth. 

One  day  hia  boj  had  led  him  to  a  vale 
That  la  J  all  thickly  sowed  with  mighty  rocka. 
In  mischief,  more  than  malice,  spake  the  boy  : 
**  Most  reverend  father  !  there  are  many  men 
Assembled  here,  who  wait  to  hear  thy  voice.*' 

The  blind  old  man,  so  bowed,  straightway  rose 

up, 
Cboee  him  his  text,  expounded,  then  applied; 
Exhorted,  warned,  rebuked,  and  comforted. 
So  fervently,  that  soon  the  gushing  tears 
Streamed  thick  and  fast  down  to  bis  hoary  beard. 
When,  at.  the  close,  as  seemetb  always  meet. 
He    prayed  "Our  Father,'*   and    pronounced 

aloud, 
**  Thine  is  the  kingdom  and  the  power,  thine 
The  glory  now  and  through  eternity,**  — 
At  once  there  rang  through  all  that  echoing  vale 
A  sound  of  many  thousand  voices  crying, 
**  Amen  \  most  reverend  Sire,  amen  !  amen  !  '* 

Trembling  with  terror  and  remorse,  the  boy 
Knelt  down  before  the  saint,  and  owned  his  sin. 
<«Son,**  said  the  old  man,  ^hast  thou,  then, 

ne*er  read, 
*When  men  are  dumb,  the  stones  shall  cry 

aloud  *  ?  — 
Henceforward  mock  not,  son,  the  word  of  God ! 
Living  it  is,  and  mighty,  cutting  sharp. 
Like  a  two-edged  sword.     And  when  the  heart 
Of  flesh  grows  hard  and  stubborn  as  the  stone, 
A  heart  of  flesh  shall  stir  in  stones  themselves!  '* 


VIA  CRUCI8,  VIA  LUCia 

Tbrouob  night  to  light ! — And  though  to  mor- 
tal eyes 
Creation's  fiuse  a  pall  of  horror  wear, 
Good  cheer !  good  cheer !    The  gloom  of  mid- 
night flies ; 
Then  shall  a  sunrise  follow,  mild  and  fair. 

Through   storm  to  calm !  —  And  though   his 
thunder-car 
The  rumbling  tempest  drive  through  earth 
and  sky. 
Good  cheer  !  good  cheer !     The  elemental  war 
Tells  that  a  blessed  healing  hour  is  nigh. 

Through  frost  to  spring! — And  though  the  bit- 
ing blast 
Of  Enrus  stiffen  nature's  juicy  veins. 
Good  cheer !  good  cheer !  When  winter*s  wrath 
is  past, 
Sofl-murmuring  spring  breathes  sweetly  o*er 
the  plains. 

Through  strife  to  peace! — And  though,  with 
bristling  front, 
A  thousand  frightful  deaths  encompass  thee. 
Good  cheer  !  good  cheer !    Brave  thou  the  bat^ 
tie's  brunt. 
For  the  peace-march  and  song  of  victory. 
39 


Through  sweat  to  sleep! — And  though  the 
sultry  noon. 
With  heavy,  drooping  wing,  oppress  thee  now. 
Good  cheer !  good  cheer !     The  cool  of  eve- 
ning soon 
Shall  lull  to  sweet  repose  thy  weaiy  brow. 

Through  cross  to  crown! — And   though  thy 
spirit's  life 
Trials  untold  assail  with  giant  strength. 
Good  cheer !  good  cheer  !  Soon  ends  the  bitter 
strife. 
And  thou  shalt  reign  in  peace  with  Christ  at 
length. 

Through  woe  to  joy! — And  though  at  morn 
thou  weep. 
And  though  the  midnight  find  thee  weeping 
still. 
Good  cheer !  gpod  cheer !  The  Shepherd  loves 
his  sheep ; 
Resign  thee  to  the  watchful  Father*s  will. 

Through   death   to   life! — And   through   this 
vale  of  tears. 

And  through  this  thistle-field  of  life,  ascend 
To  the  great  supper  in  that  world  whose  years 

Of  bliss  unfading,  cloudless,  know  no  end. 


JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDRICH 
VON  SCHILLER. 

ScHiLLBR,  the  illustrious  friend  of  Goethe, 
was  born  Nov.  10,  1759,  at  Marbach,  in  WOr- 
temberg.  He  manifested  early  an  ardent  im- 
agination,  and  a  love  fi>r  poetry.  The  poet- 
ical passages  of  the  Old  Testament,  and  the 
works  of  Klopstock,  were  his  favorite  reading. 
His  first  desire  was  to  study  theology,  but,  in 
1773,  Charles,  the  duke  of  WOrtemberg,  offered 
to  educate  him  at  his  military  school ;  an  offer 
which  Schiller's  father  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to 
decline.  Here  he  lived  in  almost  monastic  se- 
clusion from  the  world.  In  addition  to  the 
military  studies  of  the  place,  that  of  jurispru- 
dence was  pursued  there.  The  school  was 
af^rwards  removed  to  Stuttgart,  and  the  science 
of  medicine  included  in  its  plan  of  studies,  to 
which  Schiller  gladly  devoted  himself  Latin 
and  poetry  also  occupied  part  of  his  time.  At 
the  age  of  sixteen,  be  published  a  translation  of 
part  of  the  <<  iCneid,"  in  hexameters.  He  also 
began  an  epic,  the  hero  of  which  was  Moses ; 
this  was  afterwards  destroyed.  The  reading  of 
Shakspeare  kindled  in  him  an  enthusiasm  for 
the  drama,  and  he  began  two  pieces,  which  were 
burned.  His  original  power  first  appeared  in 
«<  The  Robbers,"  which  he  commenced  in  1777, 
at  the  age  of  eighteen  years.  In  1780,  he  was 
appointed  Military  Physician  in  Stuttgart ;  and 
this  situation  secured  to  him  a  greater  degree  of 
liberty  than  he  bad  before  enjoyed.  He  print- 
ed** The  Robbers"  at  his  own  expense.  In 
s2 


306 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


1782,  the  play,  baring  undergone  aome  chvigeSf 
was  performed  at  Mannheim.  The  representa- 
tion was  soon  after  repeated ;  and  Schiller,  hav- 
ing left  his  post  without  obtaining  leave  of  ab- 
sence, was  put  under  arrest.  During  his  deten- 
tion, he  planned  the  *<  Cabal  and  Love,*'  and 
the  ^*  Conspiracy  of  Fiesco."  Being  now  sat- 
isfied of  the  impossibility  of  continuing  in  his 
present  career,  he  left  Stuttgart  secretly,  and 
lived  for  a  time  at  the  house  of  Madame  von 
WoUzogen  in  Bauersbach,  where  he  completed 
his  «'  Fiesco  "  and  <«  Cabal  and  Love.'*  In  1783, 
he  became  attached  to  the  theatre  in  Mannheim, 
and  formed  the  plan  of  his  *<  Don  Carlos  **  and 
«^  Mary  Stuart.*'  In  1785,  he  went  to  Leipsic, 
and  in  the  same  year  to  Dresden,  where  he  re- 
mained till  1787.  «« Don  Carlos  **  was  written 
during  this  period.  In  1787,  he  went  to  Wei- 
mar, where  he  was  kindly  received  by  Wieland 
and  Herder.  The  next  year,  he  wrote  the  <«  His- 
tory of  the  Revolt  of  the  Netherlands,'*  a  work 
suggested  by  the  preparatory  studies  for  «^  Don 
Carlos.*'  His  acquaintance  with  Goethe  began 
the  same  year.  In  1789,  he  was  appointed, 
through  the  influence  of  Goethe,  Professor  Ex- 
traordinary of  History  at  Jena,  where  he  taught 
both  history  and  aesthetics.  For  some  years  he 
occupied  himself  chiefly  with  history,  SBsthetics, 
the  Kantian  philosophy,  and  with  the  composi- 
tion of  that  very  able  and  interesting  historical 
work,  the  "  History  of  the  Thirty  Tears*  War.*' 
In  1790,  he  married.  In  1793,  he  formed  the 
plan  of  publishing  the  **  Hours,"  in  which  he 
was  supported  by  the  best  writers  of  Germany. 
He  now  became  intimately  acquainted  with 
Goethe,  and  published  many  of  his  finest  lyrical 
poems  soon  after  this  time.  In  1796,  he  be- 
came Ordinary  Professor  in  the  University  of 
Jena.  In  1797,  he  produced  his  first  ballads. 
The  magnificent  dramatic  composition,  *•*•  Wal- 
lenstein,"  was  finished  in  1799.  From  this 
time  he  lived  in  Weimar,  where,  in  1800  and 
1801,  he  produced  »<  Mary  Stuart"  and  the 
"Maid  of  Orleans."  In  1802,  he  was  ennobled 
by  the  emperor  of  Crermany.  In  1803,  appear- 
ed the  «« Bride  of  Messina  "  and  •«  William 
Tell."  In  1804,  he  went  to  Berlin,  where  he 
attended  a  representation  of  "  William  Tell," 
and  was  enthusiastically  received.  He  returned 
ill,  and  died  May  9,  1805,  at  the  early  age  of 
forty-six. 

Schiller  was  a  man  of  a  profound  and  earnest 
character.  He  was  by  far  the  greatest  tragic 
poet  of  Germany,  and  one  of  the  greatest  in 
modem  literature.  His  lyrical  poems  are  noble 
productions.  As  a  historian  and  philosopher  he 
held  a  very  distinguished  rank.  The  moral 
elevation  of  his  works  is  one  of  their  most  strik- 
ing characteristics.  His  name  is  an  immortal 
possession  for  Germany. 

^  Menzel  *  has  given  an  eloquent  analysis  of 
his  character,  which,  though  animated  by  the 
warmth  of  an  enthusiastic  admirer,  is  hardly 

♦  Oennan  Litantara,  VoL  HI.,  pp.  141  -  1«l 


overcolored.  The  whole  is  too  long  for  quota- 
tion, but  the  following  passages  contain  the 
most  prominent  parts. 

*'  He  first  perceived,  that,  while  modem  poe- 
try had,  indeed,  returned  from  the  false  ideals 
of  the  Gallomania  to  simple  nature,  on  the 
other  hand,  it  had  again  become  the  problem 
of  romantic  poetry  to  return  from  false  nature 
to  pure  ideals.  Most  of  the  storm-and-pressure 
poets  and  romanticists,  up  to  this  time,  had 
contented  themselves  with  holding  up  the  pic- 
tures of  other  times  and  manners,  contrasted 
with  the  modern  character;  ofUn  other  cos- 
tumes merely,  or  ftntastic,  dreamy  states,  con- 
jured up  for  the  gratification  of  every  whim  and 
every  vanity.  But  Schiller  took  up  the  matter 
more  profoundly,  and  would  not  have  one  age 
opposed  to  another,  but  the  everlasting  ideal 
contrasted  with  temporary  vulgarity,  so  that  we 
might  not  rest  satisfied  with  costume,  and  ex- 
ternal circumstances  and  conditions,  but  might 
represent  man  in  great  pictures  of  character. 
Whether  antique,  romantic,  or  modem,  it  is  all 
the  same;  human  nature  is  alike  through  all 
ages.  It  ennobles  or  degrades  every  age ;  and 
the  poets,  according  as  they  take  it  up,  contrib- 
ute to  the  elevation  or  degradation  of  men. 
Therefore  Schiller  believed  it  was  the  highest 
problem  of  the  poet  to  treat  human  nature  after 
the  spirit  of  the  noblest  ideality,  as  Greek  art 
had  done  at  its  most  flourishing  period,  though 
only  in  the  representation  of  corporeal  beauty ; 
that  is,  it  had  represented  the  godlike  form  of 
man.  In  this,  the  highest  of  problems,  all  the 
controversy  of  the  school  appeared  to  him  to 
be  annihilated ;  and  he  himself,  though  Goethe 
was  constantly  urging  him,  was  averse  to  mak- 
ing a  strong  distinction  between  the  antique, 
romantic,  and  modem,  and  to  wearing  one 
mask  after  another,  like  his  aristocratic  friend. 
Modem  in  *  Cabal  and  Love,'  romantic  in 
*•  Wallenstein '  and  the  *  Maid  of  Orleans,*  an- 
tique in  the  *  Bride  of  Messina,'  Schiller  is 
nevertheless  the  same  in  all,  and  variety  of  form 
disappears  before  identity  of  spirit. 

**  That  which  has  lent  Schiller's  works  such 
great  power  over  the  minds  of  men  is,  at  the 
same  time,  their  most  amiable  characteristic ; 
namely,  their  youthful  spirit.  He  is  the  poet 
of  youth,  and  will  always  continue  so ;  for  all 
his  feelings  correspond  to  the  earliest  aspiration 
of  the  yet  uncorrapted  youthful  heart,  of  love 
yet  pure,  of  faith  yet  unshaken,  of  hope  still 
warm,  of  the  vigor  of  young  souls  not  ener- 
vated. But  he  is,  also,  the  favorite  of  all  who 
have  preserved  their  virtue, -— whose  sense  of 
troth,  and  right,  and  greatness,  and  beauty,  has 
not  perished  in  the  mart  of  vulgar  life. 

'*  Schiller  appeared  with  youthful  vigor,  in  a 
corrapt  and  decrepit  age,  with  a  heart  of  won- 
drous strength,  and,  at  the  same  time,  of  virgin 
purity.  He  has  purified  and  regenerated  Ger- 
man poetry.  He  has  warred  with  the  immoral 
tendency  of  the  prevailing  taste  of  his  age 


SCHILLER. 


307 


more  powerfullj  and  yictorioailj  than  aiij 
other.  Undazzled  by  the  brilliant  wit  of  his 
time,  he  has  rentared  to  appeal  again  to  the 
purest  and  most  original  feelings  of  man,  and 
to  oppose  to  the  scoffers  an  austere  and  holy 
earnestness.  To  him  belongs  the  glory  of  hav- 
ing purified,  cleared,  and  ennobled  the  spirit  of 
poetry.  Germany  already  enjoys  the  fiiiits  of 
this  transformation ;  for,  since  the  appearance 
of  Schiller,  all  our  poetry  has  adopted  a  digni- 
fied tone.  And  even  neighbouring  nations  have 
been  seized  by  this  spirit ;  and  Chiller  exerci- 
ses upon  that  great  change  that  is  now  going 
on  in  their  taste  and  poetry  a  mighty  influence, 
which  they  themselves  loudly  acknowledge. 

'*  We  have  to  thank  him  for  yet  more  than 
the  purification  of  the  temple  of  art.  His  poet- 
ical creations  have  had,  beyond  the  province  of 
art,  an  immediate  effect  upon  life  itself.  The 
mighty  charm  of  his  song  has  not  only  touched 
the  imaginations  of  men,  but  even  their  con- 
sciences; and  the  fiery  zeal  with  which  he 
entered  into  conflict  with  all  that  is  base  and 
vulgar,  the  holy  enthusiasm  with  which  he 
vindicated  the  acknowledged  rights  and  the 
insulted  dignity  of  man,  more  frequently  and 
victoriously  than  any  before  him,  make  his 
name  illustrious,  not  only  among  the  poets,  but 
among  the  noblest  sages  and  heroes,  who  are 
dear  to  mankind. 


'*  Schiller  has  concentrated  his  whole  poet- 
ical power  upon  the  representation  of  man; 
and,  in  feet,  of  the  ideal  greatness  and  beauty 
of  the  human  soul,  —  the  highest  and  most 
mysterious  of  all  miracles.  The  external  world 
he  looked  upon  only  as  a  foil,  —  as  a  contrast 
or  comparison  for  man.  He  set  the  moral 
power  of  man  in  opposition  to  the  blind  force 
of  nature,  to  exhibit  the  former  with  its  more 
elevated  nobleness,  or  struggling  with  victorious 
strength,  as  in  *  The  Diver '  and  « The  Surety ' ; 
or  he  assigns  a  human  sense  to  nature,  and 
gives  a  moral  meaning  to  her  blind  powers,  as 
in  'The  Gods  of  Greece,*  «The  Lament  of 
Ceres,'  '  Hero  and  Leander,'  *  The  Cranes  of 
Ibycus,'  ( The  Bell,'  and  others.  Even  in  his 
historical  writings,  he  is  less  concerned  for  the 
epical  course  of  the  whole,  corresponding  to 
natural  necessity,  than  for  the  prominent  char- 
acters, and  for  the  element  of  human  fieedom 
as  opposed  to  that  necessity. 

*'  Raphael's  name  has  forced  itself  involun- 
tarily upon  me ;  and  it  is  undeniable  that  the 
spirit  of  moral  beauty  hovers  over  Schiller's 
poetical  creations,  as  the  spirit  of  visible  beauty 
hovers  over  Raphael's  pictures.  THe  moral 
element  appears  in  the  changes  and  the  life  of 
history ;  and  action,  struggle,  is  the  sphere  in 
which  it  moves  :  visible  beauty,  like  all  nature 
together,  is  confined  to  quiet  existence. 

"Thus,  Schiller^s  ideals  must  show  them- 
selves in  conflict ;  those  of  Raphael,  in  gentle 
and  sublime  repose.     Schiller's  genius  could 


not  shun  the  office  of  the  warlike  angel  Mi- 
chael ;  Raphael's  genius  was  only  the  gentle 
angel  who  bears  his  name.  That  originid  and 
inexplicable  charm,  however,  the  heavenly 
magic,  the  reflected  splendor  of  a  higher  world, 
which  belongs  to  the  faces  of.  Raphael,  belongs 
also  to  the  characters  of  Schiller.  No  painter 
has  been  able  to  represent  the  human  fece,  no 
poet  the  human  soul,  with  this  loveliness  and 
majesty  of  beauty.  And  as  Raphael's  genius 
remains  the  same,  and  as  that  angel  of  light 
and  peace,  under  many 'names  and  forms,  al- 
ways gazes  upon  us  from  amidst  repose  and 
transfigured  glory,  so  Schiller's  genius  u  always 
alike,  and  we  see  the  same  militant  angel  in 
Charles  Moor,  Amalia,  Ferdinand,  Louisa,  Mar- 
quis Posa,  Max  Piccolomini,  'Thekla,  Mary 
Stuart,  Mortimer,  Joan  of  Orleans,  and  William 
Tell.  The  former  genius  bears  the  palm,  the 
latter  the  sword.  The  former  rests  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  a  peace  never  to  be  disturbed, 
absorbed  in  his  own  splendor ;  the  other  turns 
his  lovely  and  angelie  countenance,  menacing 
and  mournful,  towards  the  monsters  of  the 
deep. 

"Schiller's  heroes  are  distinguished  by  a 
nobleness  of  nature  which  produces  at  once 
the  effect  of  pure  and  perfect  beauty,  like  the 
nobleness  expressed  by  the  pictures  of  Raphael. 
There  is  about  them  something  kingly,  that  at 
once  excites  a  holy  reverence.  But  this  beam 
of  a  higher  light,  felling  upon  the  dark  shadows 
of  earthly  corruption,  can  but  shine  the  bright- 
er :  among  the  spectres  of  hell,  an  angel  be- 
comes the  lovelier. 

"  The  first  secret  of  this  beauty  is  the  angelic 
innocence  which  dwells  eternally  in  the  noblest 
natures.  This  nobleness  of  innocence  ^curs, 
with  the  same  celestial  features  of  a  pure  young 
angel,  in  all  the  great  poetic  creations  of  Schil- 
ler. In  the  clearest  transfiguration,  like  the 
purity  of  childhood,  perfectly  unarmed,  and  yet 
unassailable,  like  the  royal  infent,  who,  accord- 
ing to  the  legend,  played  unharmed  and  smil- 
ing among  the  wild  beasts  of  the  forests,  —  this 
innocence  stands  forth  in  the  noble  picture  of 
Fridolin. 

**  If  it  becomes  conscious  of  its  own  happi- 
ness, it  then  excites  the  envy  of  the  celestial 
powers.  With  this  new  and  touching  charm, 
we  see  it  in  *Hero  and  Leander.'  Adorned 
with  the  warrior's  helm,  its  blooming  cheeks 
blushing  with  the  fire  of  noble  passion,  yonth- 
fol  innocence  goes  forth  against  all  the  dark 
powers  of  hell.  Thus  has  Schiller  delineated 
it  in  « The  Diver,'  and  « The  Surety,'  and  in 
those  unhappy  lovers,  Charles  Moor  and  Ame- 
lia, Ferdinand  and  Louisa,  and,  above  all,  in 
Max  PiccoloiAini  and  Thekla.  Over  these' 
moving  pictures  a  magic  of  poetry  hovers, 
which  is  nowhere  equalled.  It  is  the  flute- 
tone  amidst  wild  and  shrieking  music,  a  blue 
glimpse  of  heaven  in  a  storm,  a  paradise  within 
Uie  abyss  of  a  crater. 


308 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


**  The  holy  innocence  of  the  virgin  appears 
under  the  noblest  light  when  she  is  selected  as 
the  champion  of  God.  The  profound  mystery 
of  Christianity,  and  of  Christian  poetry,  is  the 
fact,  that  the  salvation  of  the  world  comes  from 
a  pure  virgin,  the  highest  power  from  the  purest 
innocency.  In  this  spirit  Schiller  has  com- 
posed his  *  Maid  of  Orleans  * ',  and  she  is  the 
most  perfect  manifestation  of  that  warlike  angel 
who  bears  the  helmet  and  banner  of  Heaven. 

<*  Again,  in  another  way  Schiller  has  had  the 
art  of  wedding  this  innocence  to  every  noble 
development  of  genuine  manliness.  Here  three 
holy  and  heroic  forms  tower  above  the  rest, — 
that  martial  youth.  Max  Piccolomini,  pure,  un- 
corrupted,  among  all  the  vices  of  the  camp  and 
court;  the  Marquis  Posa,  whose  mind,  armed 
with  all  intellectual  culture,  had  remained  a 
pure  temple  of  innocence ;  finally,  that  robust 
and  powerful  son  of  the  mountains,  William 
Tell,  after  his  way  a  complete  counterpart  to 
the  Maid  of  Orleans. 

**  If  in  these  cases  innocence  shines  with  its 
purest  glory,  Schiller  knew  also  the  contest 
of  original  innocence  with  the  contamination 
of  self-contracted  guilt,  through  the  violent  pas- 
sions; and  he  has  conjured  it  up  before  our 
souls  with  the  like  love  and  the  same  perfect 
art  How  deeply  the  Magdalen  character  af- 
fects us  in  Mary  Stuart !  What  can  be  more 
touching  than  the  self-conquest  of  Charles 
Moor?  With  what  unsurpassable  spirit,  truth, 
and  terror  is  the  conflict  in  the  great  souls  of 
Fiesco  and  Wallenstein  represented  ! 

"  We  turn  now  to  the  second  secret  of  the 
beauty  belonging  to  Schiller's  ideal  characters. 
This  is  their  nobleness,  —  their  honorableness. 
His  heroes  and  heroines  never  discredit  the 
pride  and  the  dignity  which  announce  a  loftier 
nature;  and  all  their  outward  acts  bear  the 
stamp  of  magnanimity  and  inborn  nobleness. 
Its  perfect  opposite  is  the  vulgar  character,  and 
that  conventional  spirit  which  serves  for  a  bri- 
dle and  leading-strings  to  the  vulgar  nature. 
Strong,  free,  independent,  original,  following 
only  the  guidance  of  a  noble  spirit,  Schiller's 
heroes  rend  asunder  the  web  encompassed  by 
which  vulgar  men  drag  along  their  common- 
place existence.  It  is  a  very  distinctive  mark 
of  Schiller's  poetry,  that  all  his  heroes  bear 
that  impress  of  genius ;  they  have  that  impos- 
ing character  which  in  real  life  usually  accom- 
panies the  highest  nobleness  of  human  nature. 
All  his  heroes  wear  the  stamp  of  Jove  upon 
their  brows.  In  his  earliest  poems,  we  might, 
perhaps,  consider  this  free  and  bold  demeanour 
somewhat  uncouth  and  sharp-cornered ;  and 
even  the  poet,  at  elegant  Weimar,  suffered 
himself  to  be  seduced  into  giving  his  robbers 
a  little  touch  of  civilization.  But  who  would 
not  look  through  the  rough  outside,  into  the 
solid  and  pure  diamond  germ  of  the  nobler 
nature  ?  Whatever  follies  are  to  be  found  in 
« Charles  Moor,'  in  « Cabal  and  Love,'  and  in 
*  Fiesco,'  I  can  consider  them  under  no  other 


light  than  the  fi>]lie8  of  that  old  German  Par- 
cifal,  who  gave  a  proof,  when  a  rough  boy  io 
child's  clothes,  of  his  noble  and  heroic  heart, 
to  the  shame  of  all  scomers  ;  nay,  the  force  of 
moral  beauty  in  a  noble  nature  can  nowhere 
operate  more  touchingly  and  affectingly  than 
where  it  is  thus  unconsciously  laid  open  to 
one-sided  derision. 

«*  The  third  and  highest  secret  of  the  beauty 
of  Schiller's  characters  is  the  fire  of  noble  pas- 
sions. Every  great  heart  is  touched  with  this 
fire :  it  is  the  sacrificial  fire  to  the  heavenly 
powers;  the  vestal  flame,  guarded  by  conse- 
crated hands  in  the  temple  of  God ;  the  Pro- 
methean spark,  stolen  from  heaven,  to  give  a 
godlike  soul  to  men ;  the  Pentecost  fire  of  in- 
spiration, into  which  souls  are  baptized  ;  the 
phoenix  fire,  in  which  our  race  renews  its  youth 
for  ever.  Without  the  glow  of  noble  passions, 
nothing  great  can  flourish,  either  in  life  or  in 
poetry.  Every  man  of  genius  bears  this  fire 
in  his  bosom,  and  all  his  creations  are  pervaded 
with  it.  Schiller's  poetry  is  a  strong  and  fiery 
wine ;  all  his  words  are  flames  of  the  noblest 
sentiment.  The  ideal  characters  which  he  has 
created  are  genuine  children  of  his  glowing  heart, 
and  parted  rays  of  his  own  fire.  But,  before  all 
other  poets,  Schiller  maintains  the  prerogative 
of  the  purest,  and  at  the  same  time  the  strong- 
est passion.  No  one  of  so  pure  a  heart  ever 
sustained  this  fire ;  no  one  of  such  fire  ever 
possessed  this  purity.  Thus  we  see  the  dia- 
mond, the  purest  of  earthly  substances,  when 
it  is  kindled,  bum  with  a  brilliancy  and  an 
inward  strength  of  heat,  compared  to  which 
every  other  fire  appears  fbeble  and  dim." 

Schiller's  works  were  published  at  Stuttgart 
and  Tobingen  in  1827  -  28,  in  eighteen  parts ; 
editions,  in  one  large  volume,  appeared  in  1829, 
1834,  and  1840 ;  a  beautiful  octavo  edition,  in 
1835-36,  in  twelve  volumes;  a  pocket  edi- 
tion, in  1838-39,  in  twelve  volumes.  His 
life  was  written  by  H.  Doring;  also  by  Car- 
oline von  Wollzogen,  1830 ;  another  by  Hoff- 
meister.  The  «*  Life  of  Schiller,"  in  English,  by 
Thomas  Carlyle,  is  a  very  interesting  and  ele- 
gant work.  His  "  Letters  to  Dalberg  "  appear- 
ed in  1819 ;  "  Correspondence  between  Schil- 
ler and  Goethe,"  Stuttgart,  1828-29;  "Cor- 
respondence between  William  Humboldt  and 
Schiller,"  1830.  The  principal  poetical  works 
of  Schiller  have  been  translated  into  English, 
some  of  them  many  times ;  **  Wallenstein,"  by 
Coleridge,  and  again  by  Mr.  Moir ;  "  William 
Tell,"  "  Mary  Stuart,"  and  others,  by  W.  Peter ; 
« William  Tell,"  also,  by  Rev.  C.  T.  Brooks, 
and  «« Don  Caries,"  by  Mr.  Calvert,  with  much 
skill  and  fidelity.  The  lyrical  poems  and  ballads 
have  occupied  the  pens  of  some  of  the  most 
distinguished  writers  of  the  times.  The  "  Song 
of  the  Bell  "  has  been  several  times  translated 
in  England,  and  twice  in  America,  namely,  by 
8.  A.  Eliot,  and  J.  S.  Dwight,  —  both  transla- 
tions are  excellent.  A  translation  of  the  poems 
and    ballads    has  just  appeared    in   England, 


SCHILLER. 


309 


ftom  the  pen  of  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton ; 
and  a  volume  by  John  Herman  Merivale,  con- 
taining «« the  Minor  Poems  of  Schiller,  of  the 
Second  and  Third  Periods,  with  a  few  of  those 
of  earlier  date,  translated  for  the  moat  part  into 
the  same  metres  with  the  original." 


SONG  OP  THE  BELL 

Fastenxd  deep  in  firmest  earth, 

Stands  the  mould  of  well  burnt  claj. 
Now  we  '11  give  the  hell  its  birth ; 
Quick,  my  friends,  no  more  delay  ! 
From  the  heated  brow 
Sweat  must  freely  flow. 
If  to  your  master  praise  be  given: 
But  the  blessing  comes  irom  Heaven. 

To  the  work  we  now  prepare 

A  serious  thought  is  surely  due ; 
And  cheerfblly  the  toil  we  '11  share, 

If  cheerful  words  be  mingled  too. 
Then  let  us  still  with  care  observe 

What  from   our  strength,  yet  weakness, 
springs; 
For  he  respect  can  ne'er  deserve 

Who  hands  alone  to  labor  brings.^ 
T  is  only  this  which  honors  man ; 

Hia  miod  with  heavenly  fire  was  warmed, 
That  he  with  deepest  thought  might  scan 

The  work  which  his  own  hand  has  formed. 

With  splinters  of  the  driest  pine 

Now  feed  the  fire  below ; 
Then  the  rising  flame  shall  shine, 
And  the  melting  ore  shall  flow. 
Boils  the  brass  within. 
Quickly  add  the  tin ; 
That  the  thick  metallic  mass 
Rightly  to  the  mould  may  pass. 

What  with  the  aid  of  fire's  dread  power 

We  in  the  dark,  deep  pit  now  hide. 
Shall,  on  some  lofty,  sacred  tower. 

Tell  of  our  skill  and  form  our  pride. 
And  it  shall  last  to  days  remote. 

Shall  thrill  the  ear  of  many  a  race ; 
Shall  sound  with  sorrow's  mournful  note. 

And  call  to  pure  devotion's  grace. 
Whatever  to  the  sons  of  earth 

Their  changing  destiny  brings  down. 
To  the  deep,  solemn  clang  gives  birth. 

That  rings  from  out  this  metal  crown. 

See,  the  boiling  surface,  whitening. 
Shows  the  whole  is  mixing  well ; 
Add  the  salts,  the  metal  brightening, 
Ere  flows  out  the  liquid  bell. 
Clear  from  foam  or  scum 
Must  the  mixture  come. 
That  with  a  rich  metallic  note 
The  sound  aloft  in  air  .may  float. 


Now  with  joy  and  festive  mirth 

Salute  that  loved  and  lovely  child. 
Whose  earliest  moments  on  the  earth 

Are  passed  in  sleep's  dominion  mild. 
While  on  Time'e  lap  he  rests  his  head, 
The  fatal  sisters  spin  their  thread ; 

A  mother's  love,  with  softest  rays. 

Gilds  o'er  the  morning  of  hia  days.  — 
But  years  with  arrowy  haate  are  fled. 
His  nursery  bonds  he  proudly  spurns ; 

He  rushes  to  the  world  without ; 
After  long  wandering,  home  he  turns. 

Arrives  a  stranger  and  in  doubt. 
There,  lovely  in  her  beauty's  youth, 

A  form  of  heavenly  mould  he  meeta. 
Of  modest  air  and  simple  truth ', 

The  blushing  maid  he  bashful  greets. 
A  nameless  feeling  seizes  strong 

On  his  young  heart.     He  wdks  alone ; 
To  his  moist  eyes  emotions  throng ; 

His  joy  in  ruder  sports  baa  flown. 
He  follows,  blushing,  where  she  goes ; 

And  should  her  smile  but  welcome  him. 
The  fairest  flower,  the  dewy  rose. 

To  deck  her  beauty  seems  too  dim. 
O  tenderest  passion  !  Sweetest  hope  ! 

The  golden  hours  of  earliest  love ! 
Heaven's  self  to  him  appears  to  ope ; 

He  feels  a  bliss  this  earth  above. 
O,  that  it  could  eternal  last .' 
That  youthful  love  were  never  past ! 

See  how  brown  the  liquid  tuma  I 
Now  this'rod  I  thrust  within  ; 
If  it 's  glazed  before  it  burns. 
Then  the  casting  may  begin. 
Quick,  my  lads,  and  steady, 
If  the  mixture  's  ready  ! 
When  the  strong  and  weaker  blend. 
Then  we  hope  a  happy  end  : 
Whenever  strength  with  softness  joins. 
When  with  the  rough  the  mild  combines. 

Then  all  is  union  sweet  and  strong. 
Consider,  ye  who  join  your  hands. 
If  hearts  are  twined  in  mutual  bands ; 
For  passion  *s  brief,  repentance  long. 
How  lovely  in  the  maiden's  hair 

The  bridal  garland  plays  ! 
And  merry  bells  invite  us  there. 
Where  mingle  festive  lays. 
Alas !  that  all  life's  brightest  hours 
Are  ended  with  its  earliest  May  ! 
That  firom  those  sacred  nuptial  bowers 
The  dear  deceit  should  pass  away  ! 
Though  passion  may  fly, 
Tet  love  will  endure  ; 
The  flower  must  die. 
The  fruit  to  insure. 
The  man  must  without. 
Into  struggling  life ; 
With  toiling  and  strife. 
He  must  plan  and  contrive ; 
Must  be  prudetit  to  thrive ; 
With  boldness  must  dare. 
Good  fortune  to  share. 


II                                                 — — =_=_ 

310                                                  GERMAN  POETRY. 

T  IB  by  means  such  as  these,  tlia)  abundance  is 

From  the  clouds  alike 

poured 

Lightnings  strike. 

In  a  full,  endless  stream,  to  increase  all  bis 

Ringing  loud  the  fearful  knell. 

hoard, 

Sounds  the  bell. 

While  his  house  to  a  palace  spreads  out 

Dark  blood-red 

Are  all  the  skies ; 

Within  doors  governs 

Bat  no  dawning  light  is  spread. 

The  modest,  careful  wife, 

What  wild  cries 

The  children's  kind  mother ; 

From  the  streets  arise  ! 

And  wise  is  the  rule  . 

Smoke  dims  the  eyes. 

Of  her  household  school. 

Flickering  mounts  the  fiery  glow 

She  teaches  the  girls. 

Along  the  street's  extended  row. 

.  And  she  warns  the  boys ; 

Fast  as  fiercest  winds  can  blow. 

She  directs  all  the  bands 

Bright,  as  with  a  furnace  glare, 

Of  diligent  hands, 

And  scorching,  is  the  heated  air; 

And  increases  their  gain 

Beams  are  falling,  children  crying. 

By  her  orderly  reign. 

Windows  breaking,  mothers  flying, 

And  she  fills  with  her  treasures  her  sweet- 

Creatures  moaning,  crushed  and  dying, — 

scented  chests ; 

All  is  uproar,  hurry,  flight. 

From  the  toil  of  her  spinning-wheel  scarcely 

And  light  as  day  the  dreadful  night. 

she  rests ; 

Along  the  eager  living  kne. 

And  she  gathers  in  order,  so  cleanly  and  bright. 

Though  all  in  vain. 

The  softest  of  wool,  and  the  linen  snow-white : 

Speeds  the  bucket.     The  engine's  power 

The  useful  and  pleasant  she  mingles  ever. 

Sends  the  artificial  shower. 

And  is  slothful  never. 

But  see,  the  heavens  still  threatening  lower ! 

The  father,  cheerful,  from  the  door. 

The  winds  rush  roaring  to  the  flame. 

His  wide-extended  homestead  eyes ; 

Cinders  on  the  store-house  frame, 

Tells  all  his  smiling  fortunes  o'er ; 

And  its  drier  stores,  fall  thick ; 

The  future  columns  in  his  trees. 

While  kindling,  blazing,  mounting  quick. 

His  barn's  well  furnished  stock  he  sees, 

As  though  it  would,  at  one  fell  sweep, 

His  granaries  e'en  now  o'erflowing. 

All  that  on  the  earth  is  found 

Whi  e  yet  the  waving  corn  is  growing. 

Scatter  wide  in  ruin  round. 

He  boasts  with  swelling  pride. 

Swells  the  flame  to  heaven's  blue  deep, 

**  Firm  as  the  mountain's  side 

With  giant  size. 

Against  the  shock  of  fate 

Hope  now  dies. 

Is  now  my  happy  state." 

Man  must  yield  to  Heaven's  decrees. 

Who  can  discern  futurity .' 

Submissive,  yet  appalled,  he  seea 

Who  can  insure  prosperity  ? 

His  fairest  works  in  ashes  sleep. 

Quick  misfortune's  arrow  flies. 

All  burnt  over 

Now  we  may  begin  to  cast ; 

Is  the  place. 

All  is  right  and  well  prepared  : 

The  storm's  wild  home.  How  changed  its  face ! 

Yet,  ere  the  anxious  moment 's  past, 

In  the  empty,  ruined  wall 

A  pious  hope  by  all  be  shared. 

Dwells  dark  horror ; 

Strike  the  stopper  clear ! 

While  heaven's  clouds  in  shadow  fall 

God  preserve  us  here  ! 

Deep  within. 

Sparkling,  to  the  rounded  mould 

It  rushes  hot,  like  liquid  gold. 

One  look. 

How  useful  is  the  power  of  flame. 

In  memory  sad, 

If  human  skill  control  and  tame  ! 

Of  all  he  had. 

And  much  of  all  that  man  can  boast. 

The  unhappy  suflTerer  took, — 

Without  this  child  of  Heaven,  were  lost. 

Then  found  his  heart  might  yet  be  glad. 

But  fVightfiil  is  her  changing  mien. 

However  hard  his  lot  to  bear. 

When,  bursting  from  her  bonds,  she 's  seen 

His  choicest  treasures  still  remain  : 

To  quit  the  safe  and  quiet  hearth. 

He  calls  for  each  with  anxious  pain. 

And  wander  lawless  o'er  the  earth. 

And  every  loved  one  's  with  him  there'. 

Woe  to  those  whom  then  she  meeto! 

Against  her  fury  who  can  stand  ? 

To  the  earth  it 's  now  committed. 

Along  the  thickly  peopled  streets 

With  success  the  mould  is  filled. 

She  madly  hurls  her  fearful  brand. 

To  skill  and  care  alone  's  permitted 

Then  the  elements,  with  joy. 

A  perfect  work  with  toil  to  build. 

Man's  best  handiwork  destroy. 

Is  the  casting  right  ? 

From  tKe  clouds 

Is  the  mould  yet  tight? 

Falls  amain 

Ah  !  while  now  with  hope  we  wait. 

The  blessed  rain : 

Mischance,  perhaps,  attends  its  fate. 

SCHILLER. 


311 


To  the  dark  lap  of  mother  earth 

We  now  confide  what  we  have  made ; 

As  in  earth  too  the  seed  is  laid, 
In  hope  the  seasons  will  give  birth 

To  fruits  that  soon  maj  be  displayed. 
And  jet  more  precious  seed  we  sow 

With  sorrow  in  the  world's  wide  field ; 
And  hope,  though  in  the  grave  laid  low, 

A  flower  of  heavenly  hue  't  will  yield. 

Slow  and  heavy 
Hear  it  swell ! 
'T  is  the  solemn 
Passing  bell ! 
Sad  we  follow,  with  these  sounds  of  woe, 
Thoee  who  on  this  last,  long  journey  go. 
Alas !  the  wife,  —  it  is  the  dear  one,  — 
Ah !  it  is  the  fiuthftil  mother. 
Whom  the  shadowy  king  of  fear 
Tears  fK>m  all  that  life  holds  dear  -,  — 
From  the  husband,  —  from  the  young. 
The  tender  blossoms,  that  have  sprung 
From  their  mutual,  fkithful  love, 
'T  was  hers  to  nourish,  guide,  improye. 
Ah !  the  chain  which  bound  them  all 

Is  for  ever  broken  now ; 
She  cannot  hear  their  tendercall. 
Nor  see  them  in  affliction  bow. 
Her  true  afifection  guards  no  more ; 

Her  watchful  care  wakes  not  again : 
O'er  all  the  once  loved  orphan's  store 
The  indifferent  stranger  now  'must  reign. 

Till  the  bell  is  safely  cold. 

May  our  heavy  labor  rest ', 
Free  as  the  bird,  by  none  controlled. 
Each  may  do  what  pleases  best 
With  approaching  night. 
Twinkling  stars  are  bright. 
Vespers  call  the  boys  to  play  ; 
The  master's  toils  end  not  with  day. 

Cheerful  in  the  forest  gloom. 

The  wanderer  turns  his  weary  steps 
To  his  loved,  though  lowly  home. 
Bleating  flocks  dnw  near  the  fold ; 

And  the  herds. 
Wide-homed,  and  smooth,  slow-pacing  come 
Lowing  from  the  hill, 
The  accustomed  stall  to  fill. 

Heavy  rolls 

Along  the  wagon. 

Richly  loaded. 

On  the  sheaves. 

With  gayest  leaves 

They  form  the  wreath ; 
And  the  youthful  reapers  dance 

Upon  the  heath. 
Street  and  market  all  are  quiet. 
And  round  each  domestic  light 
Gathers  now  a  circle  fond, 
While  shuts  the  creaking  city-gate. 

Darkness  hovers 

O'er  the  earth. 


Safety  still  each  sleeper  covers 

As  with  light, 
That  the  deeds  of  crime  discovers ; 
For  wakes  the  law's  protecting  might 

Holy  Order  !  rich  with  all 

The  gifii  of  Heaven,  that  best  we  call, — 

Freedom,  peace,  and  equal  laws,  — 

Of  common  good  the  happy  cause  ! 

She  the  savage  man  has  taught 

What  the  arts  of  life  have  wrought ; 

Changed  the  rude  hut  to  comfert,  splendor. 

And  filled  fierce  hearts  with  feelings  tender. 

And  yet  a  dearer  bond  she  wove, — 

Our  home,  our  country,  taught  to  love. 

A  thousand  active  hands,  combined 

For  mutual  aid,  with  zealous  heart, 
In  well  apportioned  labor  find 

Their  power  increasing  with  their  art 
Master  and  workmen  all  agree. 

Under  sweet  Freedom's  holy  care. 
And  each,  content  in  his  degree. 

Warns  every  scomer  to  beware. 
Labor  is  the  poor  man's  pride, — 

Success  by  toil  alone  is  won. 
Kings  glory  in  possessions  wide,  — 

We  glory  in  our  work  well  done. 

Gentle  peace ! 
Sweet  union ! 
Linger,  linger. 
Kindly  o^er  this  our  home  ! 
Never«may  the  day  appear. 
When  the  hordes  of  cruel  war 
Through  this  quiet  vale  shall  rush  ; 

When  the  sky. 
With  the  evening's  softened  air. 

Blushing  red. 
Shall  reflect  the  frightffal  glare 
Of  burning  town^  in  ruin  dread. 

Now  break  up  the  useless  mould  : 

Its  only  purpose  is  fulfilled. 
May  our  eyes,  well  pleased,  behold 
A  work  to  prove  us  not  unskilled. 
Wield  the  hammer,  vrield. 
Till  the  fi^me  shall  yield ! 
That  the  bell  to  light  may  rise. 
The  form  in  thousand  fragments  flies. 

The  master  may  destroy  the  mould 

With  careful  hand,  and  judgment  wise. 
But,  woe  !  —  in  streams  of  fire,  if  rolled. 

The  glowing  metal  seek  the  skies ! 
Loud  bursting  with  the  crash  of  thunder. 

It  throws  aloft  the  broken  ground ; 
Like  a  volcano  rends  asunder, 

And  spreads  in  burning  ruin  round. 
When  reckless  power  by  force  prevails, 

The  reign  of  peace  and  art  is  o'er ; 
And  when  a  mob  e'en  wrong  assails. 

The  public  welfere  is  no  more. 


313 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


Alas  !  when  in  the  peaceful  state 

Conapiraciea  are  darkly  forming ; 
The  oppressed  no  longer  patient  wait ; 

With  fury  every  breast  is  storming. 
Then  whirls  the  bell  with  frequent  clang ; 

And  Uproar,  with  her  howling  voice. 
Has  changed  the  note,  that  peaceful  rang, 

To  wild  confusion's  dreadful  noise. 

Freedom  and  equal  rights  they  call,  — 

And  peace  gives  way  to  sudden  war ; 
The  street  is  crowded,  and  the  hall,  — 

And  crime  is  unrestrained  by  law : 
E'en  woman,  to  a  fury  turning. 

But  mocks  at  every  dreadful  deed ; 
Against  the  hated  madly  burning. 

With  horrid  joy  she  sees  them  bleed. 
Now  naught  is  sacred  ;  —  broken  lies 

Each  holy  law  of  honest  worth  ; 
The  bad  man  rules,  the  good  man  flies, 

And  every  vice  walks  boldly  forth. 

There  's  danger  in  the  lion's  wrath, 

Destruction  in  the  tiger's  jaw ; 
But  worse  than  death  to  cross  the  path 

Of  man,  when  passion  is  his  law. 
Woe,  woe  to  those  who  strive  to  light 

The  torch  of  truth  by  passion's  fire ! 
It  guides  not ;  —  it  but  glares  through  night 

To  kindle  freedom's  funeral  pyre. 

Qod  has  given  us  joy  to-night ! 

See  how,  like  the  golden  grain 
From  the  husk,  all  smooth  and  bright, 
The  shining  metal  now  is  ta'en  ! 
From  top  to  well  formed  rim, 
Not  a  spot  is  dim  ; 
E'en  the  motto,  neatly  raised. 
Shows  a  skill  may  well  be  praised. 

Around,  around. 
Companions  all,  take  your  ground. 
And  name  the  bell  with  joy  profound ! 
Concordia  is  the  word  we  've  found 
Most  meet  to  express  the  harmonious  sound, 
That  calls  to  those  in  friendship  bound. 

Be  this  henceforth  the  destined  end 
To  which  the  finished  work  we  send 
High  over  every  meaner  thing. 

In  the  blue  canopy  of  heaven. 
Near  to  the  thunder  let  it  swing, 

A  neighbour  to  the  stars  be  given. 
Let  its  clear  voice  above  proclaim, 

With  brightest  troops  of  distant  sues, 
The  praise  of  our  Creator's  name, 

While  round  each  circling  season  runs. 
To  solemn  thoughts  of  heart-felt  power 

Let  its  deep  note  lull  oft  invite, 
And  tell,  with  every  passing  hour. 

Of  hastening  time's  unceasing  flight 
Still  let  it  mark  the  course  of  fate ; 

Its  cold,  unsympathizing  voice 
Attend  on  every  changing  state 

Of  human  passions,  griefi^  and  joys. 


And  as  the  mighty  sound  it  gives 
Dies  gently  on  the  listening  ear, 

We  fbel  how  quickly  all  that  lives 
Must  change,  and  fiide,  and  disappear. 

Now,  lads,  join  your  strength  around  ! 

Lift  the  bell  to  upper  air  ! 
And  in  the  kingdom  wide  of  sound 
Once  placed,  we  '11  leave  it  there. 
All  together !  heave  ! 
Its  birth-place  see  it  leave  '.  — 
Joy  to  all  within  its  bound  ! 
Peace  its  first,  its  latest  sound  ! 


THE  ENTRANCE  OF  THE  NEW  CENTDRT. 

NoBLK  firiend  !   where  now  for  Peace,  worn- 
hearted, 

Where  for  Freedom,  is  a  refuge-place  ? 
The  old  century  has  in  storm  departed. 

And  the  new  with  carnage  starts  its  race. 

And  the  bond  of  nations  flies  asunder. 
And  the  ancient  forms  rush  to  decline ; 

Not  the  ocean  hems  the  warring  thunder. 
Not  the  Nile-f;od  and  the  ancient  Rhine. 

Two  imperious  nations  are  contending 

For  one  empire's  universal  field ; 
Liberty  from  every  people  rending. 

Thunderbolt  and  trident  do  they  wield. 

Gold  must  be  weighed  them  from  each  coon- 
try's  labor ; 

And,  like  Brennus  in  barbarian  days. 
See,  the  daring  Frank  his  iron  sabre 

In  the  balances  of  Justice  lays ! 

The  grasping  Briton  his  trade-fleets,  like  mighty 
Arms  of  the  sea-polypus,  doth  spread  ; 

And  the  realm  of  unbound  Amphitrite 
Would  he  girdle,  like  his  own  homestead. 

To  the  south  pole's  unseen  constellations 
Pierce  his  keels,  unhindered,  resting  not; 

All  the  isles,  all  coasts  of  fiirthest  nations. 
Spies  he ; — all  but  Eden's  sacred  spot 

Ah  !  in  vain,  on  charts  of  all  earth's  order, 
May'st  thou  seek  that  bright  and   blessed 
shore. 

Where  the  green  of  Freedom's  garden-border, 
Where  man's  prime,  is  fresh  for  evermore. 

Endless  lies  the  world  that  thine  eye  traces. 
Even  commerce  scarcely  belts  it  round ; 

Yet  upon  its  all-unmeasured  spaces 
For  ten  happy  ones  is  no  room  found. 

On  the  heart*s  holy  and  quiet  pinion 

Must  thou  fly  from  out  this  rough  life's  throng ; 

Freedom  lives  but  within  Dream's  dominion. 
And  the  beautiful  blooms  bat  in  song. 


SCHILLER, 


313 


KNIGHT  T0GGENBUR6. 

**  EiiioHT,  to  love  thee  like  a  sister 

Vows  this  heart  to  thee ; 
Ask  no  other  warmer  feeling,  — 

That  were  pain  to  me. 
Tranquil  would  I  see  thy  coming, 

Tranquil  see  thee  go ; 
What  that  starting  tear  would  tell  me 

I  must  never  know." 

He  with  silent  anguish  listens, 

Though  his  heart-strings  bleed ; 
Clasps  her  in  his  last  embraces. 

Springs  upon  his  steed, 
Summons  every  faithful  vassal 

From  his  Alpine  home, 
Binds  the  cross  upon  his  bosom, 

Seeks  the  Holy  Tomb. 

There  full  many  a  deed  of  glory 

Wrought  the  hero's  arm  ; 
Foremost  still  his  plumage  floated 

Where  the  foemen  swarm ; 
Till  the  Moslem,  terror-stricken. 

Quailed  befbre  his  name. 
But  the  pang  that  wrings  his  bosom 

Lives  at  heart  the  same. 

One  long  year  he  bears  his  sorrow, 

But  no  more  can  bear ; 
Rest  he  seeks,  but,  finding  never. 

Leaves  the  army  there ; 
Sees  a  ship  by  Joppa's  haven. 

Which  with  swelling  sail 
Wafls  him  where  his  lady's  breathing 

Mingles  with  the  gale. 

At  her  father's  castle  portal. 

Hark !  his  knock  is  heard  ; 
See !  the  gloomy  gate  uncloses 

With  the  thunder-word : 
**  She  thou  seek'st  is  veiled  for  ever. 

Is  the  bride  of  Heaven ; 
Tester  eve  the  vows  were  plighted, — 

She  to  God  is  given." 

Theo  his  old  ancestral  castle 

He  for  ever  flees ; 
Battle-steed  and  trusty  weapon 

Never  more  he  sees. 
From  the  Toggenburg  descending. 

Forth  unknown  he  glides ; 
For  the  frame  once  sheathed  in  iron 

Now  the  sackcloth  hides. 

There  beside  that  hallowed  region 

He  hath  built  his  bower. 
Where  from  out  the  dusky  lindens 

Looked  the  convent  tower ; 
Waiting  from  the  morning's  glimmer 

Till  the  day  was  done, 
Tranquil  hope  in  every  feature. 

Sat  he  there  alone. 
40 


Gazing  upward  to  the  convent. 

Hour  on  hour  he  passed, 
Watching  still  his  lady's  lattice, 

Till  it  oped  at  last,  — 
Till  that  form  looked  forth  so  lovely. 

Till  the  sweet  face  smiled 
Down  into  the  lonesome  valley. 

Peaceful,  angel-mild. 

Then  he  laid  him  down  to  slumber, 

Cheered  by  peaceful  dreams. 
Calmly  waiting  till  the  morning 

Showed  again  its  beams. 
Thus  for  days  he  watched  and  waited. 

Thus  for  years  he  lay, 
Happy  if  he  saw  the  lattice 

Open  day  by  day ;  — 

If  that  form  looked  forth  so  lovely. 

If  the  sweet  face  smiled 
Down  into  the  lonesome  valley. 

Peaceful,  angel-mild. 
There  a  corse  they  found  him  sitting 

Once  when  day  returned. 
Still  his  pale  and  placid  features 

To  the  lattice  turned. 


DmiAN  DEATH-SONO. 

Oh  the  mat  he  's  sitting  there : 

See !  he  sits  upright. 
With  the  same  look  that  he  ware 

When  he  saw  the  light. 

But  where  now  the  band's  clinched  weight? 

Where  the  breath  he  drew, 
That  to  the  Great  Spirit  late 

Forth  the  pipe-smoke  blew  ? 

Where  the  eyes,  that,  falcon-keen, 

Marked  the  reindeer  pass. 
By  the  dew  upon  the  green, 

By  the  waving  grass  ? 

These  the  limbs,  that,  unconfined. 

Bounded  through  the  snow. 
Like  the  stag  that 's  twenty- tyned. 

Like  the  mountain  roe  ! 

These  the  arms,  that,  stout  and  tense. 

Did  the  bow-string  twang  ! 
See,  the  life  is  parted  hence ! 

See,  how  loose  they  hang  ! 

Well  for  him  !  he  's  gone  his  ways 

Where  are  no  more  snows ; 
Where  the  fields  are  decked  with  maize. 

That  unplanted  grows ;  — 

Where  with  beasts  of  chase  each  wood, 

Where  with  birds  each  tree. 
Where  with  fish  is  every  flood 

Stocked  full  pleasantly. 


314 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


He  above  with  spirits  feeds ;  — 

We,  alone  and  dim, 
Left  to  celebrate  his  deeds, 

And  to  bury  him. 

Bring  the  last  sad  offerings  hither ; 

Chant  the  death-lament ; 
All  inter  with  him  together, 

That  can  him  content. 

'Neath  his  head  the  hatchet  hide, 
That  he  swung  so  strong ; 

And  the  bear's  ham  set  beside,  — 
For  the  way  is  long ;  — 

Then  the  knife,  —  sharp  let  it  be,— 
That  from  fbeman's  crown. 

Quick,  with  dexterous  cuts  but  three, 
Skin  and  tuft  brought  down  ;  — 

Paints,  to  smear  his  irame  about. 

Set  within  his  hand. 
That  he  redly  may  shine  out 

In  the  spirits*  land. 


THE  DIVISION  OF  THE  EARTTH. 

**  Here,  take  the  world ! "  cried  Jove,  from  his 
high  heaven, 

To  mortals.— "Take  it;  it  is  yours,  ye  elves; 
'T  is  yours,  for  an  eternal  heirdom  given  ; 

Share  it  like  brothers  'mongst  yourselves." 

Then  hastened  every  one  himself  to  suit. 
And  busily  were  stirring  old  and  young.  — 

The  Farmer  seized  upon  the  harvest-firuit ; 
The  Squire's  horn  throc^h  the  woodland  rung. 

The  Merchant  grasped  his  costly  warehouse 
loads ; 

The  Abbot  chose  him  noble  pipes  of  wine ; 
The  King  closed  up  the  bridges  and  the  roads, 

And  said,  "  The  tenth  of  all  is  mine." 

Quite  late,  long  after  all  had  been  divided. 
The  Poet  came,  from  distant  wandering ; 

Alas !  the  thing  was  everywhere  decided, — 
Proprietors  for  every  thing  ! 

"  Ah,  woe  is  me  !  shall  I  alone  of  all 

Forgotten  be .'  — I,  thy  most  faithful  son  ?  " 

In  loud  lament  he  thus  began  to  bawl, 
And  threw  himself  before  Jove's  throne. 

*(  If  in  the  land  of  dreams  thou  hast  delayed," 
Replied  the  god,  *<  then  quarrel  not  with  me ; 

Where   wast    thou   when   division    here   was 
made?" 
«« I  was,"  the  Poet  said,  "  with  thee  ;  — 

"  Mine  eyes  hung  on  thy  countenance  so  bright. 
Mine  ear  drank  in  thy  heaven's  harmony  ; 

Forgive  the  soul,  which,  drunken  with  thy  light. 
Forgot  that  earth  had  aught  for  me." 


"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  said  Zeus ;  '« the  world  's 
all  given ; 

The  harvest,  chase,  or  market,  no  more  mine ; 
If  thou  wilt  come  and  live  with  me  in  heaven, 

As  often  as  thou  com'st,  my  home  is  thine." 


ETTRACT  FROM  WALLENSTEIN'S  CASfP. 

[Enter  a  band  of  Mlnen,  and  play  a  wahc.  The  Fim  Jk- 
ger  dances  with  the  Waiilng-gtil,  the  Recruit  with  the 
Sutler'a  Wife.  The  Glil  alipe  awaj,  the  Ager  sAer  her, 
and  seiaee  hold  of  the  Oapachin,  who  enteri  at  thia  mo- 
ment] 

OAPUCRIX.* 

Shout  and  swear,  ye  Devil's  crew ! 

He  is  one  among  ye,  and  I  make  two. 

Can  these  be  Christians  in  faith  or  works  ? 

Are  we  Anabaptists,  Jews,  or  Turks  ? 

Is  this  a  time  for  feast  or  play. 

For  banquet,  dance,  and  holiday  ? 

When  the  quickest  are  slow,  and  the  earliest 

late  is, 
Quid  hie  otiosi  statis  f 

When  the  furies  are  loose  by  the  Danube's  side. 
And  the  bulwark  is  low  of  Bavaria's  pride, 
And  Ratisbon  in  the  enemy's  claw. 
And  the  soldier  still  looks  to  his  ravenous  maw : 
For,  praying  or  fighting,  he  eats  and  swears ; 
Less  for  the  battle  than  the  bottle  he  cares ; 
Loves  better  his  beak  than  his  blade  to  whet ; 
On  an  ox,  not  an  Ozenstiern,  would  set. 
'T  is  a  time  for  mourning,  for  prayer  and  tears ; 
Sign  and  wonder  in  heaven  appears  : 
Over  the  firmament  is  spread 
War's  wide  mantle  all  bloody  red ; 
And  the  streaming  comet's  fiery  rod 
Betokens  the  rightful  wrath  of  God. 
Whence  comes  all  this  ?     I  now  proclaim 
That  from  your  sin  proceeds  your  shame  : 
Sin,  like  the  magnet,  draws  the  steel. 
Which  in  its  bowels  the  land  must  feel ; 
Ruin  as  close  on  wrong  appears, 
As,  on  the  acrid  onion,  tears. 
Who  learns  his  letters  this  may  know, 
That  violence  produces  woe, 
As  in  the  alphabet  you  see 
How  W  comes  after  V. 
When  the  altar  and  pulpit  despised  we  eee, 
VH  erit  spes  vieUnim^ 

Si  offendituT  Deus  f    How  can  we  prevail, 
If  his  house  and  preachers  we  assail  ? 
The  woman  in  the  Gospel  found 
The  farthing  dropped  upon  the  ground ; 
Joseph  again  his  brothers  knew 
(Albeit  a  most  unworthy  crew) ; 
Saul  found  his  father's  asses  too. 
Who  in  the  soldier  seeks  to  find 
The  Christian's  love  and  humble  mind. 
And  modesty  and  just  restraint, 
He  in  the  Devil  seeks  a  saint ; 


*  This  exhortation  of  the  Capoehin  Friar  ie  takan  from 
one  of  the  sermoiM  of  Abeabav  a  Samota  Cuola  ;  for  the 
chuacter  of  whose  eloquence,  see  p.  Ml. 


SCHILLER. 


315 


And  small  reward  will  crown  his  hopes, 

Though  with  a  hundred  lights  he  gropes. 

The  Gospel  tells  how  the  soldiers  ran 

In  the  desert  of  old  to  the  holy  man, 

Did  penance,  were  baptized,  and  prayed. 

Quidfaeiemus  nosf  they  said ; 

Et  ait  UUm, — he  answers  them : 

Conaitiaiis  ncmtiMm, — 

No  one  vex,  or  spoil,  or  kill ; 

Jfee  ealumniamy  —  speak  no  ill ; 

ConUnti  estate,  —  learn  not  to  fi^t 

StipendUs  vestris,  —  at  what  you  get. 

The  Scripture  forbids  us,  in  language  plain. 

To  take  the  holiest  name  in  vain  : 

But  here  the  law  might  as  well  be  dumb ; 

And  if  for  the  thundering  oaths  which  come 

From  the  tip  of  the  blasphemous  soldier's  tongue. 

As  ibr  Heaven's  thunder,  the  bells  were  rung. 

The  sacristans  would  soon  be  dead  ; 

And  if,  for  each  wanton  and  wicked  prayer, 

Were  plucked  from  the  blasphemous  soldier's 

head. 
As  a  gift  for  Satan,  a  single  hair. 
Each  head  in  the  camp  would  be  smooth  and 

bare. 
Ere  the  watch  was  set  and  the  sun  was  down, 
Though  at  morn  it  were  bushy  as  Absalom's 

crown. 
A  soldier  Joshua  was  like  you, 
And  David  tall  Goliath  slew ; 
They  laid  about  them  as  much  or  more, 
But  where  do  we  read  that  they  cursed  and 

swore  ? 
Tet  the  lips,  which  we  open  to  curse  and  swear, 
Are  not  opened  wider  for  creed  or  prayer ; 
But  that  with  which  the  cask  we  fill. 
The  same  we  must  draw  and  the  same  must  spill. 
Thou  shalt  not  steal,  so  the  Scriptures  tell. 
And,  for  this,  I  grant  that  you  keep  it  well ; 
For  you  carry  your  plunder,  and  lift  your  prey. 
With  your  vulture  claws,  in  the  face  of  day ; 
Gold  fi-om  the  chest  your  tricks  convey ; 
The  calf  in  the  cow  is  not  safo  from  you ; 
Tou  take  the  egg  and  the  hen  thereto. 
CatUenti  estate,  the  preacher  has  said,  — 
Be  content  with  your  ammunition  bread. 
But  the  low  and  the  humble 't  were  sin  to  blame ; 
From  the  greatest  and  highest  the  evil  came  ; 
The  limbs  are  bad,  but  the  head  as  well : 
No  one  his  foith  or  his  creed  can  tell. 

FAST  JAOSB. 

Sir  Priest,  the  soldier  I  count  fair  game ; 

So,  please  you,  keep  clear  of  the  general's  name. 

OAPUoam. 
A*e  euttodias  gregem  meam! 
He  is  an  Ahab  and  Jerobeam ; 
God's  people  to  folly  he  leads  astray. 
To  idols  of  falsehood  he  points  the  way. 


Let  OS  not  hear  that  twice,  I  pray. 

OAPTTCnXff. 

Stich  a  Bramabas,  with  iron  hand. 

Would  spoil  the  high  places  throughout  the  land. 


We  know,  though  Christian  lips  are  loath 
To  repeat  the  words  of  his  godless  oath, 
How  Stralsund's  city  he  vowed  to  gain. 
Though  it  held  to  heaven  with  bolt  and  chain. 

vauMPBim. 
Will  no  man  throttle  him,  ooce  for  all  .> 

CAPOOHIM. 

A  wizard,  a  fiend-invoking  Saul, 

A  Jehu ;  or  he  whom  Judith  slew, 

By  a  woman's  hand  in  his  cups  who  died ; 

Like  him  who  his  Master  and  Lord  denied. 

Who  was  deaf  to  the  warning  cock  that  crew. 

Like  him,  when  the  cock  crows,  he  cannot  hear. 

nasT  JAosa. 
Shaveling  liar,  thy  death  is  near ! 

CAFITCUlr. 

A  fox,  like  Herod,  in  wiles  and  lies. 

muxpsna  and  ilsaas  (prairing  upoo  him). 
The  lie  in  his  slanderous  throat !  he  dies ! 

caoATS  (intsrftring). 
They  shall  not  harm  thee.     Discourse  thy  fill ; 
Give  us  thy  sermon  and  fear  no  ill. 


A  Nebuchadnezzar  in  pride  and  sin. 
Heretic,  pagan,  his  heart  within ; 
While  such  a  Friedland  has  command. 
The  country  is  ever  an  unfiled  land. 

[Doriof  this  last  speech  he  has  been  f  radually  makiof 
his  retreat.  The  Cioats,  meanwhile,  protecting 
him  from  tlie  net. 


THE  GLOVE:  A  TALE. 

BxroRX  his  lion-court. 

To  see  the  grisly  sport. 
Sat  the  king ; 
Beside  him  grouped  his  princely  peers, 
And  dames  alofk,  in  circling  tiers. 

Wreathed  round  their  blooming  ring. 

King  Francis,  where  he  sat. 
Raised  a  finger ;  yawned  the  gate, 

And  slow,  from  his  repose, 
A  LION  goes ! 

Dumbly  he  gazed  around 

The  foe-encircled  ground ; 

And,  with  a  lazy  gape. 

He  stretched  his  lordly  shape. 

And  shook  his  careless  mane, 

And  —  laid  him  down  again. 

A  finger  raised  the  king, 

And  nimbly  have  the  guard 

A  second  gate  unbarred ; 

Forth,  with  a  rushing  spring, 
A  TiozR  sprung ! 

Wildly  the  wild  one  yelled. 
When  the  lion  he  beheld ; 

And,  bristling  at  the  look. 
With  his  tail  his  sides  he  strook. 

And  rolled  his  rabid  tongue ; 


316 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


In  many  a  wary  ring 
He  swept  round  the  forest  king, 
With  a  fell  and  rattling  sound ; 

And  laid  him  on  the  ground, 
Grommelling. 

The  king  raised  his  finger;  then 
Leaped  two  leopards  from  the  den 
With  a  bound ; 
And  boldly  bounded  they 
Where  the  crouching  tiger  lay 
Terrible  ! 
And  he  griped  the  beasts  in  his  deadly  bold ; 
In  the  grim  embrace  they  grappled  and  rolled ; 
Rose  the  lion  with  a  roar, 

And  stood  the  strife  before  ; 
And  the  wild-cats  on  the  spot. 
From  the  blood-thirst,  wroth  and  hot. 
Halted  still. 

Now  from  the  balcony  above 
A  snowy  hand  let  fall  a  glove : 
Midway  between  the  beasts  of  prey, 
Lion  and  tiger,  —  there  it  lay, 
The  winsome  lady's  glove  ! 

Fair  Cunigonde  said,  with  a  lip  of  scorn, 

To  the  knight  Delorges,  «^  If  the  love  you  have 

sworn 
Were  as  gallant  and  leal  as  you  boast  it  to  be, 
I  might  ask  you  to  bring  back  that  glove  to  me !  " 

The  knight  left  the  place  where  the  lady  sat ; 
The  knight  he  has  passed  through  the  fearful 

gate; 
The  Hon  and  tiger  he  stooped  above. 
And  his  fingers  have  closed  on  the  lady's  glove  ! 
All  shuddering  and  stunned,  they  beheld  him 

there,  — 
The  noble  knights  and  the  ladies  fair ; 
But  loud  was  the  joy  and  the  praise  the  while 
He  bore  back  the  glove  with  his  tranquil  smile ! 

With  a  tender  look  in  her  softening  eyes, 
That  promised  reward  to  his  warmest  sighs, 
Fair  Cunigonde  rose  her  knight  to  grace ; 
He  tossed  the  glove  in  the  lady's  face  ! 
"  Nay,  spare  me  the  guerdon,  at  least,"  quoth 

he; 
And  he  left  for  ever  that  fair  ladye  ! 


THE  DANCE. 

Skk  how  they  float,  the  glad  couples,  along,  in 
billowy  motion 
Gliding,  —  and   scarcely  the   ground   touch 
with  their  feathery  feet ! 
Do  I  behold  flitting  shadows,  escaped  from  the 
weight  of  the  body  ? 
Or  are  they  moonlight  elves,  threading  their 
afiry  maze  ? 
As,  by  the  west  wind  cradled,  the  light  smoke 
curls  into  ether. 
Gently  as  tosses  the  bark,  rocked  by  the  sil- 
very flood, 


Moves  the  obedient  foot,  on  the  tide  of  melody 
bounding ; 
Poised  on  the  warbling  string,  floats  the  ethe- 
real frame. 
Now,  as  the  links  of  the  dance  were  forcibly 
broken  asunder. 
Darts  through  the  closest  ranks,  madly,  some 
swift-whirling  pair ; 
Instant,  a  passage  before  them  is  made,  then  be- 
hind them  has  vanitihed, — 
Seems  as  by  magical  spell  opens  and  closes 
the  path. 
See  !  now  it  fades  from  their  sight,  —  in  wild 
confusion  around  them. 
Falling  in  pieces,  the  world's  beautiful  frame 
dies  away ! 
No !  there  exultingly  soar  they  aloft,  —  the  knots 
disentangle ; 
Only  with  varied  charm,  order  recovers  its 
sway. 
Ever  destroyed,  yet  ever  renewed,  is  the  cir- 
cling creation,  — 
Ever  a  fixed  silent  law  guides  the  caprices  of 
change. 
Say,  how  befalls  it  that  figures  renewed  are 
yet  ceaselessly  shifting  ? 
How,  that  rest  yet  abides  e'en  in  the  form 
that  is  moved  ? 
Each  man  self-governed,  free,  to  his  own  heart 
only  obedient ; 
Yet  in  time's  eddying  course  finding  his  one 
only  road? 
Wouldst  thou  the  reason  attain  ?  —  it  is  Harmo- 
ny's powerful  godhead, 
Which  to  the  social  dance  limits  the  mad- 
dening bound ; 
Nemesis-like,  with  the  golden  bridle  of  rhyth- 
mical measure, 
Curbs  the  unruly  desire,  chains  the  wild  ap- 
petite down. 
And  do  they  sweep  o'er  thy  senses  In  vain,  — 
those  heavenly  hymnings  ? 
Doth  it  not  raise  thee,  —  the  full  swell  of  this 
mystical  song  ? 
Nor  the  ecstatic  note  that  all  beings  are  striking 
around  thee  ? 
Nor  the  swift-whirling  dance,  which  through 
unlimited  space 
Whirls  swift-revolving  suns  in  bold  concentrical 
circles  ?  — 
That  which  in  sport  thou  reverest,  —  Mbas- 
URK,  —  in  truth  thou  dost  spurn. 


JOHANN  PETER  HEBEL. 

This  poet  was  born  May  11th,  1760,  near 
Schopf  heim,  in  Baden.  He  studied  in  Erlang- 
en,  and  afterwards  became  an  instnicter  in 
the  "  Paedagogium,"  at  Lorrach.  In  1791,  he 
was  made  Sub-deacon  at  Karlsruhe,  and  in 
1798  was  appointed  Professor  in  the  Gymna- 
sium there ;  in  1805,  he  became  Church  Coun- 
cillor;  in   1808,  Director  of  the  Lyceum;  in 


HEBEL— MATTHISSON. 


317 


1819,  Prelate.  He  died  at  Schwetzingen, 
September  22d,  1826.  For  his  poems,  he  se- 
lected  the  simple  aod  popular  dialect  which 
preyaib  near  Baale,  aod,  with  various  modifica- 
tions, over  a  great  part  of  Swabia.  They  contain 
beautiful  delineations  of  nature,  and  pictures 
of  manners.  The  poems  were  first  published 
at  Karlsruhe,  in  1808 ;  they  have  been  several 
times  translated  into  German,  by  SchafiTner, 
Girardet,  and  Adrian.  Hebel  was  also  the 
author  of  popular  tales.  His  works  were  pub- 
lished at  Karlsruhe  in  1832;  again  in  1837 
—  38;  and  a  new  edition  was  commenced  in 
1842. 


SUNDAY  MORNING. 

**  Will,**  Saturday  to  Sunday  said, 
^*  The  people  now  have  gone  to  bed  ; 
All,  afisr  toiling  through  the  week. 
Right  willingly  their  rest  would  seek ;  — 
Myself  can  hardly  stand  alone. 
So  very  weary  I  have  grown.** 

His  speech  was  echoed  by  the  bell, 
As  on  his  midnight  couch  he  fell ; 
And  Sunday  now  the  watch  must  keep. 
So,  rising  ffom  his  pleasant  sleep. 
He  glides,  half-dozing,  through  the  sky, 
To  tell  the  world  that  mom  is  nigh. 

He  rubs  his  eyes,  —  and,  none  too  late. 

Knocks  aloud  at  the  sun*s  bright  gate ; 

She  *  slumbered  in  her  silent  hall, 

Unprepared  for  his  early  call. 

Sunday  exclaims,  **  Thy  hour  is  nigh  !  '* 

*•  Well,  well,**  says  she,  »»I  *]1  come  by  and  by.*' 

Gently,  on  tiptoe,  Sunday  creeps, — 
Cheerfully  from  the  stars  he  peeps,  — 
Mortals  are  aJl  asleep  below,  — 
None  in  the  village  hears  him  go ; 
£*en  Chanticleer  keeps  very  still,  — 
For  Sunday  whispered  *t  was  his  will. 

Now  the  world  is  awake  and  bright, 

After  refireshing  sleep  all  night ; 

The  Sabbath  mom  in  sunlight  comes, 

Smiling  gladly  on  all  our  homes. 

He  has  a  mild  and  happy  air,  — 

Bright  flowers  are  vrreathed  among  his  hair. 

He  comes,  with  soft  and  noiseless  tread. 
To  rouse  the  sleeper  from  his  bed ; 
And  tenderly  he  pauses  near, 
IVith  looks  all  full  of  love  and  cheer, 
Well  pleased  to  watch  the  deep  repose 
That  lingered  till  the  moming  rose. 

How  gaily  shines  the  early  dew. 
Loading  the  grass  with  its  silver  hue  ! 


1  In  the  German  language,  the  sun  la  fiimtAiaai  and  the 
moon  ia  maaculine. 


And  freshly  comes  the  flagrant  breeze, 
Dancing  among  the  cherry-trees ; 
The  bees  are  humming  all  so  gay,  — - 
They  know  not  it  is  Sabbath-day. 

The  cherry-blossoms  now  appear^  — 
Fair  heralds  of  a  fraitful  year ; 
There  stands  upright  the  tulip  proud, — 
Bethlehem-stars'  around  her  crowd, — 
And  hyacinths  of  every  hue, — 
All  sparkling  in  the  moming  dew. 

How  still  and  lovely  all  things  seem  ! 
Peaceful  and  pure  as  an  angel's  dream  ! 
No  rattling  carts  are  in  the  streets ;  — 
Kindly  each  one  his  neighbour  greets  :  -— 
'*  It  promises  right  fair  to^ay  ** ;  — 
<«  Tes,  praised  be  God  !  **—  't  u  all  they  say. 

The  birds  are  singing,  *<  Come,  behold 
Our  Sabbath  mom  all  bathed  in  gold, 
Pouring  his  calm,  celestial  light 
Among  the  flowers  so  sweet  and  bright !  '* 
The  pretty  goldfinch  leads  the  row. 
As  if  her  Sunday-robe  to  show. 

Mary,  pluck  those  auriculas,  pray. 
And  do  n*t  shake  the  yellow  dust  away  ; 
Here,  little  Ann,  are  some  for  you, — 
I  'm  sure  you  want  a  nosegay  too. 
The  first  bell  rings, — away  !  away ! 
We  will  go  to  church  to-day. 


FRIEDRICH   VON  MATTHISSON. 

This  celebrated  lyrical  poet  was  born  Janu- 
ary 23d,  1761,  at  Hohendodeleben,  near  Mag- 
deburg. He  studied  theology  at  the  University 
in  Halle,  but  afterwards  gave  bis  attention  to 
philology,  natural  science,  and  polite  literature. 
He  passed  two  years  with  Bonstetten,  at  Nyon ; 
then  became  a  private  tutor  in  Lyons ;  after- 
wards a  teacher  in  Dessau.  In  1794,  he  was  ap. 
pointed  reader  and  travelling  companion  to  the 
princess  of  Dessau,  and  visited  Rome,  Naples, 
Switzerland,  the  Tyrol,  and  the  North  of  Italy. 
In  1809,  he  was  made  a  knight  of  the  WOr- 
temberg  order  of  Civil  Service,  and  ennobled ; 
in  1812,  he  was  appointed  Councillor  of  Lega- 
tion in  Stuttgart.  He  visited  Italy  again,  in 
the  retinue  of  the  duke  of  WOrtemberg,  and 
passed  some  time  in  Florence,  in  1819.  From 
1829,  he  lived  in  a  private  sUtion  at  Worlitz, 
where  he  died  March  12tb,  1831.  He  is  one 
of  the  most  popular  lyric  and  elegiac  poets  of 
Germany.  He  shows  delicate  feeling,  an  ex- 
quisite sense  of  the  beauties  of  nature,  and 
great  powers  of  description.  His  verse  is  dis- 
tinguished fbr  its  musical  flow  and  careful  fin- 
ish ;  but  he  is  not  free  from  a  sentimental  man- 


s  The  name  of  a  very  pretty  wild  flower. 
aa2 


,  .< 


318 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


neriBm,  which  exposed  him  to  the  ridicule  of 
Schlegel  aod  Menzel.  His  works  were  pub- 
lished at  ZOrich,  1825-29,  in  eight  parts.  His 
life,  by  H.  Doring,  appeared  in  1883. 

ELEGY. 

WJUrrKM  ZM  TEA  BUDTS  OP  AN  OLD  CA8TLB. 

SiLKiTT,  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  sidks  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 : 
O,  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  tearfiil  face,  — 
To  the  modest  maiden's  chaste  embrace. 

O,  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. 
O,  but  what  that  sofl,  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  afiu*. 

Wild  adventures  in  the  Holy  War, 

Wakened  in  the  breast  of  hardy  knight 
The  remembrance  of  his  fierce  delight. 

O,  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  fi>r  shield  and  spear  the  boy  entreated. 
When  aloud  the  war-horn's  summons  rang, 
And  to  horse  in  speed  the  fiither  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  shat- 
tered ! 

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, 

Urns  devoted  unto  MeAiory, 

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 ! 


THE  SPRING  EVENING. 

Bright  with  the  golden  shine  of  heaven  plays 

On  tender  blades  the  dew ; 
And  the  spring-landscape's  trembling  likeness 
sways 

Clear  in  the  streamlet's  blue. 

Fair  is  the  rocky  fount,  the  blossomed  hedge, 
Groves  stained  with  golden  light ; 

Fair  is  the  star  of  eve,  that  on  the  edge 
Of  purple  clouds  shines  bright. 


KOTZEBUE. 


319 


Fair  is  the   meadow's    freen,  —  the   valley's 
copse,— 

The  hillock's  dress  of  flowers,— 
The  alder-brook,  —  the  reed-endrcled  pond, 

O'er-snowed  with  blossom-showers. 

This  manifold  world  of  life  is  held  in  one 

Bj  Love's  eternal  band : 
The  glowworm  and  the  fire-sea  of  the  sun 

Sprang  from  one  Father's  hand. 

Thon  beckonest.  Almighty !  from  the  tree 
The  blossom's  leaf  doth  fiill ;  — 

Thoa  beckonest,  —  and  in  immensity 
Is  quenched  a  solar  ball ! 


FOR  EVER  THINS. 

Fo A  ever  thine !  thoagh  sea  and  land  diTide  thee, 

For  ever  thine ! 
Through  burning  wastes  and  winds, — whate'er 
betide  me, — 

For  ever  thine ! 
'Mid  dazzling  tapers  in  the  marble  palace. 

For  ever  thine ! 
Beneath  the  evening  moon  in  pastoral  valleys, 

For  ever  thine  ! 
And  when  the  feeble  lamp  of  life,  ezptiing, 

Becomes  divine, — 
My  breaking  heart  will  echo,  still  untiring. 

For  ever  thine  ! 


AUGUST  FRIEDRICH   FERDINAND 
VON   KOTZEBUE. 

This  celebrated  person  was  bom  May  3d, 
1761,  at  Weimar.  He  entered  the  University 
of  Jena,  at  the  age  of  sixteen ;  afterwards  studied 
at  Duisburg,  but  returned  in  1779  to  Jena  and 
studied  law.  He  showed  an  early  passion  for 
the  theatre,  and  wrote  many  dramatic  pieces,  in 
imitation  of  Croethe,  Schiller,  and  other  popular 
authors.  In  1781,  he  went  to  St.  Petersburg, 
and  became  secretary  to  Von  Bawr,  the  general 
of  the  engineers,  and  director  of  the  court  thea- 
tre. After  the  death  of  this  gentleman,  he  re- 
ceived the  patronage  of  the  Empress  Catharine ; 
in  1783,  was  appointed  Assessor  of  the  Chief 
Court  in  Revel,  the  capital  of  the  duchy  of  Estho- 
nia ;  in  1785,  became  President  of  the  govern- 
meat  of  Esthonia,  and  received  a  patent  of  nobil- 
ity. In  1790,  he  published  his  notorious  **  Doc- 
tor Bahrdt  with  the  Iron  Brow."  In  1795,  he 
retired  to  a  country  rendence  in  Esthonia ;  then 
removed  to  Weimar ;  then  returned  to  St.  Peters- 
burg, when  he  was  arrested  and  hurried  away 
to  Siberia,  without  being  infbrmed  of  the  cause. 
He  was,  however,  soon  recalled  by  the  Emperor 
Paul,  and  made  Court  Councillor  and  Director 
of  the  Theatre  in  St.  Petersburg.  In  1801,  he  re- 
turned to  Weimar ;  then  lived  as  a  private  man 
in   Berlin,  where,  in  1802,  he  was  chosen  a 


member  of  the  Academy  of  Sciences.  From 
1806  to  1813,  he  lived  in  Russia ;  then  in  Wei- 
mar, whence  he  removed  to  Mannheim.  He 
received  a  laige  salary  from  Russia,  and  was 
employed  to  report  from  time  to  time  to  the 
Russian  cabinet  on  the  state  of  affairs  in  Ger- 
many. His  hatred  of  liberal  institutions,  and 
advocacy  of  political  opinions  which  were  re- 
garded by  the  Germans  with  abhorrence,  drew 
upon  him  the  detestation  of  many  of  his 
countrymen.  This  was  carried  to  such  a  fanat- 
ical height,  that  a  student  of  theology,  named 
Sand,  having  convinced  himself,  after  severe 
mental  struggles,  that  it  was  an  act  of  duty,  as- 
sassinated him  at  his  residence,  on  the  23d  of 
March,  1819. 

Kotzebue  was  a  voluminous  writer,  and  a  man 
of  great  talent.  But  his  moral  principles  were 
lax,  and  his  writings  are  filled  with  theatrical 
clap- traps  and  false  and  sickly  sentimentality. 
His  historical  works  are  considered  as  of  no 
value.  His  dramas  were  published  at  Leipsic, 
in  &^^  volumes,  1797 ;  new  dramas,  in  twenty- 
three  volumes,  1798-1819.  A  collective  e^- 
tion  of  his  dramatic  works  appeared  at  Leipsic, 
in  1827-29,  in  forty-four  volumes;  a  new  and 
handsome  edition,  in  forty  volumes,  at  Leipsic, 
1840-42.  He  wrote  also  novels  and  tales. 
His  lifb  was  published  by  H.  Doring,  Weimar, 
1830. 

Many  of  Kotzebue's  plays  were  well  received 
throughout  Europe.  They  were  translated  into 
English,  French,  Dutch,  Danish,  Polish,  Rus- 
sian, and  Italian.  Eleven  or  twelve  were 
brought  upon  the  English  stage.  The  *'*■  Ger- 
man Theatre,"  translated  by  Benjamin  Thomp- 
son, six  volumes,  London,  1801,  contains  a 
large  number  of  them. 

FROM  THE  1KAGEDT  OF  HUGO  GROTIUS. 

THE  FLIGHT  FROM  PRISON. 

coBimiA  (anzloaily). 
Wbat  means  this  firing,  mother  ? 
Have  we  succeeded  ?    Is  my  father  safe  ? 


Go  down, — but  no.    What  an  unusual  pother! 
Has  hft  been  seized  ?    Are  these  alarm-guns 

signals 
To  thwart  his  flight.'     I  quake  for  agony. 

eommBJi.  (at  the  wf  ndow). 
People  are  running  one  among  the  other. 
And  drums  are  beating, — yet  upon  the  river 
All  appears  quiet.  — 

[PSOM. 

Our  blue  streamer  floats 
Further  and  further  ofl*.     See  there  on  board 
A  man,  no  doubt  my  brother,  waving  to  us 
In  triumph  a  white  handkerchief,  —  he  is  safe ! 

MABIA. 

Is  he .' — or  does  the  distance  not  deceive  you  i 


320 


GERMAN    POETRY. 


COBNBLIA. 


No,  no,  —  the  longer  on  the  waves  I  rest 
My  eyes,  the  clearer  every  thing  becomes. 
It  is  my  brother,  —  hail,  beloved  Felix  \ 
He  is  now  set  down  and  steering, — and  the  boat 
With   swelling  sail  cuts   swiftly  through  the 

wave. 
They  '11  soon  have  crossed  the  Maas.     My  fa- 
ther 's  saved  ! 

MARIA  (falls  OD  her  kneoi  with  folded  bands.    She  triea  to 

Bpeak,  and  cannot,— then  clasps  Cornelia  in  her  arms). 
Now  be  it  known  that  I,  the  wife  of  Hugo, 
And  thou,  his  child,  are  worthy  of  our  race  ! 
No  word  of  prayer  for  us,  now  he  is  free ! 
We  care  not  for  their  power ;  we  cheerfully 
Shall  sing  athwart  our  grating :  he  is  free  ! 
Let  them  from  us  exclude  the  light  of  heaven, 
Let  them  with  thirst  and  hunger  plague  our 

frames. 
We  suffer  now  for  him ;  and  he  is  free  ! 

KAURica  (enters). 
The  prince  of  Orange  unexpectedly 
Appeared  before  the  fortress :  drums  were  beat, 
And  cannon  fired,  in  honor  of  his  coming. 


Is  our  sworn  foe  so  nigh,  and  at  this  moment  ? 
Well,  let  him  come  ! 

KAUBICB. 

The  prince  had  scarce  alighted 

From  off  his  horse,  when  he  inquired  for  Gro- 

tins; 
He  means  to  see  him. 

MARIA  (with  a  triumphant  smile). 
Well,  then,  let  him  come. 

MAURICE. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  will  be  before  you. 


And  we  are  ready  to  receive  him. 

MAtnuca. 
Mother, 

I  augur  good.    He  is  indeed  our  foe,  — 
But  a  great  man,  who  scorns  the  petty  triumphs 
Of  humbling  by  his  presence  the  disarmed. 

MARIA. 

I  pledge  myself  he  *11  not  do  that. 

MAURICa. 

So  be  it. 

Is  Hugo  sleeping  still .' 


He  is  broad  awake. 

[Prince  of  Orange  enters,  with  the  Oaptaln. 

MAURICB. 

The  general. 

PRIKCI. 

Thanks,  my  worthy  captain  : 

All  things  I  find  as  I  expected  of  you. 

CAPTAIN  (presenting  Maria  and  Oomelia  to  the  Prince). 
The  wife  of  Grotius, — and  his  daughter. 


PRIMCB. 

Lady, 

Though  we  meet  not  as  friends,  at  least  I  hope 

That  we  shall  part  as  such. 


I  know  Prince  Moritz 

Values  consistency  e'en  in  a  foe. 

PRINCE. 

This  virtue  sometimes  looks  like  obstinacy. 

MARIA. 

And  sometimes  serves  ambition  for  a  cloak. 

PRINCB. 

A  truce  to  words  that  might  be  taken  harshly : 
Tou  Ml  learn  to  know  me  better,  noble  lady. 


We  *ve  known  you  ever  since  we  *ve  been  in 
prison. 


Who  forced  you  to  partake  your  husband's  for- 
tunes? 


If  you  were  married,  you  would  not  inquire. 

PRINCE. 

Enough.     The  memory  of  the  past  be  razed. 


Are  you  a  god  ? 

PRINOa. 

Lead  me  to  Hugo  Grotius ; 

And  he  shall  reconcile  me  to  his  consort. 

CAPTAIN. 

There  is  his  chamber. 


You  will  find  in  it 

Only  the  relics  of  the  saint  who  dwelt  there. 

PRWCB  (startled). 
Is  Hugo  dead  ? 


And  would  it  be  a  wonder. 
If  these  damp  walls  had  nipped  his  frail  exist- 
ence ? 
But  I  am  not  here  to  curse  his  murderers, 
I  smile  in  scorn  upon  their  impotence ; 
My  husband  has  escaped. 

ALL. 

Escaped?   Escaped? 

[  TbB  Oaptaln  goes  Into  the  deeping-room. 


In  spite  of  all  your  halberds,  all  your  bolts, 
A  woman's  cunning  snatched  him  fiom  your 

power, 
And  love  has  triumphed  over  violence. 

CAPTAIN  (retnms  terrified). 
She  speaks  the  truth  :  he  is  not  to  be  found. 

pRiNOH  (surprised  and  angij). 
How  ?    By  whose  help  ? 


KOTZEBUE. 


321 


By  mine. 

PmiHOB. 

Bj  what  eontriyance  ? 


Who  can  compel  me  to  ducover  that  ? 

MAuaioa  (aside). 
Igueas. 

FBIHOI. 

Speak,  —  whither,  whither  ia  he  gone  ? 


Send  out  your  spies,  and  track  him  aa  yoa  can. 

pamoa. 
Woman,  beware  my  anger ! 

I  lear  nothing. 

Who  are  the  helper's  helpers  ?  for  alone 

Ton  cannot  have  accomplished  it.     Speak  out. 

Lest  force  extort  confession  from  your  lips. 


None  knew  hot  I ;  therein  consists  my  pride. 

ooamBJi.  (modaaUy). 
Yoa  rob  me  of  my  little  share  of  merit;  — 
I  also  knew  it ;  but  no  one  besides. 


And  was  the  law  unknown  to  yoo,  that  each 
Who  breaks  the  prison  of  seditious  persons 
Is  subject  to  the  penalty  of  death  ? 

O&RAni. 

They  knew  it  weU. 

ramoBL 
Then  give  the- law  its  course; 
The  wife,  at  least 


Do  not  forget  the  daughter. 

MAuaica. 
They  both  have  &lsely  testified,  —  't  was  I, 
I  only  did  it. 

pamca  (astoDished). 
Who  are  you  ? 

MAUaiOB. 

My  name 

Is  Maurice  Helderbusch  :  I  am  a  lieutenant 
Now  stationed  in  this  garrison.  An  orphan  boy, 
Grotius  first  noticed  me,  and  taught  me  much : 
This  lady  has  been  quite  a  mother  to  me. 
Under  your  Highness  I  have  served  with  honor; 
But  when  the  fortunes  of  my  foster-fiither. 
My  benefiictor,  reached  me,  and  I  heard 
That  he  was  here  in  close  confinement  kept. 
And  his  dear  life  in  danger,  I  endeavoured 
To  get  the  humbler  place  I  occupy. 
Wishing  to  free  him,  and  I  have  succeeded. 
I  only  am  the  criminal  to  punish. 


Fie,  Maurice ! 


Do  n't  believe  him, — he  has  lied. 
41 


He  oflen  has  refused  to  me  his  help, 
Because  he  held  it  contrary  to  duty. 

MAVHios  (polntlDf  to  Maria). 
This  woman  loves  me  as  were  I  her  son. 

[Pointing  to 

This  girl  has  been  betrothed  to  me  as  bride, 
They  sacrifice  themselves  to  rescue  me. 

V     MAMiA  (deepljr  moved). 
Maurice,  what  are  you  doing .' 


Prince, — by  Heaven  ! 
He  is  not  speaking  truth. 

FRIXOB. 

How,  how  is  this  .' 

Who  disentangles  for  me  the  enigma  ? 

OAPTAXX. 

I  stand  astonished,  Prince,  as  ydu  must  do  : 
Nor  can  I  clearly  fathom  the  strange  contest. 
One  thing  I  know,  that  Maurice  Helderbusch 
Was  always  a  brave  soldier,  and  a  man 
Of  nicest  honor,  to  whom,  but  last  night. 
When  duty  took  me  'cross  the  Maas  to  Gorcum, 
I  handed  over  the  command  in  trust. 


And  did  he  not  that  very  night  prevent 
My  fiither's  flying,  by  his  vigilance  ? 


He  did  so. 

OAPTAm. 

All  the  garrison  knows  that 

MAXmXOB. 

I  did  it  the  more  certainly  to  favor 

The  riper  purpose  of  this  morning's  flight. 

Ask  you  for  proofi  ?    These  have  been  telling 

you 
That  no  one  knows  the  way  he  left  his  prison. 
I  know  it, — I.     'T  was  in  a  chest  for  books 
That  he  was  carried  out.     I  stood  beside  it ; 
And  called,  mysell^  the  men  who  took  it  hence. 
The  sergeant,  as  his  duty  ordered  him. 
Wanted  to  break  it  open.     I  forbade  ; 
Took  on  myself  the  whole  responsibility. 
Can  you  deny  it  ? 


Maurice,  were  you  not 
Deceived,  like  him  ? 

MAUaiCB. 

O,  no  !  I  knew  the  whole. 

Would  you  have  further  proofs  ?     The  son  of 

Hugo, 
The  same  who  lately  broke  away  from  prison. 
And  for  whose  capture  the  States  General 
Offered  rewards  (for  that  I  also  knew), 
Came  here  most  rashly,  and  was  in  my  power : 
I  let  him  go,  —  ask  all  the  garrison,  — 
I  am  the  guilty  person. 

paxNca. 
Give  your  sword 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


To  the  commanding  officer.     To>day 
By  martial  law  the  case  shall  be  decided. 

[To  the  Captain. 
Till  then,  remain  he  in  the  very  cell 
Whoae  doors  he  says  he  opened  for  this  Grotius. 
Transfer  these  women  to  the  castle,  —  there 
They  '11  have  a  better  lodging  :  but  remain 
For  their  safe  custody  responsible. 
Until  the  trial  shall  allot  the  guilt. 
If  they  are  criminals,  let  them  join  the  fled  one : 
My  heart 's  a  stranger  to  ignoble  vengeance. 

CAPTAIN. 

Tou  must  be  parted.     Follow,  noble  lady. 
(pafnfiiQy). 


Maurice ! 

MAtraioa  On  a  petitioning  tone). 
Now  am  I  not  again  your  son  ? 

MABIA. 

Is  this  your  way  of  punishing  the  mother 
Who  onpe  mistook  her  child  f  —  you  give  him 

back, 
Only  to  tear  him  the  more  hardly  from  me. 

OOBmUA. 

Beloved,  —  not  this  dreadful  sacrifice ! 

OAPTAXN. 

I  can  allow  no  further  conversation. 


I  follow.     Maurice,  thou  hast  been  obedient : 
Honor  thy  mother's  will. 

OOBMSLIA. 

Thy  loved  one's  prayer. 

FROM  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  GUSTAVUS  WASA. 

THX   ARREST  AND   ESCAPE. 
[Soow.— Saloon  In  the  Cattle  of  Galmar.] 

BRABI. 

Thou  messenger  of  Heaven !  Have  I  my  senses  ? 
Tell  me  a  hundred  times,  how  does  he  look  ? 
Whence  comes  he  ?     What 's  he  after  ? 


He  himself 

Will  tell  you  that :  he  follows  me  forthwith. 

BBABB. 

Now  I  shall  have  a  brother  once  again  ! 
My  heart  will  beat  against  a  kindred  heart ; 
The  memory  of  better  days  return ; 
And  my  dried  eyes  in  milder  sorrow  gleam. 
Where  is  he  ?  O,  my  throbbing  breast  can  hardly 
Bear  this  impatience,  now  he  is  so  near  me ! 


I  hope  that  here  he  's  safe  ? 


That 's  a  strange  question  ! 

Whose  life  is  safe  an  hour  on  Sweden's  soil  ? 

Tread  where  you  will,  the  earth  beneath  you 

quakes. 
And  hollow  ashes  hide  a  glowing  lava  : 


Through  smoke  and  flame,  athwart  the  yawning 

chasms. 
One  path  alone  is  safe,  —  the  path  of  meanness. 


Too  crooked  for  my  master.     Let  me  know. 
How  is  the  garrison  disposed,  —  the  burghers 
How? 

BKAHB. 

Who  can  fathom,  in  these  times,  men's  minds  ? 
When  every  one  who  catches  himself  sighing 
Looks  round  for  fear  he  was  not  quite  alone ; 
Where  brother  trusts  not  brother;  where  the 

windows 
Are  shut,  that  not  a  neighbour  may  suspect 
You  grieve  for  slaughtered  kinsfolk ;  where  the 

mourner 
In  gay  attire  struts  loyally  to  church. 
Joins  the  Te  Deum  in  his  shrillest  key. 
Lest  spies  report :  '*  He  sang  not  loud  enough." 

•RBOBESON. 

If  BO,  alas ! 

BRAHB. 

Yes,  that  is  here  the  watchword. 

Our  country  now  is  still  and  desolate 

As  a  Carthusian  cloister,  —  those   who  dwell 

there 
Walk  silent  over  graves,  and,  when  they  meet. 
Whisper  with  hollow  voice  :  Memento  -mm  / 


God  !  what  a  picture  ! 


Yet  there  's  light  about  it,  — 
The  lightning's  lurid  light :  for  he,  that  tore 
Hence  every  comfort  dear  to  better  men. 
At  least  has  robbed  us  of  the  fear  of  death. 
Though  every  day  brings  news  of  fresh-spilt 

blood, 
We  hear  it  without  shuddering,  and  lie  down 
Full  of  the  thought,  "Shall  I  outlive  to-morrow.'" 
But  this  no  longer  troubles  our  repose. 
As  when  a  wild  storm,  rushing  from  the  moun- 
tains. 
Tears  trees  and  houses  down,  it  also  shakes 
The  prison  into  ruin  ;  and  the  captive 
Breathes  suddenly  once  more  the  air  of  heaven. 
[Gorman  officen  enter. 

FXBST  OFFICBB. 

A  daring  stranger  is  arrived. 


Where?  where? 


'T  is  he  !  I  hasten. 


Cgoea). 


saooiiD  opncBB. 
Who  proclaims  himself 
To  be  Gastavus  Wasa. 


He  's  my  brother. 

PBST  OFPIOm. 

Is  he  ?     So  much  the  worse. 


O,  lead  me  to  him ! 


KOTZEBUE. 


323 


He  'b  standing  in  the  market :  round  him  throng 
The  bargherB,  and  by  torch-light  he  harangues 

them, 
And  counsels  insurrection.  * 

FIRST  OFPIOBB. 

I  was  passing, 

And  saw  and  heard  him.     He  is  yery  bold : 
His  eyeballs  glow ;  his  lips  spit  fire;  he  curses 
The  very  king. 

saAHi. 
How  do  the  people  take  it  ? 

nasT  ovnoaa. 
They  are  quite  silent. 

saooND  OFFioaa. 
Sometimes  by  his  prayers. 
Sometimes  with  threats,  he  calls  on  them  for 

Tengeance, 
And  cries :  "  To  arms ! " 

BKAHS. 

Well,  —  but  the  citizens .' 


They  listen  silently, — yet  a  fiint  murmur. 
Like  subterraneous  thunder,  runs  along  them. 

FIBST  OmCBB. 

It  cannot  pass  unnoticed.     Satellites 
Are  gathering  round  him  slowly. 


For  what  purpose .' 


Do  you  suppose  we  mean  to  let  him  go .' 

SBOOHD  OFVICBB. 

A  hea^  price  is  set  upon  his  head. 


Which  you  would  earn  ? 

BBOOND  OFFICBB. 

I  ?  —  every  one  of  us. 


Are  yon  not  Germans  ? 

VIBBT   OFFIOBB. 

Certainly. 

BBABB. 

And  could  you 

I>iBhonorably  murder  the  last  offspring 

Of  such  a  noble  stem  ? 

BBOOHD  OTVIOBB. 

Murder  ?  —  that  Christiem, 

Indeed,  might  choose.     We  only  do  our  duty. 


Where  is  your  captain  ? 

VXBBT  OFFIOBB. 

He  is  coming,  lady. 

[Maleo  entaiB. 
BBAHB  (goes  towards  him). 
Bernard  of  Melen,  do  you  know  already 


I  know  a  restless  youth  has  undertakes 
A  mad  exploit. 


Hoping  to  meet  with  men, 
And  not  with  slaves. 


His  rashness  is  too  likely 
To  cost  his  lift. 


How  ?    You,  too  ? 


Noble  lady. 

What  can  I  do  ?     The  gates  of  Calmar  still 

Were  standing  open.     Through  the  crowd  of 

burghers, 
Who  thronged  in  a  respectful  silence  round  him, 
He  might  have  found  the  timely  means  of  flight; 
But  he,  as  if  indignant  at  their  stillness. 
Has  turned  his  back  upon  them,  and  is  coming 
Here  rashly  to  the  castle. 


May  he  not 
Salute  his  sister  ? 

FIBST  OFFIOK 

He  surrenders,  then. 
Into  our  hands. 


Melen,  can  that  be  true  ? 

[Melen  abrugi  his  abotdderi. 
And  yon  would  lead  the  hero,  like  a  victim, 
Up  to  the  royal  butcher's  slaughter-block .' 

MBLBir. 

Why  must  he  come  just  hither  ? 

BBAHB  (low). 

And  will  you 

Become  the  murderer  of  Brahe's  brother  ? 


How  can  I  save  him  ? 


Tet  you  still  presume 
To  fkble  love  to  me  ! 


God !  can  I  save  him  ? 

BBAHB. 

Know,  Melen,  on  his  life  my  own  depends. 
Do  what  you  will  and  may.    I  perish  with  him. 


•vsTAVUS  (still  behind  the  scene). 
O  sister,  sister ! 

BBAHB  (going  toward  him). 
Brother ! 

•usTAVUS  (embracing  her). 
Now  I  feel 

A  heart  like  mine  beat  on  my  happy  breast !  — 
'T  is  well  I  am  vnth  men  of  Germany, 
Who  will  not  lend  their  hero-arms  to  tyrants, 
To  rivet  yokes  upon  an  orphan  people. 
Tes,  —  at  your  head  I  shall  withdraw,  and  feel 


324 


GERMAN    POETRY. 


That  to  brave  Germans  it  has  been  reserved 
To  break  the  heavy  fetters  of  the  Swedes, 
And  on  the  borders  of  the  Baltic  build 
A  lasting  monument  to  German  virtue. 

FIRST  OFFICm. 

You  are  mistaken,  Knight.    We  serve  the  king. 

BBGOND  OFFIOBB. 

For  his  protection  we  were  sent  on  dutj. 

ALL  THB   OFFXOBKS. 

Yes,  so  it  truly  is. 


Alas,  my  brother ! 


Men  I  behold,  indeed,  like  soldiers  clad  ; 

But  what  I  hear  is  not  the  warriors'  language. 

That  frightened  citizens  stood  still  around  me, 

And  shrugged  their  shoulders  at  my  loud  com- 
plaints. 

Might  be,  —  but  men  and  Germans,  under 
arms 

PIBST  OFnOBB. 

We  *re  weary  of  the  war. 

SBCOND  OFFICBB. 

The  Admiral  Norby 

Lies  with  his  shipping  off  the  coast  hard  by. 

VIR8T  OFFIOm. 

What  signify  to  us  the  acts  of  Sweden  ? 
Why  should  our  blood  be  spilt  about  the  Swedes? 
The  kingdom  has  submitted  to  the  victor, 
Rightly  or  wrongly ;  who  commissions  us 
To  be  the  judges  ?     In  a  word,  we  swim 
But'  with  the  stream. 

OUSTAVUS. 

And  you  all  think  so  ? 

ALL. 

All. 

OUSTAVUS. 

Then,  sister,  follow  me  !     Let  as  retire 
Into  the  mountains,  where  on  humble  fare 
Survives  as  yet  some  Swedish  truth  and  cour- 
age J 
Where  neither  cowardice  nor  profligacy 
Have  yet  unnerved  the  arm  ;  and  no  one  asks. 
On  hearing  deeds  of  blood,  **  What 's  that  to 

us  ?  " 
Come,  sister. 


Hold,  young  man  !  you  must  not  go. 
You  are  our  prisoner. 


OUSTAWS. 
SSCOWD  OFFIOBB. 


Who.?    I? 
No  doubt. 

OUSTAVUS. 

Trusting  your  honor,  hospi^tality  .' 

FIKST  OJVIUJU. 

You  are  in  ban. 

OUSTAVUS. 

Wherein  consisti  my  crime  ? 


BSCOMD  OFVIOn. 

The  legate  has  denounced  you  as  an  outlaw. 

OUSTAVUS. 

Do  n't  make  me  laugh !  Let  me  retire  in  quiet : 
And  when  you  hear  of  what  I  shall  accomplish. 
Then  gnash  your  teeth  that  it  was  done  without 
you. 

raiST  OFFIOBE. 

Why  such  proud  words  ?     Your  sword. 

OUSTAVUS  (draws  his  sword). 
My  sword  ?     Who  ventures 
To  take  it  from  me  ? 


Melen,  can  you  calmly 
Look  on  all  this  ? 


My  brethren,  what  have  we 
To  do  with  these  affairs  ?    You  're  very  right 
We  will  stand  neuter  'twizt  the  combatants. 
Gustavus  Wasa  may  remain  our  guest. 
Here  in  the  castle,  and  an  honored  guest. 
Who  full  of  confidence  has  fled  to  us. 
Misfortune  should  be  honored  in  a  foe. 
At  pleasure  he  '11  withdraw. 

FIRST  OFFICSR. 

No,  Captain,  no. 

We  know  what  motives  you ;  but  give  me  leave 

To  say  the  prize  is  precious. 


And  would  not 

My  share  be  greatest  ?    Yours  I  will  make  up. 


With  what? 

O,  with  my  jewels 


SaOOKD  OFFXCSa. 


(haatUj). 


Noble  lady. 

You  and  your  jewels  are  in  custody. 

OUSTAVUS. 

Do  I  stand  among  Jews  ? 

FIRST  OFFlCSa. 

Dare  you  still  growl  ? 

SBCOND  OFFICSa. 

Knight,  give  no  further  useless  opposition. 
You  must  surrender.     Lay  your  weapon  down. 

OUSTAVUS  (swInglDf  his  swoid). 
He  who  has  blood  to  spare  may  come   and 
fetch  it. 

FIRST   OFFICSR. 

Now,  brethren,  shall  a  single  man  defy  us  ? 

[AU  bat  Melen  draw  their  swords. 

BRAHB  (throws  herself  between  them). 
For  God's  sake,  yet  a  word,  a  single  word  I 
He  can  't  escape  you.    Leave  me  but  a  moment 
With  him  alone.     The  sister's  love  shall  take. 
Bloodless,  his  sword  away,  —  he  well  may  hope 
For  your  king's  mercy, — 't  were  in  vain  to  stake 


KOTZEBUE. 


335 


AfaiiiBt  you  all  hii  solitary  life. 

Grant  me  this  one  last  prayer,  bat  to  pass 

Two  minutes  with  him  here  apart 


So  be  it: 

Out  of  respect  to  you,  meet  noble  lady. 

SBOoin>  OFFiosa. 
Bot  from  the  door  we  shall  not  stir  at  all. 

FXBST  oFnosa. 
Make  a  short  parley  of  it.    Brethren,  come. 
[AUrsUnt 


Melen,  you  loTe  me  :  but  till  now  in  vain 
Have  tried  to  draw  aside  the  widow's  weeds. 
Do  yon  still  love  me  ? 


Like  my  very  soul. 
But  what  can  I  do  here  ? 


Behold  the  youth. 

Who  soon  may  be  your  brother !  Quick,  decide. 

The  tyrant's  instrument  I  marry  not. 


Think  not  I  need  persuasion.     I  am  veied 
Tou  use  the  bribe  of  love,-  where  honor  speaks 
Aloud.     But  what  can  I  against  a  crowd, 
Who  bow  to  me  as  captain,  you  well  know. 
While  I  advance  the  pay ;  but  who,  by  Heaven ! 
Will  not  let  slip  this  opportunity 
Of  earning  costly  ransom  for  their  prisoner. 


The  key  into  the  subterraneous  passage. 

uLBi  (»urt]e(|X 
How? 


I}o  you  hesitate  ?    Do  you  dissemble  ? 


No :  but  of  what  use  can  that  passage  be  ? 
It  leads  unto  the  outer  ditch,  where  mire 
Would  check  the  passenger  until  too  late. 

BR4HB. 

And  why  too  late  ? 


Tea  see  these  greedy  people 

Are  counting  minutes ;  they  will  soon  pursue, 

And  their  shots  reach  our  hero  in  the  fosse. 

BBAHH. 

Is  not  the  powder  in  that  passage  stowed  ? 


BKiUIS. 

That  'fl  enough, — the  key. 
Too  still  persist  ? 

BKAin. 

O,  as  you  love  me,  give  it,  while  there  's  time ! 


Well,  I  will  stake  my  life  to  do  you  service. 


And  save,  if  possible,  the  Swedish  hero. 
Nor  will  I  therefore  claim  the  meed  of  love 
For  doing  as  in  honor  I  feel  bound. 
There  is  the  key.     Crod  guide  you  ! 

OVBTAWS. 

Now,  my  sister, 

What  are  you  planning  f 

BBAHB  (has  opened  the  peaaafs-door :  caaka  of  powder  are 

aeen  In  dark  penpectiTe :  alao  a  pile  of  torchas). 
In,  take  the  light,  and  bolt  the  door  behind  you. 
Off  quickly  ! 

OVSTAWS. 

There  are  here  no  inside  bolts. 

9MAHM. 

Then  trust  in  me.     I  stay  behind  on  guard. 
Our  ftther*B  spirit  guide  thee  \ 

evsTAWB  (diaappesrS). 
My  good  sister ! 

BBAHB. 

Away,  away  !    I  hear  the  soldiers  coming. 
What  next  is  best  ?     Shall  I  lock  up  the  door. 
And  fling  into  the  ditch  the  key  ?  Their  anger. 
Or  their  revenge,  I  bid  defiance  to ! 
Should  they  bresk  ope  the  door,  and  so  pursue. 
Ere  he  's  in  safety, — and  their  bullets  reach 

him 

[Perceiring  the  pile  of  torchee,  ahe  pnahes  off  the  head 

of  a  powder-caak,  and  proceeda  to  light  the  torclL 
Better  the  door  stand  open.  —  Courage,  now  ! 
A  brother's  lifo  's  at  stake, — perhaps  a  country's. 
[She  placea  heraelf  at  the  entrance  with  the  torch  in 

her  hand.    The  offlcera  enter,  and  look  round  with 

Burpriae  and  miatinat. 

FAST  OFPIOXB. 

Tour  time  is  now  expired  ;  but  where  is  he  ? 

BRABB. 

Whom  are  you  seeking  here? — perhaps  my 
brother. 

SBOOMD  OTVICBB. 

Hell  and  the  Devil !  What  has  been  the  maUer  ? 
The  subterraneous  passage-door  is  open. 


There 's  treachery. 


Let 's  follow  him  at  once. 


Stand  back,  or  in  that  powder-cask  I  Ml  plunge 
This  burning  torch. 

ram  OFnoBU  (atand  petrified). 
The  woman  's  crazy,  surely. 


Look  in.    Ton  cask  is  open.     If  but  one 
Of  you  presume  by  force  to  enter  here. 
The  die  is  cast,  the  fortress  is  blown  up,  — 
By  God,  and  by  my  father's  blood,  it  is ! 

TBI  omcBBs  (In  conaohatkm). 
The  woman  's  crazy.  We  must  take  our  horses. 
And  ajfter  him. 

BBAHB. 

Thank  God,  he  's  safoly  hence  I 


326 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


JOHANN   GAUDENZ   VON   SALIS. 

The  poet  Sails  was  born  Dec.  26th,  1762,  at 
Seewia.  He  received  his  first  iDstruction  in  his 
father's  house  ;  then  lived  with  Pfefiel  in  Col- 
mar.  He  was  afterwards  captain  of  the  Swiss 
guard  at  Versailles.  In  1789,  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  Goethe,  Wieland,  Herder,  and 
Schiller,  while  on  a  journey.  At  the  beginning 
of  the  Revolution,  he  served  under  General 
Montesquiou  in  Savoy;  afterwards,  lived  pri- 
vately at  Paris,  occupied  with  his  studies.  In 
1793,  he  returned  to  his  country  and  married  at 
Malans.  He  was  obliged  to  leave  Malans,  on  ac- 
count of  political  difficulties,  and  went  to  Zflrich, 
where  he  held  several  offices.  In  1803,  he  re- 
turned to  his  family  estate,  where  he  remained 
until  1817 ;  afterwards,  to  Malans,  where  he 
died  in  1834. 

In  genius  he  resembled  Matthisson.  He 
wrote  only  lyric  poems.  His  works  were  pub- 
lished in  1790 ',  again  in  1823 ;  and  lastly,  at 
Zarich,  1839.  His  poems  are  characterized  by 
a  soft  melancholy,  and  deep  feeling.  He  pre- 
served, in  all  the  scenes  through  which  he  pass- 
ed, at  the  court  of  France,  at  the  Residence, 
where  he  spent  his  youth,  and  in  the  tumults 
of  war,  the  simplicity  of  his  tastes,  and  the  puri- 
ty of  his  character. 

CHEERFULNESSb 

See  how  the  day  beameth  brightly  before  us ! 

Blue  is  the  firmament,  green  is  the  earth ; 
Grief  hath  no  voice  in  the  Universe  chorus. 

Nature  is  ringing  with  music  and  mirth. 
Lift  up  the  looks  that  are  sinking  in  sadness ; 

Gaze  !  and  if  beauty  can  rapture  thy  soul. 
Virtue  herself  shall  allure  thee  to  gladness, — 

Gladness  !  philosophy's  guerdon  and  goal. 

Enter  the  treasuries  Pleasure  uncloses ; 

List !  how  she  trills  in  the  nightingale's  lay ! 
Breathe !  she  is  wafting  the  sweets  from  the 
roses; 

Feel !  she  is  cool  in  the  rivulet's  play ; 
Taste !  from  the  grape  and  the  nectarine  gush- 
ing, 

Flows  the  red  rill  in  the  beams  of  the  sun  ; 
Green  in  the  hills,  thd  flower-groves  blushing. 

Look  !  she  is  always  and  everywhere  one. 

Banish,  then,  mourner,  the  tears  that  are  trick- 
ling 

Over  the  cheeks  that  should  rosily  bloom ; 
Why  should  a  man,  like  a  girl  or  a  sickling. 

Suffer  his  lamp  to  be  quenched  in  the  tomb  ? 
Still  may  we  battle  for  good  and  for  beauty ; 

Still  have  philanthropy  much  to  essay : 
Glory  rewards  the  fulfilment  of  duty; 

Rest  will  pavilion  the  end  of  our  way. 

What  though  corroding  and  multiplied  sorrows, 
Legion-like,  darken  this  planet  of  ours  f 

Hope  is  a  balsam  the  wounded  heart  borrows. 
Even  when  anguish  hath  palsied  its  powers ; 


Wherefore,  though  fate  play  the  part  of  a  traitor. 
Soar  o'er  the  stars  on  the  pinions  of  hope,  — 

Fearlessly  certain,  that,  sooner  or  later, 
Over  the  stars  thy  desires  shall  have  scope. 

Look  round  about  on  the  face  of  creation ! 

Still  is  God's  earth  undistorted  and  bright ; 
Comfort  the  captive's  too  long  tribulation. 

Thus  shalt  thou  reap  thy  perfect  delight. 
Love !  —  but  if  love  be  a  hollow  emotion. 

Purity  only  its  rapture  should  share  ; 
Love,  then,  with  willing  and  deathless  devotion. 

All  that  is  just,  and  exalted,  and  fiur. 

Act !  —  for  in  action  are  wisdom  and  glory ; 

Fame,  immortality,  these  are  its  crown  ; 
Wouldst  thou  illumine  the  tablets  of  story. 

Build  on  achievements  thy  doom  of  renown. 
Honor  and  feeling  were  given  to  cherish  ; 

Cherish  them,  then,  though  all  else  should 
decay ; 
Landmarks  be  these  that  are  never  to  periah. 

Stars  that  will  shine  on  the  duskiest  day. 

Courage  !  disaster  and  peril,  once  over, 

Freshen  the  spirits  as  flowers  the  grove  ; 
O'er  the  dim  graves  that  the  cypresses  cover, 

Soon  the  forget-me-not  rises  in  love. 
Courage,  then,  friends!    though  the  universe 
crumble. 

Innocence,  dreadless  of  danger  beneath. 
Patient  and  trustful,  and  joyous  and  humble. 

Smiles  through  ruin  on  darkness  and  death  ! 


SONQ  OF  THE  SILENT  LAND. 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 
Ah  !  who  shall  lead  us  thither  ? 
Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather. 
And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 
Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
Thither,  O,  thither. 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ? 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 
To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 
Of  all  perfection  !     Tender  morning-visions 
Of  beauteous  souls!     The  Future's  pledge 
and  band ! 
Who  in  Life's  battle  firm  doth  stand 
Shall  bear  Hope's  tender  blossoms 
Into  the  Silent  Land ! 

O  Land  !     O  Land  ! 
For  all  the  broken-hearted 
The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted 

Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 

To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

Into  the  land  of  the  great  departed. 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 


HARVEST  SONG.     . 

Autumn  winds  are  sighing. 
Summer  glories  dying. 
Harvest-time  is  nigh. 


SALIS.— NEUBECK. 


327 


Cooler  breezes,  quivering, 
Through  the  pine-groves  shivering. 
Sweep  the  troubled  sky. 

See  the  fields,  how  yellow  ! 
Clusters,  bright  and  mellow, 

Gleam  on  every  hill ; 
Nectar  fills  the  fountains. 
Crowns  the  sunny  mountains, 

Runs  in  every  rill. 

Now  the  lads  are  springing. 
Maidens  blithe  are  singing. 

Swells  the  harvest  strain : 
Every  field  rejoices ; 
Thousand  thankful  voices 

Mingle  on  the  plain. 

Then,  when  day  declineth, 
And  the  mild  moon  shineth. 

Tabors  sweetly  sound ; 
And,  while  they  are  sounding. 
Fairy  feet  are  bounding 

0*er  the  moonlit  ground. 


THE  ORAYE. 

Thx  grave  all  still  and  darkling  lies, 
Beneath  its  hallowed  ground ; 

And  dark  the  mists  to  human  eyes. 
That  float  its  precincts  round. 

No  music  of  the  grove  invadea 

That  dark  and  dreary  way ; 
And  fast  the  votive  floweret  Aides 

Upon  its  heaving  clay. 

And  vain  the  tear  in  beauty's  eye,  — 

The  orphan's  groan  is  vain  : 
No  sound  of  clamorous  agony 

Shall  pierce  its  gloomy  reign. 

Tet  that  oblivion  of  the  tomb 

Shall  suffering  man  desire. 
And  through  that  shadowy  gate  of  gloom 

The  weary  wretch  retire. 

The  bark,  by  ceaseless  storms  oppressed. 

Runs  madly  to  the  shore ; 
And  thus  the  grief-worn  heart  shall  rest 

There  where  it  beats  no  more. 


VALERIUS  WILHELM  NEUBECK. 

This  poet  was  bom  Jan.  29th,  1765,  at  Am- 
stadt,  in  the  principality  of  Schwarzburg-Son- 
dersbausen.  He  studied  at  the  school  of  his  na- 
tive place,  and  at  the  Knights*  Academy  at  Lieg- 
nitz,  in  Silesia;  afterwards  at  the  Universities 
of  Gottingen  and  Jena,  firom  the  latter  of  which 
he  received  his  medical  degree  in  1788.  He 
remained,  as  practising  physician,  some  time  at 
Laiegnitz ;  but  was  afterwards  called  to  Steinau, 
in  LfOwer  Silesia,  where  he  was  honored  with 


the  title  of  Court  Councillor.  He  acquired  his 
reputation  as  a  didactic  poet  by  a  poem  upon 
the  **  Mineral  Springs,"  an  extract  from  which 
is  given  below.  This  was  followed  by  a  poem 
on  the  **  Destraction  of  the  Earth  after  the  Final 
Judgment,*'  Liegnitz,  1785.  He  wrote,  also, 
lyrical  pieces,  and  a  drama.  A  collection  of  his 
works  appeared  at  Leipsio,  in  1827. 

THE  PRAISE  OF  IRON. 

Now  strike,  my  lyre,  thy  strongest,  fullest  tones ! 
Now  sing  the  praise  of  Iron  !    *Mongst  the  bards. 
So  potent  in  Thuiskon*s  sacred  land. 
None  sang  the  fruits  of  the  Teutonic  hills ; 
No  festal  lay  was  heard  to  Iron's  praise 
Beneath  the  sacred  oaks,  which  stretch  their  roots 
Down  to  the  silent  caves,  where  Nature  bids 
Her  seeds  to  germ  and  ripe  in  gentle  growth. 
Hail,  noble  present  of  our  native  heights ! 
Despised  by  many,  who,  with  foolish  sense, 
Gk>ld's  treteherous  splendor  more  revere,  and 

covet 
More  than  thee.  Iron,  and  thy  modest  sheen !  — 
Ye  sons  of  Herrmann !  undervalue  not. 
Scorn  not,  this  treasure  of  your  native  moun- 


Hear  me  !    I  sing  the  worth  of  native  wealth !  — 
Say,  —  whence  doth  War  derive  his  glittering 

arms? 
'T  is  Iron,  hardened  in  the  tempering  fire 
To  steel,  and  fashioned  on  the  anvil-head, 
Then  sharpened  by  the  artist's  busy  hand. 
That  arms  the  hero,  —  Iron  guards  his  breast : 
Hail,  noble  tribute  of  our  native  heights  ! 
Accept  the  incense  of  my  song  !  —  thou  giv'st 
The  avenging  sword  into  his  hand  to  wage 
The  war  of  Justice  ;  thou  assistest  him 
To  conquer  for  his  country  in  the  field. — 
Yet  greater  is  thy  praise  in  peace,  and  fairer 
Thy  blessing  !    Verily,  I  love  thee  more, 
My  song  more  fervently  salutes  thee,  when 
The  workman's  hand  hath  on  the  anvil  shaped 
Thee  to  the  shining  arms  of  Peace,  which  ne'er 
Inhuman  warriors  with  the  innocent  blood 
Shall  stain  of  slumbering  infants.     Evermore 
The  softest  rural  joys  expand  my  heart. 
And  from  my  quivering  lips  in  holy  hymns 
Stream  out,  whene'er  I  see  thee,  shining,  peep 
From  out  the  clodded  furrow ',  when  I  hear 
The  sweeping  scythe  upon  the  flowery  mead ; 
Or,  'midst  the  sinking  ears,  the  grateful  sound 
Of  the  shrill  sickle,  where  the  nutbrown  maid 
Weaves  the  blue  corn-flowers  in  the  wisp  of 

straw. 
To  bind  the  fairest  sheaf;  when,  in  the  time. 
The  merry  vintage-time,  I  hear  the  knife 
Rubbed  on  the  grating  whetstone,  to  collect 
The  gifts  of  Autumn  on  the  clustered  hills. — 
Hail,  useful  ore  !  the  choir  of  social  Arts 
Join  with  my  numbers,  in  thy  well  earned  praise. 
Ne'er  had  Praxiteles  the  marble  formed 
With  silver  chisel  into  breathing  life  ;  — 
No  palace  from  the  mountain's  rocky  ribs, 
Corinthian-built,  had  risen,  without  thee. 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


To  the  astonished  cloada ;  —  without  thy  help, 
Arachne's  art  would  never  know  to  trace 
The  yaried  picture  on  the  glossy  silk. 
Say,  would  the  horM,  if  shod  with  purest  gold. 
More  safely  scour  the  ice,  or  climb  the  moun- 
tain-path ? 
O,  how  would  the  bold  pilot  in  the  wastes 
Of  ocean  find  a  way,  when,  round  about. 
The   heavens  are  hung  with   dreary,  stormy 

clouds, 
Like  curtains,  shutting  out  the  friendly  stars. 
Which  else,  through  labyrinths  of  treacherous 

sands 
And  hurrying  whirlpools,  by  a  golden  clue 
Would  safely  lead  him,  that  he  founder  not  ? 
Through  the  dread  night  art  thou,  respondent 

needle. 
To  him  a  fiiithfiil  oracle,  which  reads, 
With  magic  tremblings,  in  what  cloudy  range 
Of  heaven  the  Dog-star,  where  Arctnrus,  where 
The  sevenfold  Pleiads,  and  Orion  shine. 


FRIEDRICH  LUDWIG  ZACHARIAS 
WERNER. 

This  eccentric  person  was  bom  Nov.  18th, 
1768,  at  Konigsberg,  in  Prussia,  where  his 
father  was  Professor  of  History  and  Eloquence. 
In  1784,  he  attended  the  juridical  lectures  in 
the  University,  and  beard  Kant  on  philosophy. 
In  1793,  he  entered  the  Prussian  civil  service, 
and  lived  at  several  places,  —  among  others, 
at  Warsaw.  He  was  married  three  times  ;  his 
first  marriage,  proving  unhappy,  was  dissolved ; 
his  second  having  the  same  result,  he  contract- 
ed a  third  with  a  beautiful  Polish  lady ;  but  the 
irregularities  of  his  life  led,  a  few  years  afler, 
to  a  separation  also  from  her.  In  1801,  he 
was  recalled  to  Konigsberg  by  the  illness  of 
his  mother,  who  died  in  1804;  afler  which 
he  returned  to  Warsaw.  By  the  favor  of  the 
minister.  Von  Schrotter,  he  received,  in  1805, 
a  secretariship  in  Berlin.  Soon  after,  he  lefl 
the  civil  service,  and  visited  Prague,  Vien- 
na, Munich,  Frankfort,  Gotha,  and  Weimar, 
where,  in  1807,  he  first  became  acquainted  with 
Goethe.  He  returned  to  Berlin  in  1808;  but 
speedily  resuming  bis  travels,  visited  Switzer- 
land, and  at  Interlachen  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Madame  de  StaCl.  In  the  autumn  of  1808, 
he  visited  Paris,  but  soon  returned  to  Weimar, 
where  he  had  the  promise  of  a  pension,  and 
about  the  same  time  the  duke  of  Hesse-Darm- 
stadt named  him  Court  Councillor.  He  again 
visited  Madame  de  Stafil,  and  passed  four  months 
with  her  at  Coppet.  By  her  assistance,  he  trav- 
elled in  Italy,  visiting  Turin,  Florence,  and 
Rome.  In  this  last  city,  he  was  converted  to 
the  Catholic  church,  in  1811,  and  began  to 
study  theology.  In  1814,  he  entered  tbe  sem- 
inary at  Aschaffenburg,  and  was  soon  after  con- 
secrated as  a  priest.  At  the  time  of  the  Congress 
in  1814,  he  went  to  Vienna,  where  his  preach- 


ing attracted  large  audiences.  During  the  years 
1816-17,  he  lived  in  Podolia,  with  the  family 
of  Count  Cholonievski,  by  whose  influence  he 
was  appointed  Honorary  Canon  of  Kamieniek. 
He  preached  with  great  zeal  and  eloquence, 
until  a  short  time  before  his  death,  which  took 
place  Jan.  18th,  1823. 

Werner  was  a  poet  of  a  rich  and  fertile, 
though  eccentric,  genius.  He  was  particularly 
distinguished  as  the  author  of  some  of  the  most 
remarkable  of  the  German  Destiny  dramas. 
The  most  striking  of  his  tragedies  are  **  The 
Sons  of  the  Valley,"  ««The  Consecration  of 
Power,"  ''Attila,  King  of  the  Huns,"  and 
**  Wanda,  Queen  of  the  Sarmatians.'*  One  of  his 
most  original  and  singular  pieces  is  the  ^  Twen- 
ty-fourth of  February."  A  collection  of  his  the- 
atrical pieces  was  published  at  Vienna,  1817- 
18  ;  his  '*  Sermons,"  twenty-five  in  number, 
also  appeared  at  Vienna,  in  1836.  A  sketch  of 
his  life  was  published  by  Hitzig,  Beriin,  1823. 

On  Werner,  and  the  principles  of  the  Destiny 
dramas,  Menzel  *  has  some  striking  remarks. 

*'The  highest  summit  of  this  poetry  was 
reached  by  Werner,  who  strove  to  elevate  it 
to  tragical  dignity. 

'*  Werner  endeavoured  to  bring  about  this 
elevation  and  improvement  by  converting  tbe 
magical  powers,  or  mystical  societies,  upon 
whom  the  guidance  and  probation  of  the  unin- 
itiated should  be  dependent,  into  God's  dele- 
gates, and  brought  the  whole  subject  of  tbe 
marvellous  under  the  religious  ideas  of  Provi- 
dence and  Predestination.  This  man  possessed 
the  fire  of  poetry,  and,  still  more,  of  passion,  but, 
perhaps,  too  dry  a  brain,  —  for  who  can  deny 
that  his  brain  was  a  little  scorched  ?  Seeking 
salvation  Bcom  the  flames  thai  were  consuming 
him  within,  he  threw  himself  into  that  ocean 
of  Grace,  where  poor  sinners  like  him  common- 
ly put  off  the  old  man  of  earth,  that  they  may 
put  on  the  heavenly.  Amidst  his  deep  contri- 
tion, the  poet  felt,  in  all  its  severity,  the  truth 
of  the  saying  of  the  pious,  'Self-justification  is 
a  garment  of  abomination  before  the  Lord.' 

"•  He  felt  that  a  man's  own  actions  and  vir- 
tue were  vain ;  that  man  fulfils  the  decree  of 
destiny,  devoid  of  will  and  blindly  ;  that  he  is 
predestinated  to  every  thing  that  he  does  and 
suffers.  All  his  poetical  works  maintain  this 
doctrine.  His  heroes  are  guided,  by  the  leading- 
strings  of  destiny,  into  the  clear  realm  of  *  azure 
and  light,*  or  to  the  dark  abode  of  *  night  and 
flames.'  A  mystical  society  undertakes  the 
guidance  on  earth ;  and  we  cannot  fail  to  per^ 
ceive  here  an  analogy  to  the  hierarchical  tribu- 
nals. Those  sons  of  the  valley,  those  mystical 
old  men,  at  one  time,  form  a  holy  Fehme;  at 
another,  an  inquisitorial  tribunal,  under  a  most 
venerable  and  holy  man  ;  and  this  old  man  of 
the  valley  and  mountain  can  say,  as  tbe  grand 
inquisitor  of  Schiller's  '  Don  Carlos '  said  of 
the  hero  of  the  tragedy, — 

*  German  LltefBtars,  YoL  HI.,  pp.  834  -238. 


WERNER. 


399 


'HtoUle, 
At  its  beglnntng  uui  in  end,  to  than 
la  SuiU  Ckaa'i  holy  records  writ.' 

The  heroes  are  destined  from  their  birth  to  all 
that  they  have  to  do  or  to  suffer.  Some  of  them 
are  *  Sunday  children/  bom  an^ls,  who,  after 
some  theatrical  fiiroes, —>  after  they  have,  like 
Tamino,  passed  through  fire  and  water, — com- 
Ibrtably  enter  the  heayen  destined  to  them  time 
oat  of  mind.  Destiny  plays  at  hide-and-seek 
with  them  a  litUe  while ;  here  is  the  mysteri- 
ous valley,  and  there  the  mystical  beloved  b 
hidden  fix>m  the  elect,  and  finally  the  bandsfe 
is  taken  from  their  eyes.  The  disciple  becomes 
an  adept,  and  the  lover  finds  his  other  half 
No  matter  how  widely  the  two  people  were 
separated  from  each  other ;  destiny  brings  them 
together,  even  if  *  the  north  pole  should  have 
to  bow  to  the  south.' 

**  As  all  fi«edom  is  taken  away  after  this  (ash- 
ion  fit>m  the  heroes,  this  species  of  poetry  can 
never  rise  to  tragical  dignity,  however  great  the 
pains  Werner  has  taken  to  this  end.  Still,  his 
poems  show  no  deficiency  of  religious  depth,  and 
of  a  certain  ardor  of  devotion,  particularly  in  the 
lyrical  passHges,  which  lend  them  a  value  off  the 
stage.  Moreover,  he  has  genersUy  taken  only  the 
bright  side  of  &talism ;  his  only  complete  night- 
piece  was  the  *  Twenty-fourth  of  February.*  " 

The  limits  of  this  volume  render  it  impossible 
to  give  extracts  from  other  distinguished  writers 
of  this  school,  as  MQ liner,  Houwald,  and  Grill- 
parzer.  For  notices  of  their  works  the  reader  is 
referred  to  the  series  of  elaborate  and  well  writ- 
ten articles  under  the  tide  of  «*  HorsB  Germani- 
cs," in  the  earlier  volumes  of  **  Blackwood's 
Magazine." 

FROM  THE  TEMPLABS  IN  CTFRUR 

ADALBERT  IN   TKS  CHURCH  OF  THE  TEMPIiARS. 

(SieeML—Hndnlglit.  Interior  of  the  Tsmple  Church.  Beck- 
wuds,  a  deep  penpectlre  of  Altan  and  Gothic  PiUan. 
On  the  right-hand  aide  of  the  foregroand,  a  little  Chapel ; 
aodlnthieanAltarwiththefignreofSLSebaatiaa.  The 
scene  is  lighted  rery  dimly  by  a  aingle  Lamp  which 


•1 

AAALsaRT  (dreaaed  in  white,  withoat  mantle  or  doublet; 

groping  hia  way  in  the  darlo* 
Was  it  not  at  the  alur  of  Sebastian 
That  I  was  bid  wait  for  the  Unknown? 
Here  should  it  be ;  but  darkness  with  her  veil 
In  wraps  the  figures. 

[Advaadng  to  the  altar. 
Here  is  the  fiflh  pillar. 

Tes,  this  is  he,  the  Sainted. — How  the  glimmer 
Of  that  fiiint  lamp  falls  on  his  fading  eye !  -^ 
Ah,  it  is  not  the  spears  o*  th'  Saracens,  — 
It  is  the  pangs  of  hopeless  love,  that,  burning, 
Transfix   thy   heart,  poor  comrade !  —  O  my 

Agnes, 
May  not  thy  spirit,  in  this  earnest  hour, 
Be  looking  on  ?  Art  hovering  in  that  moonbeam. 
Which  struggles  through  the  painted  window, 
and  dies 

42 


Amid  the  cloister's  gloom .'     Or  linger *st  thou 
Behind  these  pillars,  which,  ominous  and  black. 
Look  down  on  me,  like  horrors  of  the  past 
Upon  the  present  ?  and  hidest  thy  gentle  form. 
Lest  with  thy  paleness  thou  too  much  afiight 

me? 
Hide  not  thyself^  pale  shadow  of  my  Agnes  ! 
Thoa  affrightest  not  thy  lover. —  Hush  ! 
Hark!     Was  there  not  a  msding?  — Father! 

You? 


(hiahlng  In  with  wDd  looka). 
Tes,  Adalbert !  —  But  time  is  precious !  — Come, 
My  son,  my  one  sole  Adalbert,  come  with  me  ! 


What  would  you,  fkther,  in  this  solemn  hour? 

razLiF. 
This  boor,  or  never ! 

[Landing  Adidbart  to  the  altar. 
Hither  !  —  Know'st  thou  kirn  f 

ASAUIBV. 

T  is  Saint  Sebastian. 


Because  he  would  not 

Renounce  his  faith,  a  tyrant  had  him  murdered. 

[Points  to  hia  head. 
These  furrows,  too,  the  rage  of  tyrants  ploughed 
In  thy  old  ftther's  ftce.     My  son,  my  first-born 

child. 
In  this  great  hour  I  do  conjure  thee !  Wilt  thou. 
Wilt  thou  obey  me  ? 


Be  it  just,  I  will! 


Then  swear,  in  this  great  hour,  in  this  dread 

presence. 
Here  by  thy  ftther's  head  made  early  gray. 
By  the  remembrance  of  thy  mother's  agony, 
And  by  the  ravished  blossom  of  thy  Agnes, 
Against  the  tyranny  which  sacrificed  us. 
Inexpiable,  bloody,  everlasting  hate  ! 

ASALBSar 

Ha  !  'Has  the  All-avenger  spoke  thrdugh  thee ! 
Yes !  Bloody  shall  my  Agnes'  death-torch  bum 
In  Philip's  heart ;  I  swear  it ! 

pHxup  (whh  Incieaelng  vehemence). 
And  if  thou  break 

This  oath,  and  if  thou  reconcile  thee  to  him. 
Or  let  his  golden  chdns,  his  gifts,  his  prayers. 
His  dying  moan  itself,  avert  thy  dagger. 
When  the  hour  of  vengeance  comes,  —  shall 

this  gray  head, 
Thy  mother's  wail,  the  last  sigh  of  thy  Agnes, 
Accuse  thee  at  the  bar  of  the  Eternal  ? 

ADALBSST. 

So  be  it,  if  I  break  my  oath  ! 


Then  man  thee  !  — 

[Looklngnp,  then  ahrinklng  together,  aa  with  denied  eyea. 
Ha!  was  not  that  his  lightning?  —  Fare  thee 
well! 

bb2 


330 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


I  hear  the  footstep  of  the  Dreaded !  —  Firm  !  — 
Remember  me, — remember  this  stern  midnight ! 

[Retires  hastily. 

ADALBXRT  (alODS). 

Tea,  Graybead,  whom  the  beckoning  of  the 

Lord 
Sent  hither  to  awake  me  out  of  craven  sleep, 
I  will  remember  thee  and  this  stem  midnight, 
And  my  Agnes*  spirit  shall  have  vengeance ! 
[Enter  an  Armed  Man.  He  is  mailed  from  bead  to  firat 
In  Uack  harness ;  his  visor  is  closed. 


Pray!    ' 

[Adalbert  kneels. 
Bare  thyself! 

[He  strips  him  to  the  girdle,  and  raises  him. 
Look  on  the  ground,  and  follow  ! 

[He  leads  him  Into  the  background  to  a  trap-door  on 
the  right.  -He  descends  flnt  himself;  and  when 
AdaDlert  has  followed  him,  it  doses. 


ADALBERT   IN   THE  CEMETERY. 

ISeene.  —  Cemetoiy  of  the  Templars,  under  the  Church. 
The  scene  Is  lighted  only  by  a  Lamp  which  hangs  down 
from  the  vault.  Around  are  Tombstones  of  deceased 
Knights,  marked  with  Crosses  and  sculptured  Bones.  In 
the  background,  two  colossal  Skeletons,  holding  between 
them  a  large  wblto  Book,  marked  with  a  red  Cross.  From 
the  under  end  of  the  Book  hangs  a  long  Uack  Curtain. 
The  Book,  of  which  only  the  cover  Is  visible,  has  an  in- 
scription in  black  ciphers.  The  Skeleton  on  the  right 
holds  in  its  right  hand  a  naked  drawn  Sword;  that  on  the 
left  holds  In  its  left  hand  a  Falsa  turned  downwards.  On 
the  right  side  of  the  foreground  stands  a  Uack  Goffln 
open;  on  the  left,  a  similar  one  with  the  body  of  a  Tern* 
plar  in  full  dress  of  his  order ;  on  both  Coffins  ara  inscrip* 
tlons  In  white  ciphers.  On  each  side,  nearer  the  back* 
ground,  are  seen  the  lowest  steps  of  the  stairs  which  lead 
up  into  the  Temple  Church  above  the  vault.] 

ARKSD  MAN  (not  yet  visible ;  above  on  the  right-hand 
stoirs). 
Dreaded  !  is  the  grave  laid  open  ? 

OOVOSALBD  VOIOIS. 

Tea! 

AUiSD  KAH  (who  after  a  pause  shows  himself  on  the  stairs). 

Shall  he  behold  the  tombs  o'  th'  fathers  ? 

OONOSALBD  V0I0B8. 

Tea! 

[Armed  Man  with  drawn  sword  leads  Adalbert  carefully 
down  the  stops  on  the  right  hand. 

ABMan  MAN  (to  Adalbert). 
Look  down  !     T  is  on  thy  life  ! 

[Leeds  him  to  tha  open  coffin. 
What  seest  thoa  ? 


Canst  read 


ADALSmT. 

An  open,  empty  coffin. 


'T  is  the  house 

Where  thou  one  day  shalt  dwell, 
the  inscription  ? 

AOALBBIT. 

No. 


ARMBD  MAN. 

Hear  it,  then  :  —  '*  Thy  wages.  Sin,  is  death  !  ** 
[Leads  him  to  the  opposlto  coffin,  where  the  body  is  lying. 
Look  down !    'T  is  on  thy  life  !  —  What  seest 
thou.' 

[Shows  the  coffin. 

ADALBmT. 

A  coffin  with  a  corpse. 

ABMBD  MAM. 

He  is  thy  brother ; 

One  day  thou  art  as  he.  —  Canst  read  the  in- 
scription ? 

ASALBUT. 

No. 

ABMBD  MAN. 

Hear :  —  '*  Corruption  is  the  name  of  life." 
Now  look  around;   go  forward, —  move,  and 

act! 

[He  pushes  him  toward  tha  background  of  the  stage. 

ADALBBBT  (obsorvlng  the  book). 
Ha !    Here  the  Book  of  Ordination  ?  —  Seems 

[Approaching. 
As  if  the  inscription  on  it  might  be  read. 

[He  r«ads  it. 
<(  Knock  four  times  on  the  ground. 
Thou  shalt  behold  thy  loved  one." 
O  Heavens  !    And  may  I  see  thee,  sainted  Ag- 
nes? 

[Hastening  close  to  the  book. 
My  bosom  yearns  for  thee  !  — 

[With  the  following  words,  he  stamps  four  times  on 
the  ground. 

One,  —  Two,  —  Three,  —  Four !  — 

[The  (}urtaln  hanging  from  the  Book  rolls  rapidly  up, 
and  coven  it.  A  colossal  Devil's-head  appears  be- 
tween the  two  Skeletons ;  its  form  Is  horrible ;  It  is 
gilt ;  has  a  huge  golden  Crown,  a  Heart  of  the  same 
in  its  brow ;  rolling,  flaming  eyes ;  Serpento  instead 
of  hair ;  golden  Chains  round  Ite  neck,  which  is  vi»- 
ible  to  the  breast ;  and  a  golden  Ooes,  yet  not  a  Cro- 
ciflz,  which  rises  over  Ite  right  shouldor,  as  if  crush- 
ing it  down.  The  whole  Bust  reste  on  four  gilt 
Dragpn*s-lbet.  At  sight  of  It,  Adalbert  sterte  back 
in  horror,  and  exclaims :  — 

Defend  us ! 


ABMBD  MAN. 

may  he  hear  it  ? 


Dreaded 


Tea! 

ABMBD  MAN  (touchss  the  (}urtain  with  his  sword;  it  tolls 
down  over  the  Devil's-head,  concealing  It  again;  and 
above,  as  before,  appears  tlie  Book,  but  now  opened, 
with  white  coloesal  leaves  and  red  characters.  Th« 
Armed  Man,  pointing  constantly  to  the  Book  with  his 
sword,  and  therewith  turning  the  leaves,  addresses  Adal- 
bert, who  stands  on  the  other  side  of  the  Book,  and  near- 
er the  foreground). 

List  to  the  Story  of  the  Fallen  Master. 

[He  reads  the  following  from  the  Book;  yet  not  stend- 
ing  before  It,  but  on  one  side,  at  some  paces'  distance, 
and,  whilst  he  reads,  turning  the  leaves  with  his  sword. 

^'  So  now,  when  the  foundation-stone  was  laid, 
The  Lord  called  forth  the  Master,  Bafibmetos, 


WERNER. 


331 


And  said  to  him  :  *  Go  aod  complete  my  tem- 
ple ! ' 
But  ID  his  heart  the  Master  thoaght:  «What 

boots  it 
BuildiDg  thee  a  temple  ? '  and  took  the  itonet, 
And  built  himeelf  a  dweUiug ;  and  what  atones 
Were  left  he  gave  for  filthy  gold  and  silver. 
Now  after  forty  moons  the  Lord  returned, 
And  spake :  *•  Where  is  my  temple,  Baffometus .' ' 
The  Master  said  :  <  I  had  to  build  myself 
A  dwelling :  grant  me  other  forty  weeks.' 
And  after  forty  weeks,  the  Lord  returns, 
And  asks  :  '  Where  is  my  temple,  Baffometus  ? ' 
He  said  :  '  There  were  no  stones '  (but  he  had 

sold  them 
For  filthy  gold) ;  <so  wait  yet  forty  days.' 
In  forty  days  thereafter  came  the  Lord, 
And  cried :  *  Where  is  my  temple,  Baffometus  ? ' 
Then  like  a  millstone  foil  it  on  his  soul, 
How  he  for  lucre  had  betrayed  his  Lord ; 
But  yet  to  other  sin  the  Fiend  did  tempt  him. 
And  he  answered,  saying :    *  Oive  me  forty 

hours ! ' 
And  when  the  forty  hours  were  gone,  the  Lord 
Came  down  in  wrath : « My  temple,  Baifometus  ?' 
Then  foil  he,  quaking,  on  his  face,  and  cried 
For  mercy ;  but  the  Lord  was  wroth,  and  said : 
*  Since  thou  hast  cozened  me  with  empty  lies. 
And  those  the  stones  I  lent  thee  for  my  temple 
Hast  sold  them  for  a  purse  of  filthy  gold, 
Lo !  I  will  cast  thee  forth,  and  with  the  Mam- 
mon 
Will  chastise  thee,  until  a  Saviour  rise 
Of  thy  own  seed,  who  shall  redeem  thy  trespass.* 
Then  did  the  Lord  lift  up  the  purse  of  gold ; 
And  shook  the  gold  into  a  melting-pot. 
And  set  the  melting-pot  upon  the  sun. 
So  that  the  metal  fosed  into  a  fluid  mass. 
And  then  he  dipped  a  finger  in  the  same. 
And,  straightway,  touching  Baffometus, 
Anoints  him  on  the  chin  and  brow  and  cheeks. 
Then  was  the  foce  of  Baffometus  changed  : 
His  eyeballs  rolled  like  fire-flames ; 
His  nose  became  a  crooked  vulture's-bill ; 
The  tongue  bung  bloody  from  his  throaty  the 

flesh 
Went  from  his  hollow  cheeks ;  and  of  his  hair 
Orew  snakes,  and  of  the  snakes  grew  Devirs- 


Again  the  Lord  put  forth  his  finger  with  the 

gold. 
And  pressed  it  upon  Baffometus'  heart ; 
Whereby  the  heart  did  bleed  and  wither  up. 
And  all  his  members  bled  and  withered  up. 
And  foil  away,  the  one  and  then  the  other. 
At  last  his  back  itself  sunk  into  ashes  : 
The  head  alone  continued  gilt  and  living ; 
And  instead  of  back,  grew  dragon's-talons. 
Which  destroyed  all  life  from  off  the  earth. 
Then  from  the  ground  the  Lord  took  up  the 

heart. 
Which,  as  he  touched  it,  also  grew  of  gold. 
And  placed  it  on  the  brow  of  Baffometus  ; 
And  of  the  other  metal  in  the  pot 
He  made  for  him  a  burning  crown  of  gold. 


And  crushed  it  on  his  serpent-hair,  so  that 
E'en  to  the  bone  and  brain  the  circlet  scorched 

him; 
And  round  the  neck  he  twisted  golden  chains. 
Which  strangled  him  and  pressed  his  breath  to- 
gether. 
What  in  the  pot  remained  he  poured  upon  the 

ground. 
Athwart,  along,  and  there  it  formed  a  cross } 
The  which  he  lifted  and  laid  upon  his  neck. 
And  bent  him  that  he  could  not  raise  his  head. 
Two  Deaths,  moreover,  he  appointed  warders 
To  guard  him :  Death  of  Life,  and  Death  of 

Hope. 
The  sword  of  the  first  he  sees  not,  but  it  smites 

him ; 
The  other's  palm  he  sees,  but  it  escapes  him. 
So  languishes  the  outcast  Baffometus 
Four  thousand  years  and  four-and-forty  moons. 
Till  once  a  Saviour  rise  from  his  own  seed. 
Redeem  his  trespass,  and  deliver  him." 

[To  Adalbert. 
This  is  the  Story  of  the  Fallen  Master. 

[With  bis  Bword  he  tonchee  the  Cnrtain,  which  now  as 
before  rolla  up  over  the  book ;  so  that  the  head  onder 
h  tgain  becomes  TiaiUe,  In  Ite  former  shape. 

ADALBXRT  (looklog  at  ths  head). 
Ha !  what  a  hideous  shape  ! 

RSAD  (with  a  hollow  voice). 
Deliver  me ! 

ABMBD  MAM. 

Dreaded  !  shall  the  work  begin  ? 

OOMOBALIO  VOICIS. 

Yea! 

AsmD  MAM  (to  Adalbert). 
Take  the  neckband 
Away ! 

[PoiDtIng  to  the  head. 

ADALBSBT. 

I  dare  not ! 

HBAO  (with  a  atin  more  plteoua  tone). 
O,  deliver  me  ! 

ADALBBBT  (taking  off  the  chaine). 
Poor  fallen  one ! 

ABMBO  MAH. 

Now  lift  the  crown  from  's  head  ! 


It  seems  so  heavy  ! 

AXmD  MAX. 

Touch  it,  it  grows  light. 

[Adalbert  takes  off  th*  crown,  and  casts  It,  as  he  did 
the  chains,  on  the  ground. 

Now  take  the  golden  heart  from  off  his  brow  ! 

ADALBBBT. 

It  seems  to  bum ! 


Thou  errest :  ice  is  warmer. 

ADALBBBT  (taking  the  heart  fmrn  the  brow). 
Ha  !  shivering  frost ! 


333 


GERMAN    POETRY. 


Take  from  his  back  the  croM, 
And  throw  it  from  thee  ! 

How  ?    The  Saviour's  token  ? 


Deliver,  O,  deliver  me  ! 


This  cross 

Is  not  thy  Master's,  not  that  bloody  one : 

Its  counterfeit  is  this  :  throw  't  from  thee  ! 

ADALBBRT  (taking  it  ftom  the  but,  and  laying  It  softlj  on 

the  ground). 
The  cross  of  the  Good  Lord  that  died  for  me  ? 


Thou  shalt  no  more  believe  in  one  that  died ; 
Thou  shalt  henceforth  believe  in  one  that  liveth 
And  never  dies  !  —  Obey,  and  question  not,— 
Step  over  it ! 


Take  pity  on  me  ! 

ARKSD  MAX  (tlurasteoing  him  with  hii  swoid). 
Step! 


I  do  't  with  shuddering  ! 

[Steps  over,  and  then  looka  up  to  the  head,  which 
ralaea  itself  as  freed  ftom  a  load. 
How  the  figure  rises. 
And  looks  in  gladness  ! 


Him  whom  thou  hast  served 
Till  now,  deny ! 

ASALsmr  (horrorstnick). 
Deny  the  Lord,  my  God  ? 

ARKSO  Mur. 
Thy  God  't  is  not :  the  idol  of  this  world  !  — 
Deny  him,  or  — 

[TrtMlng  on  him  with  the  sword  in  a  thrBStanlng  posture. 
Thou  diest ! 

AnALsnr. 
I  deny ! 

AHMBO  MAN  (pointing  to  the  head  with  hii  sword). 
Go  to  the  Fallen  !  —  Kiss  his  lips  ! 


ERNST  MORITZ  ARNDT. 

This  patriotic  writer  was  bom  December 
26th,  1769,  at  Schoritz,  in  Rflgen.  Towards 
the  end  of  the  last  century,  he  distinguished 
himself  as  a  traveller,  and  by  his  published 
observations  on  Sweden,  luly,  France,  Gter- 
many,  Hungary,  Slc,  In  1806,  he  was  ap- 
pointed Professor  Extraordinary  of  Philosophy 
at  Greiiswald.  He  was  a  vehement  lover  of 
liberty,  and,  though  at  first  a  favorer  of  Napo- 
leon, became  one  of  his  bitterest  opponents,  as 
soon  as  he  comprehended  his  designs  of  conquest. 


A  work  published  by  him,  called  ^^The  Spirit  of 
the  Age,"  which  went  rapidly  through  several 
editions,  and  excited  universal  attention  by  the 
boldness  of  its  attacks  on  Napoleon,  made  it 
necessary  for  him  to  take  refuge  in  Stockholm, 
whence  he  was  unable  to  return  until  1813. 
His  writings,  which  flowed  in  rapid  succession 
firom  his  indefatigable  pen,  exercised  an  im- 
mense influence  upon  the  popular  feeting,  and 
contributed  powerftdly  to  excite  and  keep  alive 
among  the  Grermans  that  hatred  of  French 
domination  which  led  to  their  nnparallelled  ef- 
forts and  sacrifices  in  the  War  of  Liberation. 
In  1818,  he  was  appointed  ProfiMsor  of  History 
in  the  recently  established  University  of  Bonn ; 
but  the  next  year,  the  inquiry  into  the  <^  Dem- 
agogical Intrigues,"  as  they  were  termed,  im- 
plicated him  together  with  some  of  the  other 
professors,  and  he  remained  without  public 
employment  until  Frederic  William  restored 
him  to  the  University,  in  1840. 

Amdt  is  one  of  the  most  vigorous,  animated, 
and  eloquent  of  the  German  writers.  His  prose 
works  have  had  an  extraordinary  circulation 
and  effect.  His  patriotic  and  popular  poems 
and  his  war-songs  are  of  distinguished  excel- 
lence. They  were  published  at  Frankfort,  in 
1816 ;  again  at  Leipsic,  in  1840. 

THE  GERMAN  FATHERLIND. 

Which  is  the  German's  fatherland  ? 

Is  't  Prussia's  or  Swabia's  land  ? 

Is 't  where  the  Rhine's  rich  vintage  streams  ? 

Or  where  the  Northern  sea-gull  screams .'  — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no ! 
His  fatherland  's  not  bounded  so ! 

Which  is  the  German's  fiitherland  ? 
Bavaria's  or  Styria's  land  ? 
Is  't  where  the  Marsian  ox  unbends  f 
Or  where  the  Marksman  iron  rends  ?  — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no ! 
His  fktherland  's  not  bounded  so. 

Which  is  the  Gterman's  fatherland  ? 
Pomerania's,  or  Westphalia's  land  ? 
Is  it  where  sweep  the  Dnnian  waves  ? 
Or  where  the  thundering  Danube  ravee  ? — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no ! 
His  fatherland  's  not  bounded  so  ! 

Which  is  the  German's  fatherland  ? 

O,  tell  me  now  the  famous  land  1 

Is  't  Tyrol,  or  the  land  of  Tell  ? 

Such  lands  and  people  please  me  well. — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no ! 
His  &tberland  *s  not  bounded  so  ! 

Which  is  the  German's  fatherland? 
Come,  tell  me  now  the  famous  land. 
DoubUess,  it  is  the  Austrian  state. 
In  honors  and  in  triumphs  great  — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no ! 
His  fatherland  *s  not  bounded  so  ! 


ARNDT— TIECK. 


833 


Which  is  the  German's  fttberlaad  f 
So  tell  me  now  the  fiunoos  land  ! 
Is  't  what  the  Princes  won  by  sleight 
From  the  Emperor's  and  Empire's  rif  ht  ?  — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no ! 
His  fioherland  's  not  boonded  so ! 

Which  is  the  German's  fttherland  ? 
So  tell  me  now  at  last  the  land  ! — 
As  fiff  's  the  Gterman  accent  rings 
And  hymns  to  God  in  hesTen  sings, — 

That  is<the  land, — 
There,  brother,  is  thy  fiitherland  ! 

There  is  the  Gterman's  flttherland. 
Where  oaths  attest  the  grasped  hand,-— 
Where  truth  beams  ftom  the  sparkling  eyes, 
And  in  the  heart  lore  warmly  lies; — 

That  is  the  land, — 
There,  brother,  is  thy  fiitherland ! 

That  is  the  German's  fktherland. 
Where  wrath  pnrsoes  the  foreign  band, — 
Where  every  Frank  is  held  a  foe. 
And  Germans  all  as  brothers  glow ;  — 

That  is  the  land, — 
All  Germany  *s  thy  fioherland  ! 


Wht  are  the  tmmpets  blowing  ?    Te  hnasars, 

away ! 
'T  is  the  Field-marshal  ridetb,  with  flying  fray ; 
He  rideth  so  joyous  his  mettlesome  steed. 
He  swingeth  so  keenly  his  biight-flaabing  blade ! 

His  oath  he  hath  redeemed;  when  the  battle- 

ciy  rang. 
Ha !  the  old  boy  !  how  to  saddle  he  sprang ! 
It  was  he  who  led  off  the  last  dance  of  the  ball ; 
With  besom  of  iron  he  swept  clean  the  hall ! 

At  Lotzen,  on  the  mea^,  there  he  strack  such 

a  blow, 
That  on  end  with  affiright  stood  the  hair  of  the 

foe; 
That  thonsands  ran  off  with  hurrying  tread ; 
Ten  thousand  slept  soundly  the  sleep  of  the 

dead! 

At  Katzbach,  by  the  stream,  he  there  played 

his  part; 
He  taught  you,  O  Frenchmen,  the  swimmer's 

good  art! 
Farewell   to    you.  Frenchmen,   away  to  the 

waves ! 
And  take,  ye  gans-adattes^  the  whales  for  your 

graves! 

At  Wartburg,  on  the  Elbe,  how  befbre  him  all 

yielded  ! 
Nor  fortress  nor  castle  the  Frenchmen  shielded ; 
Again  they  must  spring  like  hares  o'er  the  field. 
And  the  hero's  hurrah  after  them  pealed. 


At  Leipsic,  on  the  mead, —  O,  honor's  gloiioas 
fight!  — 

There  he  shattered  the  fortunes  of  Franca  and 
her  might ; 

There  lie  they  all  safely,  ainoe  so  hardly  they 
foil; 

And  there  the  old  BlQoher  played  the  field- 
marshal  well. 


LUDWIG  TIECK. 

LvDWie  TixoK,  who,  since  the  death  of 
Goethe,  has  occupied  the  greatest  spaee  in 
G«rman  literature,  was  bom  May  31st,  1773, 
at  Berlin.  In  his  nineteenth  year  he  entered 
the  University  of  Halle,  whence  he  went  to 
Gdttingen,  and  at  a  later  period  to  Erlangen. 
His  studies  here,  and  afterwards  again  at  Gdt- 
tingen, were  chiefly  devoted  to  history  and 
ancient  and  modem  poetry.  His  peculiar  ten- 
dencies began  to  display  themselves  while  he 
was  yet  at  school,  where  he  began  the  '*  Abdal- 
lah,"  published  in  1795.  In  1796,  his «« William 
XiOvell "  appeared.  These  were  followed  in 
rapid  succession  by  a  series  of  works,  in  which 
his  narrative  powers,  and  the  romantic,  as  dis- 
tinguuhed  fiom  the  classical  style  of  composi- 
tion, were  strikingly  developed.  About  this 
time,  he  formed  an  intimate  connection  with 
the  younger  Nicolai  in  Berlin,  and,  on  a  jour- 
ney, became  acquainted  with  the  two  Schle- 
gels,  Novalis  (Hardenberg),  and  Herder.  Dur- 
ing a  visit  to  Hamburg,  he  was  much  interested 
and  excited  by  the  acting  of  Schroder.  His  early 
love  for  art  was  further  unfolded,  and  his  views 
rendered  clear,  by  a  residence  in  Dresden,  Mu- 
nich, and  Rome.  After  this,  he  lived  at  Jena, 
in  the  society  of  the  Schlegels  and  Schelling. 
Several  of  his  best-known  works,  and  the 
translation  of  **  Don  Quixote,"  which  for  sur- 
passed all  preceding  attempts,  appeared  during 
the  years  1799, 1800,  and  1801.  In  the  years 
1801,  1803,  Tieck  resided  in  Dresden,  where, 
in  conjunction  with  A.  W.  Scblegel  and  several 
other  poets,  he  composed  the  ^'Musenalma- 
naeh,"  published  at  Tobingen.  After  this,  he 
lived  again  at  Berlin,  then  at  Tobingen.  His 
^  Minnefongs  firom  the  Swabian  Period  "  were 
published  at  Berlin  in  1803,  and  excited  a  great 
interest  in  the  ancient  German  literature.  'These 
were  followed,  in  1804,  by  his  "  Emperor  Octe- 
vian."  In  1805,  Tieck  and  Friedrich  Scblegel 
edited  the  works  of  Novalis.  After  this  he 
travelled  in  Italy,  but  returned  to  Germany 
towards  the  end  of  1806,  and  went  to  Munich, 
where  he  experienced  his  first  severe  attack  of 
the  gout.  He  passed  some  years  in  the  country, 
near  Frankfort  on  the  Oder,  without  pul^ishing 
any  thing.  In  1814  - 16,  his «« Ancient  English 
Theatre  "  appeared,  together  with  several  other 
works.  In  1818,  he  went  to  London  to  collect 
materials  for  his  great  work  on  Shakspeare. 
In  1819,  he  established  himself  in  Dresden 


834 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


with  his  family,  and  since  then  has  written  a 
series  of  tales,  which  form  a  distinct  epoch  in 
bis  literary  life.  In  1821,  he  published  a  com- 
plete collection  of  his  poems,  in  three  volumes, 
and  edited  the  works  of  Heinrich  yon  Kleist. 
In  1825,  he  was  made  Court  Councillor,  and 
one  of  the  directors  of  the  theatre  in  Dresden. 
In  1840,  he  received  from  his  Majesty,  Frederic 
William  the  Fourth,  an  honorary  pension,  and 
has  recently  lived  at  Potsdam. 

Tieck  is  not  only  a  poet  of  considerable 
creative  genius,  but  an  eloquent  and  masterly 
prose -writer,  and  a  profound  critic.  He  belongs 
emphatically  to  the  Romantic  School  in  his 
views  of  poetry  and  art,  and  has  strenuously 
labored  to  embody  in  his  works  the  national 
subjects,  and  the  poetical  traditions  fh>m  Gter- 
man  antiquity.  His  services  as  a  commentator 
and  translator  of  Shakspeare  have  been  highly 
important,  and  are  applauded  not  only  in  Ger- 
many, but  in  England.'  His  single  works  have 
passed  through  numerous  editions.  A  new  edi- 
tion of  his  complete  works  was  begun  in  1827. 

SPRINO. 

Look  all  around  thee !     How  the  spring  ad- 
vances ! 
New  life  is  playing  through  the  gay,  green 
trees ; 
Bee  how,  in  yonder  bower,  the  light  leaf  dances 
To  the  bird's  tread,  and  to  the  quivering 
breeze! 
How  every  blossom  in  the  sunlight  glances ! 
The  winter-frost  to  his  dark  cavern  flees. 
And  earth,  warm-wakened,  feels  through  every 

vein 
The  kindling  influence  of  the  vernal  rain. 

Now  silvery  streamlets,  flrom    the   mountain 
stealing. 
Dance  joyously  the  verdant  vales  along ; 
Cold  fear  no  more  the  songster's  tongue  is  seal- 
ing; 
Down  in  the  thick,  dark  grove  is  heard  his 
song  J 
And,  all  their  bright  and  lovely  hues  revealing, 
A  thousand  plants  the  field  and  forest  throng; 
Light  comes  upon  the  earth  in  radiant  showers. 
And  mingling  rainbows  play  among  the  flowers. 

80N0  FROM  BLUEBEARI). 

Iff  the  blasts  of  winter 

Are  the  sere  leaves  sighing, 
And  the  dreams  of  love 

Faded  are,  and  dying; 
Cloudy  shadows  flying 

Over  field  and  plain, 
Bad  the  traveller  hieing 

Through  the  blinding  rain. 
Overhead  the  moon 

Looks  into  the  vale ; 
From  the  twilight  forest 

Comes,  a  song  of  wail : 


*'  Ah !  the  winds  have  wafted 
My  faithless  love  away, 

Swifi  as  lightning  flashes 
Fled  life's  golden  ray ;  — 

O,  wherefore  came  the  vision. 
Or  why  so  brief  its  stay  ? 


<(  Once  with  pinks  and  i 

Were  my  temples  shaded  ; 
Now  the  flowers  are  withered, 

Now  the  trees  are  &ded ; 
Now  the  spring,  departed. 

Yields  to  winter's  sway. 
And  my  love  false-hearted. 

He  is  far  away." 

Life  so  dark  and  wildered. 
What  remains  for  thee  ? 

Hope  and  memory,  bringing 
Joy  or  grief  to  me  ; — 

Ah !  for  them  the  bosom 
Open  still  must  be  ! 


LUDOLF  ADALBERT  VON  CHAMISSO. 

-Chamisso,  the  poet,  natural  philosopher,  and 
circumnavigator  of  the  globe,  was  bom  at  Bon- 
court,  in  Champagne,  January  27th,  1781.  Dur- 
ing the  Revolution,  he  left  France  with  his  pa- 
rents, and  went  to  Berlin,  where,  in  1796,  he 
was  appointed  one  of  the  pages  of  the  court 
He  afterwards  entered  the  army  and  received  a 
commission.  He  devoted  himself  zealously  to 
the  study  of  the  German  language  and  litera- 
ture, and  became  personally  acquainted  with 
the  principal  German  authors  of  the  time.  He 
formed  an  intimate  relation  with  Fichte,  the 
philosopher.  In  1804  -  06,  he  published,  with 
Varnhagen  von  Ense,  an  **  Almanac  of  the 
Muses."  At  the  conclusion  of  the  peace  of 
Tilsit,  he  left  the  Prussian  service,  returned  to 
France,  where  his  family  had  recovered  a  part 
of  their  estates,  and  for  a  time  filled  the  office 
of  Profbssor  in  the  College  at  Napoleonville ; 
but  he  soon  returned  to  Germany,  and  devoted 
himself  wholly  to  his  studies,  particularly  to 
natural  science.  In  1814,  he  published  the 
singular  story  of  *<  Peter  Schlemihl,"  the  man 
who  had  lost  his  shadow,  —  a  work  well  known 
in  the  English  translation.  A  voyage  of  dis- 
covery round  the  world  being  projected  by  the 
Russian  chancellor.  Count  Roroanzoff*,  Cha* 
misso  accepted  an  invitation  to  accompany  it,  ss 
a  naturalist.  He  sailed  from  Cronstadt  in  1815, 
and  returned  in  1818.  His  observations  were 
published  in  the  work  containing  an  account 
of  the  voyage.  Chamisso  now  took  up  his 
residence  in  Berlin,  where  he  received  an  ap- 
pointment in  the  Botanical  Garden.  He  wrote 
on  various  scientific  subjects,  and,  during  the 
same  period,  composed  sonnets,  and  some  of  the 
nest  and  most  popular  ballads. that  have  recent- 
ly appeared  in  German  literature.    Besides  his 


CHAMISSO. 


335 


other  labors,  he  assisted  Gaudy  in  translating 
B^ranger*s  songs.  He  died,  August  Slst,  1838. 
His  works  were  published  at  Leipaic,  in  six 
Tolumea,  1838-39;  and  anew  edition,  1842. 

A  lively  sketch  of  Chamisso  has  been  giyen 
by  Laube,  in  his  <*  Characteristics,"  *  from  which 
the  following  passages  are  taken. 

^*I  know  of  no  more  delightflil  poet  than 
Chamisso,  except  ROckert.  There  is  a  healthi- 
ness in  him,  which  fills  us  with  the  greatest 
pleasure.  Every  poet,  to  be  sure,  is  delightAil, 
because  he  gives  the  best  there  is  in  his  heart. 

But  one  person  likes  the  dark  eye  best, 

another  the  blue ;  to  me  Chamiaso's  has  always 
seemed  so  strangely  invigorating  and  refreshing, 
—  awakening  such  life,  strength,  and  courage, — 
so  manly,  confident,  and  commanding.  The  suns 
of  all  the  zones  have  looked  into  this  vigorous 
and  ever-straining  eye,  the  pale  and  meagre 
North,  —  the  dark,  luxuriant  South,  —  the  kmr- 
ren  and  desert  island,  which,  like  a  bad  debtor, 
points  the  thoughts  to  heaven,  —  the  green  and 
juicy  isle,  which  intoxicates  with  the  enchant- 
ments of  earth. 


**  To  have  an  image  of  the  poet  ChamisK),  I 
often  think  of  him  as  a  lofty  statae  upon  the 
eternal  summit  of  the  Alps;  he  looks  abroad 
over  all  seas  and  zones,  to  the  uttermost  ends  of 
the  earth.  His  poetry  has  such  broad  pinions, 
that  it  sweeps  over  the  whole  globe  in  its 
mighty  flight;  and  our  chamber  and  provincial 
warblers  cower  together  in  terror,  as  soon  as 
the  stroke  of  his  wings  is  heard.  From  the  far 
island  of  Guahia,  from  Russia's  icy  steppes, 
from  the  almond-groves  of  Spain,  from  the 
Turkish  kiosk,  comes  his  song ;  everywhere  is 
he  at  home. 


"^  Such,  I  believe,  will  be  Chamis80*s  image 
in  oar  literary  history,  and  he  will  remain  in 
the  memory  of  the  Germans  as  a  hale,  hearty, 
sinewy  poet ;  but  I  shall  always  remember  him 
as  I  met  him,  early  in  the  spring,  in  tlie  Mark- 
gravenstraase,  Berlin.  Ah!  then  for  the  first 
time  did  I  frilly  feel  his  poetry ;  and  I  recog- 
nized yet  once  again  the  truth,  that  the  poet  has 
an  immortal  soul.  Chamisso,  the  prince  of  Gua- 
hia, the  weather-beaten  circumnavigator,  totter- 
ed like  a  broken  reed.  His  strong,  flowing  locks 
hung  round  his  shrunken  temples,  gray  with 
age  and  illness;  his  once  proud  and  vigorous 
eye  was  dimmed;  round  his  once  firm  and 
haughty  lips  were  deep,  deep  traces  of  sufier- 
ing ;  the  fbeble  breast  no  longer  supported  the 
mighty  and  majestic  head  ;  it  was  sunken,  and 
resounded  with  a  hollow,  racking  cough.  The 
sturdy  Chamisso  crawled  feebly  along,  leaning 
on  his  cane  ;  Chamisso,  who,  with  the  fiibulous 
Peter  Schlemihl,  had  leaped  from  one  part  of 
the  world  to  the  other  in  the  mad  boots :  ah, 
how  sadly  I  thought  then  of  Peter  Schlemihl, 

*  Modeme  Characteriatlken,  too  HxiinuoH  Laubb  (S 
1836).    VoLILp.77. 


in  whom  was  so  much  strange,  deep  life,  —  so 
much  delight  of  life !  The  early  sunshine  of 
spring  feebly  fell  upon  one  side  of  the  street, 
and  the  old,  decrepit,  palsied  singer  steered 
slowly  after  its  beam,  and  cast  his  shadow, 
though  tremulous,  across  the  pavement;  his 
large  eye,  troubled  by  the  cough  and  consump- 
tion, sought  the  pallid  sky,  and  seemed  to  ask  : 
*  What  islanders  shall  I  find  in  yonder  silent 
ocean  ? ' " 


THE  LAST  SONNETS. 

I. 

•*  To  thy  dear  hpe  my  ears  were  ever  cleaving, 

My  gentle  friend,  to  hear  thy  dainty  lays 

Of  lift  and  woman's  love  in  other  days : 

With  love  and  pleasure  then  my  breast  was 

heaving ; 
But  now  the  spinners  in  thy  \jre  are  weaving 
A  mouming-fiower,  methinks, — thou  sing'st 
no  more : 

0  golden  singer,  wilt  thou  not  restore 

To  me  the  olden   joy,  thy  harp-strings   leav- 
ing.?"— 
**  Be  still,  my  dearest  child,  the  time  is  gray ; 

1  bear  in  peace  the  shadow  of  its  wings, 
Am  weary  now,  my  songs  have  passed  away. 

I  was  a  minstrel,  like  the  bird  that  sings 

And  twitters  out  its  sunny  little  day ; 

The  swan   alone But  speak  of  other 

things." 

II. 

I  feel,  I  feel,  each  day,  the  friuntain  failing ; 
It  is  the  death  that  gnaweth  at  my  heart : 
I  know  it  well,  and  vain  is  every  art 

To  hide  the  fiital  ebb,  the  secret  ailing. 

So  wearily  the  spring  of  life  is  coiling, 
Until  the  frital  morning  sets  it  fr«e  : 
Then  sinks  the  dark,  and  who  inquires  for  me 

Will  find  a  man  at  rest  from  all  his  toiling. 

That  I  can  speak  to  thee  of  death  and  dying. 
And  yet  my  cheeks  the  loyal  blood  maintain. 
Seems  bold  to  thee,  and  almost  over-vain  : 

But  Death !  —  no  terror  in  the  word  is  lying ; 
And  yet  the  thought  I  cannot  well  embrace. 
Nor  have  I  looked  the  angel  in  the  face. 

III. 
He  visited  my  dreams,  the  fearful  guest ! 

My  careless  vigor,  while  I  slumbered,  stealing; 
And,  huge  and  shadowy  above  me  kneeling. 
Buried  his  wosome  talons  in  my  breast. 
I  murmured, — **  Dost  thou  herald  my  hereafter  ? 
Is  it  the  hour  ?     Art  calling  me  away  ? 
Lo!  I  have  set  myself  in  meet  array."  — 
He  broke  upon  my  words  with  mocking  laughter. 
I  scftined  him  sharply,  and  the  terror  stood 
In  chilly  dew,  —  my  courage  had  an  end : 
His  accents  through  me  like  a  palsy  crept. 
*«  Patience  ! "  he  cried ;  "  I  only  suck  thy  blood : 
Didst  think  't  was  Death  already  .?     Not  so, 
friend ; 
I  am  Old  Age,  thy  fiible ;  thon  hast  slept." 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


Tbey  say  the  year  is  in  its  summer  glory  : 
Bat  thou,  O  Sun,  appearest  chill  and  pale, 
The  vigor  of  thy  youth  begins  to  fiul,  — 
Bay,  art  thou,  too,  becoming  old  and  hoary  f 
Old  Age,  forsooth !  —  what  profits  our  complain- 
ing? 
Although  a  bitter  guest  and  comfortless. 
One  learns  to  smile  beneath  its  stem  caress, 
The  fated  burden  manfully  sustaining : 
'T  is  only  for  a  span,  a  summer*s  day. 
Deep  in  the  fitful  twilight  have  I  striven. 
Must  now  the  even-fesst  of  rest  be  holding : 
One  curtain  falls,  —  and,  lo !  another  play ! 
**  His  will  be  done  whose  mercy  much  has 
given  ! " 
I  '11  pray,  —  my  grateful  hands  to  heaven 
folding. 


JOHANN  LUDWIG  UHLAND. 

JoHANN  LuDwio  Uhland,  ouc  of  the  most 
eminent  among  the  living  poets  of  Germany, 
was  born  April  26th,  1787,  at  Tabingen,  where 
he  studied  law  from  1805  to  1808.  He  then 
became  an  advocate  in  Stuttgart.  He  visited 
Paris  in  1810,  where  he  spent  much  time  in 
studying  the  manuscripts  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
He  was  for  a  time  Professor  of  German  Literal 
ture  in  the  University  of  Tobingen.  Since  1809, 
he  has  been  a  member  of  the  Legislature  of 
Wflrtemberg,  as  a  representative  firom  Tabingen. 
His  ballads,  songs,  and  allegories  have  begun  a 
new  epoch  in  German  lyrical  poetry.  His 
dramas  are  less  distinguished.  They  are  enti- 
tied,  <*  Duke  Ernest  of  Swabia,"  «<  Lewis  the 
Bavarian,"  and  "  Walther  von  der  Vogelweide." 
An  edition  of  his  poems  appeared  in  1814.  The 
fourteenth  edition  was  published  at  Stuttgart  in 
1840.  His  life  has  been  written  by  Schwab,  in 
Wol%ang  Menzel's  *«Taschenbuch." 

Theodore  Mundt,  in  his  "History  of  the 
Literature  of  the  Present,"  *  says  of  Uhland :  — 

"  As  German  fVeedom  and  German  nobleness 
of  soul  gave  the  key-note  to  his  poetry,  so  it 
chimed  in  powerfolly  with  those  jubilant  strains 
of  national  exaltation  which  German  poetry 
scattered  abroad  with  such  daring  enthusiasm 
at  the  time  of  the  Liberation  War.  Belonging  to 
a  highly  favored  German  race,  which  was  not 
only  distingubhed  by  a  deeper  spring  of  poetry, 
a  vigorous  nature,  and  a  profound  foeling,  but  had 
from  ancient  times  been  in  the  possession  of  firee 
and  popular  constitutional  forms,  the  Swabian 
poet  could  not  foil,  at  the  very  outset,  to  foel  the 
benefit  of  these  most  favorable  influences.  Uh- 
land was  also  thoroughly  the  poet  of  the  WOr- 
temberg  people,  whose  local  peculiarities,  whose 
cheerful  and  hearty  nature  and  genuine  national 
customs,  he  has  everywhere  reflected  in  his  own 
character,  and  exalted  to  forms  of  beauty.    The 

*  Die  Litaratur  der  Gegenwart,  von  Thkodob  Mumr 
(Bertin:  1642).    pp.906-90& 


charming  life  of  nature,  which  is  unfolded  in 
Uhland's  poems,  is  always  at  the  same  time 
the  expression  of  the  noblest,  the  freest,  the 
most  vigorous  tone  of  thought,  which  seeks  to 
mould  itself  harmoniously  into  the  forms  of  art 
From  the  vine-clad  hills  to  the  peopled  valleys 
below,  along  the  margins  of  the  brooks,  and  in 
the  forests, — everywhere  is  heard  the  voice  of 
poetry  and  song ;  and  the  poetry  is  the  people, 
and  the  song  is  freedom.  And  where  the  pres- 
ent is  darkened  over,  and  has  no  room  for  all 
that  exulting  life  of  love  and  freedom,  there 
comes  the  ancient  legend  sweeping  through  the 
forest  with  its  magic  mirror,  and,  taking  poetry 
by  the  hand,  leads  her  bock  into  the  golden  age, 
into  the  age  of  the  Minnelied  and  of  heroes,  into 
the  Middle  Ages.  The  connection  between  the 
poetry  of  freedom  and  the  noble  life  of  the 
Middle  Ages  appears  in  Uhland  as  a  peculiar 
trait  of  his  natural  temperament,  and  a  result 
of  a  sound  and  healthy  romanticism.  We  have 
in  Uhland  the  poet  in  whom  romanticism  and 
fireedom  do  not  stand  apart,  as  two  abaolute  op- 
posites,  but  blend  in  the  unity  of  a  full  and 
vigorous  life,  and  that  through  the  medium  of  a 
genuine  nationality,  which  even  in  the  Middle 
Ages  pervades  with  the  spirit  of  freedom  the 
romantic  principle  of  lifo.  Though  Uhland 
herein  had  an  affinity  with  the  earlier  and  better 
spirit  of  the  Romantic  School,  his  course  of  cul- 
ture must  yet  be  called  an  individual  and  inde- 
pendent one,  which  saved  him  from  all  the  ab- 
errations into  which  we  have  seen  that  school, 

in  its  later  development,  led  astray 

In  him  all  was  harmony  and  unity.  In  this 
sound  and  thorough  culture  we  must  attach 
much  weight  to  the  influence  of  Goethe  upon 
this  poet.  As  Uhland  did  not  allow  himself  to 
be  led  astray  by  the  romanticists,  so,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  was  trained  by  Goethe  to  artistic 
clearness  in  spirit  and  form.  It  is  remarkable 
here  to  see  the  Goethean  nature  coming  in  to 
mediate,  with  its  serene,  statuesque  plasticity, 
between  the  romantic  tendency  of  the  Middle 
Ages  and  the  liberal  historical  movement  of 
modem  times.  This  influence  is,  no  doubt, 
exercised  upon  Uhland,  who  restrained  the  ro- 
mantic exuberance  of  popular  poetry  by  Goe- 
the's delicate  art  of  limitation.  Many  have 
profossed  to  discover  herein  an  imitation  of  the 
Goethean  form,  which  they  may  point  out,  if 
they  so  choose,  particularly  in  Uhland*s  lays 
and  ballads.  But  that  cannot  be  called  essen- 
tially an  imitation,  which  is  only  a  measure  of 
representation  acquired  from  the  influence  of 
another  poet, — which  is  only  a  detected  secret 
of  form.  Uhland  has  gained  as  much  from  the 
G«rman  medieval  poetry,  for  his  form,  as  he 
haa  firom  Goethe.  Uhland  participated  in  the 
devotion  to  the  study  of  this  poetry,  which  wss 
created  by  the  Romantic  School;  of  this  his 
essay  on  Walther  von  der  Vogelweide  affords 
a  fine  illustration.  But  in  bis  lays  and  ballads 
we  encounter  the  medieval  both  in  form  and 
substance,  and  see  how  fondly  the  poet's  heart 


UHLAND, 


337 


lingeiB  among  these  knights  and  sons  of  kings, 
these  goldsmiths'  daughters,  these  sunken  cas- 
tles and  enchanted  forests.  Yet  he  loTes  best 
to  employ  the  legend  of  his  own  province, 
as  is  shown  in  <£berhard  der  Rauschebart.' 
Uhland  also  sought  to  shi^e  national  materials 
in  the  dramatic  form;  but  we  cannot  help 
doubting,  on  the  whole,  his  Tocation  for  dra- 
matic poetry." 

TOR  LUGE  OF  EDENBALL. 

Op  Edenhall  the  yoathfol  lord 

Bids  sound  the  festal  trumpet's  call ; 

He  rises  at  the  banquet  board, 

And  cries,  *mid  the  drunken  revellers  all, 
«« Now  bring  me  the  Luck  of  Edenhall ! " 

The  butler  hears  the  words  with  pain,  — 
The  house's  oldest  seneschal,  — 

Takes  slow  from  its  silken  cloth  again 
The  drinking-glass  of  crystal  tall ; 
They  call  it  The  Luck  of  EdenkaU. 

Then  said  the  lord,  '*  This  glass  to  praise, 
Fill  with  red  wine  from  Portugal !  " 

The  graybeard  with  trembling  hand  obeys ; 
A  purple  light  shines  over  all ; 
It  beams  fit>m  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  speaks  the  lord,  and  waves  it  light,  — 
'« This  glass  of  flashing  crystal  tall 

Gave  to  my  sires  the  Fountain-Sprite ; 
She  wrote  in  it,  ff  this  glass  doth  folly 
FaarewdL  thm^  O  Luck  ^  EdenkaU! 

M  'T  was  right  a  goblet  the  fkte  should  be 
Of  the  joyous  race  of  Edenhall ! 

We  drink  deep  draughts  right  willingly ; 
And  willingly  ring,  with  merry  call, 
Eling!  klang!  to  the  Luck  of  Edenhall!  " 

First  rings  it  deep,  and  full,  and  mild, 
Like  to  the  song  of  a  nightingale ; 

Then  like  the  roar  of  a  torrent  wild  ; 

Then  mutters,  at  last,  like  the  thunder's  fall, 
The  glorious  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

^*  For  its  keeper,  takes  a  race  of  might 
The  fragile  goblet  of  crystal  tall ; 

It  has  lasted  longer  than  is  right ; 

Kling !  klang ! — with  a  harder  blow  than  all 
Will  I  try  the  Luck  of  Edenhall !  " 

As  the  goblet,  ringing,  flies  apart, 
Suddenly  cracks  the  vaulted  hall ; 

And  through  the  rift  the  flames  upstart ; 
The  guests  in  dust  are  scattered  all 
With  the  breaking  Luck  of  Edenhall ! 

In  storms  the  foe,  with  &r^  and  sword  ! 
He  in  the  night  had  scaled  the  wall ; 

Slain  by  the  sword  lies  the  youthful  lord, 
But  holds  in  his  hand  the  crystal  tall, 
The  shattered  Luck  of  Edenhall. 
43 


On  the  morrow  the  butler  gropes  alone. 
The  graybeard,  in  the  desert  hall ; 

He  seeks  his  lord's  burnt  skeleton  ; 
He  seeks  in  the  dismal  ruin's  foil 
The  shards  of  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

^  The  stone  wall,"  saith  he, «'  doth  foil  aside  \ 
Down  must  the  stately  columns  foil ; 

Glass  is  this  earth's  Lack  and  Pride ; 
In  atoms  shall  foil  this  earthly  ball. 
One  day,  like  the  Luck  of  Edenhall  !  " 


THE  MOUIfTAlN  EOT. 

Thx  shepherd  of  the  Alps  am  I, 
The  castles  for  beneath  me  lie  ; 
Here  first  the  ruddy  sunlight  gleams, 
Here  linger  last  the  parting  beams. 
The  mountain  boy  am  I ! 

Here  is  the  river's  fountain-head, 
I  drink  it  from  its  stony  bed ; 
As  forth  it  leaps  with  joyous  shout, 
I  seize  it,  ere  it  gushes  out. 
The  mountain  boy  am  I ! 

The  mountain  is  my  own  domain ; 
It  calls  its  storms  from  sea  and  plain; 
From  north  to  south  they  howl  afor ; 
My  voice  is  heard  amid  their  war. 
The  mountain  boy  am  I ! 

And  when  the  tocsin  sounds  alarms. 
And  mountain  bale-fires  call  to  arms. 
Then  I  descend,  I  join  my  king, 
My  sword  I  wave,  my  lay  I  sing. 
The  mountain  boy  am  I ! 

The  lightnings  for  beneath  me  lie  ; 
High  stand  I  here  in  clear  blue  sky ; 
I  know  them,  and  to  them  I  call ; 
In  quiet  leave  my  fother's  hall. 
The  mountain  boy  am  I ! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  COUNTRY  CLERGYMAN. 

If  in  departed  souls  the  power  remain 
These  earthly  scenes  to  visit  once  again. 
Not  in  the  night  thy  visit  vrilt  thou  make. 
When  only  sorrowing  and  longing  wake ;  ■— 
No !  in  some  summer  morning's  light  serene. 
When  not  a  cloud  upon  the  sky  is  seen. 
When  high  the  golden  harvest  rears  its  head. 
All  interspersed  with  flowers  of  blue  and  red. 
Thou,  as  of  yore,  around  the  fields  wilt  walk, 
Greeting  the  reapers  with  mild,  firiendly  talk. 


THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA. 

*<  Hast  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle, 

That  castle  by  the  sea  ? 
Golden  and  red  above  it 

The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 


338 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


"  And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 
To  the  mirrored  wave  below ; 

And  &in  it  would  soar  upward 
In  the  evening's  crimson  glow." 

*«  Well  have  I  seen  that  castle, 

That  castle  by  the  sea. 
And  the  moon  above  it  standing, 

And  the  mist  rise  solemnly." 

**  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

Had  they  a  merry  chime  ? 
Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers. 

The  harp  and  the  minstrel's  rhyme  ?  " 

**  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

They  rested  quietly ', 
But  I  heard  on  the  gale  a  sound  of  wail, 

And  tears  came  to  mine  eye." 

"And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 
The  king  and  his  royal  bride, 

And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles, 
And  the  golden  crown  of  pride  ? 

**  Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 

A  beauteous  maiden  there, 
Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun. 

Beaming  with  golden  hair  ?  " 

<(  Well  saw  I  the  ancient  parents, 

Without  the  crown  of  pride ; 
They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woe ; 

No  maiden  was  by  their  side  ! " 


THE  BLACK  KNIGHT. 

'T  WAS  Pentecost,  the  Feast  of  Gladness, 
When  woods  and  fields  put  off  all  sadness. 

Thus  began  the  king  and  spake : 
(« 80  from  the  halls 
Of  ancient  Hofburg's  walls 

A  luxuriant  spring  shall  break." 

Drums  and  trumpets  echo  loudly, 
Wave  the  crimson  banners  proudly. 

From  balcony  the  king  looked  on ; 
In  the  play  of  spears. 
Fell  all  the  cavaliers 

Before  the  monarch's  stalwart  son. 

To  the  barrier  of  the  fight 
Rode  at  last  a  sable  knight. 

**  Sir  Knight !  your  name  and  scutcheon  ? 
say!" 
*'  Should  I  speak  it  here. 
Ye  would  stand  aghast  with  fear ; 

I  'm  a  prince  of  mighty  sway  ! " 

When  he  rode  into  the  lists. 

The  arch  of  heaven  grew  black  with  mists. 

And  the  castle  'gan  to  rock. 
At  the  first  blow, 
Fell  the  youth  from  saddle-bow, — 

Hardly  rises  from  the  shock. 


Pipe  and  viol  call  the  dances, 
Torch-light  through  the  high  halls  glances. 

Waves  a  mighty  shadow  in  ; 
With  manner  bland 
Doth  ask  the  maiden^'s  hand. 

Doth  with  her  the  dance  begin  : 

Danced  in  sable  iron  sark. 
Danced  a  measure  weird  and  dark. 

Coldly  clasped  her  limbs  around. 
From  breast  and  hair 
Down  fall  fh>m  her  the  filr 

Flowerets,  fiided,  to  the  ground. 

To  the  sumptuous  banquet  came 
Every  knight  and  every  dame. 

'Twixt  son  and  daughter  all  distraught, 
With  mournful  mind 
The  ancient  king  reclined, 

Gazed  at  them  in  silent  thought. 

Pale  the  children  both  did  look. 
But  the  guest  a  beaker  took  : 

'*  Golden  wine  will  make  you  whole ! " 
The  children  drank. 
Gave  many  a  courteous  thank : 

**  O,  that  draught  was  very  cool  !  " 

Each  the  father's  breast  embraces. 
Son  and  daughter ;  and  their  feces 

Colorless  grow  utterly. 
Whichever  way 
Looks  the  fear-struck  father  gray. 

He  beholds  bis  children  die. 

««  Woe  !  the  blessed  children  both 
Takest  thou  in  the  joy  of  youth : 

Take  me,  too,  the  joyless  fether  ! " 
Spake  the  grim  guest. 
From  his  hollow,  cavernous  breast : 

**  Roses  in  the  spring  I  gather  !  " 

THE  DREAM. 

Two  lovers  through  the  garden 
Walked  hand  in  hand  along; 

Two  pale  and  slender  creatures. 
They  sat  the  flowers  among. 

They  kissed  each  other's  cheek  so  warm. 
They  kissed  each  other's  mouth  ; 

They  held  each  other  arm  in  arm. 
They  dreamed  of  health  and  youth. 

Two  bells  they  sounded  suddenly, 
They  started  from  their  sleep  ; 

And  in  the  convent  cell  lay  she. 
And  he  in  dungeon  deep. 

THE  PASSAGE. 

Many  a  year  is  in  its  grave. 
Since  I  crossed  this  restless  wave ; 
And  the  evening,  feir  as  ever, 
Shines  on  ruin,  rock,  and  river. 


UHLAND.  — SCHULZE, 


339 


Then  in  this  same  boat  beside 
Sat  two  comrades  old  and  tried,  — 
One  with  all  a  Other's  truth. 
One  with  all  the  fire  of  youth. 

One  on  earth  in  silence  wrought. 
And  his  grave  in  silence  sought ; 
But  the  younger,  brighter  form 
Passed  in  battle  and  in  storm. 

So,  whene'er  I  turn  my  eye 
Back  upon  the  days  gone  by. 
Saddening  thoughts  of  firiends  come  o*er  me, 
Friends  that  closed  their  course  before  me. 

But  what  binds  us,  friend  to  fnend. 
But  that  soul  with  soul  can  blend  ? 
Soul-like  were  those  hours  of  yore ; 
Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more. 

Take,  O  boatman,  thrice  thy  fee,  — 

Take,  I  give  it  willingly ; 

For,  invisible  to  thee. 

Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  me. 


THE  NUN. 

In  the  silent  cloister-garden. 

Beneath  the  pale  moonshine, 
There  walked  a  lovely  maiden, 

And  tears  were  in  her  eyne. 

«*  Now,  God  be  praised !  my  Ipved  one 

Is  with  the  blest  above  : 
Now  man  is  changed  to  angel, 

And  angels  I  may  love." 

She  stood  before  the  altar 

Of  Mary,  mother  mild, 
And  on  the  holy  maiden 

The  Holy  Virgin  smiled. 

Upon  her  knees  she  worshipped 
And  prayed  before  the  shrine, 

And  heavenward  looked, — till  Death  came 
And  closed  her  weary  eyne. 


THE  SERENADE. 

*'  What  sounds  so  sweet  awake  me  ? 
What  fills  me  with  delight.' 

0  mother,  look  !  who  sings  thus 
So  sweetly  through  the  night  ?  " 

^  I  hear  not,  child,  I  see  not ; 

O,  sleep  thou  softly  on  ! 
Comes  now  to  serenade  thee, 

Thou  poor  sick  maiden,  none  !  " 

**  It  is  not  earthly  music. 
That  fills  me  with  delight ; 

1  hear  the  angels  call  me : 

O  mother  dear,  good  night !  " 


THE  WREATH. 

Therx  went  a  maid  and  plucked  the  flowers 
That  grew  upon  the  sunny  lea ; 

A  lady  ^m  the  greenwood  came 
Most  beautiful  to  see  ! 

Unto  the  maid  she  friendly  came, 
And  in  her  hand  a  wreath  she  bore : 

(*  It  blooms  not  now,  but  soon  will  bloom  ; 
O,  wear  it  evermore  !  '* 

And  as  this  maid  in  beauty  grew. 

And  walked  the  mellow  moon  beneath. 

And  weeped  young  tears  so  tender,  sweet. 
Began  to  bud  the  wreath. 

And  when  the  maid,  in  beauty  grown. 
Clasped  in  her  arms  the  glad  bridegroom, 

Forth  from  the  bud*s  unfolded  cup 
There  blushed  a  joyous  bloom. 

And  when  a  playsome  child  she  rocked 
Her  tender  mother-arms  between. 

Amid  the  spreading  leafy  crown 
A  golden  finit  was  seen. 

And  when  was  sunk  in  death  and  night 
The  heart  a  wife  had  held  most  dear, 

Then  shook  amid  her  shaken  locks 
A  yellow  leaf  and  sear. 

Soon  lay  she,  too,  in  blenched  death. 

And  still  this  dear-loved  wreath  she  wore. 

Then  bore  the  wreath,>-thi8  wondrous  wreath. 
Both  fruit  and  bloom  it  bore. 


TO  . 

Upon  a  mountain's  summit 

There  might  I  with  thee  stand, 
And,  o'er  the  tufted  forest. 

Look  down  upon  the  land ; 
There  might  my  finger  show  thee 

The  world  in  vernal  shine. 
And  say,  if  all  mine  own  were. 

That  all  were  mine  and  thine. 

Into  my  bosom's  deepness, 

O,  could  thine  eye  but  see. 
Where  all  the  songs  are  sleeping 

That  God  e'er  gave  to  me  ! 
There  would  thine  eye  perceive  it. 

If  augbt  of  good  be  mine,  — 
Although  I  may  not  name  thee,  — 

That  aught  of  good  is  thine. 


ERNST  CONRAD  FRIEDRICH  SCHULZE. 

Ernst  Schulzb  was  born  at  Celle,  March 
22d,  1789.  In  1806,  he  began  his  theological 
studies  at  Gottingen,  but  soon  afterwards  ex- 
changed theology  for  philology,  with  the  design 


340 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


of  becoming  a  teacher  of  the  classics  and  polite 
literatare.  He  displayed  a  lively  poetical  im- 
agination from  his  early  youth.  He  was  deeply 
affected  by  the  early  loss  of  a  lady  to  whom  he 
was  passionately  attached,  and,  as  soon  as  the 
first  violence  of  his  grief  was  calmed,  he  form- 
ed the  resolution  of  immortalizing  her  name  by 
a  poem,  to  which  he  devoted  all  his  intellectual 
energies.  In  three  years  he  completed  the 
work,  which  was  published  under  the  title  of 
"Cecilia,"  a  romantic  poem  in  twenty  cantos. 
His  poetical  activity  was  interrupted,  in  1814, 
by  the  war  against  France,  in  which  he  engaged 
as  a  volunteer.  The  exercise  and  hardships  of 
military  service  operated  favorably  upon  his 
spirits  and  his  physical  strength ;  but  after  his 
return  to  Grottingcn,  his  health  again  began  to 
decline.  In  1816,  he  made  a  journey  on  foot 
through  the  Rhine  country,  and  early  in  the 
following  year  visited  Celle,  where  he  died, 
June  26, 1817.  His  works  are,  the  above-men- 
tioned poem,  which  is  considered  by  some  the 
greatest  romantic  epic  the  Germans  have  pro- 
duced in  recent  times;  '* The  Enchanted  Rose," 
a  romantic  poem, in  three  cantos;  lyric  poems; 
and  a  narrative  poem,  "  Psyche."  His  collected 
works  were  published  by  Bouterwek,  1819-20; 
a  new  edition,  in  four  volumes,  appeared  in 
1822.  

SONG. 

Steeds  are  neighing,  swords  are  gleaming, 

Germany's  revenge  is  nigh  ; 
And  the  banners,  brightly  streaming, 

Wave  us  on  to  victory. 

Rouse  thee,  then,  fond  heart,  and  see 
For  a  time  thy  task  forsaken  ; 

Bear  what  life  hath  laid  on  thee. 
And  forget  what  it  hath  taken  ! 


THE  HUNTSMAN  DEATH. 

The  chief  of  the  huntsmen  is  Death,  whose  aim 

Soon  levels  the  brave  and  the  craven ; 
He  crimsons  the  field  with  the  blood  of  his 
game. 
But  the  booty  he  leaves  to  the  raven. 
Like  the  stormy  tempest  that  flies  ao  fiut, 
O'er  moor  and  mountain  he  gallops  fast ; 
Man  shakes 
And  quakes 
At  his  bugle-blast 

But  what  boots  it,  my  friends,  from  the  hunter 
to  flee. 
Who  shoots  with  the  shafts  of  the  grave.' 
Far  better  to  meet  him  thus  manfully. 
The  brave  by  the  side  of  the  brave  ! 
And  when  against  us  he  shall  turn  his  brand, 
With  his  face  to  the  ibe  let  each  hero  stand, 
And  await 
His  fate 
From  a  hero's  hand. 


MAY  LILIES. 

Faded  are  our  sister  flowers. 

Faded  all  and  gone ; 
In  the  meadows,  in  the  bowers. 

We  are  left  alone  ! 
Dark  above  our  valley  lowers 

That  funereal  sky. 
And  the  thick  and  chilling  showers 

Now  come  blighting  by. 

Drooping  stood  we  in  the  strife, 

Pale  and  tempest-shaken, 
Weeping  that  our  love  and  life 

Should  at  once  be  taken  ; 
Wishing,  while  within  its  cover 

Each  wan  flower  withdrew, 
That,  like  those  whose  life  was  over. 

We  had  withered  too. 

But  the  air  a  soothing  ditty 

Whispered  silently ; 
How  that  love  and  gentlest  pity 

Still  abode  with  thee ; 
How  thy  very  presence  ever 

Shed  a  sunny  glow,  — 
And  where  thou  wert  smiling,  never 

Tears  were  seen  to  flow. 

So  to  thee,  thou  gentle  spirit. 

Are  the  wanderers  come ; 
Let  the  weak  thy  care  inherit. 

Take  the  trembling  home ! 
Though  the  bloom  that  did  surround  us 

Withered  with  the  blast, 
Still  the  scent  that  hangs  around  us 

Lives  when  that  hath  passed. 


EXTRACT  FROM  CECILIA. 

AffD  now  't  is  o'er,  —  the  long-planned  work 
is  done, — 

The  last  sad  meed  that  love  and  longing  gave : 
Beside  thy  bier  the  strain  was  first  begun. 

And  now  I  lay  the  gift  upon  thy  grave. 
The  bliss,  the  bale,  trough  which  my  heart 
hath  run, 

Are  mirrored  in  the  story's  mystic  wave ; 
Take,  then,  the  song,  that  in  my  bitter  grief 
Hath  been  my  latest  joy,  my  sole  relief. 

As  mariners  that  on  the  flowery  side 

Of  some  fair  coast  have  for  a  time  descended. 

And  many  a  town  and  many  a  tower  descried. 
And  many  a  blooming  grove  and  plain  ex- 
tended, 

Till,  borne  again  to  sea  by  wind  and  tide. 
They  see  the  picture  fade,  the  vision  ended ; 

So  in  the  darkening  disUnce  do  I  see 

My  hopes  grow  dim,  my  joy  and  solace  flee. 

Such  as  thou  didst  in  love  and  life  appear. 
In  joy,  in  grie(  in  pleasure,  and  in  pain, — 

Such  have  I  strove  in  words  to  paint  thee  here. 
And  link  thy  beauties  with  my  lowly  strain. 


RUCKERT. 


341 


Still,  as  I  sang,  thy  form  was  floating  near, 

And,  hand  in  hand  with  thee,  the  goal  I  gain ; 
Alas,  that,  with  the  wreath  that  binds  my  brow, 
My  visionary  bliss  must  vanish  now  ! 

Three  years  in  that  fond  dream  have  flitted  by ; 

For,  though  the  tempest  of  the  time  was  rile, 
And,  rising  at  the  breath  of  destiny. 

Through  peace  and  war  hath  borne  my  bark 
of  lifb, 
I  heeded  not  how  clouds  grew  dark  on  high. 

How  beat  against  the  bark  the  waters'  strife ; 
Still  in  the  hour  of  need  unchangeably 
The  compass  of  my  spirit  turned  to  thc>e. 

While  time  rolled  on  with  ever-changing  tide, 
Thou  wert  the  star,  the  sun,  that  shone  ibr  me ; 

For  thee  I  girt  the  sword  upon  my  side ; 

Each  dream  of  peace  was  consecrate  to  thee ; 

And  if  my  heart  was  long  and  deeply  tried. 
For  thee  alone  I  bore  my  misery  ; 

Watching  lest  autumn  with  his  chilling  breath 

Should  blight  the  rose  above  thy  couch  of  death. 

Ah  me  !  since  thou  hast  gained  thy  heavenly 
throne. 

And  I,  no  more  by  earthly  ties  controlled. 
Have  shunned  life's  giddy  joys,  with  thee  alone 

Sad  fellowship  in  solitude  to  bold ; 
Full  many  a  faithless  friend  is  changed  and  gone, 

Full  many  a  heart  that  onoe  was  warm  grown 
cold. 
All  this  have  I  for  thee  in  silence  borne. 
And  joyed  to  bear,  as  on  a  brighter  morn. 

As  vases,  once  with  costly  scents  supplied. 
Long  after  shed  around  their  sweet  perfume ; 

As  clouds  the  evening  sun  with  gold  hath  dyed 
Gleam  brightly  yet,  while  all  around  is  gloom ; 

As  the  strong  river  bears  its  freshening  tide 
Far  out  into  the  ocean's  azure  room ;  — 

Forlorn  and  bruised,  the  heart,  that  once  hath 
beat 

For  tkee^  can  fbel  no  anger  and  no  hate. 


FRIEDRICH  RUCKERT. 

This  author,  one  >of  th^  most  important  of 
the  recent  German  Ijrrical  poets,  and  known  to 
the  world  under  the  poetical  peeudonym  of 
Freimund  Raimar,  was  bom  at  Schweinfurt  in 
1789,  and,  having  pursued  his  preparatory  stud- 
ies at  the  Gymnasium  in  that  place,  entered  the 
University  of  Jena,  where  he  devoted  himself 
to  an  extensive  range  of  philological  and  lit* 
erary  studies.  He  commenced  the  career  of 
private  teacher  in  1811,  but  did  not  long  con- 
tinue it.  After  several  changes  of  residence, 
be  finally  established  himself  in  Stuttgart,  and 
assisted  in  editing  the  *'  Morgenblatt "  from 
1815  to  1817.  The  greater  part  of  the  year 
1818  he  passed  at  Rome  and  Aricia,  where  he 


occupied  much  of  his  time  with  the  popular 
poetry  of  Italy.  After  his  return  he  lived  in 
Coburg,  where,  in  the  bosom  of  his  family,  he 
devoted  himself  to  poetry,  and  to  the  study  of 
the  Oriental  languages,  especially  the  Persian 
and  Arabic.  In  18136,  he  was  appointed  Pro- 
fessor of  the  Oriental  Languages  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  Erlangen,  where  he  remained,  until,  in 
1841,  he  was  called  to  Berlin.  He  is  distin- 
guished by  a  bold  and  fiery  spirit,  an  intense 
love  of  country  and  hatred  of  her  oppressors. 
He  is  not  only  an  original  author,  but  an  ex- 
cellent translator  from  the  Oriental  languages. 
He  has  also  translated  parts  of  the  prophetical 
writings  in  the  Old  Testament.  His  collected 
poems,  first  part,  were  published  at  Erlangen  in 
1834 ;  fifth  edition,  1840 ;  —  second  part,  1836 ; 
third  edition,  1839;  —  third  part,  1837;  second 
edition,  1839; — parts  four  to  six,  1837-38.  A 
selection  of  his  poems  appeared  at  Frankfort 
on  the  Mayn  in  1841 ;  second  edition,  1842. 


STRUNG  PEARLa 

'T  18  true,  the  breath  of  sighs  throws  mist  upon 

a  mirror ; 
But  yet,  through  breath  of  sighs,  the  soul's  clear 

glass  grows  clearer. 
From  God  there  is  no  flight,  but  only  to  him. 

Daring 
Protects  not  when  he  frowns,  but  the  child's 

filial  bearing. 
The  father  feels  the  blow,  when  he  corrects  his 

son; 
But  when  thy  heart  is  loose,  rigor  's  a  kindness 

done. 
A  father  should  to  €K>d  pray,  each  new  day  at 

latest, 
"  Lord,  teach  me  how  to  use  the  power  thou 

delegatest ! " 
O,  look,  whene'er  the  world  thy  senses  would 

betray, 
Up  to  the  steady  heavens,  where  the  stars  never 

stray  ! 
The  sun  and  moon  take  turns,  and  each  to  each 

gives  place ; 
Else  were  e'en  their  wide  house  but  a  too  nar- 
row space. 
When  thy  weak  heart  is  tossed  with  passion's 

fiery  gust. 
Say  to  it,  "  Knowest  thou  how  soon  thou  shalt 

be  dust.!"' 
Say  to  thy  foe,  "  Is  death  not  common  to  us 

twain  ? 
Come,  then,  death-kinsman  mine,  and  we  '11 

be  friends  again." 
Much  rather  than  the  spots  upon  the  sun's  broad 

light. 
Would  love  spy  out  the  stars,  scarce  twinkling 

through  the  night. 
Thou  none  the  better  art  for  seeking  what  to 

blame. 
And  ne'er  wilt  famous  be  by  blasting  others' 

fame. 

oc2 


342 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


The  name  alone  remains,  when  all  beside  is  reft : 
O,  leave,  then,  to  the  dead  that  little  which  is 

left! 
Repentance  can  avail  ftrom  God's  reboke   to 

save; 
But  men  will  ne*er  forget  thine  errors  in  thy 

grave. 
Be  good,  and  fear  for  naught  that  slanderous 

speech  endangers : 
Who  bears  no  sin  himself  affords  to  bear  a 

stranger's. 
Say  to  thy  pride,  **  'T  is  all  but  ashes  for  the  nm ; 
Come,  let  us  own  our  dust,  before  to  dust  we 

turn." 
Be  yielding  to  thy  foe,  and  peace  shall  he  yield 

back ; 
But  yield  net  to  thyself,  and  thou  'rt  on  victory's 

track. 
Who  is  thy  deadliest  foe.'  —  An  evil  heart's 

desire. 
That  hates  thee  still  the  worse,  as  thy  weak 

love  mounts  higher. 
Enow'st  thou  where  neither  lords  nor  wretched 

serfs  appear.' 
Where  one  the  other  serves,  for  each  to  each  is 

dear. 
Thou  'It  ne*er  arrive  at  love,  while  still  to  life 

thou  'It  cling : 
I  *m  found  but  at  the  cost  of  thy  self>offering. 
According  as  thou  wouldst  receive,  thou  must 

impart; 
Must  wholly  give  a  life,  to  wholly  have  a  heart. 
Till  thought  of  thine  own  worth  far  buried  from 

thee  lies, 
How  know  I  that  indeed  my  worth  's  before 

thine  eyes  ? 
What  more  says  he  that  speaks,  than  he  that 

holds  his  peace  ? 
Tet  woe  betide  the  heart  that  from  thy  praise 

can  cease ! 
Say  I,  "In  thee  I  am"? — say  I, «« Thou  art 

in  me"?  — 
Thou  art  what  in  me  is ;  —  what  I  am  is  through 

thee. 

0  sun,  I  am  thy  beam !  O  rose,  I  am  thy  scent ! 

1  am  thy  drop,  O  sea !  thy  breath,  O  firmament ! 
Unmeasured  mystery!    what  not  the  heavens 

contain 
Will  here  be  held  in  this  small  heart  and  nar- 
row brain. 
Of  that  tree  I  'm  a  leaf,  which  ever  new  doth 

sprout : 
Hail  me  !  my  stock  remains,  though  winds  toss 

me  about. 
Destruction  blows  on  thee,  while  thon  alone 

dost  stay  : 
O,  feel  thee  in  that  whole  which  ne'er  shall 

pass  away ! 
How  great  soe'er  thyself^  thou  'rt  naught  before 

the  All ; 
But,  as  a  member  there,  important,  though  most 

small. 
The  little  bee  to  fight  doth  like  a  champion  spur. 
Because  not  for  herself,  —  she  feels  her  tribe  in 

her; 


Because  so  sweet  her  work,  so  sharp  must  be 
her  sting : 

The  earth  hath  no  delight  unscourged  by  suf- 
fering. 

From  the  same  flower  she  sucks  both  food  and 
poison  up ; 

For  death  doth  lurk  alway  in  life's  delicious 
cup. 

The  mulberry-leaf  must  bear  the  biting  of  a 
worm. 

That  so  it  may  be  raised  to  wear  its  silken  form. 

See,  how  along  the  ground  the  ant-hosts  blind- 
ly throng ! 

Tet  no  more  than  the  choirs  of  stars  can  these 
go  wrong. 

Toward  setting  sun  the  lark  floats  on  in  jubilee ; 

Frisking  in  light,  the  gnat  to  himself  makes 
melody. 

Sanset,  the  lark's  note  melts  into  the  air  of 
even; 

To  earth  she  falls  not  back ;  her  grave  is  in  the 
heaven. 

When  twilight  fades,  steal  forth  the  constella- 
tions bright ; 

Below,  't  is  daj  that  lives, — in  upper  air,  the 
night. 

The  powerful  sun  to  earth  the  fainting  spirit 
beats. 

Which  mounts  again  on  night's  sweet  breath  of 
violets. 

Through  heaven,  the  livelong  night,  I  'm  float- 
ing in  my  dreams. 

And,  when  aroused,  my  room  a  scanty  limit 
seems. 

Wake  up  I  the  sun  presents  an  image,  in  his 
rays, 

How  man  can  shine  at  mom  to  his  Creator's 
praise. 

The  flowers  will  tell  to  thee  a  sacred,  mystic 

story, 
How  moistened  earthy  dust  can  wear  celestial 

glory. 
On  thousand  stems  u  found  the  love-inscription 

graven, 
**  How  beautiful  is  earth,  when  it  can  image 

heaven ! " 
Wouldst  thou  first  pause  to  thank  thy  God  for 

every  pleasure. 
For  mourning  over  griefi  thou  wouldst  not  find 

the  leisure. 
O  heart,  but  try  it  once  :  't  is  easy  good  to  be ; 
But  to  appear  so,  such  a  strain  and  misery ! 
Who  hath  his  day's  work  done  may  rest  him 

as  he  will : 
O,  urge  thyself^  then,  quick  thy  day's  work  to 

ftilfil! 
Of  what  each  one  should  be,  he  sees  the  form 

and  rule. 
And,  till  he  reach  to  that,  his  joy  can  ne'er  be 

full. 
O,  pray  for  life  !  thou  feel'st,  that,  with  those 

faults  of  thine. 
Thou  art  not  ready  yet  with  sons  of  God  to 

shine. 


RUCKERT. 


343 


From  the  sun's  might  away  may  the  calm  planet 

rove? 
How  easy,  then,  for  man  to  wander  from  God's 

love! 
Tet  from  each  circle's  point  to  the  centre  lies  a 

track ; 
And  there  's  a  way  to  God  from  furthest  error 

back. 
Whoso  mistakes  me  now.  but  spurs  me  on  to 

make 
My  life  so  speak,  henceforth,  that  no  one  can 

mistake. 
And  though,  throughout  the  world,  the  good  I 

nowhere  find, 
I  still  believe  in  it,  for  its  image  in  my  mind. 
The   heart  that  loves  somewhat  is  not  aban- 
doned yet : 
The  smallest  fibre  serves  some  root  in  God  to  set 


Because  she  bears  the  pearl,  that  makes  the 
shell-fish  sore  : 

Be  thankful  for  the  grief  that  but  exalts  thee 
more. 

The  sweetest  firuit  grows  not  when  the  tree's 
sap  is  full : 

The  spirit  is  not  ripe,  till  meaner  powers  grow 
dull. 

Spring  weaves  a  spell  of  odors,  colors,  sounds  : 

Come,  Autumn,  ^e  the  soul  from  these  en- 
chanted bounds. 

My  tree  was  thick  with  shade  -.  O  blast,  thine 
office  do, 

And  strip  the  foliage  off,  to  let  the  heaven  shine 
through. 

They  're  wholly  blown  away,  bright  blossoms 
and  green  leaves : 

They  're  brought  home  to  the  barn,  all  color- 
less, the  sheaves. 


THE  SUN  AND  THE  BEOOK. 

The  Sun  he  spoke 

To  the  Meadow-Brook, 
And  said,  — «« I  sorely  blame  you ; 

Through  every  nook 

The  wild-flower  folk 
Ton  hunt,  as  naught  could  shame  you. 

What  but  the  light 

Makes  them  so  bright,  — 
The  light  from  me  they  borrow  ? 

Tet  me  you  slight. 

To  get  a  sight 
At  them,  and  I  must  sorrow  ! 

Ah  !  pity  take 

On  me,  and  make 
Tour  smooth  breast  stiller,  clearer ', 

And,  as  I  wake 

In  the  blue  sky-lake, 
Be  thou,  O  Brook,  my  mirror  !  " 

The  Brook  flowed  on, 
And  said  anon,— 
**  Good  Sun,  it  should  not  grieve  you 


That,  as  I  run, 

I  gaze  upon 
The  motley  flowers,  and  leave  you. 

You  are  so  great 

In  your  heavenly  sUte, 
And  they  so  unpretending. 

On  you  they  wait, 

And  only  get 
The  graces  of  your  lending. 

But  when  the  sea 

Receiveth  me. 
From  them  I  must  me  sever ; 

I  then  shall  be 

A  glass  to  thee. 
Reflecting  thee  for  ever." 


NATUEE  MORE  THAN  SCIENCE. 

I  HAVK  a  thousand  thousand  lays. 
Compact  of  myriad  myriad  words, 

And  so  can  sing  a  million  ways. 
Can  play  at  pleasure  on  the  chords 

Of  tuned  harp  or  heart ; 
Tet  IS  there  one  sweet  song 
For  which  in  vain  I  pine  and  long; 

I  cannot  reach  that  song,  with  all  my  minstrel- 
art 

A  shepherd  sits  within  a  dell, 
O'ercanopied  from  rain  and  heat ; 

A  shallow,  but  pellucid  well 
Doth  ever  bubble  at  his  feet. 

His  pipe  is  but  a  leaf; 

Tet  there,  above  that  stream. 

He  plays  and  plays,  as  in  a  dream. 

One  air  that  steals  away  the  senses  like  a  thief. 

A  simple  air  it  seems,  in  truth. 
And  who  begins  will  end  it  soon  ; 

Tet,  when  that  hidden  shepherd-youth 
So  pours  it  in  the  ear  of  Noon, 

Tears  flow  from  those  anear  : 

All  songs  of  yours  and  mine,        , 
Condensed  in  one,  were  less  divine 

Than  that  sweet  air  to  sing,  that  sweet,  sweet 
air  to  hear  \ 

'T  was  yester  noon  he  played  it  last ; 

The  hummings  of  a  hundred  bees 
Were  in  mine  ears,  yet,  as  I  passed, 

I  heard  him  through  the  myrtle-trees  : 
Stretched  all  along  he  lay, 

'Mid  foliage  half  decayed ; 

His  lambs  were  feeding  while  he  played. 
And  sleepily  wore  on  the  stilly  summer  day. 


THE  PATRIOT'S  LAMENT. 

••What   fbrgest,  smith?"    ••We  're    forging 
chains ;  ay,  chains !  " 
••Alas !  to  chains  yourselves  degraded  are !  " — 
••Why  ploughest,  fiu'mer?"     ••Fields  their 
fVuit  must  bear." 
••Tes,  seed  lor  foes;  —  the  burr  for  thee  re- 
mains ! " 


344 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


**  What  aim'st  at,  sportsman  ? "    **  Yonder  stag, 
so  fat." 
**■  To  hunt  you  down,  like  stag  and  roe,  they  Ml 

try."- 
«« What  snarost,  fisher  ?  "    "  Yonder  fish,  so 
shy." 
^  Who 's  there  to  save  you  firom  your  fatal  net  ?" 

«*  What  art  thou  rocking,  sleepless  mother  ?  " 
«*Boys." 
'*  Yes ;  let  them  grow,  and  wound  their  coun- 
try's fame, 
Slayes  to  her  fi)es,  with  parricidal  arm ! " — 
"  What  art  thou  writing,  poet?  "   «' Words  of 
flame; 
I  mark  my  own,  record  my  country's  harm. 
Whom  thought  of  fiwedom  never  more  employs." 

I  blame  them  not,  who  with  the  foreign  steel 
Tear  out  our  vitals,  pierce  our  inmost  heart ; 
For  they  are  foes  created  for  our  smart. 

And  when  they  slay  us,  why  they  do  it,  feel. 

But,  in  these  paths,  ye  seek  what  recompense  P 
For  you  what  brilliant  toys  of  fame  are  here. 
Ye  mongrel  foes,  who  lift  the  sword  and  spear 

Against  your  country,  not  for  her  defence  ? 

Ye  Franks,  Bavarians,  and  ye  Swabians,  say. 
Ye  aliens,  sold  to  bear  the  slavish  name, — 

What  wages  for  your  servitude  they  pay. 
Your  eagle  may  perchance  redeem  your  fame ; 

More  sure  his  robber-train,  ye  birds  of  prey. 
To  coming  ages  shall  prolong  your  shame  ! 


CHRISrEINDLEIN. 

How  bird-like  o'er  the  flakes  of  snow 

Its  fairy  fbotsteps  flew  ! 
And  on  its  sofl  and  childish  brow 

How  delicate  the  hue  ! 

And  expectation  wings  its  feet, 

An^  stirs  its  infant  smile ; 
The  merry  bells  their  chime  repeat ; 

The  child  stands  still  the  while. 

Then  clasps  in  joy  its  little  hand ; 

Then  marks  the  Christian  dome ; 
The  stranger  child,  in  stranger  land, 

Feels  now  as  if  at  home. 

It  runs  along  the  sparkling  ground ; 

Its  face  with  gladness  beams ; 
It  frolics  in  the  blaze  around. 

Which  from-  each  window  gleams. 

The  shadows  dance  upon  the  wall, 

Reflected  from  the  trees ; 
And  firom  the  branches,  green  and  tall, 

The  glittering  gifts  it  sees. 

It  views  within  the  lighted  hall 
The  charm  of  social  love  ;  — 

O,  what  a  joyous  festival ! 
'T  is  sanctioned  from  above. 


But  now  the  childish  heart  's  unstrang : 

"  Where  is  my  taper's  light  ? 
And  why  no  evergreen  been  hung 

With  toys  for  me  to-night  ? 

^  In  my  sweet  home  there  was  a  band 

Of  holy  love  for  me ; 
A  mother's  kind  and  tender  hand 

Once  decked  my  Christmas-tree. 

(( O,  some  one  take  me  'neath  the  blaze 

Of  those  light  tapers,  do  ! 
And,  children,  I  can  feel  the  plays; 

O,  let  me  play  with  you  ! 

**  I  care  not  for  the  prettiest  toy ; 

I  want  the  love  of  home ; 
O,  let  me  in  your  playful  joy 

Forget  I  have  to  roam !  " 

The  little  fra^Ie  hand  is  raised, 

It  strikes  at  every  gate  ; 
In  every  window  earnest  gazed. 

Then  'mid  the  snow  it  sat. 

'*  Christinkle !  ^  thou,  the  children's  friend, 

I  've  none  to  love  me  now  ! 
Hast  thou  forgot  my  tree  to  send, 

With  lights  on  every  bough .' " 

The  baby's  hands  are  numbed  with  frost. 

Yet  press  the  little  cloak ; 
Then  on  its  breast  in  meekness  crossed, 

A  sigh  the  silence  broke. 

And  closer  still  the  cloak  it  drew 

Around  its  silken  hair ; 
Its  pretty  eyes,  so  clear  and  blue. 

Alone  defied  the  air. 

Then  came  another  pilgrim  child,— 

A  shining  light  he  held  ; 
The  accents  fell  so  sweet  and  mild, 

All  music  they  excelled. 

*^  I  am  thy  Christmas  friend,  indeed. 

And  once  a  child  like  thee ; 
When  all  forget,  thou  need'st  not  plead, — 

I  will  adorn  thy  tree. 

"  My  joys  are  felt  in  street  or  bower. 

My  aid  is  everywhere  ; 
Thy  Christmas-tree,  my  precious  flower, 

Here,  in  the  open  air, 

**  Shall  far  outshine  those  other  trees. 
Which  caught  thy  infant  eye." 

The  stranger  child  looks  up,  and  sees. 
Far,  in  the  deep  blue  sky, 

A  glorious  tree,  and  stars  among 
The  branches  hang  their  light ; 

The  child,  with  soul  all  music,  sung, 
««My  tree  indeed  is  bright!  " 

t  A  corruption  of  the  Gonnaa  ChtUikindkm.  It  mean 
the  chUd  Christ,  to  whom  it  is  tlMoght  all  Umm  glfta  m 
owing. 


ZEDLITZ KORNER. 


345 


As  *Death  the  power  of  a  dream 
The  in&nt  closed  its  eyes. 

And  tioops  of  radiant  angels  seem 
Desoending  from  the  skies. 

The  baby  to  its  Christ  they  bear  i 
With  Jesus  it  shall  liye ; 

It  finds  a  home  and  treasure  there 
Sweeter  than  earth  can  give. 


JOSEPH  CHRISTIAN  VON  ZEDLITZ. 

Thz  Baron  ron  Zedlitx,  one  of  the  most 
gifted  of  the  German  poets  of  the  present  day, 
was  born  in  1790,  at  Johannisburg  in  Austrian 
Silesia.  After  having  studied  sereral  years  at 
Breslan,  he  made  choice  of  a  military  career, 
and  in  1806  entered  the  hussar  regiment  of  the 
Archduke  Ferdinand.  He  rose  to  high  military 
rank  by  successiye  promotions ;  was  present  in 
the  battles  of  Regensburg,  Aspem,  and  Wa- 
gram  ;  in  1810,  was  appointed  to  an  office  at 
the  imperial  court,  and,  the  following  year, 
married  the  daughter  of  the  Baron  Ton  Liptay. 
Afterwards  he  left  the  military  service,  and 
devoted  himself  to  science  and  art.  He  pub- 
lished in  various  journals  a  series  of  short  lyri- 
cal poems,  which  he  called  "  Spring  Roses." 
These  were  followed  by  a  rapid  succession  of 
dramatic  compositions,  which  were  brought 
upon  the  stage  at  Vienna  with  great  applause. 
Those  of  his  lyrical  poems,  which  he  judged 
worthy  of  preservation,  were  published  at  Stutt- 
gart in  1833.  The  best  known  of  bis  pieces, 
at  least  to  English  readers,  is  "  The  Midnight 
Review,"  which  was  set  to  music  by  the  Chev- 
alier Neukomm.  He  has  also  translated  Lord 
Byron's  **Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,"  and  for 
several  years  edited  the  Vienna  annual,  called 
the  ^*  Vesta,"  and  contributed  several  critical 
papers  to  the  Vienna  "  JahrbQcher  der  Litera- 
tar." 


THE  BIIDNIGHT  REVIEW. 

At  midnight  ftom  his  grave 
The  drummer  woke  and  rose. 

And,  beating  loud  the  drum. 
Forth  on  his  errand  goes. 

Stirred  by  his  fieshless  arms. 
The  drumsticks  rise  and  fkll ; 

He  beats  the  loud  retreat. 
Reveille  and  roll-call. 

So  strangely  rolls  that  dram, 
So  deep  it  echoes  round, 

Old  soldiers  in  their  graves 
To  life  start  at  the  sound  : 

Both  they  in  farthest  North, 
Stiff  in  the  ice  that  lay. 

And  they  who  warm  repose 
Beneath  Italian  clay : 
44 


Below  the  mud  of  Nile, 

And  'neath  the  Arabian  sand, 

Their  burial-place  they  quit. 
And  soon  to  arms  they  stand. 

And  at  midnight  from  his  grave 

The  trumpeter  arose. 
And,  mounted  on  his  horM, 

A  load,  shrill  blast  he  blows. 

On  airy  eoorsers  then 

The  cavalry  are  seen. 
Old  squadrons,  erst  renowned. 

Gory  and  gashed,  I  ween. 

Beneath  the  casque,  their  skulls 
Smile  grim,  and  proud  their  air. 

As  in  their  bony  hands 

Their  long,  sharp  swords  they  bare. 

And  at  midnight  from  his  tomb 
The  chief  awoke  and  rose, 

And,  followed  by  his  staff, 
With  slow  steps  on  he  goes. 

A  little  hat  he  wears, 

A  coat  quite  plain  has  he, 
A  little  sword  for  arms 

At  his  left  side  hangs  free. 

O'er  the  vast  plain  the  moon 

A  paly  lustre  threw  : 
The  man  with  the  little  hat 

The  troops  goes  to  review. 

The  ranks  present  their  arms. 
Deep  rolls  the  drum  the  while  ', 

Recovering  then,  the  troops 
Before  Se  chief  defile. 

Captains  and  generals  round 

In  circles  formed  appear  ; 
The  chief  to  the  first  a  word 

Now  whispers  in  his  ear. 

The  word  goes  round  the  ranks. 

Resounds  along  the  line ; 
That  word  they  give  is, — France  i 

The  answer, —  Saint  HiUne! 

'T  is  there,  at  midnight  hour. 
The  grand  review,  they  say. 

Is  by  dead  Cessar  held. 
In  the  ChampS'Elysies  ! 


KARL  THEODOR  KORNER. 

This  writer,  equally  distinguished  as  a  poet 
and  hero,  was  bom  September  23d,  1791,  at 
Dresden.  He  studied  first  at  the  Mining  Acad- 
emy in  Freiberg,  and  in  1810  entered  the  Uni- 
versity of  Leipsic.  Being  compelled  to  leave 
the  University  on  account  of  some  imprudences 


346 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


he  had  committed,  he  went  to  Vienna,  where 
he  wrote  for  the  theatre.  In  1813,  he  served 
in  Latzow*8  corps  in  the  war  against  Napoleon, 
and  in  the  battle  of  Kitzen  he  was  severely 
wounded  and  narrowly  escaped  being  made 
prisoner.  Recovering  from  his  wounds  during 
the  armistice,  he  rejoined  the  corps  on  the  re- 
newal of  hostilities,  and  fought  with  signal 
ihtrepidity  in  several  battles  against  the  French 
under  Davoust.  He  fell  on  the  field  of  battle, 
August  26th,  1813,  a  short  distance  firom  Ros- 
enberg, having  only  an  hour  before  finished 
his  celebrated  ^(  Sword-Song,"  and  read  it  to 
his  comrades.  His  poems  are  marked  by  a 
lofty  lyrical  genius  and  the  greatest  patriotic 
enthusiasm.  His  works  are  lyrical  poems, 
entitled  "Knospen,"  or  Buds,  1810;  ««The 
Lyre  and  Sword,"  1814, —  seventh  edition,  Ber- 
lin, 1834 ;  and  dramatic  pieces,  including  trage- 
dies and  comedies.  His  collected  works  were 
published  in  four  volumes,  Berlin,  1838 ;  sec- 
ond edition,  1842.  His  life  was  written  by 
Lehmann,  Halle,  1819 ;  also  by  his  father.  His 
works  have  been  translated  into  English  by 
G.  F.  Richardson,  in  two  volumes,  London, 
1827;  and  his  lyrical  poems,  by  W.  B.  Chor- 
ley,  London,  1834. 


MY  FATHERLAND. 

Wherb  is  the  minstrel's  fatherland.'  — 
Where  noble  spirits  beam  in  light; 
Where  love-wreaths  bloom  for  beauty  bright ; 
Where  noble  minds  enraptured  dream 
Of  every  high  and  hallowed  theme  : 

This  teas  the  minstrel's  fatherland ! 

How  name  ye  the  minstrel's  fatherland  ?  — 
Now  o'er  the  corses  of  children  slain 
She  weeps  a  foreign  tyrant's  reign  ; 
She  once  was  the  land  of  the  good  oak-tree. 
The  German  land,  the  land  of  the  fi«e : 

So  named  we  once  my  fiitherland ! 

Why  weeps  the  minstrel's  fatherland.'  — 
She  weeps,  that,  for  a  tyrant,  still. 
Her  princes  check  their  people's  will ; 
That  her  sacred  words  unheeded  fly. 
And  that  none  will  list  to  her  vengeful  cry : 

Therefore  weeps  my  fatherland  ! 

Whom  calls  the  minstrel's  fatherland  ?  — 
She  calls  upon  the  God  of  heaven. 
In  a  voice  which  Vengeance's  self  hath  given ; 
She  calls  on  a  free,  devoted  band ; 
She  calls  for  an  avenging  hand : 

Thus  calls  the  minstrel's  fatherland ! 

What  will  she  do,  thy  fatherland  ?  — 
She  will  drive  her  tyrant  foes  away ; 
She  will  scare  the  bloodhound  from  his  prey ; 
She  will  bear  her  son  no  more  a  slave. 
Or  will  yield  him  at  least  a  freeman's  grave : 

This  will  she  do,  my  fatherland ! 


And  what  are  the  hopes  of  thy  fatherland .'  — 

She  hopes,  at  length,  for  a  glorious  prize ; 

She  hopes  her  people  will  arise ; 

She  hopes  in  the  great  award  of  Heaven  ; 

And  she  sees,  at  length,  an  avenger  given  : 
And  these  are  the  hopes  of  my  fatherland ! 


GOOD  NIGHT. 

Good  night ! 
Be  thy  cares  forgotten  quite  ! 
Day  approaches  to  its  cloee ; 
Weary  nature  seeks  repose. 
Till  the  morning  dawn  in  light, 
Good  night ! 

Go  to  rest  * 
Close  thine  eyes  in  slumbers  blest ! 
Now  't  is  still  and  tranquil  all ; 
Hear  we  but  the  watchman's  call, 
And  the  night  is  still  and  blest. 
Go  to  rest ! 

Slumber  sweet ! 
Heavenly  forms  thy  fiincy  greet ! 
Be  thy  visions  from  above. 
Dreams  of  rapture,  —  dreams  of  love ! 
As  the  fair  one's  form  you  meet. 
Slumber  sweet ! 

Good  night ! 
Slumber  till  the  morning  light ! 
Slumber  till  the  dawn  of  day 
Brings  its  sorrows  with  its  ray ! 
Sleep  without  or  fear  or  fright ! 

Our  Father  wakes !     Good   night ! 
good  night  \ 


SWORD-SONG. 

*'  Sword  at  my  lefl  side  gleaming ! 
Why  is  thy  keen  glance  beaming. 

So  fondly  bent  on  mine  ? 

I  love  that  smile  of  thine ! 

Hurrah !  " 

**  Borne  by  a  trooper  daring. 
My  looks  his  fire-glance  wearing, 
I  arm  a  freeman's  hand  : 
This  well  delights  thy  brand  ! 

Hurrah !  " 

'*  Ay,  good  sword  !     Free  I  wear  thee , 
And,  true  heart's  love,  I  bear  thee. 

Betrothed  one,  at  my  side, 

As  my  dear,  chosen  bride  ! 

Hurrah  I " 

*«  To  thee  till  death  united, 

Thy  steel's  bright  life  is  plighted ; 

Ah,  were  my  love  but  tried ! 

When  wilt  thou  wed  thy  bride  ? 

Horrah ! " 


KORNER POLLEN. 


347 


**Tbe  tnimpet's  festal  warning 
Shall  hail  our  bridal  morning ; 
When  loud  the  cannon  chide, 
Then  claip  I  my  loved  bride  ! 

Hurrah ! " 

"  O,  joy,  when  thine  arms  hold  me  ! 
I  pine  until  they  fold  me. 

Come  to  me !  bridegroom,  come ! 

Thine  is  my  maiden  bloom. 

Hurrah !  *' 

**  Why,  in  thy  sheath  upspringing. 
Thou  wild,  dear  steel,  art  ringing  ? 

Why  clanging  with  delight, 

So  eager  for  the  fight } 

Hurrah!" 

<«  Well  may  thy  scabbard  rattle. 
Trooper,  I  pant  for  battle  \ 

Right  eager  for  the  fight, 

I  clang  with  wild  delight. 

Hurrah ! " 

•♦  Why  thus,  my  love,  forth  creeping  ? 
Stay,  in  thy  chamber  sleeping ; 

Wait,  still,  i'  th'  narrow  room  > 

Soon  for  my  bride  I  come. 

Hurrah ! " 

^  Keep  me  not  longer  pining ! 

O,  for  Love*s  garden,  shining 
With  roses,  bleeding  red. 
And  blooming  with  the  dead ! 

Hurrah !  '* 

^  Come  from  thy  sheath,  then,  treasure ! 
Thou  trooper's  true  eye-pleasure  ! 

Come  fbrth,  my  good  sword,  come ! 

Enter  thy  fkther-home ! 

Hurrah !  *' 

«*  Ha !  in  the  free  air  glancing. 
How  brave  this  bridal  dancing ! 
How,  in  the  sun's  glad  beams, 
Bride-like  thy  bright  steel  gleams ! 
Hurrah ! " 

Come  on,  ye  German  horsemen ! 
Come  on,  ye  valiant  Norsemen  ! 

Swells  not  your  hearts'  warm  tide  ? 

Clasp  each  in  hand  his  bride ! 

Hurrah! 

Once  at  your  left  side  sleeping. 
Scarce  her  veiled  glance  fbrth  peeping ; 
Now,  wedded  with  your  right, 
God  plights  your  bride  i'  th'  light. 
Hurrah! 

Then  press,  with  warm  caresses. 

Close  lips,  and  bridal  kisses. 

Tour  steel ;  —  cursed  be  his  head, 
Who  &ils  the  bride  he  wed ! 

Hurrah  ! 

Now,  till  your  swords  flash,  flinging 
Clear  sparks  forth,  wave  them  singing ; 

Day  dawns  for  bridal  pride  j 

Hurrah,  thou  Iron-bride ! 

Hurrah! 


THE  OAK-TRBE& 

EvsHiHO  is  near,  —  the  sun's  last  rays  have 
darted 
O'er  the  red  sky, — day's  busy  sounds  wax 
low; 
Beneath  jour  shade  I  seat  me,  anxious-hearted, 
Full  of  high  thoughts  and  manhood's  youthful 
glow. 
Te  true  old  witnesses  of  times  departed. 

Still  are  ye  decked  in  young  life's  greenest 
show; 
The  strong  old   days,  the  past  world's  forms 

of  power. 
Still  in  your  pride  of  strength  before  us  tower. 

Much  that  was  noble  Time  hath  been  defil- 
ing; 
Much  that  was  fair  an  early  death  hath  died ; 
Still  through  your  leaf-crown  glimmers,  faintly 
smiling. 
The  last  departing  glow  of  eventide : 
Careless  ye  view  the  Fates  wide  ruins  piling,  — 

In  vain  Time  menaces  your  healthy  pride. 
And   voices   whisper,  through  your   branches 

nghing, 
"All  that  is  great  must  triumph  over  dying !  " 

Thus  have  ye  triumphed!     O'er  what  droops 
decaying. 
Green,  fresh,  and  strong,  ye  rear  your  lusty 
heads ; 
No  weary  pilgrim,  through  the  forest  straying, 
But  rests  him  in  the  shade  your  branch-work 
spreads ; 
E'en  when  your  leaves  are  dead,  each  light 
wind  playing 
On  the  glad  eaiith  their  precious  tribute  sheds : 
Thus  o'er  your  roots  your  fallen  children  sleep- 
ing, 
Hold  all  your  next  spring-glories  in  sure  keep- 
ing. 

Fair  images  of  true  old  German  feeling. 
As  it  showed  in  my  country's  better  days. 

When,  fearlessly  with  life's-blood  freedom  seal- 
ing, 
Her  sons  died,  glad  the  holy  wall  to  raise ! 

Ah !  what  avails  our  common  grief  revealing.' 
On  every  heart  a  hand  of  death  it  lays ! 

My  German  land !  thou  noblest  under  heaven ! 

Thine  Oak-trees  stand, — Thou  down  to  earth 
art  driven ! 


ADOLF  LUDWIG  FOLLEN. 

This  poet  was  the  oldest  brother  of  Dr. 
Charles  Follen,  whose  name  is  so  well  known 
in  the  United  States.  He  was  bom  January 
21st,  1794,  at  Darmstadt  He  studied  several 
years  at  the  Gymnasium  in  Giessen,  then  gave 
two  years  to  theology  at  the  High  School  there, 
after  which  he  passed  some  time  as  private 
tutor  in  a  noble  family.     In  1814,  he  joined 


348 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


the  Hessian  jager  corps  of  ▼olunteers,  and  shared 
with  them  in  the  campaign  against  France.  On 
his  return,  he  studied  law  two  years  in  Heidel- 
berg ;  afterwards  edited  the  Elberfeld  "  Univer- 
sal Gazette."  In  1819,  he  was  implicated  in 
the  "  Demagogical  Intrigues,"  and  imprisoned 
in  Berlin.  Being  set  at  liberty  in  1821,  he 
removed  to  Switzerland,  and  received  an  ap- 
pointment in  the  Canton  School  of  Aaran, 
which  at  a  later  period  he  resigned,  and  has 
ever  since  lived  as  a  private  citizen.  He  was 
highly  distinguished  among  the  poets  of  the 
excited  period  from  1813  to  1819.  His  works 
consist  of  songs  of  very  great  merit,  and  trans- 
lations from  the  Greek,  Latin,  and  Italian. 
The  best  known  of  his  pieces  are  the  "  Free 
Voices  of  Fresh  Youth,"  Jena,  1819.  After- 
wards he  published  the  **■  Gallery  of  German 
Poetry,"  two  volumes,  Winterthar,  1827. 


BLtCHER'S  BALL.* 

By  the  Eatzbach,  by  the  Katzbacfa,  ha !  there 

was  a  merry  dance  ; 
Wild  and  weird  and  whirling  waltzes  skipped 

ye  through,  ye  knaves  of  France  ! 
For  there  struck  the  great  bass-viol  an  old  Ger- 
man master  filmed,  — 
Marshal  Forward,  Prince  of  Wallstadt,   Geb- 

hardt  Lebrecht  BlQcher  named. 
Up!    the  BlQcher  hath  the  ball-room  lighted 

with  the  cannon's  glare  ! 
Spread  yourselves,  ye  gay,  green  carpeU,  that 

the  dancing  moistens  there ! 
And  his  fiddle-bow   at  first  he   waxed  with 

Goldberg  and  with  Jauer ; 
Whew !  he  's  drawn  it  now  fiill  length,  his  play 

a  stormy  northern  shower ! 
Ha !  the  dance  went  briskly  onward,  tingling 

madness  seized  them  all ; 
As  when  howling,  mighty  tempests  on  the  arms 

of  windmills  fiiU. 
But  the   old  man  wants  it  cheery,  wants  a 

pleasant  dancing  chime ; 
And  with  gun-stocks  clearly,  loudly,  beats  the 

old  Teutonic  time. 
Say,  who,  standing  by  the  old  man,  strikes  so 

hard  the  kettle-drum, 
And,  with  crushing  strength  of  arm,  down  lets 

the  thundering  hammer  come.' 
Gneisenau,  the  gallant  champion :  Alemannia*8 

envious  fi>es 
Smites  the  mighty  pair,  her  living  double-eagle, 

shivering  blows. 

*  In  the  battle  of  Katzbach,  which  was  fought  on  the 
aeth  of  August,  1813,  the  RuaataDa  and  Pruaaians,  ondar 
the  command  of  the  veteran  Field-marahal  BlUcher,  defeatr 
ed  the  French,  who  were  led  by  Macdonald,  Ney,  Lauriaton, 
and  SebastianI,  and  were  driven  pell-mell  into  the  Katxfaach. 
Skirmishes  h«l  pferioasly  taken  place  at  Goldberg  and 
Jauer.  The  daj  of  the  battle  was  rainy,  and  the  aoldien 
fought  with  clubbed  muskets.  The  poet  rapceaents  the 
scene  as  a  baU,  under  the  direction  of  old  BlUcher,  who  had 
received,  from  his  vigor  and  promptitude,  the  name  of 
"Manhal  Forward." 


And  the  old  man  scrapes  the  sweep-out : '  hap- 
less Franks  and  hapless  trulls ! 

Now  what  dancers  leads  the  graybeard  ?  Ha ! 
ha  !  ha  !  't  is  dead  men's  skulls  ! 

But,  as  ye  too  much  were  heated  in  the  sultri- 
ness of  hell, 

Till  ye  sweated  blood  and  brains,  he  made  the 
Katzbach  cool  ye  well. 

From  the  Katzbach,  while  ye  stiffen,  hear  the 
ancient  proverb  say, 

'<  Wanton  varlets,  venal  blockheads,  must  with 
clubs  be  beat  away  !  " 


WILHELM  MULLER. 

WiLHELM  MuLLKR  was  bom  October  7th, 
1795,  at  Dessau.  In  1812,  he  began  his  studies 
at  Berlin,  devoting  himself  chiefly  to  history 
and  philology.  The  Liberation  War  of  1813 
interrupted  his  studies,  and  he  was  present,  as  a 
volunteer,  in  the  battles  of  LOtzen,  Bautzen, 
Hanau,  and  Culm.  He  resumed  his  studies  in 
1814.  In  1819,  he  travelled  in  Italy,  and,  on 
his  return,  published  the  results  of  his  observa- 
tions on  Rome.  He  then  became  a  teacher  in 
the  Gymnasium  at  Dessau,  Court  Coancillor, 
and  Librarian.  He  died  October  Ist,  1827. 
His  works  are,  **  Poems  from  the  Papers  of  a 
•Travelling  Player  on  the  Bugle-horn,"  two  vol- 
umes, 1824  ;  <'  Songs  of  the  Greeks,"  1821 ; 
''Lyrical  Walks,"  1827.  He  also  published  a 
valuable  collection  of  the  poets  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  ten  volumes,  Leipsic,  1822-27; 
and  a  translation  of  Fauriel's  "  Modern  Greek 
Popular  Songs."  His  poems  were  edited  by 
Schwab,  Leipsic,  1837,  who  also  wrote  his  life. 


THE  BIRD  AND  THE  SHIP. 

"  Thi  rivers  rush  into  the  sea. 

By  castle  and  town  they  go ; 
The  winds  behind  them  merrily 

Their  noisy  trumpets  blow. 

*'  The  clouds  are  passing  far  and  high, 

We  little  birds  in  them  play  ; 
And  every  thing,  that  can  sing  and  fly. 

Goes  with  us,  and  ftjr  away. 

*'I  greet  thee,  bonny  boat!     Whither,  or 
whence, 

With  thy  fluttering  golden  band  ?  "  — 
**  I  greet  thee,  little  bird  !     To  the  wide  sea 

I  haste  from  the  narrow  land. 

»  Full  and  swollen  is  every  sail ; 

I  see  no  longer  a  hill, 
I  have  trusted  all  to  the  sounding  gale, 

And  it  will  not  let  me  stand  still. 

I  The  hehratu,  or  tveqhout,  waa  formerly  the  conelml- 
ing  dance  at  batla  and  partiea  in  Germany.  All  the  com- 
pany, headed  bj  the  nraaiciana,  danced  up  and  down  ervrj 
■taircaae,  and  through  every  room  in  the  houae. 


MULLER FLATEN.^HEINE. 


349 


«*  And  wilt  thoa,  little  bird|  go  with  m  ? 

Thoo  may'st  stand  on  the  mainmast  tall, 
For  full  to  sinking  is  my  hoase 

With  merry  com{MUiions  all." 

•<  I  need  not  and  seek  not  eompany. 
Bonny  boat,  I  can  sing  all  alone ; 

For  the  mainmast  tall  too  heary  am  I, 
Bonny  boat,  I  have  wings  of  my  own. 

**  High  over  the  sails,  high  over  the  mast, — 

Who  shall  gainsay  these  joys  ? 
When  thy  merry  companions  are  still,  at  last, 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  soand  of  my  Toice. 

*«  Who  neither  may  rest,  nor  listen  may, 

God  blees  them  eveiy  one  ! 
I  dart  away,  in  the  bright  blue  day. 

And  the  golden  fields  of  the  sun. 

«« Thue  do  I  sing  my  weary  song, 
Wherever  the  four  winds  blow  ; 

And  this  same  song,  my  whole  llA  long. 
Neither  poet  nor  printer  may  know.*' 


WUlTHKKf 

I  HSARO  a  brooklet  gushing 

From  its  rocky  fountain  near, 
Down  into  the  valley  rushing. 

So  fresh  and  wondroos  clear. 

I  know  not  what  came  o'er  me. 

Nor  who  the  counsel  gave  ; 
But  I  must  hasten  downward. 

All  with  my  pilgrim-stave ; 

Downward,  and  ever  farther. 

And  ever  the  brook  beside  ; 
And  ever  fresher  murmured. 

And  ever  clearer,  the  tide. 

Is  this  the  way  I  was  going  ? 

Whither,  O  brooklet,  say  ! 
Thou  hast,  with  thy  soft  murmur. 

Murmured  my  senses  away. 

What  do  I  say  of  a  murmur  ? 

That  can  no  murmur  be  ; 
'T  is  the  water-nymphs,  that  are  singing 

Their  roundelays  under  me. 

Let  them  sing,  my  friend,  let  them  murmur, 

And  wander  merrily  near ; 
The  wheels  of  a  mill  are  going 

In  every  brooklet  clear. 


AUGUST  GRAF  VON  PLATEN- 
HALLERMtJNDE. 

This  accomplished  and  interesting  person 
was  bom  at  Anspach,  October  24th,  1796.  He 
was  educated  for  the  military  career,  and  served 
a^inst  France.  But,  unsatisfied  with  a  military 


life,  he  studied  at  Warzbnrg  and  Eriangen, 
and  by  his  unwearied  industry  made  himself  a 
proficient  in  the  Latin,  Greek,  Peraian,  Arabic, 
French,  Italian,  Spanish,  Dutch,  and  Swedish 
languages.  He  travelled  and  resided  much  in 
Italy,  where  many  of  his  best  pieces  were 
written.  He  died  at  Syracuse,  in  Sicily,  Decem- 
ber 6th,  1835.  His  principal  writings  are  dra- 
matic poems,  lyrical  pieces,  *'  Gazelles  "  (poems 
in  imitation  of  the  Persian),  and  **  The  Abas- 
sides,"  in  nine  cantos.  His  collected  works  were 
published  in  1838. 

80NNE1SL 
I. 
Fair  as  the  day  that  bodes  as  fidr  a  morrow, 

With  noble  brow,  with  eyes  in  heaven's  dew, 

Of  tender  years,  and  charming  as  the  new, 
So  found  I  thee,  —  so  found  I,  too,  my  sorrow. 
O,  could  I  shelter  in  thy  bosom  borrow. 

There  most  collected  where  the  most  unbent ! 

O,  would  this  coyness  were  already  spent. 
That  aye  adjourns  our  union  till  to-morrow  ! 
But  canst  thou  bate  me  ?  Art  thou  yet  unshaken  ? 

Wherefore  refusest  thou  the  soft  confession 
To  him  who  loves,  yet  feels  bhnself  forsaken  ? 

O,  when  thy  fbture  love  doth  make  expression, 
An  anxious  rapture  will  the  moment  waken. 

As  with  a  youthfhl  prinoe  at  his  accession ! 


TO  SCHELLINO: 


wraa  SONS  pok 


I  IN  TBS  OBISMTAL  STTLB. 


Is  he  not  also  Beauty's  sceptre  bearing. 

Who  holds  in  Truth's  domain  the  kingly  right? 

Thou  seest  in  the  Highest  both  unite, 
Like  long-lost  melodies  together  pairing. 

Thou  wilt  not  scorn  the  dainty,  motley  band. 
With  clang  of  foreign  music  hither  faring, 

A  little  gift  for  thee,  from  Morning-land,  — 
Thou  wilt  discern  the  beauty  they  are  wearing. 
Among  the  flowers,  forsooth,  of  distant  valleys, 

I  hover  like  the  butterfly,  that  clings 
To  summer-sweets  and  with  a  trifle  dallies : 

But  thou  dost  dip  thy  holy,  honeyed  wings. 
Beyond  the  margin  of  the  world's  flower-chalice. 

Deep,  deep  into  the  mystery  of  things. 


HEINRICH   HEINE. 

HxiNRiGH  HxiNX,  well  known  as  a  political 
writer  and  a  poet,  was  bom  in  1797,  at  DOssel- 
dorf,  on  the  Rhine,  and  studied  law  at  the  Uni- 
versities of  Bonn,  Berlin,  and  Gottingen;  at 
the  last  of  which  he  took  his  degree.  He  after- 
wards  resided  in  Hamburg,  Berlin,  and  Munich ; 
and  since  1830  has  lived  in  Paris.  His  princi- 
pal writings  are  **  Buch  der  Lieder,"  a  collec- 
tion of  lyrical  poems ;  two  tragedies,  "  Alman- 
sor"  and  '^Radcliff";  the  four  volumes  of 
*(  Reisebilder  " ;  the  "  Beitrftge  zur  Gescbichte 
der  neuern  schonen  Literatur  in  Deutscbland  "; 
the  <*  Franzdsische  ZustAnde  " ;  and  **  Der  Sa- 

DD 


350 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


Ion  " ;  —  the  last  two  being  collections  of  his 
▼arioua  contributions  to  the  German  newspa- 
pers. The  most  popular  of  his  writings  is  the 
»» Reisebilder  "  (Pictures  of  Travel).  The  "  Bei- 
trflge"  has  been  translated  into  English,  by 
G.  W.  Haven,  under  the  title  of  *«  Letters  aux- 
iliary to  the  History  of  Modern  Polite  Litera- 
ture in  Germany*'  (Boston,  1836);  a  work 
several  times  referred  to  in  this  volume.  The 
same  work,  with  many  additions,  has  been  pub- 
lished in  Paris,  under  the  title  of  **  De  TAlle- 
magne." 

The  style  of  Heine  is  remarkable  for  vigor, 
wit,  and  brilliancy ;  but  is  wanting  in  taste  and 
refinement.  To  the  recklessness  of  Byron  he 
adds  the  sentimentality  of  Sterne.  The  "  Reise- 
bilder "  is  a  kind  of"  Don  Juan  "  in  prose,  with 
passages  from  the  "  Sentimental  Journey."  He 
is  always  in  extremes,  either  of  praise  or  cen- 
sure; setting  at  naught  the  decencies  of  life, 
and  treating  the  most  sacred  things  with  frivoli- 
ty. Throughout  his  writings  are  seen  traces  of 
a  morbid,  ill-regulated  mind ;  of  deep  feeling, 
disappointment,  and  suffering.  His  sympathies 
seem  to  have  died  within  him,  like  Ugolino's 
children  in  the  tower  of  Famine.  With  all  his 
various  powers,  he  wants  the  one  great  power, 

—  the  power  of  truth.  He  wants,  too,  that 
ennobling  principle  of  all  human  endeavours,  the 
aspiration  **  afler  an  ideal  standard,  that  is  high- 
er than  himself." 

In  the  highest  degree  reprehensible,  too,  is 
the  fierce,  implacable  hatred  with  which  Heine 
pursues  his  foes.  No  man  should  write  of 
another  as  he  permits  himself  to  write  at  times. 
In  speaking  of  Schlegel  as  he  does  in  his 
**  German  Literature,*'  he  is  utterly  without 
apology.  And  yet  to  such  remorseless  invec- 
tives, to  such  witty  sarcasms,  he  is  indebted  in 
a  great  degree  for  his  popularity.  It  was  not 
till  after  it  had  bitten  the  heel  of  Hercules,  that 
the  Crab  was  placed  among  the  constellations. 

The  minor  poems  of  Heine,  like  most  of  his 
prose-writings,  are  but  a  portrait  of  himself. 
The  same  melancholy  tone,  the  same  endless 
sigh,  pervades  them.  Though  they  possess 
a  high  lyric  merit,  they  are  for  the  most  part 
fragmentary ;  —  expressions  of  some  momentary 
state  of  feeling, — sudden  ejaculations  of  pain 
or  pleasure,  of  restlessness,  impatience,  regret, 
longing,  love.  They  profess  to  be  songs,  and 
as  songs  must  they  be  judged.  Then  these  im- 
perfect expressions  of  feeling,  —  these  mere  sug- 
gestions of  thought, — this  "luminous  mist," 
that  half  reveals,  half  hides  the  sense,  —  this 
selection  of  topics  from  scenes  of  every-day  life, 

—  and,  in  fine,  this  prevailing  tone  of  sadness, 
will  not  seem  affected,  misplaced,  or  exaggerated. 
At  the  same  time  it  must  be  confessed,  that,  in 
these  songs,  the  lofly  aim  is  wanting ;.  we  listen 
in  vain  for  the  spirit-stirring  note,  —  for  the 
word  of  power,  —  for  those  ancestral  melodies, 
which,  amid  the  uproar  of  the  world,  breathe 
into  our  ears  for  evermore  the  voices  of  conso- 
lation, encouragement,  and  warning. 


THE  VOYAGE. 

As  at  times  a  moonbeam  pierces 
Through  the  thickest  cloudy  rack, 

So  to  me,  through  days  so  dreary. 
One  bright  imffge  struggles  back. 

Seated  all  on  deck,  we  floated 

Down  the  Rhine's  majestic  stream ; 

On  its  borders,  summer-laden, 
Slept  the  peaceful  evening-gleam. 

Brooding,  at  the  feet  I  laid  me 

Of  a  fkir  and  gentle  one. 
On  whose  placid,  pallid  features 

Played  the  ruddy-golden  sun. 

Lutes  were  ringing,  youths  were  singing. 
Swelled  my  heart  with  feelings  strange ; 

Bluer  grew  the  heaven  above  us. 
Wider  grew  the  spirit's  range. 

Fairy-like  beside  us  flitted 

Rock  and  ruin,  wood  and  plain ; 

And  I  gazed  on  all  reflected 
In  my  loved  one*s  eyes  again. 


THE  TEAR. 

Thk  latest  light  of  evening 

Upon  the  waters  shone, 
And  still  we  sat  in  the  lonely  hut. 

In  silence  and  alone. 

The  sea-fog  grew,  the  screaming  mew 

Rose  on  the  water's  swell, 
And  silently  in  her  gentle  eye 

Gathered  the  tears  and  fell. 

I  saw  them  stand  on  the  lily  hand, 

Upon  my  knee  I  sank. 
And,  kneeling  there,  from  her  fingers  fitir 

The  precious  dew  I  drank. 

And  sense  and  power,  since  that  sad  hour. 

In  longing  waste  away ; 
Ah  me !  I  fear,  in  each  witching  tear 

Some  subtile  poison  lay. 


THE  EVENINO  GOSSIP. 

Wx  sat  by  the  fisher's  cottage, 
We  looked  on  sea  and  sky. 

We  saw  the  mists  of  evening 
Come  riding  and  rolling  by  : 

The  lights  in  the  lighthouse  window 
Brighter  and  brighter  grew, 

And  on  the  dim  horizon 
A  ship  still  hung  in  view. 

We  spake  of  storm  and  shipwreck. 
Of  the  seaman's  anxious  life  ; 

How  he  floats  'twixt  sky  and  water, 
'Twixt  joy  and  sorrow's  strifb  : 


HEINE. 


351 


We  spoke  of  coasts  far  distant, 
We  spoke  of  south  and  north. 

Strange  men,  and  stranger  costoms. 
That  those  wild  lands  send  forth  : 

Of  the  giant  trees  of  Ganges, 

Whose  balm  perfumes  the  breeze ; 

And  the  fair  and  slender  creatures, 
That  kneel  by  the  lotus-trees  : 

Of  the  flat-skulled,   wide-mouthed,  Lap- 
landers, 

So  dirty  and  so  small ; 
Who  bake  their  fish  on  the  embers. 

And  cower,  and  shake,  and  squall. 

The  maidens  listened  earnestly. 
At  last  the  tales  were  ended  ; 

The  ship  was  gone,  the  dusky  night 
Had  on  our  talk  descended. 


THE  LORE-LEI.* 

I  SHOW  not  whence  it  rises. 
This  thought  so  full  of  woe ; 

But  a  tale  of  times  departed 
Haunts  me,  and  will  not  go. 

The  air  is  cool,  and  it  darkens, 
And  calmly  flows  the  Rhine, 

The  mountain-peaks  are  sparkling 
In  the  sunny  evening-shine. 

And  yonder  sits  a  maiden. 

The  fiurest  of  the  fair ; 
With  gold  is  her  garment  glittering, 

And  she  combs  her  golden  hair : 

With  a  golden  comb  she  combs  it ; 

And  a  wild  song  singeth  she. 
That  melts  the  heart  with  a  wondrous 

And  powerful  melody. 

The  boatman  feels  his  bosom 
With  a  nameless  longing  move  ; 

He  sees  not  the  gulfs  before  him, 
His  gaze  is  fixed  above. 

Till  over  boat  and  boatman    '^ 
The  Rhine's  deep  waters  run : 

And  this,  with  her  magic  singing, 
The  Lore-lei  has  done  ! 


THE  HOSTILE  BROTHERS. 

TovDXR,  on  the  mountain  summit, 
Lies  the  castle  wrapped  in  night ; 

In  the  valley  gleam  the  sparkles 

Struck  from  clashing  swords  in  fight 

*  A  witch,  who,  in  the  form  of  «  lorely  maiden,  oaed  to 
place  henelf  on  the  remarkable  rock,  called  the  Lurle^berg, 
overlooking  the  Rhine,  and,  by  her  magic  eongs  arresting 
the  attention  of  the  boatmen,  lured  them  into  the  neigh- 
bouring whirlpool. 


Brothers  they  who  thus  in  fury 
Fierce  encounter  hand  to  hand ; 

Say,  what  cause  could  make  a  brother 
'Gainst  a  brother  turn  his  brand  ? 

Countess  Laura's  beaming  glances 

Did  the  fiital  feud  inflame, 
Kindling  both  with  equal  passion 

For  the  fkix  and  noble  dame. 

Which  hath  gained  the  fair  one's  fkvor  ? 

Which  shall  win  her  for  his  bride  ?^ 
Vain  to  scan  her  heart's  inclining ; 

Draw  the  sword,  let  that  decide. 

Wild  and  desperate  grows  the  combat, 
Clashing  strokes  like  thunder  fly ; 

Ah  !  bewaro,  ye  savage  warriors ! 
Evil  powers  by  night  are  nigh. 

Woe  for  you,  ye  bloody  brothen  ! 

Woe  for  thee,  thou  bloody  vale ! 
By  each  other's  swords  expiring. 

Sink  the  brothers,  stark  and  pale. 

Many  a  century  has  departed, 
Many  a  race  has  found  a  tomb, 

Tet  from  yonder  rocky  summits 

Frown    those    moss-grown    towers    of 
gloom; 

And  within  the  dreary  valley 
Fearflil  sights  are  seen  by  night ; 

There,  as  midnight  strikes,  the  brothers 
Still  renew  their  ghastly  fight. 


THE  SEA  HATH  ITS  PEARLS. 

The  sea  it  hath  its  pearls, 

The  heaven  hath  its  stars. 
But  my  heart,  my  heart. 

My  heart  hath  its  love. 

Great  are  the  sea  and  the  heaven, 

Tet  greater  is  my  heart. 
And  fairer  than  pearls  and  stars 

Flashes  and  beams  my  love. 

Thou  little,  youthful  maiden. 
Come  unto  my  great  heart ; 

My  heart,  and  the  sea,  and  the  heaven 
Are  melting  away  with  love. 


THE  FIR-TREE  AND  THE  PALM. 

A  LONELT  fir-tree  standeth 

On  a  height  where  north  winds  blow ; 
It  sleepetb,  with  whitened  garment. 

Enshrouded  by  ice  and  snow. 

It  dreameth  of  a  palm-tree. 
That  far  in  the  Eastern  land. 

Lonely  and  silent,  moumeth 
On  its  burning  shelf  of  sand. 


352 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


HEINRICH  AUGUST  HOFFMANN  VON 
FALLERSLEBEN. 

Hbivrich  August  HorrifANN,  called  Von 
Falleraleben,  to  distinguish  him  from  the  numer- 
ous other  writers  of  the  same  name,  was  bom 
April  2d,  1798,  at  Fallersleben.  In  1812,  he 
entered  the  Gymnasium  at  Helmstftdt,  and  in 
1816,  began  his  studies  at  the  University  of 
Gottingen.  He  was  destined  for  theology,  but 
soon  gave  it  up  and  devoted  himself  wholly 
to  literary  history  and  German  philology,  the 
study  of  *  which  he  prosecuted  at  the  newly 
established  University  of  Bonn,  to  which  he 
resorted  in  1619.  In  bis  various  journeys  along 
the  Rhine,  his  attention  was  attracted  to  the 
remains  of  German  popular  poetry  still  pre- 
served among  the  people.  In  1821,  he  visited 
Holland  for  the  purpose  of  investigating  the 
old  Netherlandish  literature.  In  1823,  he  was 
appointed  keeper  of  the  University  library  at 
Breslau.  In  1830,  he  was  made  Profossor  Ex- 
traordinary, and  in  1835,  Ordinary  Professor  of 
the  German  Language  and  Literature  in  the 
Berlin  University.  Besides  numerous  valuable 
works  in  various  departments  of  literary  history 
and  criticism,  particularly  upon  German  phi- 
lology, he  bas  also  written  **  Alemannic  Songs," 
Fallersleben,  1826;  "Poems,*'  two  volumes, 
Leipsic,  1833 ;  "  The  Book  of  Love,"  Breslau, 
1836;  *«  Poems,  a  new  Collection,"  Breslau, 
1837.  His  poems  are  distinguished  by  an  art- 
less simplicity,  by  harmony  of  language,  and 
skilfol  versification. 

The  following  is  part  of  Laube's  *  sketch  of 
Hoffmann  von  Fallersleben. 

**I  can  never  speak  of  Hoffmann  without 
singing  some  of  his  verses,  and  methinks  that 
is  a  g(K>d  sign.  He  is  a  singer,  and  not  merely 
the  idea  of  a  singer,  like  many  of  those  our 
blessed  native  land  possesses.  I  never  think  of 
the  secunda  and  prima^  where  metre  was  drilled 
into  us,  where,  in  a  dead  white,  comfortless 
room,  we  sat  on  black,  unyielding  benches ;  I 
do  not  think  of  the  metrical  crotchets  and  qua- 
vers, when  I  see  Hoffmann ;  no,  thank  God ! 
one  needs  not  to  have  learned,  in  order  to  enjoy 
him.  The  sounding  beech-groves  upon  our 
hillocks,  the  hamlets  with  black  wooden  walls, 
with  nut-brown  maids,  and  uproarious  young- 
sters in  short  leathern  breeches  and  short  jack- 
ets,—  the  whole,  dear,  rustic  Germany  rises 
before  me  in  this  poet.  The  little,  peaceful 
valleys,  with  their  green  slopes,  open  before  me ; 
I  see  the  white  cottages,  I  hear  the  clarionet, 
and  under  the  great  linden,  before  the  inn,  sits  a 
long  gentleman  with  one  or  two  travelling  com- 
panions, in  the  midst  of  boors.  A  great  flask 
of  wine  stands  before  him,  a  happy  friendliness 
rests  upon  his  features,  and  smiling  eyes  upon 
that  small,  delicate  countenance.  Long,  waving 
locks  float  over  his  shoulders,  and  a  little,  funny 

*  Modemo  Chancterltllkso,  Tol.  n.,  p.  181. 


black  cap  covers  the  top  of  his  head.  He  shows 
in  his  looks  that  his  heart 'is  delighted  with  the 
clarionet,  with  the  merry  peasants,  with  the  sun- 
beams dancing  among  the  branches  of  the  lin- 
den, with  the  whole  world,  and  the  next  song, 
that  is  already  sitting  upon  his  lips.  Is  it 
an  ancient  wayfaring  Mastersinger .'  There  is 
something  in  the  whole  cut  of  his  figure  so  like 
the  later  Middle  Ages,  something  so  scholarly 
and  careless  and  German.  Such  a  long,  slen- 
der man,  with  his  hearty  afifection  for  his  coun- 
try, —  it  can  only  be  a  German,  who  loves  the 
spring,  the  wine-cup,  and  a  traveller's  song,  to 
the  melody, 

"  'Once  on  « time,  three  Jollj  blades, 
Throe  J0II7  bladee  were  they/  — 
who  likes  all  that  a  great  deal  better  than  free- 
dom and  fame  and  God  knows  what. 

"  Tes,  it  is  a  German,  and  that,  too,  a  Grer- 
man  firom  Fallersleben ;  it  is  the  tall  Hoffmann 
von  Fallersleben,  the  tall  profossor ;  a  Ger- 
man poet  through  and  through  and  over  and 
over.  I  never  thought  of  any  thing  but  Ger- 
many, when  I  saw  him  near  Breslau,  striding 
along  the  Marienau  Oderdamm,  with  long  and 
wide  step,  into  the  shade  of  the  oaks.  By  day, 
he  sits  in  the  cool,  lofly  library  on  the  Sand- 
gasse,  where  once  monks  or  nuns  have  prayed. 
There  he  studies  old  German  codices;  hard 
by  ring  the  bells  of  the  Sandkirche ;  single  la- 
borious students  pass  reverently,  softly  brushing 
by  the  long  rows  of  books,  and  look  with  as- 
tonishment upon  the  folios.  There,  perhaps,  a 
silent  song  occurs  to  him,  of  romantic  longing 
for  the  ancient  Rhine,  its  castles,  turrets,  and 
cellars.  And  when  he  goes  home  at  evening, 
the  trees  are  rustling,  the  maidens  singing,  the 
lads  yodling,  the  mother  lulling  the  baby  to 
sleep,  a  lover  standing  on  the  bridge  and  wait- 
ing for  his  love. 

M  From  all  this,  the  homely,  hearty,  and  yet  so 
bright  and  firesh  poetry  of  Hoffmann  is  woven. 
The  German  song  is  his  soul.  It  sounds,  and 
rustles,  and  rings  through  all  his  little  volumes 
of  songs  :  all  we  can  do  fitly  is  to  write  a  song 
again  about  him ;  reviewing  sounds  like  a  dis- 
cord. Swallows,  living  swallows  are  his  poems, 
and  the  spring  is  not  for  off." 

ON  THE  WAT.HAT.T.A  ♦ 

Hail  to  thee,  thou  lofty  hall 
Of  German  greatness,  German  glory ! 

Hail  to  you,  ye  heroes  all 
Of  ancient  and  of  modern  story ! 

O,  ye  heroes  in  the  hall. 
Were  ye  but  alive,  as  once ! 

Nay,  that  would  not  do  at  all,  — 
The  king  prefers  you,  stone  and  bronze ! 

^  A  temple  on  the  banks  of  the  Dsoube,  near  Begeos- 
httig,  1q  which  the  king  of  Baviria  haa  uaembled  the  bueu 
and  statues  of  the  great  men  of  Germany,  heroes,  patriots, 
and  reformen;  Lather,  and  such  little  men,  howeTer,  ex- 
cepted. 


HOFFMANN.  — GRAB  BE. 


353 


LAMENTATION  FOR  THE  GOLDEN  AGE. 

WovLD  our  bottle*  but  grow  deeper, 
Did  our  wine  but  once  get  cheaper, 
Then  on  earth  there  might  unfold 
The  golden  time,  the  age  of  gold. 

But  not  for  us,  —  we  are  commanded 
To  go  with  temperance  even-handed  ;  — 
The  golden  age  is  for  the  dead ; 
We  've  got  the  paper  age  instead. 

But,  ah  !  our  bottles  still  decline. 
And  daily  dearer  grows  our  wine. 
And  flat  and  void  our  pockets  fall ;  — 
Faith !  soon  there  'U  be  no  times  at  all ! 


GERMAN  NATIONAL  WEALTH. 

HvBRA  I  hurra !  hurra !  hurra ! 

We  're  off  unto  America ! 

What  shall  we  take  to  our  new  land  ? 

All  sorts  of  things  from  every  hand  !    * 

Confederation  protocols ; 

Heaps  of  tax  and  budget-rolls ; 

A  whole  ship-load  of  skins,  to  fill 

With  proclamations  just  at  will. 

Or  when  we  to  the  New  World  come. 

The  German  will  not  feel  at  home. 

Hurra!  hurra!  hurra!  hurra! 
We  're  off  unto  America ! 
What  shall  we  take  to  our  new  land  ? 
All  sorts  of  things  from  every  hand  ! 
A  brave  supply  of  corporals'  canes ; 
Of  livery  suits  a  hundred  wains ; 
Cockades,  gay  caps  to  fill  a  house,  and 
Armorial  buttons  a  hundred  thousand. 
Or  when  we  to  the  New  World  come, 
The  German  will  not  foel  at  home. 

Hurra!  hurra!  hurra!  hurra! 
We  're  off  unto  America ! 
What  shall  we  take  to  our  new  land  ? 
All  sorts  of  things  from  every  hand ! 
Chamberlains'  keys ;  a  pile  of  sacks ; 
Books  of  full  blood-descents  in  packs ; 
Dog-chains  and  sword-chains  by  the  ton ; 
Of  order-ribbons  bales  twenty-one. 
Or  when  to  the  New  World  we  come. 
The  German  will  not  feel  at  home. 

Hurra!  hurra!  hurra!  hurra! 

'We  're  off  unto  America ! 

What  shall  we  take  to  our  new  land  ? 

All  sorts  of  things  from  every  hand  ! 

Skull-caps,  periwigs,  old-world  airs ; 

Crutches,  privileges,  easy-chairs ; 

Councillors'  titles,  private  lists. 

Nine  hundred  and  ninety  thousand  chests. 

Or  when  to  the  New  World  we  come. 

The  German  will  not  foel  at  home. 

Hurra!  hurra!  hurra!  hurra! 
We  're  off  unto  America! 
45 


What  shall  we  take  to  our  new  land  ? 
All  sorts  of  things  from  every  hand  ! 
Receipts  for  tax,  toll,  christening,  wedding, 

and  fiineral ; 
Passports  and  wander-books  great  and  small ', 
Plenty  of  rules  for  censors*  inspections, 
And  just  three  million  police-directions. 
Or  when  to  the  New  World  we  come. 
The  German  will  not  feel  at  home. 


DIETRICH  CHRISTIAN   GRABBE. 

This  unfortunate,  but  richly  gifted  person 
was  bom  at  Detmold,  December  11th,  1801. 
His  whole  lifo  was  made  wretched  by  the 
demoralizing  circumstances  in  which  his  child- 
hood was  passed  under  the  domestic  roof  In 
spite  of  such  unhappy  influences  at  home, 
Grabbe  was  laborious  at  school,  and  at  the 
Universities  of  Leipsic  and  Berlin.  He  wrote 
several  dramas,  which  indicated  great,  though 
irregular  and  disordered  powers;  but  his  per- 
sonal character  prevented  him  from  forming 
intimate  relations  with  the  distinguished  men 
whom  the  genius  displayed  in  bis  writings  had 
at  first  attracted.  He  attempted,  but  without 
success,  to  figure  upon  the  stage.  AAer  this 
he  gave  several  years  of  earnest  labor  to  bis 
juridical  studies,  commenced  the  practice  of 
law,  received  a  government  appointment,  and 
married ;  but  he  soon  foil  into  difficulties  of 
various  kinds.  His  dissipated  habits  had  brok- 
en down  his  health,  and  he  quarrelled  with 
his  acquaintances  and  his  wifo ;  but  bis  poet- 
ical abilities  were  not  suffered  to  remain  idle. 
He  was  at  length  dismissed  from  his  place, 
deserted  his  wifo,  and  went  to  Frankfort, 
whence,  on  the  invitation  of  Immermann,  he 
repaired  to  Dasseldorf.  Here,  afler  a  short 
respite,  he  yielded  himself  wholly  to  dissipa- 
tion, abandoned  himself  to  the  lowest  com- 
pany, and  was  utterly  ruined.  In  May,  1836, 
he  returned,  with  health  irremediably  shatter- 
ed, to  his  native  city,  was  reconciled  with  his 
wifo,  and  died  on  the  12th  of  September.  Frei- 
ligrath  has  commemorated  this  ill-fated  man  in 
a  poem,  from  which  the  following  lines  are 
taken. 

"Thft  camp !  ah,  yes  I  methlnks  it  images  well 

What  thou  hast  been,  thou  lonelj  tower  I 
Moonbeam  aod  lamplight  mingled ;  the  deep  choral  swell 

Of  Music,  in  her  peals  of  proudest  power, 
And  then  —  the  tarern  dice-box  rattle ! 

The  Grand  and  the  Familiar  fought 

Within  thee  for  the  mastery ;  and  thy  depth  of  thought 
And  play  of  wit  made  erery  conflict  a  drawn  battle! 

"  And,  O,  that  such  a  mind,  so  rich,  so  orerOowing 

With  ancient  lore  and  modem  phantasy, 

And  prodigal  of  its  treasures  as  a  tree 
Of  golden  leares  when  autumn  winds  are  blowing,— 
That  such  a  mind,  made  to  illume  and  glad 

All  minds,  all  hearts,  should  hare  itself  become 

Affliction's  chosen  sanctuary  and  home ! 
This  Is,  in  truthi  most  manrellous  and  sad  I  ** 

DD'i 


354 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


The  works  of  Grabbe  are  chieflj  dramatic ; 
the  roost  noted  of  them  are,  ^*  The  Duke  of 
Gothland,"  «« Don  Juan  and  Fanst,"  ^  Barba- 
rossa,"  "Henry  the  Sixth,"  and  («The  Battle 
of  Arminius."  He  also  wrote  a  dramatic  epic, 
entitled  "Napoleon,  or  the  Hundred  Days." 


EXTRACT  FROM  CINDERELLA. 

[;Sfeene.  — A  graas-plat  surrounded  by  woods  and  hills. — 
The  Fairies  i^peor.] 

TBB  VAaXMH. 

Nestlxd  in  the  rose  we  lie, 

And  scatter  perfume  through  the  sky. 

PI118T  FAIRT. 

The  snowdrop  bells  are  ringing. 

SICOITD  FAIBT. 

Hark,  how  the  brooks  are  singing ! 

FAIRIBS. 

They  ring,  they  sing. 

For  the  coming  spring  ! 
From  a  far-off  zone  does  the  stranger  seem. 
And  his  robe  is  wove  of  the  sunny  beam. 

FIRST  FA»T. 

The  golden  sun  is  the  crown  he  wears. 

BBCOND  FAIBT. 

His  carpet,  the  dew-besprinkled  green. 

FIRST  FAIRT. 

The  flowers,  the  prints  where  his  foot  hath 
been. 

SBCOND  FAIBT. 

And  winter  flies  when  his  voice  he  hears. 

*  FIBST  FAIBT. 

The  greenwood  longs  for  his  warm  embrace. 

BBOOMD  FAIBT. 

The  lake  looks  up  with  a  smiling  &ce. 

FIBST  FAIBT. 

And  the  bee  and  fly 

In  ambush  lie, 

To  catch  but  a  glance  of  his  gentle  eye. 

Hear'st  thou  the  tale 

Of  the  nightingale  ? 

SBOOND  FAIBT. 

Clear  as  the  day  sounds  her  silver  note. 

Through  the  thickets  dark. 

Breaks  the  glowing  spark 
That  fires  my  bosom  and  tunes  my  throat 
To  sing  love's  joys  and  woes. 

FIBST  FAIBT. 

What  means  the  perfume  of  the  rose  ? 

SBCOND  FAIBT. 

'T  is  the  rose's  voice, 

That,  with  trembling  noise. 
Thus  to  the  sun-god  whispers  low : 

♦*  In  my  bed  of  green 

Did  I  sleep  unseen. 
Till  thou  didst  wake  me  to  blush  and  blow  ! " 


A  OBOMB  (rltiog  out  of  the  eartlO. 
So!  So! 
Why  here  's  a  taking  spectacle  ! 
A  miracle  !  a  miracle  ! 
Not  much  amiss,  in  truth,  are  they ; 
And  I  am  not  quite  frightful  in  my  way. 
Here,  then,  I  may  succeed,  —  at  least,  I  *U  try ; 
I  see  no  use  of  being  over-shy. 
Ah !  what  a  foot  and  ankle  now  waa  there ! 
She  dances  on  the  air 
Unharmed,  as  I  declare  ! 
O,  were  I  but  as  light  and  debonair  \ 

THB  FAiBiBS  (without  peTceiring  the  ODome). 
Greet  well  the  gentle  spring  ! 
As  in  the  swimming  eye 
Of  love,  in  ecstasy, 
Sparkles  the  evening  star  with  softer  light ; 
So,  fierier  and  more  bright. 
Shine  out  the  new-bom  world ! 
Their  hair  with  leafy  garlands  curled. 
The  horn  of  plenty  heavy  in  their  hand. 
The  hours,  a  smiling  band. 
In  flying  dance  shall  greet  the  race  of  men. 
No  evil  eye 

From  subterranean  deeps  be  there  to  spy  ; 
But  golden  moms  be  near. 
And  evenings  swathed  in  gold. 
And  noons  all  crystal-clear. 
To  light  him  on  his  way  ! 
Away  !  dull  clouds,  away  ! 
Let  naught  but  fleecy  flakes, 
Like  solitary  sheep. 
Across  the  blue  of  heaven 
At  times  come  driving  by. 
Losing  themselves  in  its  immensity. 

QNOMB. 

I  must  confess  I  like  these  fairies  now ; 
All  of  them  pretty  fair,  I  must  avow. 
But  yet  I  can  't  make  up  my  mind 
To  which  of  all  the  group  I  am  inclined. 
That  nearest  one  would  never  do 


TUB  FAIBIBS  (suddeoly  perceirbsg  him). 
See !  see !  a  gnome  I 


A  gnome  ?  —  and  what  of  that  ? 


How  short  and  squat ! 
His  hair  how  tangled !  and  how  black,  like  soot  I 

ONOMB. 

Upon  my  honor,  't  is  the  latest  cut        * 

FAIBIBS. 

Has  he  an  eye  ?  or  has  he  not  ? 

ONOKB. 

They  're  quizzing  me,  I  see,  by  Jove  ! 
And  quizzing  is  a  step  to  love. 
But  what  is  this.'  — O  Lord !  I  faint  for  fear. 

FAIBIBS. 

Our  queen,  onr  queen  draws  near  * 

[The  queen  of  the  Fairies  mppaaia. 


SIMROCK.—MOSEN. 


355 


•Nom. 
O  all  ye  lightnings. 
No  meteor  flasiies  brighter 
Than  she,  from  pole  to  pole  ! 

She  is,  indeed,  the  direst  of  them  all ! 

See,  how,  snbmissive,  at  her  leet  they  iail ! 

The  sun  himself  loses  his  countenance 

Before  her  blooming  cheek,  her  garment's  glance! 

I  feel,  I  know  not  how,  —  I  really  quake. 

O,  yes  !  this  must  be  love,— and  no  mistake. 

POUT  PAIBT. 

The  queen  is  angry,  —  see,  she  pouts  her  lip ! 


Would  that  I  were  a  bee,  from  thence  to  sip  ! 


KARL  SIMROCK. 

This  distinguished  scholar  and  author  was 
bom  at  Bonn,  August  28th,  1802.  He  received 
his  early  education  at  the  Lyceum.  In  1818, 
after  the  left  bank  of  the  Rhine  had  been  re- 
stored to  Germany,  he  commenced  the  study 
of  law  at  the  newly  established  University  of 
Bonn,  and  completed  it  in  Berlin  under  the 
direction  of  Savigny.  In  1823,  he  entered 
the  Prussian  civil  service.  But  from  his  early 
youth  he  had  shown  a  love  of  poetry  and  letters. 
His  first  translation  of  the  **  Nibelungenlied " 
appeared  in  1827.  In  1830,  some  expressions 
in  a  poem,  which  he  wrote  on  the  July  Revolu- 
tion in  France,  caused  his  dismissal  from  the 
service.  But  this  did  not  interfere  with  his 
literary  ardor.  He  has  since  then  published  a 
aeries  of  very  interesting  and  valuable  works, 
consisting  of  translations  from  the  old  German, 
such  as  the  poems  of  Walther  von  der  Vogel- 
weide,  editions  of  the  originals  of  many  curi- 
ous and  important  ancient  German  poems, 
translations  fVom  Shakspeare,  Slc,  Since  1839, 
he  has  been  associated  with  Freiligrath  and 
Matzerath,  in  writing  the  ^*  Rheinische  Jahrbuch 
f&r  Kunst  und  Poesie." 

WARNING  AGAINST  THE  RHINE. 

To  the  Rhine,  to  the  Rhine,  go  not  to  the  Rhine,  — 

I  counsel  thee  well,  my  boy ; 
Too  many  delights  of  life  there  combine, 

Too  blooming  the  spirit's  joy. 

Seest  the  maidens  so  frank,  and  the  men  so  free. 

As  a  noble  race  they  were. 
And  near  with  thy  soul  all-glowing  shouldst  be, — 

Then  it  seems  to  thee  good  and  fair. 


On  the  river,  how  greet  thee  the  castles  so  bright, 

And  the  great  cathedral  town ! 
On  the  hills,  how  thou  climbest  the  dizzy  height. 

And  into  the  stream  lookest  down  ! 

And  the  Nix  from  the  deep  emerges  to  light. 

And  thou  hast  beheld  her  glee. 
And  the  Lurley  hath  sung  with  lips  so  white^— 

My  von,  *t  is  all  over  with  thee. 


Enchants  thee  the  sound,  befools  thee  the  shine. 
Art  with  rapture  and  fear  overcome,  ^ 

Thou  singest  for  aye,  **  On  the  Rhine  !  on  the 
Rhine ! " 
And  retumest  no  more  to  thy  home. 


JULIUS  MOSEN. 

JuLivs  MosEH  was  bom  at  the  village  of 
Marienei,  in  Saxon  Voigtland,  July  8th,  1803. 
His  education,  until  his  fourteenth  year,  was 
directed  by  his  fiitber ;  he  was  then  placed  at 
the  Gymnasium  in  Plauen.  He  did  not  readily 
submit  himself  to  the  discipline  of  the  school, 
but  when,  in  1822,  he  entered  the  University 
of  Jena,  he  found  the  comparative  freedom  of 
the  student-life  very  much  to  his  taste,  and 
several  of  his  poems  were  composed  at  this  pe- 
riod. In  1824,  he  travelled  in  Italy  ;  and  after- 
wards,  in  1826,  accompanied  by  Dr.  Kluge,  who 
died  subsequently  in  Egypt,  he  visited  Florence 
and  Venice.  In  1827,  be  resorted  to  the  Univer- 
sity of  Leipsic,  and  in  the  following  year  passed 
his  examination  in  law.  He  returned  home, 
but  found  himself  reduced  to  poverty,  with  but 
a  slender  chance  of  mending  his  condition  by 
the  practice  of  his  profession.  The  July  Rev- 
olution made  a  deep  impression  on  his  mind, 
and  roused  him  from  despair.  He  went  to 
Leipsic,  and  published  the  novel,  "  George  Ven- 
lot."  In  1831,  he  left  Leipsic,  and  received 
an  appointment  in  Kohren,  which  he  held  until 
1834.  Since  then  he  has  lived  at  Dresden, 
and  has  published  an  epic  poem,  "  Ahasuerus," 
Dresden  and  Leipsic,  1838 ;  **  Poems,'*  Leipsic, 
1836;  ballads,  tales,  and  a  number  of  historical 
dramas.  He  also  labors  in  his  profession,  as 
an  advocate. 

Ferdinand  Stolle  says,  in  the  preface  to  **  The 
Book  of  Songs,"  *  «*  The  poetry  of  Julius  Mo- 
sen,  like  a  mineral  spring,  rushes  down  from  a 
high  and  forest-covered  mountain,  bearing  gold- 
en grains,  now  breaking  boldly  through  the 
rocks,  now  sporting  with  the  bluebell  flowers, 
which  hang  down  from  its  margin.  Mosen, 
next  to  Heine,  has  the  most  original  power, 
depth,  and  delicacy  of  all  the  lyrical  poets  of 
the  present  age.  His  songs  are  magnets,  which 
must  be  borne  not  so  much  on  the  breast  as  in 
the  breast,  in  order  to  be  convinced  of  their 
miraculous  vigor." 

THE  STATUE  OVER  THE  CATHEDRAL  DOOR. 

Forms  of  saints  and  kings  are  standing 

The  cathedral  door  above ; 
Tet  I  saw  but  one  among  them. 

Who  hath  soothed  my  soul  with  love. 


*  Dm  Bach  der  Lieder,  odar  die  Ljriker  der  Gegenwmit 
in  Ihnn  SchSnsten  OeaAngea,  herauagegeben  Von  Fbbdi* 
MAND  SioLLi.    Orimina,  1839. 


356 


GERMAN   POETRY. 


In  his  mantle,  —  wound  about  him, 
As  their  robes  the  sowers  wind,  — 

Bore  he  swallows  and  their  fledglings. 
Flowers  and  weeds  of  every  kind. 

And  so  stands  he  calm  and  childlike, 
High  in  wind  and  tempest  wild ; 

O,  were  I  like  him  exalted, 
I  would  be  like  him,  a  child  ! 

And  my  songs,— green  leaves  and  blossoms,- 
Up  to  heaven's  door  would  bear, 

Calling,  even  in  storm  and  tempest, 
Round  me  still  these  birds  of  air. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  CROSSBILL. 

Ov  the  cross  the  dying  Saviour 
Heavenward  lifts  his  eyelids  calm, 

Feels,  but  scarcely  feels,  a  trembling 
In  his  pierced  and  bleeding  palm. 

And  by  all  the  world  forsaken. 
Sees  he  how  with  zealous  care 

At  the  ruthless  nail  of  iron 
A  poor  bird  is  striving  there. 

Stained  with  blood  and  never  tiring. 
With  its  beak  it  doth  not  cease, 

From  the  cross  't  would  free  the  Saviour, 
Its  Creator's  Son  release. 

And  the  Saviour  speaks  in  mildness : 
"  Blest  be  thou  of  all  the  good  ! 

Bear,  as  token  of  this  moment, 
Marks  of  blood  and  holy-rood ! " 

And  that  bird  is  called  the  crossbill ; 

Covered  quite  with  blood  so  clear. 
In  the  groves  of  pine  it  singeth 

Songs,  like  legends,  strange  to  hear. 


ANTON  ALEXANDER  VON  AUER- 
SPERG. 

This  writer,  belonging  to  the  noble  and 
princely  house  of  Auersperg,  was  born  April 
11,  1806.  He  is  known  under  the  poetical 
pseudonym  of  Anastasius  GrQn.  His  poem  en- 
titled "  The  Last  Knight "  appeared  at  Munich, 
in  1831 ;  and  his  pieces  called  ^<  Walks  of  a 
Poet  of  Vienna  "  have  gained  him  great  celeb- 
rity, and  placed  him  among  the  best  of  the  liv- 
ing German  poets. 

SALOON  SCENE. 

'T  IS  evening  :  flame  the  chandeliers  in  the  or- 
namented hall ; 

From  the  crystal  of  tall  mirrors  thousand-fold 
their  splendors  fall : 


In  the  sea  of  radiance  moving,  almost  floating, 

round  are  seen 
Lovely  ladies  young  and  joyous,  ancient  dames 

of  solemn  mien. 

And  amongst  them  staidly  pacing,  with  their 

orders  graced,  elate. 
Here  the  rougher  sons  of  war,  there  peaceful 

servants  of  the  state  ; 
But,  observed  by  all  observers,  wandering  'mid 

them,  one  I  view 
Whom  none  to  approach  dare  venture,  save  the 

elect,  illustrious  few. 

It  is  he  who  holds  the  rudder  of  proud  Austria's 

ship  of  state. 
Who,  'mid  crowned  heads  in  congress,  acting 

for  her,  sits  sedate. 
But  now  see  him  !  O,  bow  modest !  how  polite 

to  one  and  all ! 
Gracious,  courtly,  smiling  round  him,  on  the 

great  and  on  the  small. 

The  stars  upon  his  bosom  glitter  faintly  in  the 

circle's  blaze, 
But  a  smile  so  mild  and  friendly  ever  on  his 

features  plays : 
Both  when  from  a  lovely  bosom  now  he  takes 

a  budding  rose, 
And  now  realms,  like  flowers  withered,  plucks, 

and  scatters  as  he  goes. 

Equally  bewitching  sounds  it,  when  fair  locks 

his  praise  attends, 
Or  when  he  from  heads  anointed  kingly  crowns 

so  calmly  rends : 
Ay,  the  happy  mortal  seemeth  in  celestial  joys 

to  swim. 
Whom  his  word  to  Elba  doometh,  or  to  Mun- 

kat*s  dungeons  grim. 

O,  could  Europe  now  but  see  him,  so  obliging, 

BO  gallant. 
As  the  man  in  martial  raiment,  as  the  church's 

priestly  saint. 
As  the  state's  star-covered  servant,  by  his  smile 

to  heaven  advanced. 
As  the  ladies,  old  and  young,  are  all  enraptured 

and  entranced ! 

Man  o'  th'  empire !  Man  o'  th'  council !  as 
thou  art  in  kindly  mood, 

Show'st  thyself  just  now  so  gracious,  unto  all 
so  wondrous  good,  — 

See !  without,  an  humble  client  to  thy  princely 
gate  hath  pressed. 

Who  with  token  of  thy  favor  bams  to  be  su- 
premely blessed. 

Nay,  —  thou  hast  no  cause  of  terror ;  he  is  hon- 
est and  discreet. 

Carries  no  concealed  dagger  'neath  his  garments 
smooth  and  neat : 

It  is  Austria's  people  !  —  open,  full  of  truth  and 
honor,  —  see ! 

How  he  prays  most  mildly,  *<  May  I  —  take  tJU 
freedom  to  he  free  f  " 


AUER8FERG. 


367 


THE  CENSOR. 

Mavt  a  hero-priest  is  shown  ns  in  the  storied 

times  of  yore, 
Who  the  word  of  truth,  andaunted,  through  the 

world  unceasing  bore ; 
Who  in  halb  of  kings  hath  shouted,  —  **Fie  ! 

I  scent  lost  Freedom's  grave !  " 
And  to  manj  a  high  dissembler  bluntljr  cried, 

'•Thouartaknaye!" 

Were  I  but  such  Freedom's  champion,  shrouded 

in  the  monkish  frock. 
Straight  unto  the  Censor's  dwelling  I  must  hie, 

and  loudlj  knock; 
To  the   man  must  say,  —  **  Ansh  scoundrel ! 

down  at  once  upon  thy  knees  ! 
For  thou  art  a  vile  offender,  —  down !  confess 

thy  villanies ! " 

And  I  hear  the  wretch  already  how  he  wipes 
his  yileness  clean, — 

••  O,  your  reverence  is  in  error,  I  am  not  the 
man  you  mean  ! 

I  omit  no  mass,  no  duty,  fill  my  post  with  ser- 
vice true ; 

I  'm  no  lewd  one,  no  blasphemer,  murderer, 
thief,  or  godless  Jew  !  " 

But  my  zeal  indignant  flashes  fi'om  my  heart  in 

flaming  tones ; 
Like  the  thunder  'mid  the  mountains,  in  bis  ear 

my  answer  groans : 
Every  glance  falls  like  an  arrow,  cutting  through 

his  guilty  heart; 
Every  word  is  like  a  hammer,  which  makes 

bone  and  marrow  part. 

"  Tea  !  thou  art  a  stock-blind  Hebrew !  for  thou 
hast  not  yet  divined. 

That  for  us,  like  Christ,  all-glorious  rose,  too. 
Freedom  of  the  Mind  ! 

Yea  !  thou  art  a  bloody  murderer !  doubly  cursed 
and  doubly  fell !  — 

Others  merely  murder  bodies,  —  thou  dost  mur- 
der souls  as  well ! 

•«  Yes !  thou  art  a  thief,  a  base  one  !  or,  by 
Heaven !  a  fouler  wight !  — 

Others  to  steal  fruits  do  merely  leap  our  garden- 
fence  by  night ; 

But  thou,  wretch !  into  the  garden  of  the  human 
mind  hast  broke. 

And  with  fruit,  and  leaf^  and  blossom,  fell'st  the 
tree  too  at  a  stroke  ! 

••  Yes  !  thou  art  a  base  adulterer !  but  in  shame 
art  doubly  base  !  — 

Others  burn  and  strive  for  beauties  that  their 
neighbours'  gardens  grace ; 

Bat  a  crime  inspired  by  beauty  for  thy  grovel- 
ling soul 's  too  poor : 

Night,  and  fog,  and  vilest  natures  can  alone 
thy  heart  allure ! 


**  Yes !    thou  art  a  foul   blasphemer !    or,  by 

Heaven  !  a  devil  born !  — 
Others  wood  and  marble  figures  dash  to  pieces, 

in  their  scorn ; 
But  thy  hand,  relentless  villain !  strikes  to  dust 

the  living  frame. 
Which  man's  soul,  Ood's  holy  image,  quickens 

with  its  thoughts  of  flame  ! 

**  Yes !  thou  art  an  awful  sinner  !    True,  our 

laws  yet  leave  thee  free ; 
But  within  thy  soul,  in  terror,  rack  and  gallows 

must  thou  see ! 
Smite  thy  breast,  then,  in  contrition ;  thy  bowed 

head  strew  ashes  o'er; 
Bend  thy  knee,  make  full  confession ; — go  thy 

way,  and  sin  no  more ! " 


THE  CUSTOMS-GORDON. 

Our  country  is  a  garden,  which  the  timid  gard- 
ener's doubt 

With  an  iron  palisado  has  inclosed  round 
about; 

But  without  live  folk  whom  entrance  to  this 
garden  could  make  glad ; 

And  a  guest  who  loves  sweet  scenery  cannot 
be  so  very  bad. 

Black  and  yellow  lists  go  stretching  round  our 

borders  grim  and  tight ; 
Custom-house  and  beadle-watchers  guard  our 

frontiers  day  and  night,  — 
Sit  by  day  before  the  tax-house,  lurk  by  night 

i'  th'  long  damp  grass. 
Silent,  crouching  on  their  stomachs,  lowering 

round  on  all  that  pass ; 

That  no  single  foreign  dealer,  foreign  wine,  to- 
bacco bale. 

Foreign  silk,  or  foreign  linen,  slyly  steal  within 
their  pale ; 

That  a  guest,  than  all  more  hated,  set  not  foot 
upon  our  earth,  — 

TJumghtf  which  in  a  foreign  soil,  in  foreign  light, 
has  had  its  birth ! 

Finally  the  watch  grows  weary,  when  the  ghost- 
ly hour  draws  near ; 

For  in  our  good  land  how  many  from  all  spec- 
tres shrink  in  fear ! 

Cold  and  cutting  blows  the  north  wind,  on  each 
limb  doth  faintness  fall ; 

To  the  pot-house  steal  the  watchers,  where  both 
wine  and  comfort  call. 

See !  there  start  forth  from  the  bushes,  from  the 

night-wind's  shrouding  wings. 
Men  with  heavy  packs  all  laden,  carts  upheaped 

with  richest  things : 
Silent  as  the  night-fog  creeping,  through  the 

noiseless  tracts  they  wend  ; 
See  !  there,  too,  goes  Thought  amongst  them,  — 

towards  his  mission's  sacred  end. 


358 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


With  the  smugglen  must  he  travel, —  he  whom 
nothing  hides  from  sight ; 

With  the  murkj  mists  go  creeping,  —  he  the 
son  of  Day  and  Light ! 

O,  come  forth,  ye  thirsty  drinkers !  weary 
watchers-out,  this  way ! 

Fling  yourselves  in  rank  and  file,  —  post  your- 
selves in  armed  array ! 

Point  your  muskets !  sink  your  colon,  with  the 

freeman's  solemn  pride ! 
Let  the  drums  give  joyful  thunder !  —  cast  the 

jealous  barriers  wide ! 
That  with  green  palms  all-victorious,  proud  and 

free  in  raiment  bright. 
Through  the  hospitable  country  Thought  may 

wander,  scattering  light  1 


THE  LAST  POET. 

*^  Whxh  will  your  bards  be  weary 
Of  rhyming  on  ?     How  long 

Ere  it  is  sung  and  ended. 
The  old,  eternal  song  ? 

**  Is  it  not,  long  since,  empty. 
The  horn  of  full  supply ; 

And  all  the  posies  gathered, 
And  all  the  fountains  dry  ?  " 

As  long  as  the  sun's  chariot 
Tet  keeps  its  azure  track. 

And  but  one  human  visage 

Gives  answering  glances  back ; 

As  long  as  skies  shall  nourish 
The  thunderbolt  and  gale. 

And,  frightened  at  their  fury, 
One  throbbing  heart  shall  quail ; 

As  long  as  after  tempests 

Shall  spring  one  showery  bow. 

One  breast  with  peaceful  promise 
And  reconcilement  glow ; 

As  long  as  night  the  concave 
Sows  with  its  starry  seed. 

And  but  one  man  those  letters 
Of  golden  writ  can  read ; 

Long  as  a  moonbeam  glimmers, 

Or  bosom  sighs  a  vow ; 
Long  as  the  wood-leaves  rustle 

To  cool  a  weary  brow ; 

As  long  as  roses  blossom. 
And  earth  is  green  in  May ; 

As  long  as  eyes  shall  sparkle 
And  smile  in  pleasure's  ray ; 

As  long  as  cypress  shadows 

The  graves  more  mournful  make. 

Or  one  cheek  's  wet  with  weeping. 
Or  one  poor  heart  can  break ;  — 


So  long  on  earth  shall  wander 

The  goddess  Poesy, 
And  with  her,  one  exulting 

Her  votarist  to  be. 

And  singing  on,  triumphing, 
The  old  earth-mansion  through. 

Out  marches  the  last  minstrel }  — 
He  is  the  last  man  too. 

The  Lord  holds  the  creation 
Forth  in  his  hand  meanwhile. 

Like  a  fresh  flower  just  opened. 
And  views  it  with  a  smile. 

When  once  this  Flower  Giant 

Begins  to  show  decay, 
And  earths  and  suns  are  flying 

Like  blossom-dust  away ; 

Then  ask, — if  of  the  question 
Not  weary  yet,  —  **  How  long. 

Ere  it  is  sung  and  ended. 
The  old,  eternal  song?  " 

HENRY  FRAUENLOR 

In  Mentz  't  is  hushed  and  lonely,  the  streets 
are  waste  and  drear. 

And  none  but  forms  of  sorrow,  clad  in  mourn- 
ing garbs,  appear ; 

And  only  from  the  steeple  sounds  the  death- 
bell's  sullen  boom ; 

One  street  alone  is  crowded,  and  it  leads  but  to 
the  tomb. 

And  as  the  echo  firom  the  tower  grows  laint  and 

dies  away, 
Unto  the  minster  comes  a  still  and  sorrowful 

array, — 
The  old  man  and  the  young,  the  child,  and 

many  a  maiden  fair ; 
And  every  eye   is  dim  with  tears,  in   every 

heart  is  care. 

Six  virgins  in  the  centre  bear  a  coflin  and  a  bier. 
And  to  the  rich  high-altar  steps  with  deadened 

chant  draw  near. 
Where  all  around  for  saintly  forms  are  dark 

escutcheons  found, 
With  a  cross  of  simple  white  displayed  upon  a 

raven  ground. 

And,  placed  that  raven  pall  above,  a  laurel-gar- 
land green, 

The  minstrel's  verdant  coronet,  his  meed  of 
song,  is  seen ; 

His  golden  harp,  beside  it  laid,  a  feeble  murmur 
flings. 

As  the  evening  wind  sweeps  sadly  through  its 
now  forsaken  strings. 

Who  rests  within  his  coflin  there  ?    For  whom 

this  genera]  wail  ? 
Is  some  beloved  monareh  gone,  that  old  and 

young  look  pale  ? 


PFIZER. —  FREILIORATH. 


359 


A  king,  in  truth, — a  king  of  song!  and  Frau- 

B5LOB  bis  name ; 
And  thus  in  death  his  fatherland  must  celebrate 

bis  fiune. 

Unto  the  fairest  flowers  of  heaven  that  bloom 

this  earth  along, 
To  women's  worth,  did  he  on  earth  derote  bis 

deathless  song ; 
And  though  the  minstrel  hath  grown  old,  and 

faded  be  bis  frame. 
They  yet  requite  what  he  in  lifb  hath  done  for 

love  and  them. 


GUSTAV  PnZER. 

GcsTAT  Pfizxr,  well  known  as  a  poet, 
translator,  and  critic,  was  bom  at  Stuttgart, 
July  29,  1809.  His  education  was  commenced 
at  the  Gymnasium  there,  and  he  afterwards 
studied  philology,  philosophy,  and  theology  at 
TQbingen.  But  few  events  have  happened  to 
disturb  the  even  tenor  of  his  literary  life.  His 
M  Poems,"  published  at  Stuttgart,  1831,  were 
received  with  applause.  In  1834,  after  a  tour 
in  Italy,  he  published  a  new  collection.  He 
baa  written  a  **  Life  of  Luther " ;  translated 
the  greater  part  of  Byron's  poems,  several  of 
Bulwer's  novels,  and  the  '<  Athens  "  of  the  same 
author ;  he  has  published  many  poems,  in  vari- 
ous journals,  and  contributed  critical  articles  to 
the  reviews ;  thus  leading  a  life  of  external  quiet, 
but  of  great  literary  activity. 


THE  TWO  LOCKS  OF  HAIB. 

A  YOUTH,  light-hearted  and  content, 

I  wander  through  the  world ; 
Here,  Arab-like,  is  pitched  my  tent, 

And  straight  again  is  furled. 

Tet  oft  I  dream  that  once  a  wife 
Close  in  my  heart  was  locked, 

And  in  the  sweet  repose  of  life 
A  blessed  child  I  rocked. 

I  wake !     Away,  that  dream,  —  away  ! 

Too  long  did  it  remain  ! 
So  long,  that,  both  by  night  and  day, 

It  ever  comes  again. 

The  end  lies  ever  in  my  thought ;  — 

To  a  grave  so  cold  and  deep 
The  mother  beautiful  was  brought ; 

Then  dropped  the  child  asleep. 

But  now  the  dream  is  wholly  o'er, 

I  bathe  mine  eyes  and  see ; 
And  wander  through  the  world  once  more, 

A  youth  so  light  and  free. 

Two  locks,  —  and  they  are  wondrous  fbir,- 

Left  me  that  vision  mild ; 
The  brown  is  from  the  mother's  hair, 

The  blond  is  from  the  child. 


And  when  I  see  that  lock  of  gold, 
Pale  grows  the  evening^red  ; 

And  when  the  dark  lock  I  behold, 
I  wish  that  I  were  dead. 


FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH. 

FxnniirAirD  Frxiliorath  was  bom  at  Det^ 
mold,  in  Westphalia,  in  the  year  1810,  and 
there  passed  bis  childhood  and  early  youth. 
He  afterwards  engaged  in  commercial  pursuits, 
and  resided  fer  a  season  in  Holland.  Of  late 
years,  he  has  given  himself  wholly  to  literature, 
and  has  chosen  fer  his  residence  the  beautiful 
town  of  St.  Goar,  on  the  Rhine,  where,  divid- 
ing his  time  between  his  books  and  his  friends, 
he  leads  the  trae  life  of  a  poet,  in  the  quiet  of 
rural  scenes,  whose  seclusion  is  not  solitude, 
and  whose  transcendent  beauty  moves  the  soul 
to  song. 

Among  all  the  younger  poets  of  Germany, 
Freiligrath  possesses  the  highest  claim  to  our 
admiration.  He  has  the  richest  imagination 
and  the  greatest  power  of  language.  His  writ- 
ings are  filled  with  the  most  vivid  pictures, 
sketched  with  a  bold  hand  and  a  brilliant  col- 
oring. He  delights  particularly  in  remote  and 
desert  regions,  in  the  geysers  of  Iceland,  the 
ocean,  and  the  sands  of  Africa : 

"Where  the  barren  earth,  and  the  baming  skyi 
And  the  blank  horizon,  round  and  round, 
Spread,  void  of  Uwiag  sight  or  aound." 

This  is  one  of  the  most  striking  characteris- 
tics of  his  genius,  and  was  nurtured  from  his 
childhood  by  his  fevorite  books,  which  were 
those  of  wild  adventure,  and  voyages  and  trav* 
els  in  far-off  lands.     He  seems  to  say : 

"  Alone  In  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  bosh-boj  alone  bj  mj  side ; 
Away,  away  from  the  dwellinga  of  men. 
By  the  wild  deer's  haunt,  by  the  bniblo's  glen, 
By  valleys  remote,  where  the  oribi  plays, 
Where  the  gnu,  the  gazelle,  and  the  hartebeest  graze, 
And  the  kudu  and  eland  unhunted  recline 
By  the  skirts  of  gray  forests  o'erhung  with  wild  vine, 
Where  the  elephant  browses  at  peace  in  his  wood, 
And  the  river-hom  gambols  unacared  in  the  flood, 
And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows  at  will 
In  the  fen,  where  the  wild  ass  is  drinking  his  fill." 

Indeed,  from  the  vividness  of  his  pictures, 
the  reader  would  be  led  to  think  him  a  great 
traveller,  and  to  imagine  that  he  had  seen  all 
he  describes.  But  this  is  not  the  case.  He 
has  beheld  these  scenes  with  the  eye  of  the 
mind  only. 

Freiligrath  is  also  remarkable  for  his  great 
skill  as  a  translator.  Among  other  beautiful 
versions,  he  has  rendered  into  his  native  tongue 
Shakspeare's  •*  Venus  and  Adonis,"  and  *«'rhe 
Forest  Sanctuary  "  of  Mrs.  Hemans ;  and  is 
now  occupied  with  a  volume  of  selections  from 
the  American  poets. 

The  following  characteristic  poems,  though 
not  always  very  literally  rendered,  are  fUll  of 


360 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


life,  and  of  that  fire,  vigor,  and  originalitj, 
which  place  Freiligrath  at  the  head  of  the 
young  poets  of  Germany. 

"Wholly  different  from  the  other  poets," 
Bays  Ferdinand  Stolle,*  "  Ferdinand  Freiligrath 
gallops  about  upon  his  *  steed  of  Alexandria ' ; 
and,  from  dislike  of  present  time  and  place, 
flies,  with  careering  strength  of  imagination,  to 
the  deserts  of  Arabia,  where  the  phantom  car- 
avan sweeps  grimly  along,  or  to  the  interior 
of  Africa,  where  the  lion  bounds  through  the 
sandy  sea  upon  the  bleeding  giraffe,  or  to  the 
primeval  forests  of  Canada,  where  the  red  men 
sit  silently  around  their  fires." 


THE  MOORISH  PRINCR 

PART    I. 

His  lengthening   host  through   the  palm-vale 

wound ; 
The  purple  shawl  on  his  locks  he  bound ; 
He  hung  on  his  shoulders  the  lion-skin  ; 
Martially  sounded  the  cymbal's  din. 

Like  a  sea  of  termites,  that  black,  wild  swarm 
Swept,  billowing  onward :  he  flung  his  dark  arm, 
Encircled   with   gold,   round   his   loved   one's 

neck :  — 
**  For  the  feast  of  victory,  maiden,  deck  ! 

•*  Lo  !  glittering  pearls  I  *ve  brought  thee  there. 

To  twine  with  thy  dark  and  glossy  hair ; 

And  the  corals,  all  snake-like,  in  Persia's  green 

sea. 
The  dripping  divers  have  fished  for  me. 

"  See,  plumes  of  the  ostrich,  thy  beauty  to  grace ! 
Let  them  nod,  snowy  white,  o'er  thy  dusky  fiice ; 
Deck  the  tent,  make  ready  the  feast  for  me. 
Fill  the  garlanded  goblet  of  victory  !  " 

And  forth  from  his  snowy  and  shimmering  tent 

The  princely  Moor  in  his  armor  went : 

So  looks  the  dark  moon,  when,  eclipsed,  through 

the  gate 
Of  the  silver-edged  clouds  she  rides  forth  in 

her  state. 

A  welcoming  shout  his  proud  host  flings ; 
And  *'  welcome ! "  the  stamping  steed's  hoof 

rings; 
For  him  rolls  faithful  the  negro's  blood, 
And  Niger's  old,  mysterious  flood. 

"  Now  lead  us  to  victory,  lead  us  to  fight !  " — 
They  battled  from  morning  fiur  into  the  night ; 
The  hollow  tooth  of  the  elephant  blew 
A  blast  that  pierced  each  fi>eman  through. 

How  scatter  the  lions !  the  serpents  fly 
From  the  rattling  tambour ;  the  flags  on  high. 
All  hung  with  skulls,  proclaim  the  dead, 
And  the  yellow  desert  is  dyed  in  red. 

♦  DuBuchderUader.    Vorwort,  p.  a 


So  rings  in  the  palm- vale  the  desperate  fight;  — 
But  she  is  preparing  the  feast  for  the  night ; 
She  fills  the  goblets  with  rich  palm-wines. 
And  the  shaAs  of  the  tent-poles  with  flowers 
she  twines. 

With  pearls,  that  Persia's  green  flood  bare. 
She  winds  her  dark  and  curly  hair ; 
Feathers  are  floating  her  brow  to  deck, 
And  gay  shells  gleam  on  her  arms  and  neck. 

She  sits  by  the  door  of  her  lover's  tent. 
She  lists  the  far  war-horn  till  morning  is  spent ; 
The  noonday  burns,  the  sun  stings  hot, 
The  garlands  wither, — she  heeds  it  not 

The  sun  goes  down  in  the  fading  skies. 
The  night-dew  trickles,  the  glowworm  flies, 
And  the  crocodile  looks  from  the  tepid  pool. 
As  if  he,  too,  would  enjoy  the  cool. 

The  lion,  he  stirs  him  and  roars  for  prey. 

The  elephant-tusks  through  the  jungles  make 

way. 
Home  to  her  lair  the  giraffe  goes, 
And  flower-leaves  shut,  and  eyelids  close. 

Her  anxious  heart  beats  fast  and  high. 
When  a  bleeding,  fugitive  Moor  draws  nigh :  — 
«« Farewell  to  all  hope  now !  The  battle  is  lost ! 
Thy  lover  is  captured,  —  he  's  borne  to  the 
coast, — 

"  They  sell  him  to  white  men, — he 's  carried  — " 

O,  %pare  ! 
The  maiden  falls  headlong;  she  clutches  her 

hair; 
All-quivering,  she  crushes  the   pearls  in    her 

hand ; 
She  hides  her  hot  cheek  in  the  burning-hot 

sand. 

PART    II. 

'T  is  fair-day ;    how  sweeps  the   tempestuous 

throng 
To  circus  and  tilt-ground,  with  shout  and  with 

song! 
There  's  a  blast  of  trumpets,  the  cymbal  rings. 
The  deep  drum  rumbles,  Bajazzo  springs. 

Come  on  !  come  on  !  —  how  swells  the  roar ! 
Th^y  fly,  as  on  wings,  o'er  the  hard,  flat  floor ; 
The  British  sorrel,  the  Turk's  black  steed. 
From  plumed  beauty  seek  honor's  meed. 

And  there,  by  the  til  ting-ground's  curtained  door^ 
Stands,  silent  and   thoughtful,  a  curly-haired 

Moor: 
The  Turkish  dram  he  beats  fiill  loud ; 
On  the  drum  is  hanging  a  lion-skin  proud. 

He  sees  not  the  knights  and  their  graceful  swing. 
He  sees  not  the  steeds  and  their  daring  spring  ; 
The  Moor's  dry  eye,  with  its  stiff,  wild  stare. 
Sees  naught  but  the  shaggy  lion-skin  there. 


FREILIORATH. 


361 


He  thinks  of  the  far,  far  distant  Niger, 

And  how  he  once  chased  there  the  lion  and 

tiger; 
And  how  he  once  brandished  his  sword  in  the 

fight, 
And  came  not  back  to  his  couch  at  ni|^t 

And  he  thinks  of  Asr,  who,  in  other  hoars. 
Decked  her  hair  with  his  pearls  and  plucked 

him  her  flowers ;  — 
His  eye  grew  moist, — with  a  scomfbl  stroke 
He  smote  the  drum-head, —  it  rattled  and  broke. 


THE  EMIGRANT& 

I  cANifOT  take  my  eyes  away 

From  you,  ye  busy,  bostling  band ! 

Your  little  all  to  see  you  lay. 

Each,  in  the  waiting  seaman's  hand  ! 

Te  men,  who  from  your  necks  set  down 

The  heavy  basket,  on  the  earth. 
Of  bread  from  Crerman  com,  baked  brown 

By  German  wives,  on  German  hearth  ! 

And  you,  with  braided  queues  so  neat, 
Black-Forest  maidens,  slim  and  brown, 

How  careful  on  the  sloop's  green  seat 
Ton  set  your  pails  and  pitchers  down  ! 

Ah  !  oft  have  home's  cool,  shady  tanks 
These  pails  and  pitchers  filled  for  you : 

On  fu  Missouri's  silent  banks, 

Shall  these  the  scenes  of  home  renew :  — 

The  stone-rimmed  fount  in  village  street. 
That,  as  ye  stooped,  betrayed  your  smiles; 

The  hearth  and  its  familiar  seat ; 
The  mantle  and  the  pictured  tiles. 

Soon,  in  the  fiur  and  wooded  West, 

Shall  log-house  walb  therewith  be  graced ; 

Soon,  many  a  tired,  tawny  guest 

Shall  sweet  re^sfament  from  them  taste. 

From  them  shall  drink  the  Cherokee, 
Faint  with  the  hot  and  dusty  chase ; 

No  more  from  German  vintage  ye 

Shall  bear  them  home,  in  leaf-crowned  grace. 

O,  say,  why  seek  ye  other  lands  ? 

The  Neckar's  vale  hath  wine  and  com ; 
Fall  of  dark  firs  the  Schwarzwald  stands ; 

In  Spessart  rings  the  Alp-herd's  horn. 

Ah  !  in  strange  forests  how  ye  '11  yearn 
For  the  green  mountains  of  your  home, 

To  Dentschland's  yellow  wheat-fields  turn, 
In  spirit  o'er  her  vine-hills  roam  ! 

How  will  the  form  of  days  grown  pale 

In  golden  dreams  float  softly  by ! 
Like  some  anearthly,  mystic  tale, 

'T  will  stand  before  fond  memory's  eye. 


The  boatman  calls  !  go  hence  in  peace  ! 

God  bless  ye,  man  and  wifb  and  sire ! 
Bless  all  your  fields  with  rich  increase, 

And  crown  each  trae  heart's  pure  desire ! 


THE  LION'S  RIDE. 

What! — wilt  thoo  bind  him  fhst  with  a 
chain  ? 
Wilt  bind  the  king  of  the  cloudy  sands  ? 
Idiot  fool !  —  he  has  burst  firom  thy  hands 
and  bands. 
And  speeds  like  Storm  through  his  hr  do- 


See  !  he  crouches  down  in  the  sedge, 

By  the  water's  edge. 
Making  the  startled  sycamore-boughs  to  quiver ! 
Gazelle  and  giraffe,  I  think,  will  shun  that 


Not  so  ! — The  curtain  of  evening  falls. 
And  the  Caffre,  mooring  his  light  canoe 
To  the  shore,  glides  down  through  the 
hushed  karroo. 
And  the  watchfires  bum  in  the  Hottentot 
kraals. 
And  the  antelope  seeks  a  bed  in  the  bush 
Till  the  dawn  shall  blush. 
And  the  zebra  stretches  his  limbs  by  the  tink- 
ling fountain. 
And  the  changeful  signals  fade  from  the  Table 
Mountain. 

Now  look  through  the  dusk!     What  seest 
thou  now.' 
Seest  such  a  tall  giraffe  !     She  stalks. 
All  majesty,  through  the  desert  walks,  — 
In  search  of  water  to  cool  her  tongue  and 
brow. 
From  tract  to  tract  of  the  limitless  waste 
Behold  her  haste ! 
"nil,  bowing  her  long  neck  down,  she  buries 

her  face  in 
The  reeds,  and,  kneeling,  drinks  from  the  river's 
basin. 

But  look  again  !  —  look !  — see  once  more 
Those  globe  eyes  glare  !  The  gigantic  reeds 
Lie   cloven    and    trampled    like    puniest 
weeds,  — 
The  Hon  leaps  on  the  drinker's  neck  with  a 
roar ! 
O,  what  a  racer !     Can  any  behold, 
'Mid  the  housings  of  gold 
In  the  stables  of  kings,  dyes  half  so  splendid 
As  those  on  the  brindled  hide  of  yon  wild  an- 
imal blended .' 

Greedily  fleshes  the  lion  his  teeth 

In  the  breast  of  his  writhing  prey :  — 

around 
Her  neck  his  loose  brown  mane  is  wound. — 
Hark,  that  hollow  cry !    She  springs  up  firom 
beneath, 


363 


GERMAN    POETRY. 


And  in  agony  flies  over  plains  and  heights. 
See,  how  she  unites, 
Even  under  such  monstrous  and  torturing  tram- 
mel, 
With  the  grace  of  the  leopard,  the  speed  of  the 
camel ! 

She  reaches  the  central  moon-lighted  plain, 
That  spreadeth  around  all  bare  and  wide ; 
Meanwhile,  adown  her  spotted  side 
The  dusky  blood-gouts  rush  like  rain,  — 
And  her  woful  eyeballs,  how  they  stare 
On  the  void  of  air  ! 
Tet  on  she  flies, — on, — on; — for  her  there  is 

no  retreating ;  — 
And  the  desert  can  hear  the  heart  of  the  doomed 
one  beating ! 

And,  lo !  a  stupendous  column  of  sand, 
A  sand-spout  out  of  that  sandy  ocean,  up- 

curls 
Behind  the  pair  in  eddies  and  whirb ; 
Most  like  some  flaming  colossal  brand, 
Or  wandering  spirit  of  wrath 
On  his  blasted  path. 
Or  the  dreadful  pillar  that  lighted  the  warriors 

and  women 
Of  IsraePs  land  through  the  wilderness  of  Ye- 
men. 

And  the  vulture,  scenting  a  coming  carouse, 
Sails,  hoarsely  screaming,  down  the  sky ; 
The  bloody  hyena,  be  sure,  is  nigh, — 
Fierce  pillager  he  of  the  charnel-house  ! 
The  panther,  too,  who  strangles  the  Cape- 
Town  sheep 
As  they  lie  asleep, 
Athirst  for  his  share  in  the  slaughter,  follows ; 
While  the  gore  of  their  victim  spreads  like  a 
pool  in  the  sandy  hollows  ! 

She  reels, — but  the  king  of  the  brutes  be- 
strides 
His  tottering  throne  to  the  last:  —  with 

might 
He  plunges  his  terrible  claws  in  the  bright 
And  delicate  cushions  of  her  sides. 

Yet  hold !  — feir  play  !  —  she  rallies  again  ! 
In  vain,  —  in  vain! 
Her  struggles  but  help  to  drain  her  life-blood 

Aster;  — 
She  staggers, — gasps,  —  and  sinks  at  the  feet 
of  her  slayer  and  master  ! 

She  staggers,—  she  &lls ;— she  shall  struggle 
no  more ! 
The    death-rattle    slightly  convulses   her 

throat ;  — 
Mayest  look  thy  last  on  that  mangled  coat. 
Besprent  with  sand,  and  foam,  and  gore  ! 
Adieu  !     The  orient  glimmers  afar. 
And  the  morning-star 
Anon  will  rise  over  Madagascar  brightly.  ^- 
So  rides  the  lion  in  Afric's  deserts  nightly. 


ICELAND-MOSS  TEA- 

Old  even  in  boyhood,  faint  and  ill. 
And  sleepless  on  my  couch  of  woe, 
I  sip  this  beverage,  which  I  owe, 

To  geysers'  depths  and  Hecla's  hill. 

In  fields  where  ice  lies  layer  on  layer, 
And  lava  hardens  o*er  the  whole, 
And  the  circle  of  the  Arctic  Pole 

Looks  forth  on  snow-crags  ever  bare ; 

Where  fierce  volcanic  fires  burn  blue. 
Through  many  a  meteor-lighted  night, 
'Mid  springs  that  foam  in  boiling  might. 

These  blandly-bitter  lichens  grew. 

Where  from  the  mountain's  fiimace-lair. 
From  thousand  smoke-enveloped  ooaes, 
Colossal  blocks  of  red-hot  stones 

Are,  night  by  night,  uphurled  in  air — 

(Like  blood-red  saga-birds  of  yore), 
While  o'er  the  immeasurable  snows 
A  sea  of  burning  resin  flows, 

Bubbling  like  molten  metal  ore ; 

Where,  from  the  jokuls  to  the  strand. 
The  dimmed  eye  turns  from  smoke  and 

steam. 
Only  to  track  some  sulphur-stream. 

That  seethes  along  the  blasted  land  ; 

Where  clouds  lie  black  on  cinder-piles,  . 
And  all  night  long  the  lone  seal  moans. 
As,  one  by  one,  the  mighty  stones 

Fall  echoing  down  on  far-off  isles ; 

Where,  in  a  word,  hills  vomit  flame. 
And  storms  for  ever  lash  the  sea,  — 
There  sprang  this  bitter  moss  for  me. 

Thence  this  astringent  potion  came. 

Yes !  and  my  heart  beats  lightlier  now, 
My  blood  begins  to  dance  along : 
I  now  feel  strong,  —  O,  more  than  strong ! 

I  f^el  transformed,  I  know  not  how. 

The  meteor-lights  are  in  my  brain,  — 
I  see  through  smoke  the  desolate  shore, — 
The  raging  torrent  sweeps  once  more 

From  Hecla's  crater  o'er  the  plain. 

Deep  in  my  breast  the  boiling  springs 
Beneath  apparent  ice  are  stirred,  — 
My  thoughts  are  each  a  saga-bird. 

With  tongues  of  living  flame  for  wings ! 

Ha !  if  this  green  beverage  be 
The  chalice  of  my  future  life,  — 
If  now,  as  in  yon  isle,  the  strife 

Of  snow  and  fire  be  bom  in  me,  — 

O,  be  it  thus  !     O,  let  me  feel 

The  lava-flood  in  every  vein  ! 

Be  mine  the  will  that  conquers  pain. 
The  heart  of  rock,  the  nerves  of  steel  ! 


FREILIGRATH. 


363 


O,  kt  the  flamee  thot  burn  unfed 
Within  me  wnx  until  they  glow. 
Volcano- like,  through  ev^ti  the  »now 

That  in  few  j-ears  ihall  strew  nay  head  ! 

And,  as  the  stones  that  Hecla  «eea 
Flung  up  to  heaven  through  fiery  raio 
Descend  like  thunderholtd  again 

Upon  the  distant  Faroese,  — 

&o  let  the  rade  but  hurtling  rhymes 
Cast  from  the  caldron  of  my  breast 
A^in  fill  I  fiasbiug  down,  and  rest 

On  human  hearts  in  farthest  climes  I 


THE  SHEIK  OP  MOUNT  SINAI, 

AHAlU.TTFaOS'OOtDSSl,  1830, 

"  How  Bayest  thou  ?     Came  to-day  the  caravan 
From  Africa?     And  is  it  here  ?     'T  is  well ; 
Bear  me  beyond  the  tent,  me  and  mine  ottoman ; 

I  would  myself  behold  it.     I  feel  eager 
To  learn  the  youngest  news.     As  the  gazelle 

Rashes  to  drink,  will  I  to  hear,  and  gather 
thence  fresh  yigor." 

So  spake  the  sheik.    They  bore  him  forth ;  and 

thus  began  the  Moor :  — - 
M  Old  man !  upon  Algeria's  towers  the  tricolor 

is  flying! 
Bright  silks  of  Lyons  rustle  at  each  balcony  and 

door; 
In  the  streets  the  loud  r6veil  resounds  at 

break  of  day ; 
Steeds  prance  to  the  Marseillaise  o*er  heaps  of 

dead  and  dying : 
The  Franks  came  from  Toulon,  men  say. 

**  Southward  their    legions    marched   through 

burning  lands; 
The  Barbary  sun  flashed  on  their  arms ;  about 
Their  chargers'  manes  were  blown  clouds  of 
Tunisian  sands. 
Knowest  where  the  giant  Atlas  rises  dim  in 
The  hot  sky  ?     Thither,  in  disastrous  rout. 
The  wild  Kabyles  fled  with  their  herds  and 


<•  The  Franks  pursued.  Hu !  Allah  LEach  defile 
Grew  a  very  hell-gulf  then,  with  smoke,  and 

fire,  and  bomb  I 
The  lion  left  the  deer's  half^ranehed  remains 
the  while ; 
He  snnflTed  upon  the  winds  a  daintier  prey  * 
Hark  !  the  shout^  *■  Ejl  Jvantl "  To  the  topmost 
peak  upclomb 
The  conquerors  in  that  bloody  fray  ! 

**  Circles  of  glittering  bayonets  crowned   the 

mountain's  height. 
The  hundred  cities  of  the  plain,  from  Atlas  to 

the  sea  afar. 
From  Tunis  finrth  to  Fes,  shone  in  the  noonday 

light. 


The  spearmen  rested  by  their  steeds^  or  slaked 

their  thirst  at  rivulets  ; 
And  round  them  througli  dark  myrtles  burned, 

each  like  a  star. 
The  slender,  golden  minareis. 

"  But  in  the  raUey  blooms  the  odorous  almond- 
tree, 

And  the   aloe    blossoms  on  the  rock,  defying 
storms  and  suns. 

Here  was  tlieir  conquest  sealed.    Look  i  —  yon- 
der heaves  the  sea. 
And  far   to   the    lef\   Lies  FranquLstAn.     The 
banners  flouted  the  blue  skies, 

The  artilJery-men  came  up.     Mafthallah  !  how 
the  guns 
Did  roar,  to  sanctify  their  pri^e  !  ** 

"  *T  is  they  ! ''  the  sheik  eiclaimed  ;  "  I  fought 

among  them,  I, 
At  the  battle  of  the  Pyramids !   Red,  all  the  long 

day,  ran. 
Red  as  thy  turban-fblds,  the  Nile's  high  billows 

by! 
But,  their  sultan  ?  — Speak  !  —  He  was  once 

my  guest. 
His  lineaments,  —  gait,  —  garb?     Sawest  thou 

The  Man?" 
The  Moor's  hand  slowly  felt  its  way  into  his 

breast 

**  No,"  he  replied ;  *^  he  bode  in  his  warm  pal- 
ace-halls. 

A  pacha  led   his  warriors  through  the  fire  of 
hostile  ranks ; 

An  aga  thundered  for  him  before  Atlas'  iron 
walls. 
His  lineaments,  thou  sayest?     On  gold,  at 
least,  they  lack 

The  kingly  stamp.    See  here  !  A  spahi  >  of  the 
Franks 
Gave  me  this  coin,  in  chaflTering,  some  days 
back." 

The  kashef '  took  the  gold ;  he  gazed  upon  the 

head  and  face. 
Was  this  the  great  sultan  he  had  known  long 

years  ago  ? 
It  seemed  not ;  for  he  sighed,  as  all  in  vain  to 

trace 
The  still  remembered  features.    *^  Ah,  no !  ^- 

thifl,''  he  said  I  "is 
Not  hU  broad  brow  and  piercing  eye  ;  wb^  lAu 

man  is  I  do  not  know* 
How  very  like  a  pear  his  head  is  I  " 


TO  A  SKATING  NEGRO, 

Man  of  giant  height  and  Ibrm, 
Who  beside  the  Gambia  river, 

Oft,  amid  the  lightning  storm, 

Sawest  the  glittering  fetish  quiver  ! 


t  Eonv-Aildbr. 


3  Qenmior. 


364 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


Who  haat  poured  the  panther's  hot 
Life-blood  out  beneath  the  equator, 

And  with  poisoned  arrow  shot 
Through  red  reeds  the  alligator ! 

Wherefore  art  thou  here  ?     Why  flies 
Tbj  fleet  foot  o'er  frozen  places,  — 

Thou,  the  child  of  tropic  skies. 
Cradled  in  the  sun's  embraces  ? 

Thou  that,  reeking  from  the  wave. 
On  thy  war-horse  oflen  sprungest. 

And  around  the  Foulah  slave 

Guinea's  badge  of  bondage  flnngest ! 

O,  at  home,  amid  thy  mates. 

There,  where  skulls  tattooed  and  gorj 
Whiten  high  o'er  palace-gates. 

Let  me  see  thee  in  thy  glory ! 

Where  gold  gum  fit>m  bursten  trees 
Oozes  like  the  slime  of  Lethe, 

As  in  dreams  my  spirit  sees, 

Let  mine  eyes  in  daylight  see  thee  ! 

See  thee,  flur  from  our  chili  North, 
Which  thou  in  thy  soul  ahhorrest, 

Chase  the  koomozeeno  ^  forth 

Through  the  boundless  bannian-fbrest ! 

See  thee,  in  thine  own  rich  land. 

Decked  with  gems  of  barbarous  beauty. 

Keeping  watch,  with  spear  in  hand. 
O'er  thy  manza's'  piles  of  booty  ! 

Whirling,  gliding  here  along. 

Ever  shifting  thy  position. 
Thou  resemhlest,  in  this  throng. 

Some  strange  African  magician. 

Who,  within  the  enchanted  ring, 

Ail  the  host  of  hell  defieth. 
Or,  upborne  on  griffin-wing. 

Through  Zahara's  desert  flieth  ! 

O,  when  sunny  spring  once  more 
Melts  the  ice  of  western  oceans. 

Hie  thee  back  to  that  loved  shore 
Where  were  bom  thy  first  emotions  \ 

7%0re,  around  thy  jet-black  head 
Bright  gold-dust  in  garlands  flashes, — 

Hisrs,  hoar-frost  and  snows  instead 
Strew  it  but  with  silver  i 


THE  ALEXANDRINE  METRE. 

Bound!  bound!  my  desert-barb  from  Alexan- 
dria! 
My  wild  one !     Such  a  courser  no  emir  or  shah 
Bestrides,  —  whoever  else  may,  in  those  East- 
ern lands. 


1  RUnocaras. 


(  Soverslgn*!. 


Rock  in  magnificent  saddles  upon  field  or 

plain! 
Where  thundereth  sach  a  hoof  as  thine  along 

the  sands  ? 
Where  streameth  such  a  tail .'     Where  such 

a  meteor  mane  ? 

As  it  stands  written,  thus  thou  nei^ert  loud, 

"Hal  ha!" 
Spuming  both  bit  and  reins !    The  winds  of 

Africa 
Blow  the  loose  hair  about  thy  chaflSron  to  and  fro ! 
Lightning  is  in  thy  glance,  thy  flanks  are 

white  with  fi>am ! 
Thou  art  not,  sure,  the  animal  snaffled  by  Boi- 

leau. 
And  whom  Gottschedian  turnpike-law  fi)r- 

bade  to  roam ! 

He,  bitted,  bridled,  reined,  steps  delicately  along, 
Ambling  fi>r  ever  to  the  air  of  one  small  song. 
Till  he  reaches  the  etuura.   That 's  a  highway- 
ditch 
For  him  to  cross !     He  stops, — he  stares,— 
he  snorts, — at  last. 
Sheer  terror  screwing  up  his  pluck  to  a  desper- 
ate pitch. 
He — jumps  one  little  jump,  and  the  u^y 
gulf  is  passed. 

Thou,  meanwhile,  speedest  fiir  o'er  deserts  and 

by  streams. 
Like  rushing  flame  !    To  thee  the  same  c«sura 

seems 
A  chasm  in  Mount  Sinai.   The  rock  is  riven  in 

two! 
Still  on !    Thy  fetlocks  bleed.     Now  for  an 

earthquake  shock ! 
Hurrah  !  thou  boundest  over,  and  thine  iron  shoe 
Charms  rattling  thunder  and  red  lightning 

flrom  the  rock ! 

Now  hither !  Here  we  are !  Knowest  thou  this 
yellow  sand  ? 

So! — there, —  that 's  well !     Reel  under  my 
controlling  )iand ! 

Tush  !  never  heed  the  sweat: — Honor  is  bora 
of  Toil. 
I  '11  see  thee  again  at  sunset,  when  the  south- 
em  breeze 

Blows  cool.    Then  I  will  lead  thee  o'er  a  soft 
green  soil. 
And  water  thee  till  nightfiill  in  the  Middle 
Sess. 

THE  KINO  OF  CONGO  AND  HIS  HUNDRED  'WIVES. 

Fill  up  with  bright  palm-wine,  unto  the  rim 

fill  up 
The  cloven  ostrich-eggshell  cup, 

And  don  your  shells  and  cowries,  ye  sul- 


O,  choose  your  gayest,  gorgeousest  amy, 
As  on  the  brilliant  Buram  holiday 
That  opes  the  doors  of  your  zenanas ! 


FREILIGRATH. 


365 


Come !  never  ait  a-trembling  ob  yoor  silk  de- 


What  fear  ye  ?    To  jour  feet*  ye  timid  fiiwna  ! 
See  here  your  zonea  emboaaed  with  gema  and 
amber! 
See  here  the  fire-bright  beada  of  coral  for  yoor 

necka ! 
In  each  a  ftatal   time,  each    yoong    aoltana 
decks 
Herself  as  for  the  naptial  chamber. 

Rejoice! — your  lord,  yoor  king,  cornea  home 

again! 
Hia  enemiea  lie  alaughtered  on  the  deaert  plain. 
Rejoice !  —  it  coat  you  tears  of  blood  to  sever 
From  one  you  loved  ao  well, »- but  now  your 

griefi  are  o'er : 
Sing!  dance! — he  leavea  hia  land,  his  hoaae, 
no  more; 
Henceforward  he  ia  yonra  for  ever  ! 

Triumphant  he  returns ;  naught  seeka  he  now ; 
his  hand 

No  more  need  hurl  the  javelin ;  sea  and  sand 
and  land 
Are  hia,  far  aa  the  Zaire's  blud  blUowa  wan- 
der; 

Henceforth  he  bids  fiuewell  to  spear  and  battle- 
horse. 

And  calla  you  to  hia  conch, — a  cold  one,  for — 
hia  corse 
Liee  on  the  copper  buclder  yonder ! 

Nay,  fill  not  thua  the  harem  with  your  ahrieka ! 

'T  ia  he ; — behold  hia  cloak,  atriped  quagga-like 

with  bloody  streaka ! 

T  ia  he,  albeit  hia  eyee  lie  glazed  for  ever 

under 

Their  lida,— albeit  hia  blood  no  more  ahall 

dance  along 
In  rapture  to  the  music  of  the  tomtom  gong, 
Or  headlong  war-steed's  hoof  of  thunder ! 

Tee !  the  Great  Buffalo  aleepa !     Hia  mightiest 

victory  waa  hia  last 
His  warriors  howl  in  vain,  —  hia  necromancera 

gaze  aghaat ; 
Fetiah,  nor  magic  wand,  nor  amulet  of  darnel. 
Can  charm  back  life  to  the  day-cold  heart  and 

limb. 
He  sleeps,  —  and  you,  his  women,  sleep  with 

him  ! 
You  ahare  the  dark  pompa  of  hia  chamel ! 

Even  now  the  headaman  wheta  his  axe  to  alay 

you  at  the  funeral  feast ! 
Courage  !  a  glorious  fate  ia  yonra !     Through 

Afric  aud  the  Eaat 
Your  &me  shall  be  immortal !   Kordofan  and 

Tem^ 
With  atories  of  your  lord's  exploits  and  your 

devotednesa  shall  ring, 
And  future  agea  rear  skuli-obeliaka  to  the  king 
Of  Congo  and  hia  hundred  women  ! 


flAND-SONOa 
I. 

Siiro  of  Sand !  ^-  not  anch  aa  gloweth 
Hot  upon  the  path  of  the  tiger  and  snake ;  -^ 
Rather  such  sand  aa,  when  the  loud  winds  wake. 

Each  ocean-wave  knoweth. 

Like  a  Wrath  with  pinions  burning 
Travela  the  red  aand  of  the  deaert  abroad ; 
While  the  soft  sea-sand  glisteneth  smooth  and 
untrod, 

Aa  eve  ia  returning. 

Here  no  caravan  or  camel ; 
Here  the  weary  mariner  alone  finds  a  grave. 
Nightly  mourned  by  the  moon,  that  now  on  yon 
wave 

Sheda  a  ailver  enamel. 


WzAPoir-LiKB,  thia  ever-wounding  wind 
Striketb  sharp  upon  the  sandful  shore ; 

So  fierce  Thought  asaaulta  a  troubled  mind, 
Ever,  ever,  ever  more ! 

Darkly  unto  past  and  coming  yeara 

Man'a  deep  heart  ia  linked  by  mystic  banda; 
Marvel  not,  then,  if  hia  dreama  and  fears 

Be  a  myriad,  like  the  aanda! 


'T  wsRB  worth  much  lore  to  understand 
Thy  nature  well,  thou  ghastly  sand. 
Who  wreckeat  all  that  seek  the  sea. 
Yet  aavest  them  that  cling  to  thee ! 

The  wild-gull  banquets  on  thy  charms, 
The  fish  diea  in  thy  barren  arms ; 
Bare,  yellow,  flowerleaa,  there  thou  art. 
With  vaulta  of  treasure  in  thy  heart ! 

I  met  a  wenderer,  too,  thia  mom. 
Who  eyed  thee  with  such  lofty  acorn ! 
Yet  I,  when  with  thee,  feel  my  soul 
Flow  over  like  a  too-full  bowl. 


Would  I  were  the  stream  whose  fountain 

Guahea 
From  the  heart  of  aome  green  mountain. 
And  then  ruahea 
On  through  many  a  land  with  a  melodioua  mo- 
tion. 
Till  it  finda  a  bourne  in  the  globe-girdling  ocean ! 

That,  in  aooth,  were  truest  glory ! 

Vernal 
Youth,  and  eld  serene  and  hoary, 
Coflternal ! 
All  the  high-aouled  atripling  feela  of  great  and 

glowing. 
Tempered  by  the  wiadom  of  the  world'a  be- 
stowing ! 

wa2 


366 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


Gulls  are  flying,  one,  two,  three. 

Silently  and  heavily, 

Heavily  as  winged  lead, 

Through  the  sultry  air  over  my  languid  head. 

Whence  they  come,  or  whither  flee, 

They,  not  I,  can  tell ;  I  see. 

On  the  bright,  brown  sand  I  tread. 

Only  the  black  shadows  of  their  wings  outspread. 

Ha !  a  feather  flutteringly 

Falls  down  at  my  feet  for  me  ! 

It  shall  serve  my  turn  instead 

Of  an  eagle's  quill,  till  all  my  songs  be  read. 


Mist  Tobes  the  moss-grown  castle-walls ; 
And  as  the  veil  of  evening  falls 
In  deep  and  ever  deeper  shades. 
The  autumn-landscape  slowly  fl^es, 

And  all  is  dusk.     One  afler  one 
The  red  lamps  on  the  heights  are  gone. 
And  crag  and  castle,  hill  and  wood. 
Evanish  in  the  engulfing  flood. 

Farewell,  green  valleys !     Did  I  not 
Once  wind  my  way  through  hill  and  grot. 
And  muse  beside  some  wine-dark  stream  ? 
Or  was  it  all  an  Eastern  dream  ? 

The  moonless  heaven  is  dim  once  more. 
The  waves  break  on  the  shingly  shore ;  — 
I  listen  to  their  mournful  tone, 
And  pace  the  silent  sands  alone. 


MY  THEMES. 

<c  Most  weary  man !  —  why  wreatheat  thou 
Again  and  yet  again,"  methinks  I  hear  you  ask, 
^  The  turban  on  thy  sunburnt  brow  ? 
Wilt  never  vary 
Thy  tristfiil  task ; 
But  sing,  still  sing,  of  sands  and  seas,  as  now. 
Housed  in  thy  willow  zumbul  on  the  dromedary  ? 

**  Thy  tent  has  now  o'er  many  times 
Been  pitched  in  treeless  places  on  old  Ammon's 
plains ; 
We  long  to  greet  in  blander  climes 
The  love  and  laughter 
Thy  soul  disdains. 
Why  wanderest  ever  thus,  in  prolix  rhymes. 
Through  snows  and  stony  wastes,  while  we 
come  toiling  after  ? 

**  Awake !  Thou  art  as  one  who  dreams  ! 
Thy  quiver  overflows  with  melancholy  sand  ! 
'Thou  faintest  in  the  noontide  beams ! 
Thy  crystal  beaker 
Of  song  is  banned ! 
Filled  with  the  juice  of  poppies  flrom  dull 
streams 
In  sleepy  Indian  dells,  it  can  but  make  thee 
weaker ! 


<^  O,  cast  ai^y  the  deadly  draught. 
And  glance  around  thee,  then,  with  an  awak- 
ened eye  ! 
The  waters  healthier  bards  have  quaffed 
At  Europe's  fountains 
Still  bubble  by. 
Bright  now  as  when  the  Grecian  summer 
laughed. 
And  poesy's  first  flowers  bloomed  on  Apollo's 
mountains ! 

*<  So  many  a  voice  thine  era  hath. 
And  thou  art  deaf  to  all !     O,  study  mankind  ! 
Probe 
The  heart !     Lay  bare  its  love  and  wriath, 
Its  joy  and  sorrow ! 
Not  round  the  globe. 
O'er  flood  and  field  and  dreary  desert-path. 
But  into  thine  own  bosom  look,  and  thence  thy 
marvels  borrow ! 

"  Weep !  Let  us  hear  thy  tears  resound 
From  the  dark  iron  concave  of  life's  cup  of  woe ! 
Weep  for  the  souls  of  mankind  bound 
In  chains  of  error ! 
Our  tears  will  flow 
In  sympathy  with   thine,  when  thou  hast 
wound 
Our  feelings  up  to  the  proper  pitch  of  grief  or 
terror. 

»« Unlock  the  life-gates  of  the  flood 
That  rushes  through  thy  veins  !   Like  vultures, 
we  delight 
To  glut  our  appetites  with  blood  ! 
Remorse,  Fear,  Torment, 
The  blackening  blight 
Love  smites  young  hearts  withal, — these  be 
the  food 
For  us  !  without  such  stimulants  our  dull  souls 
lie  dormant ! 

**  But  no  long  voyagings,  —  O,  no  more 
Of  the  weary  East  or  South,  —  no  more  of  the 
simoom,  — 
No  apples  from  the  Dead  Sea  shore,— 
No  fierce  volcanoes. 
All  fire  and  gloom ! 
Or  else,  at  most,  sing  ftoMO,  we  implore. 
Of  Orient  sands,  while  Europe's  flowers  mo- 
nopolize thy  9oprano$!  " 

Thanks,  friends,  for  this  your  kind  advice  ! 
Would  I  could  follow  it, — could  bide  in  balm- 
ier land  ! 
But  those  ftr  Arctic  tracts  of  ice. 
Those  wildernesses 
Of  wavy  sand. 
Are  the  only  home  I  have.  They  must  suffice 
For  one  whose  lonely  hearth  no  smiling  Peri 
blesses.  « 

Yet  count  me  not  the  more  forlorn 
For  my  barbarian  tastes.     Pity  me  not.   O,  no ! 
The  heart  laid  waste  by  grief  or  scorn, 


FREILIGRATH. 


367 


Which  ooly  knoweth 
Its  own  deep  woe, 
Is  the  only  desert.     Thers  no  spring  is  born 
Amid  the  sands, — in  that  no  shady  palm-tree 
groweth. 

ORABBE'S  DEATH. 

Thkrx  stood  I  in  the  camp.    *T  was  when  the 
setting  sun 

Was  crimsoning  the  tents  of  the  hussars. 
The  booming  of  the  eyeniug-gun 

Broke  on  mine  ear.     A  few  stray  stars 
Shone  out,  like  silver-blank  medallions 

Paving  a  sapphire  floor.     There  flowed  in 
unison  the  tones 

Of  many  hautboys,  bugles,  drums,  trombones. 
And  fifes  from  twenty-two  battalions. 

They  played,  *^  Give  glory  unto  God  our  Lord !  " 
A  solemn  strain  of  music  and  sublime, 
That  bade  imagination  hail  a  coming  time, 

When  universal  mind  shall  break  the  slaying 
sword. 

And  sin  and  wrong  and  suffering  shall  depart 
An  earth  which  Christian  love  shall  turn  to 
heaven. 

A  dream  !  — yet  still  I  listened,  and  my  heart 
Grew  tranquil  as  that  summer  even. 

But  soon  uprose  pale  Hecate,  —  she  who  trances 
The  skies  with  deathly  light.     Her  beams 
fell  wan,  but  mild, 
On  the  long  line  of  teots,  on  swords  and  lances. 

And  on  the  pyramids  of  muskets  piled 
Around.     Then  sped  from  rank  to  rank 

The  signal  order,  "  Tzako  ah!'*     The  music 

ceased  to  play. 
The  stillness  of  the  grave  ensued.     I  turned 
away. 
Again  my  memory's  tablets  showed  a  sadden- 
ing blank! 

Meanwhile,  another  sort  of  scene 

Was  acting  at  the  outposts.     Carelessly  I 
strolled. 
In  quest  of  certain  faces,  into  the  canteen. 

Here  wine  and  brandy,  hot  or  cold. 
Passed  round.    At  one  long  table  fredericksd'or 
Glittered,  ^  qui  nueux  nUeux,  with  epaulettes ', 
And,  heedless  of  the  constant  call,  '^Who 
sets?" 
Harp-women  played  and  sang  old  ballads  by 
the  score. 

I  sought  an  inner  chamber.     Here  sat  some 
Dragoons  and  yagers,  who  conversed,  or  gam- 
bled. 
Or  drank.     The  dice-box  rattled  on  a  drum. 

I  chose  a  seat  apart.  My  speculations  rambled. 
Scarce  even  a  pensive  listener  or  beholder, 
I  mused :  "  Give  glory  — "  •«  Qui  en  veui  f  "— 

The  sound 
Came  from  the  drum-head.  I  had  half  turned 
round, 
When  some  one  touched  me  on  the  shoulder. 


«<  Ha !  — -is  it  you  ?  "— «« None  other." — "  Well, 
—  what  news  ? 
How  goes  it  in  Mahlhausen  ?  "  Queries  with- 
out end 
Snooeed,  and  I  reply  as  briefly  as  I  choose. 
An  hour  flies  by.     **Now  then,  adieu,  my 
friend ! "  ~ 
««Stey  !  —  tell  me  —  "  « Quick!  I  am  off*  to 

**Well, — one   short  word,  and   then   good 

n/ight!  — 
Grabbe?" — («Grabbe?     He  is  dead.   Wait: 

let  me  see.     Ay,  right ! 
We  buried  him  on  Friday  last.     Bon  soir!  ** 

An  icy  thrill  ran  through  my  veins. 

Dead  ? — buried  ?  —  Friday  last  ? — and  here  ? 

His  grave 
Profaned  by  vulgar  feet.' — •  O  noble,  gifted, 
brave! 
Bard  of  The  Hundred  Days !  —  was  this  to  be 

thy  fate  indeed  ? 
I  vvept.     Yet  not  because  life's  galling  chains 
No  longer  bound  thy  spirit  to  this  barren  earth ; 
I  wept  to  think  of  thy  transcendent  worth 
And  genius, — and  of  what  had  been  their  meed ! 

I  wandered  forth  into  the  spacious  night. 
Till  the  first  feelings  of  my  heart  bad  spent 
Their  bitterness.    Hours  passed.    There  was 
an  Uhlan  tent 
At  hand.     I  entered.    By  the  moon's  blue  light 
I  saw  some  anns  and  baggoge,  and  a  heap 
Of  straw.     Upon  this  last  I  threw 
My  weary  limbs.     In  vain!     The  moanful 
night-winds  blew 
About  my  head  and  face,  and  memory  banish- 
ed sleep. 

All  night  he  stood,  as  I  had  seen  him  last. 
Beside  my  couch.     Had  he  indeed  forsaken 
The  tomb  ?     Or  did  I  dream,  and  should  I 
waken  ? 

My  thoughts  flowed  like  a  river,  dark  and  fast. 

Again  I  gazed  on  that  columnar  brow: 

'*  Deserted  house !  of  late  so  bright  with  viv- 
idest  flashes 

Of  intellect  and  passion,  can  it  be  that  thou 
Art  now  a  mass  of  sparkless  ashes  ? 

^  Those  ashes  once  were  watch-fires,  by  whose 
gleams 
The  glories  of  the  Hohenstaufen  race, 
And   Italy's  shrines,   and   Greece's  hallowed 
streams 
Stood  variously  revealed,  —  now,  softly,  as 
the  face 
Of  night  illumined  by  her  silver  lamp, — 

Now,  burning  with  a  deep  and  living  lustre, 

Like  the  high  beacon-lights  that  stud  this  camp, 

Here,  far  apart,  —  there,  in  a  circular  cluster. 

**  This  camp !  ah,  yes !  methinks  it  images  well 
What  thou  hast  been,  thou  lonely  tower  ! 

Moonbeam  and   lamplight  mingled;   the  deep 
choral  swell 
Of  Music,  in  her  peals  of  proudest  power. 


GERMAN  POETRY. 


And  then  —  the  tavern  dice-box  rattle  ! 
The  Grand  and  the  Familiar  fought 
Within  thee  for  the  mastery ;  and  thy  depth 
of  thought 
And  play  of  wit  made  eyery  conflict  a  drawn 
batUe! 

^  And,  O,  that  anch  a  mind,  ao  rich,  ao  over- 
flowing 
With  ancient  lore  and  modem  phantasy, 
And  prodigal  of  its  treasures  as  a  tree 

Of  golden  leaves  when  autumn  winds  are  blow- 

ingi— 

That  such  a  mind,  made  to  illume  and  glad 
All  minds,  all  hearts,  should  have  itself  become 
Affliction's  chosen  sanctuary  and  home ! 

This  is,  in  truth,  most  marvellous  and  sad ! 

**  Alone  the  poet  lives,  —  alone  he  dies. 
Cain-like,  he  bears  the  isolating  brand 
Upon  his  brow  of  sorrow.     True,  his  hand 

Is  pure  from  blood-guilt,  but  in  human  eyes 

His  is  a  darker  crime  than  that  of  Cain,  — 
Rebellion  against  social  wrong  and  law  !  '*  — 
Groaning,  at  length  I  slept,  and  in  my  dreams 
I  saw 

The  ruins  of  a  temple  on  a  desolate  plain. 


FRANZ  DINGELSTEDT. 

Frahz  Dingelstxdt  was  bom  in  1814,  at 
Halsdorf,  in  Upper  Hessia.  Though  a  very 
young  man,  he  has  gained  a  high  reputation 
among  the  living  political  poets  of  Germany 
by  his  **  Songs  of  a  Cosmopolitan  Watchman,*' 
from  which  the  following  extracts  have  been 
made.  Several  of  his  pieces  are  contained  in 
Stolle's  *<  Buch  der  Lieder."  Dingelstedt  has 
recently  been  appointed  Aulic  Councillor  at 
Vienna.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  poet  will 
not  be  lost  in  the  politician. 


THE  WATCmiAN. 

The  last  faint  twinkle  now  goes  out 

Up  in  the  poet's  attic ; 
And  the  roisterers,  in  merry  rout. 

Speed  home  with  steps  erratic. 

Soft  from  the  house-roofs  showers  the  snow, 
The  vane  creaks  on  the  steeple, 

The  lanterns  wag  and  glimmer  low 
In  the  storm  by  the  hurrying  people. 

The  houses  all  stand  black  and  still, 
The  churches  and  taverns  deserted, 

And  a  body  may  now  wend  at  his  will. 
With  his  own  fancies  diverted. 

Not  a  squinting  eye  now  looks  this  way. 
Not  a  slanderous  mouth  is  dissembling. 

And  a  heart  that  has  slept  the  livelong  day 
May  now  love  and  hope  with  trembling. 


Dear  Night !  then  foe  to  each  base  end. 
While  the  good  still  a  blessing  prove  thee, 

They  say  that  thou  art  no  man's  friend,  — 
Sweet  Night !  how  I  therefore  love  thee ! 


THE  GERMAN  PRINCB. 

Iir  the  royal  playhouse  lately 
Sat  our  honored  prince  sedately. 
When  this  amusing  thing  befell. 
As  the  paper  states  it  well. 

Taking,  from  his  usual  station. 
Through  his  lorgnette  observation. 
Straight  his  eagle  eye  did  hit 
On  a  stranger  in  the  pit. 

Such  stranger  ne'er  was  seen  before ;  — 
A  blue-striped  shirt  the  fellow  wore ; 
His  neckerchief  tri-colored  stuflf;  — 
Ground  for  suspicion  quite  enough  ! 

His  face  was  red  as  sun  at  rising. 
And  bore  a  scar  of  breadth  surprising ; 
His  beard  was  bushy,  round,  and  short, 
Just  of  the  forbidden  Hambach  sort. 

Quick  to  the  prince's  brow  there  mounted 
Frowns,  though  he  did  not  want  them  counted. 
But  asked  the  chamberlain  quite  low, 
«<  Who  is  that  fellow  ?  do  you  know  ?  " 

The  chamberlain,  though  most  observant. 
Knew  not,  so  asked  the  prince's  servant ; 
The  valet,  to  supply  the  want. 
Asked  councillor  and  adjutant. 

No  soul  could  give  the  slightest  notion; — 
The  nobles  all  were  in  commotion ; 
Strange  whispers  through  the.  boxee  ran. 
And  all  about  the  stranger  man. 

**  His  Highness  talks  of  Fropagand  ;  — 
Forth  with  the  villain  from  the  land  ! 
Woe  to  him,  if  he  make  delay 
r  th'  city  but  another  day  1 " 

Thus  the  police  began  exclaiming, 
With  sacred  zeal  all  over  flaming. 
But  soon  his  Highness  gave  the  hint. 
None  but  himself  should  meddle  in  't. 

One  of  his  servants  he  despatches 
Down  to  the  fellow,  while  he  watches. 
And  bids  him  ask  him,  blunt  and  free. 
Who,  and  what,  and  whence  he  be. 

After  some  minutes'  anxious  waiting. 
Staring  below,  and  calculating, 
With  knowing,  but  demurest  fhce. 
Comes  back  the  lacquey  to  his  Grace. 

«^Touf  Highness !  "  says  he,  in  a  whisper, 
«*He  calls  himself  John  Jacob  Risper; 
Travels  in  mustard  for  his  house !  " 
**  Hush  !  not  a  word  !  to  man  or  moase ! " 


HERWEGH. 


GEORG   HERWEGH. 

This  young  poet,  a  natiTe  of  WOrtemberg, 
received  his  early  edacatioii  in  Stuttgart,  and 
afterwards  studied  at  Tdbiogen.  He  has  re- 
cently become  one  of  the  celebrities  of  Ger- 
many. He  is  known  particularly  by  his  "  Po- 
ems-ef  a  Living  Man,  with  a  Dedication  to  the 
Dead."  For  a  AiU  account  of  his  writings,  see 
"  Foreign  Quarterly  Review,"  No.  LXI.,  lor 
April,  1843. 


THE  FATHEEtLAND. 

CoMRADx,  why  the  soog  so  joyous, —  why  the 

goblet  in  your  hand, — 
While,  in  sackcloth  and  in  ashes,  yonder  weeps 

our  Fatherland.^ 

Still  the  bells,  and  bid  the  rosea  wither,  girls, 

on  German  straud ; 
For,  deserted  by  her  bridegroom,  yonder  sits  our 

Fatherland ! 

Wherefore  strive  for  crowns,  ye  princes.' 

quit  your  state,  your  jewels  grand ; 

See,  where,  at  your  palace-portal,  shivering  sits 
our  Fatherland ! 

Idle  priestlings,  what  avail  us  prayer  and  pulpit, 

cowl  and  band  ? 
Trodden  in  the  dust  and  groaning,  yonder  lies 

our  Fatherland ! 

Counting  out  his  red  round  rubles,  yon  sits 

Dives  smiling  bland,  — 
Reckoning  his  poor  wounds  and  sores,  Lazarus, 

our  Fatherland ! 

Woe,  ye  poor !  for  priceless  jewels  lie  before 

ye  in  the  sand,»- 
Even  my  tears,  my  best  and  brightest,  lie  there, 

wept  for  Fatherland ! 

But,  O  poet,  cease  thy  descant, —  't  is  not  thine 
as  judge  to  stand  ; 

Silence  now,  —  the  swan  hath  sung  his  death- 
song  for  our  Fatherland ! 


THE  SONG  OF  HATRED. 

Brave  soldier,  kiss  the  trusty  wife, 
•    And  draw  the  trusty  blade ! 
Then  turn  ye  to  the  reddening  east, 

In  freedom's  cause  arrayed. 
Till  death  shall  part  the  blade  and  hand. 

They  may  not  separate : 
We  've  practised  loving  long  enough, 

And  come  at  length  to  hate  ! 

To  right  us  and  to  rescue  us 
Hath  Love  essayed  in  vain ; 

O  Hate  !  proclaim  thy  judgment-day. 
And  break  our  bonds  in  twain. 
47 


As  long  as  ever  tyrants  last. 

Our  task  shall  not  abate  : 
We  *ve  practised  loving  long  enough. 

And  come  at  length  to  hate  ! 

Henceforth  let  every  heart  that  beats 

With  hate  alone  be  beating ;  — 
Look  round  !  what  piles  of  rotten  sticks 

Will  keep  the  iame  a-heating ! 

As  many  as  are  fVee  and  dare. 

From  street  to  street  go  say 't : 
We  've  practised  loving  long  enough. 

And  come  at  length  to  hate ! 

Fight  tyranny,  while  tyranny 

The  trampled  earth  above  is ; 
And  holier  will  our  hatred  be. 

Far  holier  than  our  love  is. 
Till  death  shall  part  the  blade  and  hand. 

They  may  not  separate : 
We  've  practised  loving  long  enough. 

Let 's  come  at  last  to  hate ! 


THE  PROTEST. 

As  long  as  I  *m  a  Protestant, 

I  'm  bounden  to  protest ; 
Come,  every  German  musicant. 

And  fiddle  me  his  best ! 
You  *re  singing  of  "the  Free  old  Rhine"; 
But  I  say,  No,  good  comrades  mine,  — 
The  Rhine  could  be 
Greatly  more  free. 
And  that  I  do  protest 

I  scarce  had  got  my  christening  o'er. 

Or  was  in  breeches  dressed. 
But  I  began  to  shout  and  roar 

And  mightily  protest. 
And  since  that  time  I  've  never  stopped. 
My  protestations  never  dropped ; 
And  blessed  be  they 
Who  every  way 
And  everywhere  protest. 

There's  one  thing  certain  in  my  creed. 

And  schism  is  all  the  rest, — 
That  who  's  a  Protestant  indeed 

For  ever  must  protest. 

What  is  the  river  Rhine  to  me  ? 

For,  firom  its  source  unto  the  sea. 

Men  are  not  free, 

Whate'er  they  be. 

And  that  I  do  protest. 

And  every  man  in  resson  grants. 

What  always  was  confessed. 
As  long  as  we  are  Protestants, 

We  sternly  must  protest. 
And  when  they  sing  "  the  Free  old  Rhine," 
Answer    them,    "No,"    good    comrades 
mine,  — 
The  Rhine  could  be 
Greatly  more  free. 
And  that  you  shall  protest. 


370 


OERMAN  POETRY. 


TO  A  POETESS. 

Oh  hamble  knees,  of  silent  nights. 

No  more  my  lady  prays ; 
But  now  in  glory  she  delights, 

And  pines  to  wear  the  bays. 
The  gentle  secrets  of  her  heart 

She  'd  tell  to  idle  ears, 
And  fain  would  carry  to  the  mart 

The  treasure  of  her  tears  ! 

When  there  are  roses  freshly  blown 

That  forehead  to  adorn. 
Why  ask  the  poet's  martyr-crown,  — 

The  bitter  wreath  of  thorn  ? 
That  lip  which  all  so  ruddy  is. 

With  freshest  roses  vying, 
Believe  me,  sweet,  was  mi^e  to  Liss, — 

Not  formed  for  prophesying. 

Remain,  my  nightingale,  remain. 

And  warble  in  your  shade ! 
The  heights  of  glory  were  in  vain 

By  wings  like  yours  essayed. 
And  while  at  Glory's  shrine  the  priest 

A  hecatomb  must  proffer, 
There 's  Love, — O,  Love !  will  take  the  least 

Small  mite  the  heart  can  offer. 


BENEDIKT.DALEI. 

**Who  Benedikt  Dalei  is  we  know  not,** 
says  a  writer  in  the  London  **  Athensum,*' 
from  whose  pages  the  following  pieces  are 
taken ;  **  but  his  songs  have  all  the  feeling  and 
effect  of  the  genuine  effusions  of  a  Catholic 
priest  who  has  passed  through  the  dispensa- 
tions  which  he  describes.  He  traces,  or  rather 
retraces,  every  painfbl  position  and  stage  in  the 
life  of  the  solitary  priest  who  possesses  a  feeling 
heart ;  —  the  trials,  the  temptations,  the  pangs, 
which  his  unnatural  vow  and  isolated  existence 
heap  upon  him,  amid  the  social  relationships 
and  enjoyments  of  his  fellow-men.  The  do- 
mestic circle,  the  happy  group  of  father,  moth- 
er, and  merry  children;  the  electric  touch  of 
youthful  love  which  unites  two  hearts  for  ever ; 
the  wedding,  the  christening,  the  funeral;  all 
have  for  him  their  inexpressible  bitterness. 
The  perplexities,  the  cares,  the  remorse,  the 
madness,  which,  spite  of  the  power  of  the 
church,  of  religion,  and  of  the  most  ardent  faith 
and  devotion,  have,  through  the  singular  and 
unparalleled  position  of  the  Catholic  priest, 
made  him  often  a  walking  death,  are  all  sketch- 
ed with  a  master's  hand,  or,  more  properly, 
perhaps,  a  sufferer's  heart.*' 


ENVIABLE  POVERTT. 
I  OLAifCB  into  the  harvest  field. 

Where,  *neath  the  shade  of  richest  trees. 
The  reaper  and  the  reaper's  wife 

Enjoy  their  noon-day  ease. 


And  in  the  shadow  of  the  hedge 
I  hear  full  many  a  merry  sound. 

Where  the  stout,  brimming  water-jog 
From  month  to  mouth  goes  round. 

About  the  parents,  in  the  grass. 
Sit  boys  and  girb  of  various  size. 

And,  like  the  buds  about  the  rose, 
Make  glad  my  gazing  eyes. 

See !  God  himself  from  heaven  spreads 
Their  table  with  the  freshest  green. 

And  lovely  maids,  his  angel  band, 
Bear  heaped  dishes  in. 

A  laughing  infant's  sugar  lip. 

Waked  by  the  mother's  kiss,  doth  deal 
To  the  poor  parents  a  dessert 

Still  sweeter  than  their  meal. 

From  breast  to  breast,  from  arm  to  arm. 
Goes  wandering  round  the  rosy  boy, 

A  little  circling  flame  of  love, 
A  living,  general  joy. 

And  strengthened  thus  for  farther  toil, 
Their  toil  is  but  joy  fresh  begun  ; 

That  wife,  —  O,  what  a  happy  wife  ! 
And,  O,  how  rich  is  that  poor  man  ! 


THE  WALK. 

I  WBirr  a  walk  on  Sunday, 
But  so  lonely  everywhere  !  — 

O'er  every  path  and  upland 
Went  loving  pair  and  pair. 

I  strolled  through  greenest  corn-fields. 
All  dashed  with  gold  so  deep ;  — 

How  often  did  I  feel  as  though 
My  very  heart  would  weep  ! 

The  heaven  so  sofUy  azure. 

The  sun  so  full  of  life  ! 
And  everywhere  was  youth  and  maiden. 

Was  happy  man  and  wife. 

They  watched  the  yellowing  harvest. 
Stood  where  cool  water  starts ; 

They  plucked  flowers  for  each  other. 
And  with  them  gave  their  hearts. 

The  larks,  how  they  singing  hovered 
And  streamed  gladness  from  above  ! 

How  high  in  the  listening  bosoms 
Rose  the  flame  of  youthful  love  ! 

In  the  locks  of  the  blithe  youngsters 
The  west  wind  loved  to  play,-— 

And  lifted,  with  colder  finger. 
My  hair,  already  gray. 

Ah !  I  heard  song  and  laughter, 
And  it  went  to  my  heart's  core ;  — 

O,  were  I  again  in  boyhood  ! 

Were  I  fii«e  and  young  once  more ! 


DUTCH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


The  Dutch  is  that  form  of  the  Gothic  now 
spoken  between  the  shores  of  the  Zuider-Zee 
and  the  mouths  of  the  Rhine,  or,  in  other 
words,  the  kingdom  of  Holland.  To  the  north 
and  east  it  passes  into  the  Frisic,  or  language 
of  Friesland,*  which  connects  it  with  the  Plitt 
DwUeky  or  Low  German ;  and  to  the  south,  in 
Brabant  and  Flanders,  changes  into  the  Flem- 
ish, which  differs  from  the  Dutch  in  haying 
more  French  idioms  and  fewer  guttural  sounds. 

The  Frisic,  Dutch,  and  Flemish  were  origi- 
nally the  same  language,  and  were  known  bj 
the  name  of  Belgian  or  Netherlandic ;  but,  in 
the  lapse  of  time,  the  Dutch  has  gained  the 
ascendency  as  the  language  of  literature,  and 
the  Frisic  and  Flemish  remain  as  less  cultiTat- 
ed  dialects,  whose  literature  is  confined  mostly 
to  popular  songs,  tales,  and  farces.t  In  parts 
of  Belgium,  the  Walloon,  a  dialect  of  the 
French,  descended  from  the  old  Roman  WolUm^ 
is  still  spoken.  **  In  all  Flanders,"  says  a  writ> 
er  in  the  ^*  CouTersations-Lezicon,"  %  **  Northern 
Brabant,  and  a  part  of  Southern  Brabant,  the 
Flemish  is  the  common  language.  The  line  of 
diTision  is  in  Brussels,  where  the  people  of  the 
lower  city  speak  Flemish,  in  the  upper  city, 
Walloon.  To  the  south  of  Brussels,  in  the  (so 
called)  Walloon  Brabant,  in  Hainault,  Namur, 
Liege,  and  part  of  Limboorg,  the  Walloon  con- 
tinues to  be  the  popular  language.  It  is  worthy 
of  remark,  that,  even  in  that  part  of  Flanders 
which  has  been  under  the  French  sceptre  for  a 
long  series  of  years,  the  Flemish,  nevertheless, 
is  the  popular  language  as  far  as  Dunkirk,  while, 
to  this  moment,  Walloon  is  spoken  in  Hainault, 
Brabant,  and  particularly  in  Liege,  though  so 
long  united  to  Germany.  The  dialects  of  the 
Low  German,  spoken  in  the  Netherlands,  may 
be  divided  into  five:  1.  The  Dutch  proper, 
which,  as  early  as  towards  the  end  of  the  fif* 
tee  nth  century,  was  elevated  to  a  literary  lan- 
guage in  the  northern  provinces;   2.  the  (so 


e  For  a  sketch  of  the  Frfole  langoage  and  lllentan,  seo 
WiAJU>A,  Geschichto  dor  slten  augestorbaDoo  Friesiachea 
odar  aichaiachen  Spracha :  Aurich :  1784 ; — Foreign  Quar 
tarljr  Rot  law,  VoL  III. ;  —  BoswoaTH,  Preface  to  the  Anglo- 
SaxoQ  Dictionary,  pi  zxzr.;  — and  Moira,  Obenicht  der 
Niederlandiachan  Volka-Literatur,  the  Appendix  of  which 
containa  a  Ilat  of  works  pnUiabed  in  tlw  Friaie  hmgnaga. 

t  Aa,  for  example,  In  Frisic,  Otsbsrt  Javicx's  Frieache 
Rljnilerye,  and  ilie  piaya  and  aongi  of  J.  P.  HAUSBif ;  •—  and 
In  Fleroiali,  Da  Dalle  Oriete,  Vlaenische  Lledekena  op  den 
Tyd ;  Jacobus  db  Ruttbk's  Nieuw  Llad-Boek ;  tlie  Ttltm 
oTThjl  Uylenapiegel,  and  ReTnaart  den  Yoa ;  and  BaoaoK- 
akbt's  Jelle  en  Miecja. 

X  VoL  IX.,  p.  ssa 


called)  Peasant-Frisian  (once  the  literary  lan- 
guage of  Gysbert  Japicx),  an  idiom  which  is 
gradually  disappearing ;  3.  the  Gelders  dialect, 
or  the  (so  called)  Lower  Rhenish ;  4.  the  Gro- 
ningen  dialect,  to  which  also  belongs  the  Upper 
Tseel  dialect  \  and,  5.  the  Flemish,  which  has 
remained  the  literary  language  in  the  southern 
provinces,  though  much  poorer  than  the  Dutch, 
and  overloaded  with  all  the  mongrel  words,  of 
which  Coomhert,  Spiegel,  and  Hoost  have  pu- 
rified the  Dutch." 

In  single  words  and  phrases,  the  Dutch  lan- 
guage strikingly  resembles  the  English;  as  in 
the  proverbs : 

"  Wannear  da  wljn  la  In  den  man, 

Dan  la  da  wi>faeld  In  da  kan"; 
which  hardly  needs  a  translation  into 

Whene'er  the  wine  la  In  the  man, 

Than  Is  tlw  wiadom  In  the  can. 
And  again, 

"Ab  April  blaaat  opxljn  boom, 

b  't  foad  Toor  hool  en  koom  " ; 
in  English, 

Whea  April  biowa  on  hia  horn, 

It  la  foad  for  haj  and  com.  * 

The  Dutch  is  said  also  to  preserve  a  more 
striking  resemblance  to  the  original  Gothic 
tongue  than  any  of  the  cognate  dialects.  For 
a  more  detailed  account  of  the  language  and 
its  history,  the  reader  is  referred  to  Bosworth, 
Meidinger,  Bowring,  and  Mone.t 

^  If  prorerba  maj  he  railed  on,  the  rBSemblanca  between 
Frisic  and  Engllah  la  atlll  greater ;  for 

"Bread,  butter,  and  green  cheaaa, 
b  good  Engllah  and  good  Frieae." 

But  let  not  the  reader  be  deluded  by  thla  into  the  belief  that 
he  can  read  Friaie  aa  eaallj  aa  Engllah. 

t  BoswoBTH.  Dictionary  of  the  Anglo-Sbxon  Langnage. 
Prefoea,  p.  xci.  —  MBmnfoaa.  Dictlonnaira  Gomparatif 
Introdnetion,  p^  xzxi.  —  Bowkixo.  Sketch  of  the  Lan- 
guage and  Literature  of  Holland.  Amaterdam :  18S9.  12mo.; 
Ilrat  pnbUahed  In  the  Foreign  Quarterly  Reriew,  Vol.  lY.  — 
Moif&  t)benicht  der  Niederlandiachan  Yolka-Litaratnr 
llterar  Zalt.  Tttbingen:  1838.  870.— See  alao  Gemeen- 
achap  toaaen  de  Oottiacha  Sptaeka  en  de  Nederduytacha. 
t* Amaterdam:  1710.  4to. 

The  hiaiorian  Niebuhr,  in  one  of  hla  letten,  girea  tlie 
foOowlng  account  of  tlie  dialecta  of  the  Netherlanda. 
"  I.  In  old  timea,  aa  in  the  aarenth  century,  the  Yaael 
formed  the  boundary  between  the  Friaiana  and  Saxona,  ao 
that  all  the  country  weet  of  thla  river,  excepting  a  portion 
of  Yelure,  belonged  to  Friealand,  which  waa  bounded  on  the' 
aouth  by  the  Maaa.  The  Zuyde^Zee,  or,  aa  It  waa  then 
called,  the  Ylie,  waa  atill  only  an  inland  lake,  and  Friealand 
extended  along  the  coaat  to  the  north  aa  for  aa  Schleawig. 
Inland,  It  reached,  at  moat  polnta,  aa  for  aa  the  great  mo- 
I,  which  extend  from  OreryBael  and  Dranthe,  through 


372 


DUTCH    LANGUAGE   AND    POETRY. 


The  history  of  Dutch  poetry  may  be  divided 
into  fiye  periods.  I.  From  the  earliest  times 
to  1600,  including  the  old  Flemish  writers. 
II.  From  1600  to  1700.  III.  From  1700  to 
1775.  IV.  From  1775  to  the  revolution  of 
1795.     V.  From  1795  to  the  present  time. 

I.  From  the  earliest  times  to  1600.  The  his- 
tory of  the  poetry  of  the  Netherlands  begins 
as  fiir  back  as  the  twelfth  century,  with  the 
rhymed  romance  of  «*  The  Siege  of  Troy  "  (De 
Trojaensehe  Oorlog)^  a  poem  of  between  three 
and  four  thousand  lines,  by  Seger  Dieregodgaf 
(Deodatus).  It  commences  with  a  royal  feast 
in  the  court  of  Priam,  and  ends  with  Hector's 
death.  To  the  same  century  belongs  the  won- 
derful ^*  Journey  of  St.  Brandaen"  (Reis  van 
SitUB  Brandaen)*  containing  an  account  of  his 
remarkable  adventures  by  sea  and  land;  how 
he  put  to  sea  with  his  chaplain  and  monks, 
and  provisions  for  nine  years ;  how,  after  sail- 
ing about  for  a  whole  year  without  sight  of 
shore,  they  landed  on  what,  like  Sinbad  the 
Sailor,  they  supposed  to  be  an  island,  but  found 
to  be  a  great  fish ;  how  they  all  took  to  their 
heels,  and  were  no  sooner  on  board  than  the 
fish  sank  and  came  near  swamping  their  ship ; 
how  they  were  followed  by  a  sea-monster,  half 
woman,  half  fish  (half  wijf,  half  visch),  which 
the  Saint  sank  with  a  prayer;  how  they  came 
to  a  country  of  scoriae  and  cinders  (drossaerden 
en  schinkers)j  where  they  suffered  from  the  ex- 
tremes of  heat  and  cold ;  how  they  were  driven 


Westphalia,  Into  the  cofanty  of  Hoja.  These  were  the 
northern  Umlts  of  the  Westphalian  Sazona;  and  I  find  that 
the  word  which  I  heard  in  Suhlingen,  and  auppoaed  to  be 
Prialan,  really  belongs  to  this  language.  Oreryssel  is 
therefore  purely  Saxon.  2.  The  ancient  inhabitants  of  Bra- 
bant, Flanders,  and  the  country  between  the  Maas  and  the 
Rhine,  before  and  under  the  Romans,  seem  to  have  been  of 
the  same  race  as  the  Frisians.  But  in  the  last  mentioned 
country,  and  in  the  Betuve,  the  Franks  settled  in  the  fourth 
century,  and  altered  the  dialect  still  more  than  in  the  coun- 
tries west  of  the  Maas,  where  they  never  were  so  numerous. 
Howerer,  here  as  well  as  there.  It  was  their  supremacy 
which  aflbcted  the  language  most.  3w  Low  Dutch  is  not  an 
original  language,  but  Frisian,  modified  by  the  influence  of 
Fiankish  and  Saxon.  The  most  distinctive  words  are  orig- 
inally Frisian,  and  indigenous  In  no  other  German  dialect. 
This  appears  especially  in  the  particles,  which  in  all  lan- 
guages are  least  borrowed,  and  therefore  the  most  charac- 
teristic parts  of  it.  All  words  in  HoUandish,  which  resem- 
ble Danish  or  English,  and  vary  fh»m  German,  are  Frisian. 
4.  The  mixture  of  Frankish  arose  through  the  conquest  and 
settlement  of  the  Frsnks ;  that  of  Saxon,  through  the  cir^ 
cumstance  that  Low  Saxon  was  from  early  times  the  writ- 
ten language  of  these  regions.  Thence  comes  the  Low 
Dutch  mode  of  spelling,  which  deceives  the  Low  Skxon ; 
for  many  words  are  spelt  as  they  formerly  were  with  us, 
but  pronounced  quite  diflferently.  Hence  It  is  that  the 
sound  u  is  designated  by  oe.  They  pronounce  mAdf  blAd, 
hAd,  mAder;  and  write,  as  they  formerly  did  with  us,  moed, 
bloed,  hoed,  moeder.  5.  In  the  thirteenth  century  the 
present  hmguage  of  Holland  already  existed,  and  was  near- 
er to  German  than  now."— Foreign  Quarterly  Review, 
VoL  ZXXI.,  pp.  388,  890. 

♦  This  old  n>manc«  is  probably  of  French  origin.  There 
is  a  poem  on  the  same  subject  by  an  Anglo-Norman  T^rra- 
v^re,  of  which  an  analysis,  with  extracta,  may  be  found  In 
Blackwood's  Magaalne,  Vol.  ZXXIZ.,  p.  807. 


by  a  storm  into  the  Leverzee  (the  old  Gkrman 
Lebermeer)^  where  they  saw  a  mast  rise  from 
the  water,  and  heard  a  mysterious  voice,  bid- 
ding them  sail  eastward,  to  avoid  the  Magnetic 
Rocks,  that  drew  to  them  all  that  passed  too 
near;  how  they  steered  eastward,  and  saw  a 
beautiful  church  on  a  rock,  wherein  were  sev- 
en monks,  fed  with  food  from  Paradise  by  a 
dove  and  a  raven ;  how  they  were  driven  by 
a  southwest  wind  into  the  Wild  Sea,  in  the 
midst  of  which  they  found  a  man  perched  oo 
a  solitary  rock,  who  informed  them  he  was  the 
king  of  Pamphylia  in  Cappadocia,  and,  having 
been  shipwrecked  there  ninety-nine  years  pre- 
vious, had  ever  since  been  sitting  alone  on  that 
solitary  rock ;  how  they  came  to  a  (earful  whirl- 
pool called  Helleput,  or  Pit  of  Hell,  where 
they  heard  the  lamentations  of  damned  souls ; 
how  they  arrived  in  Donkerland,  a  land  cover- 
ed with  gold  and  jewels  instead  of  grass,  and 
watered  by  a  fountain  of  oil  and  honey ;  how 
one  of  the  monks  stole  there  a  costly  bridle, 
by  which  afterwards  a  devil  dragged  him  down 
to  hell ;  how  they  came  to  a  goodly  castle, 
at  the  gate  of  which  sat  an  old  man  with  a 
gray  beard,  and  beside  him  an  angel  with  a 
flaming  sword ;  how  the  monks  loaded  their 
ship  with  gold,  and  a  great  storm  rose,  and  St 
Brandaen  prayed,  and  a  demon  came  with  the 
lost  monk  on  his  shoulders,  and  threw  him  into 
the  rigging  of  the  ship ;  how  they  sailed  near 
the  Burning  Castle  (Brandenden  Bureht)  and 
heard  the  dialogues  of  devils ;  how  they  came 
to  the  Mount  of  Syoen,  and  found  there  a  castle 
whose  walls  were  of  crystal,  inset  with  bronze 
lions  and  leopards,  the  dwelling  of  the  Walschr- 
ander,  or  rebel  angels;  how  they  journeyed 
fiirther  and  ibund  a  little  man  no  bigger  than 
one*s  thumb,  trying  to  bail  out  the  sea  ;  how  a 
mighty  serpent  wound  himself  round  the  ship, 
and,  taking  his  tail  in  his  mouth,  held  them 
prisoners  fbr  fourteen  days ;  and  finally,  how 
they  came  to  anchor,  and  St  Brandaen  asked 
his  chaplain  Noe  if  he  had  recorded  all  these 
wonders,  and  the  chaplain  Noe  answered, 
*«  Thank  God,  the  book  is  written  **  {God  done, 
dxthoec  esvoUcreven).  And  so  ends  this  ancient 
*^  Divina  Commedia  **  of  the  Flemish  School ; 
not  unlike,  in  its  general  tone  and  coloring, 
"The  Vision  of  Frate  Alberico,'*  or  "The  Le- 
gend of  Barlaam  and  Josaphat,**  and  the  rest 
of  the  ghostly  legends  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
which  mingled  together  monkhood  and  knight- 
errantry.* 

To  the  close  of  this  century  is  referred,  also, 
the  famous  poem  of  "  Renard  the  Fox  '*  (Rei' 
naert  de  Vos),  in  its  antique  Flemish  form.  "In 
all  probability,"  says  Willems,  in  the  Introduc- 
tion to  his  beautiful  edition  of  this  work,  "  the 
fable  of  the  Fox  and  the  Wolf  was  known 
among  us  as  early  as  the  ninth  century;   but 

«  Oodvlaemsche  Oedichten  der  XII*,  Zlli*,  en  XIV* 
Eenwen,  nltgegeven  door  Jovunu  Ph.  BummAMn.  Gent: 
1638-41.    8ro. 


DUTCH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


373 


the  poem  of  which  we  here  ipeek  aeems  to 
hmve  been  composed  in  the  lecond  bmlf  of  the 
twelfth  century,  probably  about  the  year  1170. 
All  circumatancea  conspire  to  fix  this  date ;  so 
that  the  *  Reinaert '  may  be  regarded  as  the 
oldest  known  poem  in  oar  mother  tongue,  of 
which  the  Netherlanders  can  boast."  * 

In  the  thirteenth  century  flourished  Jacob 
Tan  Maerlant,  the  lather  of  Dutch  poetry.  He 
was  bom  at  Damme,  in  Flanders,  and  i^logizes 
ibr  his  use  of  Flemish  words  in  his  poems : 

"For  I  am  Flemjrth,  I  yow  bewcbe, 
Of  youre  curteaye,  al  and  ecbe, 
That  ahal  tkya  Bocbe  ehaunce  peniaa. 
Unto  mo  nat  yours  graco  raAiaa : 
And  jf  ye  fynden  any  wordo 
In  youre  countray  that  ys  unbeido, 
Tbynketh  that  clerkys  for  her  ryroe 
TUcen  a  laulUe  wordo  aomtymo."  f 

His  principal  works  are  his  ^*  Poetic  Para- 
phrase of  the  Scriptures"  {Rijmbijhd) ;  and  the 
«'  Mirror  of  History  "  (Spugd  HUtariel)^  a  free 
translation  of  the  ^*  Speculum  Historiale  "  of 
Vincent  de  Beauvais.  To  the  same  century 
belong  Melis  Stoke,  author  of  a  ^*  Rhyme- 
Chronicle  "  of  Holland  (Rijmkronijk) ;  —  Jan 
▼an  Heelu,  who  celebrated  in  song  the  victory 
of  Duke  John  of  Brabant  in  Gelderland ;  — 
Heijmic  van  Holland,  author  of  ^^  The  Power 
of  the  Moon,"  (De  Kragt  dor  Maane);  —  Friar 
Thomas,  author  of  a  poem  on  **  Natural  Phi- 
losophy "  (J^atmirhinde) ;  —  Claes  van  Brecht- 
en,  translator  of  some  of  tbe  romances  of  the 
Round  Table;  — Willem  Utenhoyen;  —  Calf- 
ataf  and  Noijdekijn,  of  which  last  two  Maerlant 
makes  honorable  mention,  as  translators  of 
<«£sop*s  Fables": 

"  These  haTo  ChlfiAaf  and  Noijdekijn 
Put  into  rhyme  so  fidr  and  fine." 

The  chief  poetic  names  that  have  sunriyed 
the  civil  wars  of  the  fourteenth  century  are 
Lodewijk  van  Velthem,  author  of  a  **  Rijm- 
kronijk  " ;  and  Jan  de  Clerk,  author  of  «« Bra- 
bantscbe  Jeesten  "  (Gesta),  the  ^*  Dietschen  Doc- 
trinael,"  and  the  didactic  poem  of  *^  Ldkenspie- 
gel,"  or  Mirror  for  Laymen.  Niclaes  de  Clerk 
and  Jan  Dekens  are  also  mentioned ;  but  the 
personal  identity  of  the  last  seems  to  be  con- 
founded with  that  of  Jan  de  Clerk.t  To  these 
may  be  added  Jan  de  Weert,  and  Class  Willems, 
and  the  list  is  nearly,  if  not  quite,  complete. 
Tbe  bloody  feuds  of  the  Hoekseken  and  the 
KabheljauwMken  were  not  fiiTorable  to  poetry. 
To  this  period,  however,  are  to  be  referred  a 
great  number  of  old  chivalrous  romances,  of 
French,  German,  and  Scandinavian  origin ;  as, 
>'Roknd,"  "Olger  the  Dane,"  «« Lancelot," 
«<Parcival,"  "The  Holy  Grail,"  and  many 
more.  At  the  close  of  the  century,  also,  the 
Kamem    der    Rederijkem^    or    Chambers    of 

*  Reinsert  de  Voe,  epioch  fkbeUicht  van  de  Twaellde  en 
Sertieode  Eeaw,  met  aenmerklngen  en  opheideringen  ran 
J.  F.  W1U.S11S.    Gent:  1836.    6rtn 

t  Bowawa.    BaUrian  Anthology,  p.  9S. 

I  Sss  Moiia,  p.  lia 


Rhetoricians,  had  their  origin ;  bat  as  they 
flourished  more  eitensively  during  the  follow- 
ing century,  the  notice  of  them  properly  belongs 
to  that  period. 

The  literary  names  of  the  fifteenth  century 
are  hardly  more  numerous  than  those  of  the 
fourteenth.  The  only  ones  of  any  note  are 
Jan  Van  den  Dale,  Anton  de  Rovere,  Dirk  van 
Munster,  and  Lambertus  Goetman,  who  seem 
to  have  been  honest  burghers,  and  some  of  them 
respectable  members  of  the  Chambers  of  Rhet- 
oric. These  Chambers  were  to  Holland,  in  the 
fifteenth  century,  what  the  Guilds  of  the  Meis- 
tersingers  were  to  Germany,  and  were  numei^ 
ous  throughout  the  Netherlands.  Brussels  could 
boast  of  ivB ;  Antwerp  of  four ;  Lou  vain  of 
three ;  and  Ghent,  Bruges,  Malines,  Middel- 
burg,  Gouda,  Haarlem,  and  Amsterdam  of  at 
least  one.  Each  chamber  had  its  coat  of  arms 
and  its  standard,  and  the  directors  bore  tbe  title 
of  Princes  and  Deans.  At  times  they  gave 
public  representations  of  poetic  dialogues  and 
stage-plays,  called  S^fden  vtm  Shme^  or  Morali- 
ties. Like  the  Meistersingers,  they  gave  singular 
titles  to  their  songs  and  metres.  A  verse  was 
called  a  Regd  ;  a  strophe,  a  CZottfe  ;  and  a  burden 
or  refrain,  a  Stoekregd,  If  a  half-verse  closed 
a  strophe,  it  was  called  a  Steert,  or  tail.  Trfd" 
tpelen^  and  Spelen  vtm  Simu^  were  the  titles  of 
the  dramatic  exhibitions ;  and  the  rhymed  in- 
vitation to  these  was  called  a  CharUj  or  Uit- 
raep  (outcry).  KeUniichten  (chain-poems)  are 
short  poems  in  which  the  last  word  of  each 
line  rhymes  with  the  first  of  the  line  following ; 
Scatkberd  (checker-board),  a  poem  of  sixty-four 
lines,  so  rhymed,  that  in  every  direction  it 
forms  a  strophe  of  eight  lines ;  and  Dobhd- 
steert  (double-tail),  a  poem  in  which  a  double 
rhyme  closes  each  line.* 

Upon  this  subject  Dr.  Bowring  says :  ^<  The 
degeneracy  of  the  language  may  mainly  be  at- 
tributed to  the  wandering  orators  {tprekers)^ 
who,  being  called  to  the  courts  of  princes,  or 
admitted  though  uninvited,  rehearsed,  for  mon- 
ey, the  miserable  doggerel  produced  by  them- 
selves or  others.  These  people  afterwards 
formed  themselves,  in  Flanders  and  Brabant, 
into  literary  societies,  which  were  known  by 
the  name  of  Chambers  of  Rhetoricians  (^Kamem 
der  Rketorijkem  or  Rederijkem)^  and  which 
offered  prizes  to  the  most  meritorious  poets. 
The  first  Chambers  appear  to  have  been  found- 
ed at  Dixmuiden  and  Antwerp  :  at  the  former 
place  in  1394,  and  at  the  latter  in  1400.  These 
societies  were  formed  in  imitation  of  the  French, 
who  began  to  institute  them  about  the  middle 


*  With  the  Rederl  jkem,  Hood'e  amoelnf  "  Nocturnal 
Sketch  "  would  hare  been  a  Driedobbehteert,  or  a  poem 
with  three  tails : 

"  Eren  is  come ;  and  from  the  dark  park,  hark, 
The  signal  of  the  setting  sun,  one  gun! 
And  six  is  sounding  from  the  chime,  prime  time 
To  go  and  see  the  Drunr-Lane  Dane  slain. 
Anon  Night  comes,  and  with  her  wings  brings  things 
Such  as  with  his  poetic  tongue  Young  sung." 


374 


DUTCH   LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


of  the  fourteenth  century,  under  the  name  of 
CidUges  de  Rh6tariqM,  The  example  of  Flan- 
ders was  speedily  followed  by  Zeeland  and 
Holland.  In  1430,  there  was  a  Chamber  at 
Middelburg ;  in  1433,  at  Vlaardingen  ;  in  1434, 
at  Nieuwkerk ;  and  in  1437,  at  Gouda.  Even 
insignificant  Dutch  villages  had  their  Chambers. 
Among  others,  one  was  founded  in  the  Lier,  in 
the  year  1480.  In  the  remaining  provinces 
they  met  with  less  encouragement.  They  ex- 
isted, however,  at  Utrecht,  Amersfbort,  Leeuw- 
aarden,  and  Hasselt.  The  purity  of  the  Ian- 
guoge  was  completely  undermined  by  the  rhym- 
ing self-called  Rhetoricians,  and  their  aban- 
doned courses  brought  poetry  itself  into  dis- 
repute. All  distinction  of  genders  was  nearly 
abandoned ;  the  original  abundance  of  words 
ran  waste ;  and  that  which  was  left  became 
completely  overwhelmed  by  a  torrent  of  bar- 
barous terms."  * 

To  the  fifteenth  century  belongs  the  earliest 
specimen  of  the  Dutch  drama.  It  is  one  of  the 
Spden  van  Sinne,  or  Moralities  of  the  Rederij- 
kern,  entitled  "  The  First  Joy  of  Maria  "  (Z)« 
eerste  bltscap  van  Maria),  and  was  performed  in 
the  public  square  of  Brussels  during  the  reign 
of  Philip  the  Good,  in  1444,  by  the  Kersauwe 
Chamber  of  Rhetoric.  It  seems  to  have  been 
rather  a  splendid  spectacle  ;  for  the  characters 
introduced  ara  Envy,  Lucifer,  Serpent,  Eve, 
Adam,  God,  Angel,  two  children,  Seth,  David, 
Job,  Esaias,  Misery,  Prayer,  Charity,  Right- 
eousness, Truth,  the  Holy  Ghost,  God's  Son, 
Peace,  Joachim,  Bishop,  Priest,  Anna,  two 
peasants,  Maria,  two  young  men,  Joseph,  and 
Gabriel.  Six  other  spiritual  plays,  on  the  six 
other  joys  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  were  composed 
by  them ;  one  of  which  was  annually  performed 
by  command  of  the  city  of  Brussels.  Wage- 
naer,  in  his  **  Description  of  Amsterdam,"!  gives 
a  copy  of  a  painter's  bill  for  work  done  at  the 
play-house  in  the  town  of  Alkmaar,  of  which 
the  following  is  a  translation  :  * 

"  Imprimis,  made  for  the  Clerks  a  Hell ; 
Item,  the  Fbrilion  of  &taa ; 
Item,  two  pairs  of  DeTil's-breecbes ; 
Item,  a  Shield  for  the  Christian  Knight ; 
Item,  hare  painted  the  DbtIIb  whenever  the/  played ; 
Item,  some  Arrows  and  other  small  matters. 
Sum  total ;  worth  in  all  zii.  guilders. 

"Jaqttis  Mol. 
"Paid,  October  rill.,  96  [1495]." 

It  was  customary  for  the  various  Chambers 
of  Rhetoric  to  meet  together,  and  perform  plays 
in  rivalship  of  each  other.  These  meetings 
were  held  in  all  the  principal  cities  of  Flan- 
ders. '  Thirteen  are  on  record  between  the 
years  1441   and   1599.     They  were  of  three 

*  Batavian  Anthology,  pp.  27, 2a  —For  further  and  more 
minute  information  on  the  subject  of  the  Rederijkern  the 
reader  U  referred  to  Mom's  NiederULndische  Volks-Lltent- 
tur ;— Kop.  Schets  eener  geschiedenis  der  Rederijkeren,  in 
the  Second  Fbct  of  the  Transactions  of  the  Leydsn  Society 
of  Belles-Lettres ;  and  Castblsym ,  De  Const  ran  Rethori- 
ken :  Gent :  1560,  12mo. 

t  Beschryvning  ran  Amsterdam,  VoL  H.,  p.  392. 


different  kinds,  according  to  the  number  of 
Chambers  assembled.  The  simplest  form  wu 
when  one  or  two  Chambers  united  to  represent 
a  single  play.  When  several  joined  in  the  fes- 
tival, it  was  called  a  Haegspel ;  and  when  all, 
or  nearly  all,  came  together,  a  Landt-Juwed. 

The  palmiest  days  of  the  Rederijkern  were 
in  the  sixieenth  century.  In  the  year  1539, 
nineteen  Chambers  met  at  Ghent,  and  the  play- 
ing lasted  from  the  12th  to  the  23d  of  June. 
The  Antwerp  Chamber  bore  away  the  highest 
prize,  consisting  of  four  silver  tankards  of  nine 
marks'  weight;  and  Sinte  Wynocx-berge  the 
second,  three  silver  beakers  of  seven  marks' 
weight.  The  plays  performed  on  this  occasion 
were  published  at  Antwerp  during  the  same 
year.  A  second  edition  appeared  there  in  1562, 
and  a  third  at  Wesel  in  1564.* 

On  the  3d  of  August,  1561,  fourteen  Cham- 
bers of  Rhetoric,  from  various  Belgian  towns, 
held  a  Landt-Juweel  in  the  city  of  Antwerp. 
They  entered  the  city  in  procession,  on  horse- 
back, arrayed  in  gorgeous  dresses  of  scarlet, 
violet,  and  green,  with  plumes,  and  banners, 
and  devices.  Each  Chamber  was  followed  by 
its  SpdtDoghenen,  or  carts,  upon  which  were 
performed,  as  on  a  stage,  the  Spelen  van  Sinne. 
The  fourteen  Chambers  were  :  1.  The  Golden 
Flower  of  Antwerp ;  2.  The  Olive-branch  of 
Antwerp ;  3.  The  Passion-flower  of  Bergen 
op  Zoom ;  4.  The  Piony  of  Mechlin  ;  5.  The 
Evergreen  of  Lier ;  6.  The  Fleur  de  Lis  of 
Mechlin  ;  7.  The  Pumpkin  of  Herenthals; 
8.  The  Golden  Flower  of  Vilvoorden ;  9.  The 
Lily  of  Diest ;  10.  The  Lily  of  the  Valley  of 
Leeuwen  ;  11.  The  Oculus  Christi  of  Diest; 
12.  The  Rose  of  Loven ;  13.  The  Holy  Thorn 
of  Schertoghenbosch  ;  14.  The  Garland  of  Ma- 
ria of  Brussels. 

The  Chambers  were  received  with  great 
pomp  by  the  Gillyflower  of  Antwerp,  the 
founders  of  the  festival  (Opsetters  des  Landl' 
Juweds),  and  conducted  to  the  market-place, 
where  the  plays  were  performed.  In  the  fol- 
lowing year,  these  plays  were  printed  by  Wil- 
lem  Silvius  in  a  handsome  volume,  with  the 
escutcheons  of  the  several  Chambers,  and  a 
description  of  the  triumphal  entry.  The  title 
of  the  work  is,  **  Spden  van  Siune :  full  of  beau- 
tiful Moral  Expositions  and  Representations 
of  all  the  Fine  Arts,  wherein  clearly,  as  in  a 
Mirror,  figuratively,  poetically,  and  rhetorically, 
may  be  seen  how  necessary  and  serviceable 
these  same  Arts  are  to  all  Mankind."  Most  of 
these  pieces  are  allegorical,  with  such  charac- 
ters as  Common  Report,  Carnal  Delight,  Small 
Profit,  Greedy  Heart,  Subtle  Conceit,  and  Stout- 
in-Adventure.  Some  aspire  to  a  classic  tone, 
and  represent  the  gods  of  Greece ;  and  one  is 
a  conversation  between  Bacchus,  who  is  called 
the  Wijnen  Pairoon^  and  his  retainers.  Malmsey, 
Roman^,  Ay,  Rhine-Wine,  and  Leus-Beer. 


*■  Spelen  van  Sinne  bj  den  XIV.  ghaconfirmeerdeo  ca- 
maren  ran  rbethori  jkem,  &c.    Thantwerpen :  1639.    8vo. 


DUTCH   LANGUAGE   AND  POETRY. 


375 


The  poetic  names  of  the  sixteenth  century 
are  few  in  number,  and  not  of  great  renown. 
The  chief  of  them  are  Hendrik  Spieghel,  au- 
thor of  a  didactic  poem,  called  *^  The  Mirror 
of  the  Heart"  (Her£5pi€^eO;^ Dirk  Volkert 
Coomherts,  translator  of  Homer,  Cicero,  and 
Boflthius ;  — Petrus  Dathenus,  translator  of  the 
Psalms ;  —  Roemer  Visscher,  called  the  Dutch 
Martial ;  —  and  Anna  Byns,  the  Dutch  Sappho. 
Due  mention  should  here  be  made  of  the 
old  ballads  and  popular  songs  of  Holland, 
which  extend  back  as  far  as  the  fourteenth 
century.  Among  them  is  a  vast  number  of 
Christmas  carols,  Easter  hymns,  Pater-Nosters, 
Aye-Marias,  Salve-Reginas,  songs  on  the  cross 
and  the  name  of  Jesus,  the  ballads  of  Sister 
Bertha,  and  the  love-songs  of  a  nun,  who  calls 
herself  a  wretched  woman  (elUndeeh  teijf),  and 
laments  that  she  has  never  known  what  love 
is,  and  shall  go  to  her  grave  without  knowing 
it.  Speaking  of  these  old  spiritual  songs,  Hoff- 
mann says,  in  his  Preface  :  "  The  older  spiritual 
poetry  of  Holland,  at  least  that  part  of  it  which 
is  extant  in  the  form  of  songs,  existed  for  a 
very  limited  period.  The  greater  portion  of 
the  songs  of  thjs  class  appeared  in  the  middle  of 
the  fifteenth  century,  and  disappeared  again 
before  the  close  of  the  following  one.  Many 
had  found  favor  with  the  people,  and  might 
therefore  justly  lay  claim  to  the  title  of  popular 
songs.  These,  like  all  the  religious  ones,  were 
for  the  most  part  either  adapted  to  the  airs  of 
profone  ones,  or  imitated  from  them ;  the  great- 
er number  were,  however,  not  so  widely  spread, 
but  confined  rather  to  the  circle  of  private  de- 
votion. Moreover,  from  the  nature  of  their 
contents,  they  were  of  necessity  kept  within  a 
very  limited  circle ;  for  the  greatest  number  of 
them  consisted  of  songs  which  treated  of  the 
nature  and  circumstances  of  the  loving  soul, 
and  of  the  means  whereby  it  sought  to  gain  the 
affections  of  its  Bridegroom,  —  Jesus  Christ. 
The  other  divisions  of  the  sacred  songs  were 
aeverally  devoted  to  the  celebration  of  the  birth 
and  resurrection  of  Christ,  and  to  the  praises 
of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  Thus,  then,  the  earlier 
sacred  poetry  of  Holland  consisted  only  of  four 
descriptions  of  songs,  namely,  the  Christmas 
Carols,  the  Easter  Hymns,  the  Songs  of  the 
Virgin,  and  the  Songs  of  Christian  Doctrine."  * 

Among  these  popular  songs  will  be  found  also 
some  romantic  ballads,  and  others  of  a  historic 
character.  Two  collections  have  recently  been 
published  by  Le  Jeune  and  Hoffmann.t 

II.  From  1600  to  1700.  The  seventeenth 
century  was  the  Augustan  age  of  Holland. 
Then  lived  and  labored  her  greatest  men  in  the 
arts  of  peace  and  war; —  her  admirals,  Heems- 
kerk,  Ruyter,  and  Tromp;  —  her  statesmen, 

*  Poniga  Quarteily  IteTiew,  VoL  ZIY.,  p.  164. 

t  LotterkuDdif  ovanigt  en  proerea  van  de  Nederiand- 
■clM  Tolknuig6D  wdert  de  ZVd«  eeuw,  door  Mr.  J.  G.  W. 
Lb  jBinvB.  Tb  *8  OraTenbage :  1838.  Svo.  —  HoU&ndlscbe 
Vollcalieder,  geaammelt  und  erULutert  von  Dr.  HaiMaxoH 
HoFVMAini.    Bieslttt:  1833.    8to. 


Barneveld,  Grotius,  and  De  Witt ;  —  her  schol- 
ars, Scaliger,  Salmasius,  and  Gronovius ;  —  her 
men  of  science,  Leoninus,  Aldegonde,  and  Dou- 
sa; — her  painters,  Rubens,  Rembrandt,  and 
Vandyk ;  —  her  poets,  Hoofl,  Vondel,  and  Cats ; 
and  many  more,  almost  as  illustrious  in  their  va- 
rious spheres  of  thought  and  action.  Piet  Hein's 
celebrated  victory  over  the  Silver  Fleet  of  Spain 
is  but  a  type  of  the  victories  and  treasures  won 
by  otheta  in  the  domain  of  intellect.  The  names 
of  more  than  sixty  poets  adorn  the  annals  of  that 
age.  Of  the  best  of  these  biographical  sketchef 
will  be  given  in  connection  with  the  extracts 
from  their  writings.  To  these  the  reader  is  re- 
fonred  for  the  history  of  Dutch  poetry  during 
the  seventeenth  century. 

III.  From  1700  to  1775.  This  is  a  darker 
period  in  the  hbtory  of  Dutch  poetry,  and  by 
its  darkness  increases  the  brilliancy  of  that 
which  preceded  it : 

"  O  thon  vain  f^orj  of  the  human  powers, 
How  little  gnen  upon  thy  eanunit  lingen, 
If 't  be  not  foUowed  bf  a  gioeaer  age  I " 
An  English  writer  pronoifhces  the  following 
summary  and  severe  judgment  upon  this  period : 
**  There  is  little   but  weariness  now  and  for 
some  time  forward.     Rotgans  b  hardly  entitled 
to  be  mentioned;  nor  Langendyk,  who  seems 
to  have  been  a  joyous  creature,  but  not  a  very 
wise  one.      There  is  an   absolute  deluge  of 
rhymesters.     Some  fow  eminent  men  appeared 
in  the  field  of  philology,  particularly  Ten  Kate, 
whose  knowledge  of  the  principal  sources  of 
the   Dutch   tongue   enabled   him  to  treat  the 
subject  with  originality  and  with  success. 

**  Perhaps  the  only  poetical  name  that  ought 
to  be  rescued  from  amidst  these  obscurities  is 
Poots,  the  poet  of  the  plough,  whom  we  men- 
tion more  because  he  was  a  ploughman,  than 
because  we  deem  him  a  poet.  Of  himself  he 
says: 

'* '  I  am  a  peanat*s  eon,  no  wealth  bare  I, 

For  wanton  Fortune  tuma  her  back  on  me ; 
Even  to  thie  hour  my  hands  my  food  supply. 

Though  young,  I  hailed  the  light  of  poetry, 
With  Hooft  and  Vondel  erer  in  mine  eye, 
lioet  in  her  wastes,  and  sought,  at  distance  long, 
To  follow  her  proud  swans,  and  imitate  tlieir  song.' 

His  best  pieces  are  his  *  De  Maan  by  Endy- 
mion '  (The  Moon  by  Endymion),  *  Wachten ' 
(Watching),  and  «Het  Landleven '  (Country 
Life).  De  Clercq  has  foncied  a  resemblance 
between  him  and  Burns :  it  goes  no  further 
than  that  they  both  followed  the  wain,  and 
both  made  verses,  —  Burns,  full  of  nature, 
beauty,  truth,  and  power,  —  Poots,  usually  bom- 
bastic, mythological,  false,  and  feeble. 

**  Holland  was  next  deluged  with  a  flood  of 
translations,  imitations,  and  adaptations  of  the 
masterpieces  of  the  French  drama ;  the  effect 
was  to  introduce  a  false  and  foreign  taste,  and 
a  determination  to  sacrifice  all  nationality  on 
the  altar  of  the  unities.  A  handful  of  pedants 
took  possession  of  the  whole  field  of  literature, 


376 


DUTCH   LANGUAGE   AND   POETRY. 


with  their  overaettings  (overzetHngen),  mis- 
speecbifyings  (vertaaUngen),  and  dislocations 
(verplaatsingat),  of  the  dramatists  of  France. 
IndiTidually  weak,  they  tried  to  become  strong 
by  association,  and  they  banded  together  to  bring 
the  histrionic  genius  of  the  Seine  to  preside  over 

the  Gragis  of  the  Amstel The  next  step 

in  Holland  was  to  make  French  prose  the  text  of 
Dutch  poetry ;  the  versified  translation  of  F6n6- 
lon*8  admirable  romance  occupied  no  less  than 
twenty  years  of  the  life  of  a  man  who  was  the 
great  authority  of  his  day  and  generation,  but 
who  is  now  forgotten, — Feitama.  His  transla- 
tion was  ushered  into  the  world  with  a  '  flourish 
of  trumpets '  sufficient  to  shake  the  walls  of  Jeri- 
cho. The  art  of  puffing  was  then  but  imperfectly 
understood ;  yet  year  after  year  the  progress  of 
the  mountain's  lalx>r  was  announced,  a  thousand 
minute-guns  told  mankind  the  hour  of  parturi- 
tion was  come,  et  tuiscitur — amidst  the  roar 
of  the  artillery  —  a  trumpery  brat,  that  died  in 
childhood,  whose  story  is  already  in  oblivion, 
and  whose  name  was  *  Feitama's  Telemachus.' 
Feitama  was  a  pernicious  literary  ibp,  who  set- 
tled all  matters  of  taste  in  his  day,  and  got 
round  him  a  circle  of  worshippers.  The  delu- 
sion was  soon  dissipated,  and  we  need  not  lin- 
ger about  it.  Schim  is  tasteless,  De  Marre 
diffiise,  Zweerts  altogether  worthless ;  and  Di- 
dier  Smits,  whose  *  brilliant  qualities '  the  too 
laudatory  professor  too  precipitately  praises, 
was  a  very  virtuous  citizen,  but  nothing  more. 
Steenwyk,  who  was  Feitama's  fkvorite  follower, 
published  two  bombastic  epics,  in  which  divers 
grand  allegorical  personages  tread  on  the  heels 
of  one  another  in  fine  confusion."  * 

In  addition  to  the  names  so  lightly  spoken 
of  here,  may  be  mentioned,  as  belonging  to  the 
same  epoch,  Lucas  Schermer,  a  poet  of  great 
promise,  who  died  at  the  early  age  of  twenty- 
one  ;  -^  Arnold  Hoogvliet,  author  of  "  The  Pa- 
triarch Abraham,"  a  poem  in  twelve  cantos;  — 
Willem  Swanenburg,  author  of  *<  The  Muses 
of  a  Painter  " ;  —  Jaen  de  Marre,  author  of  the 
tragedies  of  <*  Jaqueline  de  Bavi6re  "  and  **  Mar- 
cus Curtius  "  ;  —  Philip  Sweers,  Frans  van 
Steenwijk,  Lucas  Pater,  Balthazar  Huydecoper, 
and  Onno  van  Haren,  all  of  them  dramatic 
writers.  Willem  van  Haren,  brother  of  the 
last  mentioned,  also  distinguished  himself  as  a 
poet,  and  it  was  to  him  that  Voltaire  addressed 
the  ode,  beginning,  *^  Demosthenes  in  the  Coun- 
cil and  Pindar  on  Parnassus  "  (DimostJUiu  au 
conseil  €t  Pindar e  au  Panuuse).  To  these  may 
be  added  the  names  of  Lucas  Trip,  burgomaster 
of  Groningen,  and  author  of  **  Time-saving  of 
Leisure  Hours,"  which  has  been  designated  by 
the  critics,  as  **one  of  those  gloomy  works, 
which,  like  Young's  *  Night  Thoughts,'  seem 
made  rather  to  destroy,  than  to  excite,  enjoy- 
ment " ; — ^Johannes  Eusebius  Voet,  translator  of 
the  Psalms;  —  and  Dirk  Smits,  a  custom-house 
officer  at  BLotterdam,  whose  &me  not  inappro- 

♦  Foraign  Qmrteriy  Review,  VoL  IT.,  ppi  57-W. 


priately  floats  on  a  poem  entitled  <*  The  River 
Rotte  "  (RoUestroom)^  the  river  whose  waters 
wash  the  quays  of  Rotterdam. 

IV.  From  1775  to  1795.  The  most  distin- 
guished poets  of  this  period  are  Nicolas  Simoo 
van  Winter,  author  of  <«  The  River  Amstel," 
«*The  Seasons,"  a  descriptive  poem  in  four 
cantos,  and  the  tragedies  of  <^Menzikofi"'  and 
**  Monzongo" ;  —  his  wife,  Lucretia  Wilhelmi- 
na  van  Merken,  authoress  of  several  tragedies, 
*<  David,"  an  heroic  poem  in  twelve  cantos, 
and  «*  Germanicus,"  an  epic  in  twenty-four;  — 
her  rival,  the  Baroness  Juliana  Cornelia  de  Lan- 
roy,  authoress  of  the  tragedies  of  *«Leo  the 
Great,"  ««The  Siege  of  Haarlem,"  and  *' Cle- 
opatra ";—Hmd  Jan  Nomsz,  Willem  Haver- 
korn,  Pieter  Uylenbroek,  and  Jan  Gerard 
Doovnik,  all  of  them  writers  for  the  stage. 
More  distinguished  than  these,  and  the  harbin- 
gers of  a  better  epoch,  are  Hieronimus  van 
Alpfaen,  author  of  many  popular  and  patriotic 
songs,  poetic  meditations,  and  poems  for  chil- 
dren, which  are  familiar  as  household  words  in 
every  fomily  in  Holland  ;  —  Jacobus  Bellamy, 
a  lyric  poet  of  great  tenderness  and  beauty, 
who  died  young ;  —  and  Peter  Nieawland,  son 
of  a  village  carpenter,  and  a  lyric  poet  of  great 
distinction.  Many  of  the  poets,  who,  properly 
speaking,  belong  to  the  next  period,  and  will 
there  be  introduced,  began  their  career  in  this. 

V.  From  1795  to  the  present  time.  A  list  of 
some  thirty  names  constitutes  the  poetic  cata- 
logue of  this  period,  and  completes  the  sketch 
of  Dutch  poetry.  The  most  distinguished  among 
them  are  Feith,  Helmers,  Bilderdijk,  Tollens, 
Borger,  Da  Costa,  Klijn,  Loots,  Van  Lennep, 
Nierstrasz,  Kinker,  Staring  van  der  Wilden- 
bosch,  Spandaw,  Withuis,  Loosjes,  Van  Winter, 
Simonsz,  and  Westerman.  Several  of  these  will 
be  more  particularly  noticed  hereafter ;  and  the 
remainder  must  be  passed  over  in  siLence. 

For  more  extended  notices  of  the  literature 
of  Holland  the  reader  is  referred  to  the  ^«  M^- 
moires  pour  servir  k  I'Histoire  Litt6raire  des 
Dix-iept  Provinces  des  Pays  Bas,"  par  M.  Pa- 
quot,  3  vols.,  folio,  and  18  vols.,  8vo.,  Loven, 
1765  -  70 ;  —  «<  Essai  sur  I'Histoire  de  la  Litt^- 
rature  N^erlandaise,"  par  J.  de  'S  Graven weert, 
Amsterdam,  1830, 8vo. ;— - «« Precis  de  I'Histoire 
Litt^raire  des  Pays  Bas,"  traduit  du  Hollandais 
de  M.  Siegenbeek,  par  H.  S.  Lebrooquy,  Ghent, 
1827,  18mo. ;  —  the  sketch  by  Van  Kampen  in 
Eichhom's  **Ge8chichte  der  Litteratur,"  Vol. 
III.,  Gottingen,  1812;  —  «<  Verhandling  van 
den  Heer  Willem  de  Clercq  ter  beantwoording 
der  vraage,  welken  invloed  heafl  vreemde  Let- 
terkunde,  Ac,,  gehad  op  de  Nederlandscbe  Taal 
en  Letterkunde,"  Amsterdam,  1825,  8vo.;  — 
and  the  ^*  Biographisch^  Anthologisch  en  Crit^ 
isch  Woordenl^k  der  Nederduitsche  Dichters," 
door  P.  G.  Witsen  Geysbeek,  6  vols.,  Amstei^ 
dam,  1821  -  27,  8vo.  To  these  may  be  added 
the  works  of  Hoffimann,  Mone,  Le  Jeune,  and 
Bo  wring,  cited  in  the  course  of  this  Introduction. 


BALLADS. 

THE   HUNTER  FROM   GREECE. 

«« Tou  boast  so  of  your  daughter,  I  wish  she  'd 

cross  my  way,  — 

A  HVNTXR  went  a-bunting  into  the  forest  wide, 

I  *d  steal  her  kisses  slyly,  and  bid  her  a  good  day." 

And  naught  he  found  to  hunt  but  a  man  whoie 

"  I  have  a  little  courser  that 's  swifter  than  the 

arms  were  tied. 

wind; 

"^  Hunter,"  quoth  he,  "  a  woman  is  roaming  in 

I  '11  lend  it  to  yon  slyly;  —  go,  seek,  —  the 

the  grove. 

maiden  find." 

And  to  your  joyous  youth-tide  a  deadly  bane 

Then  bravely  on  the  courser  galloped  the  hun^ 

shall  prove." 

er  lad: 

"What!  should  I  fear  a  woman,  who  never 

«•  Farewell  !    black   hag,  farewell  !    for  your 

feared  a  man  ?  " 

daughter  is  too  bad." 

Then  to  him,  while  yet  speaking,  the  cruel 

"  O,  had  I,  as  this  morning,  you  in  my  clutches 

woman  ran. 

back. 

She  seized  his  arms,  and  grasped  his  horse^s 

Tou   dared   not  then   have   called  me  —  yon 

reins,  and  hied 

dared  not  call  me  « black.' " 

Full  seventy  miles,  ascending  with   him  the 

She  struck  the  tree  in  fiiry  with  a  club-stick 

mountain's  side : 

which  she  took. 

The  mountains  they  were  lofty,  the  valleys 

Till  the  trees  in  the  greenwood  trembled,  and 

deep  and  low. 

all  the  green  leaves  shook. 

Two  sucklings  dead,  one  turning  upon  a  spit. 

he  saw : 

"  And  am  I  doomed  to  perish,  as  I  these  perish 

see? 

THE  FETTERED   NIGHTINGALE. 

Then  may  I  curse  my  fortune  that  I  a  Greek 

should  be." 

"  Now  I  will  speed  to  the  Eastern  land,  for 

"  What !  are  you,  then,  firom  Greece  ?  —  for  my 

there  my  sweet  love  dwells,  — 

husband  is  a  Greek  ;~ 

Over  hill  and  over  valley,  far  over  the  heather. 

And  tell  me  of  your  parents,  —  perchance  I 

for  there  my  sweet  love  dwells.    . 

know  them,  —  speak !  " 

And  two  fair  trees  are  standing  at  the  gates  of 

"  But  should  I  name  them,  they  may  to  you  be 

my  sweet  love : 

all  unknown  :  — 

One  bears  the  fragrant  nutmeg,  and  one  the 

My  fiither  is  the  monarch  of  Greece,  and  I  his 

fragrant  clove." 

son; 

"  The  nutmegs  were  so  round,  and  the  cloves 

And  Margaret  his  consort,  —  my  mother,  too. 

they  smelt  so  sweet, 

is  she; 

I  thought  a  knight  would  court  me,  and  but  a 

Tou  well  may  know  their  titles,  and  they  my 

mean  man  meet." 

parents  be." 

The  maiden  by  the  hand,  by  her  snow-white 

**  The  monarch  of  the  Grecians,  —  a  comely 

hand  he  led, 

man  and  gay  ;  — 

And  they  travelled  far  away  to  where  a  couch 

But  should  you  ne'er  grow  taller,  what  boots 

was  spread ; 

your  life,  I  pray  ? " 

And  there  they  lay  concealed  through  the  lov- 

» Why  should  I  not  grow  taller  ?     I  but  eleven 

ing  livelong  night, 

years  have  seen ; 

From  evening  to  the  morning,  till  broke  the  gay 

I  hope  I  shall  grow  taller  than  trees  in  the  for- 

daylight. 

est  green." 

"  And  the  sun  is  gone  to  rest,  and  the  stars  are 

"  How  hope  you  to  grow  taller  than  trees  in  the 

shining  clear ; 

forest  green  ?  — 

I  fain  would  hide  me  now  in  an  orchard  with 

I  hare  a  maiden  daughter,  a  young  and  graceful 

my  dear. 

queen, 

And  none  should  enter  then  my  orchard's  deep 

And  on  her  head  she  weareth  a  crown  of  pearls 

alcove. 

BO  fine; 

But   the    proud    nightingale    that  carols  high 

But  not  e'en  wooing  monarehs  should  have  that 

above." 

daughter  mine. 

"  We  '11  chain  the  nightingale, — his  head  unto 

Upon  her  breast  she  beareth  a  lily  and  a  sword. 

his  feet,  — 

And  even  hell's  black  tenants  all  tremble  at 

And  he  no  more  shall  chatter  of  lovers  when 

her  word." 

48 

they  meet." 

Fpa 

378 


DUTCH   POETRY. 


*(  I  'm  Dot  len  faithful  now,  although  in  fetters 

bound, 
And  still  will  chatter  on  of  two  sweet  lovers' 

wound." 


THE   KNIGHT  AND  HIS  SQUIRE. 

A  KNioHT  and  his  esquire  did  stray 

SanHo^ 
In  the  narrow  path  and  the  gloomy  way. 

Jion  loeder 
So  quoth  the  knight, — **Ton  tree  do  thou 

Santio 
Climb,  —  bring  the  turtle  from  the  bough." 

Jfon  weder 
"  Sir  Knight,  I  dare  not ;  for  the  tree 

Santio 
Is  far  too  light  to  carry  me." 

Jfon  weder 
The  knight  grew  grave  and  stem  ;  and  he 

Santio 
Mounted,  himself,  the  waving  tree. 

JWm  weder 
"  My  master  is  fallen  dead  below  ! 

Santio 
Where  are  my  well  earned  wages  now  ?  " 

JWm  weder 
(*  Tour  well  earned  wages  ?  get  you  all : 

Santio 
Chariots  and  steeds  are  in  the  stall." 

AVm  weder 
"  Chariots  and  steeds  I  seek  not  after, 

Santio 
But  I  will  have  the  youngest  daughter." 

Abn  weder 
The  squire  is  now  a  knight ;  and  still 

Santio 
Drives  steeds  and  chariots  at  his  will. 

Jfon  weder 


THE   THREE   MAIDENS. 

Therx  were  three  maidens  wandered  forth 
In  the  spring-time  of  the  year ; 

The  hail  and  the  snow  fell  thick  and  fast, 
And  all  three  barefooted  were. 

The  first  of  the  three  was  weeping  sore  ; 

With  joy  skipped  the  second  there  ; 
The  third  of  those  maidens  the  first  did  ask, 

"  O,  how  does  thy  true  love  fare  ?  " 

"  O,  why,  and  O,  wherefore  askest  thou, 

How  does  my  true  love  fare .' 
Three  men-at-arms  did  fall  upon  him,  — 

His  life  they  would  not  spare." 

1  The  chorus  of  this  romaoca  is,— 

Suitlo 

Non  weder  de  kneder  de  koorde  mute  Jante 
Iko,  kaoiiko  di  kandelaar  sli. 


^*  Did  three  men-at-arms  fiill  upon  him  ? 

His  life  would  they  not  spare  ? 
Another  lover  must  kiss  you,  then ; 

To  be  merry  and  glad  prepare." 

"If  another  lover  should  kiss  me,  then, 
O,  how  sad  would  my  poor  heart  be  ! 

Adieu,  my  fiither  and  mother  ! 
Ye  never  more  shall  see  me. 

"  Adieu,  my  father  and  mother. 
And  my  youngest  sister  dear ! 

And  I  will  to  the  green  linden  go,  — 
My  true  love  lieth  there." 


DAY  IN  THE  EAST  IS  DAWNmO. 

(<  Dav  in  the  east  is  dawning. 

Light  shineth  over  all ; 
How  little  knows  my  dearest 

What  fate  shall  me  befall ! 

"  Were  every  one  a  friend  to  me 
Whom  now  I  count  my  foe, 

I  'd  bear  thee  far  from  this  countree. 
My  trust,  my  own  true  joe ! " 

"  Then  whither  wouldst  thou  bear  me. 
Thou  knight  so  stout  and  gay  ?  " 

**  All  under  the  green  linden, 
Darling,  we  'd  take  our  way." 

**  In  my  love's  arms  I  *m  lying 

With  great  honor  per  fay  ; 
In  my  love's  arms  I  'm  lying. 

Thou  knight  so  stout  and  gay." 

"  In  thy  love's  arms  thou  'rt  lying .' 
Woe  's  me,  that  is  not  truth  ! 

Seek  under  the  green  linden,  — 
There  lies  he  slain  forsooth.'* 

The  maiden  took  her  mantle. 

And  hastened  on  her  way, 
Where  under  the  green  linden 

Her  murdered  lover  lay. 

*(  O,  liest  thou  here  murdered, 

And  bathed  in  thy  blood ! 
'T  is  all  because  of  thy  high  fame, 

Thy  noble  mind  and  good. 

<*  O,  Heat  thou  here  murdered. 

Who  wast  my  comfort  all ! 
Alas !  how  many  bitter  days 

Must  I  now  weep  thy  fall ! " 

The  maiden  turned  her  homewards. 

With  grief  and  dolor  sore. 
And  when  she  reached  her  fiither'a, 

Ydosed  was  every  door. 


CATS.— HOOFT. 


379 


(( What !  it  there  no  ooe  here  within. 

No  lord,  no  man  of  birth, 
Who  will  aasiat  me  bary 

This  corse  in  the  cold  earth  ?  " 

The  lords  within  stood  mute  and  still. 

No  help  to  her  they  lent ; 
The  maiden  turned  her  back  again, 

Loud  weeping  as  she  went. 

Then  with  her  hair  so  yellow 
She  cleansed  him  from  his  gore. 

And  with  her  hands  so  snowy 
His  wounds  she  covered  o'er. 


And  with  his  own  white  sword 
A  grave  ibr  him  she  made, 

And  with  her  own  white  arms 
His  corse  within  it  laid. 

And  with  her  hands  so  snowy 
Her  lover's  knell  she  rang, 

And  with  her  voice  so  gentle 
Her  lover's  dirge  she  sang. 

'« Now  to  some  lonely  cloister 
Straight  I  '11  myself  betake, 

And  wear  for  aye  a  sable  veil, 
For  my  own  true  love's  sake." 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 


JACOB  CATS. 

Jacob  Cats  was  bom  in  1577,  at  Brouwers- 
haven,  in  Zeeland.  He  studied  at  Leyden,  and 
afterwards  held  several  of  the  most  important 
offices  in  the  state.  He  was  Ambassador  to 
England,  and  afterwards,  duriog  Avb  years. 
Grand  Pensionary  of  Holland.  He  died  at  his 
estate  in  Zargvliet,  in  1660.  His  poems  con- 
sist of  fables,  songs,  allegories,  &c.  They  are 
distinguished  fbr  purity  and  simplicity  of  style, 
a  rich  fiincy,  and  delicate  morality.  His  works, 
after  having  been  long  neglecteid  and  almost 
forgotten,  were  republished  by  Bilderdijk  and 
Feith,  in  nineteen  volumes,  at  Amsterdam,  in 
1790-1800.  A  large  part  of  his  poems  ap- 
peared in  German  at  Hamburg,  in  eight  vol- 
nmea,  1710-17. 

IBE  IVY. 

Whsu  ivy  twines  around  a  tree, 
And  o'er  the  boughs  hangs  verdantly, 
Or  on  the  bark,  however  rough. 
It  seems,  indeed,  polite  enough ; 
And,  judging  from  external  things. 
We  deem  it  there  in  friendship  clings ; 
But  where  our  weak  and  mortal  eyea  . 
Attain  not,  hidden  treachery  lies  : 
'T  is  there  it  brings  decay  unseen. 
While  all  vnthout  seems  bright  and  green ; 
So  that  the  tree,  which  flourished  fair. 
Before  its  time  grows  old  and  bare; 
Then,  like  a  barren  log  of  wood. 
It  stands  in  lifeless  solitude  : 
For  treachery  drags  it  to  its  doom. 
Which  gives  but  blight, -^yet  promised  bloom. 

Thou,  whom  the  powerful  Fates  have  hurled 
'Midst  this  huge  forest  called  the  world, 
Know,  that  not  all  are  friends  whose  faces 
Are  hsibited  in  courteous  graces ; 


But  think  that  *neath  the  sweetest  smile 

Oft  lurk  self-ioterest,  hate,  and  guile  ; 

Or  that  some  gay  and  playful  joke 

Is  spite's  dark  sheath,  or  envy's  cloak. 

Then  love  not  each  who  offers  thee, 

In  seeming  truth,  his  amity  ; 

But  first  take  heed,  and  weigh  with  care. 

Ere  he  thy  love  and  favor  share  : 

For  those,  who  friends  too  lightly  choose. 

Soon  friends  and  all  besides  may  lose. 


THE  STATUE  OP  BfEMNON. 

Ws  read  in  books  of  ancient  lore. 
An  image  stood  in  days  of  yore, 
Which,  when  the  sun  with  splendor  dight 
Cast  on  its  lips  his  golden  light. 
Those  lips  gave  back  a  silver  sound. 
Which  filled  fbr  hours  the  waste  around  : 
But  when  again  the  living  blaze 
Withdrew  its  music-waking  rays, 
Or  passing  clouds  its  splendor  veiled. 
Or  evening  shades  its  face  concealed. 
This  image  stood  all  silent  there, 
Nor  lent  one  whisper  to  the  air. 
This  was  of  old.  —  And  even  now, 
The  man  who  lives  in  fortune's  glow 
Bears  off'the  palm  of  sense  and  knowledge. 
In  town  and  country,  court  and  college  ', 
And  all  assert,  nem.  am.,  whatever 
Comes  from  his  mouth  is  vastly  clever : 
But  when  the  glowing  sun  retires, 
His  reign  is  o'er,  and  dimmed  his  fires. 
And  all  his  praise  like  vapor  flies,  — 
For  who  e'er  calls  a  poor  man  wise  ? 


PIETER  CORNELIS   HOOFT. 

This  writer,  one  of  the  fathers  of  the  lit- 
erature of  Holland,  was  bom  at  Amsterdam, 


380 


DUTCH   POETRY. 


March  16th,  1581.  His  taste  was  formed  by 
the  study  of  the  ancient  classics,  and  by  his 
trayels  in  Italy.  As  a  literary  man,  he  dis- 
tinguished himself  both  in  historical  compo- 
sition and  in  poetry.  In  the  former,  Tacitus 
was  his  model,  and  the  translation  which  he 
published  of  this  great  historian  holds  the  rank 
of  a  classic.  He  wrote  the  "  Life  of  Heifry  the 
Fourth,*'  the  <«  History  of  the  House  of  Medi- 
ci," and  the  "History  of  the  Netherlands." 
The  last  is  considered  bis  most  important  work. 
As  a  poet,  he  is  regarded  as  the  creator  of  trage- 
dy and  of  erotic  poetry  in  Holland.  He  died 
at  the  Hague,  May  21,  1647. 


ANACREONTIC. 

Thrkk  long  years  have  o'erwhelmed  pie  in 
sadness. 

Since  the  sun  veiled  his  vision  of  gladness: 
Sorrow  be  banished,  —  for  sorrow  is  dreary ; 
Sorrow  and  gloom  but  outweary  the  weary. 

In  my  heart  I  perceive  the  day  breaking ; 

I  cannot  resist  its  awaking. 

On  my  brow  a  new  sun  is  arisen, 
And  bright  is  its  glance  o*er  my  prison  ; 
Gayly  and  grandly  it  sparkles  about  me, 
Flowingly  shines  it  within  and  without  me : 
Why,  why  should  dejection  disarm  me, — 
My  fears  or  my  fancies  alarm  me  f 

Laughing  light,  lovely  life,  in  the  heaven 
Of  thy  forehead  is  virtue  engraven; 
Thy  red  coral  lips,  when  they  breathe  an  as- 
senting. 
To  me  are  a  dawn  which  Apollo  is  painting ; 
Thy  eyes  drive  the  gloom,  with  their  spark- 
ling. 
Where  sadness  and  folly  sit  darkling. 

Lovely  eyes,  —  then  the  beauties  have  bound 

them. 
And  scattered  their  shadows  around  them ; 
Stars,   in   whose   twinklings   the   virtues   and 

graces. 
Sweetness  and  meekness,  all  hold  their  high- 
places  : 
But  the  brightest  of  stars  is  but  twilight. 
Compared  with  that  beautiful  eye-light. 

Fragrant  mouth, — all  the  flowers  spring  is 

wreathing 
Are  dull  to  the  sweets  thou  art  breathing ; 
The  charms  of  thy  song  might  summon  the 

spirit 
To  sit  on  the  ears  all-enchanted  to  hear  it : 
What  marvel,  then,  ii^  in  its  kisses. 
My  soul  is  o'erwhelmed  with  sweet  blisses  ? 

O,  how  blest,  how  divine  the  employment ! 

How  heavenly,  how  high  the  enjoyment ! 
Delicate  lips,  and  soft,  amorous  glances,  — 
Kindling,  and  quenching,  and  fanning  sweet 
fiincies,  — 


Now,  now  to  my  heart's  centre  rushing. 
And  now  through  my  veins  they  are  gushing. 

Dazzling  eyes,  that  but  laugh  at  our  ruin. 

Nor  think  of  the  wrongs  ye  are  doing, — 
Fountains  of  gladness  and  beacons  of  glory, 
How  do  ye  scatter  the  dark  mists  before  ye ! 

Can  my  weakness  your  tyranny  bridle  ? 

O,  no  !  all  resistance  is  idle. 

Ah  !  my  soul  —  ah  !  my  soul  is  submitted ; 

Thy  lips,  —  thy  sweet  lips, —  they  are  fitted 
With  a  kiss  to  dissolve  into  joy  and  affection 
The  dreamings  of  hope  and  of  gay  recollection: 

And,  sure,  never  triumph  was  purer ; 

And,  sure,  never  triumph  was  surer. 

I  am  bound  to  your  beauty  completely, 
I  am  fettered  and  fiistened  so  sweetly ; 
And  blessed  are  the  tones,  and  the  looks,  and 

the  mind,  too. 
Which  my  senses  control,  and  my  heart  is  in- 
clined to : 
While  virtue,  the  holiest  and  brightest. 
Has  flistened  love's  fetters  the  tightest. 


MARIA  TESSELSCHADE   YISSCHER. 

Of  the  Visscher  fkmily,  who  were  con  tempo- 
raries  of  Hooft,  a  writer  in  the  «<  Foreign  Quar- 
terly Review  "  (Vol.  IV.,  p.  46)  remarks  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

<*  Visscher  was  one  of  the  principal  lumina- 
ries of  the  most  renowned  of  the  Chambers  of 
Rhetoric  —  In  Ldefde  bloeijnde  (Blooming  in 
Love)  —  of  Amsterdam.  He  published  a  series 
of  allegories,  entitled  *■  Zinne  Peppen ' ;  but  be 
did  better  than  this  by  cultivating  the  taste  of 
his  two  daughters,  whose  names  are  sung  in 
every  variety  of  flattering  homage  by  almost 
every  Dutch  poet  of  their  day  and  generation. 
They  were  highly  accomplished ;  they  render- 
ed popular  the  study  of  other  languages ;  and, 
though  their  literary  works  are  not  numerous, 
they  exercised  an  important  and  a  purifying  in- 
fluence on  the  compositions  of  their  countiy- 
men."  

THE  NI6HTIN0ALK 

Prizx  thou  the  Nightingale, 
Who  soothes  thee  with  his  tale, 
And  wakes  the  woods  around ; 
A  singing  feather  he,  —  a  winged  and  wander- 
ing sound : 

Whose  tender  carolling 
Sets  all  ears  listening 
Unto  that  living  lyre 
Whence  flow  the  airy  notes  his  ecstasies  inspire : 

Whose  shrill,  capricious  song 
Breathes  like  a  flute  along. 
With  many  a  careless  tone,  — 
Music   of   thousand   tongues,  formed  by  one 
tongue  alone. 


VISSCHER OROOT.  — BRUNE. 


381 


O  cbanning  creature  rare, 
Can  aught  with  thee  compare  ? 
Thou  art  all  song ;  thy  breast 
Thrills  for  one  month  o'  th*  year,  —  it  tranquil 
all  the  rest. 

Thee  wondrous  we  may  call, — 
Most  wondrous  this  of  all. 
That  such  a  tiny  throat 
Should  wake  so  wide  a  sound,  and  pour  so  loud 
a  note. 


HUIO  DE   GROOT. 

This  great  man,  known  to  the  world  under 
the  name  of  Hugo  Orotius,  was  bom  at  Delft, 
April  10th,  1583.  After  completing  his  studies, 
in  which  he  gained  great  distinction  at  an  early 
age,  he  accompanied  Bameveldt,  the  Dutch 
ambassador,  to  France.  Returning  thence,  he 
commenced  the  practice  of  the  law,  and  con- 
ducted his  first  cause  at  the  age  of  seventeen. 
In  his  twenty-fourth  year,  he  was  appointed 
Advocate- General.  In  1619,  he  was  condemn- 
ed to  perpetual  imprisonment  in  the  fortress  of 
Louvesteijn,  for  the  part  he  took  in  the  contro- 
veny  between  the  Remonstrants  and  their  op- 
ponents, the  former  of  whom,  together  with 
Bameveldt,  he  supported.  By  the  assistance 
of  his  wifo  he  made  his  escape,  and  took  refoge 
in  France,  where  he  received  for  some  time  a 
pension  of  three  thousand  livres  from  Louis 
the  Thirteenth.  Through  the  influence  of  his 
enemies,  the  pension  was  withdrawn  in  1631, 
and  Grotius  returned  to  his  native  country,  re- 
lying on  the  friendship  of  the  prince  of  Orange ; 
but  his  enemies  proving  too  powerful  for  him, 
he  \vas  condemned  to  perpetual  banishment. 
Soon  after  this,  he  accepted  the  liberal  offere  of 
Christina,  queen  of  Sweden,  and  her  celebrat- 
ed chancellor,  Oxenstiera,  and,  in  1634,  re- 
paired to  Stockholm,  where  he  was  appointed 
Councillor  of  State,  and  Ambassador  to  France. 
He  appeared  in  Paris,  in  1635,  and  discharged 
the  duties  of  ambassador  for  ten  years  with  dis- 
tinguished ability.  On  his  ratum  to  Sweden 
by  way  of  Holland,  he  met  with  the  most  hon- 
orable reception  from  his  countrymen,  who  now 
looked  upon  him  as  the  glory  of  his  native 
land.  He  was  received  with  equal  favor  and 
distinction  by  the  queen  of  Sweden.  Wishing 
to  return  to  his  native  country,  he  requested  a 
dismission  firom  the  Swedish  service.  On  his 
way  to  Holland,  he  foil  sick  al  Rostock,  where 
he  died,  August  28th,  1645. 

Grotius  was  an  able  statesman  and  lawyer,  a 
profound  theologian,  and  a  most  accomplished 
scholar.  His  metrical  translations  from  the 
Oreek  are  executed  with  admirable  skill  and 
fidelity.  He  is  renowned  as  one  of  the  best  of 
the  modem  Latin  poets.  He  also  wrote  Dutch 
▼erses,  but  with  less  success. 


SONNET. 

RscsivK  not  with  disdain  this  product  from 
my  hand, 

0  mart  of  all  the  world !  O  flower  of  Nethef- 

land! 

Fair  Holland  !  let  this  live,  though  I  may  not, 
with  thee ; 

My  bosom's  queen  !  I  show  e*en  now  how  fer- 
vently 

1  've  loved  thee  through  all  change,  —  thy  good 

and  evil  days, — 
And  love,  and  still  will  love,  till  life  itself  de- 
cays. 
If  here   be  aught  on   which  thou    may*st  a 

thought  bestow. 
Thank  Him  without  whose  aid  no  good  from 

man  can  flow. 
If  enron  meet  thy  view,  remember  kindly  then 
What  gathering  clouds  obscure  the  foeble  eyes 

of  men ; 
And  rather  spare  than  blame  thb  humble  work 

of  mine. 
And  think,  ^<  Alas !  *t  was  made — *t  was  made 

at  Louvesteijn.*' 


JAN   DE   BRUNE. 

This  writer,  known  under  the  Latinized  name 
of  Johannes  Brunsus,  was  bom  in  1585.  He 
was  not  only  a  poet,  but  a  statesman,  and  filled 
many  important  offices.     He  died  in  1658. 


SONG. 

I  LAY  in  gasping  agonies. 

And  my  eyes 
Were  covered  by  a  cloud  of  death  ; 

It  seemed  as  if  my  spirit  hung 

On  my  tongue. 
About  to  vanish  with  my  breath ; 

When  Laura,  smiling  fondness,  came. 

And,  with  shame, 
Offered  her  delightfol  lip, 

Her  sweet  lip,  to  which  the  bee 

Well  might  flee, 
Fragrant  honey  there  to  sip. 

Enraptured  with  the  sudden  bliss 

Which  her  kiss 
Gave  my  heart,  when  bowed  by  pain. 

Instantly  I  felt  a  light. 

Pure  and  bright. 
Kindle  new  existence  then. 

O,  may  Heaven  grant  once  m6re  that  I 

Thus  may  lie ! 
The  pangs  of  death  I  *d  undergo. 

If  lips  as  blooming  and  as  dear 

Were  but  near. 
To  cure  me  with  their  honey  so. 


382 


DUTCH   POETRY. 


GERBRAND   BREDERODE. 

Gerbrahd  Brederode  was  boro  at  Amster- 
dam,  March  16tb,  1585,  and  died  August  23d, 
1618.  **  He  was  principally  celebrated,"  says 
Bow  ring,  *  **  for  his  comedies,  into  which  he 
introduced  the  language  of  the  lower  classes  of 
Amsterdam  with  great  effect.  It  is  said  that 
he  often  attended  the  fish-market  and  similar 
places,  to  collect  materials  for  his  rarions  pie- 
ces. This  is  apparent  in  his  *  Moortje '  and  his 
^Spaanschen  Bnibander.'  His  poems  were 
published  at  Amsterdam,  in  1622,  by  Cornelis 
van  der  Plasse,  under  the  titles  of  *  Het  Boer- 
tigh  Liedt-Boeck  *  (Facetious  Song-Book),  *  De 
Groote  Bron  der  Minnen*  (The  Great  Foun- 
tain of  Loye),  and  *  Aendachtigh  Liedt-Boeck ' 
(Meditative  Song-Book)." 


SONG. 

FROM  TBI  ORBAT  FOUKTADT  OF  LOVE. 

Canst  thou  so  soon  unkindly  sever 

My  long,  long  suit  from  memory,— 
The  precious  time  now  lost  for  ever. 

The  vanished  moments  passed  with  thee, 
In  friendliness,  in  love's  caress. 
In  happiness,  and  converse  free  from  guile, 
From  night  till  morning,  and  *neath  twilight's 
smile  ? 

A  fiither's  rage  and  friends'  derision 

For  thee  I  *ve  borne,  when  thou  wert  kind ; 
But  they  fled  by  me  as  a  vision 

That  fades  and  leaves  no  trace  behind. 
O,  thus  I  deemed,  when  fondly  beamed, 
And  purely  gleamed,  those  brilliant  eyes,  whose 

ray 
Hath  made  me  linger  near  thee  through  the  day ! 

How  oft  those  tender  hands  I  've  taken, 

And  drawn  them  to  my  breast,  whose  flame 
Seemed,  at  their  gentle  touch,  to  waken 
To  feelings  I  dared  scarcely  name  ! 
I  wished  to  wear  a  lattice  there. 
Of  crystal  clear  or  purest  glass,  that  well 
Thou  might'st  behold  what  tongue  could  never 
tell. 

O,  could  the  heart  within  me  glowing 

E'er  from  its  cell  have  been  removed, 
I  had  not  shrunk,  —  that  heart  bestowing 
On  thee,  whom  I  so  warmly  loved, 
So  longed  to  wed,  so  cherished  ! 
Ah  !  who  could  dread  that  thou  wouldst  wan- 
ton be. 
And  so  inconstant  in  thy  love  to  me  ? 

Another  youth  has  stolen  my  treasure, 
And  placed  himself  upon  the  throne 

Where  late  I  reigned,  supreme  in  pl< 
And  weakly  thought  it  all  my  own. 

*  BaUTlan  Anthology,  p.  88. 


What  causes  now  that  chilling  brow  ? 
Or  where  didst  thou  such  evil  counsel  gain, 
As  thus  to  pride  and  glory  in  my  pain  ? 

What  thoughts,  too  painful  to  be  spoken,' 
Hath  falsehood  for  thy  soul  prepared. 

When  thou  survey'st  each  true-love  token, 

And  think'st  of  joys  together  shared,  — 

Of  vows  we  made  beneath  the  shade. 

And  kisses  paid  by  my  fond  lips  to  thine. 

And  given  back  with  murmured  sigh  to  mine ! 

Bethink  thee  of  those  hours  of  wooing,  -7- 
Of  words  that  seemed  the  breath  of  truth, — 

The  Eden  thou  hast  made  a  ruin, — 
My  withered  hopes  and  blighted  youth ! 
It  wonders  me  that  thou  shouldst  be 

So  calm  and  free,  nor  dread  the  rage  that  buma 

Within  the  heart  where  love  to  malice  turns. 

Away,  —  away, — accursed  deceiver  ! 

With  tears  delude  the  eyes  and  brain 
Of  him,  the  fond,  the  weaJc  believer. 

Who  follows  now  thy  fickle  train. 

That  senseless  hind  (to  whom  thou  'rt  kind. 
Not  for  his  mind,  but  for  his  treasured  ore) 
Disturbs  me  not.   Farewell !  we  meet  no  more ! 


DIRK   RAFAEL   KAMPHUYZEN. 

Kamphutzen  was  born  at  Gorkum,  in  1586, 
and  died  July  9th,  1626.  He  wrote  «« Edifying 
Poems,"  and  a  "  Paraphrase  of  the  Psalms." 
**  Kamphuyzen's  religious  poetry,"  says  Bow- 
ring,  *  "  is  superior  to  any  which  preceded  it 
There  is  a  pure  and  earnest  feeling  throughout, 
—  an  intense  conviction  of  truth,  and  an  ele- 
vated devotion.  His  *May  Morning'  is  one 
of  the  most  popular  productions  of  the  Dutch 
poets ;  its  harmonious  versification  and  ita  sim- 
plicity have  made  it  the  common  source  of  con- 
solation in  distress." 


PSALM   nTTTTTT. 

Ip  there  be  one  whose  thoughts  delight  to 

der 

In  pleasure's  fields,  where  lovers  bright  streams 
meander ; 
If  there  be  one  who  longs  to  find 
Where  all  the  purer  blisses  are  enshrined, — 
A  happy  resting-place  of  virtuous  worth,  — 
A  blessed  paradise  on  earth : 

Let  him  survey  the  joy-conferring  union 
Of  brothers  who  are  bound  in  fond  commnnioii. 
And  not  by  force  of  blood  alone. 
But  by  their  mutual  sympathies  are  known, 
And  every  heart  and  every  mind  relies 
Upon  fraternal,  kindred  ties. 

*  BaUTlan  Anthologj,  p.  116.  1 


KAMPHUTZEN— VONDEL. 


383 


O,  blest  abode,  where  love  ia  eyer  Ternal, 
Where  tnmquil  peace  and  concord  are  eternal, 

Where  none  usurp  the  highest  claim, 

But  each  with  pride  asserts  the  other's  fame  ! 

O,  what  are  all  earth's  joys,  compared  to  thee, 

Fraternal  unanimity  ? 

E'en  as  the  ointment, whose  sweet  odors  blended. 
From  Aaron's  head  upon  his  beard  descended ; 

Which  hung  awhile  in  fragrance  there. 

Bedewing  everj  indiTidual  hair, 

And,  &lling  thence,  with  rich  perfiime  ran  o'er 

The  holy  garb  the  prophet  wore : 

So  doth  the  unity  that  lives  with  brothers 
Share  its  best  blessings  and  its  joys  with  others. 
And  makes  them  seem  as  if  one  frame 
Contained  their  minds,  and  they  were  formed 

the  same, 
And  spreads  its  sweetest  breath  o'er  every 

part. 
Until  it  penetrates  the  heart 

E'en  as  the  dew,  that,  at  the  break  of  morning. 
All  nature  with  its  beauty  is  adorning, 
And  flows  from  Hermon  calm  and  still, 
And  bathes  the  tender  grass  on  Zion's  hill. 
And  to  the  young  and  withering  herb  resigns 
The  drops  for  which  it  pines : 

So  are  fraternal  peace  and  concord  eyer 
The  cherishers,  without  whose  guidance  never 
Would  sainted  quiet  seek  the  breast,  — 
The  life,  the  soul  of  unmolested  rest,  — 
The  antidote  to  sorrow  and  distress. 
And  prop  of  human  happiness. 

Ah !  happy  they  whom  genial  concord  blesses ! 
Pleasure  for  them  reserves  her  fond  caresses. 

And  joys  to  mark  the  fribric  rare, 

On  virtue  founded,  stand  unshaken  there  ; 

Whence  vanish  all  the  passions  that  destroy 

Tranquillity  and  inward  joy. 

Who  practise  good  are  in  themselves  rewarded, 
For  their  own  deeds  lie  in  their  hearts  record- 
ed; 
And  thus  fraternal  love,  when  bound 
By  virtue,  is  with  its  own  blisses  crowned. 
And  tastes,  in  sweetness  that  itself  bestows. 
What  use,  what  power,  from  concord  flows. 

God  in  his  boundless  mercy  joys  to  meet  it; 

His  promises  of  future  blessings  greet  it. 
And  fixed  prosperity,  which  brings 
Long   life  and   ease  beneath  its  shadowing 

wings. 
And  joy  and  fortune,  that  remain  sublime 
Beyond  all  distance,  change,  and  time. 


JOOST  VAN   DEN   VONDEL. 

This  poet,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  in 
I>atch  literature,  was  born  at  Cologne  in  1587. 


In  his  childhood,  his  parents  removed  to  Am- 
sterdam. He  was  richly  endowed  by  nature, 
but  his  education  was  defective.  When  about 
thirty  years  old,  he  learned  the  Latin  and  French 
languages,  and  then  read  the  works  of  the  an- 
cients and  of  the  French.  He  devoted  himself 
wholly  to  poetry;  his  writings  include  occa- 
sional poems,  satires,  tragedies,  and  translations 
from  the  Psalms  of  David,  from  Virgil,  and  from 
Ovid.    His  death  took  place  in  1659. 

M  He  had,"  says  Gravenweert,*  "  all  the  in- 
dependence of  the  poet  in  his  character,  which 
was  often  harsh.  His  epigrams,  and  an  exces- 
sive freedom  of  opinion,  which  caused  him  to 
change  his  religion  and  to  sacrifice  his  interests 
to  his  ideas,  involved  him  in  quarrels  with 
Hoofk,  Cats,  Huijgens,  and  others.  He  never 
begged  the  favor  of  the  powerful.  He  died  at 
the  age  of  ninety-one  years,  overwhelmed  with 
infirmities  and  domestic  misfortunes,  but  cov- 
ered with  imperishable  laurels.  Vondel  was  a 
man  of  letters,  and  found  this  title  preferable 
to  all  the  toys  of  ambition  and  of  vanity.  He 
lived  for  immortality,  and  knew  well  that  a 
grateful  nation  would  not  judge  him  by  the 
places  he  had  occupied,  but  by  the  excellence 
of  his  productions.  This  admirable  genius  ex- 
celled in  every  department;  in  fugitive  poetry 
as  well  as  in  satire,  in  the  ode  and  the  epic, 
but  above  all  in  tragedy. 

"Vondel  was  buried  with  pomp;  a  medal 
was  struck  in  honor  of  him;  and  a  hundred 
years  afterwards,  a  simple  monument  was  erect- 
ed to  his  memory,  in  one  of  the  churches  of 
Amsterdam,  bearing  no  eulogium  but  bis  name. 
Vondel  has  had  many  panegyrists,  and  some  de- 
tractors, who,  either  in  good  faith,  or  because 
they  wished  to  create  a  sensation,  have  depre- 
ciated his  name  and  fame,  and  endeavoured  to 
destroy  this  idol  of  Dutch  literature.  In  spite 
of  the  defects  which  criticism  has  pointed  out 
in  his  numerous  works,  the  name  of  Vondel  is 
still  honored  in  Holland,  as  that  of  Shakspeare 
is  in  England,  and  all  the  eflTorts  of  envy  and  of 
too  severe  criticism  have  served  only  to  aug- 
ment the  brightness  of  a  reputation  which 
counts  more  than  two  centuries  of  glory." 


TO  GEERAERT  VOSSIUS, 

ON  TBS  LOSS  OP  BIB  SOIT. 

Whv  moum'st  thou,  Vossius  ?  why  has  pain 
Its  furrows  to  thy  pale  brow  given  ? 
Seek  not  to  hold  thy  son  from  heaven  ! ' 

'T  is  heaven  that  draws,  —  resign  him,  then. 

Tes,  —  banish  every  futile  tear, 

And  offer  to  its  Source  above. 

In  gratitude  and  humble  love. 
The  choicest  of  thy  treasures  here. 

*  EmbI  sor  I'Histoiie  do  la  LitUmture  Nterlandaiae, 
pp.  78-87. 


384 


DUTCH   POETRY. 


We  murmur,  if  the  bark  should  strand : 
But  not,  when,  richly  laden,  she 
Comes  from  the  wild  and  raging  sea, 

Within  a  haven  safe  to  land. 

We  murmur,  if  the  balm  be  shed ; 
Tea,  — murmur  for  the  odor's  sake : 
But  not,  whene'er  the  glass  may  break, 

If  that  which  filled  it  be  not  fled. 

He  strives  in  vain  who  seeks  to  stay 
The  bounding  waters  in  their  course, 
When  hurled  from  rocks  with  giant  force. 

Towards  some  calm  and  spacious  bay. 

Thus  turns  the  earthly  globe; — though  o*er 
His  infant's  corse  a  fiither  mourn. 
Or  child  bedew  its  parents'  urn, — 

Death  passes  neither  house  nor  door. 

Death,  nor  for  gay  and  blooming  youth 
Nor  peevish  age,  his  stroke  defers ; 
He  chains  the  lips  of  orators. 

Nor  cares  for  wisdom,  worth,  or  truth. 

Blest  is  the  mind,  that,  fixed  and  free, 
To  wanton  pleasures  scorns  to  yield, 
And  wards,  as  with  a  pliant  shield. 

The  arrows  of  adversity. 


CHORUa 

FIOM  0T8BRBGHT  VAM  ABMaflEL. 

O  Night  !  far  lovelier  than  the  day  ! 
How  can  Herodes  bear  the  ray. 

Whose  consecrated,  hallowed  glows 
Rich  splendor  o'er  this  darkness  spread  ? 
To  reason's  call  his  pride  is  dead ; 

Her  voice  his  heart  no  longer  knows. 

By  slaughter  of  the  guiltless,  he 
Would  raise  up  guilt  and  tyranny. 

He  bids  a  loud  lament  awake 
In  Bethlehem  and  o'er  the  plain. 
And  Rachel's  spirit  rise  again 

To  haunt  the  desolate  field  and  brake. 

Now  wandering  east,  now  wandering  west, 
For  her,  lone  mother,  where  is  rest, 

Now  that  her  children  are  no  more,  — 
Now  that  she  sees  them  blood-stained  lie, 
Even  at  their  births  condemned  to  die, 

An^  swords  unnumbered  red  with  gore.' 

She  sees  the  milk,  no  nurture  bringing, 
'  Unto  their  lifeless,  pale  lips  clinging, 

Tom  from  their  mother's  breast  but  late ; 
She  marks  the  stagnant  tears  reclining. 
Like  dew,  upon  their  cold  cheeks  shining, — 

Poor  victims  of  a  ruthless  fate  ! 

The  brows,  now  pallid,  dimmed,  and  Aiding, 
Those  closed  and  joyless  eyes  are  shading. 
Whose  rays  pure  lustre  once  had  given, 


Like  stars ;  and  with  their  playful  light. 

Ere  covered  with  death's  cloud  of  night, 

Transformed  the  visage  to  a  heaven. 

Vain  are  description's  feeble  powers 
To  number  all  the  infant  flowers 

Which  faded,  died,  when  scarcely  bom, — 
Before  their  opening  leaves  could  greet 
The  \|70oing  air  with  fragrance  sweet. 

Or  drink  the  earliest  dew  of  mom  ! 

So  fidls  the  com  beneath  the  sickle ; 

So  shake  the  leaves,  when  tempests  fickle 

Awake  the  mountain's  voice  from  thrall. 
What  can  result  from  blind  ambition. 
When  raging  with  some  dark  suspicion  ?  — 

What  bard  so  vile  to  mourn  its  fall  ? 

Then,  Rachel,  haunt  not  spots  once  cherished ; 
Thy  children  even  as  martyrs  perished  : 

"Those  first-loved  fruits  that  sprang  from  thee, 
From  which  thy  heart  was  doomed  to  sever. 
In  praise  of  God,  shall  bloom  for  ever. 

Unhurt,  untouched,  by  tyranny. 


CHORUS. 

FaOK  PILAXXDSS. 

The  thinly  sprinkled  stars  surrender 

To  early  dawn  their  dying  splendor ; 

The  shades  of  night  are  dim  and  far. 

And  now  before  the  morning-star 

The  heavenly  legions  disappear  : 

The  constellation's  ^  charioteer 

No  longer  in  the  darkness  bums. 

But  backward  his  bright  courser  taras. 

Now  golden  Titan,  from  the  sea. 

With  azure  steeds  comes  gloriously. 

And  shines  o'er  woods  and  dells  and  downs, 

And  soaring  Ida's  leafy  crowns. 

O  sweetly  welcome  break  of  mom  ! 

Thou  dost  with  happiness  adorn 

The  heart  of  him  who  cheerily,  , 

Contentedly,  unwearily. 

Surveys  whatever  Nature  gives, 

What  beauty  in  her  presence  lives. 

And  wanders  oft  the  banks  along 

Of  some  sweet  stream  with  murmuring  song. 

O,  more  than  regal  is  his  lot, 
Who,  in  some  blest,  secluded  spot. 
Remote  from  crowded  cares  and  fears. 
His  loved,  his  cherished  dwelling  rears ! 
For  empty  praises  never  pining, 
His  wishes  to  his  cot  confining. 
And  listening  to  each  cheerful  bird 
Whose  animating  song  is  heard  : 
When  morning  dews,  which  Zephyr's  sigh 
Has  wafted,  on  the  roses  lie. 
Whose  leaves  beneath  the  pearl-drops  bend ; 
When  thousand  rich  perfumes  ascend. 
And  thousand  hues  adorn  the  bowers. 
And  form  a  rainbow  of  sweet  flowers. 


1  Una  Major. 


VONDEL. 


385 


Or  bridal  robe  for  Iris  made 
From  every  bud  in  sun  or  shade. 
Contented  there  to  plant  or  set. 
Or  snare  the  birds  with  crafty  net ; 
To  grasp  his  bending  rod,  and  wander 
Beside  the  banks  where  waves  meander, 
And  thence  their  flattering  tenants  take ; 
Or,  rising  ere  the  sun  's  awake. 
Prepare  his  steed,  and  scour  the  grounds, 
And  chase  the  hare  with  swift-paced  hounds ; 
Or  ride,  beneath  the  noontide  rays. 
Through  peaceful  glens  and  silent  wayt, 
Which  wind  like  Cretan  labyrinth ; 
Or  where  the  purple  hyacinth 
Is  glowing  on  its  bed ;  or  where 
The  meads  red-speckled  daisies  bear : 
Whilst  maidens  milk  the  grasing  cow, 
And  peasants  toil  behind  the  plough, 
Or  reap  the  crops  beneath  their  feet. 
Or  sow  luxuriant  flax  or  wheat. 
Here  flourishes  the  waving  com, 
Encircled  by  the  wounding  thorn  > 
There  glides  a  bark  by  meadows  green ; 
And  there  the  village  smoke  is  seen  ; 
And  there  a  castle  meets  the  view, 
Half-fiuiing  in  the  distance  blue. 

How  hard,  how  wretched  is  his  doom 
Whom  sorrows  follow  to  the  tomb, 
And  whom,  from  mom  till  quiet  eve, 
Distresses  pain,  and  troubles  grieve. 
And  cares  oppress !  — ibr  these  await 
The  slave,  who,  in  a  restless  stale, 
Would  bid  the  form  of  concord  flee. 
And  call  his  object — liberty  : 
He  finds  his  actions  all  pursued 
By  envy  or  ingratitude. 
The  robe  is  honoring,  I  confess ; 
The  cushion  has  its  stateliness; — 
But,  O,  they  are  a  burden  too  ! 
And  pains  spring  up,  for  ever  new. 
Beneath  the  roof  which  errors  stain. 
And  where  the  strife  is, —  who  shall  reign. 

But  he  who  lives  in  raral  ease 
Avoids  the  cares  that  torture  these  : 
No  golden  chalices  invite 
To  quaff  the  deadly  aconite  ; 
Nor  dreads  he  secret  foes,  who  lurk 
Behind  the  throne  with  coward  dirk, — 
Assassin-friends,  —  whose  murderous  blow 
Lays  all  the  pride  of  greatness  low. 
No  fears  his  even  life  annoy. 
Nor  feels  he  pride,  nor  finds  he  joy 
In  popularity,  —  that  brings 
A  fickle  pleasure,  and  then  —  stings. 
He  is  not  roused  at  night  from  bed, 
With  weary  eyes  and  giddy  head ; 
At  mora,  no  long  petitions  vex  him. 
Nor  scrutinizing  looks  perplex  him  : 
He  has  no  joy  in  others'  cares ; 
He  bears, — and,  while  he  bears,  forbears; 
And  from  the  world  he  oft  retreats 
Where  learning's  gentle  smiles  he  meets. 
He  heeds  not  priestcraft's  ban  or  praise. 
But  scorns  the  deep  anathemas 

49 


Which  he,  who  in  his  blindness  errs, 
B^ceives  from  these, —  God's  messengers/ 

Near  rocks  where  danger  ever  lies. 
Through  storms  of  evil  auguries 
Proceeding  Srom  calumnious  throats. 
The  exhausted  Palamedes  floats : 
And  shipwrecked  he  must  be  at  last. 
If  Neptune  do  not  kindly  cast 
Protection  round  him,  and  appease 
With  trident-sway  these  foaming  seas. 


CHORUS  OP  BATAYIAN  WOMEN. 

FSOM  nn  BATAviAjr  saorasBs. 

snopmk 
OvRS  was  a  happy  lot. 
Ere  foreign  tyrants  brought 
The  servile  iron  yoke,  which  bound 
Our  necks  with  humbling  slaveiy  to  the 
ground. 
Once  all  was  confidence  and  peace  ;  —  the 

just 
Might  to  his  neighbour  trast 
The  common  plough  turned  up  the  common 

land. 
And  Nature  scattered  joy  with  liberal  hand. 
The  humble  cot  of  clay 
Kept  the  thick  shower,  the  wind,  and  hail 
away. 
Upon  the  firugal  board 
No  luxuries  were  stored; 
But  'neath  a  forest-tree  the  table  stood,  — 
A  simple  plank,  —  unpolished  and  rode  : 
Our  feasts,  the  wild  game  of  the  wood ; 
And  curds  and  cheese  our  daily  food. 
Man,  in  his  early  virtues  blest. 
Slept  satisfied  on  woman's  breast. 
Who,  modest  and  confiding,  saw 
In  him  her  lord,  and  love,  and  law. 
Then  was  the  stranger  and  the  neighbour,  each. 
Welcomed  with  cordial  thoughts  and  honest 

speech ', 
And  days  flowed  cheerful  on,  as  days  should 

flow, — 
Unmoved  by  distant  or  domestic  woe. 

AXTISTBOPHB. 

Then  was  no  value  set  on  silver  things. 

Nor  golden  stores,  nor  coin,  nor  dazzling  rings ; 

They  bartered  what  they  had  for  what  they 

wanted  ;  — 
And  sought  no  foreign  shores,  —  but  planted 
Their  own  low  dwellings  in  their  mother- 
land; 
Raised  all  by  their  own  hand. 
And  furnished  with  whatever  man  requires 
For  his  moderate  desires. 
They  had  no  proud  adoraings,  —  were  not  gilt 
Nor  sculptured, —  nor  in  crowded  cities  built; 
But  in  wide-scattered  villages  they  spread. 
Where    stand   no  friendly   lamps    above   the 
head: 


386 


DUTCH   POETRY. 


Rough  and  undecked  the  simple  cot. 
With  the  rich  show  of  pomp  encumbered 
not. 
As  when  in  decorated  piles  are  seen 
The  bright  fruits  peeping  through  the  foliage 

green ; 
Bark  of  the  trees  and  hides  of  cattle  cover 
The  lowly  hut,  when  storms  rage  fiercely  over : 
Man  had  not  learned  the  use  of  stone ; 
Tiles  and  cement  were  all  unknown ; 
Some  place  of  shelter  dug, — dark,  dreary,  far, — 
For  the  dread  hour  of  danger  or  of  war. 
When  the  stray  pirate  broke  on  the  serene 
And  cheerful  quiet  of  that  early  scene. 

STBOPHB. 

No  usurer,  then,  with  avarice's  burning 

thirst. 
His  fellow-men  had  cursed. 
The   coarse- wove  flax,  the  un wrought  fleece, 

alone. 
On  the  half-naked,  sturdy  limbs  were  thrown. 
The  daughters  married  late 
To  a  laborious  fate  ; 
And   to   their   husbands    bore   a   healthy 

race. 
To  take  their  fathers*  place. 
If  e'er  dispute  or  discord  dared  intrude, 
'T  was  soon,  by  wisdom's  voice,  subdued  : 
The  wisest  then  was  called  to  reign, 
The  bravest  did  the  victory  gain  : 
The  proud  were  made  to  feel 
They  must  submit  them  to  the   general 
weal; 
For  to  the  proud  and  high  a  given  way 
Was    marked,  that   thence   they  might  not 
stray :  — 
And  thus  was  freedom  kept  alive. 
Rulers  were  taught  to  strive 
For  subjects'  happiness,  —  and  subjects  brought 
The  cheerful  tribute  of  obedient  thought ; 
And  't  was  indeed  a  glorious  sight. 
To  see  them  wave  their  weapons  bright : 
No  venal  bands,  the  murderous  hordes  of  fame ; 
But  freedom's  sons,  —  all  armed  in  freedom's 
name. 

AMTISTHOPHB. 

No  judge  ontdealing  justice  in  his  hate, 
Nor  in  his  favor.     Wisdom's  train  sedate 
Of  books,  and  proud  philosophy. 
And  stately  speech,  could  never  needed  be. 
While  they  for  virtue's  counsellings  might 

look 
On  Nature's  open  book. 
Where  bright  and  free  the  Oodhead's  glory 

falls;  — 
Not  on  the  imprisoning  walls 
Of  temples,  —  for  their  temple  was  the  wood,  — 
The  heavens  its  arch,  —  its  aisles  were  soli- 
tude. 
And  then  they  sang  the  praise 
Of  heroes,  and  the  seers  of  older  days. 
They  never  dared  to  pry 
Into  the  mysteries  of  the  Deity ; 


They  never  weighed  his  schemes,  nor  judged 

his  will, — 
But  saw  his  works,  and  loved  and  praised  him 

still; 
Obeyed  in  awe,  —  kept  pure  their  hearts  with- 
in; 
For  this  they  knew,  —  God  hates  and  scourges 
sin. 
Some  dreams  of  future  bliss  were  theirs. 
To  gild  their  joys  and  chase  their  cares. 
And  thus  they  dwelt,  and  thus  they  died. 
With  ^ardian-freedom  at  their  side. 
The  happy  tenants  of  a  happy  soil, — 
Till  came  the  cruel  stranger  to  despoiL 

BPOOB. 

But,  O,  that  blessed  time  is  past ! 

The  strangers  now  possess  our  land ; 
Batavia  is  subdued,  at  last, — 

Batavia  fettered,  ruined,  banned  ! 
Tes,  —  honor,  truth  have  taken  flight 

To  seats  sublimer,  thrones  more  pure. 
Look,  Julius,  from  thy  throne  of  light,  — 

See  what  thy  Holland's  sons  endure  ! 
Thy  children  still  are  proud  to  claim 

"rheir  Roman  blood,  their  source,  from  thee ; 
Friends,  brothers,  comrades  bear  the  name ;  — 

Desert  them  not  in  misery !     . 
Terror  and  power  and  cruel  wrong 

Have  a  free  people's  bliss  undone ; 
Too  harsh  their  sway,  —  their  rule  too  long ! 

Arouse  thee  from  thy  cloudy  throne  ; 
And  if  thou  hate  disgrace  and  crime, 
Recall,  recall  departed  time  I 


CONSTANTIJN  HUIJGENS. 

CoNSTANTUN  Hdugkits  was  bom  at  the 
Hague,  in  1596.  He  was  secretary  to  the 
princes  of  Nassau,  and  became  famous  for  the 
universality  of  his  literary  acquirements.  He 
had  a  familiar  knowledge  of  many  languages, 
both  ancient  and  modem.  His  death  took 
place  in  1687. 

Of  Huijgens,  a  writer  in  the  *<  Foreign  Quar- 
terly Review  "  (Vol.  IV.,  p.  48)  says :  —  «*  His 
versification  is  sometimes  harsh  and  hard.  The 
perplexities  of  rhyme  he  could  not  always 
unravel,  and  his  Alexandrines  are  not  unfVe- 
quently  eked  dut  with  expletives,  —  the  curse, 
be  it  permitted  us  to  say,  of  the  poetry  of  Hol- 
land. The  Alexandrines  offer  a  fatal  attrac- 
tion to  the  indifferent  poet.  One  rhyme  in 
fbur-and-twenty  or  six-and -twenty  syllables  is 
no  great  discovery,  in  a  language  possessing  an 
immense  number  of  rhyming  sounds.  Huij- 
gens wrote  in  several  tongues  with  facility,  and 
his  *  Ledige  Uren  '  (Leisure  Hours)  have  spe- 
cimens in  Latin,  French,  and  Italian.  Not- 
withstanding some  very  obvious  affectations,  he 
is  a  writer  whose  vigor  of  expression  is  remark- 
able. His  *  Batava  Tempe,'  especially,  has 
many  very  striking  passages,  —  some  in  very 


HUIJGENS.  — WESTERBAEN. 


387 


bad  taste, — bat  very  ingeoioos  and  emphatic. 
In  De  Clercq's  estimate  of  Huijgens  we  cor- 
dially agree.  He  has  more  originality  than 
most  of  the  Dutch  poets,  and  more  variety,  al- 
though  he  is  one  of  those  who  are  least  read. 
He  is  frequently  obscure  from  overstrained 
effort,  —  infelicitous  in  his  selection  of  words 
and  images,  —  and  scarcely  less  so  in  the  choice 
of  the  foreign  sources  from  whom  he  has  large- 
ly borrowed.  Huijgens  was  not  merely  a  lit- 
erary benefactor  to  his  country.  The  beautiful 
road  from  the  Hague  to  Scheveling,  on  the 
left  side  of  which  resided  old  Father  Cats,  owes 
its  existence  to  him." 


A  KINO. 

Hx  's  a  crowned  multitude ;  —  his  doom  is  hard ; 

Servant  to  each,  a  slave  without  reward  : 

The  state's  tall  roof  on  which  the  tempests  fall : 

The  reckoning-book  that  bears  the  debts  of  all : 

He  borrows  little,  yet  is  forced  to  pay 

The  most  usurious  interest  day  by  day : 

A  fettered  freeman,  —  an  imploring  lord,  — 

A  ruling  suppliant,  —  a  rhyming  word  : 

A  lightning-flash,  that  breaks  all  bonds  asunder, 

And  spares  what  yields, — a  cloud  that  speaks 

in  thunder : 
A  sun,  in  darkness  and  in  day  that  smites,  — 
A  plague,  that  on  the  whirlwind's  storm  alights : 
A  lesser  god :  a  rudder  to  impel : 
Targe  for  ingratitude,  and  flattery's  bell : 
In  fbrtune  praised,  —  in  sorrow  shunned ',  his  lot 
To  be  adored,  —  deserted,  —  and  forgot. 
His  wish  a  thousand  hurry  to  fulfil ; 
His  will  is  law,  —  his  law  is  all  men's  will: 
His  breath  is  choked  by  sweetly  sounding  lies, 
And  seeming  mirth,  and  cheating  flatteries, 
Which  ever  waft  truth's  accents  from  his  ear ; 
And  if,  perchance,  its  music  he  should  hear. 
They  break  its  force,  and  through  the  crooked 

way 
Of  their  delusions  flatter  and  betray. 
He  knows  no  love, — its  smiles  are  all  forbid- 
den; 
He  has  no  friend,  —  thus  virtue's  charms  are 

hidden ; 
All  round  is  self, — the  proud  no  friends  possess ; 
Life  is  with  them  but  scorn  and  heartlessness. 
He  is  a  suitor  forced  by  foar  to  wed, 
And  wooes  the  daughter,  though  the  sire  he 

dread,  — 
In  this  ftr  less  than  even  the  lowest  slave 
That  fells  the  tree  or  cleaves  the  rising  wave. 
His  friends  are  foes,  when  tried.  Corruption  flies 
O'er  his  disordered  country,  when  he  dies. 
If  long  success  from  virtue's  path  entice, 
They  will  not  blend  their  honor  with  his  vice, 
But  rather  shed  their  tears  in  that  swift  stream 
Against  whose  might  their  might  is  as  a  dream. 
His  days  are  not  his  own,  for  smiles  and  sorrow 
Visit  him  each  :  the  eventide,  the  morrow, 
Deny  him  rest,  —  sleep's  influence  steals  not 

o'er  him  : 
Wearied  he  lives,  and  joy  retreats  before  him. 


Beneath  care's  sickle  all  his  flowers  decay ; 
His  sparkling  cup  in  dulness  sinks  away. 
His  son  on  tiptoe  stands  to  seize  the  crown, 
Which  a  few  years  of  woes  shall  tumble  down. 
O  gilded   thistle  !   why  should  mortals  crave 

thee. 
Who  art  but  bitter  medicine  when  they  have 

the».' 
Or  why  aspire  to  state  ne'er  long  possessed,  — 
By  dangers  ever  circled,  and  no  rest .' 


JACOB  WESTERBAEN. 

Jacob  Wxstxrbaxn  was  bom  in  1599,  and 
died  in  1670.  Of  an  illustrious  family,  a  knight, 
and  Lord  of  Brantwijck,  he  preferred  the  ele- 
gant leisure  of  the  country  to  the  honors  and 
intrigues  of  the  court.  The  greater  part  of  his 
lifo  was  passed  in  retirement  at  his  chateau  of 
Ockenburg,  which  he  made  the  subject  of  a  de- 
scriptive and  didactic  poem,  after  the  manner  of 
Thomson's  ^  Seasons  "  and  Delille's  **  Homme 
des  Champs."  He  published,  also,  some  love 
songs,  and  other  fugitive  poems,  and  made  trans- 
lations from  Virgil,  Terence,  and  Ovid. 


SONG. 

Thirk  not  that  the  dear  perfume 
And  the  bloom 
Of  those  cheeks,  divinely  glowing. 
Ever  shall  remain  to  thee. 
While  there  be 
None  for  whom  those  flowers  are  blowing. 

By  the  eglantine  be  taught 
How  't  is  sought 
For  its.  bloom  and  fragrance  only : 
Is  not  all  its  beauty  past. 
When,  at  last. 
On  the  stem  't  is  hanging  lonely  ? 

Maidens  are  like  garden  bowers 
Filled  with  flowers. 
Which  are  spring-time's  choicest  treasure : 
While  the  budding  leaves  they  bear 
Flourish  there. 
They  will  be  a  source  of  pleasure. 

But  whene'er  the  lovely  spring 

Spreads  her  wing. 

And  the  rose's  charms  have  fleeted; 

Nor  those  lately  valued  flowers. 

Nor  the  bowers, 

Shall  with  former  praise  be  greeted. 

While  Love's  beam  in  woman's  eyes 
Fondly  lies. 
All  the  heart's  best  feelings  telling. 

Love  will  come, — a  welcome  guest, — 
And  her  breast 
Be  his  own  ecstatic  dwelling. 


DUTCH   POETRY. 


But  when  envious  Time  takes  arms 
'Gainst  ber  charms, 
All  her  youthful  graces  spuming ; 
Love,  who  courted  beauty's  ray, 
Steals  away, 
Never  thinking  of  returning. 

Maidens  !  who  man's  suit  dende, 
And  whose  pride 
Scorns  the  hearts  that  bow  before  ye, 
From  my  song  this  lesson  learn  : 
"  Be  not  stern 
To  the  lovers  who  adore  ye." 


SONG. 

E'xN  as  a  tender  rose, 

To  which  the  spring  gives  birth, 
Falls  when  the  north  wind  blows. 
And  withers  on  the  earth  : 
80,   when   her  eye-light  throws    its    glances 
brightly  through  me, 
I  sink  o'erwhelmed  and  gloomy. 

E'en  as  the  herb  by  day 

Its  green  leaf  downwards  turns. 
What  time  the  sun's  fierce  ray 
Upon  it  fiercely  bums : 
So,  'neath  the  quenchless  fire,  that  firom  her 
eyes  is  shining, 
I  feel  myself  declining. 

My  courage  is  subdued 

By  sorrow's  mighty  thrill. 
And  so  in  solitude 
I  linger  sadly  still ; 
While  her  sweet  witcheries  cast  their  magic 
influence  round  me. 
And  in  their  chains  have  bound  me. 


JEREMIAS   DE   DECKER. 

This  poet  was  born  at  Dordrecht  in  1610. 
His  education  was  carefully  superintended  by 
his  father,  and  his  poetical  talents  were  early 
unfolded.  His  first  poetical  work  was  a  trans- 
lation of  the  Lamentations  of  Jeremiah;  this 
was  followed  by  imitations  of  Horace,  Juvenal, 
Persius,  and  other  Latin  classics.  He  wrote 
also  many  original  poems.  He  died  at  Amster- 
dam, in  1666. 

TO  A  BROTHER  WHO  DIED  AT  BATAYIA. 

Blessed,  though  misery-caosing,  thou  ! 
Who  seest  not  our  domestic  woe. 
And  hear'st  not  our  funereal  plaint ; 

But  slumberest  on  thy  bed  of  rest. 
Stretched  in  the  furthest  Orient, 

With  Java's  sands  upon  thy  breast ! 

Did  I  not  tell  thee,  broken-hearted. 

Thy  doom, — sad  doom !  —  when  last  we  parted  ? 


Did  I  not  paint  the  dangers  near  f 

Tell  thee  what  misery  would  be  mine. 

To  leave  a  father's  solemn  bier. 

With  tottering  steps, — to  weep  o'er  thine? 

Long  absence  brought  thee  to  my  sight. 
In  fiery  flashes, —  lightning  bright;  — 
But,  that  the  thunder  might  not  shock  thee, 

Death  to  his  bosom  gathered  thee ; 
And  now  no  more  the  wild  winds  rock  tbee. 

And  rages  now  no  more  the  sea. 

When  Fortune  smiled,  he  neither  bowed 
To  luxury,  nor  waxed  vain  and  proud ; 
He  was  too  wise  on  childish  toys 

To  fix  a  heart  unstained  by  guile. 
Or  give  to  earthly  griefs  or  joys 

The  useless  tear,  the  idle  smile. 

Upright  in  all,  —  of  lips  sincere ; 
Of  open  hand,  —  disposed  to  cheer 
The  suppliant,  and  assist  the  poor ; 

Willing  to  lend,  —  and  pleased  to  pay ; 
And  still  subduing,  more  and  more, 

The  natural  firailties  of  our  way. 

A  father,  tutored  to  submit 

To  all  that  Heaven  deemed  right  and  fit. 

And  with  a  tranquil  spirit  say. 

While  ^r  above  earth's  changes  raised,  — 
"  The  Lord  has  given,  —  be  takes  away,  — 

And  be  his  name  for  ever  praised  !  " 

His  country's  government  he  ever 
Cheerfhlly  served,  but  flattered  never  : 
So  fully  bent  in  every  thought 

Upon  his  nation's  interest,  he 
From  every  side  instraction  brought. 

And  knowledge,  like  the  Athenian  bee. 

A  father  such  as  this, — a  friend 
And  brother,  —  have  I  seen  descend 
Smitten  by  death ;  beneath  him  years 

Hollowed  the  tomb's  descent ',  and  slow 
And  silent  down  the  vale  of  tears 

He  sank  to  where  he  sleeps  below. 

The  mouth  which  words  of  mirth  supplied. 
At  morning's  dawn  and  dventide, 
Truth  gathered  from  the  immortal  book. 

Is  still  for  ever  :  it  shall  slake 
Its  thirst  no  more  in  Eden's  brook. 

Nor  2ion's  sweet  refreshment  take. 

But,  ah  !  we  are  driven  by  distress 

From  bitterness  to  bitterness ; 

For  scarce  had  sorrow  o'er  thee  strewed 

The  dews  of  sympathy,  ere  pain 
Brought  all  its  busy  multitode 

Of  griefi  and  woes  to  wound  again : 

And  of  our  house  —  O,  fiital  day  !  — 

Bore  chie>f  and  honor  both  away  : 

The  wheel  was  stopped  on  which  it  turned, 

And  we,  a  desolate  race,  were  lefl 
Alone, — and  hopeless  there  we  mourned 

Him,  whom  remorseless  death  had  refl. 


DECKER. 


389 


A  ftther,  who  in  wisdom  guided 
The  love  that  in  his  love  confided  : 
A  Ather,  who,  upon  our  heart. 

And  in  our  blood.  Heaven's  laws  did  wiite ; 
And  taught  us  never  to  depart 

From  virtue's  waj, — befidl  what  might 

A  &ther,  temperate,  wise,  and  brave,  — 
Who,  when  the  whirlwind  and  the  wave 
Beat  on  his  bark,  could  seize  the  helm. 

And,  spite  of  storm  and  stream,  convey 
To  port,  —  while  billows  overwhelm 

A  thousand  ships  that  round  him  laj. 

Those  lips,  alas !  we  loved  so  well, 
Whence  no  ungentle  accents  fell,  — 
No  thoughts  but  virtue,  —  have  I  seen 

Parched  with  a  blaclc,  pestiferous  hue. 
And  marked  the  dry  and  up-scorched  sldn 

Just  spotted  with  a  feverish  dew. 

That  tongue  which  oft  with  us  hath  poured 
The  song  of  joy,  —  and  oft  adored,  — 
That  voice  which  taught  us  wisdom's  word, 

And  Heaven's  admonitory  will,  — 
In  gently  breathing  tones  I  heard,  — 

And  gentler  yet,  —  and  then  't  was  still. 

That  bright  and  noble  countenance, 
Which  gleamed  with  truth  in  every  glance, 
And  made  us  love  it,  —  't  was  so  fkir 

And  BO  attractive,  —  soon  was  wan. 
And  gloom  and  darkness  nestled  there  : 

'T  was  pale  and  sunk  and  wobegone. 

I  saw  him  sinkf — and  day  by  day 
I  marked  the  progress  of  decay  : 
His  old  and  venerable  head 

Dropped,  —  and  his  smiles  were  dimmed ; 
—  at  last 
The  death-mist  on  hu  crown  was  spread. 

And  our  sun's  glory  veiled  and  pEist. 

I  saw  his  hands  grow  stiff  and  cold. 

Long  used  our  honor  to  uphold ; 

His  limbs,  that  long  had  borne  the  weight 

Of  many  a  care,  then  tottering  shook, 
As  on  be  moved  with  trembling  gait. 

And  towards  the  tomb  his  pathway  took. 

And  then  I  saw  his  corpse  conveyed 
Down  to  death's  lonely  paths  of  shade. 
Where  gloom  and  dull  oi^livion  reign  : 

Even  now,  even  now,  that  scene  I  view ;  — 
How  could  I  seek  the  light  again  f  — 

How  ?  —  mourn  I  not  my  sorrows  too  ? 

How  valueless  is  life  to  me  ! 

It  seems  impossible  to  he. 

To  talk  of  life,  when  those  are  gone 

Who  gave  us  life,  is  fiilse  and  vain  : 
O,  yes !  I  have  a  heart  of  stone, — 

For  he  is  gone,  and  I  remain. 

O  noble  branch  of  Montpensier  ! 
His  name  shall  be  to  Memory  dear. 


And  in  Fame's  brightest  archives  stored ; 

For  not  alone  his  tears  he  gave. 
But  with  his  tears  his  being  poured. 

An  offering  on  his  &ther*s  grave.  ' 

Alas !  alas  !  sad  heart  of  mine. 
Were  such  a  glorious  privilege  thine, 
It  were  indeed  a  blissful  doom  !  — 

No  !  not  a  Other's  cheek  to  see 
Damp  with  the  cold  dews  of  the  tomb. 

And  mingling  with  mortality. 

But  fain  with  him,  in  silence  deep. 
Sheltered  from  all  my  woes,  I  'd  sleep, 
Where,  from  life's  sad  and  darksome  cares, 

Beneath  the  damp  and  gloomy  ground. 
My  soul  his  bed  of  silence  shares. 

With  peace  and  solitude  around. 

So,  freed  and  far  from  misery's  power. 
And  fears  and  hopes,  the  hastening  hour 
Glides  now  no  more  away  in  pain. 

Nor  weary  nights  in  sleepless  thought ; 
But,  ah !  the  lovely  dream  is  vain,  — 

My  shaken  heart  deserves  it  not. 

See,  brother !  thou  didst  leave  thy  home. 
And  woes  like  these,  far  off  to  roam : 
Tet  other  woes  pursued  thee  there ; 

And  even  across  the  Indian  seas, 
Sorrow  and  darkness  and  despair 

Told  their  sad  tales  and  miseries. 

But  thou  hast  'scaped  the  worst, —  thy  bed 
From  woe's  loud  storm  hath  screened  thy  head: 
Thou  shouldst  have  borne  thy  share,  but  now 

Thou  art  above  the  reach  of  woe ; 
And  I  —  a  wretched  being  !  —  bow. 

And  cry  as  I  was  wont  to  do  :— 

"  Blessed,  though  misery-causing,  thou  ! 
Who  seest  not  all  our  sorrows  now. 
And  hear'st  not  our  funereal  plaint ; 

But  slumberest  on  thy  bed  of  rest. 
Stretched  in  the  furthest  Orient, 

With  Java's  sands  upon  thy  breast ! " 


ODE  TO  MT  MOTHER. 

O,  NONE  will  deem  it  a  disgrace, 

Or  ever  with  reproaches  sting  thee. 
That  thy  fair  brow  should  bear  the  trace 

Of  all  the  inward  griefs  that  wring  thee  ! 
Without  the  sun,  the  pallid  moon 
Would  lose  her  gayest  lustre  soon  : 
Then  who,  when  wife  and  husband  sever. 

Would  marvel  that  her  eyes  are  dim. 
Since  he  is  her  bright  sun  for  ever. 

And  she  a  gentle  moon  to  him  ? 

The  sun  that  cheered  thy  life  has  faded  ; 

'T  is  time  for  thee  to  mourn  and  sigh  ; 
Thy  light  and  splendor  now  are  shaded. 

In  dust  thy  crown  and  honor  lie  : 
And,  ah  !  thy  house,  that  flourished  fair. 
Seems  visited  by  thy  despair, 
oo2 


DUTCH   POETRY. 


And  mourns  like  some  abode  deserted, 
Or  headless  trunk  in  mute  decay, 

A  land  whose  ruler  has  departed, 
A  world  whose  sun  has  passed  away. 


'T  is  meet  that  for  a  season  thou 

Shouldst  pour  the  tribute  of  thy  sorrow ; 
But  endless  tears,  a  cheerless  brow. 

And  woes  that  hope  no  joyous  morrow. 
Are  trifling,  vain,  —  though  sprung  from  love, — 
And  sinful  to  thy  God  above : 
And  if  my  father*s  spirit,  reigning 

Beyond  the  earth,  can  see  our  grief, 
Thy  never-ceasing,  lone  complaining 

Will  bring  him  misery,  —  not  relief. 

Too  deep  for  tears,  the  pangs  we  feel,  — 

For  he  is  gone  beyond  recalling  : 
But,  hark  !  what  murmured  accents  steal  ? 

What  voice  upon  my  ear  is  falling, 
And  through  my  mournful  spirit  flies, 
As  if  it  came  from  yonder  skies  ? 
O,  can  it  be  my  father  speaking. 

In  pity  to  thy  widowed  lot. 
To  soothe  the  heart  that  now  is  breaking? 

It  is !  —  it  is  !  —  dost  hear  it  not  ? 

I  feel  his  accents  from  above, 

Through  heart  and  soul  and  senses  creeping : 
"  My  wife  !  "  he  cries,  "  my  sorrowing  love ! 

O,  why  give  way  to  endless  weeping, 
And  to  despair  in  weakness  bow  ? 
O,  blam'st  thou  Heaven,  because  it  now 
Has  opened  Eden's  glorious  portal? 

Think*8t  thou  that  death  could  pardon  me  ? 
Ah,  no  !  all,  all  on  earth  is  mortal, 

And  fiides  into  eternity. 


"  I  lie  in  safety  and  at  rest. 

And  naught  that  I  behold  displeases  ; 
I  hear  no  accents  that  molest. 

E'en  when  the  North  with  tempest-breezes 
Sweeps  in  its  fury  o'er  the  deep, 
And  wakes  the  ocean  from  its  sleep  ; 
Or  when  the  thunder-cloud  is  scowling. 

Or  lightning  rages  from  the  west, 
I  fear  not  for  the  tempest's  howling. 

But  lie  in  safety  and  at  rest. 

"  The  journey  of  my  life  is  o'er. 

From  earthly  chains  has  heaven  unbound  me. 
And  punishment  and  shame  no  more 

Can  cast  their  torturing  influence  round  me. 
And  dost  thou,  dearest,  weep  for  me  ? 
And  dost  thou  mourn  that  I  should  be 
No  more  on  earth  ?     And  art  thou  sighing 

That  I  in  peace  have  left  a  life 
Which  is  but  one  long  scene  of  dying. 

Anxiety,  and  worrying  strife  ? 


**  Whilst  here  that  brightened  visage  glows. 

From  which,  whene'er  my  eyes  retrace  it, 
A  stream  of  joy  and  luxury  flows, 
-   Too  vast  for  language  to  embrace  it. 


Here  I  approach,  with  forehead  bright. 

The  majesty  of  endless  light ; 

Light, — whose  eternal  beam  is  dwelling 

Where  mortal  eye  can  see  no  way  ; 
Light,  —  the  gay  sun  as  much  excelling. 

As  he  excels  morn's  faintest  ray. 


'*Te  men,  who  wear  delusion's  chain. 

What  madness  hath  your  judgments  riven  ? 
Could  you  a  transient  glance  obtain 

Of  all  we  see  and  feel  in  heaven. 
All  earth's  delights  would  seem  but  care,  — 
Its  glory,  mist,  —  its  bliss,  despair,  — 
Its  splendors,  slavish  melancholy,  — 

Its  princely  mansions,  loathsome  sties,  — 
Its  greatest  wisdom,  merest  felly,  — 

And  all  its  riches,  vanities ! 

»*  Then,  dearest,  be  the  pomp  and  state 

Of  earth's  vain  world  for  ever  slighted, 
And  ask  of  God  that  still  our  fate 

May  be  above  again  united. 
We  '11  join  the  bridal  scene  once  more,  — 
A  bridal,  not,  like  ours  of  yore. 
Earthly  and  weak,  nor  long  remaining ; 

But  heavenly,  firm,  and  without  end. — 
Be  comforted,  and  cease  complaining. 

And  deem  all  good  that  God  may  send." 


REINIER  ANSLO. 

RsiRisR  Anslo  was  bom  of  wealthy  parents, 
at  Amsterdam,  in  1622.  The  greater  part  of 
his  life  was  passed  in  travelling,  particularly  in 
Italy,  where  he  became  a  Catholic,  and  where 
most  of  his  poems  were  written.  He  died  at 
Perugia,  in  1669.  His  principal  works  are 
««The  Plague  of  Naples  "  and  '«The  Eve  of  St. 
Bartholomew  " ;  both  of  an  epic  character,  and 
written  with  great  vigor  and  beauty. 


FROM  THE  PLAGUE  OF  NAPLESL 

Whxre  shall  we  hide  us,  —  he  pursuing  ? 
What  darksome  cave,  what  gloomy  ruin  ? 
It  matters  not, — distress  and  fear 
Are  everywhere. 

Who  now  can  shield  us  from  the  fury 
That  seems  upon  our  steps  to  hurry  ? 
Our  brow  exudes  a  frozen  sweat. 
On  hearing  it. 

List  to  that  scream  !  that  broken  crying  ! 
Could  not  the  death-gasp  hush  that  sighing  ? 
Are  these  the  fruits  of  promised  peace  ?  • 
O,  wretchedness ! 

E'en  as  a  careless  shepherd  sleeping, 
Forgetful  of  the  flocks  be  's  keeping. 
Is  smitten  by  the  lightning's  breath,  — 
The  bolt  of  death  : 


ANTONIDES   VAN  DER   GOES. 


391 


E'en  83  the  growing  mountain-current 
Pours  down  the  vales  its  giant  torrent. 
And  sweeps  the  thoughtless  flocks  away 
That  slumbering  laj : 

So  were  we  roused,  —  so  woe  descended 
Before  the  bridal  feast  was  ended, 
And  sleep  hung  heavy,  —  followed  there 
By  blank  despair. 


JOANNES  ANTONIDES  VAN  DER  GOES. 

This  famous  writer  was  bom  at  Der  Goes, 
in  1647.  He  had  the  good  fortune  early  to  gain 
the  esteem  of  Vondel,  who  used  to  call  him  his 
son.  He  took  the  degree  of  Doctor  in  Medicine 
at  the  University  of  Utrecht,  and  became  a  suc- 
cessful practitioner.  He  died  in  1684,  at  the 
early  age  of  thirty-seven  years. 

The  character  of  Van  der  Goes  is  thus  sketched 
in  the  «« Foreign  Quarterly  Review"  (Vol.  IV., 
pp.  56,57):  —  **Antonide8  van  der  Goes  had 
the  enthusiasm,  but  not  the  high  talents,  neces- 
sary to  redeem  his  country's  literature  fVom  the 
affectation  and  servility  into  which  it  was  rapidly 
foiling.  He  expresses  his  indignation  at  the 
corrupting  influence  of  the  French  in  the  fol- 
lowing words,  in  a  letter  to  his  friend  Oudaan : — 

"  *  What  turtmlent  spirit  rules  the  land,  and  sUios 
With  iu  poUutioD  Holland's  patriot  plains. 
Poisons  our  pens,  infects  the  rery  air, 
Long  ere  we  know  the  hideoas  monster  's  there  ? 
For  iinpercei?ed  it  rears  a  monarch's  head, 
Inanlu  our  language,  and  confers,  instead, 
The  bastard  speech,  the  wantonness,  of  Gaul.' 

**  Antonides  followed  Vondel,  as  far  as  he 
was  able.  His  principal  work  is  his  poem  on 
the  River  T.  There  is  an  episode,  —  where  the 
spirit  of  the  Peruvians,  Ataliba,  appeals  to  the 
Hollanders  in  the  waters  of  the  tropics,  implor- 
ing them  to  avenge  the  tyranny  of  the  Span- 
iards,— which  has  been  much  praised.  The  idea 
is  obviously  borrowed  flrom  Camoens's  <Ada- 
mastor ' ;  but  Antonides's  creation  is  at  an  infinite 
distance  from  that  huge  and  sublime  creation, 
that  mass  of  intellectual  granite  rolling  about 
amidst  the  storms  of  the  Cape,  tormented  by 
mortal  passions,  and  shipwrecked  in  more  than 
mortal  disappointment.  Antonides's  *  Bellona ' 
was  received  with  great  enthusiasm ;  it  sang  the 
triumphs  of  Holland  over  England.  Sad  sub- 
jects these  for  song ;  the  triumphs  pass  away, 
bat  not  the  hatred  ;  and  the  malignant  passions, 
awakened  for  the  purposes  of  an  hour,  remain 
behind  to  torment  many  generations.  A  yerj 
acute  author  (Witsen  Geysbeek),  who  has  late- 
ly published  an  edition  of  the  *  Ystroom,'  places 
Antonides  at  the  head  of  all  the  poets  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  He  was  the  flivorite  child 
of  Vondel's  afl^ection.  The  effect  of  his  works 
is  much  diminished  by  his  mythological  machin- 
ery, but  there  are  very  lew  compositions  which 
can  be  read  with  such  a  sustained  pleasure  as 


his  *  River  T.'  Hoogstraten  wrote  the  life  of 
Antonides,  which  is  placed  at  the  head  of  his 
works." 


OVERTHROW  OF  THE  TURKS  BT  VICE-ADMIRAL 
WILLEM  JOSEPH. 

Algiers,  that  on  the  midland  sea 

Rules  o*er  her  bloody  pirate-horde, 
Sees  now  her  crown  in  jeopardy. 

And  drops  her  cruel  robber-sword. 
The  coast  of  Barbary,  terrified. 

Trembles  beneath  the  conquerors*  sway  ; 
Our  heroes  on  her  waters  ride. 

While  the  fierce  bandits,  in  dismay, 
And  mad  with  plunder  and  with  ire. 
Are  smothered  in  a  sea  of  fire. 

Thrice  had  the  sun  from  the  orient  verge 

'  Into  his  golden  chariot  sprung ; 
From  the  rain-clouds  his  rays  emerge. 

With  brightest  glory  round  him  flung : 
The  northern  winds  are  roused,  —  the  Turk 

Is  borne  along ;  —  in  vain  he  tries. 
While  terrors  in  his  bosom  lurk. 

To  'scape  our  glance :  —  in  vain  he  flies. 
He  may  not  fly,  —  for  he  is  bound 
In  his  pursuers'  toils  around. 

Te  rapine  vultures  of  the  sea. 

Haste,  haste  before  the  storm  and  stream ; 
Stretch  out  your  pinions  now,  and  be 

The  fearful,  flying  flock  ye  seem  ! 
No !  ye  shall  not  escape,  —  for  we 

Have  hemmed  you  in  on  every  side ; 
Tour  crescent  now  looks  mournfully. 

And  fiiin  her  paling  horns  would  hide. 
But  no  !  but  no  !  ye  shall  be  driven 
From  earth  and  ocean,  as  from  heaven. 

No  !  terror  shakes  the  Afric  strand. 

The  Moor  perceives  his  glory  wane  ; 
The  madman  glares  with  fiery  brand. 

As  glares  the  heaven  above  the  main. 
The  cannons  rattle  to  the  wind ; 

Black,  noisome  vapors  from  the  waves 
The  bright-eyed  sun  with  darkness  blind  ; 

And  Echo  shouts  from  Nereus'  caves, 
As  if^  with  rage  and  strength  immortal, 
Salmoneus  shook  hell's  brazen  portal. 

How  should  they  stand  against  the  free,  — 

The  free, — the  brave, — whom  Ocean's  pride 
Hath  loved  to  crown  with  victory, 

Tet  victory  never  satisfied  ? 
The  AmstePs  thunders  roar  around. 

While  the  barbarians  clamor  loud. 
And,  scattered  on  their  native  ground, 

The  base  retire  before  the  proud ; 
While  their  sea-standards,  riven  and  torn, 
Are  but  the  noisy  tempest's  scorn. 

There  twice  three  ships  submit  them,  —  led 
By  their  commander. — Ocean  's  f^eed 

From  its  old  tyrants,  —  and  in  dread. 
On  the  wide  waters  when  they  bleed. 


392 


DUTCH   POETRY. 


From  that  inhospitable  shore 

Upon  the  mingled  flame  and  smoke 

Looks  the  heart-agitated  Moor, 

Whose  power- is  lost,  and  riven  his  yoke  : 

He  stamps  and  curses,  as  he  sees 

How  his  fear-stricken  brother  flees. 

O,  ye  have  earned  a  noble  meed, 

Brave  Christian  heroes !  —  the  reward 
Of  virtue.     Gratitude  shall  speed 

Tour  future  course :  ye  have  unbarred 
The  prison-doors  of  many  a  slave, 

Whom  heathen  power  had  bound,  —  and 
these 
In  memory's  shrines  your  names  shall  have  ; 

And  this  shall  l>e  your  stainless  praise, — 
Leaving  sweet  thoughts,  —  as  seamen  ride 
From  land  to  land  o'er  flivoring  tide. 


JAN   VAN   BROEKHUIZEN. 

Jah  van  Bkoexhuizen,  better  known  among 
scholars  by  the  Latinized  name  of  Janus  Brouk- 
kusiuSf  was  born  at  Amsterdam,  in  1649.  When 
young,  he  lost  his  father ;  and,  much  against  his 
own  inclination,  was  placed  by  his  guardian 
with  an  apothecary,  '*  his  genius  cramped  over 
a  pestle  and  mortar."  At  this  time  he  wrote 
verses,  which  gained  some  applause ;  and  sub- 
sequently entering  the  military  service,  hd  sail- 
ed,  in  1674,  to  the  West  Indies,  as  a  marine, 
under  the  celebrated  Admiral  De  Ruyter.  In 
the  autumn  of  the  same  year,  he  returned  to 
Utrecht,  where  he  became  acquainted  with 
several  scientific  men.  Here,  in  1684,  he  pub- 
lished an  edition  of  his  poems.  He  afterwards 
received  a  military  appointment  at  Amsterdam, 
where  he  remained  till  the  peace  of  Ryswick, 
when  he  retired  from  the  service  with  the  rank 
of  Captain.  He  was  an  editor,  as  well  as  an 
author,  and  published  editions  of  several  of  the 
classics,  with  critical  notes.  He  died  in  1707. 
The  best  edition  of  his  poems  is  that  of  Am- 
sterdam, 1711,  quarto. 


SONO. 

I  8IOH,  lament,  and  moan, 

Whene'er  I  am  alone ; 
And,  O,  my  eyes  in  bitterness  complain, 
Which  dared  to  gaze  on  her  who  caused  my  pain ! 
At  daybreak,  and  when  night  draws  nigh, 
Clorinda  still  dwells  in  ray  memory : 
Yes,  —  there  the  lovely  image  is  enshrined, 
Whose  power  I  feel  for  ever  in  my  tnind. 

My  dreams  are  never  free 

From  this  sad  slavery : 
All  other  thoughts  love  in  oblivion  drowns. 
My  heart  throbs  fluttering,  fearful  of  her  frowns; 
Her  eye  of  light,  her  lip  of  rose. 
Her  dulcet  voice,  her  cheeks,  where   beauty 
glows. 


Are  snares  which  lure  the  bosom  that  relies. 
And  wound  the.  soul  that  trusts  them,  through 
the  eyes. 

Then  go,  my  eyes,  and  crave 

Some  pity  for  her  slave  : 
But  let  your  mission  unobtrusive  be. 
Tour  language  tempered  with  homiUty. 
She  will  not  scorn  the  heart  that  brings 
Its  love  to  her,  and  round  her  mercy  clings. 
But  if  she  do  not  listen  to  your  prayer. 
Despise  her  heart, — self-love  alone  is  there. 


SONNET. 

Bbtovd  the  Rhine,  in  solitudes  and  snows. 
Through  every  starless  night  and  cheerless 

day, 
I  muse,  and  waste  myself  in  thought  away. 
And  breathe  my  sighs  to  where  the  Amstel 

flows. 
My  spring  of  lifb  is  hastening  to  its  close. 
The  sun  of  youth  emits  its  latest  ray, 
While  grief  asserts  its  most  ungentle  sway ; 
And  toils  I  bear,  but  toils  without  repose. 
But,  O,  my  past  enjoyment,  life,  and  light ! 
How  soon  would  sorrow  take  its  hurried  flight, 
And  every  thought  that  pains  my  breast  depart. 
If  thou  wert  present  when  my  spirits  pine  ! 
For  thou  wouldst  bring,  with  those  sweet 
eyes  of  thine, 
A  summer  in  the  land, — a  heaven  within  my 
heart. 

MORNING. 

Ths  morning  hour,  its  brightness  spreading. 
In  more  than  common  lustre  rose ; 
And  o'er  day's  portals  sparkling  snows 

And  corals,  gems  of  gold,  was  shedding. 

The  moon  grew  paler,  paler  yet,  — 
And  night,  her  gloomy  face  averting. 
Rolled  slowly  up  her  misty  curtain,  — 

And  star  by  star  in  twilight  set 

Closed  are  the  thousand  eyes  of  heaven. 
And  light  shines  brighter  forth  from  one ; 
And,  lo  !  the  bee  comes  forth  alone, 

To  rob  the  rose  and  thyme  till  even. 

The  lordly  lion  wakes  the  wood 

With  mighty  roar;  his  eyeball  flashes ; 
He  shakes  his  mane,  his  tail  he  lashes ; 

His  loud  voice  breaks  the  solitude. 

Away,  thou  monarch,  brave,  unshaken  ! 
Endymion,  when  he  hears  thy  cries. 
Far  firom  the  woods  in  terror  flies. 

And  leaves  his  old  abode  forsaken. 

He  finds  his  mistress  on  the  mead. 

Who,  where  the  shady  boughs  are  twining, 
Upon  the  greensward  is  reclining. 

And  counts  the  flocks  that  round  her  feed. 


BROEKHUIZEN.  — SMITS.  — BILDERDIJK. 


393 


How  gayly  comes  that  maiden  straying. 
Before  the  sheep,  that  fawn  and  play  ! 
All  light  and  smiles, — like  dawning  day. 

When  o'er  the  ocean's  bosom  playing. 

The  lambkin,  youthful  as  the  grass. 
As  white  as  snow,  as  soft  as  roses^ 
Now  at  her  tarrying  feet  reposes, 

And  now  beside  her  loves  to  pass. 

The  feathered  choir,  with  songs  of  pleasure. 
Salute  the  sun,  whose  glowing  ray 
Is  shining  on  their  plumage  gay. 

And  glads  their  thousand-chorus  measure. 

What  art  can  equal  the  sweet  notes 

Of  their  wild  lays  in  grief  and  sadness  ? 
What  hand  can  wake  such  tones  of  gladness 

As  flow  from  their  untutored  throats  ? 

The  peasant,  with  the  dawn  beginning, 
Now  yokes  the  oxen  to  the  ploughs ; 
And  peasant-girls,  with  laughing  brows. 

Sing  gay  and  cheerily  while  spinning. 

A  varied  sound  and  fitful  light 

On  dreams  and  silence  are  encroaching ; 

The  sun  in  glory  is  approaching 
To  wake  to  day  the  slumbering  night. 

The  lover,  who  with  passion  smarted. 
And  sighed  his  soul  at  Chloris'  feet. 
Starts  when  he  finds  the  night's  deceit. 

And  Chloris  with  his  dream  departed. 

The  busy  smith,  with  naked  arms. 

Whom  sparks  and  blasts  and  flames  environ. 

Beats  sturdily  the  glowing  iron. 
Which  the  loud-hissing  water  warms. 

Come,  let  us  rise  and  wander,  dear  one  ! 

Our  taper's  flame  is  faint  and  dead. 

The  morning  ray  is  on  our  bed ; 
Come,  let  us  rise  and  wander,  fair  one ! 

Come,  rouse,  beloved  !  let  us  rove 

Where  'neath  our  welcomed  steps  are  growing 

Roses  and  lilies,  fair  and  glowing 
As  those  upon  thy  cheeks,  my  love  ! 


DIRK   SMITS. 

Dirk  Shits  was  bom  at  Rotterdam,  in  1702. 
Gravenweert*  describes  his  character  as  fol- 
lows: —  **  Nature  alone  formed  him.  He  was 
employed  in  some  small  occupations  in  the  cus- 
toms, and  struggled  all  his  life  against  the  ine- 
qualities of  fortune.  Several  of  his  pieces  are 
etill  cited,  as  models  of  an  agreeable  and  easy 
style.  All  his  productions  are  full  of  grace  and 
feeling,  and  every  lover  of  letters  knows  the 
« Song  of  the  Cradle,'  and  the  <  Funeral  Wreath 

*  Litareture  N^rlandaiae,  p.  130. 
60 


for  my  Daughter.'  In  most  of  his  poems,  a  grav- 
ity nearly  approaching  to  melancholy  reigns ', 
and,  whether  it  be  the  influence  of  climate  or 
national  character,  this  tone  predominates  in 
the  good  poets  of  Holland ;  it  is  this  which 
they  have  generally  seized  the  best." 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

A  HOST  of  angels  flying, 

Through  cloudless  skies  impelled. 

Upon  the  earth  beheld 
A  pearl  of  beauty  lying, 

Worthy  to  glitter  bright 

In  heaven's  vast  halls  of  light 

They  saw,  with  glances  tender. 
An  infant  newly  bom. 
O'er  whom  life's  earliest  mom 

Just  cast  its  opening  splendor : 
Virtue  it  could  not  know. 
Nor  vice,  nor  joy,  nor  woe. 

The  blest  angelic  legion 

Greeted  its  birth  above. 

And  came,  with  looks  of  love. 
From  heaven's  enchanting  region  ; 

Bending  their  winged  way 

To  where  the  infant  lay. 

They  spread  their  pinions  o'er  it, — 
That  little  pearl  which  shone 
With  lustre  all  its  own,  — 

And  then  on  high  they  bore  it. 
Where  glory  has  its  birth ;  — 
But  left  the  shell  on  earth. 


WILLEM   BILDERDIJK. 

WiLLEH  BiLDBRDiJK,  ronowued  as  a  jurist, 
an  accomplished  scholar,  and  a  poet,  was  born 
at  Amsterdam,  September  7tb,  1756.  He  re- 
ceived a  careful  education.  He  studied  at  the 
University  of  Leyden,  where  he  devoted  him- 
self to  jurisprudence  under  the  direction  of  the 
learned  Van  der  Keessel.  He  left  his  country 
when  the  French  occupied  it,  went  to  Bruns- 
wick, and  afterwards  to  London,  where  he 
delivered  lectures  on  law,  poetry,  and  litera- 
ture, which  were  numerously  attended.  In 
1806,  he  returned  to  Holland.  At  the  begin- 
ning of  the  reign  of  Louis  Bonaparte,  Bilderdijk 
was  selected  by  him  to  be  his  teacher  in  the 
Dutch  language.  After  having  resided  in  vari- 
ous places,  he  established  himself  in  Haarlem 
in  1827,  where  he  died,  December  18th,  1831. 

His  feelings  were  strong  and  impetuous.  He 
was^'a  good  hater";  and  his  expressions  of 
literary  and  national  animosity  were  often  vio- 
lent and  overcharged.  Speaking  of  the  French 
language,  he  says : 

"Begone !  thou  bastard  tongue,  so  base,  so  broken, 
B  J  honian  jackals  and  h  jenas  spoken ; 


394 


DUTCH   POETRY. 


Fonned  for  a  race  of  infidela,  and  fit 

To  laugh  at  truth  and  skepticiza  in  wit ! 

What  stammering,  snivelling  sounds,  which  scaicelj  dare 

Ttirough  nasal  channels  to  salute  the  ear, 

Yet,  helped  bj  apes'  grimaces  and  the  deril, 

Have  ruled  the  world,  and  ruled  the  world  for  eril  I " 

One  of  his  principal  literary  quarrels  was 
with  Siegenbeek,  on  the  orthography  of  the 
Dutch  language.  During  this  controversy,  he 
wrote  a  poetical  pasquinade,  entitled  *^  Dance 
round  a  Coffin,"  in  which  he  represents  his 
enemies  as  dancing  round  his  dead  body,  and 
rejoicing,  that,  their  great  schoolmaster  and  ty- 
rant being  dead,  they  can  corrupt  the  language 
at  their  pleasure.  The  following  are  a  few 
stanzas  of  this  poem. 

Now  Bllderdijlc,  the  dread, 
IsdeadI 

Now  his  mouth  la  shut, 
Now  his  pen  and  fingers  still  I 
Now  has  Manyas  his  will  l 

Faithful  fellow-croatcers, 
Bilderdijk  is  dead  and  gone, 
And  our  kingdom  and  our  throne 

Shall  no  more  be  shaken ! 

Now  again,  with  cmah 
And  dash. 

Bastardize  our  language; 
Metro,  tone,  and  common  sense 
Banish  from  the  land  lar  hence  I 

Hurrah,  poetasters ! 
Lay  the  pure  HoUandish  by. 
And  forrod  with  your  MoflTery,! 

Modem-style  scboolmasten  I 

Kwik-kwakkwakt  andRik- 
Eikkik  I 

Now  is  the  time  for  gladness  I 
Spring,  then,  merrily  plunge  and  splash  I 
Knights  of  the  puddle,  dive  and  dash 

In  the  muddy  rirer  I 
Far  and  wide  is  liolyday, 
Bilderdijk  no  more  shall  bray, 

Our  throne  stands  fiut  for  ever ! 

Bilderdijk  was  one  of  the  most  learned  and 
voluminous  writers  of  Holland.  His  published 
works  fill  more  than  one  hundred  octavo  vol- 
umes, and  there  are  more  behind  in  manuscript. 

His  character  is  strikingly  delineated  by  Rob- 
ert Southey,  in  his  *^  Epistle  to  Allan  Cunning- 
ham" (Works,  Vol.  III.,  pp.  311,  312). 

"  <  And  who  is  Bilderdijk? '  methinks  thou  sayeeU 
A  ready  question  ;  yet  which,  trust  me,  Allan, 
Would  not  be  asked,  had  not  the  curse  that  came 
From  Babel  clipped  the  wings  of  Poetry. 
Napoleon  asked  him  once,  with  cold,  fixed  look, 
'  Art  thou,  then,  in  the  world  of  lettera  known?' 
*  I  hare  deserved  to  be,'  the  Hollander 
Replied,  meeting  that  proud  imperial  look 
With  calm  and  proper  confidence,  and  eye 
As  little  wont  to  turn  away  abashed 
Before  a  mortal  presence.    He  is  one 
Who  hath  received  upon  his  constant  breast 
The  sharpest  arrows  of  adversity ; 
Whom  not  the  clamon  of  the  multitude, 
Demanding,  in  their  madness  and  their  might, 
Ink|uitous  things,  could  shake  In  his  firm  mind ; 
Nor  the  strong  hand  of  instant  tyranny 

1  Germanisms. 


From  the  stnight  path  of  duty  turn  aside : 

But  who,  in  public  troubles,  in  the  wreck 

Of  his  own  fortunes,  in  proscription,  exile, 

Want,  obloquy,  ingntiiude,  neglect, 

And  what  severer  trials  Providence 

Sometimes  Inflicteth,  chastening  wliom  it  loves, — 

In  all,  through  all,  and  over  all,  hath  borne 

An  equal  heart,  as  resolulA  toward 

The  world,  as  humbly  and  religiously 

Beneath  his  Heavenly  Father's  rod  resigned. 

Right-minded,  happy-minded,  righteous  man, 

True  lover  of  his  country  and  his  kind ; 

In  knowledge,  and  in  inexhaustive  stores 

Of  native  genius,  rich ;  philosopher. 

Poet,  and  sage.    The  language  of  a  state 

Inferior  in  iUustrioaa  deeds  to  none, 

But  circumscribed  by  narrow  bounds,  and  now 

Sinking  in  irrecoverable  decline. 

Hath  pent  within  iu  sphere  a  name  wherewith 

Europe  slwuld  else  have  rung  from  aide  to  side." 

Oravenweert  *  says  of  him,  ^  This  extrm- 
ordinary  genius  is  not  only  the  greatest  poet 
that  Holland  has  produced,  but  he  is  one  of 
her  first  grammarians  and  most  distinguished 
scholars.  Destined  to  the  profession  of  an  ad- 
vocate, besides  being  an  excellent  lawyer,  he 
became  a  scholar,  theologian,  physician,  critical 
historian,  astronomer,  antiquary,  draftsman,  and 
engineer,  and  acquired  a  thorough  knowledge 
of  nearly  all  the  modern  languages,  as  well  as 
of  the  Hebrew,  Arabic,  and  Persian,  the  most 
brilliant  pieces  in  which  he  translated  and  imi. 
tated,  but  with  a  spirit  which  gives  them  an  in- 
imitable color.  Bilderdijk  excels  in  every  spe- 
cies of  poetry,  tragedy  alone  excepted  ;  in  this 
he  has  been  able  to  equal  neither  the  ancients, 
nor  the  French  triumvirate,  nor  Shakspeare,  nor 
Schiller,  nor  Vondel ;  yet,  excepting  these  great 
models,  be  bears  a  comparison  with  all  that 
Europe  has  produced." 


ODE  TO  BEAinr. 

Child  of  the  Unborn  !  dost  thoo  bend 

From  Him  we  in  the  day-beams  see, 
Whose  music  with  the  breeze  doth  blend .' 

To  feel  thy  presence  is  to  be. 
Thou,  our  soul's  brightest  effluence,  —  thou 
Who  in  heaven's  light  to  earth  dost  bow, 

A  spirit  '^midst  unspiritual  clods,  — 
Beauty  !  who  bear'st  the  stamp  profound 
Of  Him,  with  all  perfection  crowned. 

Thine  image,  —  thine  alone, — is  God's. 

How  is  thine  influence  o'er  us  spread. 

That  in  thy  smile  we  smile  and  play  ? 
How  art  thou  woven  with  life's  thread .' 

Thou  consciousness  of  greatness !  say. 
Art  thou  a  spirit  of  the  breeze, 
Which  our  awakening  vision  sees, 

That  grasps  our  hand,  and  pours  a  flood 
Of  glory,  and,  with  thought  more  high 
Than  mortal  thoughts  can  magnify, 

Stirs  with  heaven's  warmth  our  icy  blood? 


*  Litt«nture  Nterlandaiae,  pp.  183, 189. 


BILDERDIJK. 


395 


Tboa  dazzling,  driving,  despot  power, 

Mortalitj  before  thee  kneels; 
Tbou  wert  not  born  in  eartbly  bour, 

Wbose'  breatb  the  tomb  with  glory  611b  : 
No  I  thee  the  Almigbty's  hand  did  mould 
Out  of  the  morning-beams  of  gold 

Which  burst  on  heaven  when  earth  was 
made,  — 
He  plumed  and  he  perfiimed  thy  wings. 
And  bade  thee  brood  o*er  mortal  things, 

And  in  thy  smiles  his  smile  conveyed. 

How  shall  I  catch  a  single  ray 

Thy  glowing  hand  from  nature  wakes,— 
Steal  from  the  ether- waves  of  day 

One  of  the  notes  thy  world-harp  shakes,— 
Escape  that  miserable  joy, 
Which  dust  and  self  with  darkness  cloy, 

Fleeting  and  (alse,— and,  like  a  bird. 
Cleave  the  air-path,  and  follow  thee 
Through  thine  own  vast  infinity. 

Where  rolls  the  Almighty's  thunder-word  ? 

Perfect  tby  brightness  in  heaven's  sphere, 

Where  thou  dost  vibrate  in  the  bliss 
Of  anthems  ever  echoing  there  ! 

That,  that  is  life,  —  not  this,  —  not  this : 
There  in  the  holy,  holy  row. 
And  not  on  earth,  so  deep  below. 

Thy  music  unrepressed  may  speak ; 
Stay,  shrouded,  in  that  holy  place ;  — 
Enough  that  we  have  seen  thy  face. 

And  kissed  the  smiles  upon  thy  cheek. 

We  stretch  our  eager  hands  to  thee. 

And  for  thine  influence  pray,  in  vain  ; 
The  burden  of  mortality 

Hath  bent  us  'neath  its  heavy  chain ;  — 
And  there  are  fetters  fbrged  by  art. 
And  science  cold  hath  chilled  the  heart. 

And  wrapped  thy  godlike  crown  in  night ; 
On  waxen  wings  they  soar  on  high. 
And  when  most  distant  deem  thee  nigh,  — 

They  quench  thy   torch,   and   dream  of 
light. 

They  dare,  in  their  presumptuous  pride,  — 

They, — miserable  clods  of  clay  !-— 
Tby  glorious  influence  to  deride, 

And  laws  to  make,  thy  course  to  sway ; 
They,  —  senseless    stones,    and     brainless 

things,— 
Would  point  thy  course,  unplume  thy  wings. 

And  lower  thee  to  their  littleness ; 
They, — fools  unblushing, — vile  and  vain, — 
Would  Ood,  would  truth,  would  thee  con- 
strain, 

Their  Midas'  idols  to  caress. 

See  there  the  glory  of  the  earth  ! 

See  there,  how  laurel  wreaths  are  spread ! 
See  the  base  souls,  in  swinish  mirth. 

Worship  the  gold  round  Titan's  head ! 
They  tyrants  will  not  crush,  —  not  they  ! 
The  despot  gods  of  heathen-sway, -^^ 


The  imps  that  out  of  darkness  start : 
No  !  these  they  raise;  —  but  stamp,  if  thou 
To  their  vile  bidding  will  not  bow, 

Their  iron  ibot  upon  thy  heart. 

No !  proud  provokers !  no !  unhushed 

My  song  shall  flow,  my  voice  shall  sound. 
And,  till  the  world — till  you  —  are  crushed. 

Sing  God,  truth,  beauty's  hymns  around : 
I  will  denounce  your  false  pretence. 
For  holiness  find  eloquence. 

While  genuine  beauty  sits  beside ;  — 
Crawl  in  the  mire,  ye  mushroom  crews  ! 
Lo !  I  am  fed  with  heavenly  dews 

That  nourish  spirits  purified. 

Child  of  the  Unborn  !  joy !  for  thou 

Shinest  in  every  heavenly  flame, 
Breathest  on  all  the  winds  that  blow. 

While  sel^conviction  speaks  tby  name  : 
O,  let  one  glance  of  thine  illume 
The  longing  soul  that  bids  thee  come. 

And  make  me  feel  of  heaven,  like  thee  ! 
Shake  from  thy  torch  one  blazing  drop. 
And  to  my  soul  all  heaven  shall  ope. 

And  I — dissolve  in  melody  ! 


THE  ROSES. 

I  SAW  them  once  blowing, 
Whilst  morning  was  glowing ; 

But  now  are  their  withered  leaves  strewed  o'er 
the  ground, 
For  tempests  to  play  on. 
For  cold  worms  to  prey  on,  — 

The  shame  of  the  garden  that  triumphs  around. 

Their  buds,  which  then  flourished, 
With  dew-drops  were  nourished. 

Which  turned  into  pearls  as  they  fell  from  on 
high; 
Their  hues  are  now  banished. 
Their  fVagrance  all  vanished. 

Ere  evening  a  shadow  has  cast  from  the  sky. 

I  saw,  too,  whole  races 

Of  glories  and  graces 
Thus  open  and  blossom,  but  quickly  decay  ; 

And  smiling  and  gladness. 

In  sorrow  and  sadness. 
Ere  life  reached  its  twilight,  fkde  dimly  away. 

Joy's  light-hearted  dances 

And  Melody's  glances 
Are  rays  of  a  moment,  —  are  dying  when  born : 

And  Pleasure's  best  dower 

Is  naught  but  a  flower,  — 
A  vanishing  dew-drop,  —  a  gem  of  the  mom. 

The  bright  eye  is  clouded, 

Its  brilliancy  shrouded, 
Our  strength  disappears,  —  we  are  helpless  and 
lone : 

No  reason  avails  us. 

And  intellect  fails  us, 
Life's  spirit  is  wasted,  and  darkness  comes  on. 


396 


DUTCH   POETRY. 


H.  TOLLENS. 

ToLLSNS  was  Dorn  at  Rotterdam,  in  1778. 
He  received  a  classical  education,  and  also  de- 
voted himself  much  to  the  modern  languages. 
He  showed  early  an  inclination  for  poetry.  His 
first  attempts  appeared  in  1802,  and  gave  an 
earnest  of  his  future  distinction.  In  1806,  he 
gained  a  prize  by  his  well  known  poem  entitled 
''The  Death  of  Egmont  and  Horn."  A  collec- 
tion of  his  poems  was  published  in  1808.  Since 
then,  a  long  series  of  works  has  appeared  from 
his  indefatigable  pen,  which  have  had  an  im- 
mense circulation.  He  still  lives  to  enjoy  the 
honors  which  his  admiring  countrymen  have 
awarded  him.  Gravenweert*  calls  him**  one 
of  the  greatest  Dutch  authors  in  descriptive 
poetry,  the  ballad,  and  the  sweet,  graceful,  and 
moral  kind  which  delineates  the  events  of  pri- 
vate life." 


SUMMER  MORNING'S  SONG. 

Up,  sleeper !  dreamer !  up !  for  now 
There  's  gold  upon  the  mountain's  brow, — 
There  's  light  on  forests,  lakes,  and  meadows,  — 
The  dew-drops  shine  on  floweret-bells,  — 
The  village  clock  of  morning  tells. 
Up,  men  !  out,  cattle  !  for  the  dells 
And  dingles  teem  with  shadows. 

Up !  out !  o*er  furrow  and  o'er  field  ! 
The  claims  of  toil  some  moments  yield 
For  morning's  bliss,  and  time  is  fleeter 
Than  thought ;  —  so  out !  't  is  dawning  yet ; 
Why  twilight's  lovely  hour  forget .' 
For  sweet  though  be  the  workman's  sweat. 
The  wanderer's  sweat  is  sweeter. 

Up !  to  the  fields  !  through  shine  and  stoar  ! 
What  hath  the  dull  and  drowsy  hour 
So  blest  as  this,  —  the  glad  heart  leaping 
To  hear  morn's  early  songs  sublime  ? 
See  earth  rejoicing  in  its  prime  ! 
The  summer  is  the  waking  time. 
The  winter  time  for  sleeping. 

O,  ibol !  to  sleep  such  hours  away. 
While  blushing  nature  wakes  to  day, 
On  down,  through  summer  mornings  snoring  ! 
'T  is  meet  for  thee,  the  winter  long. 
When  snows  fall  fiist  and  winds  blow  strong, 
To  waste  the  night  amidst  the  throng. 
Their  vinous  poisons  pouring. 

The  very  beast  that  crops  the  flower 
Hath  welcome  for  the  dawning  hour ; 
Aurora  smiles,  —  her  beckonings  claim  thee. 
Listen  !  —  look  round !  — the  chirp,  the  hum. 
Song,   low,   and    bleat,  —  there  's  nothing 

dumb,  — 
All  love,  all  life  !   Come  !  slumberers,  come ! 
The  meanest  thing  shall  shame  thee. 

*  LlttAntura  N^riandalM,  p.  886. 


We  come, — we  come, — our  wanderings  take 
Through  dewy  field,  by  misty  lake, 
And  rugged  paths,  and  woods  pervaded 
By  branches  o'er,  by  flowers  beneath. 
Making  earth  odorous  with  their  breath  ; 
Or  through  the  shadeless  gold-gorze  heath, 
Or  'neath  the  poplars  shaded. 

Were  we  of  feather  or  of  fin. 
How  blest,  to  daah  the  river  in. 
Thread  the  rock-stream  as  it  advances,  — 
Or,  better,  like  the  birds  above. 
Rise  to  the  greenest  of  the  grove. 
And  sing  the  matin  song  of  love 
Amidst  the  highest  branches  ! 

O,  thus  to  revel,  thus  to  range, 
I  'U  yield  the  counter,  bank,  or  change ; 
The  business  crowds,  all  peace  destroying ; 
The  toil,  with  snow  that  roofr  our  brains ; 
The  seeds  of  care,  which  harvests  pains ; 
The  wealth,  for  more  which  strives  and  strains. 
Still  less  and  less  enjoying ! 

O,  happy,  who  the  city's  noise 
Can  quit  for  nature's  quiet  joys. 
Quit  worldly  sin  and  worldly  sorrow ; 
No  more  'midst  prison-waJls  abide, 
But  in  God's  temple  vast  and  wide 
Pour  praises  every  eventide, 
Ask  mercies  every  morrow ! 

No  seraph's  flaming  sword  hath  driven 
That  man  from  Eden  or  from  heaven. 
From  earth's  sweet  smiles  and  winning  features ; 
For  him,  by  toils  and  troubles  tossed. 
By  wealth  and  wearying  cares  engrossed, — 
For  him,  a  paradise  is  lost. 
But  not  fbr  happy  creatures. 

Come, — though  a  glance  it  may  be^ — come. 
Enjoy,  improve ;  then  hurry  home. 
For  life's  strong  urgencies  must  bind  us. 
Tet  mourn  not ;  mom  shall  wake  anew. 
And  we  shall  wake  to  bless  it  too. 
Homewards ! — the  herds  that  shake  the  dew 
We  'II  leave  in  peace  behind  us. 


WINTER  EVENING'S  SONG. 

Ths  storm-winds  blow  both  sharp  and  sere. 

The  cold  is  bitter  rude ; 
Thank  Heaven,  with  blazing  coals  and  wood 

We  sit  in  comfort  here ! 
The  trees  as  whitest  down  are  white. 

The  river  hard  as  lead. 
Sweet  mistress !  why  this  blank  to-night  ? 
There  's  punch  so  warm,  and  wine  so  bright. 

And  sheltering  roof  and  bread. 

And  if  a  friend  should  pass  this  way. 

We  give  him  flesh  and  fish ; 
And  sometimes  game  adorns  the  dish  : 

It  chances  as  it  may. 


TOLLENS. 


397 


And  every  birthday  festiyal, 

Some  extra  tarts  appear, 
An  extra  glass  of  wine  for  all, — 
While  to  the  child,  or  great  or  small, 

We  drink  the  happy  year. 

Poor  beggars,  all  the  city  through 

That  wander  !  —  pity  knows 
That  if  it  rains,  or  hails,  or  snows, 

No  difference  't  is  to  you. 
Your  children's  birthdays  come,  —  no  throng 

Of  friends  approach  your  door ; 
'T  is  a  long  suffering,  sad  as  long : 
No  fire  to  warm, — to  cheer,  no  song, — 

No  presents  for  the  poor. 

And  should  not  we  far  better  be. 

We  far  more  blest  than  they  f 
Our  winter  hearth  is  bright  and  gay. 

Our  wine-cups  full  and  free ; 
And  we  were  wrought  in  finer  mould. 

And  made  of  purer  clay : 
God's  holy  eyes,  that  all  behold. 
Chose  for  our  garments  gems  and  gold,  — 

And  made  tkem  rags  display. 

I  ?  better  I  ?     O,  would  't  were  so ! 

I  am  perplexed  in  sooth ; 
I  wish,  I  wish  you  'd  speak  the  truth ; 

Tou  do  not  speak  it,  —  no ! 
Who  knows  —  I  know  not — but  that  vest 

That  *s  pieced  and  patched  all  through, 
May  wrap  a  very  honest  breast. 
Of  evil  purged,  by  good  possessed. 

Generous,  and  just,  and  true  ? 

And  can  it  be  ?     Indeed  it  can. 

That  I  so  favored  stand ; 
And  he,  the  offspring  of  God's  hand, 

A  poor,  deserted  man. 
And  then  I  sit  to  muse ;  I  sit 

The  riddle  to  unravel ; 
I  strain  my  thoughts,  I  tax  my  wit ; 
The  less  my  thoughts  can  compass  it. 

The  more  they  toil  and  travel. 

And  thus,  and  thus  alone,  I  see. 

When  poring  o'er  and  o'er. 
That  I  can  give  unto  the  poor. 

But  not  the  poor  to  me : 
That,  having  more  than  I  require. 

That  more  I  'm  bound  to  spread, 
Give  from  my  hearth  a  spark  of  fire. 
Drops  from  my  cup,  and  feed  desire 

With  morsels  of  my  bread. 

And  thus  I  found,  that,  scattering  round 

Blessings  in  mortal  track. 
The  riddle  ceased  my  brains  to  rack. 

And  my  torn  heart  grew  sound. 
The  storm- winds  blow  both  sharp  and  sere, 

The  cold  is  bitter  rude ; 
Come,  beggar,  come,  our  garments  bear, 
A  portion  of  our  dwelling  share, 

A  morsel  of  our  fiK>d. 


List,  boys  and  girls !  the  hour  is  late, 

There  's  some  one  at  the  door ; 
Run,  little  ones !  the  man  is  poor ;  -^ 

Who  first  unlocks  the  gate  ? 
What  do  I  hear.'    Run  Ast,  run  ftst ! 

What  do  I  hear  so  sad  ? 
'T  is  a  poor  mother  in  the  blast. 
Trembling,  —  I  heard  her  as  she  passed, - 

And  weeping  o'er  her  lad. 

I  thank  thee.  Source  of  every  bliss, 

For  every  bliss  I  know  ; 
I  thank  thee,  thou  didst  train  me  so 

To  learn  thy  way  in  this : 
That  wishing  good,  and  doing  good. 

Is  laboring.  Lord,  with  thee ; 
That  charity  is  gratitude ; 
And  piety,  best  understood, 

A  sweet  humanity. 


JOHN  A'  SCHAFFELAAB. 

Whxv  high  the  flame  of  discord  rose, 

And  o'er  the  country  spread. 
When  firiends  were  changed  to  deadliest  foes. 

And  nature's  feelings  fled : 

When  doubtful  questions  of  debate 

Disturbed  the  public  mind, 
And  all,  impelled  by  furious  hate. 

Forgot  their  kin  and  kind : 

When  foreign  armies,  helmed  and  plumed, 

Were  hurrying  to  our  strand. 
And  fierce  internal  fires  consumed 

The  he^rt  of  Netheriand : 

Then  flourished  John  a'  Schaffelaar,  — 

A  hero  bold  was  he. 
Renowned  for  glorious  deeds  of  war, 

And  feats  of  chivalry. 

Let  him  who  would  Rome's  Curtius  name 

Give  Schaffelaar  his  due. 
Who  was,  though  lauded  less  by  fame. 

The  nobler  of  the  two. 

Secluded  virtue  feirest  shines, 

No  flattery  dims  its  rays ; 
While  virtue  on  a  throne  declines. 

And  fades  beneath  its  praise. 

Tou  ask  me  once  again  to  sing,  — 

And  I  have  yet  the  will ; 
And  whilst  my  lyre  retains  a  string, 

'T  will  sound  for  Holland  still. 

When  Utrecht  saw  her  sons  appear 

Her  bishop  to  depose. 
And  all  with  musket  and  with  spear 

Against  his  vassals  rose : 

When  Amersfoort  had  sworn  to  shield. 

Defend  him,  and  obey ', 
And  Bameveldt  had  made  it  yield. 

And  wrested  him  away : 


398 


DUTCH  POETRY. 


Then  flourished  John  a*  Schaffelaar, — 

A  hero  bold  was  he, 
Renowned  for  glorious  deeds  of  war, 

And  feats  of  chivalry. 

Up,  up  the  steepest  tower  he  went. 

With  eighteen  men  to  aid, 
And  from  the  lofty  battlement 

A  deadly  havoo  made. 

He  dares  their  fire,  which  threatens  death. 

And  gives  it  back  again  ; 
And  showers  of  bullets  fall  beneath. 

As  thick  as  winter's  rain. 

Erect  he  stands, — no  vain  alarm. 

No  fear  of  death  appalls ; 
And  many  a  foeman,  by  his  arm. 

Drops  from  the  castle-walls. 

But  courage  must  be  crushed,  at  last. 

In  such  unequal  fight : 
The  best  and  bravest  blood  flows  fast. 

And  quenches  glory's  light. 

Fearfully  rolls  the  tempest  there. 
And  vengeance  breathes  around ; 

The  thunder  bursts  and  rends  the  air. 
And  shrieks  along  the  ground. 

The  castle  rocks  at  every  blow 

Upon  its  giant  frame ; 
The  raging  fire  ascends,  and,  lo ! 

The  tower  is  wrapped  in  flame. 

"  Your  will  ?  "  cried  John  a'  Schaffelaar, 
<*  Your  will  ?  my  comrades  true  ! 

Though  thoughts  of  self  are  banished  far, 
I  still  can  mourn  for  you." 

*«  O,  yield  to  them !  give  up  the  tower ! " 

To  Schaffelaar  they  call ; 
"  We  cannot  now  withstand  their  power ; 

Yield,  or  we  perish  all. 

«<  The  flames  are  round  us,  and  our  fate 

Is  certain,"  was  the  cry ; 
"Then  yield,  O,  yield,  ere  *t  is  too  late! 

Amid  the  smoke  we  die." 

«*  We  yield  it,  then,"  the  hero  cried, 

**  We  yield  it  to  your  might. 
We  bow  our  stubborn  necks  of  pride. 

Ye  conquerors  in  the  fight !  " 

«« No  !    No !  "  exclaimed  the  furious  crowd, 

«  A  ransom  we  require ; 
A  ransom,  quick !  "  they  called  aloud, 

"  Or  perish  in  the  fire  !  " 

"  What  is  your  wish  ?  —  no  more  we  war," 

They  cry  to  those  without. 
«« We  would  have  John  a'  Schaffelaar," 

The  furious  rabble  shout. 


"  Never !  by  Heaven !  —  we  yield  him  not," 

They  cry,  as  with  one  voice ; 
"  If  death  must  be  our  leader's  lot, 

We  '11  share  it,  and  rejoice  ! " 

«  Hold !  on  your  lives  I "  with  lifted  hand 

Said  Schaffelaar  th&  free ; 
*«  Whoe'er  opposes  their  demand 

Is  not  a  friend  to  me. 

"  Mine  was  the  attempt, — be  mine  the  &te. 

Since  we  in  vain  withstood ; 
On  me  alone  would  fall  the  weight 

Of  all  your  guiltless  blood. 

"The  flames  draw  nearer,  —  all  b  o'er, — 

And  here  I  may  not  dwell ; 
Give  me  your  friendly  bands  once  more,  — 

For  ever  fare  ye  well !  " 

He  rushes  fix>m  his  trusty  men. 

Who  would  in  vain  oppose, 
And  fi-om  the  narrow  loophole  then 

He  springs  amid  his  foes. 

"  Here  have  ye  John  a*  Schaffelaar,  — 

No  longer  battle  wage,  — 
Divide  and  banquet,  hounds  of  war ! 

And  satisfy  your  rage. 

"  Now  sheathe  your  swords,  and  bear  aiar 

The  muskets  that  we  braved  ; 
Here  have  ye  John  a'  Schaffelaar;  — 

My  comrades  true  are  saved." 

His  limbs  were  writhing  on  the  ground 

In  death's  convulsive  thrill ; 
The  blood-drops  that  are  shed  around 

With  shame  his  foemen  fill. 

The  sounds  of  war  no  more  arise. 

And  banished  is  the  gloom  ; 
But  glory's  wreath,  which  never  dies. 

Surrounds  the  hero's  tomb. 

Let  him  who  would  Rome's  Curtius  name 

Give  Schaffelaar  his  due. 
Who  was,  though  lauded  less  by  fame. 

The  nobler  of  the  two. 


BIRTHDAY  VERSES. 

RssTLSSs  Time,  who  ne'er  abtdest ! 
Driver,  who  life's  chariot  guideet 
O'er  dark  hills  and  vales  that  smile ! 
Let  me,  let  me  breathe  awhile : 
Whither  dort  thou  hasten  ?  say  !  — 
Driver,  but  an  insUnt  stay. 

What  a  viewless  distance  thou. 
Still  untired,  hast  travelled  now ! 
Never  Urrying,  —  rest  unheeding, — 
Over  thorns  and  roses  speeding, — 
Through  lone  places  unforeseen,  — 
Cliff  and  vast  abyss  between ! 


BORGER. 


399 


Five-and-tweDty  years  thou  *8t  pawed, 
Thundering  on  unchecked  and  fiist. 
And,  though  tempests  burst  around, 
Stall  nor  stay  thy  coursers  found : 
I  am  dizzy,  faint,  oppressed, — 
Driver !  for  one  moment  rest. 

Swifter  than  the  lightning  flies, 

All  things  vanish  from  my  eyes ; 

All  that  rose  so  brightly  o'er  me, 

Like  pale  mist- wreaths,  fade  befbre  me ; 

Every  spot  my  glance  can  find 

Thy  impatience  leaves  behind. 

Yesterday  thy  wild  steeds  flew 
0*er  a  spot  where  roses  grew ; 
These  I  sought  to  gather  blindly, 
But  thou  hurriedst  on  unkindly : 
Fairest  buds  I  trampled,  lorn. 
And  but  grasped  the  naked  thorn. 

Driver  !  turn  thee  quickly  back 
On  the  selfsame  beaten  track  : 
I,  of  late,  so  much  neglected, 
Lost,  forgot,  contemned,  rejected. 
That  I  still  each  scene  would  trace :  -^ 
Slacken  thy  bewildering  pace ! 

Dost  thoo  thus  impetuous  drive. 

That  thou  sooner  may'st  arrive 

Safe  within  the  hallowed  fences 

Where  delight  —  where  rest  commences? 

Where,  then,  dost  thou  respite  crave  ? 

All  make  answer,  **  At  the  grave." 

There,  alas !  and  only  there. 
Through  the  storms  that  rend  the  air, 
Doth  the  rugged  pathway  bend : 
There  all  pains  and  sorrows  end ; 
There  repose's  goal  is  won :  — 
Driver !  ride,  in  God's  name,  on  '. 


EUAS  ANNE   BORGER. 

BoRoxR,  well  known  as  a  Dutch  theologian, 
was  born  February  26th,  1785,  at  Joure,  in 
Friesland.  In  1800,  he  resorted  to  the  Uni- 
versity of  Leyden,  where  he  studied  theology, 
and  took  the  degree  of  Doctor,  in  1807.  In  the 
same  year,  he  was  appointed  Teacher  of  Biblical 
Exegesis  in  the  University ;  in  1813,  he  was 
made  Professor  Extraordinary,  and  in  1815, 
Professor  Ordinary.  In  1817,  he  left  the  theo- 
logical faculty  and  became  Professor  of  History. 
He  died,  October  12th,  1820.  His  poems  are 
of  an  elegiac  character. 


ODE  TO  THE  RHINE. 

Iir  the  Borean  regions  stormy 

There  's  silence,  —  battling  hail  and  rain 
Are  hushed.     The  calm  Rhine  rolls  befbre  me. 

Unfettered  from  its  winter  chain. 


Its  streams  their  ancient  channels  water. 
And  thousand  joyous  peasants  bring 
The  flowery  offerings  of  the  spring 

To  thee.  Mount  Gothard's  princely  daughter ! 
Monarch  of  streams,  fVom  Alpine  brow. 

Who,  rushing,  whelm 'st  with  inundations, 

Or,  sovereign-like,  divid'st  the  nations ; 
Lawgiver  all-imperial,  thou  ! 

I  have  had  days  like  thine,  unclouded,  — 
Days  passed  upon  thy  pleasant  shore  ; 

My  heart  sprung  up  in  joy  unshrouded,  — 
Alas !  it  springs  to  joy  no  more. 

My  fields  of  green,  my  humble  dwelling. 
Which  love  made  beautiful  and  bright. 
To  me,  —  to  her,  —  my  soul's  delight,  — 

Seemed  monarchs'  palaces  excelling. 
When,  in  our  little  happy  bower, 

Or  'neatb  the  starry  vault  at  even. 

We  walked  in  love,  and  talked  of  heaven. 
And  poured  forth  praises  for  our  dower. 

But  now  I  could  my  hairs  well  number. 

But  not  the  tears  my  eyes  which  wet : 
The  Rhine  will  to  their  cradle-slumber 

Roll  back  its  waves,  ere  I  forget,  — 
Forget  the  blow  that  twice  hath  riven 

The  crown  of  glory  from  my  head. 

God  !  I  have  trusted,  —  duty-led, 
'Gainst  all  rebellious  thoughts  have  striven, 

And  strive,  —  and  call  thee  Father,  —  still 
Say  all  thy  will  is  wisest,  kindest, — 
Yet,  —  twice, — the  burden  that  thou  bindest 

Is  heavy,  —  I  obey  thy  will ! 

At  Katwyk,  where  the  silenced  billow 
Thee  welcomes,  Rhine,  to  her  own  breast. 

There,  with  the  damp  sand  for  her  pillow, 
I  laid  my  treasure  in  its  rest. 

My  tears  shall  with  thy  waters  blend  them  : 
Receive  those  briny  tears  from  me. 
And,  when  exhaled  from  the  vast  sea. 

To  her  own  grave  in  dew-drops  send  them,  — 
A  heavenly  fall  of  love  for  her. 

Old  Rhine !  thy  waves  'gainst  sorrow  steel  them : 

O,  no !  man's  miseries, — thou  canst  feel  them ;  — 
Then  be  my  grief's  interpreter. 

And  greet  the  babe,  which  earth's  green  bosom 

Had  but  received,  when  she  who  bore 
That  lovely  undeveloped  blossom 

Was  struck  by  death, —  the  bud, —  the  flower. 
I  forced  my  daughter's  tomb,  —  her  mother 

Bade  me,  —  and  laid  the  slumbering  child 

Upon  that  bosom  undefiled. 
Where,  where  could  I  have  found  another 

So  dear,  so  pure  ?     'T  was  wrong  to  mourn. 
When  those  so  loving  slept  delighted  : 
Should  I  divide  what  God  united  ? 

I  laid  them  in  a  common  urn. 

There  are  who  call  this  earth  a  palace 

Of  Eden,  who  on  roses  go ;  — 
I  would  not  drink  again  life's  chalice. 

Nor  tread  again  its  paths  of  woe  : 


400 


DUTCH  POETRY. 


I  joj  at  day's  decline,  —  the  morrow 
Is  welcome.  In  its  fearful  flight, 
I  count,  and  count  with  calm  delight. 

My  five-and-thirty  years  of  sorrow 
Accomplished.     Like  this  river,  years 

Roll.     Press,  ye  tombstones,  my  departed 

Lightly,  and  o'er  the  broken-hearted 

Fling  your  cold  shield,  and  veil  his  tears. 


DA   COSTA. 

Da  Costa  belongs  to  the  school  of  Bilder- 
dijk.  A  writer  in  the  *'  Westminster  Review  " 
(Vol.  X.,  p.  43)  says  of  this  poet :  — «« His  pro- 
ductions have  none  of  the  ordinary  defects  of 
those  of  his  master,  —  they  are  all  smooth  and 
polished,  without  those  irregularities  which  so 
often  destroy  the  charm  of  Bilderdijk's  compo- 
sitions. Da  Costa,  full  of  the  pride  of  his  Jew- 
ish ancestry,  was  some  years  ago  converted  to 
the  Christian  faith.  Intense  emotions,  —  pro- 
found and  anxious  studies,  —  the  struggles  of 
doubts  and  fears,  —  produced  a  state  of  mind 
which  then  often  gave  vent  to  its  mingled  emo- 
tions in  language  wonderfully  eloquent  and 
harmonious." 

INTRODUCTION  TO  A  HYMN  ON  PROVIDENCE. 

Whxn  Homer  fills  his  fierce  war- trump  of  glory. 
And   wakes  his  mighty  lyre's   harmonious 
word. 

Whose  soul  but  thrills  enraptured  at  the  story. 
As  thrilled  old  Ilium's  ruins,  when  they  heard  ? 

MsBonian  Swan!    that  shakes  the  soul,  when 
loudly 
Rushing,  —  or  melts  the  heart  in  strains  sub- 
lime; 
Strong  as  the  arm  of  Hector,  lifted  proudly,  — 
Sweet  as  his  widow's  tears,  in  watching-time ! 

Though  still  thy  strains  song's  glorious  crown 
inherit. 

Though  age  to  age  kneel  lowly  at  thy  shrine, 
Yet,  (O,  forgive  me,  —  venerable  spirit !) 

Thou  leav'st  a  void  within  this  heart  of  mine. 

My  country  is  the  land  of  sunbeams,  —  Heaven 
Gave  me  no  cradle  in  the  lukewarm  West ; 

The  glow  of  Libyan  sands  by  hot  winds  driven 
Is  like  the  thirst  of  song  within  my  breast. 

What  is  this  ft'ay  to  me,  —  these  battle-noises 
Of  mortals  led  by  weak  divinities? 

I  must  hear  higher  notes  and  holier  voices,  — 
Not  the  mere  clods  of  beauteous  things,  like 
these. 

What  are  these  perished  vanities  ideal 

Of  thee,  ^  old  Grecian  bard,  —  and  follow- 
ing throng  ? 
Heaven,  heaven,  must  wake  the  rapturous  and 
the  real. 
The  sanctified,  the  sacred  soul  of  song. 


Can  they  do  this,  the  lamed  Hellenic  teachers. 
Or  Northern  bards  ?     O,  no !    't  is  not  for 
them; 
'T  is  for  the  inspired,  the  God-anointed  preach- 
ers,— 
The  holy  prophets  of  Jerusalem ! 

O  privileged  race!   sprung  forth  from   choeen 
fiithers, — 
The  son  of  Jesse,  and  his  fragrant  name ! 
Within  my  veins  thy  holy  life-blood  gathers. 
And  tracks  the  sacred  source  from  whence  it 
came. 

Angelic  Monarch's  son !  the  great  Proclaimer, 
The  great  Interpreter  of  God's  decree ! 

Herald,  at  once,  of  wrath,  and  the  Redeemer ! 
Announcing  hopes,  —  announcing  agony ! 

The  seraphs  sing  their  "  Holy,  holy,  holy," 

Greeting  the  Godhead  on  his  awfiil  throne ; 
And  earth  repeats  heaven's  song,  —  though  fkr 
and  lowly, — 
Poured,  'midst  the  brightness  of  the  dazzling 
One, 

By  safety-girded  angels.     Hallowed  singers ! 

Tours  is  the  spirit's  spiritual  melody  ; 
Touch  now  the  sacred  lyre  with  mortal  fingers, — 

Aspirers  !  earth  is  gazing  tremblingly. 

My  heart  springs  up,  —  its  earthly  bonds  would 
sever. 

Upon  the  pulses  of  that  hymn  to  mount; 
My  lips  are  damp  with  the  pale  blights  of  fever. 

And  my  hot  blood  grows  stagnant  at  its  fount. 

My  Father  !  give  me  breath,  and  thought,  and 
power ! 
My  heart  shall  heave  with  your  pure,  hal- 
lowed words ; 
Hear !  if  ye  hear,  the  loud-voiced  psalm  shall 
shower 
From  east  to  west  its  vibrating  accords. 

Inspire  !  if  ye  inspire,  the  glad  earth,  reeling 
With  rapture,  shall  God's  glory  echo  round ; 

And  God-deniers,  low  in  ashes  kneeling. 
Blend  their  subjected  voices  in  the  sound. 

O,  if  my  tongue  can  sing  the  Lord  of  ages. 
The  Ruler,  the  Almighty,  King  of  kings; 

He  who  the  flaming  seraphim  engages. 

His  watchers,  —  while  he  makes  the  douda 
his  wings  \ 

Spread,  spread  your  pinions, — spread  your  loft- 
iest pinions. 

Spirit  of  song,  for  me,  —  for  me  !  -^  in  vain 
To  the  low  wretchedness  of  earth's  dominions 

I  seek  your  heavenly,  upward  course  to  rein ! 

Wake,  lyre  !  break  forth,  ye  strings !  —  let  rap- 
ture's current 
Soar,  swell,   surprise,  gush,  glow  !  —  thou 
heart,  be  riven ! 
Pour,  pour,  the  impassioned,  overflowing  toirent ! 
The  hymns  are  hymns  of  heaven ! 


DA  COSTA KINKER. 


401 


THB  SABBATH. 

On  the  MTenth  day  reposing,  lo1  the  great 
Creator  stood, 

Saw  the  glorious  work  accomplished, -— saw 
and  felt  that  it  was  good ; 

Heaven,  earth,  man  and  beast  have  being,  day 
and  night  their  courses  run, — 

First  creation^ — infant  manhood, — earliest  Sab- 
bath, —  it  is  done. 

On  the  seventh  day  reposing,  Jesus  filled  his 
sainted  tomb. 

From  his  spirit's  toil  retreating,  while  he  broke 
man's  fatal  doom ', 

'T  was  a  new  creation  bursting,  brighter  than 
the  primal  one,  — 

'T  is  fulfilment,  —  reconcilement,  —  't  is  re- 
demption, —  it  is  done. 


KINKER. 

**  KiNKER  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men 
in  Holland ;  his  writings  are  tainted  with  the 
mysticisms  of  the  Kant  school, — but  he  is  evi- 
dently a  man  of  genius  and  erudition,  whose 
power  and  influence  would  be  much  greater  if 
he  could  see  his  way,  which  nobody  can,  through 
the  mists  and  clouds  of  a  philosophy  which  is 
darkness  with  a  few  sparks  of  light ;  —  a  phi- 
losophy perplexing  alike  by  its  incumbrance  of 
phrase  and  its  vagueness  of  conception,  — a 
sort  of  moral  opium,  exciting  for  a  while,  and 
then  leaving  the  mind  distressed  and  perplexed. 
This  confusion  of  ideas,  conveyed  in  a  very 
energetic  phraseology,  is  found  even  in  the 
poetry  of  Kinker.  In  truth,  his  verses  are  fre- 
quently unintelligible,  though  they  leave  the 
impression,  that,  if  we  could  but  understand 
them, .  they  would  be  very  fine.  The  same 
tone  of  mind  gives  a  too  common  harshness 
even  to  his  versification,  though  no  man  can 
discourse  more  fitly  than  he  on  the  prosody 
and  harmony  of  language.  Tet  it  would  seem 
as  if  h\i  art  produced  his  hard  verses,  for  most 
of  his  off-hand  and  numerous  pieces  are  smooth 
and  flowing.  His  verses  to  Haydn  are  striking, 
and  his  *  Adieu  to  the  T  and  the  Amstel,'  on 
his  removal  to  Liege,  is  among  the  best  of  mod- 
ern compositions."  * 


VIRTUE  AND  TRUTH. 

GooDKEss  and  truth  require  no  decoration ; 

They,  in  and  through  themselves,  are  great 
and  fair : 
All  ornament  is  supererogation. 

Giving  false  coloring  and  fictitious  air. 

Foraign  Quarterlj  Review,  YoL  IV.,  p^  73. 
51 


Beauty  is  virtue's  image,  truth's  best  light, — 
Virtue  and  truth  its  representatives ; 

'T  is  the  grand  girdle,  that,  with  radiance  bright. 
To  both,  —  in  all  that  are, —  their  lustre  gives. 

To  its  sublime  control  all  evil  bows, 
Or  sneaks  away,  subjected  to  its  reign ; 

O'er  each  defect  a  garb  of  mystery  throws. 
Or  seeks  her  midnight  nakedness  again. 

Srror  must  be  the  lot  of  mortal  kind. 

But  virtue,  in  life's  night,  man's  guide  may 
be; 
For  man's  dim  eye,  so  weak,  — 't  is  almost 
blind,— 
Scarce  looks  through  mist-damps  of  mortality. 

Vain  is  endeavour !  -.-  true ;  but  that  endeavour. 

It  goodness,  truth,  and  virtue  testifies ; 
Struggles  and  fails,  but  ftils  through  weakness 

ever, 
Yet,  failing,  pours  out  light  on  darkened  eyes. 

Ye  vainly  dream,  obscnrers  of  the  earth. 
That  all  is  tending  downwards  to  its  fall ; 

Vain  are  your  scofi  on  manhood,  and  man's 
worth, 
And  that  great  tendency  which  governs  all. 

In  vain,  with  fading  and  offensive  flowers. 
Ye  hide  the  chains  of  mental  tyranny : 

The  unhealthy  spirit,  lured  to  treacherous  bow- 
ers. 
May  joy  in  its  fi«e-choeen  slavery ; 

Call  what  is  incomplete,  degenerate ; 

God's  children,  bastards ;  and  its  curses  throw 
At  sll  who  bend  not  at  its  temple-gate. 

Nor  to  night's  image  kneel  in  worship  low. 

We  see  in  the  unfinished,  tottering,  frail, 
A  slowly,  surely,  sweetly  working  leaven. 

And  in  the  childish  dreams  of  life's  low  vale, 
The  faint,   but  lovely,  shadowings-forth  of 
heaven. 

We  sink  not,  sacred  ones !  but  fluttering  tend, — 
Though  weak,  we  tend  towards  God :    the 
word  we  hear. 

Audibly  bidding  us  uprise,  and  wend 

Our  way  above  man's  feebleness  and  fear. 

An  idle  toil  is  slumbering  man's  poor  fate. 
And  duty  neither  lovely  looks,  nor  true ; 

God's  mandate  seems  despotic, — desolate 
His  doings,  —  and  his  voice  terrific  too. 

Yet  duty  is  but  deeds  of  loveliness. 

And  truth  is  power  to  make  the  prisoner  free ; 
And  him,  whose  self-forged  chains  his  spirit  press. 

No  effort  shall  arouse  firom  slavery. 

What 's  true  and  good  demands  no  decoration ; 

It,  in  and  through  itself,  is  great  and  fair : 
All  ornament  is  supererogation, 

Giving  fidse  coloring  and  fictitious  air. 
bb3 


402 


DUTCH   POETRY. 


LOOTS. 

Or  Loots  and  hiB  productions,  the  writer  in 
the  "  Foreign  Quarterly  Review  "  already  cited 
(Vol.  IV.,  p.  72)  remarks:  "His  »Taar  (Lan- 
guage), and  '  Schilderkunst '  (Painting),  have 
some  very  fine  passages;  and  his  *Beurs  van 
Amsterdam,'  too,  must  not  be  pasted  over.  He 
has  frequently  an  original  air,  though  wild  and 
strange,  and  wants  that  cultivation  which  clas- 
sical studies  give.  His  portrait  of  De  Ruyter  1^ 
prettily  drawn." 

THE  NIOHTINOALE. 

Soul  of  living  music  !  teach  me. 
Teach  me,  floating  thus  along  ! 

Love-sick  warbler !  come  and  reach  me 
With  the  secrets  of  thy  song  ! 

How  thy  beak,  so  sweetly  trembling. 
On  one  note  long  lingering  tries,  — 

Or,  a  thousand  tones  assembling, 
Pours  the  rush  of  harmonies  ! 

Or,  when  rising  shrill  and  shriller, 

Other  music  dies  away, 
Other  songs  grow  still  and  stiller,— 

Songster  of  the  night  and  day  ! 

Till,  —  all  sunk  to  silence  round  thee,  — 
Not  a  whisper,  — -  not  a  word,  — 

Not  a  leaf-fall  to  confound  thee,  — 
Breathless  all,  —  thou  only  heard.  — > 

Tell  me, — thou  who  failest  never, 
Minstrel  of  the  songs  of  spring ! 

Did  the  world  see  ages  ever. 
When  thy  voice  forgot  to  sing .' 

Is  there  in  your  woodland  history 
Any  Homer  whom  ye  read  ? 

Has  your  music  aught  of  mystery? 
Has  it  measure,  cliff,  and  creed  .' 

Have  ye  teachers,  who  instruct  ye, 
Checking  each  ambitious  strain ; 
.    Learned  parrots  to  conduct  ye. 
When  ye  wander,  back  again .' 

Smiling  at  my  dreams,  I  see  thee,  — > 
Nature,  in  her  chainless  will. 

Did  not  fetter  thee,  but  free  thee,  — 
Pour  thy  hymns  of  rapture  still ! 

Plumed  in  pomp  and  pride  prodigious, 
Lo  !  the  gaudy  peacock  nears ; 

But  his  grating  voice,  so  hideous, 
Shocks  the  soul,  and  grates  the  ears. 

Finches  may  be  trained  to  follow 
Notes  which  dexterous  arts  combine ; 

But  those  notes  sound  vain  and  hollow. 
When  compared,  sweet  bird,  with,  thine. 

Classic  themes  no  longer  courting, 
Ancient  tongues  I  '11  cast  away. 

And,  with  nightingales  disporting. 
Sing  the  wild  and  woodland  lay. 


WITHUIS. 

WiTHUis  is  one  of  the  living  poets  of  Hol- 
land. The  following  piece  gives  a  very  favor- 
able idea  of  his  powers. 

ODE  TO  TIMR 

Ts  paint  me  old !   and  why  ?  ye  fools  short- 
sighted ! 
And  doth  my  speed  eld's  frozen  blood  betray  ? 
Methinks  the  storm-wind  is  not  swifter-flighted ; 
The  rapid  lightning  scarce  o'ertakes  my  way. 
Te   think  your  hurrying  tboaghta  perchance 

outrun  me : 
Go,  race  with  sunbeams, — when   they  have 
outdone  me. 
Talk  of  my  age, — I  fly  more  swift  than  they. 

Te  call  me  gray !  Now  try  me.  I  '11  confound  ye 
With  youth's  most  vigorous  lym.    One  glance 
—  butt>ne — 
O'er  the  huge  tombs  of  vanished  time,  around 
ye,— . 
Mountains  of  ruins  piled  by  me  alone : 
I  did  it ;  —  I  smote,  yesterday, — to-morrow, 
I  wait  to  smite, —  your  cities,— > yon  :  go,  borrow 
Safety  and  strength,  —  they  shall  avail  you 
none. 

Eternity  was  mine,  —  and  still  eternal  ^ 

I  hold  my  course, — God's  being  is  my  Btay,-» 

I  saw  worlds  fashioned  by  his  word  supernal  : 
I  saw  them  fashioned,  —  saw  them  pass  away. 

I  bear  upon  my  cheeks  unfading  roses ; 

Man  sees  me,  as  he  flits,  —  and,  fool !  supposes 
I  have  my  grave,  and  limits  to  my  sway. 

Take  from  my  front  the  white  locks  folly  fancies : 

My  hair  is  golden,  and  my  forehead  curled,  — 

My  youth  but  sports  with  years, — fire  are  my 

glances,  — 

My  brow  resists  the  wrinklings  of  tlie  world. 

Not  for  the  scythe  alone  my  hand  was  shapen : 

'T  was  made  to  crush ;  —  give  me  the  club,  — 

that  weapon 

Oft  hath  my  power  in  awful  moments  hurled. 

But  give  me,  too,  the  hour-glass,  —  ever  raining 

Exbaustless  streams  untired, — for  I  am  he 
Who  pours  forth  gems  and  gold,  and  fruits  lui- 
draining. 
And  treasures  ever  new.     Or  can  it  be 
For  desolation  only  .'     Do  not  new  drops 
Of  dew  in  summer  fervors  follow  dew-drops  ? 
Fresh   flowers  replace   each   flower  that  '■ 
crushed  by  me. 

I,  the  destroyer,  do  it,  •»  without  measure, 
I  fill  creation's  cup  of  joy, — man's  lot. 
That  vibrates  restlessly  *twizt  pain  and  pleasnre. 

Determine, — in  my  youth  his  years  forgot. 
Worlds  crumble, — virtue  mounts  to  heaven, — 

no  sleeping 
In  dust  for  me, — but,  with  bright  angels  keeping 
God's  throne,  with  Grod  I  dwell,  and  perish 
not. 


FRENCH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


After  the  Roman  Conqaest,  the  Latin  be- 
came the  prevalent  language  of  Gaul.  It  was 
not  the  elegant  and  nerYous  Roman  of  the  Au- 
gustan age,  for  the  ezbtence  of  the  Latin  lan- 
guage in  its  purity  was  limited  to  a  single  cen- 
tury, from  the  days  of  the  last  Scipio  Africanus 
to  those  of  Augustus.*  The  (« Attic  Nights  "  of 
the  grammarian  Aulus  Gellius  bears  witness  to 
itB  corruption  at  Rome  ;  infinitely  greater  must 
have  been  its  corruption  in  the  wide-spread 
territories  of  the  Roman  provinces.! 

Towards  the  middle  of  the  fourth  century, 
the  Franks,  aAer  repeated  fbrays  and  ravages 
in  the  territories  of  the  Gaul,  obtained  a  firm 
(bothold,  and  establbhed  themselves  to  the 
westward  of  the  Rhine.  From  this  point  they 
gradually  widened  the  circle  of  their  territory, 
until  it  reached  the  fertile  borders  of  the  Seine. 
In  the  latter  half  of  the  succeeding  century,  the 
victorious  arms  of  Clovis  triumphed  over  Alaric 
the  Visigoth,  who  had  crossed  the  Pyrenees 
from  Spain,  and  pillaged  the  luxuriant  provin- 
ces of  the  South.  Thus  a  large  portion  of  the 
Gallic  territory  passed  under  the  sceptre  of  the 
Frhnks ;  and  the  throne  of  the  French  mon- 
archy was  established.  Instead  of  promulgat- 
ing an  entirely  new  code  of  laws,  the  Franks 
received  in  part  those  of  the  conquered  people. 
These  laws,  as  well  as  all  public  acts  and  doc- 
uments, were  in  Latin,  and  continued  to  be  so 
for  centuries  i  though  the  court  language  of  the 
Franks  was  the  Frandheuch^  called  also  the 
TMotique^  or  Tudesqtu.  The  Latin  was  thus 
preserved  in  public  records,  and  in  the  ceremo- 
nies of  the  church ;  whilst  with  the  people  it 
was  daily  losing  ground,  and  becoming  more 
and  more  corrupt.  It  was  gradually  affected 
by  the  dialects  of  the  North,  till  at  length  a 
new  vulgar  dialect  was  formed,  called  the  Ro- 
mance Language,  or  the  Raman  Rustic  ;  a  name 
given  to  it,  because  the  Lajin  words  and  idioms 
predominated  in  its  composition,  and  because  it 
was  the  language  of  the  peasantry  and  the 
lower  classes  of  society. 

In  the  days  of  Charlemagne,  we  find  that 
the  Latin  had  become  obsolete  with  the  great 
mass  of  the  people.  It  no  longer  existed,  save 
in  statutes  and  contracts,  in  the  homilies  of 
pious    fathers,   in  ghostly    diptychs,  and  the 


*  Yefleitts  PUsrcolna,  speaking  Of  Cicero,  mj»,  "Do- 
lectari  anle  eum  paucinimia,  minri  ▼erum  neminem  pos* 
sis,  nisi  am  ab  illo  rlsum,  aut  qui  ilium  yideriU" 

t  Specimens  of  the  popular  Latin  of  tlie  Beventh  and 
ninth  centuries  may  \»  found  in  three  battle-songs  giren 
by  Grimm  in  the  "  Altdeutache  WUder/'  VoL  XL,  p.  31. 


legends  of  saints.  By  a  canon  of  the  third 
council  of  TourB,  held  in  813,  one  year  before 
the  death  of  Charlemagne,  it  was  ordered,  that 
the  bishops  should  select  certain  homilies  of 
the  Fathers  to  be  read  in  the  churches,  and 
that  they  should  cause  them  to  be  translated 
into  the  Roman  Rustic  and  into  Tudesque,.in 
order  that  the  people  might  understand  them.* 

Of  the  prevalence  of  the  Roman  Rustic  in 
the  eighth  century,  as  the  popular  or  tmlgar 
language,  throughout  the  southern  dominions  of 
Charlemagne,  that  is,  throughout  the  South  of 
France,  a  part  of  Spain,  and  nearly  ^all  Italy, 
there  is  ample  evidence.  The  Tudesqne,  how- 
ever, continued  to  be  the  court  language.  In 
order  to  reduce  it  to  fixed  rules  and  principles, 
and  to  facilitate  the  acquisition  of  it,  Charle- 
magne composed  a  grammar.  With  feelings  of 
national  pride  he  endeavoured  to  improve  and 
extend  it,  hoping  that  he  might  one  day  publish 
his  laws  and  edicts  in  his  own  maternal  tongue, 
and  that  it  would  become  the  language  of  his 
realm.  In  thb  he  was  disappointed.  The  peo- 
ple were  better  pleased  with  the  accents  of 
their  own  unpolished  jargon,  than  with  the  still 
ruder  dialect  of  the  North ;  and  thus  the  Roman 
Rustic  grew  stronger  day  by  day,  and  at  length 
succeeded  in  completely  dethroning  the  Tu- 
desque. 

The  most  ancient  ^monument  of  the  Roman 
Rustic,  now  existing,  is  the  '*  Serment  de  Louis 
le  Germanique.'*  This  document  is  an  oath  of 
defensive  alliance  between  Louis  of  Germany 
and  Charles  the  Bold  of  France,  against  the 
dangerous  and  ambitious  projects  of  their  elder 
brother,  Lothaire.  It  was  made  at  Strasburg, 
in  the  year  842. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  ninth  century,  the 
Roman  Rustic  became  the  court  language  of  the 
king  of  Aries  in  Provence,  and  was  called  the 
Raman  Pravmgal,  or  the  Langue  d'Oc.  At  a 
later  period,  it  was  enriched  and  perfected  by  the 
poems  of  the  Troubadours.  During  the  twelfth 
and  thirteenth  centuries,  it  was  in  great  repute, 
not  only  in  France,  but  in  Spain  and  Italy  ;  and 
every  one,  who  has  made  himself  at  all  fiimiliar 
with  the  structure  of  the  Troubadour  poetry, 
must  be  fully  persuaded  of  the  richness  and 
flexibility  of  a  language,  which  afforded  such  a 
redundancy  of  similar  sounds,  and  was  mould- 
ed into  such  a  variety  of  forms. 

Whilst  the  Roman  Rustic  had  been  thus 
perfected  in  the  South  of  France,  in  the  prov- 

*  M«moires  de  I'Acad^mie  das  Inscriptions  et  BeUes 
Lettres.    Tbme  xvil.,  p.  173. 


404 


FRENCH  LANGUAGE  AND   POETRy. 


inces  north  of  the  Loire  it  had  been  gradaally 
transformed  into  a  new  dialect.  This  change 
Bcema  to  have  commenced  about  the  close  of  the 
ninth  centary.  Upon  this  subject,  Cazeneuve 
writes  thus :  **  Tet  this  Langiu  lUmaine  under- 
went in  a  short  time  a  notable  change ;  for, 
as  languages  generally  follow  the  fortunes  of 
states,  and  lose  their  purity  as  these  decline, 
when  the  crown  of  Germany  was  separated 
from  that  of  France,  the  court  of  our  kings 
was  removed  from  Aix-la-Chapelle  to  Paris; 
and  as  this  city  was  situated  near  the  frontier 
of  the  German  territory,  and  consequently  at  a 
distance  from  the  Gaule  Narbonnoise,  where  the 
Roman  Rustic,  or  Langue  Romainef  was  spoken, 
there  was  imperceptibly  formed  at  the  French 
court,  and  in  the  neighbouring  provinces,  a 
third  language,  which  still  retained  the  name 
of  Rojnaine,  but  in  the  course  of  time  became 
totally  different  frona  the  ancient  Langiu  Ro- 
motile,  which,  however,  remained  in  its  purity 
in  the  provinces  south  of  the  Loire  ;  and  since 
the  people  north  of  the  Loire  expressed  affirma- 
tion by  the  word  Ovt,  and  those  south  of  it,  by 
the  word  Oc,  France  was  divided  into  the  land 
of  the  Langue  d'Oui^  or  French,  and  the  land 
of  the  Langue  d'Oe,  or  Provencal."*  This 
northern  Romance  dialect  was  also  called  the 
Raman  WaUon,  or  Walloon  Romance,  from  the 
appellation  of  WaeUhes  or  WaUons^  given  by 
the  Germans  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  North  of 
France. 

This  Roman  WaUon  soon  ripened  into  a 
language,  and  at  the  commencement  of  the 
tenth  century  became  the  court  dialect  of  Wil- 
liam Longue-£p6e,  duke  of  Normandy.  The 
most  ancient  monument  of  this  language,  now 
existing,  is  to  be  fbund  in  the  laws  of  William 
the  Conqueror,  who  died  in  the  year  1087. 
After  this  period,  the  Roman  WaUon  was  called 
French. 

Speaking  of  his  native  language,  Montaigne, 
who  flourished  in  the  latter  half  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  says :  *•  There  is  stuff  enough  in  our 
language,  but  there  is  a  defect  in  fashioning  it ; 
for  there  is  nothing  that  might  not  be  made 
out  of  our  terms  of  hunting  and  war,  which  is 
a  fruitful  soil  to  borrow  from ;  and  the  forms  of 
speaking,  like  herbs,  improve  and  grow  strong- 
er by  being  transplanted.  I  find  it  sufficiently 
abounding,  but  not  sufficiently  pliable  and  vig- 
orous ;  it  quails  under  a  powerful  conception ; 
if  you  would  maintain  the  dignity  of  your  style, 
you  will  oft  perceive  it  to  flag  and  languish 
under  you."  f 

This  opinion  of  the  merits  and  defects  of  the 
French  language,  as  it  existed  in  the  days  of 
Montaigne,  is  to  a  certain  extent  just,  when 
applied  to  its  present  character.     Its  chief  char- 

*  See  RATitoviLBD.  Cholz  dea  Poteiee  Originalee  dea 
Troabadouri.  Tome  I.,  p.  zztJ.  The  custom  of  naming 
s  language  fttnn  Its  affinoatlre  particle  was  a  gmend  one. 
The  lulian  wat  called  the  Langue  de  Si,  and  the  German, 
the  LangMe  de  Ya. 

t  Enaya.  Book  in.,  Ch.  V. 


acteristics  are  ease,  vivacity,  precision,  perspi- 
cuity, and  directness.  It  is  superior  to  all  the 
other  modem  languages  in  colloquial  elegance ; 
and  those  who  are  conversant  with  the  genteel 
comedy  of  the  French  stage,  and  have  frequent- 
ed the  theatrical  exhibitions  of  the  French 
metropolis,  must  have  been  struck  with  the 
vast  superiority  of  the  French  language  over 
the  English,  in  its  adaptation  to  the  purposes 
of  conversation  and  the  refinement  of  its  fa- 
miliar dialogue.  It  possesses  a  peculiar  point 
and  antithesis  in  the  epigram,  a  spirited  ease  in 
songs,  and  great  sweetness  and  pathos  in  ballad- 
writing.  But  in  the  higher  walks  of  tragic  and 
epic  poetry  it  feebly  seconds  the  high-aspiring 
mind.  The  sound  but  faintly  echoes  to  the 
sublime  harmony  of  thought ;  and  the  imagina^ 
tion,  instead  of  being  borne  upward,  on  sound- 
ing wings,  stoops  to  the  long  accustomed  rhyme, 
like  a  tired  falcon  to  the  hood  and  jeseea  on  a 
lady's  wrist* 

The  dialects  of  the  French  language  may  be 
divided  into  two  great  branches  or  fiimilies:  1. 
the  dialects  of  the  Langue  d'Oil^  in  the  North, 
and  2.  those  of  the  Langue  d'Oc,  in  the  South. 
A  line  drawn  from  the  mouth  of  the  Gironde 
westward  to  Savoy  in  Switzerland  divides  them 
geographically.  The  principal  dialects  of  the 
North  are:  1.  The  Poitevin;  2.  The  Sainton- 
geois ;  3.  The  Burgundian ;  4.  The  Franc-Com- 
tois ;  5.  The  Lorrain ;  6.  The  Picard ;  7.  The 
Walloon.  The  principal  dialects  of  the  South 
are:  1.  The  Gascon;  2.  The  P^rigourdin ;  3. 
The  Limousin ;  4.  The  Languedocien ;  5.  The 
Proven<^al ;  6.  The  Dauphinois.  These  prin- 
cipal dialects  have  numerous  subdivisions,  more 
or  less  distinctly  marked,  amounting  in  all  to 
seventy  or  eighty.  Specimens  of  all  these  may 
be  fbund  in  a  work  entitled  "  Melanges  sur  les 
Langues,  Dialectes  et  Patois,"  t  in  which  will 
be  fbund  the  parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son  in  one 
hundred  dialects,  nearly  all  of  them  French. 
The  Bas-Breton,  a  Celtic  dialect,  is  spoken  in 
Lower  Brittany,  or  the  Basse-Bretagne ;  and  the 
Basque,  in  a  portion  of  the  Basses-Pyr^n^es. 

Some  of  the  Southern  dialects  are  soft  and 
musical.  Those  of  the  North  have  greater 
harshness.  In  many  of  them  there  are  amus- 
ing perversions  of  words ;  as,  for  example,  in 
the  Lorrain,  iitfeeHan  for  ejection;  engendri 

*  For  a  mora  complete  historj  of  the  French  kngvaga, 
the  reader  la  referred  to  the  Histoire  de  la  Lanfne  Fmn- 
falae,  parM.  Hmai:  Paris:  3 Tola.  8TO.;^R^oliitiooa 
de  la  Langue  Fmn^lw,  by  the  AbW  Ravallibab,  in  the 
flrrt  volume  of  Lea  Po^lea  du  Royde  Na?mrre:  Paiia: 
174S ;  —  Orl|ine  et  Formation  de  la  Langue  Romalne,  par 
M.  Ratnouaxd,  in  his  Cholz  deaPoteies  desTroufaadoun: 
Paris:  6  vols.    8to.  1816-21. 

t  Melanges  aur  les  Langues,  Dialectes  et  Patois,  renfer 
mant.  entre  antrss,  une  collection  de  renions  de  hi  Patmbola 
de  I'Enfimt  Prodlgue  en  cent  Idiomea  en  FUola  dURrena, 
preaque  toua  de  Fmnca.  Paria :  I83L  €vo.— See  also,  oq 
this  subject,  CHAMPOEXiON-FieBAO»  NoQToUes  Recharcbes 
sur  les  Patois.  Paris:  1809.  12nio;— Oasnuif,  Bssai  sur 
le  Pa;u)ls  Lorrain  des  environa  dn  OomtA  du  Ban  de  la 
Roche.    Slnsbouig:  1776.    ISmo. 


FRENCH  LANGUAGE   AND   POETRY. 


405 


for  keritif  as  **  II  a  engemdrd  son  p^re  *' ;  bru- 
taliti  for  pluraUU,  as ''  II  a  ^t^  ^lu  k  la  hnUaiitd 
des  Yoix."  Most  of  the  dialects  have  their 
literature ;  consisting  mainly  of  popular  songs 
and  Christmas  carols.  The  name  of  Pierre 
Goudelin,  the  Gascon,  is  well  known  in  the 
annals  of  song ;  and,  at  the  present  day,  many 
a  traveller  on  the  banks  of  the  Garonne  stops 
at  the  town  of  Agen,  to  be  shaved  by  the  Trou- 
badour-Barber. * 

The  history  of  French  poetry  tfiay  be  conve- 
niently divided  into  the  following  periods :  — 
I.  From  the  earliest  times  to  1300.  II.  From 
1300  to  1500.  III.  From  1500  to  1650.  IV. 
From  1650  to  1700.  V.  From  1700  to  1800. 
VI.  From  1800  to  the  present  time. 

I.  From  the  earliest  times  to  1300.  To  this 
period  belong  the  Jongleurs,  the  Trouv^res, 
and  the  Troubadours,  t  The  Jongleurs  were  in 
France  what  the  Gleemen  were  in  England. 
They  were  wandering  minstrels,  who  sang  at 
the  courts  of  kings  and  princes  the  heroic 
achievements  of  their  ancestors.  They  may  be 
traced  back  as  fiu*  as  the  tenth  century ;  but  at 
a  later  day  they  degenerated  into  mimes  and 
mountebanks.  The  Jongleur  of  the  twelfth 
century  became  the  Juggler  of  the  fifteenth. 

To  the  Jongleurs  and  Trouv^res  are  to  be 
referred  the  old  rhymed  romances,  or  CAait- 
sans  de  Geste^  if  not  as  they  now  exist,  at  least 
in  their  original  form.  The  three  great  divisions 
of  these  romances  are :  1.  The  Romances  of 
Charlemagne  and  his  Twelve  Peers;  2.  The 
Romances  of  Arthur  and  the  Round  Table,  and 
of  the  St.  Grail ;  and,  3.  The  Miscellaneous 
Romances. 

Speaking  of  these  ancient  Chtnuams  de  OesU^ 

*  The  following  are  among  the  most  Important  works  in 
the  literature  of  the  French  dialects. 

GotBabAzai.    Noei  Borgnignon.    DIJon:  1776.    I2mo. 

Racueil  de  Poitee  Gascons.  Amsterdaip :  1700.  8  vols. 
8to.  Containing  the  works  of  Goadelin  of  Toulouse,  Sieur 
Lasage  of  Mootpellier,  and  Sear  Michel  of  Nismea. 

PiKSKB  OouDBUN.  Lss  ObTOs  augmontados  d'uno  nou- 
b^IoFIoureto.    Toulouse:  164S.    4to. 

Adoi&  Gauxjuio.    Toutoe  las  Obroe.    I^iris :  1663.  8to. 

Poesies  en  Patois  du  DaophinA.    Grenoble:  1840.   12mo. 

Gaos.  Recueil  de  Ponesies  pronTen^alos.  Manellle: 
1763.    8vo. 

t  On  the  Jongleuri  and  T^roav&ras,  seeahe  following 
worlu. 

Abbs  ds  la  Rva.  Essais  Historiquas  sur  les  Bardes, 
les  Jongleura  et  les  Trouv^res  Normands  el  Anglo-No^ 
mands.    3  rots.    Gsen:  1S34.    8to. 

Ds  RoQOBFOBT.  Ds  Tctat  de  la  PoMe  Flran^ise  dans 
les  Xn*  et  Xni«  St^clea.    Parte :  1881.    8vo. 

Faocbbt.  Recueil  de  I'Origine  de  la  Langue  et  PoMe 
Frtm^iee,  Rjrme  et  Romans.    Paris :  1681.    4to. 

BAKBAZAit.  Fabtlauz  et  Conies  des  Pontes  Francois  des 
XI.,  XII.,  Xm,  XIV.  et  XY«  Stoles.  4  vols.  Paris :  1806. 
9va 

Ansuxs.  Les  Pontes  Francois,  depels  le  Xn«  SItola 
ja«iQ'i Malherbe.    6toIs.    Paris:  1884.    8to. 

Yam  Hasbslt.  fiisal  sur  rHistoire  da  la  Po4sle  Fran- 
Caise  en  Belgique.    Bruelles:  1838.    4u>. 

SiSMONDL  Historical  View  of  the  Literature  of  the  South 
of  Europe.  Translated  by  Thomas  Rosooa,  Ekj.  8  vols. 
New  York:  1827.    8to. 


many  of  which  are  anonymous  and  of  uncertain 
date,  M.  Paulin  Paris  *  remarks :  — 

**We  possessed  in  former  times  great  epic 
poems,  which,  for  four  centuries,  constituted  the 
principal  study  of  our  fathers.  And  during  that 
period,  all  Burope, —  Germany,  England,  Spain, 
and  Italy, — having  nothing  of  the  kind  to  boast 
of,  either  in  their  historic  recollections  or  in 
their  historic  records,  disputed  with  each  other 
the  secondary  glory  of  translating  and  imitating 
them. 

"  Even  amid  the  darkness  of  the  ninth  and 
tenth  centuries,  the  French  still  preserved  the 
recollection  of  an  epoch  of  great  national  glory. 
Under  Charlemagne,  they  had  spread  their  con- 
quests from  the  Oder  to  the  Ebro,  from  the  Bal- 
tic to  the  Sicilian  Sea.  Muasulmans  and  Pagans, 
Saxons,  Lombards,  Bavarians,  and  Batavians, 
—  all  had  submitted  to  the  yoke  of  France,  all 
had  trembled  at  the  power  of  Charles  the  Great. 
Emperor  of  the  West,  King  of  France  and  Ger- 
many, restorer  of  the  arts  and  sciences,  wise 
lawgiver,  great  converter  of  infidels, —  how 
many  titles  to  the  recollection  and  gratitude  of 
posterity !  Add  to  this,  that,  long  before  his 
day,  the  Franks  were  in  the  habit  of  treasuring 
up  in  their  memory  the  exploits  of  their  ances- 
tors; that  Charlemagne  himself,  during  his 
reign,  caused  all  the  heroic  ballads,  which  cele- 
brated  the  glory  of  the  nation,  to  be  collected 
together ;  and,  in  fine,  that  the  weakness  of  his 
successors,  the  misfortunes  of  the  times,  and  the 
invasions  of  the  Normans,  must  have  increased 
the  national  respect  and  veneration  for  the  illus- 
trious dead,  ~- and  you  will  be  forced  to  con- 
fess, that,  if  no  poetic  monuments  of  the  ninth 
century  remained,  we  ought  rather  to  conjec- 
ture that  they  had  been  lost,  than  that  they 
had  never  existed. 

*' As  to  the  contemporaneous  history  of  those 
times,  it  offers  us,  if  I  may  so  speak,  only  the 
outline  of  this  imposing  colossus.  Read  the 
Annals  of  the  Abbey  of  Fulde  and  those  of 
Metz,  Paul  the  Deacon,  the  continuator  of 
FrM^gaire,  and  even  Eginhart  himself,  and  you 
will  there  find  registered,  in  the  rapid  style  of 
an  itinerary,  the  multiplied  conquests  of  the 
French.  The  Bavarians,  the  Lombards,  the 
Gascons  revolt; — Charles  goes  forth  to  subdue 
the  Bavarians,  the  Lombards,  and  the  Gascons. 
Witikind  rebels  ten  times,  and  ten  times  Charles 
passes  the  Rhine  and  routs  the  insurgent  army ; 
and  there  the  history  ends.  Nevertheless  the 
emperor  had  his  generals,  his  companions  in 
glory,  his  rivals  in  genius ;  but  in  all  history 

*  In  the  Introductory  Letter  prefixed  to  "  Li  Roman  de 
Berthe  aus  grans  pi«s."  Paris :  1832.  This  Is  the  first  of  a 
series  of  the  Romances  of  the  Twelve  Peers.  The  following 
works  hare  since  been  published  in  continuation:  — Noe. 
n.,  m.,  Roman  de  Garin  le  Lohemln,  2  rols. ;  IV..  Pbrise 
la  Duchesse;  V.,  YL,  Chansons  de  Saxons;  YII.,  Raoul 
de  Cambraj;  YIIL,  IZ.,  La  Cheralerie  Ogter  de  Dane- 
marche,  2  rols.  The  whole  of  M.  Paris's  introductory  letter 
may  be  found  translated  in  the  "  Select  Journal  of  Foreign 
Periodical  Literature."  Boston:  1833.  Vol.  L,  pp.  125- 168. 


406 


FRENCH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


we  find  not  a  whisper  of  their  services ;  hard- 
ly are  their  names  mentioned.  It  has  been  left 
to  the  popular  ballads,  barren  as  they  are  of  all 
historic  authority,  to  transmit  to  posterity  the 
proofs  of  their  ancient  renown. 

*<But  although  these  ancient  Chansons  de 
Geste^  or  historic  ballads,  fill  up  the  chasms  of 
true  history,  and  clothe  with  flesh  the  meagre 
skeleton  of  old  contemporaneous  chroniclers, 
yet  you  must  not  thence  conclude  that  I  am 
prepared  to  maintain  the  truth  of  their  nar- 
ratives. Far  from  it.  Truth  does  not  reign 
supreme  on  earth ;  and  these  romances,  after 
all,  are  only  the  expression  of  public  opinion, 
separated  by  an  interval  of  many  generations 
from  that  whose  memory  they  transmit  to  us. 
But  to  supply  the  want  of  historians,  each  great 
epoch  in  national  history  inspires  the  song  of 
bards;  and  when  the  learned  and  the  wise 
neglect  to  prepare  the  history  of  events  which 
they  themselves  have  witnessed,  the  people 
prepare  their  national  songs  *,  their  sonorous 
voice,  prompted  by  childish  credulity  and  a  free 
and  unlimited  admiration,  echoes  alone  through 
succeeding  ages,  and  kindles  the  imagination, 
the  feelings,  the  enthusiasm  of  the  children,  by 
proclaiming  the  glory  of  the  fiithenr.  Thus  Ho- 
mer sang  two  centuries  after  the  Trojan  war; 
and  thus  arose,  two  or  three  centuries  after  the 
death  of  Charlemagne,  all  those  great  poems 
called  the  *  Romances  of  the  Twelve  Peers.'  " 

After  speaking  of  the  metre  of  these  poems, 
which,  like  the  old  Spanish  ballads,  are  mono- 
rhythmic,  that  is,  preserving  the  same  rhyme  or 
assonance  for  a  strophe  of  many  consecutive 
lines,  he  goes  on  to  say :  *<  After  an  attentive 
examination  of  our  ancient  literature,  it  is  im- 
possible to  doubt,  fi>r  a  moment,  tliat  the  old 
monorhyme  romances  were  set  to  music,  and 
accompanied  by  a  viol,  harp,  or  guitar;  and 
yet  this  seems  hitherto  to  have  escaped  obser- 
vation. In  the  olden  time  no  one  was  esteemed 
a  good  minstrel,  whose  memory  was  not  stored 
with  a  great  number  of  historic  ballads,  like 
those  of  *  Roncesvalles,'  *  Garin  le  Loherain,' 
and  *•  Gerars  de  Roussillon.'  It  is  not  to  be 
supposed  that  any  one  of  these  poems  was  ever 
recited  entire  ;  but  as  the  greater  part  of  them 
contained  various  descriptions  of  battles,  hunt- 
ing adventures,  and  marriages,  —  scenes  of  the 
court,  the  council,  and  the  castle,  —  the  audi- 
ence chose  those  stanzas  and  episodes  which 
best  suited  their  taste.  And  this  is  the  reason 
why  each  stanza  contains  in  itself  a  distinct  and 
complete  narrative,  and  also  why  the  closing 
lines  of  each  stanza  are  in  substance  repeated 
at  the  commencement  of  that  which  immedi- 
ately succeeds.  ** 

"  In  the  poem  of  *  Gerars  de  Nevers '  I  find 
the  following  curious  passage.  Gerars,  betrayed 
by  his  mistress  and  stripped  of  his  earldom  of 
Nevers  by  the  duke  of  Metz,  determines  to 
revisit  his  ancient  domains.  To  avoid  detec- 
tion and  arrest,  he  is  obliged  to  assume  the 
guise  of  a  minstrel. 


"  'Than  Qenn  donned  a  fann«nt  old, 
And  roond  his  neck  a  viol  hong, 
For  cunningly  he  played  and  sung. 

Steed  he  had  none ;  so  he  wu  fiiin 
To  trudge  on  foot  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
Till  Nerera'  gate  he  stood  before. 
There  merry  burghers  full  a  soors, 
Staring,  exclalnied  in  pleasant  mood : 
"This  minstrel  comelh  for  little  good ; 
I  wane,  if  he  singeth  all  day  long. 
No  one  will  listen  to  his  song." ' 

^*  In  spite  or  these  unfavorable  prognostics, 
Gerars  presents  himself  before  the  castle  of  the 
duke  of  Metz. 

" '  Whilst  at  the  door  ha  thus  did  wait, 

A  knight  came  through  tlie  courtyard  gale. 
Who  bade  the  minstrel  enter  straight. 
And  led  him  to  the  crowded  hall, 
That  he  might  play  before  them  all. 
The  minstrel  then  full  soon  began, 
In  gesture  like  an  aged  roan, 
But  with  clear  voice  and  rouslc  gay,       _ 
The  song  of  "  Guillaume  au  comas.*'     ~ 
Oreat  was  the  court  in  tlie  lull  of  JjoSn, 
The  taMes  were  full  of  fowl  and  ?enison. 
On  flesh  and  fish  they  feasted  eTery  one; 
But  Guillaume  of  these  viands  tasted  none. 
Brown  crusts  ate  be,  and  water  drank  alone. 
When  had  feasted  every  noble  baron, 
Tlie  cloths  were  removed  by  squire  and  scullion. 
Count  Guillaume  then  with  the  king  did  thus  rsasoit: — 
"What  thinketh  now,"  quoth  he,  "the  gftUant  Char 

Ion?* 
Will  he  sId  me  against  the  prowes  of  Mahon  t  *' 
Quoth  LoAis,  "  We  will  take  counsel  thereon  ; 
To-morrow  in  the  morning  shall  thou  conne, 
If  aught  by  us  in  this  matter  can  be  done." 
Guillaume  heard  this,  —  black  was  he  as  carbow. 
He  louted  low,  and  seixed  a  baton, 
And  said  to  the  king,  *'  Of  your  fief  will  I  none, 
I  will  not  keep  so  much  as  a  spur's  Iron ; 
Your  friend  and  vassal  I  cease  to  be  anon ; 
But  come  you  shall,  whether  you  will  or  non." 
.  Thus  full  four  verses  sang  the  knight, 
For  their  great  solace  and  delight.' " 

The  limits  of  this  Introduction  prevent  ob 
from  going  much  into  detail  upon  the  writings 
of  the  Jongleurs  and  Tronv^es.  We  can  do  no 
more  than  enumerate  some  of  their  most  fiimous 
romances.  These  are,  1 .  Of  Charlemagne  and 
his  Twelve  Peers  :  **  Charlemagne,'*  ^  Ogier 
le  Danois,'*  **  Garin  de  Lorraine,"  ^  Guillaume 
d*Aquitaine."  2.  Of  the  Round  Table :  *•  Le 
Brut  d'Angleterre,"  "  L'Atre  P^rilleux,"  "  Mei^ 
lin,"  "  Meliadus  "  j  and  of  the  St.  Grail :  **  Tris- 
tan," "Lancelot  dn  Lac,"  "Perceval  le  Gal- 
lois."  3.  Miscellaneous  Romances :  "  Guy  de 
Warwick,"  " Beuves  de  Hanstone,"  "Robert- 
le-Diable,"  "Roman  du  Rou,"  "Haveloc  le 
Danois,"  "  Le  Roi  Horn,"  "  Tpom^don,"  "  Pro- 
th^silaOs,"  two  "Romans  du  Renard,"  and 
eight,  of  which  Alexander  is  the  hero. 

The  Trouv^res  differed  from  the  Jonglean 
in  not  being  minstrels ;  they  did  not  sing  the 
songs  they  wrote.  They  were  poets,  not  ballad- 
singers  ;  and  often  accused  the  Jongleurs  of 
appropriating  their  works.  In  return,  they  avail- 

*  Charlemagne. 


FRENCH   LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


407 


ed  themselves  of  the  ballads  of  the  Jongleurs ; 
and  many  of  the  romances  of  chivalry,  which 
in  their  present  form  come  from  the  pens  of 
distinguished  Trouv^res,  had  an  earlier  origin 
and  a  ruder  form  among  the  Jongleurs.  The 
greater  part  of  the  writings  of  the  Trouvires  are 
epic  in  their  character,  consisting  of  romances, 
fabliaux,  and  tales.  There  are  no  traces  of 
lyric  compooitions,  properly  so  called,  till  about 
the  commencement  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
Their  taste  for  song-writing  is  probably  to  be 
attributed  to  the  influence  of  the  Troubadours. 
Their  songs  are  marked  by  graceful  simplicity, 
which  is  their  greatest  merit. 

Among  the  Trouv^ree  existed  poetic  societies, 
for  the  recital  of  songs,  and  the  distribution  of 
prizes.  These  were  known  under  the  names  of 
Chambres  de  Khitorique,  Covrs  d^Anunar^  Puys 
ikAmmar^  and  Fuys  Verts.  They  were  called 
Puys  from  the  Latin  Podium^  the  judges  of  the 
meeting  being  seated  upon  an  elevated  platform. 
The  earliest  mentioned  Puy  is  that  of  Valen- 
ciennes, in  the  year  1229.*  As  early  as  the 
days  of  Robert  Wace,  there  existed  at  Caen,  in 
Normandy,  the  Puy  de  la  Conception  de  la 
Viergty  in  imitation  of  the  Puys  d^Amovr. 
Here  these  poets  sang  the  beauty  of  the  DaTne 
des  CieuXf  instead  of  the  praises  of  an  earthly 
lady-love.  The  prizes  were  palms,  golden 
rings,  and  plumes  of  silver,  t  It  was  not,  how- 
ever, till  the  following  century  that  these  eon- 
friries  flourished  in  all  their  glory. 

While  the  Jongleurs  and  Trouv^res  were  fill- 
ing the  North  of  France  with  their  romances 
and  fiibliaux,  in  the  accents  of  ihe^Langue  d'Oil, 
the  Troubadours  of  the  South  poured  forth  their 
songs  of  love  upon  a  balmier  air,  and  in  the 
more  melodious  numbers  of  the  Langue  d'Oe. 
Their  poems  are  almost  entirely  lyrical.  Only 
four  Provencal  romances  are  in  existence,  and 
one  of  these  is  in  prose,  t  They  called  their 
art  Le  Gai  Saber^  and  La  GtUa  Sctenda.  Many 
of  the  Troubadours  sang  their  own  songs ;  oth- 
ers were  poets  only,  and  not  minstrels.  These 
had  Jongleui^  to  sing  their  songs. 

From  a  well  written  article  in  an  English 
review,  §  we  take  the  following  passage,  on 
the  character  of  the  Troubadour  poetry. 

"An  essential  characteristic  of  this  poetry  is, 
that  it  is  addressed  rather  to  the  fency,  than  to 
the  hearts  of  its  hearers.  The  love  which  inspir- 
ed the  bosom  of  the  Troubadour  partook  of  the 
same  character  as  the  poetry  which  emanated 
fit>m  its  existence.  It  was  essentially  a  poetical 
pasmon,  that  is,  a  passion  indulged  in  less  from 
the  operation  of  natural  feelings,  than  from  the 
advantages  it  presented  in  its  poetical  uses.  The 
poet  selected,  for  the  object  of  his  songs,  the 
lady  whom  he  deemed  most  worthy  of  that 


*  See  Yah  Hassslt.  Po^ie  Fnn^lM  en  Belgkiue. 
PL  126. 

t  Db  LA  Rub.    VoL  n.,  p.  1^ 

1  Goran  de  Rouesinon,  Jauljr6  the  son  of  Dovon,  FenbrUi 
and.  in  prooe,  Fhilomena. 

§  Foreign  Quarterly  Review,  VoL  III.,  pp.  173, 174. 


honor,  —  sometimes  the  daughter,  frequently  the 
wife,  of  the  noble  under  whose  roof  he  resided. 
Inferiority  of  condition  on  the  side  of  the  poet 
was  no  bar  to  his  claim  to  a  requital  of  his  af^ 
fections,  for  his  genius  and  his  talent  might  en- 
title him  to  take  rank  with  the  highest.  The 
marriage  vow,  on  the  part  of  the  lady,  was  no 
bar  to  the  advances  of  the  poet,  for  a  serious 
and 'earnest  passion  rarely  eiisted  between  the 
parties.  But  according  to  the  usages  of  the 
times,  every  noble  beauty  must  muster  in  her 
train  some  admiring  poet,  —  every  bard  was 
obliged  to  select  some  fair  object  of  devotion, 
whom  he  might  enshrine  in  his  verses,  and 
glorify  before  the  world ;  and  both  parties  were 
well  content  to  dignify  the  cold-blooded  rela- 
tionship, in  which  they  stood  to  each  other,  by 
the  hallowed  name  of  love.  That  the  head, 
and  not  the  heart,  was  most  frequently  the 
source  of  this  simulated  affection,  is  shown  by 
the  fkct,  that  we  find,  in  cases  where  the  chosen 
fair  one  was  living  in  single  blessedness,  the 
poetical  wooiogs  of  her  imaginative  adorer  rare- 
ly terminated  in  the  prose  of  marriage.  There 
were  instances,  certainly,  of  such  events  result- 
ing flrom  these  poetical  connections,  but  they 
were  few ;  not  so  those  in  which  the  married 
fair,  who  woke  the  poet's  lyre,  broke  the  silken 
bonds  of  matrimony,  and  made  returns  some- 
what more  than  Platonic  to  the  herald  of  her 
charms.  The  connection  between  the  parties 
frequently  degenerated  into  intrigue,^  but  rarely 
elevated  itself  into  a  noble  and  virtuous  attach- 
ment. 

"That  a  passion,  so  essentially  artificial  in 
its  origin,  should  give  rise  to  equally  artificial 
forms  for  its  avowal,  was  to  be  expected.  Ac- 
cordingly, we  find  the  amatory  poetry  of  the 
Troubadours  distinguished  more  for  delicacy  of 
expression,  than  fervency  of  thought,  —  for  a 
pleasing  application  of  well  known  images,  rath- 
er than  a  ready  coinage  of  new  and  appropriate 
ones.  The  feelings  of  the  poet  were  evinced 
rather  in  the  constancy,  than  in  the  ardor  of 
his  homage.  *•  From  morn  till  noon,  from  noon 
till  dewy  eve,'  he  was  expected  to  mark  his 
devotion  to  his  mistress,  by  harping  variations 
on  one  endless  theme, — her  beauty  and  his  love. 
In  the  execution  of  this  task,  he  was  not  con- 
fined to  one  style  of  composition,  but  might 
choose  the  Chant  or  the  Chanson^  the  Son  or 
the  Sonety  the  Alha  or  the  Serena,  or,  in  fact, 
whichsoever  of  the  many  *set  forms  of  speech' 
he  thought  best  adapted  to  record  his  sufierings, 
or  display  his  genius.  Such  is  the  general 
character  of  this  branch  of  Troubadour  poetry ; 
there  are  exceptions  certainly,  exhibiting  both 
fervor  and  sincerity,  and  in  a  high  degree  ;  but 
in  these  cases  the  sentiments  to  which  they 
have  given  expression  appear  to  have  been  the 
result  of  real,  and  not  of  counterfeit  emotions. 
The  Planhsj  or  songs  written  upon  the  death 
of  a  mistress,  generally  display  the  pathos  and 
tenderness  which  such  an  event  might  be  ex- 
pected to  call  forth." 


408 


FRENCH   LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


The  Troubadours,  as  well  as  the  TrouT^res, 
had  their  Courts  of  Love,  commencing  as  far 
back  as  the  twelfth  century ;  and  continuing 
till  as  late  as  the  close  of  the  fourteenth.  At 
those  courts  ladies  of  high  degree  presided. 
There  was  the  court  of  Ermengarde,  viscount- 
ess of  Narbonne ,  there  was  the  court  of  Queen 
El^onore,  and  many  others.  Before  tfiem  ques- 
tions of  love  and  gallantry  were  debated,  an3  by 
them  judgment  was  pronounced.  These  ques- 
tions were  decided  in  conformity  with  the  Code 
of  Love,  of  which  the  following  are  some  of 
the  Articles. 

^*  Marriage  is  no  legitimate  excuse  for  not 
having  a  lover. 

*<  Love  must  always  increase  or  diminish. 

«<  Every  lover  turns  pale  in  the  presence  of 
his  mistress. 

**  At  the  sudden  appearance  of  his  mistress, 
the  heart  of  the  lover  trembles. 

^  A  lover  is  always  timid. 

**Linle  sleepeth  and  eateth  he  who  is  ha- 
rassed by  the  thoughts  of  love. 

**  Love  can  deny  nothing  unto  love. 

**  Nothing  prevents  a  woman  from  being  loved 
by  two  men,  nor  a  man  from  being  loved  by 
two  women."  ^ 

The  following  are  specimens  of  the  questions 
and  decisions  in  these  courts. 

Question.  <*Can  true  love  exist  between 
husband  and  wife  ?  " 

Judgmept  of  the  countess  of  Champagne. 
**  We  hereby  declare  and  affirm,  by  the  tenor 
of  these  presents,  that  love  cannot  exercise  its 
power  over  husband  and  wife,  &c.^  Ac, 

^*  Let  this  decision,  which  we  have  pro- 
nounced with  extreme  prudence,  and  by  ^e 
advice  and  consent  of  a  great  number  of  other 
ladies,  be  for  you  of  constant  and  irrefragable 
verity.  Thus  decided,  in  the  year  1174,  the 
3d  day  of  the  kalends  of  May,  indiction  VII«." 

Question.  ^*  A  knight  was  enamoured  of  a 
lady  already  engaged ;  but  she  promised  him 
her  love,  if  it  ever  happened  that  she  should 
lose  the  afiection  of  her  lover.  Shortly  after, 
the  lady  and  her  lover  were  married.  The 
knight  claimed  the  love  of  the  young  bride ; 
she  reftised,  pretending  she  had  not  lost  the 
affection  of  her  lover." 

Judgment  This  case  being  brought  before 
Queen  El^onore,  she  decided  thus :  "  We  dare 
not  set  aside  the  decision  of  the  countess  of 
Champagne,  who,  by  a  solemn  judgment,  has 
pronounced  that  true  love  cannot  exist  between 
husband  and  wifo.  We  therefore  decide  that 
the  aforementioned  lady  accord  the  love  she 
promised."  t 

*  RATMOUAaO,  n.,  CT. 

t  Ratnouard,  n.,  crli.  The  readar  will  there  find  a 
eketch  of  the  Ooarte  of  Lore,  drawn  chiefl  j  frcMn  the  "  Llvre 
de  I'Art  d'aimer,  et  de  la  RAprobetioo  de  1' Amour,"  by 
the  chaplain  Andri,  a  writer  of  the  twelfth  century.  In 
the  fifteenth  century,  the  Couru  of  Lore  and  their  de- 
cieione  wen  ridiculed  by  Martial  de  Parle,  In  his  *' An^te 
d'Amovit."    An  amueing  noUce  of  this  book,  with  ex- 


The  songs  of  the  Troubadours  died  away 
amid  the  discords  of  the  wars  of  the  Albigensea, 
during  the  thirteenth  century.  In  the  follow- 
ing century,  in  1323,  a  few  poets  of  Toulouse 
were  accustomed  to  meet  together  in  the  gar- 
dens of  the  Augustine  monks,-  for  an  acade- 
my, which  they  called  La  Sobregaya  Company 
hia  dels  Sept  Trobadors  de  Tolosa.  In  13S4, 
this  society,  in  connection  with  the  Capiiayls, 
or  chief  magistrates  of  Toulouse,  established  the 
Jeux  FloravXy  or  Floral  Games,  which  are  atiil 
in  existence.  A  golden  violet  was  offered  as  a 
prize  for  the  best  poem  in  the  Proven^  lan- 
guage ;  and  on  the  first  of  May,  in  the  gardens 
of  the  Augustine  convent,  and  in  the  presence 
of  a  vast  multitude,  the  poems  of  the  rival  can- 
didates were  read,  and  the  prize  was  awarded  to 
Arnaud  Vidal,  who  was. straightway  declared 
Doctor  in  the  Gay  Science.  In  1355,  the 
number  of  prizes  was  increased  to  three:  a 
golden  violet  for  the  best  song ;  a  silver  eglan- 
tine for  tiie  best  pastoral ;  and  a  fior  de  geug^ 
or  flower  of  joy,  the  yellow  acacia  blossom,  for 
the  best  ballad.  * 


tracts,  may  be  found  In  the  "Retroepective  Review,"  YoL 
v.,  pp.  70-86,  from  which  we  take  the  following  cases. 

"Thie  was  an  action  brought  by  the  pUintiflT,  a  lorer, 
against  the  defendant,  to  whom  he  was  attached,  for  refus- 
ing to  dance  with  him.  The  declaration  euted,  that  oo, 
&c.,  at,  &c.,  the  plaintiflT  had  requested  the  said  defendant 
to  dance,  which  she,  without  any  reaaonable  cause  In  that 
behalf,  refused  to  do,  alleging  a  certain  frin>loua  excuse. 
That  afterwards  the  said  plaintiflT  did  again,  with  great 
eameetness,  humbly  request  the  said  defondant  to  dance  a 
few  steps  with  him,  to  save  him,  the  said  plaiatlfiT,  from 
being  laughed  at  by  certain  perKxis  then  and  then  preeent, 
which  she  also  refused  to  do.  And  he  averred  that  be  had, 
on  divers  occasions,  moved  to  the  said  defendant,  and  taken 
oflThls  hat,  whenever  he,  the  said  plaintiflT,  met  her.  Yet, 
although  the  said  defendant  well  knew  that  he  was  atrkken 
with  and  loired  her,  she  neverthelees  whoUy  dlsdalaad  and 
refused  to  speak  to  him,  the  said  pLaintiflT;  or  If  at  any  tlnna 
the  said  defendant  said, '  How  d'  ye  do  7 '  to  the  said  plain- 
tiflT,  it  was  with  a  toss  of  the  head  of  iMr,  the  said  dsfeiMlBnu 
The  declaration  concluded  in  the  uaual  manner." 

"  An  action  was  brought  by  a  young  married  lady  against 
her  husband,  for  not  allowing  her  to  wear  a  gown  and  a 
bonnet  made  in  the  newest  ftshion.  The  pleadings  ran  to  a 
consldemble  length,  and  the  Court  declared  that  the  Boatter 
should  be  referred  to  two  mllllneri,  who  should  report  thera- 
on ;  and  if  any  thing  objectionable  were  found  in  the  feah- 
lon  of  the  gown  and  bonnet,  the  Court  directed  that  the  nt 
erees  should  caU  in  the  ssslstance  of  two  ladies,  on  the  part 
of  the  plaintiflT,  and  two  on  the  part  of  the  defendant,  to  as- 
sist them  In  their  judgment" 

"  An  action  was  brought  by  the  plaintiflT  against  tba  de- 
fendant, for  having  pricked  him  with  a  pin,  whilst  she  was 
giving  him  a  kiss.  The  defendant  denied  ever  having  given 
the  plalntiflTa  kiss,  but,  on  the  contrary,  said  that  tin  plain- 
tiflT had  taken  It ;  and  ahe  ssid  that  the  wound,  if  any,  had 
liappened  only  by  miachance  and  accident.  Certiflcales 
from  several  aurgeons  were  produced  of  the  nature  and  ex- 
tent of  the  wound,  and  the  Court  sentenced  the  defendant 
to  Uss  ths  wound  at  all  reasonable  timee,  until  It  was  heal- 
ed, and  to  find  linen  for  plasters." 

*  On  the  Troubsdours  and  their  poetry,  eee  the  foUowing 
works. 

RATimvAas.  Choix  dee  Foteles  Originsles  dss  Troaba- 
douri.    6 vols.    Paris:  1816-81. 

CaaacuDBMi.    Yite  de*  Poeti  ProvennlL    Translated 


FRENCH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


409 


To  this  period  ii  to  be  referred,  also,  the  first 
trace  of  the  French  drama.  It  began  in  the 
Mirades  and  MytUres  of  the  Jongleurs,  the  rep- 
resentation of  which  can  be  traced  as  At  back 
as  the  close  of  the  eleventh  century.  The  MU 
rmeUs  were  founded  on  the  legends  of  saints, 
and  the  MysUre»  on  the  Old  and  New  Tes- 
taments. The  earliest  play  now  extant  is,  how- 
ever, of  a  much  later  date,  and  will  be  noticed 
in  the  history  of  the  next  period. 

II.  From  1300  to  1500.  The  most  popular 
poem  of  this  period-^  the  poem  which  seems 
to  have  been  to  the  French  what  the  **  Divina 
Commedia"  was  to  the  Italians,  and  which 
fUlly  satisfied  the  romantic  and  poetic  taste  of 
the  age  —  was  the  *«  Romaunt  of  the  Rose." 
It  was  commenced  in  the  latter  part  of  the  thir- 
teenth century  by  Guillaume  de  Lorris,  and  fin- 
ished in  the  first  part  of  the  fourteenth  by  Jean 
de  Meun.  Thb  was  by  no  means  a  poetic  age. 
Next  to  MeuD,  the  writers  most  worthy  of 
mention  are,  Jean  Froissart,  better  known  as  a 
chronicler  than  as  a  poet ;  Christine  de  Pise ; 
Alain  Chartier ;  Charles,  duke  of  Orleans ; 
Francis  Villon ;  Jean  Regnier,  and  Martial  de 
Paris.  From  the  writings  of  these  authors,  and 
of  several  others,  extracts  will  be  given. 

Though  some  traces  of  the  drama  have  been 
discovered  ss  far  back  as  the  close  of  the  eleventh 
century,  the  history  of  the  French  theatre  be- 
gins,  properly  speaking,  with  the  fifteenth.  At 
this  period,  certain  pilgrims,  returning  from  the 
Holy  Land,  formed  themselves  into  the  Con- 
firerie  de  la  Passion,  In  1402,'they  received 
the  permission  of  Charles  the  Sixth  to  establish 
themselves  at  Paris,  and  accordingly  opened 
their  theatre  in  the  Hdpital  de  la  Trinit4.  Their 
stage  was  filled  with  several  scaffolds,  or  itah* 
liesy  the  highest  of  which  represented  heaven, 
and  the  lower,  different  parts  of  the  scene.  Be- 
neath, in  the  place  of  the  modern  trap-door, 
hell  was  represented  by  the  jaws  of  a  dragon, 
which  opened  and  shut  for  the  entrances  and 
exits  of  the  devils.  At  the  sides  were  seats  for 
the  actors,  most  of  whom  seem  never  to  have 
lefl  the  stage.  Here  was  represented  the  cele- 
brated **  Myst^re  de  la  Passion,**  divided  into 
four  jovmies,*  or  days;  as  the  play  wss  con- 
tinued lor  successive  days.  In  the  first  jstim^ 
there  are  thirty-two  scenes  and  eighty-seven 
characters;  in  the  second,  twenty-five  scenes 
and  one  hundred  characters;  in  the  third,  sev- 


liroin  tho  Fteoch  of  NdnsDAMi.    InYoL  IL  of  the  Istoria 
deUa  Volfsr  Poesia.    8  toLb.   Venezia :  1790-  31.  4to. 

MiLLOT.  Hifltoin  LIttArairs  das  Ttoubsdoon.  3  vols. 
Paris:  1774.    ISma 

ScHLBOBL.  OtawrTstkMis  sar  la  LufiM  «t  la  LtnAntiue 
ProTen^alaa.    Puis:  1818.    8fo. 

Diaz.   Die  Poeeie  derTroubMloan.  Zwlekta:  1828.  Sro. 

Diss.  Lebea  uod  Werke  der  ItoaUdouis.  Zwickau : 
1829.    8Te. 

*  The  word  Jornada  Is  atlll  preeenred  In  the  Spanish 
drama,  though  the  Franch  Joumie  has  given  place  to  the 
woid  oele.  It  orlginalljr  Indicated  the  poctlon  of  a  plaj 
acted  bk  one  day. 

G3 


enteen  scenes  and  eighty-seven  characters ;  and 
in  the  fourth,  twelve  scenes  and  one  hundred 
and  five  characters.  The  following  scenes  of 
this  play  are  fi?om  Rgacoe's  translation  of  Sis- 
mondi.* 

**  Saint  John  enters  into  a  long  discourse, 
and  we  can  only  account  for  the  patience  with 
which  our  fore&thers  listened  to  these  tedious 
harangues,  by  supposing  that  their  &tigue  was 
considered  by  them  to  be  an  acceptable  offering 
to  the  Deity ;  and  that  they  were  persuaded, 
that  every  thing,  which  did  not  excite  them  to 
laughter  or  tears,  was  put  down  to  the  account 
of  their  edification.  The  following  scene  in 
dialogue,  in  which  Saint  John  undergoes  an 
.interrogation,  displays  considerable  ability. 

ABVAB. 

ThOQgh  ftHen  be  man**  dnftil  Una, 
Holy  prophet!  It  le  writ, 
Chriat  ehaU  cone  lo  laaaooi  It, 
And  bj  doctrine  and  by  alga 
Bring  them  to  hie  grace  divine. 
Wherefore,  aeaing  now  the  force 
Of  thy  high  deeds,  thy  grave  dleeouse, 
And  ylrtaes  shown  of  groat  eeteem, 
That  thoa  art  he  we  sorely  deeak 

SAurr  Yont. 
I  am  not  Meeslah,  —no  I 
At  the  foet  of  Christ  I  bow. 

BLTAOBm. 

Why,  then,  wildly  wanderaat  thou 
Naked  In  this  wilderness  f 
Shy!  what  foith  dost  thou  profoasY 
And  to  whom  thy  serrice  paid? 

BAIIXAirrAB. 

Thoa  assemblest.  It  la  said. 
In  these  lonely  woods,  a  crowd 
To  hear  thy  voice  proclaiming  loud. 
Like  that  of  our  meet  holy  men. 
Art  thou  a  king  In  Israel,  then? 
Know'st  thou  the  laws  and  prophecies  Y 
Who  art  thou  Y  say  I 

NAnux. 

ThoQ  doet  advise 
Messiah  Is  come  down  below. 
Hast  seen  hifflf  Sny,  how  dost  thoa  know  9 
Or  art  thou  hef 

SAnrr  jomr . 

I  anawer,  No  I 


*  Historical  View  of  the  Literature  of  the  South  of  Eu- 
rope, Tol.  I.,  pp.  179- 184.  In  the  first  volume  of  the  "  Hie- 
toire  du  Th«&tre  Fran^als"  (16  vols.  Peris:  ISmo.),  en 
aaalyals,  with  extracts,  Is  given  of  this  Mystery,  and  of 
those  oftheGonceptlon  and  the  Beenrraction.  Theae  three 
Mysteries  have  been  pubUsbed  together,  "  es  played  at  Psrie 
in  the  year  of  grace,  1607."  The  whole  tlUe  la, "  Le  Mystere 
de  la  Conception  et  Natlvlt*  de  la  glorieuse  Ylerge  Marie, 
avec  le  Meriage  dMcelle,  hi  NaUvitA,  FSsskm,  R«surrectlon 
et  Assenclon  de  Noetre-SSuveur  et  Redempteur  Jesu-Cbrist, 
Jou4e  A  Peris  I'ande  grace  mil  cinq  censet  sept;  imprim«e 
audict  lieu,  pour  Jehan  Petit,  OeufTroy  de  Mamef  et  Mi- 
chel le  Noir,  LibralrBe-Jures  en  I'Unlveraitd  de  Paris,  de- 
Boourans  en  la  grant  ru«  P.  Jacquea." 

In  th»sBcond  volume  of  the  "  Hlstolre  du  ThMtre  Fran- 
^  '*  may  be  found  a  chronological  catalogue  of  the  other 
Mysteriee  of  the  fifteenth  century. 


410 


FRENCH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


ItACROK. 

Who  art  thou  7    Art  Elias,  then? 
Perhaps  Eliasf 

SAXMT  JOHH. 

No  I 

BANMAHTAB. 


Who  art  thou  f  what  thj  name  t    EzpraMi 
For  neyer,  rarely,  ehall  we  gueM. 
Thou  art  the  prophet. 

SAXHT  JOHH. 

lam  not. 

BLTAOHUI. 

Who  and  what  art  thou  7    Tell  ue  what  j 
That  true  answer  we  may  bear 
To  oar  lords,  who  sent  us  here 
To  learn  thj  name  and  mission. 

8A12IT  JOBH. 

Ego 
Vox  elamantia  in  deaerto : 
A  ▼oice,  a  solitary  cry, 
In  the  desert  paths  am  I. 
Smooth  the  paths,  and  make  them  meet 
For  the  great  Redeemer's  feet. 
Him,  who,  brought  by  our  misdoing, 
Gomes  ior  this  foul  world's  renewing. 

**  The  resalt  of  this  scene  is  the  conyersion 
of  the  persons  to  whom  Saint  John  addresses 
himself.  They  eagerly  demand  to  be  baptized, 
and  the  ceremony  is  followed  by  the  baptism 
of  Jesus  himself  But  the  Tersifiaation  is  not 
so  remarkable  as  the  stage  directions,  which 
transport  us  to  the  very  period  of  these  Gothic 
representations. 

•*  ( Here  Jesus  enters  the  waters  of  Jordan^ 
all  naked,  and  Saint  John  takes  some  of  the 
water  in  his  hand  and  throws  it  on  the  bead  of 
JesQB.* 

BAZHT  jomr. 
Sir,  yon  now  baptized  are, 
As  it  suits  my  simple  skill, 
Not  the  lofty  rank  you  fill : 
Unmeet  for  such  great  serrice  I ; 

Yet  my  God,  so  debonair, 
AU  that  *B  wanting  will  rapply. 

^<  <  Here  Jesus  comes  out  of  the  riyer  Jordan, 
and  throws  himself  on  his  knees,  all  naked, 
before  paradue.  Then  God  the  Father  speaks, 
and  the  Holy  Ghost  descends,  in  the  form  of  a 
white  dore,  upon  the  head  of  Jesus,  and  then 
returns  into  paradise :  —  and  note  that  the  words 
of  God  the  Father  be  rery  audibly  pronounced, 
and  well  sounded  in  three  voices ;  that  is  to 
say,  a  treble,  a  counter-treble,  and  a  counter- 
bass,  all  in  tune :  and  in  this  way  must  the  fol- 
lowing lines  be  repeated :  — 

*  Sie  est  JUiua  meua  dUtettu, 

In  quo  rnihi  bene  e^mplaeui, 
Cestul-ci  est  mon  file  am4  Jteos, 
Que  bien  me  plaist,  ma  plsisanr-e  est  en  luL' 

'*  As  this  Mystery  was  not  only  the  ^lodel  of 
subsequent  tragedies,  but  of  comedies  likewise, 
we  must  extract  a  few  verses  from  the  dialogues 
of  the  devils,  who  fill  all  the  comic  parts  of  the 
drama.    The  eagemeas  of  these  personages  to 


maltreat  one  another,  or,  aa  the  original  ex- 
presses it,  d  se  torcktmner  (to  give  one  another 
a  wipe),  always  produced  much  laughter  in  the 
assembly. 

BBBITH. 

Who  he  is  I  cannot  tell,— 

This  Jesus ;  but  I  know  ftill  well. 

That,  in  all  the  worlds  that  be, 

There  is  not  such  a  one  as  he. 

Who  it  is  that  gave  him  birth 

I  know  not,  nor  from  whence  on  earth 

He  came,  or  what  great  devil  taught  him ; 

Bui  in  no  evil  liave  I  caught  him, 

Nor  know  I  any  vice  he  hath. 

8ATAN. 

Haro  i  hut  you  make  me  wroth, 
When  such  dismal  news  I  hear. 


Whereforssot 

SATAH. 

Because  I  fear 
He  will  make  my  kingdom  less. 
Leave  him  in  the  wilderness, 
And  let  us  return  to  hell,    ■ 
To  Lucifer  our  tale  to  tell, 
And  to  ask  his  sound  advice. 


The  4mps  are  ready  in  a  trice; 
Better  escort  cannot  be. 

LUOIPBB. 

Is  it  Satan  that  I  see, 

And  Berith,  coming  in  a  passion  t 

A8TAB0TH. 

Master,  let  me  lay  the  lash  on. 
Hera  'a  the  thing  to  do  the  deed. 

Lucms. 
Please  to  moderate  your  speed 
To  lash  behind  and  lash  before  ye, 
Ere  you  hear  them  tell  their  su>ry. 
Whether  shame  they  bring,  or  glory. 

**  As  soon  as  the  devils  have  given  an  ac- 
count to  their  sovereign  of  their  observatiops 
and  their  vain  efforts  to  tempt  Jeaua,  Aataroth 
throws  himself  upon  them  with  bis  imps,  aod 
lashes  them  back  to  earth  from  the  infernal  re- 
gions." 

The  success  of  the  Onrfririe  de  la  Passiam 
inspired  the  CUrcs  de  la  Baxosehe^  or  Students 
of  the  Inns  of  Court,  already  an  incorporated 
societv,  with  their  king,  chancellor,  and  other 
high  dignitaries,  to  represent  plays.  But  a^  the 
Cm^irie  de  la  Passion  had  by  law  the  exclu- 
sive right  to  the  Miracles  and  Mysteries,  the 
clerks  invented  MoraUtSSf  or  allegorical  playa, 
and  Farces.  The  most  renowned  of  these  ia 
«•  La  Farce  de  Maistre  Pierre  Pathelin,*'  *  first 
performed  in  1480,  and  still  held  in  high  esteem 
as  a  characteristic  specimen  of  French  flin. 

During  the  thirteenth  century,  was  formed  a 
third  dramatic  corps,  who,  being  lovers  of  mirth 
and  frolic,  took  the  merry  name  of  Les  Et^oMS 
sans  Soud,    Their  leader  bore  the  title  of  Prines  . 
des  Sots^  and  the  plays  were  called  Sotises^  and 


*  A  neat  edition  of  this  Ihmous  htoe  was  pttbUshed  at 
Paris,  in  1783. 


FRENCH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


411 


were  filled  with  the  foIlieB  of  the  time,  and 
sometimes  with  personal  satire* 

III.  From  1500  to  1650.  This  is  a  far  more 
brilliant  epoch  than  that  which  preceded  it. 
It  embraces  the  names  of  Rabelais  and  Mon- 
taigne in  prose,  and  of  Marot  and  Malherbe  in 
poetry.  It  commences  with  the  reign  of  Francis 
the  First,  who  was  surnamed  the  Father  of  Let- 
ters. The  better  to  understand  how  much  this 
monarch  contributed  to  the  cultiyation  of  his 
native  tongue,  it  should  be  borne  in  mind,  that 
until  his  day  all  public  acts  and  documents  were 
published  in  Latin,  and  that  to  him  belongs  the 
praise  of  having  abolished  this  ancient  usage, 
and  ordered  that  **  doresnavaU  tous  arrSts  soieiU 
prowmces^  enregistrh  et  dSUvris  aux  parties  en 
langagt  maternel  Fran^aisy  et  rum  mtUrement." 
This  elevated  the  character  of  the  language,  and 
gave  a  fresh  impulse  to  its  advancement.  The 
new  encouragement  given  to  literature,  and  the 
new  honors  paid  to  literary  men,  seconded  this 
impulse ',  and  during  the  single  reign  of  this 
munificent  monarch,  the  French 'language  made 
as  much  progress  in  ease  and  refinement,  as  it 
has  made  from  that  day  to  the  present.  Pre- 
eminent among  the  names  of  those  authors 
who  were  instrumental  in  effecting  the  im- 
provement stands  that  of  Clement  Marot,  the 
most  celebrated  of  all  the  ancient  worthies  of 
French  poetry.  Surrounded  by  the  elegance 
and  refinement  of  the  French  court,  and  guided 
by  the  counsels  of  his  friend  and  preceptor, 
Jehan  Lemaire,  he  applied  himself  assiduously 
to  the  cultivation  of  his  native  tongue,  and  to 
establishing  for  it  those  rules  and  principles 
which  would  give  it  permanence  and  precision, 
but  which  all  previous  writers  had  entirely  dis- 
regarded. "Marot,"  says  M.  Auguis,  in  his 
"Discourse  upon  the  Origin  and  Progress  of 
the  Poetic  Language  of  France,"  ^*  had  but  one 
course  to  pursue;  to  leave  the  imitation  of  every 
other  language,  and  seek  for  the  genius  of  our 
own  within  itself:  and  this  he  did.  The  as- 
perity of  its  terminations  and  connections  was 
the  ^tal  quicksand  of  our  grammar;  he  ad- 
hered to  those  words  and  turns  of  expression 
which  had  been  snM>othed  by  the  constant  attri- 
tion of  good  usage.  He  treasured  up  and  em- 
ployed every  pleasing  rhyme  -and  easy-flowing 
phrase  which  by  chance  had  fallen  firom  the 
pens  of  more  ancient  writers ;  but  it  was  in  the 
caltivated  and  refined  conversations  of  ladies 
of  high  rank,  that  he  acquired  the  most  delicate 
perception  of  the  true  harmony  of. language; 
it  was  from  the  natural  beauty  of  their  expres- 
sions, and  the  vivacity,  clearness,  and  melody 
of  their  periods,  that  he  drew  his  own  honeyed 
sweetness,  and  learned  the  true  character  of  our 
language.  This  was  all  which  at  that  period 
could  be  done ;  and  it  was  doing  much,  to  teach 
the  future  scholar  that  the  genius  of  the  French 

*  For  a  full  account  of  the  Cleree  de  la  Baxotehe,  and 
th6  JBn/tuu  aant  Sovei,  ihs  roader  is  referred  to  the  **  His- 
toire  da  Thtttre  Fnm^/'  YoL  IL,  pp.  78, 198. 


language  consists  in  its  ease,  its  vivacity,  its 
precision,  and,  above  all,  in  its  perspicuity  and 
directness."  * 

About  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
the  poet  Ronsard,  thinking  the  language  poor 
and  feeble,  conceived  the  design  of  enriching 
it  with  phrnes  firom  the  Greek  and  Latin  : 

"Et  aa  mosa,  en  Francis,  paria  One  el  Lathi." 
This  was  like  equipping  the  graceful  limbs  of 
a  ballet-dancer  in-  a  ponderous  suit  of  antique 
armor.  Ronsard  was  called  the  Prince  of  the 
French  Poets.  He  gathered  arouud  him  a  soci- 
ety of  friends  and  admirers,  who  assumed  the 
name  of  the  Pleiades.  The  principal  star  in 
this  constellation  wsa  Ronsard  himself  The 
other  six  were  Joachim  du  Bellay,  Antoioe  de 
Bal^  PoQtus  de  Tbyard,  Remi  Belleau,  Jean 
Dorat,  and  Etienne  Jodelle,  whose  tragedy  of 
*^  Cleopatra,"  formed  on  the  classic  model,  took 
the  place  of  the  old  Mysteries  and  Moralities, 
and  began  a  new  era  in  the  French  drama. 
The  grace  of  the  language  began  to  yield 
beneath  the* weight  of  this  scholastic  jargon; 
when  fortunately  a  superior  mind  appeared,  to 
rescue  literature  fi^m  the  ill  effects  of  this 
perverted  taste.  This  was  Malherbe ;  who 
so  strenuously  asserted  the  rights  of  his  native 
tongue  against  all  foreign  usurpation,  that  he 
gained  at  court  the  appellation  of  the  Tyrant  of 
Words  and  Syllables.  It  is  related  of  him,  that, 
but  an  hour  before  his  death,  his  father-confes- 
sor, speaking  to  him  of  the  felicity  of  the  life 
beyond  the  grave,  expressed  himself  in  lan- 
guage so  vulgar  and  incorrect,  that  the  dying 
poet  exclaimed,  **  Say  no  more  of  it ;  your  pit- 
iful style  will  disgust  me  with  it." 

Malherbe  is  regarded  by  the  French  as  the 
fiither  of  their  poetry.  To  him  belongs  the 
glory  of  having  first  developed  the  full  power 
of  the  French  language  in  many  of  the  various 
branches  of  poetic  composition.  **  Beauty  of 
expression  and  imagery,"  says  Auguis,  **  rapidity 
of  movement  and  sublimity  of  ideas,  enthusi- 
asm, number,  cadence,  all  are  to  be  found  in 
his  beautiful  odes.  No  one  knew  better  than 
he  the  effects  of  harmony  ;  no  one  possessed  a 
more  exquisite  taste,  or  a  more  delicate  ear. 
Grief  and  sensibility  find  beneath  his  pen  ex- 
pressions nafves  and  pathetic,  and  the  form  of 
versification  follows  naturally  the  emotions  of 
the  soul.  We  are  filled  with  astonishment  and 
admiration,  when  we  compare  his  noble  lan- 
guage with  the  barbarous  style  of  the  disciples 
of  Ronsard.  Thus  was  ushered  in  the  brilliant 
age  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth."  t 


*  Pontes  Francis.    Discoura  Pr^liminalre.    I.,  20. 

t  Fortes  Francois,  YI.,  63.  This  work  eonulna  aelec- 
tiona  from  the  wrftinga  of  two  hundred  and  seventy-two 
authors,  slxty*alz  of  whom  are  TVoubadonra.  At  the  close 
of  the  work  Is  a  list  of  poets  before  Malherbe,  from  whose 
writings  no  extracts  are  given.  These  are  two  hundred  and 
elghty-oight  Troubadoura,  ona  hundred  and  seventy-three 
Tronrires,  and  four  hundred  and  fifty-four  early  French  po* 
ets.  This  makes  in  all  one  thousand  one  hundred  and  eighty* 
leven  poets  before  the  middle  of  the  saTenteenth  century. 


412 


FRENCH   LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


The  poets  and  Tersifiers  of  this  period  are 
very  numerous,  amounting  in  all  to  one  hundred 
and  thirty-seven.  Extracts  from  the  writings 
of  all  of  these  may  be  found  in  the  collection 
of  Aoguis.  Among  them  are  several  royal 
authors  3  Francis  the  First,  Henry  the  Second, 
Charles  the  Ninth,  Henry  the  Fourth,  and  his 
mother,  Jeanne  d'Albret;  Marie  ^tuart,  and 
Msrguerite  de  Navarre. 

IV.  From  1650  to  1700.  .The  age  of  Louis 
the  Fourteenth  is  one  of  the  most  brilliant  in 
history  ;  illustrious  by  its  reign  of  seventy -two 
years,  its  eighty-seven  marshals,  and  its  three 
hundred  and  seventy  authors  *  The  reign  of 
thb  monarch  has  been  called  **  a  satire  upon ' 
despotism."  His  vanity  was  boundless ;  his 
magni6cence  equally  so.  The  palaces  of  Mar- 
ly and  Versailles  are  monuments  of  his  royal 
pride.  Equestrian  statues,  and  his  figure  on 
one  of  the  gates  of  Paris,  represented  as  a 
naked  Hercules,  with  a  club  in  his  hand  and  a 
flowing  wig  on  his  head,  are  monuments  of  his 
self-esteem. 

His  court  was  the  home  of  etiquette  and  the 
model  of  all  courts.  *'It  seemed,"  says  Vol- 
taire, *<  that  Nature  at  that  time  took  delight  in 
producing  in  France  the  greatest  men  in  all  the 
arts ;  and  of  assembling  at  court  the  most  beau- 
tiful men  and  women  that  had  ever  existed. 
But  the  king  bore  the  palm  away  from  all  his 
courtiers,  by  the  grace  of  his  figure,  and  the 
majestic  beauty  of  his  countenance.  The  no- 
ble and  winning  sound  of  his  voice  captivated 
the  hearts  that  his  presence  intimidated.  His 
carriage  was  such  as  became  him  and  his  rank 
only,  and  would  have  been  ridiculous  in  any 
other.  The  embarrassment  he  inspired  in  those 
who  spoke  with  him  flattered  in  secret  the 
self-complacency  with  which  he  recognized  his 
own  superiority.  The  old  oflicer  who  became 
agitated  and  stammered  in  asking  a  favor  from 
him,  and,  not  being  able  to  finish  his  discourse, 
exclaimed,  *  Sire,  I  do  not  tremble  so  before 
your  enemies  ! '  had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining 
the  favor  be  asked."  t 

All  about  him  was  pomp  and  theatrical  show. 
He  invented  a  kind  of  livery  which  it  was 
held  the  greatest  honor  to  wear ;  a  blue  waist- 
coat, embroidered  with  gold  and  silver; — a 
mark  of  royal  favor.  To  aJl  around  him  he 
was  courteous ;  towards  women  chivalrous. 
He  never  passed  even  a  chambermaid  without 
touching  his  hat ;  and  always  stood  uncovered 
in  the  presence  of  a  lady.  When  the  disap- 
pointed duke  of  Latizun  insulted  him  by  break- 
ing his  sword  in  his  presence,  he  raised  the 
window,  and  threw  his  cane  into  the  court- 
yard, saying,  **I  never  should  have  forgiven 
myself^  if  I  had  struck  a  gentleman." 

He  seems,  indeed,  to  have  been  a  strange 


*  Prefixed  to  Voltaisb's  "Sitela  de  Loalt  XHT.,"  is  a 
catalostt«  of  thew  authors,  with  s  wocd  or  two  of  conuneat 
on  each. 

t  Stele  de  Loola  XIY.,  ch.  25. 


mixture  of  magnanimity  and  littleness; — his 
gallantries  veiled  always  in  a  show  of  decency; 
severe,  capricious,  fond  of  pleasure,— hardly  leas 
fond  of  labor.  One  ^ay,  we  find  him  dashing 
from  Vincennes  to  Pans  in  his  hunting-dress, 
and,  standing  in  his  great  boots,  with  a  whip  in 
his  hand,  dismissing  his  parliament,  as  he  would 
a  pack  of  hounds.  The  next,  he  is  dancing  in 
the  ballet  of  his  private  theatre,  in  the  character 
of  a  gypsy,  and  whistling  or  singing  scraps  of 
opera  songs ;  and  then  parading  at  a  military 
review,  or  galloping  at  full  speed  through  the 
park  of  Fontainebleau,  hunting  the  deer  in  a 
calash  drawn  by  four  ponies.  Towards  the 
elose  of  his  life,  he  became  a  devotee.  "  It  is 
a  very  remarkable  thing,"  says  Voltaire,  ^  that 
the  public,  who  forgave  him  all  his  mistreases, 
could  not  forgive  him  his  father-confessor."  He 
outlived  the  respect  of  his  subjects.  When  be  I 
lay  on  his  death-bed,  —  those  godlike  eyes, 
that  had  overawed  the  world,  now  grown  dim 
and  lustreless,  —  his  courtiers  left  him  to  die 
alone,  and  thronged  about  his  successor,  the 
duke  of  Orleans.  An  empiric  gave  him  an 
elixir,  which  suddenly  revived  him.  He  ate 
once  more,  and  it  was  said  he  would  recover. 
The  crowd  about  the  duke  of  Orleans  dintin- 
ished  very  fast.  ^  If  the  king  eats  a  aecond 
time,  I  shall  be  left  all  alone,"  said  he.  But 
the  king  ate  no  more.  He  died  like  a  philoso- 
pher. To  Madame  de  Maintenon  he  said,  **  I 
thought  it  was  more  difficult  to  die ! "  and  to 
his  domestics,  *<  Why  do  you  weep .'  Did  you 
think  I  was  immortal  ?  " 

Of  course,  the  character  of  the  monarch 
stamped  itself  upon  the  society  about  him. 
The  licentious  court  made  a  licentious  city. 
Tet  everywhere  external  decency  and  decorum 
prevailed.'  The  courtesy  of  the  old  school 
held  sway.  Society,  moseover,  was  pompous 
and  artificial.  There  were  pedantic  scholars 
about  town,  and  learned  women,  and  PrideuMes 
RidicHUsi  and  Et^hMiBm,  With  all  its  great- 
ness, it  was  an  effeminate  age. 

The  old  city  of  Paris,  which  lies  in  the 
Jliarais^  wss  once  the  court  end  of  the  town. 
It  is  now  entirely  deserted  by  wealth  and  fash- 
ion. Travellers,  even,  seldom  find  their  way 
into  its  broad  and  silent '  streets.  But  sightly 
mansions,  and  garden  walls,  over  which  tall, 
shadowy  trees  wave  to  and  firo,  speak  of  a  more 
splendid  age ;  when  proud  and  courtly  ladies, 
dwelt  there,  and  the  frequent  wheels  of  gay 
equipages  chafbd  the  now  grass-grown  pave- 
ments. 

In  the  centre  of  this  part  of  Paris,  within 
pistol-shot  of  the  Boulevard  St  Antoine,  stands 
the  Place  Royale  ;  the  Little  Britain  of  Paris. 
Old  palaces,  of  a  quaint  and  uniform  style,  with 
a  low  arcade  in  front,  run  quite  round  the 
square.  In  its  centre  is  a  public  walk,  with 
trees,  an  iron  fence,  and  an  equestrian  statue  of 
Louis  the  Thirteenth.  It  was  here  that  mon- 
arch held  his  court  But  there  is  no  sign  of  a 
court  now.  Under  the  arcade  are  shops  and 
\ 

r 


FRENCH  LANGUAGE   AND   POETRY. 


413 


jfhiit-Btallf,  and  in  one  corner  sits  a  cobbler, 
Beemiogly  as  old  and  deaf  as  the  walls  aroand 
him.  Occasionallj  you  fet  a  glimpse  tbroagh 
a  grated  gate  into  spacious  gardens,  and  a  large 
flight  of  steps  leads  up  into  what  was  once  a 
royal  palace  and  is  now  a  tavern. 

Not  lar  off  is  the  Rue  des  Toumelles ;  and 
the  house  is  still  standing,  in  which  lived  and 
loved  that  Aspasia  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
— the  celebrated  Ninon  de  I'Encloe.  From  the 
Boulevard  you  look  down  into  the  garden 
where  her  illegal  and  ill-fated  son,  on  discover- 
ing that  the  object  of  his  passion  was  his  own 
mother,  put  an  end  to  his  miserable  life.  Not 
very  remote  from  this  is  the  house  once  occu- 
pied by  Madame  de  S^vign^.  Tou  are  shown 
the  very  cabinet  where  she  composed  those 
letters  which  beautified  her  native  tongue,  and 
^^  make  us  love  the  very  ink  that  wrote  them." 
In  a  word,  you  are  here  in  the  centre  of  the 
Paris  of  the  seventeenth  century  ;  the  gay,  ihe 
witty,  the  licentious  city,  which  in  Louis  the 
Fourteenth's  time  was  like  Athens  in  the  age 
of  Pericles.  And  now  all  is  changed  to  soli- 
tude and  silence.  The  witty  age,  witlu  its 
brightness  and  licentious  heat,  all  burnt  out,  — 
puffed  into  darkness  by  the  breath  of  Time. 
Thus  passes  an  age  of  libertinism,  and  bloody, 
frivolous  wars,  and  fighting  bishops,  and  devout 
prostitutes,  «nd  **  factious  beaux  etprits^  impro- 
vising epigrams  in  the  midst  of  seditions,  and 
madrigals  on  flie  field  of  battle." 

Westward  from  this  quarter,  near  the  Seine 
and  the  Louvre,  stood  the  famous  Hdtel  de 
Rambouillet,  the  court  of  euphuism  and  false 
taste.  Here  Catherine  de  Vivonne,  marchion- 
ess of  Rambouillet,  gave  her  testhetical* soirees 
in  her  bedchamber,  and  she  henelf  in  bed, 
among  the  curtains  and  mirrors  of  a  gay  alcove. 
The  master  of  ceremonies  was  the  lady's  cavo" 
Iter  terventB^  and  bore  the  title  of  the  AleomsU. 
He  did  the  honors  of  the  house,  and  directed 
the  conversation ;  and  such  was  the  fashion  of 
the  day^  .that  no  evil  tongue  soiled  with  malig- 
nant  whisper  thtf  fiiir  fame  of  the  prieuuses^  as 
the  ladies  of  the  society  were  called. 

Into  this  bedchamber  came  all  the  noted 
literary  personages  of  the  day :  Comeille,  Mal- 
herbe,  Bossnet,  Fl^chier,  La  Rochefbucault, 
Balzac,  Bussy-Rabutin,  Madame  de  S^vign^, 
Mademoiselle  de  Scud^ri,  and  others  of  less 
note,  though  hardly  less  pretension.  They 
paid  their  homage  to  ^the  marchioness  under 
the  titles  otArtlUniee^  Eradntke^  and  CarinMe^ 
anagrams  of  the  name  of  Catherine.  There, 
as  in  the  Courts  of  Love  of  a  still  earlier  age, 
were  held  grave  dissertations  on  frivolous 
themes, — and  all  the  metaphysics  o^love  and 
the  subtilties  of  exaggerated  passion  were  dis- 
cussed with  most  puerile  conceits  and  vapid 
sentimentality.  '^We  saw,  not  long  since," 
says  La  Bruy^re,  "  a  circle  of  persons  of  the 
two  sexes,  united  by  conversation  and  mental 
sympathy.  They  left  to  the  vulgar  the  art  of 
^Making  intelligibly.     One  obscure  expression 


brought  on  another  still  more  obscure,  which 
in  turn  was  capped  by  something  truly  enig- 
matical,, attended  with  vast  applause.  Wi!h 
all  this  so-called  delicacy,  feeling,  and  refine- 
ment of  expression,  they  at  length  went  so  &r, 
that  they  Were  neither  understood  by  others, 
nor  could  understand  themselves.  For  these 
conversations  one  needed  neither  good  sense, 
nor  memory,  nor  the  least  capacity ;  only  esprit^ 
and  that  not  of  the  best,  but  a  counterfeit  kind, 
made  up  chiefly  of  fancy." 

The  chief  poets  of  this  period  are  Comeille, 
Moli^,  Racine,  La  Fontaine,  Boileau,  Jean 
Baptiste  Rousseau,  Benserade,  Chapelle,  Chau- 
iieu.  La  Fare,  Quinault,  Thomas  Comeille,  Cr^ 
billon,  and  Fontenelle.  In  addition  to  an  im- 
mense amount  of  dramatic,  lyric,  satiric,  and 
epistolary  poems,  this  period  prodoced  Hwe  un- 
success6il  epics ;  namely,  the  ^  Clovis  "  of  Dem- 
arets;  the  **Pucelle,  ou  la  France  D^livr^e," 
of  Chapelain ;  the  '*  Alaric,  ou  Rome  Vaincue," 
of  George  de  Scud^ri ;  the  «<  St.  Louis,  ou  la 
Sainte  Conronne  Reconqnise,"  of  Le  Moine; 
and  finally,  another  *<  Clovis,"  by  St.  Didier. 
'  v.  From  1700  to  1600.  This  is  the  age  of 
Voltaire,  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  and  the  En- 
cyclopedists, Diderot  and  D'Alembert.  Vol- 
taire stands  at  the  head  of  the  French  epic  poets, 
and,  as  a  tragic  writer,  next  to  Comeille  and 
Racine.  His  is  the  greatest  name  of  this  period. 
Afler  him,  in  the  list  of  poets,  may  be  men- 
tioned Ducis,  Ch^nier,  Piron,  Louis  Racine, 
Parny,  Colardean,  Dorat,  St  Lambert,  Delille, 
Ftorian,  and  Gresset 

VI.  From  1800  to  the  present  time.  The 
writings  of  Chateaubriand,  like  a  bridge,  ex- 
tending from  century  to  century,  connect  the 
literature  of  the  last  period  with  that  of  the 
present.  He  belongs,  however,  chiefly  to  the 
past.  He  writes  **  new  books  with  an  old  faith  " ; 
and  this  faith  is  not  the  popular  faith  of  the  day. 

The  principal  poets  of  this  period  are  Mille- 
voye,  Delavigne,  Lamartine,  Victor  Hugo,  B^- 
ranger,  Barbier,  De  Musset,  De  Vigny,  Madame 
Tasto,  and  Madame  Desbordes-Valmore. 


For  a  further  history  of  French  poetry,  see 
the  following  works.  **Histoire  Litt^raire  de 
la  France,"  17  vols.,  Paris,  1733-1832;  a 
very  learned  and  elaborate  work,  commenced 
by  monks  of  St.  Maur,  and  continued  by  mem- 
hers  of  the  Institute.  It  brings  the  history  of 
French  literature  down  to  the  thirteenth  centu- 
ry.—  ^«Gesohichte  der  Poesie  und  Beredsam- 
keit,"  von  Friedrich  Bouterwek,  Vols.  V.  and 
VI.,  Gottingen,  1806,  8vo.  —  "Cours  de  Litt^- 
rature  Fran^aise,"  par  A.  F.  Villemain,  6  vols., 
Paris,  1840,  8vo.  —  **  Lyc^e,  ou  Cours  de  Lit- 
t^rature  Ancienne  et  Moderne,"  par  J.  F.  de  La 
Harpe,  17  voU.,  Paris,  An  VII.,  8vo.  —  "  Frag- 
mens  du  Cours  de  Litterature,*'  Paris,  1808 ; 
and  '<  Tableau  Historique  de  I'Etat  et  des  Pro- 
gr^  de  la  Litterature  Fran^se  depuis  1789  " ; 
par  M.  J.  de  Ch^nier. 

n2 


FIRST  PERIOD.-CENTURIES  XIL,  XIII. 
JONGLEURS,    TROUVfcRES,   AND    TROUBADOURS. 


I— CHANSONS   D£   GESTE,    LAIS,  LEGENDS,  AND   FABLIAUX. 


DEATH   OF  ARCHBISHOP  TURFIN. 

FSOK  THB  CBAHSOK  DB  ROLAM). 

The  archbishop,  whom  God  loved  in  high  de- 
gree, 
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  «aw,  and  to  his  succour  went. 
Straightway  his  hcdmet  from  his  brow  unlaced, 
And  tore  the  shining  haubert  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  this  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, 
«0  Heavenly  Father !  Holy  Saint  Marie  ! 
Why  lingers  death  to  lay  me  in  my  grave  ? 
Beloved  France !  iiow  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  be- 
neath 
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  bad  he  to  smile,  —  but,  weeping  sore. 
He  blessed  them  in  God's  naine,  with  faith  that 

he 
Would  soon  vouchsafe  to  them  a  glad  eternity. 

The  archbishop,  then,  —  on  whom  God's  beni- 
son 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  fbr  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  champioo  ;-^ 
God  grant  to  him  his  holy  benison  ! 


ROMAN  DU   ROU. 

Robert  Wace,  the  author  of  4hiB  romance, 
was  one  of  the  most  distingui^ed  Trouvdres 
of  the  twelfth  century.  He  was  bom  in  the 
island  of  Jersey  ;  the  date  of  his  birth  and  death- 
are  uncertain.  For  a  long  time  he  resided 
in  the  city  of  Caen,  where  he  devoted  him- 
self to  the  composition  of  romances,  of  which 
he  wrote  many,  as  he  himself  declares  :  — 

"  De  Romans  iaire  m^entremls, 
Mult  en  escris  et  molt  en  fis." 

Only  two  of  them  have  reached  our  day.  The 
first  of  these  is  *«Le  Brut  d'Angleterre,"  so 
called  from  Brutus,  son  of  Ascanius,  and  grand- 
son of  iEneas,  and  first  king  of  the  Britons.  It 
gives  the  history  of  the  kinga-of  Great  Britain, 
from  the  sack  of  Troy  to  the  end  of  the  seventh 
century.  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  translated  it 
from  the  original  Armorican,  or  British,  into 
Latin  prose,  and  Wace  turned  it  into  French 
verse.  Robert  de  Brune  translated  part  of  it 
into  English  in  the  fourteenth  century ;  and  a 
new  prose  translation  has  lately  appeared  in 
England.  The  work  is  in  great  part  fabulous  ; 
and  is  a  romance,  rather  than  a  history.  It  de- 
scribes the  Round  Table,  and  the  sports  and 
tourneys  of  King  Arthur's  court;  and  maybe 
regarded  as  the  fountain-head  of  the  romances 
of  the  R<«ind  Table.  It  had  immense  populari- 
ty in  its  day. 

The  "  Roman  du  Rou,"  so  called  from  Rollo, 
is  a  poetic  chronicle  of  the  dukes  of  Normandy. 
It  is  in  two  parts ;  the  first  written  in  Alexan- 
drines ;  the  second,  in  octo-syllabic  verse. 

A  few  t>ther  poems  by  Wace  have  been  pre- 
served, but  these  are  the  most  important. 


CHANSONS   DE    GESTE,   LAIS,   LEGENDS,   AND   FABLIAUX.       415 


DUKE  WILLIAM  AT  ROUEN. 

nU>K  TU  BOMAH  DV  MOV, 

Thkh  Dake  William  was  right  torrowAil,  and 

streogth  and  power  had  none, 
For  he  thought  that  in  the  battel  he  should 

well-nigh  stand  alone ; 
He  knew  not  who  would  ^ght  fbt  him,  or  who 

would  proTe  a  foe : 
"  Why  should  we  linger  here  ?  "  quoth  he,  — 

"  I  into  France  will  go." 
Then  said  Boten, — t^Duke  William,  thou  hast 

spoke  a  coward's  word ;  — 
What !  fly  away  at  once,  ere  thou  hast  wielded 

lance  or  sword  ? 
Think'st  thou  I  ^'er  will  see  thee  fly  ?    Thou 

talk'st  quite  childishly. 
Summon  thy  men,  prepare  fbr  fight,  and  have 

good  heart  in  thee ; 
Perjured  thy  fo^men  are,  and  they  shall  surely 

vanquished  be." 
^  Boten,"  said  William,  "  how  can  I  prepare 

me  ibr  the  fight .' 
Rioulf  can  bring  four  well  armed  men  for  every 

single  wight 
t  can  command  ; — I  sure  shall  die,  if  I  against 

him  go." 
^  That  thou  'rt  a  coward,"  said  Boten,  *«  Saint 

Fiacre  well  doth  know  ; 
But,  by  the  faith  which  firm  I  hold  to  the  Son 

of  God,  I  say. 
Whoe'er  should   do   as  thou  deserves  sound 

beating  in  the  fray ; 
For  thou  wilt  neither  arm  nor  fight,  but  only 

run  away." 
"Mercie!"  cried  William, '*  see  ye  not  how 

Rioulf  me  sieges  here  ? 
And  my  perjured  knights  are  all  with  him ; 

must  it  not  cost  me  dear .' 
And  they  all  hate  me  unto  death,  and  round 

encompass  me; 
I  never  can,  by  n|y  soul  I  swear,  drive  them 

from  this  countrie ; 
I  must  forsake  it,  and  to  France  right  speedily 

I  '11  flee." 
Then  spake  Bemart,  —  **  Duke,  know  this  well, 

we  will  not  follow  thee. 
Too  much  of  ill  these  men  have  wrought,  but 

a  day  will  surely  come 
For  payment,  and  we  *11  pay  them  well.  When 

*  erst  we  lefl  our  home 
In  Denmark,  and  to  this  land  came,  we  gained 

it  by  our  might ; 
But  thou  to  arm  thee  art  afraid,  and  dar'st  not 

wage  the  fight. 
Go,  then,  to  France,  enjoy  thyself^  a  wretched 

caitiff  wight ; 
No  love  of  honest  praise  hast  thou,  no  prayer 

will  e*er  avail  thee. 
O   wicked  one  !   why  shouldst  thou  fear  that 

God  will  ever  fail  thee  ? 
Roilo,  like  bold  and  hardy  chief,  this  land  by 

his  good  swofd  won  ; 
And  thou  wouldst  do  even  as  he  did,  wert  thou 
indeed  his  son  !  " 


«( Bernart,"  said  William,  ^  well,  methinks,  thou 

hsst  reviled  me, 
OfiTence  enow  to  me  hast  given,  enow  of  vil- 

lainye ; 
But  thou  shaft  see  me  bear  myself  even  as  a 

man  right  wode ; 
Whoe'er  will  come  and  fight  with  me  shall  see 

-   my  will  is  good. 
Boten,  good  friend,"  said  he,** Bemart,  now  list 

to  me,  I  pray ; 
No  longer  hold  me  evil  one,  nor  coward,  fiom 

this  day ; 
Call  my  men  unto  the  battle-field;  I  pledge  my 

word,  and  know. 
That,  henceforth,  for  the  strife  of  swords  ye 

shall  not  find  me  slow." 

Then  all  did  rush  to  arms,  and  all  with  equal 

spirit  came ; 
And,  fully  armed,  thrice  haughtily  defiance  did 

proclaim 
To  Rioulf  and  his  vassals,  who  the  challenge 

heard  with  glee. 
And  flung  it  back  to  William,  who  returned  it 

joyfully. 
Full  harnessed  was  he  now,  and  toward  his 

fi>emen  blithe  he  ran ; 
**  God  be  our  aid  !  "  he  shouted,  and  rushed  on 

like  a  giant  man. 
Ye-  never  saw  such  heavy  blows  as  Duke  Wil- 
liam gave  that  day ; 
For  when  the  sword  was  in  his  grasp,  scant 

need  of  leech  had  they 
Who  felt  its  edge ;  and  vain  were  lance  and 

brand  'gainst  him,  I  trow ; 
For  when  Duke  William  struck  them  down, 

joy  had  they  never  mpe. 
'T  was  blithe  to  see  bow  he  bore  himself,  like 

a  wild  bull,  'mid  the  fight, 
And  drove  his  foemen  lefl  And  right,  all  flying 

with  sore  afinght ; 
For  truly  he  did  pay  them  off,  and  with  a  right 

good  will. 

Now  when  Rioulf  saw  his  vassals  there,  lying 

all  cold  and  still 
Upon  the  field,  while  William's  men  boldly 

maintained  their  ground. 
He  seized   his  good   steed's  bridle-rein,   and 

madly  turned  him  round. 
And  stayed  not  to  prick  and  spur,  till  near  a 

wood  he  drew ; 
Then,  fearing  that  Duke  William's  men   did 

even  yet  pursue. 
His  hauberk,  lance,  and  trusty  sword  away  he 

gladly  threw, 
That  more  swiftly  he  might  speed  along;  —  but 

though  he  was  not  caught, 
Scarce  better  fate  that  gallant  fight  unto  bold 

Rioulf  brought ; 
For  there  he  died,  heart-broke,  I  ween,  with 

shame  and  mickle  woe. 
And  his  corpse  was  after  in  the  Seine  (do  not 

all  that  story  know  ?) 


416 


FRENCH   POETRY. 


Found  floating  on  the  rising  tide.     So  the  Tio 

tory  waa  won, 
And  far  and  wide  waa  the  story  spread  o^  the 

deed's  the- duke  had  done." 


RICHABD'S  ESCAPE. 

FEOM  THB  SAMB. 

**  And  now,  fair  Sir,"  said  Osmont,  ^  I  pray  you, 

sickness  feign, 
And  keep  your  bed,  nor  eat,  nor  drink ;  but, 

as  in  bitter  pain. 
Groan  loudly,  sigh,  and  moan,  and  then  at  last, 

as  near  your  end, 
Pray  that  a  priest,  to  hensel  ye,  the  king  at  least 

may  send) 
And  bear  ye  warily  in  all,  for  I  do  trust  that  ye. 
By  God's  aid,  even  yet  shall  'scape  from  this 

captivity." 
"  This  will  I  do,"  said  Richard,  **  even  as  ye 

counsel  me." 

And  well  did  Richard  act  the  part  that  Os- 
mont taught; 

He  kept  his  bed,  nor  ate,  nor  drank,  and  thus 
so  low  was  brought. 

That  his  flesh  was  soft  and  sallow,  his  visage 
deadly  pale ; 

For  so  well  acted  he  his  part,  that  all  thought 
his  life  must  fail. 

But  when  King  Louis  heard  of  it,  his  woe  was 
scant,  I  trow ; 

For  he  thought  Duke  Richard's  heritage  to  his 
eldest  son  would  go. 

Then  Osmont  made  loud  sorrow,  and  mourned 
and  wept  full  sore : 

**  Alas,  Sire  Richard  !  one  so  mild  and  courte- 
ous never  more 

Shall  we  behold  !  —  Ay,  't  was  alone  for  thy 
goodly  heritage 

That  Louis  snatched  thee  ftom  thy  friends,  and 
at  such  tender  age    . 

A  captive  deemed  thee,  —  O,  his  hate  but  from 
thy  lands  arose  !    * 

Alas !  that  our  rich  Normandie  should  make  so 
many  foes !  — 

O,  what  will  Bernart  say,  who  watched  thy 
tender  infancy. 

That  thou  here  sbouldst  die,  not  in  th^  town 
of  thy  nativity  ?  — 

O  God  !  look  down,  for  only  thou  our  fiuHng 
•  hope  can  raise ! 

Thou  know'st  how  well  beloved  he  was,  how 
worthy  of  all  praise 

And  honor  too ;  O,  there  was  none  ever  belov- 
ed as  he !  " 

Now  when  the  warders  heard  Osmont  mourn- 
ing so  bitterly, 

They  doubted  not  but  Richard  then  upon  his 
death-bed  lay; 

And  others  thought  so  too,  and  each  did  to  the 
other  say 

That  Richard's  spirit  certainly  was  passing  swift 
away. 


Now  it  came  to  pass  that  night  the  king  at 

supper  sat. 
And  they  who  guarded  Richard  most  careleasl  j 

of  late 
Kept  watch  and  ward,  for  well  they  thought  he 

was  so  weak  and  low. 
That,'  save   unto   his  burial,  abroad  he  ne'er 

would  go ; 
For  howeould  he  livte  long  who  never  spoke, 

or  tasted  food  ? 
And  wherefore  else  should  Osmont  weep  and 

be  so  sad  pf  mood  P 
Then  when  good  Osmont  saw  the  watch  right 

f\rom  the  door  depart. 
His  steeds  he  caused  ydight  to  be,  in  readiness 

to  start;      * 
Then  he  hastened  to  Duke  Richard's  bed,  and 

bade  him  swift  uprise ; 
Then  in  a  truss  of  rushes  green  hides  him  from 

prying  eyw^ 
And  binds  and  cords  the  bundle  well ;  bads  hia 

menye  mount  and  ride ; 
In  a  churchman's  gown  he  wraps  himself,  nor 

heeds  what  may  betide. 
So  Richard  's  safe ;  then,  last  of  all,  he  follows 

his  menye ;  — 
The  night  was  dark,  and  that  was  well,  for  no 

need  of  light  had  he. 
Soon  as  outside  the  walls  they  came,  Duke 

Richard  they  unbound, 
And  brought  to  him  as  gallant  steed,  as  ever 

stepped  on  ground  ;  - 
Right  glad  was  he  to  mount,  I  ween,  right  glad 

were  they  also. 
And  off  they  set,  and  spurred  well,  for  they 

had  fkr  to  go. 
O,  when  Duke  Richard  seized  the  rein,  a  joy- 
ful one  was  he ! 
But,  whether  he  rode  fast  or  no,  ye  need  not 

ask  of  me. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LITTLE  BIRD. 

In  days  of  yore,  at  least  a  century  since, 
There  lived  a  carle  as  wealthy  tis  a  prince : 
His  name  I  wot  not ;  but  his  wide  domain 
Was  rich  with  stream  and  forest,  mead  and  plain ; 
To  crown  the  whole,  one  manor  he  possessed 
In  choice  delight  so  passing  all  the  rest, 
No  castle  burgh  or  city  might  compare 
With  the  quaint  beauties  of  that  mansion  rare. 
The  sooth  to  say,  I  fear  my  words  may  seem 
.Like  some  strange  fabling,  or  fantastic  dream, 
If,  unadvised,  the  portraiture  I  trace^ 
And  each  breve  pleasure  of  that  peerless  place; 
Foreknow  ye,  then,  by  necromantic  might 
Was  raised  this  paradise  of  all  delight. 
A  good  knight  owiW  it  fint ;  he,  bowed  with 

•get 
Died,  and  his  son  possessed  the  heritage  ; 
But  the  lewd  stripling,  all  to  riot  bent, — 
His  chattels  quickly  wasted  and  forespent, — 


CHANSONS  DE   GESTE,   LAIS,  LEGENDS,  AND  FABLIAUX.       417 


Was  driven  to  aee  this  patrimony  sold 
To  the  base  carle  of  whom  I  lately  told : 
Te  wot  right  well  there  only  needs  be  sought 
One  spendthrift  heir,  to  bring  great  wealth  to 

naught 
A  lofty  tower  and  strong,  the  building  stood 
'Midst  a  vast  plain  surrounded  by  a  flood ; 
And  hence  one  pebble-paved  ehannel  strayed, 
That  compassed  in  a  clustering  orchard's  shade : 
'T  was  a  choice,  charming  plat ;  abundant  round, 
Flowers,  roses,    odorous    spices    clothed    the 

ground; 
Unnumbered  kinds ;  and  all  profusely  showered 
Such  aromatic  balsam,  as  they  flowered. 
Their  fragrance  might  have  stayed  man's  part- 
ing breath, 
And  chased  the  hovering  agony  of  death. 
The  sward  one  leve^  held ;  and  close  above. 
Tall,  shapely  trees  their  leafy  mantles  wove, 
All  equal  growth,  and  low  their  branches  came. 
Thickset  with  goodliest  firuito  of  every  name. 
In  midst,  to  cheer  the  ravished  gazer's  view, 
A  gushing  fount  its  waters  upward  threw. 
Thence  slowly  on  with  crystal  current  passed, 
And  crept  into  the  distant  flood  at  last ; 
But  nigh  its  source  a  pine's  umbrageous  head 
Stretched  flur  and  wide,  in  deathless  verdure 

spread. 
Met  with  broad  shade  the  summer's  sultry  gleam. 
And  through  the  livelong  year  shut  out  the  beam. 
Such  was  the  scene ;  —  yet  still  the  place  was 
blessed 
With  one  rare  pleasure  passing  all  the  rest : 
A  wondrous  bird,  of  energies  divine. 
Had  fixed  his  dwelling  in  the  tufled  pine ; 
There  still  he  sat,  and  there  with  amorous  lay 
Waked  the  dim  mom  and  closed  the  parting 

day: 
Matched  with  these  strains  of  linked  sweetness 

wrought, 
The  violin  and  full-toned  harp  were  naught ; 
Of  power  they  were  with  new-born  joy  to  move 
The  cheerless  heart  of  long-desponding  love ; 
Of  power  so  strange,  that,  should  they  cease  to 

sound. 
And  the  blithe  songster  flee  the  mystic  ground. 
That  goodly  orchard's  scene,  the  pine-tree's 

shade. 
Trees,  flowers,  and  fount,  would  all  like  vapor 
fiide. 
**  Listen,  listen  to  my  lay ! " 

Thus  the  merry  notes  did  chime, 
**  All  who  mighty  love  obey, 

Sadly  wasting  in  your  prime. 
Clerk  and  laic,  grave  and  gay  ! 

Tet  do  ye,  before  the  rest. 
Gentle  maidens,  mark  me  tell ! 

Store  my  lesson  in  your  breast : 
Trust  me,  it  shall  profit  well : 

Hear  and  heed  me,  and  be  blessed !  " 
So  sang  the  bird  of  old ;  but  when  he  spied 
The  carle  draw  near,  with   altered   lone  he 

cried, — 
•*  Back,  river,  to  thy  source !  and  thee,  tall  tower, 
Tbee,  castle  strong,  may  gaping  earth  devour ! 


Bend  down  your  heads,  ye  gaudy  flowers,  and 

fade! 
And    withered    be  each  flruit-tree's  mantling 

shade! 
Beneath  these  beauteous  branches  once  were 


Brave  gentle  knights  disporting  on  the  green. 
And  lovely  dames ;  and  oft  these  flowers  among 
Stayed  the  blithe  bands,  and  joyed  to  hear  my 

song; 
Nor  would  they  hence  retire,  nor  quit  the  grove, 
Till  many  a  vow  were  passed  of  mutual  love  : 
These  more  would  cherish,  those  would  more 

deserve 
Cost,  courtesy,  and  arms,  and  nothing  swerve. 
O,  bitter  change  !  for  master  now  we  see 
A  fiutour  villain  carle  of  low  degree ; 
Foul  gluttony  employs  his  livelong  day, 
Nor  heeds  nor  hears  he  my  melodious  lay." 

So  spake  the  bird ;  and,  as  he  ceased  to  sing. 
Indignantly  he  clapped  his  downy  wing. 
And  straight  was  gone;  —  but  no  abasement 

stirred 
In  the  clown's  breast  at  his  reproachful  word : 
Bent  was  his  wit  alone  by  quaint  device 
To  snare,  and  sell  him  for  a  passing  price. 
So  well  he  wrought,  so  craftily  he  spread 
In  the  thick  foliage  green  his  slender  thread. 
That,  when  at  eve  the  little  songster  sought 
His  wonted  spray,  his  heedless  foot  was  caught 
**How  have  I  harmed  you?"  straight  he  'gan 

to  cry, 
**  And  wherefore  would  you  do  me  thus  to  die  ?  " 
**  Nay,  fear  not,"  quoth  the  clown,  **  for  death 

or  wrong ; 
I  only  seek  to  profit  by  thy  song ; 
I  '11  get  thee  a  fine  cage,  nor  shalt  thou  lack 
€rood  store  of  kernels  and  of  seeds  to  crack;  — 
But  sing  thou  shalt;   fi>r  if  thou  play'st  the 

mute, 
I  '11  spit  thee,  bird,  and  pick  thy  bones  to  boot." 
<«  Ah,  woe  is  me  !  "  the  little  thrall  replied, 
**  Who  thinks  of  song,  in  prison  doomed  to  bide  ? 
And,  were  I  cooked,  my  bulk  might  scarce  af- 
ford 
One  scanty  mouthful  to  my  hungry  lord." 

What  may  I  more  relate  P  The  captive  wight 
Assayed  to  melt  the  villain  all  he  might ; 
And  fairly  promised,  were  he  once  set  firee. 
In  gratitude  to  teach  him  secrets  three  : 
Three  secrets,  all  so  marvellous  and  rare. 
His  race  knew  naught  that  might  with  these 

compare. 
The  carle  pricked  up  his  ears  amain ;   he 

loosed 
The  songster  thrall,  by  love  of  gain  seduced. 
Up  to  the  summit  of  the  pine-tree's  shade 
Sped  the  blithe  bird,  and  there  at  ease  he  stayed, 
And  tricked  his  plumes  fliil  leisurely,  I  trow. 
Till  the  carle  claimed  his  promise  from  below. 
** Right  gladly,"  quoth  the  bird;  **now  grow 

thee  wise : 
All  human  prudence  few  brief  lines  comprise : 
First,  then,  lest  haply  in  the  event  it  fail. 
Yield  not  a  ready  fakh  to  every  tale" 


418 


FRENCH   POETRY. 


"Ig  this  thy  secret?  "  qaoth  the  moody  elf, — 
**  Keep,  then,  thy  silly  lessoD  for  thyself; 
I  need  it  not."     **  Howbe,  't  is  not  amiss 
To  prick  thy  memory  with  advice  like  this ; 
But  late,  meseems,  thou  hadst  forgot  the  lore ; 
Now  may'st  thou  hold  it  fast  for  evermore. 
Mark  next  my  second  rule,  and  sadly  know, 
What  *5  lostf  *t  is  vfise  with  padenee  to  forego" 

The  carle,  though  rude  of  wit,  now  chafed 
amain ; 
He  felt  the  mockery  of  the  songster^s  strain. 
<«  Peace,'*  quoth  the  bird  ;  ^*my  third  is  far  the 

best; 
Store  thou  the  precious  treasure  in  thy  breast : 
What  good  thou  hast,  ne'er  lightly  from  thee  cast.** 
He  spoke,  and  twittering  fled  away  full  fast. 
Straight,  sunk  iq  earth,  the  gushing  fountain 

dries ; 
Down  fall  the  fruits;  the  withered  pine-tree  dies; 
Fades  all  the  beauteous  plat,  so  cool,  so  green, 
Into  thin  air,  and  never  more  is  seen. 

Such  was  the  meed  of  avarice :  —  bitter  cost ! 
The  carle,  who  all  would  gather,  all  has  lost. 


PARADISE. 

H^       FBOM  U  VOTAOB  DB  SAIMT  BBANDAlf. 

Issuing  from  the  darkness,  see. 
With  joyftil  hearts,  right  gratefully. 
Beyond  the  cloud  that  bright  wall  rise, 
That  round  engirdleth  paradise. 
A  lofty  wall  was  it,  and  high. 
Reaching  as  though  't  would  pierce  the  sky, — 
All  battlemented,  —  but  no  tower, 
Breastwork,  nor  palisade,  —  for  power 
Of  foe  was  never  dreaded  there. 
And  snowy  white  beyond  compare 
Its  hue  ;  and  gems  most  dazzling  to  sight, 
In  inlay  work,  that  wall  bedight ; 
For  it  was  set  with  chrysolite, 
And  many  a  rich  gem  flashing  light ; 
Topaz  and  emerald  fair  to  see, 
Carbuncle  and  chalcedony. 
And  chrysoprase,  sardonyx  fair, 
Jasper  and  amethyst  most  rare. 
Gorgeously  shining,  jacinth  too. 
Crystal  and  beryl,  clear  to  view, — 
Each  to  the  other  giving  brightness. 

Right  toward  the  port  their  course  they  hold ; 
But  other  dangers,  all  untold. 
Were  there ;  before  the  gate  keep  guard 
Dragons  of  flaming  fire,  dread  ward  ! 
Right  at  the  entrance  hung  a  brand 
Unsheathed,  turning  on  either  hand 
With  innate  wisdom ;  they  might  well 
Bear  it,  for  't  was  invincible,  — 
And  iron,  stone,  ay,  adamant. 
Against  its  edge  had  strength  full  scant. 
But,  lo !  a  fair  youth  came  to  meet  them. 
And  with  meek  courtesy  did  greet  them, 
For  he  was  sent  by  Heaven's  command 
To  give  them  entrance  to  that  land ; 


So  sweetly  he  his  message  gave. 

And  kissed  each  one,  and  bade  the  glaive 

Retain  its  place  ;  the  dragons,  too. 

He  checked,  and  led  them  safely  through. 

And  bade  them  rest,  now  they  bad  come 

At  last  unto  that  heavenly  home ; 

For  they  had  now,  all  dangers  past, 

To  certain  glory  come  at  last. 

And  now  that  fiiir  youth  leads  them  on. 
Where  paradise  in  beauty  shone ; 
And  there  they  saw  the  land  all  full 
Of  woods  and  rivers  beautiful. 
And  meadows  large  besprent  with  flowers. 
And  scented  shrubs  in  fadeless  bowers, 
And  trees  with  blossoms  fair  to  see, 
And  fruit  also  deliciously 
Hung  from  the  boughs ;  nor  brier,  nor  thorn. 
Thistle,  nor  blighted  tree  forlorn 
With  blackened  leaf,  was  there, — for  spring 
Held  aye  a  year-long  blossoming ; 
And  never  shed  their  leaf  the  trees. 
Nor  foiled  their  fruit ;  and  still  the  breeze 
Blew  soft,  scent-laden  from  the  fields. 
Full  were  the  woods  of  venison ; 
The  rivers  of  good  fish  each  one. 
And  others  flowed  with  milky  tide,  — 
No  marvel  all  things  fructified. 
The  earth  gave  honey,  oozing  through 
Its  pores,  in  sweet  drops  like  the  dew ; 
And  in  the  mount  was  golden  ore. 
And  gems,  and  treasure  wondrous  store. 
There  the  clear  sun  knew  no  declining. 
Nor  fog  nor  mist  obscured  his  shining ; 
No  cloud  across  that  sky  did  stray. 
Taking  the  sun's  sweet  light  away  ; 
Nor  cutting  blast,  nor  blighting  air, — 
For  bitter  winds  blew  never  there  ; 
Nor  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  pain,  nor  grief^ 
Nor  hunger,  thirst,  —  for  swifl  relief 
From  every  ill  was  there  ;  plentie 
Of  every  good,  right  easily. 
Each  had  according  to  his  will. 
And  aye  they  wandered  blithely  stiU 
In  large  and  pleasant  pastures  green, 
O,  such  as  earth  hath  never  seen  ! 
And  glad  was  Brandan,  for  their  pleasure 
So  wondrous  was,  that  scant  in  measure 
Their  past  toils  seemed ;  nor  could  they  rest. 
But  wandered  aye  in  joyfol  quest 
Of  somewhat  foirer,  and  did  go 
Hither  and  thither,  to  and  fro. 
For  very  joyfulness.     And  now 
They  climb  a  mountain's  lofty  brow, 
And  see  afar  a  vision  rare 
Of  angels, — I  may  not  declare 
What  there  they  saw,  for  words  could  ne*er 
The  mieaning  tell ;  and  melodie 
Of  that  same  heavenly  company, 
For  joy  that  they  beheld  them  there. 
They  heard,  but  could  not  bear  its  sweotneai. 
Unless  their  natures  greater  meetness 
To  that  celestial  place  had  borne,  — 
But  they  were  crushed  with  joy.    **  Return," 
Said  they, —  **  we  may  not  this  sustain." 
Then  spoke  the  youth  in  gentle  strain  : 


CHANSONS  D£   GESTE,   LAIS,   LEGENDS,  AND   FABLIAUX.    419 


*(  O  Brandan,  God  unto  thine  eyes 
Hath  granted  sight  of  paradise ; 
But  know,  it  glories  hath  more  bright 
Than  e*er  have  dazed  thy  mortal  sight ; 
One  hundred  thousand  times  more  &ir 
Are  these  abodes ;  but  thou  couldst  ne'er 
The  view  sustain,  nor  the  ecstasy 
Its  meanest  joys  would  yield  to  thee  : 
For  thou  hast  in  the  body  come  ; 
But,  when  the  Lord  shall  call  thee  home, 
Thou,  fitted  then,  a  spirit  free 
From  weakness  and  mortality, 
Shalt  aye  remain,  no  fleeting  guest, 
But  taking  here  thine  endless  rest. 
And  while  thou  still  remain*st  below. 
That  Heaven's  high  favor  all  may  know. 
Take  hence  these  stones,  to  teach  all  eyes 
That  thou  hast  been  in  paradise." 

Then  Brandan  worshipped  God,  and  took 
Of  paradise  a  farewell  look. 
The  ftir  youth  led  them  to  the  gate; 
They  entered  in  the  ship,  and  straight 
The  signal 's  made,  the  wind  flows  free, 
The  sails  are  spread,  and  o'er  the  sea 
They  bound ;  but  swiil  and  blithe,  I  trow. 
Their  homeward  course ;  for  where  was  fbe, 
Of  earth  or  hell,  'gainst  them  to  rise. 
Who  were  returned  from  paradise .' 


THE  GENTLE  BACHELOR. 

What  gentle  bachelor  is  he. 
Sword-begot  in  fighting-field. 
Rocked  and  cradled  in  a  shield. 
Whose  infant  food  a  helm  did  yield  ? 
On  lion's  flesh  he  makes  his  feast ; 
Thunder  lulls  him  to  his  rest ; 
His  dragon-front  doth  all  defy. 
His  lion-heart,  and  libbard-eye. 
His  teeth  that  like  boar's  tushes  are. 
His  tiger-fierceness,  drunk  with  war. 
Ponderous  as  a  mace,  his  fist 
Down  descends  where'er  it  list,-* 
Down,  with  bolt  of  thunder's  force. 
Bears  to  earth  both  knight  and  horse. 
Keener  fiir  than  falcon's  sight. 
His  eye  pervades  the  clouds  of  fight ; 
And  at  tourneys  't  is  his  play 
To  change  the  fortune  of  the  day, 
Wielding  well  his  helpful  arm. 
Void  of  fear,  as  naught  might  harm. 
O'er  the  seas  to  English  ground, 
Be  some  rare  adventure  found. 
Or  to  Jura's  mount,  he  hies; 
These  aVe  his  festivities. 
In  the  fields  of  battle  joined. 
Like  to  straws  before  the  wind. 
All  his  foes  avoid  his  hand; 
None  that  deadly  brunt  may  stand. 
Him  in  joust  may  no  man  see 
But  still  with  foot  from  stirrup  free. 
Knight  and  courser  casting  down 
Oft  with  mortal  dint  o'erthrown ; 


Nor  shield  of  bark,  nor  steel,  nor  lance. 
Aught  may  ward  the  dire  mischance. 
When  he  slumbers,  when  he  sleeps. 
Still  on  head  his  helm  he  keeps ; 
Other  pillow  fits  not  him. 
Stem  of  heart  and  stout  of  limb. 
Broken  swords,  and  spears  that  fail. 
And  the  shattered  hauberk's  mail. 
These  compose  the  warrior's  treat 
Of  poignant  sauce  or  comfita  sweet ; 
And  dust  he  quaffs  in  fields  of  death. 
And  quafis  the  panting  courser's  breath. 
When  the  lusty  chase  he  tries, 
On  fi>ot  o'er  hill  and  dale  he  hies ; 
Lion,  rutting  hart,  or  bear. 
He  joys  to  seek  and  slaughter  there. 
Wealth  to  all  throughout  the  land 
Wide  he  deals  with  lavish  hand. 


THE  PRIEST  WHO  ATE  MULBERRIES. 

Ys  lordings  all,  come  lend  an  ear ; 
It  boota  ye  naught  to  chafe  or  fleer. 

As  overgrown  with  pride  : 
Ye  needs  must  hear  Dan  Guerin  tell 
What  once  a  certain  priest  befell,       # 

To  market  bent  to  ride. 

The  morn  began  to  shine  so  bright. 
When  up  this  priest  did  leap  full  light 

And  called  bis  folk  around  : 
He  bade  them  straight  bring  out  his  mare. 
For  he  would  presently  repair 

Unto  the  market-ground. 

So  bent  he  was  on  timely  speed. 

So  pressing  seemed  his  worldly  need. 

He  weened  't  were  little  wrong 
If  pater-nosters  he  delayed, 
And  cast  for  once  they  should  be  said 

E'en  as  be  rode  along. 

And  now  with  tower  and  turret  near 
Behold  the  city's  walls  appear. 

When,  as  he  turned  aside, 
He  chanced  in  evil  hour  to  see 
All  hard  at  hand  a  mulberry- tree 

That  spread  both  far  and  wide. 

Its  berries  shone  so  glossy  black. 
The  priest  his  lips  began  to  smack. 

Full  fain  to  pluck  the  fruit ; 
But,  woe  the  while  !  the  trunk  was  tall. 
And  many  a  brier  and  thorn  did  crawl 

Around  that  mulberry's  root. 

The  man,  howbe,  might  not  forbear. 
But  reckless  all  he  pricked  his  mare 

In  thickest  of  the  brake ; 
Then  climbed  his  saddle-bow  amain. 
And  tiptoe  'gan  to  stretoh  and  strain 

Some  nether  bough  to  take. 


420 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


A  nether  bough  he  raught  at  last ; 
He  with  his  right  hand  held  it  fast, 

And  with  his  left  him  fed  : 
His  sturdy  mare  abode  the  shock, 
And  bore,  as  stead&st  as  a  rock, 

The  struggling  orerhead. 

So  feasted  long  the  merry  priest. 
Nor  much  bethought  him  of  his  beast 

Till  hunger's  rage  was  ended  ; 
Then,  (•Sooth!"  quoth  he,  » whoe'er  should 

cry, 
•  What  ho,  Ikir  sir ! '  in  passing  by. 

Would  leave  me  here  suspended/' 

Alack !  for  dread  of  being  hanged^ 
With  voice  so  piercing  shrill  he  twanged 

The  word  of  luckless  sound. 
His  beast  sprang  forward  at  the  cry. 
And  plumb  the  priest  dropped  down  fi:om 
high 

Into  the  brake  profound. 

There,  pricked  and  pierced  with  many  a 

thorn, 
And  girt  with  brier,  and  all  forlorn, 

Naught  boots  him  to  complain  : 
Well  may  ye  ween  how  ill  bested 
He  rolled  him  on  that  restless  bed, 

But  rolled  and  roared  in  vain : 

For  there  algates  he  must  abide 
The  glowing  noon,  the  eventide. 

The  livelong  night  and  all ; 
The  whiles  with  saddle  swinging  round, 
And  bridle  trailing  on  the  ground, 

His  mare  bespoke  his  fall. 

O,  then  his  household  shrieked  for  dread. 
And  weened  at  least  he  must  be  dead ; 

His  lady  leman  swooned  : 
Eftsoons  they  hie  them  all  to  look 
If  haply  in  some  dell  or  nook 
,  His  body  might  be  found. 

Through  all  the  day  they  sped  their  quest ; 
The  night  fled  on,  they  took  no  rest; 

Returns  the  morning  hour  : 
When,  lo !  at  peeping  of  the  dawn. 
It  chanced  a  varlet  boy  was  drawn 

Nigh  to  the  mulberry-bower. 

The  woful  priest  the  help  descried  : 
"  O,  save  my  lifo !  my  lifo  !  '*  he  cried, 

(*  Enthralled  in  den  profound  ! 
O,  pluck  me  out,  for  pity's  sake, 
From  this  inextricable  brake. 

Begirt  with  brambles  round  ! " 

(*  Alas,  my  lord  !  my  master  dear  ! 

What  ugly  chance  hath  dropped  thee  here  ?  " 

Exclaimed  the  varlet  youth. 
**  *T  was  gluttony,"  the  priest  replied, 
^  With  peerless  folly  by  her  side  : 

But  help  me  straight,  for  ruth ! " 


By  this  were  come  the  remnant  rout ; 
With  passing  toil  they  plucked  him  oat. 

And  slowly  homeward  led  : 
But,  all  so  tattered  in  his  hide. 
Long  is  he  fliin  in  bed  to  bide. 

But  little  leas  than  dead. 


THE  LAND   OF  COKAIGNE. 

Will  I  wot 't  is  often  lold. 
Wisdom  dwells  but  with  the  M. , 
Tet  do  I,  of  greener  age. 
Boast  and  bear  the  name  of  sage : 
Briefly,  sense  was  ne'er  conferred 
By  the  measure  of  the  beard. 

List,  —  for  now  my  tale  beginS|  •— 
How,  to  rid  me  of  my  sins. 
Once  I  jouitoeyed  for  firoih  home 
To  the  gate  of  holy  Rome  : 
There  the  Pope,  for  my  oifenoe. 
Bade  me  straight,  in  penance,  thence 
Wandering  onward,  to  attain 
The  wondrous  land  that  hight  GokaSgn*. 
Sooth  to  say,  it  was  a  place 
Blessed  with  Heaven's  especial  grace; 
For  every  road  and  every  street 
Smoked  with  food  for  man  to  eat : 
Pilgrims  there  might  halt  at  will, 
There  might  sit  and  feast  their  fill. 
In  goodly  bowers  that  lined  the  way, 
Free  for  all,  and  naught  to  pay. 
Through  that  blissftil  realm  divine 
Rolled  a  qxurkling  flood  of  wine ; 
Clear  the  sky,  and  soft  the  air. 
For  eternal  spring  was  there ; 
And  all  around,  the  groves  among. 
Countless  dance  and  ceaseless  song. 


But  the  chiefost,  choicest  treasure. 
In  that  land  of  peerless  pleasure. 
Was  a  well,  to  saine  the  sooth, 
Cleped  the  living  well  of  youth. 
There,  had  numb  and  foeble  age 
Crossed  you  in  your  pilgrimage. 
In  those  wondrous  waters  pure 
Laved  awhile  you  found  a  cure ; 
Lustihead  and  youth  appears 
Numbering  now  but  twenty  years. 
Woe  is  me,  who  me  the  hour ! 
Once  I  owned  both  will  and  power 
To  have  gained  this  precious  gift ; 
But,  alas !  of  little  thrift. 
From  a  kind,  o'erflowing  hea|^. 
To  my  follows  to  impart 
Touth,  and  joy,  and  all  the  lot 
Of  this  rare,  enchanted  spot, 
Forth  I  fared,  and  now  in  vain 
Seek  to  find  the  place  again. 
Sore  regret  I  now  endure,  — 
Sore  regret  beyond  a  cure. 
List,  and  learn  from  what  is  ] 
Having  bliss,  to  hold  it  fiut. 


CHANSONS  DE   GESTE,  LAIS,  LEGENDS,  AND  FABLIAUX.    491 


THE  LAY  OP  BISCLAYERET. 

Maris  ds  Francs,  the  author  of  this  and 
thirteen  other  lays,  was  one  of  the  most  popu- 
lar writers  of  the  thirteenth  century.  She  has 
heen  called  the  Sappho  of  her  age.  Of  her  his- 
tory nothing  ia  known,  save  that  she  was  horn 
in  France,  and  passed  the  greater  part  of  her 
life  in  England. 

Whsit  lays  resooad,  't  woaid  ill  beeeem 
BiscIaYoret  were  not  a  theme : 
Such  is  the  name  by  Bretons  song. 
And  Garwal '  in  the  Nonnan  tongue  ;-^ 
A  man  of  whom  oor  poets  tell,-^ 
To  many  men  the  lot  befell !  — 
Who  in  the  fbreet*s  secret  gloom 
A  wolf  was  destined  to  berome. 

This  savage  monster  in  his  mood 

Roams  through  the  wood  in  search  of  blood, 

Nor  man  nor  beast  his  rage  will  spare, 

When  wandering  near  his  hideous  lair. 

Of  soch  an  one  shall  be  my  lay,— 

A  legend  of  Biselaveret. 

In  Brittany  a  knight  was  known, 

Whoae  virtues  were  a  wonder  grown : 

His  form  was  goodly,  and  his  mind 

With  truth  endued,  with  sense  refined  : 

Valiant,  and  to  his  lord  sincere. 

And  by  his  neighbours  held  most  dear. 

His  lady  was  <^  fairest  ftoe, 

And  seemed  all  goodness,  truth,  and  grace. 

They  lived  in  mutual  love  and  joy. 

Nor  could  one  thought  their  peace  annoy. 

Save  that,  three  days  each  week,  the  knight 

Was  absent  iW>m  his  Mdy*s  sight. 

Nor  knew  she  where  he  made  repair ; 

In  vain  all  questions  and  all  care. 

One  evening,  as  they  sat  reclined, 
And  rest  and  music  soothed  his  mind. 
With  winning  smiles  and  arts  she  strove 
To  gain  the  secret  firom  his  love. 
<«  Ah  !  is  it  well,"  she  softly  sighed, 
** Aught  fh>m  this  tender  heart  to  hide? 
Fain  would  I  urge,  but  cannot  bear 
That  thy  dear  brow  a  fWSwn  should  wear. 
Else  VTOuld  I  crave  so  small  a  boon : 
'T  is  idly  asked,  and  granted  soon.*' 
The  gentle  knight  that  lady  pressed. 
And  drew  her  closer  to  his  breast : 
*^  What  is  there,  fairest  love,"  he  cried, 
**  I  ever  to  thy  wish  denied  ? 
What  may  it  be  I  vainly  muse 
That  thou  couldsC  aak,  and  I  refbse  ? " 


1  Ctonoat  Is  a  eomplkm  of  the  TsoIodIc  Wkr-ttolf  or 
EngUah  Wen-wo^,  tba  nme  ■■  the  tMtAAfmwnt  of  the 
Greeks,  Msn-wotf,  Loup-ganu,  a  men  wlio  hee  the  pffwer 
of  traodbrming  Umeelf  into  a  wol£  It  doee  not  eppaer 
that  this  word,  (Tanoo/,  has  coatiDued  In  Nonnandj  to  oar 
time ;  neither  ie  that  of  Bitdavent  found  among  Bretons, 
who  still  say  Denbleu  (ManwolO. 


*(  Gramercy,"  said  the  artful  dame, 

M  My  kindest  lord,  the  boon  I  claim. 

O,  in  those  days,  to  sorrow  known, 

When  left  by  thee  in  tears  alone. 

What  fears,  what  torments  wound  my  heart. 

Musing  in  vain  why  thus  we  part ! 

If  I  should  lose  thee !  if  no  more 

The  evening  should  thy  form  restore !  — 

O,  't  is  too  much  !  I  cannot  bear 

The  pangs  of  such  continued  care  ! 

Tell  me,  where  go*8t  thou  ?-*who  is  she 

Who  keeps  my  own  dear  lord  from  me  ? 

For  't  is  too  plain,  thou  lov'st  me  not. 

And  in  her  arms  I  am  forgot !  " 

<*  Lady,"  he  said,  ^  by  Heaven  above. 

No  deed  of  mine  has  wronged  thy  love. 

But,  were  the  fhtal  secret  thine. 

Destruction,  death,  perchance  were  mine." 

> 

Then  pearly  tears  that  lady  shed. 
And  sorrow  bowed  her  lovely  head ; 
And  every  grace,  and  art,  and  wile. 
Each  fond  caress,  each  gentle  smile, 
She  lavished  on  her  lord,  wbo  strove 
In  vain  against  her  seeming  love, 
Till  all  the  secret  was  revealed. 
And  not  the  slightest  thought  concealed  : 
*<  Know,  then,  a  truth  which  shuns  the  day, 

I  am  a  foul Bisclaveret ! 

Close  sheltered  in  my  wild  retreat. 
My  loathsome  food  I  daily  eat. 
And,  deep  within  yon  hated  wood, 
I  live  on  rapine  and  on  blood  ! " 

Faint  grew  that  pale  and  lovely  dame, 

A  shudder  crept  o'er  all  her  fhime  ; 

But  yet  she  urged  her  questions  stiU, 

Mindless  but  c^  her  eager  will. 

To  know  if,  ere  the  change  was  made, 

Clothed  or  unclad  he  sought  the  shade. 

*(  Unclad,  in  savage  guise  I  range. 

Till  to  my  wolfish  shape  I  change." 

^  Where  are  thy  vestments  then  concealed  ?  " 

^^That,  lady,  may  not  be  revealed, — 

For,  should  I  lose  them,  or  some  eye 

Where  they  are  hid  presume  to  pry, 

Bisclaveret  I  should  remain. 

Nor  ever  gaae  on  thee  again. 

Till  he  who  caused  the  fatal  harm 

Restored  them  and  dissolved  the  charm." 

«« Alas ! "  she  said,  ««my  lord,  my  life, 

Am  I  not  thine,  thy  soul,  thy  wife  f 

Thou  canst  not  doubt  me,  yet  I  feel 

I  die  if  thou  the  truth  conceal. 

Ah  !  is  thy  confidence  so  small. 

That  thou  shouldst  pause,  nor  tell  me  all?  " 

Long,  long  she  strove,  and  he  denied  ; 

Entreaties,  prayers,  and  tears  were  tried, 

Till^  vanquished,  wearied,  and  distressed. 

He  thus  the  fatal  truth  confessed  : 

•«  Deep  in  the  forest's  awfbl  shade 

Has  chance  a  frightful  cavern  made ; 

A  ruined  chapel  moulders  near. 

Where  oft  ia  shed  my  secret  tear  : 


422 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


There,  close  beside  a  hollow  stone, 
With  rank  and  bushy  weeds  o'ergrown, 
My  garments  lie,  till  I  repair, 
My  trial  past,  to  seek  them  there.'* 

The  lady  heard  the  wondrous  tale, 

Her  cheek  now  flushed,  now  deadly  pale ; 

And  many  a  day  and  fearful  night, 

Pondered  with  horror  and  affright. 

Fain  would  she  the  adventure  try. 

Whose  thought  drove  slumber  from  her  eye. 

She  dared  not  seek  the  wood  alone, — 

To  whom,  then,  could  she  make  it  known  ? 

A  knight  there  was,  whose  passion  long 
Had  sought  the  hapless  lord  to  wrong ; 
But  coldly  from  his  vows  she  turned, 
And  all  his  feigning  ardor  spumed. 
Yet  now,  a  prey  to  evil's  power. 
She  sought  him,  in  a  luckless  hour, 
And  swore  a  deadly  oath  of  love, 
So  he  would  the  adventure  prove : 
The  wood's  recess,  th6  cave,  the  stone, 
All  to  his  willing  ear  made  known  ; 
And  bade  him  seize  the  robes  with  speed, 
And  she  should  be  the  victor's  meed. 

Thus  man,  by  too  much  trust  betrayed, 
Too  often  is  a  victim  made ! 

Great  search  was  made  the  country  round, 
But  trace  was  none,  nor  tidings  found  ; 
All  deemed  the  gallant  knight  was  dead,  — 
And  his  false  dame  again  was  wed. 

Scarce  had  the  year  attained  an  end, 

The  king  would  to  the  greenwood  wend, 

Where,  'midst  the  leafy  covert  lay 

The  fierce  and  fell  Bisclaveret. 

Soon  as  the  hounds  perceive  the  foe, 

Forward  at  once  with  yells  they  go ; 

The  hunters  urge  them  on  amain, 

And  soon  the  Garwal  had  been  slain. 

But,  springing  to  the  monarch's  knee, 

Seemed  to  implore  his  clemency : 

His  stirrup  held,  embraced  his  feet, 

And  urged  his  suit  with  gestures  meet. 

The  king,  with  wondering  pity  moved, 

His  hunters  called,  his  hounds  reproved  : 

**  'T  is  strange,"  he  said;  **  this  beast,  indeed, 

With  human  reason  seems  to  plead. 

Who  may  this  marvel  clearly  see  ?  — 

Call  off  the  dogs,  and  set  him  free ; 

And,  mark  me,  let  no  subject  dare 

To  touch  his  life  which  thus  I  spare. 

Let  us  away,  nor  more  intrude 

On  this  strange  creature's  solitude  ; 

And  from  this  time  I  '11  come  no  more 

This  forest's  secrets  to  explore." 

The  king  then  rode  in  haste  away ; 

But,  feUowing  still,  Bisclaveret 

Kept  ever  closely  by  his  side  ; 

Nor  could  the  pitying  monarch  chide, 

But  led  him  to  his  castle  feir. 

Whose  goodly  towers  rose  high  in  air. 


There  staid  the  Garwal,  and  apace 
Grew  dearer  in  the  monarch's  grace, 
And  all  his  train  he  bade  beware. 
To  tend  and  to  entreat  him  fair ; 
Nor  murmured  they,  —  for,  though  unboand, 
He  still  was  mild  and  gentle  feund. 
Couched  at  his  master's  feet  he  lay. 
And  .with  the  barons  loved  to  stay ; 
Whene'er  the  king  abroad  would  wend. 
Still  with  him  went  his  feithful  friend  : 
In  hall  or  bower,  at  game  or  feast. 
So  much  he  loved  the  gallant  beast. 

It  chanced  the  king  proclaimed  a  court. 
Where  all  his  barons  made  resort ; 
Not  one  would  from  the  presence  stay. 
But  came  in  rich  and  bright  array ; 
Among  them,  he  who  with  bis  wife 
Had  practised  on  the  Garwal 's  life. 
He,  all  unconscious,  paced  along 
Amidst  that  gay  and  gallant  throng. 
Nor  deemed  his  steps  that  fetal  day 
Watched  by  the  sad  Bisclaveret 
With  sudden  bound  on  him  he  flew. 
And  towards  him  by  his  fengs  he  drew ; 
Nor  would  have  spared  him,  but  the  king. 
With  angry  words  and  menacing. 
Forbade  the  vengeance  which  had  straight 
Dealt  to  the  trembling  wretch  his  fete. 
Much  marvel  all,  and  wondering  own 
He  ne'er  before  so  fell  was  known  : 
Why  single  out  this  knight  from  all  ? 
Why  on  him  thus  so  fiercely  fall  ? 
In  much  amaze  each  went  his  way. 
But  pondered  on  it  many  a  day. 

The  king  next  eve  the  forest  sought. 
Where  first  Bisclaveret  was  caught. 
There  to  forget  the  toils  of  state 
That  on  a  monarch's  splendor  wait. 
The  guilty  wife,  with  false  intent 
And  artful  wiles,  to  meet  him  went, 
Apparelled  in  her  richest  guise. 
To  draw  on  her  admiring  eyes : 
Rich  presents  brought  she  in  her  train. 
And  sought  an  audience  to  gain. 
When  she  approached  Bisclaveret, 
No  power  his  vengeance  could  allay  : 
With  hideous  howl  he  darted  forth 
Towards  the  feir  object  of  his  wrath. 
And  soon  her  felse  but  beauteous  fiice 
Of  deadly  fury  bore  the  trace  : 
All  rush  to  stanch  the  dreadful  wound. 
And  blows  and  shouts  assail  him  round. 

Then  spoke  a  learned  and  reverend  sage. 
Renowned  for  wisdom,  gray  with  age  : 
**  Sire,  let  the  beast  receive  no  wrong ; 
Has  he  not  here  been  harboured  long. 
And  never,  even  in  sport,  been  seen 
To  show  or  cruelty  or  spleen  ? 
This  lady  and  her  lord  alone 
The  fury  of  his  ire  have  known. 
Twice  has  the  lady  been  a  wife ;  — 
How  her  first  lord  was  refl  of  life. 


CHANSONS  DE   QESTE,   LAIS,   LEGENDS,   AND  FABLIAUX.     423 


For  whom  each  baron  sorrows  still, 

Breeds  in  my  mind  some  fear  of  ill. 

Question  the  wounded  dame,  and  try 

If  we  may  solve  this  mystery ; 

I  know,  by  long  experience  taught, 

Are  wondrous  things  in  Bretagne  wrooght." 

The  king  the  sage  advice  approved, 

And  bade  the  lady  be  removed, 

And  captive  held  till  she  should  tell 

All  that  her  former  lord  befell : 

Her  guilty  spouse  they  seek  with  speed, 

And  to  a  separate  dungeon  lead. 

'T  was  then,  subdued  by  pain  and  fear, 

The  fearful  tale  she  bade  them  hear ; 

How  she  her  lord  sought  to  betray, 

And  stole  his  vestments  where  they  lay, 

So  that  for  him  the  hope  were  vain 

To  gain  hb  human  form  again. 

Her  deed  of  treachery  displayed. 

All  pause,  with  anxious  thought  dismayed ; 

Then  each  to  each  began  to  say, 

**  It  is  the  beast  Bisclaveret !  " 

Soon  are  the  fatal  vestments  brought,  — 

Straight  is  the  hapless  Garwal  sought ; 

Close  in  his  sight  the  robes  they  place, 

But,  all  unmoved,  and  slow  his  pace. 

He  heeds  not  as  he  passes  by. 

Nor  casts  around  a  curious  eye. 

All  marvel,  save  the  sage  alone, — 

The  cause  is  to  his  prescience  known  : 

^  Hope  not,"  he  said,  *(  by  means  so  plain 

The  transformation  to  obtain. 

Deep  shame  and  grief  the  act  attend. 

And  secrecy  its  aid  must  lend ; 

And  to  no  vulgar  mortal  eye 

'T  is  given  to  view  this  mystery. 

Close,  then,  each  gate, — be  silence  round, — 

And  let  a  hollow  stone  be  found ; 

Choose  ye  a  solitary  room,  -« 

Shade  each  recess  with  deepest  gloom ; 

Spread  forth  the  robes,  —  let  none  intrude, — 

And  leave  the  beast  to  solitude." 

All  that  the  sage  advised  was  done. 
And  now  the  shades  of  night  were  gone, 
TVhen  towards  the  spot,  with  eager  haste. 
The  king  and  all  his  barons  passed  : 
There,  when  they  oped  the  guarded  door. 
They  saw  Bisclaveret  no  more,  — 
But  on  a  couch,  in  slumber  deep. 
Beheld  the  nncharmed  knight  asleep ! 

With  shouts  of  joy  the  halls  resound  ; 
The  news  soon  spreads  the  country  round ; 
No  more  condemned  to  woe  and  shame, 
He  wakes  to  life,  to  joy,  and  fame ! 
Admired,  caressed,  'midst  hosts  of  friends, 
At  once  his  lingering  torment  ends. 
His  lands  restored,  his  foes  o'erthrown. 
Their  treacherous  arts  to  all  made  known  : 
The  guilty  pair  condemned  to  fly 
To  banishment  and  infamy. 


'T  is  said  their  lineage  to  all  time 

Shall  bear  a  mark  that  speaks  their  crime ; 

Deep  wounds  and  scars  their  faces  grave, 

Such  as  the  furious  Garwal  gave. 

And  well  in  Brittany  is  known 

The  wondrous  tale  my  lay  has  shown ; 

Nor  shall  the  record  fiide  away, 

That  tells  us  of  Bisclaveret 


FROM  THE  ROMAUNT  OF  THE  ROSE. 

Towards  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  centu- 
ry, flourished  Guillaume  de  Lorris,  whom  Marot 
called  the  French  Ennius.  French  literature 
owes  to  his  genius  the  commencement  of  ^*  The 
Romaunt  of  the  Rose,'*  a  poem  remarkable  for 
the  brilliant  fancy  and  easy  versification  it  dis- 
plays, and  still  more  remarkable  as  standing 
preeminent  above  all  others  of  its  time. 

"  The  Romaunt  of  the  Rose  "  is  an  allegorical 
poem,  in  which  sacred  history  is  mingled  with 
fable,  and  the  morals  of  a  licentious  age  are 
satirized  with  unsparing  severity.  The  main 
subject  is  the  art  of  love ;  or,  as  the  author 
informs  as,  at  the  commencement  of  the  work, 
"  Cb  60t  li  Rommaos  de  la  Rose, 
Oo  I'art  d'amora  ast  tola  eodose.'* 

The  death  of  Guillaume  de  Lorris  is  sup- 
posed to  have  taken  place  about  the  year  1261. 
Forty  years  after,  •^The  Romaunt  of  the  Rose  " 
was  completed  by  Jean  de  Meun.  To  this 
man  has  been  yielded  the  palm  not  only  of 
being  tb«  greatest  poet,  but  likewise  of  being 
one  of  the  most  learned  men  of  his  age.  He 
died  about  the  year  1320.  Having  been  the 
scourge  of  the  hypocrisy  of  the  priests  during 
his  lifo,  one  of  his  last  acts  was  a  practical  sat- 
ire upon  their  cupidity.  In  his  will  he  be- 
queathed to  a  convent  of  Dominican  friars  a 
large  chest,  which  was  not  to  be  opened  till 
after  the  death  of  the  testator.  Supposing,  fh>m 
its  great  weight,  that  it  was  full  of  valuable 
effects,  they  gave  the  poet  an  honorable  burial 
in  their  convent.  No  sooner  were  the  funeral 
obsequies  over,  than  they  opened  the  strong- 
box with  eager  curiosity,  and  found  it  foil,  not 
of  money  and  precious  articles,  but  of  large 
squares  of  slate,  covered  with  inexplicable  math- 
ematical figures  and  diagrams. 

The  limits  of  this  work  render  it  impossible 
to  give  extracts  firom  that  part  of  («The  Ro- 
maunt of  the  Rose  "  of  which  Meun  was  the 
author.  Many  portions  of  it  are  very  beautifol ; 
particularly  the  description  of  the  Loves  of  the 
Golden  Age,  when 

"  Lea  ojmuax  en  kur  latm 
S'aatudleai  chaacun  matin." 


WiTHiw  my  twentie  yeere  of  age, 
When  that  love  taketh  his  courage 
Of  younge  folke,  I  wente  soone 
To  bed,  as  I  was  wont  to  doone  : 


424 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


And  fast  I  slept :  and  in  sleeping, 
Me  mette  such  a  swevening,^ 
That  liked  me  wondrous  wele : 
But  in  that  sweven  is  never  a  dele  ^ 
That  it  n'is  '  afterward  befall, 
Right  as  this  dreame  woll  tell  us  all. 

Now  this  dreame  woll  I  rime  aright, 
To  make  your  heartes  gay  and  light : 
For  love  it  prayeth,  and  also 
Commaundeth  me,  that  it  be  so. 

And  if  there  any  aske  me, 
Whether  that  it  be  he  or  she, 
How  this  booke  which  is  here 
Shall  hatte,^  that  I  rede  *  you  here  : 
It  is  the  Romaunt  of  the  Rose, 
In  which  all  the  art  of  love  I  dose. 

The  matter  faire  is  of  to  make : 
God  graunt  me  in  gree  *  that  she  it  take 
For  whom  that  it  begonnen  ^  is : 
And  that  is  she  that  hath  y  wis  * 
So  mokel  prise,*  and  thereto  she 
So  worthie  is  beloved  to  be. 
That  she  wel  ought,  of  prise  and  right, 
Be  cleped  Rose  of  everie  wight. 
That  it  was  May  me  though te  tho,>o 
It  is  five  yere  or  more  ago. 
That  it  was  May,  thus  dreamed  me, 
In  time  of  love  and  jolitie. 
That  all  thing  ginneth  waxen  gay : 
For  there  is  neither  buske  "  nor  hay 
In  May,  that  it  n'ill  >'  shrouded  bene, 
And  it  with  newe  leves  wrene :  *' 
These  woodes  eke  recoveren  grene, 
That  drie  in  winter  ben  to  sene. 
And  the  erth  wazeth  proud  withall, 
For  swote  ^^  dewes  that  on  it  fall. 
And  the  poore  estate  forget, 
In  which  that  winter  had  it  set :      « 
And  than  ^*  become  the  ground  so  proude, 
That  it  wol  have  a  newe  shroude, 
And  maketh  so  queint  bis  robe  and  frire. 
That  it  had  hewes  an  hundred  paire, 
Of  grasse  and  floures,  of  Inde  and  Pen, 
And  many  hewes  full  divers : 
That  is  the  robe  I  mean  y  wis, 
Through  which  the  ground  to  praisen  is. 

The  birdes,  that  ban  left  hir  ^*  song. 
While  they  ban  sufired  cold  fbll  strong, 
In  wethers  grille,'^  and  derke  to  sight, 
Ben  in  May,  for  the  sunne  bright. 
So  glad,  that  they  shew,  in  singing. 
That  in  hir  heart  is  such  liking. 
That  they  mote  singen  and  ben  light : 
Than  doth  the  nightingale  her  might 
To  maken  noyse  and  singen  blithe : 
Than  is  blisfull  many  a  sithe," 


>  Dreaming.  *  Much  praise. 

s  NeTer  a  bit,  nothing  at  aU.  >o  Then. 

9  Tmneia,  la  not.  ^i  Bush. 

4  Be  named.  i*  For  ne  mil,  will  noC 

ft  Adf  iae,  explain.  i>  CoTered. 

•  Pleasure,  good  will;  to  i*  Sweet. 
take  in  gree^  to  take  in  good  >»  Then, 
part.  !•  Their. 

T  Begun.  XT  Dreadful,  horrible. 

•  Coriainlj.  it  Time. 


The  chelaundre,^'  and  the  popingaye: 
Than  younge  folke  entenden  ^  aye. 
For  to  ben  gay  and  amorous. 
The  time  is  then  so  savoroiis.^^ 

Harde  is  his  heart  that  loveth  nought 
In  May,  whan  all  this  mirth  is  wrought. 
Whan  be  may  on  these  braunches  here  ^ 
The  smalle  birdes  singen  clere 
Hir  blisfull  swete  song  piteous. 
And  in  this  season  delitous : 
When  love  affirmeth  all  thing. 
Me  thought  one  night,  in  my  sleeping 
Right  in  my  bed  full  readyly. 
That  it  was  by  the  morrow  ^  early,  * 
And  up  I  rose,  and  gan  me  cloth, 
Anone  I  wysshe*^  mine  hondea**  both, 
A  silver  needle  forth  I  drew 
Out  of  an  aguiler  **  queint  ynow. 
And  gan  this  needle  thread  anone. 
For  out  of  towne  me  list  to  gone. 
The  sound  of  birdes  for  to  beare 
That  on  the  buskes  singen  deare. 
In  the  swete  season  that  lefe  is : 
With  a  thred  basting  my  slevis, 
Alone  I  went  in  my  playing. 
The  smal  foules  song  hearkening, 
That  payned  hem  ^  fiiU  many  a  paire 
To  sing  on  bowes  blossomed  faire  : 
Jolife^  and  gay,  full  of  gladnesse. 
Toward  a  river  gan  I  roe  dresse,** 
That  I  heard  renne  ^  faste  by, 
For  &irer  playeng  '^  none  saw  I 
Than  playen  me  by  the  rivere  : 
For  fh>m  an  hill,  that  stood  there  nere. 
Come  downe  the  stream  fViU  stifie  and  bold, 
Clere  was  the  water,  and  as  cold 
As  any  well  is,  sooth  to  saine,^ 
And  somedele  lasse  ^  it  was  than  Saine, 
But  it  was  straiter,  weleaway. 
And  never  saw  I,  ere  that  day. 
The  water  that  so  wele  liked  me, 
And  wonder  ^  glad  was  I  to  se 
That  lusty  ^*  place,  and  that  rivere : 
And  with  that  water,  that  ran  so  clere. 
My  face  I  wysshe,  tho  saw  I  wele 
The  bottome  ypaved**  everidele*' 
With  gravel,  fbll  of  stones  shene : '" 
The  meadowes  softe,  sote,^*  and  grene. 
Beet  right  upon  tlie  water  side : 
Full  clere  was  than  the  roorowe  tide. 
And  full  attempre^  out  of  drede  :  ^^ 
Tho  gan  I  walken  thorow  the  mede. 
Downward  aye,  in  my  playing. 
The  rivers  side  codsting. 


It  Goldfioeh. 
90  Llstea  to,  attend. 
"  Sweet,  pleasant, 
as  Hear. 

M  Iq  the  morning. 
S4  Washed, 
u  Hands. 
>•  Needl»«aa8. 
ST  Pained  themselves,  that 
Is,  took  great  pains  or  trouble. 
u  JoyfuL 
'•  To  address,  turn  towards. 


ao  Rua 

3i  Enjojmant,  enjoying. 

93  To  aay  the  tnith. 

39  Somewhat  leas. 

94  Wonderfully,  Tery. 
99  Pleaoant. 

9<  Paved. 

9 T  Entirely,  every  part. 
99  Bright,  beautifuL 
99  Sweet. 

40  Temperate. 

41  Without  doubt. 


LYRIC   POEMS   OF  THE  TROUVfeRES. 


425 


II — LTRIG    POEMS    OF    THE    TROUvilRES. 


LE  chAtelain  DE  COUCT. 

Thx  Ch&telain  de  Coucy  livod  towards  the 
end  of  the  twelfth  century.  His  passion  for  the 
Dame  de  Fayel,  and  its  tragical  result,  are  Yery 
characteristic  of  the  age.  Learning  that  his 
mistress  was  about  to  accompany  her  husband 
to  the  Holy  Land,  he  took  the  cross  to  follow 
her.  The  husband,  informed  of  the  feelings  of 
his  wife  towards  Coucy,  forbade  her  departure. 
The  ChAtelain  distinguished  himself  by  his 
valor  at  Ascalon  and  Csesarea ;  but  having  been 
dangerously  wounded,  he  left  the  war,  to  see 
once  more  the  object  of  bis  love.  He  died  on 
the  homeward  passage;  but  before  breathing 
his  last,  he  charged  his  squire  to  embalm  his 
heart,  and  to  convey  it  to  his  mistress.  The 
squire  was  intercepted  by  the  jealous  lord,  who 
ordered  his  cook  to  prepare  the  heart  and  serve 
it  up  for  his  wife.  The  Dame  de  Fayel,  in- 
formed by  her  barbarous  husband  that  she  had 
just  eaten  the  heart  of  her  lover,  died  of  de- 
spair. This  tradition  is  the  subject  of  a  beau- 
tiful ballad  by  Uhland.  The  proud  device  of 
the  family  of  De  Coucy  was, 
"  Ne  princa  je  suis, 

Ni  comte  auasi, 

Mada  le  Sire  de  Coucy." 


Mr  wandering  thoughts  awake  to  love  anew, 

And  bid  me  rise  to  sing  the  fairest  feir 
That  e'er  before  the  world  of  beauty  knew. 

That  e'er  kind  Nature  made  her  darling  care : 
And  when,  entranced,  on  all  her  charms  I  muse, 
I   All  themes  but  that  alone  my  lays  refuse ; 
I    Each  wish  my  soul  can  form  is  hers  alone,.— 
My  heart,  my  joys,  my  feelings  all  her  own  ! 

Since  first  my  trembling  heart  became  a  prey, 

I  have  no  power  to  turn  me  back  again ; 
At  once  I  yield  me  to  that  passion's  sway, 

Nor  idly  seek  its  impulse  to  restrain. 
If  she,  who  is  all  sweetness,  truth,  and  joy, 
Were  cold  or  fickle,  were  she  proud  or  coy, 
I  might  my  tender  hopes  at  once  resign  : 
But  not,  thank  Heaven !  so  sad  a  lot  is  mine ! 

If  aught  I  blame,  't  is  my  hard  ftite  alone, — 

Not  those  soft  eyes,  those  gentle  looks  of  thine, 
On  which  I  gazed  till  all  my  peace  was  gone ! 

Not  at  their  dear  perfection  I  repine, — 
I  cannot  blame  that  fbrm,  all  winning  grace, 
That  fairy  hand,  that  lip,  that  lovely  face ; 
All  I  can  beg  is  that  she  love  me  more, 
That  I  may  live  still  longer  to  adore  ! 

Yes,  all  I  ask  of  thee,  O  lady  dear. 

Is  but  what  purest  love  may  hope  to  find ; 

And  if  thine  eyes,  whose  crystal  light  so  clear 
Reflects  thy  thoughts,  be  not  to  me  unkind, 
54 


Well  may'st  thou  see,  by  every  mournful  lay, 

By  all  I  ever  look,  or  sigh,  or  say, 

That  I  am  thine,  devoted  to  thy  will. 

And,  'midst  my  sadness,  fondly  thank  thee  still. 

I  thank  thee,  even  for  these  secret  sighs. 
For  all  the  mournful  thoughts  that  on  thee 
dwell ; 
For  as  thou  bad'st  them  in  my  bosom  rise. 
Thou  canst  revive  their  sweetest  hopes  as 
well, — 
The  blissful  remedy  for  all  my  woe 
In  those  dear  eyes,  that  gentle  voice,  I  know  : 
Should  Fate  forbid  my  soul  to  love  thee  more. 
My  life,  alas  !  would  with  my  grief  be  o'er. 

To  thee  my  heart,  my  wishes,  I  resign : 
I  am  thine  own,  —  O  lady  dear,  be  mine  I 


Thb  first  approach  of  the  sweet  spring 

Returning  here  once  more, — 
The  memory  of  the  love  that  holds 

In  my  fond  heart  such  power,  — 
The  thrush  again  his  song  essaying, — 
The  little  rills  o'er  pebbles  playing,  * 

And  sparkling  as  they  ftill, — 

The  memory  re<fall 
Of  her  on  whom  my  heart's  desire 
Is,  shall  be,  fixed  till  I  expire. 

With  every  season  fi'esh  and  new 

That  love  is  more  inspiring  : 
Her  eyes,  her  face,  all  bright  with  joy,  — 

Her  coming,  her  retiring,  — 
Her  fiuthful  words,  —  her  winning  ways,— 
That  sweet  look,  kindling  up  the  blaze 

Of  love,  so  gently  still. 

To  wound,  but  not  to  kill,  — 
So  that  when  most  I  weep  and  sigh, 
So  much  the  higher  springs  my  joy. 


HUGUE8  D'ATHIES. 

HuovBS  d'Athics  lived  in  the  latter  half  of 
the  twelfth  century.  He  held  the  office  of  Grand 
Panetter,  or  Pantler,  in  the  household  of  Philip 
Augustus,  and  afterwards  of  Louis  the  Eighth. 


Fool  !  who  from  choice  can  spend  his  hours 
Sowing  the  barren  sand  with  flowers  ;  — 
And  yet  more  weak,  more  foolish  you. 
Who  seek  a  fickle  fkir  to  woo. 

No  certain  rule  her  course  presents ; 
Quickly  she  loves,  as  quick  repents  : 
Her  smiles  shall  naught  but  grief  confer 
On  him  who  vainly  trusts  in  her. 
w2 


426 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


The  valiaDt  knight  her  love  may  bolast, 
But  soon  shall  rue  his  labor  lost ;  ■ 
His  fiite  the  mariner's  shall  be, 
Braving  untoward  gales  at  sea. 

Fit  wooer  he  ibr  such  an  one 
The  flatterer,  with  his  wily  tongue, 
Who  knows  the  way,  by  shrewd  address. 
To  crown  his  purpose  with  success. 


THIBAUD   DE   BLAZON. 

Thibaud  ds  Blazon  lived  early  in  the  thir- 
teenth century.  He  was  attached  to  the  ser- 
vice of  Thibaud,  the  poetical  king  of  Navarre, 
and  wrote  twenty-seven  songs. 

I  AM  to  blame  !  —  Why  should  I  sing  ? 

My  lays  't  were  better  to  forget ; 
Each  day  to  others  joy  may  bring, — 

They  can  but  give  to  me  regret ! 
Love  makes  my  heart  so  full  of  woe, 

That  naught  can  please  or  soothe  me  more. 
Unless  the  cruel  cause  would  show 

Less  coldness  than  I  found  of  yore. 
Tet  wherefore  all  my  cares  repeat  f 
Love's  woes,  though  painful,  still  are  sweet 
I  am  to  blame  ! 

I  am  to  blame !  —  Was  I  not  bom 

To  serve  and  love  her  all  my  life  ? 
Although  my  recompense  is  scorn. 

And  all  my  care  with  pain  is  rife,  — 
Tet  should  I  die,  nor  ever  know 

What 't  is  to  be  beloved  again ; 
At  least,  my  silent  life  shall  show 

How  patiently  I  bore  my  chain. 
Then  wherefore  all  my  griefs  repeat  ? 
Love's  woes,  though  painful,  still  are  sweet. 
I  am  to  blame  ! 


THIBAUD,   KING  OF  NAVARRE. 

This  prince  was  bom  in  1201,  a  few  months 
after  the  death  of  his  father,  Thibaud  the  Third, 
count  of  Champagne.  During  his  minority,  his 
states  were  governed  by  Blanche  of  Navarre, 
his  mother.  He  was  educated  at  the  court  of 
Philip  Augustus.  In  1234,  ^e  succeeded  his 
maternal  uncle,  Sancho,  as  king  of  Navarre, 
and,  in  1239,  embarked  for  the  East,  to  take 
part  in  the  crusade.  On  his  return  from  this 
expedition  two  years  after,  he  devoted  himself 
to  the  govemment  of  his  dominions,  «nd  made 
himself  deeply  beloved  by  his  subjects.  He 
cultivated  literature,  filled  his  court  with  those 
who  were  distinguished  in  poetry,  and  loaded 
them  with  benefits.  His  poetical  talent  pro- 
cured  him  the  name  of  the  Song-makor.  He 
died  at  Pampeluna,  in  1253.  His  works  were 
published  by  La  Ravallicre,  in  two  volumes, 
12mo.,  Paris,  1742. 


Ladt,  the  fates  command,  and  I  must  go, — 

Leaving  the  pleasant  land  so  dear  to  me  : 
Here  my  heart  suffered  many  a  heavy  woe  ; 

But  what  is  left  to  love,  thus  leaving  thee  ? 
Alas  !  that  crael  land  beyond  the  sea ! 

Why  thus  dividing  many  a  fkithful  heart. 
Never  again  from  pain  and  sorrow  free, 

Never  again  to  meet,  when  thus  they  part  ? 

I  see  not,  when  thy  presence  bright  I  leave. 

How  wealth,  or  joy,  or  peace  can  be  my 
lot; 
Ne'er  yet  my  spirit  found  such  cause  to  grieve 

As  now  in  leaving  thee  ;  and  if  thy  thought 
Of  me  in  absence  should  be  sorrow-fraught. 

Oft  will  my  heart  repentant  turn  to  thee. 
Dwelling,  in  fruitless  wishes,  on  this  spot. 

And  all  the  gracious  words  here  said  to  me. 

O  gracious  God  !  to  thee  I  bend  my  knee. 

For  thy  sake  yielding  all  I  love  and  prize  ; 
And  O,  bow  mighty  must  that  influence  be. 

That  steals  me  thus  from  all  my  cherished 
joys ! 
Here,  ready,  then,  myself  surrendering. 

Prepared  to  serve  thee,  I  submit ;  and  ne*er 
To  one  so  faithful  could  I  service  bring. 

So  kind  a  master,  so  beloved  and  dear. 

And  strong  my  ties,  —  my  grief  unspeakable  ! 

Grief,  all  my  choicest  treasures  to  resign ; 
Tet  stronger  still  the  affections  that  impel 
My  heart  toward  Him,  the  God  whose  loTe 
is  mine. 
That  holy  love,  how  beautiful !  how  strong  ! 
Even   wisdom's   favorite   sons   take   refuge 
there; 
'T  is  the  redeeming  gem  that  shines  among 
Men's  darkest  thoughts, — for  ever  bright  and 
fair. 


GACE  BRULEZ. 

Gacs  Brulez,  called  in  some  of  the  manu- 
scripts Gaste  Bl^,  flourished  in  the  first  half  of 
the  thirteenth  century.  He  was  the  friend  of 
Thibaud,  and  one  of  the  most  pleasing  poets  of 
his  age.  Most  of  his  songs,  amounting  to  sev- 
enty-nine in  number,  are  addressed  to  a  lady 
whose  name  is  not  given.  Some  of  them  were 
attributed  to  the  king  of  Navarre. 


Tbx  birds,  the  birds  of  mine  own  land 

I  heard  in  Brittany; 
And  as  they  sung,  they  seemed  to  me 
The  very  same  I  heard  with  thee. 
And  if  it  were  indeed  a  dream. 
Such  thoughts  they  taught  my  soul  to  frame. 
That  straight  a  plaintive  number  came, 

Which  still  shall  be  my  song. 
Till  that  reward  is  mine  which  love  hath  prom- 
ised long. 


LYRIC  POEMS  OF  THE  TROUVfeRES. 


427 


RAOUL,  COMTE   D£   SOISSONS. 

Raoul  dx  Soissons  was  a  contemporary  and 
friend  of  Thibaud,  king  of  Navarre*,  who  gives 
bim,  in  bis  songs,  tbe  title  of  Sire  de  Veirtus, 
A  similar  taste  for  poetry  bound  them  in  the 
closest  friendship.  Raoul  de  Soissons  is  sup- 
posed to  be  the  same  as  Henri  de  Soissons,  who 
followed  St.  Louis  to  the  Holy  Land,  was  taken 
prisoner  at  the  battle  of  Masaura  in  1250,  and 
composed  verses  on  his  captivity. 


Ah  !  beauteous  maid, 

Of  form  so  fair ! 
Pearl  of  the  world. 
Beloved  and  dear ! 
How  does  my  spirit  eager  pine 
But  once  to  press  those  lips  of  thine ! 
Yes,  beauteous  maid. 

Of  form  so  fair  ! 
Pearl  of  the  world, 
Beloved  and  dear ! 

And  if  the  theft 

Thine  ire  awake, 
A  hundred  fold 

I  'd  give  it  back, — 
Thou  beauteous  maid, 

Of  form  so  fair ! 
Pearl  of  the  world, 

Beloved  and  dear ! 


JAQUES  DE  CHISON. 

This  poet  lived  about  the  middle  of  tbe  thir- 
teenth century.  He  composed  songs  full  of 
grace  and  Reeling,  and  is  considered  one  of  the 
most  distinguished  bards  of  this  pe'riod;  but 
nothing  further  is  known  of  his  life. 


When  the  sweet  days  of  sommer  come  at  last, 
And  leaves^ and  flowers  are  in  the  forest 
springing ; 
When  the  cold  time  of  winter 's  overpast, 
And  every  bird  his  own  sweet  song  is  singing; 
Then  will  I  sing. 
And  joyous  be, 
Of  careless  heart, 
Elate  and  free ; 
For  she,  my  lady  sweet  and  sage. 
Bids  me,  as  ever  wont,  engage 
In  joyful  mood  to  be. 

Nor  is  it  yet  the  spirit  of  the  season,  — 

The  summer  time,  —  that  makes  my  song  so 

But  softer  thoughts,  and  yet  a  sweeter  reason,— 
Love, — that  o*er  all  my  happy  heart  hath 
sway; 


That  with  delight  my  soul  will  ceaseless  turn 
Toward  her  I  ween  of  all  the  world  the  best : 

And  if  my  songs  be  sweet,  well  may  they  learn 
Sweetness  firom  her  whose  love  my  heart  has 
blest. 

And  since  that  love  is  rightfiilly  my  boon. 

Well  may  I  bold  her  chief  within  my  soul, 
Who  helps  my  numbers,  gives  me  song  and  tune, 

And  her  own  grace  diffuses  o*er  the  whole. 
For  when  I  think  of  those  dear  eyes  of  hers, 

Whence  the  bright  light  of  love  is  ever  break- 
ing, 
Delight  and  hope  that  happy  thought  confers. 

And  I  am  blest  beyond  the  power  of  speaking. 


DOETE   DE   TROIES. 

This  poetess  is  mentioned  in  the  "Bible 
Guyot  de  Provins,"  as  having  been  present  /it 
the  court  of  the  Emperor  Conrad,  at  Mentz. 

"De Tjroye  la  bele  Doeta 
T  chantalt  cette  chaosonetts, 
'Quant  revient  la  aalaon 
Qao  Pherbe  reverdoie.'  *' 


When  comes  the  beauteous  summer  time, 

And  grass  grows  green  once  more. 
And  sparkling  brooks  the  meadows  lave 

With  fertilizing  power; 
And  when  the  birds  rejoicing  sing 

Their  pleasant  songs  again. 
Filling  the  vales  and  woodlands  gay 

With  their  enlivening  strain;  — 
Go  not  at  eve  nor  morn,  fair  maids. 

Unto  the  mead  alone. 
To  seek  the  tender  violets  blue. 

And  pluck  them  for  your  own  ; 
For  there  fr  snake  lies  hid,  whose  &ngs 

May  leave  untouched  the  &e«Z, 
But  not  the  less,  —  O,  not  the  less. 

Your  hearts  his  power  shall  feel ! 


•   BARBE   DE   VERRUE. 

This  lady  is  said  to  have  received  her  name 
from  a  Comte  de  Verrue,  by  whom  she  was 
adopted.  The  romance  of  **  Aucassin  et  Nico- 
lette  "  is  attributed  to  her. 


The  wise  man  sees  his  winter  close 
Like  evening  on  a  summer  day ; 

Each  age,  he  knows,  its  roses  bears. 
Its  mournful  moments  and  its  gay. 

Thus  would  I  dwell  with  pleasing  thought 
Upon  my  spring  of  youthful  pride  ; 

Yet,  like  the  festive  dancer,  glad 
To  rest  in  peace  at  eventide. 


428 


FKENCH  POETRY. 


Tfae  gazing  cfowcIb  proclaimed  me  fair. 
Ere,  autumn- touched,  my  green  leaves  Ml : 

And  now  they  smile,  and  call  me  good  ;  — 
Perhaps  I  like  that  name  as  well. 

On  beauty  bliss  depends  not ;  then 
Why  should  I  quarrel  with  old  Time  ? 

He  marches  on  :  —  how  vain  his  power 
With  one  whose  heart  is  in  its  prime ! 

Though  now,  perhaps,  a  Utile  old, 
Tet  still  I  love  with  youth  to  bide  J 

Nor  grieve  I,  if  the  gay  coquettes 
Seduce  the  gallants  from  my  sid^. 

And  I  can  joy  to  see  the  nymphs 

For  favorite  swains  their  chaplets  twine, 

In  gardens  trim,  and  bowers  so  green. 
With  flowerets  sweet  and  eglantine. 

I  love  to  see  a  pair  defy 

The  noontide  heat  in  yonder  shade ; 
'  To  hear  the  village  song  of  love 

Sweet  echoing  through  the  woodland  glade. 

I  joy,  too,  —  though  the  idle  crew 

Mock  somewhat  at  my  lengthened  tale,  — 

To  see  how  lays  of  ancient  loves 
The  listening  circle  round  regale. 

They  iancy  time  for  them  stands  still, 

And  pity  me  my  hairs  of  gray ; 
And  smile  to  hear  how  once  their  sires 

To  me  could  kneeling  homage  pay. 

And  I,  too,  smile,  to  gaze  upon 
These  butterflies  in  youth  elate, 

So  heedless,  sportibg  round  the  flame 

Where  thousand  such  have  met  their  fate. 


THE  AUTHOR  OF  THE  PARADISE  OF 
LOVE. 

Thb  romance  entitled  <*The  Paradise  of 
Love,*  from  which  the  following  song  is  taken, 
belongs  to  the  thirteenth  century.  An  abridg- 
ment of  it  was  published  by  Le  Grand  d'Aussy, 
and  a  free  tramlalion  by  Mr.  Way. 


Hark  !  bark ! 
Thou  merry  lark  ! 
Reckless  thou  how  I  may  pine  ! 
Would  but  love  my  vows  befriend. 
To  my  warm  embraces  send 
That  sweet  fair  one, 
Brightest,  dear  one, 
Then  my  joy  might  equal  thine. 

Hark!  bark! 
Thou  merry  lark ! 
Reckless  thou  how  I  may  pine  ! 
Let  love,  tyrant,  work  his  will. 
Plunging  me  in  anguish  still : 
Whatsoe'er 
May  be  my  care. 
True  shall  bide  this  heart  of  mine. 

Hark  !  hark ! 

Thou  merry  lark ! 
Reckless  thou  what  griefs  are  mine  ! 
Come,  relieve  my  heart's  distress  ; 
Though,  in  truth,  the  pain  is  less. 

That  she  frown, 

Than  if  unknown 
She  for  whom  I  ceaseless  pine. 

Hark!  hark! 

Thou  merry  lark ! 
Reckless  thou  how  I  may  pine  ! 


Ill LYRIC    POEMS    OF    THE    TROUBADOURS. 


GUILLAUME,   COMTE   DE   POITOU. 


GuiLLAUME  IX.,  Comte  de  Poitou,^nd  Due 
d'Aquitaine,  commonly  called  William,  Count 
of  Poictiers,  was  born  in  1071.  He  is  thought 
to  be  the  oldest  of  the  Troubadouis  whose 
works  have  been  preserved.  He  was  distin- 
guished by  the  beauty  of  his  person,  his  ex- 
quisite voice,  and  his  bravery.  He  died  in 
1122.  His  remaining  pieces,  nine  in  number, 
are  marked  by  facility  and  elegance  of  versi- 
fication ;  but  several  of  them  are  rather  licen- 
tious in  their  character. 


Answ  I  tune  my  lute  to  love. 

Ere  storms  disturb  the  tranquil  hour, 

For  her  who  strives  my  truth  to  prove, 
My  only  pride  and  beauty's  flower,  — 


But  who  will  ne'er  my  pain  remove, 
"Who  knows  and  triumphs  in  her  power. 

I  am,  alas !  her  willing  thrall ; 

Sh^  may  record  me  as  her  own ; 
Nor  my  devotion  weakness  call. 

That  her  I  prize,  and  her  alone. 
Without  her  can  I  live  at  all, 

A  captive  so  accustomed  grown  ? 

What  hope  have  I,  O  lady  dear  ? 

Do  I,  then,  sigh  in  vain  for  thee  ? 
And  wilt  thou,  ever  thus  severe, 

Be  as  a  cloistered  nun  to  me  ? 
Methinks  this  heart  but  ill  can  bear 

An  unrewarded  slave  to  be ! 

Why  banish  lovfe  and  joy  thy  bowers,  — 
Why  thus  my  passion  disapprove,  — 

When,  lady,  all  the  world  were  onra. 
If  thou  couldst  learn,  like  me,  to  love  ? 


LTRIC  POEMS  OF  THE  TROUBADOURS. 


429 


PIERRE  ROGIERS. 

This  TroabAdour  lived  about  the  middle  of 
the  twelfth  ceQtury.  He  wu  canon  of  Cler- 
mont, but,  not  finding  the  monastic  life  agreeap 
ble  to  hia  taste,  he  renounced  it  (or  the  pursuits 
of  poet  and  courtier.  He  was  attracted  to  the 
court  of  Ermengarde,  the  daughter  and  heiress 
of  Aim^ri  II.,  Vicomte  de  Narbonne.  He  be- 
came the  poetical,  and  perhaps  the  real,  lover 
of  this  princess,  and  celebrated  her  in  his 
poems  under  the  name  of  Tort-n'avetx,  He 
was  dismissed  from  her  court  on  account  of 
the  malicious  comments  of  the  gossips,  and  re- 
tired to  that  of  Rambaud  d'Orange.  Afterwards, 
he  lived  successively  at  the  courts  of  Alphonso 
the  Second,  king  of  Aragon,  and  of  Raimond 
the  Fifth,  count  of  Toulouse.  At  length  he 
wholly  withdrew  from  the  world,  and  entered 
the  monastery  of  Grammont,  where  he  died. 


Who  has  not  looked  upon  her  brow 
Has  never  dreamed  of  perfect  bliss : 

But  once  to  see  her  is  to  know 
What  beauty,  what  perfectio^fi,  is. 

Her  charms  are  of  the  growth  of  heaven, 
She  decks  the  night  with  hues  of  day : 

Blest  are  the  eyes  to  which  't  is  given 
On  her  to  gaze  the  soul  away  ! 


GEOFFROI  RUDEL. 

Gsorrnoi  Run  el,  prince  of  Blaye,  near  Bor- 
deaux, lived  in  the  last  half  of  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury. He  was  the  fnend  and  favorite  of  Geof^ 
firey  Plantagenet,  the  elder  brother  of  Richard 
CcBur-de-Lion,  and  resided  some  time  at  the 
court  of  England.  It  was  during  this  period 
of  his  life  that  he  fell  desperately  in  love  with 
a  certain  countess  of  Tripoli,  whose  beauty, 
grace,  and  munificent  hospitality  were  cele- 
brated by  the  pilgrims  and  crusaders,  returning 
from  the  Holy  Land.  The  story  is  gracefully 
told  by  Mrs.  Jameson,  in  the  **  Loves  of  the 
Poets,"  pp.  26,  27. 

**  These  reports  of  her  beauty  and  her  benefi- 
cence, constantly  repeated,  fired  the  susceptible 
fancy  of  Rudel :  without  having  seen  her,  he 
fell  passionately  in  love  with  her,  and,  unable 
to  bear  any  longer  the  torments  of  absence,  he 
undertook  a  pilgrimage  to  visit  this  unknown 
lady  of  his  love,  in  company  with  Bertrand 
d'Allamanon,  another  celebrated  Troubadour  of 
those  days.  He  quitted  the  English  court  in 
spite  of  the  entreaties  and  ezpostnlations  of 
Prince  Geofirey  Plantagenet,  and  sailed  for  the 
Levant.  But  so  it  chanced,  that,  falling  griev- 
oasly  sick  on  the  voyage,  he  lived  only  till  his 
vessel  reached  the  shores  of  Tripoli.  The 
countess,  being  told  that  a  celebrated  poet  had 
just  arrived  in  her  harbour,  who  was  dying  for 


her  love,  immediately  hastened  on  board,  and, 
taking  his  hand,  entreated  him  to  live  for  her 
sake.  Rudel,  already  speechless,  and  almost 
in  the  agonies  of  death,  revived  for  a  moment 
at  this  unexpected  grace ;  he  was  just  able  to 
express,  by  a  last  effort,  the  excess  of  his  grati- 
tude and  love,  and  expired  in  her  arms.  There- 
upon, the  countess  wept  bitterly,  and  vowed 
herself  to  a  life  of  penance  for  the  loss  she  had 
caused  to  the  world.  She  commanded  that  the 
last  song  which  Rudel  had  composed  in  her 
honor  should  be  transcribed  in  letters  of  gold, 
and  carried  it  always  in  her  bosom;  and  his 
remains  were  enclosed  in  a  magnificent  mauso- 
leum of  porphyry,  with  an  Arabic  inscription, 
commemorating  his  genius  and  his  love  for  her." 

Arouitd,  above,  on  every  spray, 

Enough  instructors  do  I  see. 
To  guide  my  unaccustomed  lay. 

And  make  my  numbers  worthy  thee  : 
Each  field  and  wood  and  flower  and  tree. 

Each  bird  whose  notes  with  pleasure  thrill. 
As,  warbling  wild  at  liberty,  \ 

The  air  with  melody  they  fill. 
How  sweet  to  listen  to  each  strain  ! 
But.  without  love,  how  cold,  how  vain  ! 

The  shepherds  love  the  flocks  they  tend, 
Their  rosy  children  sporting  near } 

For  them  is  joy  that  knows  no  end. 
And,  O,  to  me  such  life  were  dear ! 

To  live  fbr  her  I  love  so  well. 

To  seek  her  praise,  her  smile  to  win,  — 
But  still  my  heart  with  sighs  must  swell. 

My  heart  has-  still  a  void  within  ! 

Far  off  those  towers  and  castles  frown 
Where  she  resides  in  regal  state, 

And  I,  at  weary  distance  thrown. 
Can  find  no  solace  in  my  fate. 

Why  should  I  live^  since  hope  alone 
Is  all  to  my  experience  known  f 


GAUCELM  FAltolT. 

This  Troubadour  was  bom  in  the  latter  part 
of  the  twelfth,  or  not  far  fi-om  the  beginning  of 
the  thirteenth,  century.  Nostradamus  gives 
1220  as  the  date  of  his  death  ;  but  there  exists 
a  poem,  attributed  to  him,  on  the  death  of  Bea- 
trix, countess  of  Provence,  who  died  in  1260. 
Having  lost  his  fortune  bjr  play,  he  embraced 
the  profession  of  Jongleur,  and,  after  the  death 
of  Richard  Cceur-de-Lion,  travelled  from  place 
to  place  many  years,  seeking  his  fortune.  Fifty- 
two  pieces  of  his  poetry  have  been  preserved. 

And  must  thy  chords,  my  lots,  be  strung 
To  lays  of  woe  so  dark  as  this  ? 

And  must  the  fatal  truth  be  sung,  — 
The  final  knell  of  hope  and  bliss, — 


430 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


Which  to  the  end  of  life  shall  cast 

A  gloom  that  will  not  ceaae, 
Whose  clouds  of  woe,  that  gather  fast, 
Each  accent  shall  increase  ? 
Valor  and  fame  are  fled,  since  dead  thou  art, 
England's  King  Richard  of  the  Lion  Heart! 

Tes, — dead !  —  whole  ages  may  decay, 

Ere  one  so  true  and  brave 
Shall  yield  the  world  so  bright  a  ray 

As  sunk  into  thy  grave  ! 
Noble  and  valiant,  fierce  and  bold, 

Gentle  and  soft  and  kind. 
Greedy  of  honor,  free  of  gold. 

Of  thought,  of  grace,  refined  : 
Not  he  by  whom  Darius  fell,  . 

Arthur,  or  Charlemagne, 
With  deeds  of  more  renown  can  swell 

The  minstrers  proudest  strain  ; 
For  he  of  all  that  with  him  strove 

The  conqueror  became. 
Or  by  the  mercy  of  his'  love. 

Or  the  terror  of  his  name. 

I  marvel,  that,  amidst  the  throng 
Where  vice  has  sway  so  wide, 

To  any  goodness  may  belong. 
Or  wisdom  may  abide  ; 

Since  wisdom,  goodness,  truth  must  All, 

And  the  same  ruin  threatens  all ! 

I  marvel  why  we  idly  strive 

And  ve»  our  lives  with  care. 
Since  even  the  hours  we  seem  to  live 

But  death's  hard  doom  prepare. 
Do  we  not  see,  that,  day  by  day. 

The  best  and  bravest  go  ? 
They  vanish  from  the  earth  away, 

And  leave  regret  and  woe. 
Why,  then,  since  virtue,  honor,  cannot  save, 
Dread  we  ourselves  a  sudden,  early  grave  ? 

O  noble  king !  O  knight  renowned ! 

Where  now  is  battle's  pride. 
Since,  in  the  lists  no  longer  found, 

With  conquest  at  thy  side. 
Upon  thy  crest  and  on  thy  sword 

Thou  show'dst  where  glory  lay, 
And  sealed,  even  with  thy  slightest  word, 

The  fate  of  many  a  day  ? 

Where  now  the  open  heart  and  hand 

All  service  that  o'erpaid. 
The  gifts  that  of  a  bairen  land 

A  smiling  garden  made  ? 
And  those  whom  love  and  honest  zeal 

Had  to  thy  fate  allied. 
Who  looked  to  thee  in  woe  and  weal, 

Nor  heeded  aught  beside  : 
The  honors  thou  couldst  well  allow 

What  hand  shall  now  supply  ? 
What  is  their  occupation  now  ? 

To  weep  thy  loss, — and  die  ! 

The  haughty  pagan  now  shall  raise 

The  standard  high  in  air, 
Who  lately  saw  thy  glory's  blaze, 

And  fled  in  wild  despair. 


The  Holy  Tomb  shall  linger  long 

Within  the  Moslem's  power. 
Since  God  hath  willed  the  brave  and  strong 

Should  wither  in  an  hour. 
O,  for  thy  arm  on  Syria's  plain. 
To  drive  them  to  their  tents  again ! 

Has  Heaven  a  leader  still  in  store 

That  may  repay  thy  loss. 
Those  fearful  realms  who  dares  explore. 

And  combat  for  the  Cross  ? 
Let  him  —  let  all  —  remember  well 

Thy  glory  and  thy  name,  — 
Remember  how  young  Henry  fell. 

And  Geoffrey,  old  in  fame ! 

O,  he,  who  in  thy  pathway  treads, 

Must  toil  and  pain  endure ; 
His  head  must  plan  the  boldest  deeds. 

His  arm  must  make  them  sure  ! 


GUILLAUME  DE   CABESTAIN6. 

Cabestaino,  one  of  the  Troubadours  of  the 
twelfth  century,  Ch&telain  of  the  Comte  de  Rous- 
sillon,  was  the  chevalier  of  the  Dame  Sermonde, 
the  wife  of  Raimond  de  Ch&teau  Roussillon,  a 
powerful  seigneur,  especially  celebrated  for  his 
ferocity.  He  became  jealous  of  the  poet,  sod 
shut  his  wife  up  in  a  tower,  subjecting  her  to 
the  most  savage  treatment ;  and  resolved  to  take 
summary  vengeance  upon  the  poet,  who  bad 
written  a  song  upon  the  lady's  imprisonmeoL 
He  attacked  the  Troubadour  at  a  distance  from 
the  chftteau,  cut  off  his  head,  and  tore  out  his 
heart.  The  latter  he  caused  to  be  dressed  and 
served  up  to  his  wife,  —  a  flivorite  punishmeDt, 
it  would  seem,  with  the  jealous  lords  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  She  ate  it,  unconscious  of  what 
it  was.  *^  Do  you  know  that  meat  r  "  said  the 
barbarian.  "No,  but  I  have  found  it  very 
good.*'  "No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  responded  the 
grim  husband,  and  thereupon  showed  her  Ca- 
bestaing's  head.  At  this  horrible  sight,  Ser- 
monde exclaimed,  **  Tes,  barbarian,  I  have  fbaad 
it  delicious,  and  it  is  the  last  thing  I  shall  ever 
eat"  Scarcely  had  she  spoken  these  words, 
when  Raimond  fell  upon  her,,  sword  in  hand ; 
she  fled,  threw  her^lf  from  a  balcony,  and  was 
killed  by  the  fall. 


No,  never  since  the  fatal  time 

When  the  world  fell  for  woman's  crime. 

Has  Heaven  in  tender  mercy  sent — 
All  preordaining,  all  foreseeing  — 

A  breath  of  purity  that  lent 
Existence  to  so  fair  a  being ! 
Whatever  earth  can  boast  of  rare. 

Of  precious,  and  of  good,  — 
Gaze  on  her  fbrm,  't  is  mingled  there. 

With  added  grace  endued. 


LYJIIC   POEMS  OF  THE   TROUBADOURS. 


431 


Why,  why  is  she  bo  much  above 

All  others  whom  I  might  behold, — 
Whom  I,  unblamed,  might  dare  to  love, 
To  whom  m J  sorrows  might  be  told  ? 
O,  when  I  see  her,  passing  fair, 
I  feel  how  vain  is  all  my  care  : 
I  feel  she  all  transcends  my  praise, 
I  feel  ^e  must  contemn  my  lays : 
I  feel,  alas  !  no*  claim  have  I 
To  gain  that  bright  divinity  ! 
Were  she  less  lovely,  less  divine, 
Less  passion  and  despair  were  mine. 


LA   COMTESSE   DE  PROVENCE. 

BsATRix  DC  Savoie,  wifo  of  Raimond  B^ren- 
ger,  the  last  count  of  Provence,  lived  in  the 
first  half  of  the  thirteenth  century.  Only  one 
of  her  pieces  has  been  preserved, — the  lines 
addressed  to  her  husband.  She  was  a  friend 
and  protector  of  the  poets,  who  repaid  her 
beneficence  by  their  praises. 

I  FAiH  would  think  thou  hast  a  heart. 
Although  it  thus  its  thoughts  conceal, 

Which  well  could  bear  a  tender  part 
In  all  the  fondness  that  I  feel ; 

Alas  !  that  thoa  wouldst  let  me  know, 

And  end  at  once  my  doubts  and  woe  ! 

It  might  be  well  that  once  I  seemed 

To  check  the  love  I  prized  so  dear ; 
But  now  my  coldness  is  redeemed. 

And  what  is  left  for  thee  to  fear  ? 
Thou  dost  to  both  a  cruel  wrong ; 

Should  dread  in  mutual  love  be  known  ? 
Why  let  my  heart  lament  so  long. 

And  fail  to  claim  what  is  thine  own .' 


THE  MONK  OF  MONTAUDON. 

This  person,  whose  real  name  is  unknown, 
lived  in  the  latter  half  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
He  became  monk  of  the  abbey  of  Orlac,  and 
afterwards  prior  of  Montaudon.  Becoming  dis- 
satisfied with  the  monastic  life,  he  obtained 
permission  to  visit  the  court  of  Alphonso  the 
Third,  king  of  Aragon,  from  whom  he  re- 
ceived the  lordship  of  Puy-Sainte-Marie,  a  fief 
which  he  held  for  a  long  time,  but  finally  lost 
by  some  unexplained  change  in  his  fortunes. 
He  then  traversed  Spain,  and  was^  everywhere 
received  with  honor  and  loaded  with  benefits 
by  the  great.  Finally,  he  obtained  the  priory 
of  Villefranche,  in  Roussillon,  whither  he  re- 
tired and  died. 

I  I.OVS  the  court  by  wit  and  worth  adorned, 
A  man  whose  errors  are  abjured  and  mourned. 
My  gentle  mistress  by  a  streamlet  clear, 
Pleasure,  a  handsome  present,  and  good  cheer. 


I  love  fat  salmon,  richly  dressed,  at  noon ; 
I  love  a  faithful  friend  both  late  and  soon. 

I  hate  small  gifts,  a  man  that 's  poor  and  proud) 

The  young  who  talk  incessantly  and  loud ; 

I  hate  in  low-bred  company  to  be, 

I  hate  a  knight  that  has  not  courtesy. 

I  hate  a  lord  with  arms  to  war  unknown, 

I  hate  a  priest  or  monk  with  beard  o*ergrown  ; 

A  doting  husband,  or  a  tradesman's  son. 

Who  apes  a  noble,  and  would  pass  for  one. 

I  hate  much  water  and  too  little  wine ; 

A  prosperous  villain,  and  a  false  divine  ; 

A  niggard  lout  who  sets  the  dice  aside ; 

A  flirting  girl  all  fnppery  and  pride ; 

A  cloth  too  narrow,  and  a  board  too  wide ; 

Him  who  exalts  his  handmaid  to  his  wife, 

And  her  who  makes  her  groom  her  lord  for  life ; 

The  man  who  kills  his  horse  with  wanton  speed, 

And  him  who  fails  his  friend  in  time  of  need. 


CLAIRE  D'ANDUZE. 

Ths  history  of  this  poetess  is  quite  unknown. 
She  probably  belonged  to  the  noble  fiimily  of 
Bernard,  baron  of  Anduze,  one  of  the  most 
powerful  seigneurs  in  Provence.  Only  one  piece 
of  her  poetry  has  been  preserved. 

Thet  who  may  blame  my  tenderness, 
And  bid  me  dote  on  thee  no  more, 

Can  never  make  my  love  the  less. 
Or  change  one  hope  I  formed  before  ; 

Nor  can  they  add  to  each  endeavour. 

Each  sweet  desire,  to  please  thee  ever  ! 

If  any  my  aversion  ■  raise. 

On  whom  my  angry  looks  I  bend, 

Let  him  but  kindly  speak  thy  praise. 
At  once  I  hail  him  as  my  fnend. 

They  whomjthy  fame  and  worth  provoke. 
Who  seek  some  fancied  fault  to  tell. 

Although  with  angels'  tongues  they  spoke. 
Their  words  to  me  would  be  a  knell. 


ARNAUD   DANIEL. 

This  celebrated  person  is  often  mentioned 
by  the  Italian  poets.  The  testimonies  of  Dante, 
Petrarch,  Pulci,  and  Ariosto  would  seem  to 
place  him,  at  least  in  early  fame,  at  the  head 
of  the  Provengal  poets.  He  was  bom  of  poor 
but  noble  parents,  at  the  castle  of  Ribeyrac, 
in  P^rigord,  and  was,  according  to  a  Proven- 
cal authority  cited  by  Raynouard  (Vol.  V.,  p. 
31),  at  one  time  -a  resident  at  the  court  of 
Richard,  king  of  England.  He  was  celebrated 
as  the  poet  of  love.  Raynouard  says,  «*  There 
remains  a  positive   proof  of  the  existence  of 


432 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


a  romance  by  Amaud  Daniel,  namely,  that  of 
*  Lancelot  du  Lac,'  —  a  Grerman  translation  of 
which  was  made  towards  the  end  of  the  thir- 
teenth century  by  Ulrich  von  Zatchitschoven, 
who  names  Amaud  Daniel  as  the  original  aa- 
thor." 


Wheh  ledves  and  flowers  are  newly  springing, 

And  trees  and  boughs  are  budding  all, 
In  every  grove  when  birds  are  singing. 
And  on  the  balmy  air  is  ringing 

The  marsh's  speckled  tenants'  call ; 
Ah  !  then  I  think  how  small  the  gain 

Love's  leaves  and  flowers  and  fruit  may  be. 
And  all  night  long  I  mourn  in  vain. 

Whilst  others  sleep,  from  sorrow  free. 

If  I  dare  tell !  —  if  sighs  could  move  her !  — 
How  my  heart  welcomes  every  smile  ! 

My  Fairest  Hops  !  I  live  to  love  her, 
Tet  she  is  cold  or  coy  the  while. 

Go  thou,  my  song,  and  thus  reprove  her : 
And  tell  her,  Amaud  breathes  alone 
To  call  so  bright  a  prize  his  own  ! 


BERNARD  DE  VENTADOUR. 

Bernard  de  Ventadour  was  bora  at  Yen- 
tadour,  in  Limosin,  in  the  latter-  half  of  the 
twelfth  century.  Though  belonging  to  an  in- 
ferior station,  the  elegance  of  his  figure,  the 
sweetness  of  his  voice,  and  the  brilliancy  of 
his  imagination,  gained  him  the  favor  of  Eblis 
the  Second,  viscount  of  Ventadour,  and  of  the 
viscountess,  his  beautiful  wife,  whom  he  cele- 
brated in  his  songs.  The  jealousy  of  the  vis- 
count was  at  length  aroused,  and  he  caused 
his  wife  to  be  imprisoned.  The  Troubadour, 
learning  the  cause  of  the  harsh  treatment  which 
his  benefactress  had  received,  withdrew  to  the 
court  of  Eleanor  of  Guienne,  wife  of  Henry, 
duke  of  Normandy,  by  whom  he  was  received 
with  distinguished  favor.  He  celebrated  this 
princess  in  many  of  his  songs,  having,  despite 
his  first  love,  become  deeply  enamored  of  an- 
other. After  her  departure  for  England  with 
the  duke,  Bernard  lived  at  the  court  of  Rai- 
mond  the  Fifth,  count  of  Toulouse,  until  the 
death  of  that  prince  in  1194;  he  then  entered 
the  abbey  of  Dalon,  in  Limosin,  where  he  soon 
after  died. 


When  I  behold  the  lark  upspring 

To  meet  the  bright  sun  joyfully, 
How  be  forgets  to  poise  his  wing, 

In  his  gay  spirit's  revelry,  — 
Alas !  that  mournful  thoughts  should  spring 

E'en  from  that  happy  songster's  glee ! 
Strange,  that  such  gladdening  sight  should  bring 

Not  joy,  but  pining  care,  to  me  ! 


I  thought  my  heart  had  known  the  whole 

Of  love,  but  small  its  knowledge  proved ; 
For  still  the  more  my  longing  soul 

Loves  on,  itself  the  while  unloved : 
She  stole  my  heart,  myself  she  stole. 

And  all  I  prized  from  me  removed ; 
She  left  me  but  the  fierce  control 

Of  vain  desires  fl>r  her  I  loved. 

All  self>command  is  now  gone  by. 

E'er  since  the  luckless  hour  when  she 
Became  a  mirror  to  my  eye, 

Whereon  I  gazed  complacently : 
Thou  fatal  mirror  !  there  I  spy 

Love's  image ;  and  my  doom  shall  be, 
Like  young  Narcissus,  thus  to  sigh. 

And  thus  expire,  beholding  thee  ! 


FOULQUES   DE   MARSEILLE. 

FouLquES  DE  Marseille,  the  son  of  a  mer- 
chant, lived  in  the  latter  half  of  the  twelfth 
century.  Finding  himself,  at  the  death  of  hit 
father,  possessed  of  a  sufficient  fortune,  he  surren- 
dered himself  wholly  to  his  passion  for  poetry, 
and  was  successively  received  at  the  courts  of 
Richard  the  First,  king  of  England,  of  Rai- 
mond  the  Fifth,  count  of  Toulouse,  and  of 
Barral,  viscount  of  Marseilles.  He  preferred 
the  last,  on  account  of  a  passion  he  bad  con- 
ceived for  Alazals  de  Roquemartia,  Barral's 
wife,  who  listened  to  his  songs  with  pleasure, 
but  finally,  in  a  fit  of  jealousy,  quarrelled 
with  him  and  banished  hijn  from  the  court 
of  Marseilles.  He  resided  afterwards  at  the 
court  of  William  the  Eighth,  lord  of  Montpel- 
Her. 

After  losing  most  of  his  protectors,  Foulquee 
took  the  order  of  Citeauz,  became  abb^  of  Ter- 
ronet,  afterwards  of  Toulouse,  and,  in  1205, 
bishop  of  Toulouse.  He  was  deeply  concerned 
in  the  bloody  wars  against  the  Albigenses. 


I  WOULD  not  any  man  should  hear 
The  birds  that  sweetly  sing  above. 
Save  he  who  knows  the  power  of  love : 
For  naught  beside  can  soothe  or  cheer 

My  soul,  like  that  sweet  harmony ; 
Or  like  herself,  who,  yet  more  dear, 
Hath  greater  power  my  soul  to  move 
Than  songs  or  lays  of  Brittany. 

In  her  I  joy  and  hope;  yet  ne'er 
Too  daring  would  my  spirit  prove ; 
For  he  who  highest  soars  above 
Feels  but  his  fall  the  more  severe  : 
Then  what  shall  I  a  gainer  be. 
If  on  her  lips  no  smile  appear  ? 

Shall  I  in  cold  despair  still  love  P-*- 
O,  yes  !  in  patient  constancy. 


LYRIC  POEMS  OF  THE  TROUBADOURS. 


433 


BERTRAND   D£  BORN. 

This  warrior  and  Troubadour  ilourishBd  in 
the  latter  half  of  the  twelfth  century.  He  was 
viscount  of  Hautefbrt,  in  P^rigueuz.  *<  He  first 
celebrated,"  says  Mrs.  Jameson,*  **  Eleanor  Plan- 
tagenet,  the  sister  of  his  friend  and  brother  in 
arms  and  song,  Richard  Cceur-de-Lion ;  and 
we  are  expressly  told  that  Richard  was  proud 
of  the  poetical  homage  rendered  to  the  charms 
of  his  sister  by  this  knightly  Troubadour,  and 
that  the  princess  was  far  firom  being  insensible 
to  his  admiration.  Only  one  of  the  many  songs 
addressed  to  Eleanor  has  been  preserved ;  from 
which  we  gather,  that  it  was  composed  by  Ber- 
trand  in  the  field,  at  a  time  when  his  army  was 
threatened  with  famine,  and  the  poet  himself 
was  suffering  from  the  pangs  of  hunger.  Elea- 
nor married  the  duke  of  Saxony,  and  Bertrand 
chose  for  his  next  love  the  beautiful  Maenz  de 
Montagnac,  daughter  of  the  viscount  of  Turenne, 
and  wife  of  Talleyrand  de  Perigord.  The  lady 
accepted  his  service,  and  acknowledged  him 
as  her  knight;  but  evil  tongues  having  at- 
tempted to  BOW  dissension  between  the  lovers, 
Bertrand  addressed  to  her  a  song,  in  which  he 
defends  himself  firom  the  imputation  of  incon- 
stancy, in  a  style  altogether  characteristic  and 
original.  The  warrior  poet,  borrowing  from 
the  objects  of  his  daily  cares,  ambition,  and 
pleasure,  phrases  to  illustrate  and  enhance  the 
expression  of  his  love,  wishes  *that  he  may 
lose  his  fevorite  hawk  in  her  first  flight ;  that 
a  felcon  may  stoop  and  bear  her  off,  as  she  sits 
upon  his  wrist,  and  tear  her  in  his  sight,  if  the 
sound  of  his  lady*s  voice  be  not  dearer  to  him 
than  all  the  gifb  of  love  from  another;  —  that 
he  may  stumble  with  his  shield  about  his  neck ; 
that  his  helmet  may  gall  his  brow;  that  his 
bridle  may  be  too  long,  his  stirrups  too  short ; 
that  be  may  be  forced  to  ride  a  hard-trotting 
horse,  and  find  his  groom  drunk  when  he  ar- 
rives at  his  gate,  if  there  be  a  word  of  truth  in 
the  accusations  of  his  enemies ;  —  that  he  may 
not  have  a  denier  to  stake  at  the  gaming-table, 
and  that  the  dice  may  never  more  be  fevorable 
to  him,  if  ever  he  had  swerved  firom  his  faith ; 
—  that  he  may  look  on  like  a  dastard,  and  see 
bis  lady  wooed  and  won  by  another;  that 
the  winds  may  fail  him  at  sea;  that  in  the 
battle  he  may  be  the  first  to  fly,  if  he  who  has 
slandered  him  does  not  lie  in  his  throat ' ;  and 
so  on  through  seven  or  eight  stanzas. 

**  Bertrand  de  Bom  exercised  in  his  time  a 
&tal  influence  on  the  counsels  and  politics  of 
England.  A  close  and  ardent  firiendship  existed 
between  him  and  young  Henry  Plantagenet, 
the  eldest  son  of  our  Henry  the  Second  ;  and 
the  femily  dissensions  which  distracted  the  Eng- 
lish court,  and  the  unnatural  rebellion  of  Henry 
and  Richard  against  their  father,  were  his  work. 
It  happened,  some  time  after  the  death  of  Prince 


*  MoDoin  of  tha  Low  of  the  FooU,  pp.  90- 
66 


Henry,  that  the  king  of  England  besieged*  Ber- 
trand de  Born  in  one  of  his  castles  :  the  resist- 
ance was  long  and  obstinate,  but  at  length  the 
warlike  Troubadour  was  taken  prisoner  and 
brought  before  the  king,  so  justly  incensed 
against  him,  and  from  whom  he  had  certainly 
no  mercy  to  expect.  The  heart  of  Henry  was 
still  bleeding  with  the  wounds  inflicted  by  his 
ungrateful  children,  and  he  saw  before  him, 
and  in  his  power,  the  primary  cause  of  their 
misdeeds  and  his  own  bitter  sufferings.  Ber- 
trand was  on  the  point  of  being  led  out  to 
death,  when  by  a  single  word  he  reminded  the 
king  of  his  lost  son,  and  the  tender  friendship 
which  had  existed  between  them.  The  chord 
was  struck  which  never  ceased  to  vibrate  in 
the  parental  heart  of  Henry;  bursting  into 
tears,  he  turned  aside,  and  commanded  Ber- 
trand and  his  followers  to  be  immediately  set 
at  liberty ;  he  even  restored  to  Bertrand  his 
castle  and  his  lands,  <  m  the  name  of  kit  dead 
eon, 

Bertrand  de  Bom  terminated  his  career  in  a 
monastery,  where  he  had  assumed  the  habit  of 
the  order  of  Citeauz. 

In  the  **  Inferno,*'  Dante  assigns  to  Bertrand 
de  Bora  a  horrible  punishment :  — 

"Without  doubt 
I  law,  snd  y«t  It  seems  to  pass  before  me, 
A  headless  trunk,  that  erea  as  the  rest 
Of  the  ad  flock  paced  onward.    Bj  the  hair 
It  bore  the  serered  member,  lantem-wiae 
Pendent  in  hand,  which  looked  at  us,  and  said, 
'  Woe  >s  me  i '    The  spirit  lighted  thus  himself; 
And  two  there  were  in  one,  and  one  in  two,  — 
How  that  may  be,  he  knows  who  ordereth  so. 
"  When  at  the  bridge's  foot  direct  he  stood, 
His  arm  ah>(i  he  reared,  thrusting  the  head 
Fun  in  our  view,  that  nearer  we  might  hear 
The  words  which  thus  it  uttered :  '  Now  behold 
This  grierous  torment,  thou  who  braathing  goest 
To  spy  the  dead ;  behold,  if  any  else 
Be  terrible  as  this.    And  that  on  earth 
Hmu  may'st  hear  tidings  of  me,  know  that  I 
Am  Bertrand,  he  of  Bom,  who  gave  King  John 
The  counsel  mischisTous.    Father  and  soa 

I  set  at  mutual  war.* "  

IiCFiouro,  Canto  ZXVni. 


Ladt,  since  thou  hast  driven  me  forth. 

Since  thou,  unkind,  hast  banishisd  me 
(Though  cause  of  such  neglect  be  none). 
Where  shall  I  turn  from  thee  ? 
Ne'er  can  I  see 
Such  joy  as  I  have  seen  before, 
If,  as  I  fear,  I  find  no  more 
Another  fair; — from  thee  removed, 
I  '11  sigh  to  think  I  e'er  was  loved. 

And  since  my  eager  search  were  vain, 

One  lovely  as  thyself  to  find,  — 
A  heart  so  matchlessly  endowed, 
Or  manners  so  refined, 
So  gay,  so  kind. 
So  courteous,  gentle,  debonair,  — 
I  '11  rove,  and  catch  from  every  fair 


434 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


Some  winning  grace,  and  form  a  whole, 
To  glad  —  till  thou  return  —  my  soul. 

The  roges  of  thy  glowing  cheek, 

Fair  Sembelis,  I  '11  steal  from  thee ; 
That  lovely  smiling  look  I  *11  take; 
Tet  rich  thou  still  shalt  be, 
In  whom  we  see 
All  that  can  deck  a -lady  bright : 
And  your  enchanting  converse  ^ig^^ 
Fair  Elis,  will  I  borrow  too, 
That  she  in  wit  may  shine  like  you. 

And  from  the  noble  Chales  I 

Will  beg  that  neck  of  ivory  white, 
And  her  fair  hands  of  loveliest  form 
I  *11  take  ;  and  speeding,  light, 
My  onward  flight. 
Earnest,  at  Roca  Choart's  gate, 
Fair  Agnes  I  will  supplicate 
To  grant  her  locks,  more  bright  than  those 
Which  Tristan  loved  on  Tseult's  brows. 

And,  Audiartz,  though  on  me  thou  frown, 

All  that  thou  hast  of  courtesy 
I  '11  have,  —  thy  look,  thy  genUe  mien. 
And  all  the  unchanged  constancy 
That  dwells  with  thee. 
And,  Miels  de  Ben,  on  thee  I  '11  wait 
For  thy  light  shape,  so  delicate, 
That  in  thy  &iry  form  of  grace 
My  lady's  image  I  may  trace. 

The  beauty  of  those  snow-white  teeth 

From  thee,  famed  Faidit,  I  '11  extort, 
The  welcome,  affable,  and  kind. 

To  all  the  numbers  that  resort 
Unto  her  court. 
And  Bels  Miraills  shall  crown  the  whole, 
With  all  her- sparkling  flow  of  soul ; 
Those  mental  charms  that  round  her  play, 
For  ^ver  wise,  yet  ever  gay. 


The  beautiful  spring  delights  me  well. 

When  flowers  and  leaves  are  growing ; 
And  it  pleases  my  heart  to  hear  the  swell 
Of  the  birds'  sweet  chorus  flowing 
In  the  echoing  wood  ; 
And  I  love  to  see,  all  scattered  around, 
Pavilions,  tents,  on  the  martial  ground ; 

And  my  spirit  finds  it  good 
To  see,  on  the  level  plains  beyond. 
Gay  knights  and  steeds  caparisoned. 

It  pleases  me,  when  the  lancers  bold 

Set  men  and  armies  flying ; 
And  it  pleases  me,  too,  to  hear  around 

The  voice  of  the  soldiers  crying ; 
And  joy  is  mine. 
When  the  castles  strong,  besieged,  shake, 
And  walls  uprooted  totter  and  crack ; 
And  I  see  the  foemen  join. 
On  the  moated  shore  all  compassed  round 
With  the  palisade  and  guarded  mound. 


Lances,  and  swords,  and  stained  helnns. 
And  shields,  dismantled  and  broken. 

On  the  verge  of  the  bloody  battle-icene, 
TEe  field  of  wrath  betoken  ; 
•  And  the  vassals  are  there, 

And  there  fly  the  steeds  of  the  dying  and  dead ; 

And  where  the  mingled  strife  is  spread, 
The  noblest  warrior's  care 

Is  to  cleave  the  foeman's  limbs  and  head, — 

The  conqueror  less  of  the  living  than  dead. 

I  tell  yon  that  nothing  my  soul  can  cheer^ 

Or  banqueting,  or  reposing. 
Like  the  onset  cry  of  **  Charge  them  I  "  rang 

From  each  .side,  as  in  battle  closing. 
Where  the  horses  neigh. 
And  the  call  to  **  Aid !  "  is  echoing  loud  ; 
And  there  on  the  earth  the  lowly  and  proud 

In  the  fosse  together  lie  ; 
And  yonder  is  piled  the  mangled  heap 
Of  the  brave  .that  scaled  the  trench's  steep. 

Barons,  your  castles  in  safety  place, 

Your  cities  and  villages  too, 
Before  ye  haste  to<the  battle-scene  ! 

And,  Papiol,  quickly  go. 

And  tell  the.Lord  of  "  Oc  and  No  "  « 
That  peace  already  too  long  hath  been ! 


ARNAUD  DE  MARVEIL. 

This  Troubadour  belonged  to  the  latter 
half  of  the  twelfth  century.  He  was  born  at 
the  Chateau  de  Marveil,  in  the  diocese  of  P^ri- 
gord.  He  was  a  handsome  man,  sang  well, 
composed  well,  and  read  romances  agreeably. 
These  advantages  secured  him  a  favorable  re- 
ception from  the  Comtesse  de  Burlas,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Raimond  the  Fifth,  and  wile  of  Roger 
the  Second,  sumamed  Taillefer,  viscount  of 
B^ziers.  Adelaide  de  Burlas,  the  object  of  his 
passioji  and  the  subject  of  his  song,  accepted 
his  homage,  and  retained  him  as  her  chevalier; 
but  the  jealousy  of  Alphonso,  the  king  of  Cas- 
tile, caused  his  dismission,  and  he  retired  to 
the  court  of  GuillaOlne,  the  lord  of  Montpellier. 


O,  HOW  sweet  the  breeze  of  April, 

Breathing  soft,  as  May  draws  near ; 
While,  through  nights  serene  and  gentle. 

Songs  of  gladness  meet  the  ear : 
Every  bird  his  well  known  language 

Warbling  in  the  morning's  pride. 
Revelling  on  in  joy  and  gladness 

By  his  happy  partner's  side  ! 

When  around  me  all  is  smiling. 

When  to  life  the  young  birds  spring. 

Thoughts  of  love  I  cannot  hinder 
Come,  my  heart  inspiriting : 


1  "  Ym  and  No/*— a  title  designaUng  Richard  Goear^ 


LYRIC  POEMS  OF  THE  TROUBADOURS. 


435 


Nature,  habit,  both  incline  me 
In  such  joys  to  bear  my  part ; 

With  such  aonnds  of  bliaa  around  me, 
Who  could  wear  a  saddened  heart  ? 

Fairer  than  the  far-famed  Helen, 

LoYelier  than  the  flowerets  gay  : 
Snow-white  teeth,  and  lips  truth-telling, 

Heart  as  open  as  the  day. 
Golden  hair,  and  fresh,  bright  roses ;  — 

Heaven,  that  formed  a  thing  so  fair, 
Knows  that  never  yet  another 

Lived,  who  could  with  her  compare. 


PIERRE   VIDAL. 

PisRKE  ViDAL  belongs  to  the  close  of  the 
twelfth  and  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth 
century.  He  had  a  fine  voice  and  a  lively 
imagination ;  but  hu  vanity  sometimes  passed 
into  insanity.  Passionately  devoted  to  the  la- 
dies, he  fancied  that  they  all  fell  in  love  with 
him  at  the  first  sight.  AlazaTs,  the  wife  of 
Barral,  viscount  of  Marseilles,  was  for  a  time 
the  theme  of  his  songs ;  but  a  little  piece  of 
presumption  on  his  part  excited  the  lady^s  ire, 
and  the  gallant  Troubadour  saw  fit  to  withdraw 
from  the  court.  He  followed  Richard  to  the 
Holy  Land,  and  married  a  woman  of  the  island 
of  Cyprus,  who  pretended  to  be  the  niece  of  the 
emperor  of  the  East.  He  assumed  the  ensigns  of 
royalty,  claiming  the  empire  as  his  inheritance. 
Meantime  the  wrath  of  Alazals  had  been  appeas- 
ed, and  on  bis  return  he  was  graciously  received. 
He  was  deeply  afQicted  by  the  death  of  Rai- 
mond  the  Seventh,  count  of  Toulouse,  wore 
mourning,  let  his  beard  and  hair  grow,  made 
his  servants  do  the  same,  and  cropped  the  ears 
and  tails  of  his  horses. 

The  idea  of  conquering  the  Oriental  empire 
returned  to  Pierre  Vidal,  towards  the  end  of 
his  life ;  he  revisited  the  East  in  pursuance  of 
this  project,  and  died  two  years  after  his  return, 
in  1229. 

Or  all  sweet  birds,  I  love  the  most 

The  lark  and  nightingale ; 
For  they  the  first  of  all  awake, 

The  opening  spring  with  songs  to  hail. 

And  I,  like  them,  when  silently 

Each  Troubadour  sleeps  on. 
Will  wake  me  up,  and  sing  of  love 

And  thee,  Vierna,  fairest  one  ! 

The  rose  on  thee  its  bloom  bestowed, 

The  lily  gave  its  white, 
And  nature,  when  it  planned  thy  form, 

A  model  framed  of  fair  and  bright. 

For  nothing,  sure,  that  could  be  given. 

To  thee  bath  been  denied  ; 
That  there  each  thought  of  love  and  joy 

In  bright  perfection  might  reside. 


PIERRE  DAUVER6NE. 

This  poet  was  born  of  humble  parents,  in 
the  diocese  of  Clermont.  He  belonged  to  the 
first  part  of  the  thirteenth  century.  *  His  person- 
al advantages,  and  his  talent  for  poetry,  gained 
him  the  favor  of  the  most  powerful  lords  and 
the  most  beautiful  ladies  of  the  age.  His  suc- 
cess turned  his  head ;  and  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  call  himself  the  first  poet  in  the  world.  He 
finally  retired  to  a  cloister,  where  he  died. 


Go,  nightingale,  and  find  the  beauty  I  adore ; 
My  heart  to  her  outpour : 

Bid  her  each  feeling  tell. 

And  bid  her  charge  thee  well 
To  say  that  she  forgets  me  not. 

Let  her  not  stay  thee  there. 

But  come  and  quick  declare 
The  tidings  thou  hast  brought ; 
For  none  beside  so  dear  have  I, 
And  long  for  news  from  none  so  anxiously. 

Away  the  bird  has  flown ;  away 
Lightly  he  goes,  inquiring  rou^d,  — 
••  Where  shall  that  lovely  one  be  found  f  " 

And,  when  he  sees  her,  tunes  the  lay  ; 
That  lay  which  sweetly  sounds  afar. 
Oft  heard  beneath  the  evening  star. 

**  Sent  by  thy  true  love,  lady  fair,"  he  sings, 

**  I  come  to  sing  to  thee. 

And  what  sweet  song  shall  be 
His  glad  reward,  when,  eager^  up  he  springs 

To  meet  me  as  I  come 

On  weary  pinion  home  ? 

Sweet  lady  !  let  me  tell 

Kind  words  to  him  who  loves  thee  well. 
And  why  these  cold  and  keen  delays  ? 
Love  should  be  welcomed,  while  it  stays ; 
It  is  a  flower  that  fadeth  soon  ', 
O,  profit,  lady,  by  its  short-liveid  noon  !  " 

Then  that  enchanting  fair  in  accents  sweet  re- 
plied, — 
«« Thy  fiiithful  nightingale 
Has  told  his  pleasant  tale ; 
And  he  shall  tell  thee  how,  by  absence  tried, 
Here,  far  from  thee,  my  love,  I  rest ; 
For  long  thy  stay  hath  been. 
Such  grief  had  I  foreseen. 
Not  with  my  love  so  soon  hadst  thou  been  blest. 
Here,  then,  for  thee  I  wait ; 
With  thee  is  joy  and  mirth. 
And  nothing  here  on  earth 
With  thee  can  e'er  compete. 

<*True  love,  like  gold,  is  well  refined ; 

And  mine  doth  purify  my  mind  : 

Go,  then,  sweet  bird,  and  quickly  say, 

An^  in  thy  most  bewitching  way. 

How  well  I  love. — Fly  !  haste  thee  on  ! 

Why  tarriest  thou?— What!  not  yet  gone?" 


436 


FRENCH   POETRY. 


GIRAUD   D£   BORNEIL. 

GiRAUD  DE  BoRNEiL  belongs  to  the  latter  half 
of  the  thirteenth  century.  The  Provencal  au- 
thority cited  by  Raynouard  (Vol.  V.  p.  166) 
says,  that  Giraud  was  bom  of  bumble  parentage 
in  Limosin,  but  that  he  was  skilled  in  letters, 
and  of  good  natural  powers ;  that  he  could 
**  trobaire  "  better  than  any  of  those  who  pre- 
ceded or  followed  him;  for  which  reason  he 
was  called  the  Master  of  the  Troubadours. 
He  was  held  in  high  honor  by  powerful  men, 
and  by  the  ladies,  on  account  of  his  poems. 
"During  fhe  winter,'*  says  the  same  writer, 
**  he  went  to  school  and  learned ;  and  all  the 
summer  he  visited  the  courts,  and  carried  with 
him  two  singers,  wbo  sang  his  songs.  He  would 
not  marry,  and  all  that  he  gained  he  gave  to 
his  poor  parents  and  to  the  church  of  the  town 
where  he  was  bom,  which  church  bore  the 
name  of  Saint  Gervaai."     He  died  in  1278. 


CoMPAiiioF  dear  !  or  sleeping  or  awaking. 
Sleep  not  again  !  for,  lo  !  the  morn  is  nigh, 

And  in  the  east  that  early  star  is  breaking, 
The  day  s  forerunner,  known  unto  mine  eye. 
The  morn,  the  mora  is  near. 

Companion  dear !  with  carols  sweet  1 11  call 
thee; 
Sleep  not  again  !  I  hear  the  birds*  blithe  song 
Loud  in  the  woodlands;  evil  may  befall  thee, 
And  jealous  eyes  awaken,  tarrying  long. 
Now  that  the  morn  is  near. 

Companion  dear!  forth  from  the  window  look- 
ing, 
Attentive  mark  the  signs  of  yonder  heaven ; 
Judge  if  aright  I  read  what  they  betoken  : 
Thine  all  the  loss,  if  vain  the  warning  given. 
The  mora,  the  mora  is  near. 

Companion  dear !  since  thou  from  hence  wert 
straying, 
Nor  sleep  nor  rest  these  eyes  have  visited ; 
My  prayers  imceasing  to  the  Virgin  paying. 
That  thou  in  peace  thy  backward  way  might 
tread. 
The  morn,  the  morn,  is  near. 

Companion  dear  !  hence  to  the  fields  with  me  ! 

Me  thou  fbrbad'st  to  slumber  through  the  night. 
And  I  have  watched  that  livelong  night  for  thee; 

But  thou  in  song  or  me  hast  no  delight. 
And  now  the  mora  is  near. 

ANSWBB. 

Companion  dear  !  so  happily  sojourning, 

So  blest  am  I,  I  care  not  forth  to  speed : 
Here  brightest  beauty  reigns,  her  smiles  adorn- 
ing 
Her  dwelling-place, — then  wherefore  should 
I  heed 
The  morn  or  jealous  eyes .' 


TOMIERS. 

ToMiKRS  IS  mentioned  in  connection  with 
Palazis  by  the  Provencal  historian,  quoted  by 
Raynouard.  They  were  cavaliers  of  Taniacon, 
»  esteemed  and  beloved  by  good  cavaliers,  and 
by  the  ladies."  Tomiers  endeavoured  by  his 
verse  to  rouse  the  South  of  France  against  the 
craelty  of  the  court  in  the  wars  of  the  Albigen- 
ses. 


I  'll  make  a  song  shall  utter  forth 

My  full  and  free  complaint. 
To  see  the  heavy  hours  pass  on. 

And  witness  to  the  feint 
Of  coward  souls,  whose  vows  were  made 
In  falsehood,  and  are  yet  unpaid. 
Yet,  noble  Sirs,  we  will  not  fear. 
Strong  in  the  hope  of  succours  near. 

Yes  !  full  and  ample  help  for  us 

Shall  come,  —  so  trasts  my  heart ; 
God  fights  for  us,  and  these  our  foeo. 

The  French,  must  soon  depart : 
For  on  the  souls  that  fear  not  Gt>d, 
Soon,  soon  shall  fall  the  vengeful  rod. 
Then,  noble  Sirs,  we  will  not  fear. 
Strong  in  the  hope  of  succours  near. 

And  hither  they  believe  to  come,  -— 

The  treacherous,  base  crusaders !  — 
But  e'en  as  quickly  as  they  come. 

We  Ml  chase  those  fierce  invaders : 
Without  a  shelter  they  shall  fly 
Before  our  valiant  chivalry. 
Then,  n6ble  Sirs,  we  will  not  fear. 
Strong  in  the  hope  of  succours  near. 

And  e*en  if  Frederic,  on  the  throne 

Of  powerful  Germany, 
Submit  the  cruel  ravages 
Of  Louis-  hosts  to  see, 
Yet,  in  the  breast  of  England's  king 
Wrath  deep  and  vengeful  shall  upspring. 
Then,  noble  Sirs,  we_  will  not  fear. 
Strong  in  the  hope  of  succours  near. 

Not  much  those  meek  and  holy  men  — 

The  traitorous  bishops —  mourn, 
Though  from  our  hands  the  sepulchre 

Of  our  dear  Lord  be  torn  : 
More  tender  far  their  anxious  care 
For  the  rich  plunder  of  Belcaire. 
But,  noble  Sirs,  we  will  not  fear. 
Strong  in  the  hope  of  succours  near. 

And  look  at  our  proud  cardinal. 

Whose  hours  in  peace  are  passed  ; 
Look  at  his  splendid  dwelling-place 

(Pray  Heaven  it  may  not  last ! )  — 
He  heeds  not,  while  he  lives  in  state. 
What  ills  on  Damietta  wait. 
But,  noble  Sirs,  we  will  not  fear. 
Strong  in  the  hope  of  succours  near. 


FROISSART. 


437 


I  cannot  think  that  ATignon 

Will  lose  its  holy  zeal,  — 

In  this  our  cause  so  ardently 

Its  citizens  can  feel. 
Then  shame  to  him  who  will  not  bear 
In  this  our  glorious  cause  his  share  I 
And,  noble  Sirs,  we  will  not  fear, 
Strong  in  the  hope  of  succours  near. 


RICHARD  COEUR-DE-LION. 

The  name  and  exploits  of  this  chivalrous 
monarch  are  so  well  known  in  history,  poetry, 
and  romance,  that  only  the  principal  dates  in 
his  life  need  to  be  mentioned  here.  He  was 
the  son  of  Henry  the  Second  and  Eleanor  of 
Guienne,  and  was  bom  in  1157.  He  joined  his 
brothers  in  a  rebellion  against  his  father,  on 
whoee  death  he  succeeded  to  the  throne  of 
England.  Soon  ai\er,  he  engaged  in  the  crusade, 
having  taken  the  cross  previously  to  his  acces- 
sion to  the  throne.  He  embarked  at  Acre,  in 
October,  1192,  to  return  to  England,  but  was 
wrecked  on  the  coast  of  Istria,  near  Aquileia. 
He  then  attempted  to  pass  through  Germany  in 
disguise,  but  was  discovered  near  Vienna,  ar- 
rested, and,  by  order  of  Leopold,  duke  of  Aus- 
tria, thrown  into  prison,  and  afterwards  trans- 
ferred to  the  Emperor  Henry  the  Sixth.  He 
was,  at  length,  liberated,  on  the  payment  of  a 
large  ransom,  and  arrived  in  England  in  March, 
1194.  He  died  in  April,  1199,  in  consequence 
of  a  wound  he  had  received  in  the  siege  of  the 
castle  of  Chalus. 

Richard  had  assembled  around  him  the  prin- 
cipal Troubadours  of  his  age,  before  be  ascended 
the  English  throne.  He  was  himself  a  poet  of 
no  small  distinction,  and  during  the  reverses  of 


his  life  found  his  solace  in  composition.  The 
romantic  story  of  the  place  of  his  imprisonment 
being  discovered  by  the  minstrel  Blondel,  his 
faithful  page,  is  well  known. 


No  captive  knight,  whom  chains  confine, 
Can  tell  his  fete,  and  not  repine ; 
Tet  with  a  song  he  cheers  the  gloom 
That  hangs  around  his  living  tomb. 
Shame  to  his  fKends !  — the  king  remains 
Two  years  unransomed  and  in  chains. 

Now  let  them  know,  my  breve  barons, 
English,  Normans,  and  Gascons, 
Not  a  liege-man  so  poor  have  I, 
That  I  would  not  his  freedom  buy. 
I  ^ill  not  reproach  their  noble  line. 
But  chains  and  a  dungeon  still  are  mine. 

The  dead, — nor  fnends  nor  kin  have  they ! 
Nor  fiiends  nor  kin  my  ransom  pay ! 
My  wrongs  afflict  me, — yet  far  more 
For  feithless  friends  my  heart  is  sore. 
O,  what  a  blot  upon  their  name, 
If  I  should  perish  thus  in  shame  ! 

Nor  is  it  strange  I  suffer  pain. 

When  sacred  oaths  are  thus  made  vain. 

And  when  the  king  with  bloody  hands 

Spreads  war  and  pillage  through  my  lands. 

One  only  solace  now  remains,  — 

I  soon  shall  burst  these  servile  chains. 

Ye  Troubadours,  and  fHends  of  roirie, 
Brave  Chail,  and  noble  Pensauvine, 
Go,  tell  my  rivals,  in  your  song, 
This  heart  hath  never  done  them  wrong. 
He  infamy  —  not  glory  —  gains, 
Who  strikes  a  monaroh  in  his  chains. 


SECOND  PERIOD.-CENTURIES  XIV.,  XV. 


JEAN   FROISSART. 

This  eminent  chronicler  was  bom  at  Va- 
lenciennes, about  the  year  1337.  He  was 
destined  for  the  church,  but  his  love  of  poe- 
try, travelling,  and  adventure  soon  withdraw 
him  for  a  time  firom  an  ecclesiastical  career. 
At  the  age  of  twenty,  he  began  his  history  of 
the  ware  of  his  time.  Crossing  over  to  Eng- 
land, he  was  fovorably  received  by  Philippe 
de  Hainault,  the  queen  of  Edward  the  Third. 
After  revisiting  France,  he  returned  to  Eng- 
land, and  was  appointed  secretary  to  the  queen, 
in  whose  service  he  continued  ive  yeare,  dur- 
ing which  time  he  composed  many  poems. 
Frois8art*s  passion  for  adventure,  and  the  desire 
to  visit  the  scenes  of  his  history,  led  him  to 


andertake  numerous  journeys,  in  the  course  of 
which  he  became  known  to  the  most  distin- 
guished persons  of  his  age.  The  precise  date 
of  his  death  is  unknown,  but  it  must  have 
happened  afler  the  year  1400,  as  he  mentions 
some  of  the  events  of  this  year. 

Though  Froissart  is  much  better  known  as 
a  historian  than  as  a  poet,  yet  his  poetical  pro- 
ductions are  numerous.  They  remain,  how- 
ever, mostly  in  manuscript,  in  the  Biblioth^ue 
Royale,  at  Paris. 

TRIOLET. 
Take  time  while  yet  it  is  in  view. 

For  fortune  is  a  fickle  fair  : 
Days  fade,  and  otbera  spring  anew ; 
Then  take  the  moment  still  in  view. 
xk2 


438 


FRENCH   POETRY. 


What  boots  to  toil  and  cares  parsue  ? 

Each  month  a  new  moon  hangs  in  air : 
Take,  then,  the  moment  still  in  yiew, 

For  fortune  is  a  fickle  ftir. 


YIRELAY. 

Too  long  it  seems  ere  I  shall  view 
The  maid  so  gentle,  fair,  and  true, 

Whom  loyally  I  love : 

Ah  !  for  her  sake,  where'er  I  rove,  ■ 
All  scenes  my  care  renew  ! 
I  have  not  seen  her,  —  ah,  how  long  ! 
Nor  heard  the  music  of  her  tongue ; 
Though  in  her  sweet  and  lovely  mien 
Such  grace,  such  witchery,  is  seen. 

Such  precious  virtues  shine  : 
My  joy,  my  hope,  is  in  her  smile, 
And  I  must  suffer  pain  the  while. 

Where  once  all  bliss  was  mine. 
Too  long  it  seems  1 

O  tell  her,  love  !  —  the  truth  reveal. 
Say  that  no  lover  yet  could  feel 

Such  sad,  consuming  pain  : 
While  banished  from  her  «ight,  I  pine, 
And  still  this  wretched  life  is  mine, 

Till  I  return  again. 
She  must  believe  me,  lor  I  find 
So  much  her  image  haunts  my  mind, 

So  dear  her  memory. 
That,  wheresoe'er  my  steps  I  bend. 
The  form  my  fondest  thoughts  attend 

Is  present  to  my  eye. 
Too  long  it  seems  ! 

Now  tears  my  weary  hours  emp]6y. 
Regret  and  thoughts  of  sad  annoy, 

When  waking  or  in  sleep ; 
For  hope  my  former  care  repaid, 
In  promises  at  parting  made, 

Which  happy  love  might  keep. 
O,  ibr  one  hour  my  truth  to  tell. 
To  speak  of  feelings  known  too  well, 

Of  hopes  too  vainly  dear  ! 
But  useless  are  my  anxious  sighs. 
Since  fortune  my  return  denies, 

And  keeps  me  lingering  herd. 
Too  long  it  seems  ! 


BONDEL. 

Love,  love,  what  wilt  thou  with  this  heart  of 
mine  ? 
Naught  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  ? 
Naught  see  I  fixed  or  sure  in  thee  \ 

Shall  I  be  mute,  or  vows  with  prayers  combine  ? 

Te  who  are  |>les8ed  in  loving,  tell  it  me  : 
Love,  love,  what  wilt  thou  with  this  heart  of 
mine? 

Naught  see  I  permanent  or  sure  in  thee  ! 


CHRISTINE  DE  PISAN. 

This  poetess  was  bom  about  the  year  1363, 
at  Venice.  Her  fiither  removed  to  Paris,  when 
she  was  five  years  old ;  being  summoned  thither 
by  Charles  the  Fifth,  who  gave  him  a  place 
in  his  council.  She  was  brought  upatoourt, 
and  at  the  age  of  fifteen  married  Etienne  du 
Castel.  Her  husband  died,  leaving  her  with 
three  children.  She  sought  to  console  her  grief 
by  reading  the  books  left  her  by  her  fiither  and 
her  husband,  and  thus  was  led  to  become  an 
author  herself.  Lord  Salisbury,  pleased  with 
the  intellectual  graces  of  Christine,  took  her 
eldest  son  with  him  to  England,  to  educate  him 
there ;  and  Henry  of  Lancaster,  after  his  ac- 
cession to  the  English  throne,  endeavoured  to 
attract  her  to  his  court,  but  she  preferred  re- 
maining in  France.  She  was  a  person  of  rare 
intellect  and  exquisite  beauty.  The  date  of  her 
death  is  unknown. 

RONDEL. 

I  LIVE  in  hopes  of  better  days. 

And  leave  the  present  hour  to  chance. 
Although  so  long  my  wish  delays, 

And  still  recedes  as  I  advance  : 
Although  hard  fortune,  too  severe. 

My  Ufe  in  mourning  weeds  arrays. 
Nor  in  gay  haunts  may  I  appear, 

I  live  in  hopes  of  better  days. 

Though  constant  care  my  portion  prove. 
By  long  endurance  patient  grown. 

Still  with  the  time  my  wishes  move, 
Within  my  breast  no  murmur  known : 

Whate*er  my  adverse  lot  displays, 

I  live  in  hopes  of  better  days. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  FATHER. 

A  M ouRiriNo  dove,  whose  mate  is  dead,  — 
A  lamb,  whose  shepherd  is  no  more,  — 
Even  such  am  I,  since  he  is  fled. 
Whose  loss  I  cease  not  to  deplore  : 
Alas  !  since  to  the  grave  they  bore 
My  sire,  for  whom  these  tears  are  shed. 
What  is  there  left  for  me  to  love, — 

A  mourning  dove  ? 

O,  that  his  grave  for  me  had  room. 

Where  I  at  length  might  calmly  rest ! 
For  all  to  me  is  saddest  gloom, 

All  scenes  to  me  appear  unblest ; 
And  all  my  hope  is  in  his  tomb. 
To  lay  my  head  on  his  cold  breast, 
Who  left  his  child  naught  else  to  love ! 

A  mourning  dove ! 


ALAIN  CHARTIER. 

Alaih  Chartiek  belonged  to  a  distingnished 
family  of  Bayeux,  in  Normandy.     He  was  bom 


CHARTIER. 


439 


about  1386,  and  was  educated  at  the  University 
of  Paris.  He  was  well  received  at  court,  and 
became  secretary  successively  to  Charles  the 
Sixth*  and  Charles  the  Seventh.  He  enjoyed 
the  highest  consideration  as  a  poet  during  his 
life.  He  is  one  of  those  to  whom  the  French 
language  is  most  indebted,  and  he  has  been 
called. the  Father  of  French  Eloquence.  His 
works  are  numerous,  both  in  prose  and  verse. 
Among  the  best  of  them  is  **  La  Belle  Dame 
sans  Mercy,"  in  the  old  English  translation  of 
which,  attributed  to  Chaucer,  the  poet  says : 

"  My  chai^  was  this,  to  traoslato  by  and  by 
(All  thiog  forgiue,  as  part  of  my  pennaoce) 
A  book,  called  *  La  Bel  Dame  aans  Mercy,* 
Which  Maiftar  Alelne  made  of  remembnoca, 
Cbeefe  sacratarle  with  the  king  of  France." 

Pasqnier  devotes  a  whole  chapter  to  the  "  Mots 
Dorez  et  Belles  Sentences  de  Maistre  Alain 
Chartier."     Alain  died  at  Avignon,  in  1449. 


FROM  LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCT. 

The  hordes  were  spred  in  right  little  space, 

The  ladies  sat  each  as  hem '  seemed  best. 
There  were  no  deadly  seruants  in  the  place, 

But  chosen  men,  right  of  the  goodliest : 
And  some  there  were,  perauenture  most  fresh- 
est, 

That  saw  their  judges  full  demure, 
Without  semblaunt,  either  to  most  or  lest, 

Notwithstanding  they  had  hem  vnder  cure. 

'Emong  all  other,  one  I  gan  espy, 

Which  in  great  thought  ful  often  came  and 
went. 
As  one  that  had  been  rauished  vtterly : 

In  his  language  not  greatly  dilligent. 
His  countenance  he  kept  with  great  turment. 

But  his  desire  farre  passed  his  reason, 
For  euer  his  eye  went  after  his  entent. 

Full  many  a  time,  whan  it  was  no  season. 

To  make  chere  sore  himselfe  he  pained. 

And  outwardly  he  fained  great  gladnesse, 
To  sing  also  by  force  he  was  constrained. 

For  no  pleasaunce,  but  very  shamefastnesse: 
For  the  complaint  of  his  most  heauinesse 

Came  to  his  voice,  alway  without  request, 
Like  as  the  soune  of  birdes  doth  expresse. 

Whan  they  sing  loud  in  frithe  or  in  forrest 

Other  there  were  that  serued  in  the  hall, 

But  none  like  him,  as  after  mine  aduise, ' 
For  he  was  pale,  and  somwhat  lean  withall. 

His  speech  also  trembled  in  fearfull  wise, 
And  euer  alone,  but  whan  he  did  seruise, 

All  blacke  he  ware,  and  no  deuise  but  plain : 
Me  thought  by  him,'as  my  wit  could  suffise, 

His  herte  was  nothing  in  his  own  domain. ' 


s  Them.  s  Obeerratlon. 


9  OontroL 


To  feast  hem  all  he  did  his  dilligence, 

And  well  he  coud,  right  as  it  seemed  me. 
But  euermore,  whan  he  was  in  presence. 

His  chere  was  done,  it  nolde  *  none  other  be : 
His  schoolemaister  had  such  aucthorite,  • 

That,  all  the  while  he  bode  still  in  the  place, 
Speake  coud  he  not,  but  upon  her  beautie 

He  looked  still  with  a  right  pitous  face. 

With  that  his  head  he  toumed  at  the  last 

For  to  behold  the  ladies  euerichone,  * 
But  euer  in  one  he  set  his  eye  stedlast 

On  her  which  his  thought  was  most  vpcm, 
For  of  his  eyen  the  shot  *  I  knew  anone. 

Which  fearful  was,  with  right  humble  re- 
quests : 
Than  to  my  self  I  said,  by  God  alone. 

Such  one  was  I,  or  that  I  saw  these  jests. 

Out  of  the  preaae  he  went  full  easely 

To  make  stable  his  heauie  countenance. 
And  wote  ye  wellj  he  sighed  wonderly 

For  his  sorrowes  and  wofuU  remembrance : 
Than  in  himselfe  he  made  his  ordinance. 

And  forthwithall  came  to  bring  in  the  messe. 
But  for  to  judge  his  most  wofiill  pennance, 

God  wote  it  was  a  pitous  entremesse.' 

After  dinner  anon  they  hem  auanced 

To  daunce  aboue  the  folke  euerichone. 
And  forthwithall,  this  heauy  man  he  danced, 

Somtime  with  twain,  and  somtime  with  one : 
Unto  hem  all  his  chere  was  after  one. 

Now  here,  now  there,  as  foil  by  auentare. 
But  euer  among  he  drew  to  her  alone 

Which  he  most  dread  '  of  liuing  creature. 

To  mine  aduise  good  was  his  pumeiance,* 

Whan  he  her  chose  to  his  maistresse  aJone, 
If  that  her  herte  were  set  to  his  pleasance. 

As  much  as  was  her  beauteous  person : 
For  who  so  euer  setteth  his  trust  vpon 

The' report  of  the  eyen,  withouten  more. 
He  might  be  dead,  itnd  grauen  vnder  stone, 

Or  euer  he  should  his  hertes  ease  restore. 

In  her  foiled  nothing  that  I  coud  gesse. 

One  wise  nor  other,  priuie  nor  apert,^^ 
A  garrison  she  was  of  all  goodlinesse, 

To  make  a  frontier  for  a  loners  herte : 
Right  yong  and  fresh,  a  woman  foil  couert, 

Assured  wele  of  port,  and  eke  of  chere, 
Wele  at  her  ease  withouten  wo  or  smert, 

All  vnderneath  the  standard  of  dangere. 

To  see  the  foast  it  wearied  me  foil  sore, 
For  heauy  joy  doth  sore  the  herte  trauaile : 

Out  of  the  prease  I  me  withdrow  therefore, 
And  set  me  downe  alone  behind  a  traile," 


4  For  m  wold,  woold  not  9  Feared. 

»  Erery  one.  •  Foresight,  prorldence. 

*  Glance.  lo  Secret  nor  public. 

T  Eninmetf  a  dish  eerred  n  Trellis, 
between  the  couxses. 


440 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


Full  of  leaues,  to  see  a  great  meruaile, 
With  greene  wreaths  ybounden  wonderly, 

The  leaues  were  so  thicke  withouten  faile, 
That  throughout  no  man  might  me  espy. 

To  this  lady  he  came  full  courtesly, 

Whan  he  thought  time  to  dance  with  her  a 
trace," 
Set  in 'an  herber,  *'  made  full  pleasantly, 

They  rested  hem  fro  thens  but  a  little  space : 
Nigh  hem  were  none  of  a  certain  compace,  '^ 

But  onely  they,  as  farre  as  I  coud  see  : 
Saue  the  traile,  there  I  had  chose  my  place, 

There  was  no  more  between  hem  two  and 


I  heard  the  louer  sighing  wonder  sore, 

For  aye  the  more  the  sorer  it  him  sought, 
His  inward  paine  he  coud  not  keepe  in  store. 

Nor  for  to  speake  so  bardie  was  he  nought, 
His  leech  wab  nere,  the  greater  was  his  thoght, 

He  mused  sore  to  conquer*  his  desire : 
For  no  man  may  to  more  pennance  be  broght 

Than  in  his  beat  to  bring  him  to  the  fire. 

The  herte  began  to  swell  within  his  chest. 

So  sore  strained  for  anguish  and  for  paine. 
That  all  to  peeces  almost  it  to  brest, 

Whan  both  at  ones  so  sore  it  did  constraine. 
Desire  was  bold,  but  shame  it  gan  refraine, 

That  one  was  large,  the  other  was  full  close : 
No  little  charge  was  laid  on  him,  certaine. 

To   keepe  such  werre,  and  haue  so  many 
fbse. 

'  Full  oftentimes  to  speak  himself  he  pained. 
But  shamefastnesse  and  drede  said  euer  nay. 
Yet  at  the  last,  so  sore  he  was  constrained, 

Whan  he  full  long  had  put  it  in  delay. 
To  his  lady  right  thus  than  gan  he  say. 

With   dredeful   voice,  weeping,   half   in   a 
rage: 
**  For  me  was  purueyed  an  vnhappy  day. 
Whan  I  first  had  a  sight  of  your  vbage !  " 


CHARLES  D'ORL^ANS. 

Charles,  Duke  of  Orleans,  was  bom  May 
26,  1391.  From  his  earliest  years,  he  deTOted 
himself  to  poetry  and  eloquence.  He  was 
made  prisoner  at  the  battle  of  Agincourt,  and 
taken  to  England,  where  he  remained  twenty- 
five  years ;  and  during  this  long  period  of  cap- 
tivity consoled  himself  by  the  study  of  poetry 
and  letters.  He  returned  to  France  in  1440, 
and  married  Marie  de  Cldves,  niece  of  Philip 
the  Good,  duke  of  Burgundy.  He  died,  greatly 
regretted,  January  8,  1467.  His  poems  are 
distinguished  by  delicacy  of  sentiment  and 
gracelbl  simplicity  of  style ;  and  his  versifica- 
tion is  fVee  and  flowing. 


18  Tom,  or  t 

19  Arbour. 


14  Gonpiai,  ciitls,  dlsunco. 


BONDEL. 

Heicce  away,  begode,  begone, 
Carking  care  and  melancholy  ! 
Think  ye  thus  to  govern  me 

All  my  li^  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  m 

Hence  away,  begone,  I  say, 
Carking  care  and  melancholy ! 


RENOUVKAU. 

Now  Time  throws  ofi*  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  jargou  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. 


RENOUVEAU. 

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  firom  the  wind  and  weather. 
Mope  like  birds  that  are  changing  fbather. 
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  early, 
Who  has  toiled  for  naught  both  late  and  early. 
Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-bom  year. 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 


CHARLES   D'ORL^ANS SURVILLE. 


441 


SONG. 

I  STOOD  upon  the  wild  seashore, 

And  marked  the  wide  expanse ; 
My  gtraining  eyes  were  turned  once  more 

To  long  loyed,  distant  France : 
I  saw  the  sea-bird  hurry  |>y 

Along  the  waters  blue ; 
I  saw  her  wheel  amid  the  sky, 
And  mock  my  tearful,  eager  eye, 

That  would  her  flight  pursue.     * 

Onward  she  darts,  secure  and  free. 
And  wings  her  rapid  course  to  thee  ! 
O,  that  her  wing  were  mine,  to  soar. 
And  reach  thy  lovely  land  once  more ! 
O  Heaven  !  it  were  enough,  to  die 

In  my  own,  my  native  home, — 
One  hour  of  blessed  liberty 

Were  worth  whole  yean  to  come ! 


80NO. 

Wilt  thou  be  mine .'  dear  love,  reply,  - 
Sweetly  consent,  or  else  deny : 
Whisper  sofUy,  none  shall  know,  — 
Wilt  thou  be  mine,  love  ?  —  ay  or  no  ? 

Spite  of  fortune,  we  may  be 
Happy  by  one  word  from  thee : 
Life  flies  swiftly  ;  ere  it  go. 
Wilt  thou  be  mine,  love  ? — ay  or  no.^ 


SONG. 

O,  LET  me,  let  me  think  in  peace ! 

Alas  !  the  boon  I  ask  is  time ! 
My  sorrows  seem  awhile  to  cease. 

When  I  may  breathe  the  tuneful  rhyme. 
Unwelcome  thoughts  and  vain  regret 

Amidst  the  busy  crowd  increase ; 
The  boon  I  ask  is  to  forget ;  — 

O,  let  me,  let  me  thiiHc  in  peace ! 

For  sometimes  in  a  lonely  hour 
Past  happiness  my  dream  recalls ; 

And,  like  sweet  dews,  the  freshening  shower 
Upon  my  heart's  sad  desert  falls. 

Forgive  me,  then,  —  the  contest  cease,  — 

O,  let  me,  let  me  think  in  peace  ! 


SONG. 

HxAVXR  !  't  is  delight  to  see  how  fair 

Is  she,  my  gentle  love  ! 
To  serve  her  is  my  only  care. 

For  all  her  bondage  prove. 
Who  could  be  weary  of  her  sight  ? 

ilach  day  new  beauties  spring : 
Just  Heaven,  who  made  her  fair  and  bright. 

Inspires  me  while  I  sing. 

In  any  land  where'er  the  sea 

Bathes  some  delicious  shore, 
"Where'er  the  sweetest  clime  may  be 

The  south  wind  wanders  o'er, 

SB 


'T  is  but  an  idle  dream  to  say 
With  her  may  aught  compare : 

The  world  no  treasure  can  display 
So  precious  and  so  fair. 


CLOTILDE  DE  SURVILLE. 

MAKOUSRITB-l^LioifORS-CLOTlLDE  DS  VaL- 

LON  Chalts,  afterwards  Madame  de  Surville, 
was  bom  at  the  Chftteau  de  Vallon,  in  Langue- 
doc,  in  the  year  1405.  She  inherited  from  her 
mother  a  taste  for  poetry  and  letters,  which 
manifested  itself  at  a  very  early  age.  When 
eleven  years  old,  she  translated  an  ode  of 
Petrarch  with  so  much  skill  and  grace,  that 
Christine  de  Pisan,  afler  having  read  it,  ex- 
claimed, "  I  must  yield  to  this  child  all  my 
rights  to  the  sceptre  of  Parnassus."  In  1421, 
she  married  B^renger  de  Surville,  a  young  and 
gallant  knight,  with  whom  she  was  passionately 
in  love.  Seven  years  after  the  marriage,  her 
husband  fell  at  the  siege  of  Orleans ;  after  this, 
she  occupied  herself  with  the  education  of 
young  females  who  possessed  poetical  talents. 
Among  them  are  mentioned  Sophie  de  Lyonna 
and  Juliette  de  Vivarez.  The  poems  of  Clo- 
tilde  excited  the  admiration  of  Charles  of  Or- 
leans, who  made  them  known  to  Margaret  of 
Scotland,  the  wifb  of  Louis  the  dauphin.  This 
princess,  unable  to  draw  Clotilde  from  the  re- 
tirement in  which  she  had  lived  since  her  hus- 
band's death,  sent  her  a  crown  of  artificial  lau- 
rel, surmounted  by  twelve  pearls  with  golden 
studs  and  silver  leaves,  and  the  device,  **  Mar- 
garet* of  Scotland,  to  the  Margaret  of  Helicon." 
The  date  of  Clotilde's  death  is  uncertain.  She 
must  have  lived  beyond  the  age  of  ninety,  as 
she  celebrated  the  victory  gained  by  Charles 
the  Eighth  over  the  Italian  princes  at  Fomovo. 
The  genuineness  of  the  poems  which  pass 
under  the  name  of  Clotilde  has  been  impugned 
on  very  strong  grounds.  The  statement  is,  that 
they  remained  unknown  until  1782,  when  one 
of  her  descendants,  Joseph-Etienne  de  Surville, 
discovered  them  while  searching  the  archives 
of  his  fkmily ;  that  he  studied  the  language  and 
deciphered  the  handwriting ;  that  on  his  emi- 
gration, in  1791,  he  left  the  original  manuscript 
behind  him,  and  that  it  perished,  with  many 
other  family  documents,  in  the  flames;  that 
after  his  death  (he  was  shot  as  a  returned  emi- 
grant in  1798),  copies  of  several  of  the  pieces 
passed  from  the  hands  of  his  widow  to  the 
publisher,  Vanderbourg. 

THE  CHILD  ASLEEP. 

SwsKT  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 ! 

*  MargueriU,  I.  e.  the  Pearl. 


442 


FRENCH   POETRY. 


Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend. 

Soft  sleep  shall  come,  that  cometh  not  to 
me! 
I  watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend ;  — 
'T  is  sweet  to  watch  for  thee, — alone  for 
thee! 

His  arms  Ml  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 !  —  Un- 
close 

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  be- 
guile ! 

O,  when  shall  he,  fbr  whom  I  sigh  in  vain. 
Beside  me  watch  to  see  thy  waking  smile  ? 


FRAN<^OIS   CORBUEIL,   DIT  VILLON. 

This  distinguished  poet  and  rogue  was  born 
at  Paris,  in  1431.  His  parents  were  poor,  but 
found  the  means  of  sending  him  to  school.  His 
dissipation  and  profligacy,  however,  hindered 
him  from  deriving  much  benefit  from  his  stud- 
ies. On  entering  the  world,  he  connected  him- 
self with  the  most  abandoned  young  men  of  the 
capital,  and  though  he  often  repented  of  his 
graceless  way  of  life,  he  soon  returned  to  his 
ancient  practices,  alleging  that  fortune  had  giv- 
en him  no  other  means  of  satisfying  his  wants ; 

"  For  hunger  makes  the  wolf  desert  the  wood." 
He  was  at  length  brought  to  trial  for  a  grave 
offence,  and  condemned  to  be  hanged,  with  five 
of  his  associates.  His  gayety  did  not  desert  him 
in  this  awkward  situation.  He  wrote  his  own 
epitaph,  and  composed  a  ballad  fbr  himself  and 
his  companions  in  misfortune,  in  anticipation  of 
their  being  carried,  after  execution,  to  Montfiiu. 
con.  He  acknowledged,  however,  that  »« the 
play  did  not  please  him  "  ;  and,  upon  an  appeal 
to  the  parliament,  the  sentence  of  condemna- 
tion  was  set  aside,  and  his  punishment  com- 
muted to  banishment.  He  took  great  credit  to 
himself  for  having  had  the  presence  of  mind  to 
utter  the  words,  "  I  appeal " ;  it  was,  in  bb 
opinion,  the  finest  thing  he  had  ever  said, 
to  s2**'.^^'°«  escaped  this  danger,  he  retired 
him  !?K         °^"»  **"*  ^^^  warning  failed  to  make 

^W  JS'eT  ""^  ^^T"'  *"^  thrown  into 
•  ^"«'  ^w,  according  to  Rabelais, 


he  retired  to  England,  where  be  enjoyed  the 
protection  of  Edward  the  Fourth.  He  probably 
died  in  Paris  about  the  end  of  the  fifteenth,  or 
the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century. 


THE  LADIES  OF  LONG  AGO. 

TxLL  me  to  what  region  flown 
Is  Flora,  the  fair  Roman,  gone  ? 
Where  lovely  Thais'  hiding-place. 
Her  sister  in  each  charm  and  grace  ? 
Echo,  let  thy  voice  awake. 
Over  river,  stream,  and  lake  : 
Answer,  where  does  beauty  go  ? — 
Where  is  fled  the  south  wind's  snow  ? 

Where  is  EloTse  the  wise. 
For  whose  two  bewitching  eyes 
Hapless  Abeillard  was  doomed 
In  his  cell  to  live  entombed  ? 
Where  the  queen,  her  love  who  gave, 
Cast  in  Seine,  a  watery  grave? » 
Where  each  lovely  cause  of  woe  ? — 
Where  is  fled  the  south  wind's  snow  ? 

Where  thy  voice,  O  regal  fair, 
Sweet  as  is  the  lark*s  in  air  ? 
Where  is  Bertha  ?    Alix  ?  she 
Who  Le  Mayne  held  gallantly  ? 
Where  is  Joan,  whom  English  flame 
Gave,  at  Rouen,  death  and  fiune  ? 
Where  are  all  ?  —  does  any  know  ?— 
Where  is  fled  the  south  wind's  snow  ? 


MARTIAL  DE  PARIS,   DIT  DAU- 
VERGNE. 

This  author,  who  takes  rank  among  the  bwt 
writers  of  his  age,  was  bom  at  Paris,  about  the 
year  1440.  For  the  long  period  of  forty  yW 
he  held  the  office  of  Procureur  to  the  parUa- 
ment.  As  an  author,  he  was  chiefly  known  by 
fifty-one  «» Arrets  d'Amours,"  the  idea  of  which 
was  suggested  by  the  poems  of  the  Troubadoon. 
These  were  written  in  prose,  but  preceded  and 
followed  by  verses.  But  the  work  which 
gained  him  the  most  reputation  was  a  histor- 
ical poem  on  Charles  the  Seventh,  extending 
to  between  six  and  seven  thousand  verses  m 
various  measures.  Other  pieces  also  have  been 
attributed  to  him.     He  died  May  13tii,  15Q8. 


THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  ADYERSTIT. 

Thb  prince,  who  fortune's  falsehood  knows. 
With  pity  hears  his  subjects*  woes. 
And  seeks  to  comfort  and  to  heal 
Those  griefs  the  prosperous  cannot  fbel. 


>  See  the  raign  of  Louis  the  Tteth  for  an  aeooont  of 
Marguerite  of  Burguody  and  her  proceedings. 


MARTIAL  DE  PARIS.  — CRETIN ISAURE. 


443 


Warned  by  the  dangers  he  has  ran, 
He  strivea  the  ills  of  war  to  shun, 
Seeks  peace,  and  with  a  steady  hand 
Spreads  truth  and  justice  through  the  land. 

When  poyerty  the  Romans  knew, 
Each  honest  heart  was  pure  and  true ; 
But  soon  as  wealth  assumed  her  reign, 
Pride  and  ambition  swelled  her  train. 

When  hardship  is  a  monarch's  share, 
And  bis  career  begins  in  care, 
T  is  sign  that  good  will  come,  though  late, 
And  blessings  on  the  future  wait. 


SONG. 

DsAR  the  felicity. 

Gentle,  and  fair,  and  sweet. 
Love  and  simplicity. 

When  tender  shepherds  meet : 
Better  than  store  of  gold, 
SiWer  and  gems  untold. 
Manners  refined  and  cold. 

Which  to  our  lords  belong. 
We,  when  our  toil  is  past, 
Softest  delight  can  taste. 
While  summer's  beauties  last, 

Dance,  feast,  and  jocund  song ; 
And  in  our  hearts  a  joy 
No  envy  can  destroy. 


GUILLAUME  CRETIN. 

GuiLLAUME  Dubois,  surnamed  Cretin,  flour- 
ished in  the  latter  half  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
and  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth.  He  was 
bom  at  Nanterre,  near  Paris,  and  lived  under 
Charles  the  Eighth,  Louis  the  Twelfth,  and 
Francis  the  First,  the  last  of  whom  employed 
him  to  write  the  history  of  France.  The  work, 
embracing  five  folio  volumes  of  French  verse, 
is  among  the  manuscripts  of  the  Biblioth^que 
du  Roi.  The  history  commences  with  the  tak- 
ing of  Troy,  and  extends  to  the  end  of  the 
second  race.  He  wrote  a  vast  number  of  other 
works  ;  among  them  are  songs,  ballads,  ron- 
deaux,  laments,  quatrains,  Ac,  a  collection  of 
which  was  published  in  1527.  His  death  took 
place  about  1525. 


SONG. 

LfOvx  is  like  a  fairy's  favor. 

Bright  to-day,  but  faded  soon  ; 
If  thou  lov'st  and  fain  wouldst  have  her. 

Think  what  course  will  speed  thee  on. 
For  her  faults  if  thou  reprove  her. 

Frowns  are  ready,  words  as  bad ; 
If  thou  sigh,  her  smiles  recover,  — 

But  be  gay,  and  she  is  sad. 


If  with  stratagems  thou  try  her. 
All  thy  wiles  she  soon  will  find ; 

The  only  art,  unless  thou  fly  her. 
Is  to  seem  as  thou  wert  blind. 


CL^MENCE  ISAURE. 

This  poetess  was  born  in  1464,  near  Tou- 
louse. She  was  endowed  by  nature  with  beau- 
ty and  genius.  Having  lost  her  father  when 
she  was  only  five  years  old,  she  was  educated 
in  seclusion ;  but  near  her  garden,  there  lived 
a  young  Troubadour,  Raoul,  who  fell  in  love 
with  her,  and  made  his  passion  known  in  songs. 
She  replied  with  flowers,  according  to  her  lov- 
er's petition :  — 

"  Yoos  am  luplrA  mai  rtn, 
Qu'una  Hear  soil  ma  rteompenaa." 
Her  lover  having  fallen  in  battle,  Isaure  re- 
solved to  take  the  veil ;  but  first  renewed  the 
Floral  Games,  Jeux  Floraux,  which  had  been 
established  by  the  Troubadours,  but  had  long 
been  forgotten.  To  this  institution  she  devoted 
her  whole  fortune.  Having  fixed  on  the  first  of 
May  for  the  distribution  of  the  prizes,  she.wrote 
an  ode  on  Spring,  which  acquired  fi>r  her  the 
surname  of  the  Sappho  of  Toulouse. 


SONG. 

Thx  tender  dove  amidst  the  woods  all  day 
Murmurs  in  peace  her  long  continued  strain. 

The  linnet  warbles  his  melodious  lay. 

To  hail  bright  Spring  and  all  her  flowers  again. 

Alas  !  and  I,  thus  plaintive  and  alone. 

Who  have  no  lore  but  love  and  misery,  — 

My  only  task,  —  to  joy,  to  hope  unknown, — 
Is  to  lament  my  sorrows  and  to  die  ! 


SONG. 

Fair  season  !  childhood  of  the  year ! 
Verse  and  mirth  to  thee  are  dear ; 
Wreaths  thou  hast,  of  old  renown. 
The  faithful  Troubadour  to  crown. 

Let  us  sing  the  Virgin's  praise. 
Let  her  name  inspire  our  lays ; 
She,  whose  heart  with  woe  was  riven. 
Mourning  for  the  Prince  of  Heaven  ! 

Bards  may  deem  —  alas !  how  wrong !  • 
That  they  yet  may  live  in  song : 
Well  I  know  the  hour  will  come, 
When,  within  the  dreary  tomb, 
Poete  will  forget  my  fame, 
And  Cl^mence  shall  be  but  a  name  ! 

Thus  may  early  roses  blow. 

When  the  sun  of  spring  is  bright ; 

But  even  the  buds  that  fairest  glow 
Wither  in  the  blast  of  night. 


444 


FR£H0H   POETRY. 


THIRD  PERIOD.-FROM  1500  TO.  1660. 


MELLIN  DE   SAINT-GELAIS. 

Mellin  dk  Saint-Gelais,  son  of  the  poet 
Octavien  de  Saint-Gelais,  was  born  in  1491. 
He  receiyed  a  careful  education,  being  destined 
to  the  ecclesiastical  profession.  Francis  the 
First  granted  him  the  abbey  of  Notre -Dame>des- 
Rectus,  and  appointed  him  Almoner  to  Henry 
the  Second,  then  dauphin;  and  when  this 
prince  mounted  the  throne,  Mellin  became  his 
librarian.     He  died  in  1558. 

The  works  of  this  poet  consist  of  epistles, 
rondeaux,  ballads,  sonnets,  quatrains,  epitaphs, 
elegies,  &c.  He  translated  parts  of  Ovid,  and 
wrote  imitations  of  Bion  and  Ariosto. 


HUITAIN. 

Go,  glowing  sighs,  my  soul's  expiring  breath, 
Ye  who  alone  can  tell  my  caose  of  care ; 

If  she  I  love  behold  unmoved  my  death. 
Fly  up  to  heaven,  and  wait  my  coming  there ! 

But  if  her  eye,  a&  ye  believe  so  foin, 

Deign  with  some  hope  our  Borrow  to  aupplyj 

Return  to  me,  and  brrng  my  houI  again, — 
For  I  no  more  shall  have  a  wUh  to  die* 


MARGUERITE  DE  VALOIS,  REINE  DE 
NAVARRE. 

Makqarst,  or  Margyeritef  the  famous  queeo 
of  Havarre,  was  born  at  Angoiil(}me,  in  1492. 
She  was  married  lo  the  duke  of  Alen^on,  in 
1509,  iind,  being  left  a  widow  in  1525^  was 
sgain  mnrried  to  Henri  d'Abret,  king  of  Na- 
vnrre.  She  was  fond  uf  study,  prepared  Mys* 
teriea  for  representntion  from  the  Scripture!^, 
and  wrote  a  work  called  "  The  Mirror  of  the 
Sinful  Soul  " }  but  ah«  ii  beat  known  in  litera- 
ture by  a  collection  of  stoTieSi  called  **  Hepta- 
meron,  ou  Sept  Journ^es  de  la  Reyne  de  Na-^ 
varre,"  She  died  tu  1549-  A  collection  of 
her  poeDia  and  other  piece  a  eppenred  in  1547, 
under  the  title  of  "  Marguerites  de  H  Margue- 
rite des  Princesfsea.*'  Several  editions  have 
amce  beeu  published. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  BKOTHER,  FRANCIS 
THE  nnST. 

*T  IS  done  !  a  father,  mother,  gone, 
A  aiater,  broth  er,  lorn  flway^ 

My  hope  ia  now  in  God  alone, 

Whom  heaven  and  earth  alike  obey. 

Above,  beneath,  to  him  la  known,  — 

The  world's  wide  compaaa  is  his  own. 


I  love,  —  but  in  the  world  do  more. 
Nor  in  gay  hall,  or  festal  bower ; 

Not  the  fair  forms  I  prized  before, — 
But  Him,  all  beauty,  wisdom,  power, 

My  SaTiour,  who  has  cast  a  chain 

On  sin  and  ill,  and  woe  and  pain  ! 

I  from  my  memory  have  effaced 

All  former  joys,  all  kindred,  fi-ienda ; 

All  honors  that  my  station  graced 
I  hold  but  snares  that  fortune  sends  : 

Hence !  joys  by  Christ  at  distance  cast. 

That  we  may  be  his  own  at  last ! 


FRAN9OIS   I. 

Fran^oii  I.,  king  of  France,  whose  lore 
and  support  of  learning  procured  him  the  ap- 
pellation of  the  Father  of  Literature,  was  bom 
at  Cognac,  in  1494.  He  ascended  the  throne 
in  1515.  The  political  and  military  events  of 
his  reign,  which  occupy  a  large  apace  in  the 
hiatofy  of  France,  are  foreign  to  the  purpo«a 
of  thia  work.  He  estnblbhed  the  Royal  College, 
and  laid  the  foundation  of  the  Library  at  Paris. 
He  introduced  into  France  the  remains  of  an- 
cient literature,  which  the  revival  of  learning 
was  jusi  recalling  to  the  notice  of  the  world. 
He  WQa  also  a  powerful  protector  of  the  arta  and 
flcleiicea. 


EPITAPH  ON  FBAN^ISE  DE  FOIX 

Be!teatii  thia  Comb  De  Foix's  fair  Frances  Ues^ 
On  whose  rare  worth  each  tongue  delights  to 
dwell ; 
And  none,  while  fame  her  rirlae  deifies. 

Con  with  harah  voice  the  meed  of  praise  le- 
peL 
In  beauty  peerleaa,  In  attrncliTe  grace. 

Of  mind  enlightened,  and  of  wit  refined  ; 
With  honor,  more  than  thia  weak  tongue  can 
trace, 
The  Eternal  Father  stored  her  spotless  mtnd. 
Alas  !  the  sum  of  human  gif\a  how  amall ! 
Here  nothing  liesj  that  onee  commanded  ftU  ! 


EPITAPH  ON  AGfiis  SOREL. 

Here  lies  entombed  the  ^rest  of  the  ftir  t 
To  her  rare  beauty  greater  praiae  be  giveOf 

Than  holy  maids  in  cloistered  cella  may  a  hare, 
Or  hermits  that  in  deserts  live  for  heaven ! 

For  by  her  charma  recovered  France  arose, 

Shook  olf  her  chains,  and  triumphed  o'er  her 


MAROT HENRI  II. 


445 


CLEMENT  MAROT. 

This  celebrated  epigrvmmatitt  and  lyrical 
poet  was  born  at  Cahors,  in  1505.  He  was  a 
page  of  Margaret  of  France,  and  afterwards  ac- 
companied FVancis  the  Firat  to  the  Netherlands. 
He  was  present  in  the  battle  of  Paviai  where 
he  was  wounded  and  taken  prisoner.  Being 
thrown  into  prison  on  his  return  to  Paris,  on  a 
suspicion  of  fiivoring  CalTinism,  he  employed 
his  time  in  recasting  the  **  Romance  of  the  Rose." 
After  his  liberation  from  prison,  he  fled  to  Italy, 
and  thence  to  Geneva,  where  he  became  a  dis- 
ciple of  Calvin ;  but  soon  recanting  his  profts- 
sion  of  ftith,  returned  to  Paris.  He  left  France 
once  more  and  visited  Turin,  where  he  died  in 
1544.  One  of  his  chief  works  is  his  translation 
of  the  Psalms,  made  in  connection  with  Beia. 
He  had  a  lively  fancy,  much  wit,  and  wrote 
in  a  simple  but  epigrammatic  style,  which  the 
French  have  called  the  Style  MaraUque. 


F1UAR  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  honor  virtue,  and  punue  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  't  is  youn  is  all  in  vain. 

If  once  he  lays  his  finger  to  it ; 
For  as  to  giving  back  again, 

Tnax  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 ; 
Tour  dog  may  drink  it, — but  not  he ; 

Friar  Lubin  cannot  do  it. 

IHVOT. 

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


TO  ANN& 

Wheh  thou  art  near  to  me,  it  seems 
As  if  the  sun  along  the  sky. 

Though  he  awhile  withheld  his  beams, 
Burat  forth  in  glowing  majesty : 


But  like  a  storm  that  lowers  on  high. 
Thy  absence  clouds  the  scene  again  ;- 

Alas  !  that  from  so  sweet  a  joy 

Should  spring  regret  so  full  of  pain ! 


THE  FORTRAFT. 

This  dear  resemblance  of  thy  lovely  face, 

'T  is  true,  is  painted  with  a  master's  care ; 
But  one  &r  better  still  my  heart  can  trace. 

For  Love  himself  engraved  the  image  there. 
Thy  gift  can  make  my  soul  blest  visions  share ; 

But  brighter  still,  dear  love,  my  joys  would 
shine. 
Were  I  within  thy  heart  impressed  as  fkir, 

As  true,  as  vividly,  as  thou  in  mine  ! 


HUITAIN. 

I  AM  no  more  what  I  have  been. 

Nor  can  regret  restore  my  prime ; 
My  summer  years  and  beauty's  sheen 

Are  in  the  envious  clutch  of  Time. 
Above  all  gods  I  owned  thy  reign, 

O  Love !  and  served  thee  to  the  letter ; 
But,  if  my  life  were  given  again, 

Methinks  I  yet  could  serve  thee  better. 


TO  DIANE  DE  FOrnES& 

Farewell  !  since  vain  is  all  my  care. 

Far,  in  some  desert  rude, 
I  'II  hide  my  weakness,  my  despair ; 

And,  'midst  my  solitude, 
I '11  prey,  that,  should  another  move  thee. 
He  may  as  fondly,  truly  love  thee. 

Adieu,  bright  eyes,  that  were  my  heaven ! 

Adieu,  soft  cheek,  where  summer  blooms  ! 
Adieu,  fkir  form,  earth's  pattern  given. 

Which  Love  inhabits  and  illumes  ! 
Tour  rays  have  fallen  but  coldly  on  me  : 
One  fiir  less  fond,  perchance,  had  won  ye ! 


HENRI  II. 

This  able  and  energetic  prince  was  bom  at 
St.  Germain-en-Laye,  March  31st,  1518.  He 
ascended  the  throne  at  the  age  of  twenty-nine, 
made  many  changes  in  the  government,  re- 
formed abuses,  and  developed  the  resources  of 
the  kingdom.  He  was  a  lover  of  poetry,  and, 
under  the  inspiration  of  his  psssion  for  the  beau- 
tiful Diane  de  Poitiers,  wrote  pieces  of  consid- 
erable  merit.  Afier  an  active  and  important 
reign  of  twelve  years,  Henri  died  of  a  wound 
he  had  received  in  a  tournament,  from  the 
Comte  de  Montgomery,  captain  of  the  Scot- 
tish guard. 


446 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


Jt  TO  DIANE  DE  POmERa 

MoRB  constant  fkith  none  ever  swore 
To  a  new  prince,  O  fairest  fkir, 

Than  mine  to  thee,  whom  I  adore, 

Which  time  nor  death  can  e'er  impair ! 

The  steady  fortress  of  mj  heart 

Seeks  not  with  towers  secured  to  be, 
The  lady  of  the  hold  thou  art, 
For  't  is  of  firmness  worthy  thee  : 
No  bribes  o*er  thee  can  victory  obtain, 
A  heart  so  noble  treason  cannot  stain  ! 


PIERRE  DE  RONSARD. 

This  person,  whose  name  is  one  of  the  most 
celebrated  in  the  early  literature  of  France,  was 
born,  in  1524,  at  the  ChAteau  de  la  Poissoni^re, 
in  the  province  of  Venddme.  He  was  sent  to 
Paris,  at  the  age  of  nine  years,  to  the  College 
de  Navarre,  but  soon  afterwards  entered  the 
service  of  the  duke  of  Orleans,  as  page.  James 
Stuart,  king  of  Scotland,  who  had  arrived 
in  France  to  marry  Marie  de  Lorraine,  took 
Ronsard  with  him,  on  his  return  to  Scotland. 
He  remained  three  years  in  Oreat  Britain,  after 
which  be  returned  to  France  and  was  employ- 
ed by  the  duke  of  Orleans.  Having  become 
deaf,  he  withdrew  from  public  life,  and  devoted 
himself  to  literary  pursuits  at  the  College  de 
Coqueret.  His  early  poetical  pieces  had  an 
astonishing  success.  He  was  crowned  at  the 
Floral  Oames,  and  declared  by  a  decree  of  the 
magistrates  of  Toulouse  to  be  tAs  French  poet. 
These  honors  excited  the  ire  of  Mellin  de  ^aint- 
Gellais,  and  the  court  was  divided  between 
the  two  literary  factions.  The  dispute  was  de- 
cided by  Francis  the  First  in  favor  of  Ronsard. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  enthusiasm  which 
the  pedantic  and  affected  style  of  this  writer  ex- 
cited. Men  of  the  highest  rank,  scholars  of  the 
most  distinguished  learning,  vied  with  each 
other  in  heaping  encomiums  upon  his  genius 
and  his  poetiy.  His  works  consoled  the  un- 
happy Mary  Stuart  in  her  imprisonment,  and 
she  presented  to  him  a  silver  Parnassus,  in* 
scribed  with  the  words, — 

"  X  Ronmrd,  PApoUon  de  la  tonree  dee  Mueee  " : 
To  RoDMrd,  the  Apollo  of  the  Moaea'  epdag ; 

and  Ohastelard,  her  unfortunate  lover,  when  he 
lost  his  head,  desired  no  other  viatiettm  than  the 
verses  of  Ronsard.  De  Thou  compared  him  to 
the  greatest  writers  of  antiquity,  and  pronoun- 
ced him  the  most  accomplished  poet  that  had 
appeared  since  Horace  and  Tibullus.  Old  Pas- 
quier  says  of  him,  in  the  eighth  book  of  his 
**  Recherches,"  **  I  do  not  think  that  Rome  ever 
produced  a  greater  poet  than  Ronsard.*' 

But  the  affectations  of  his  style  made  it  im- 
possible that  his  popularity  should  long  continue. 
**His  Muse,"  says  Boileau,  «*in  French  spoke 
Greek  and  Latin  " ;  in  &ct,  his  language  was 


an  absurd  and  unintelligible  jargon,  the  ele- 
ments of  which  were  drawn  from  every  qnirtar. 
He  says  of  himself^  —  I 

"  Je  fls  de  noareanz  mote,  | 

J'en  condunnaj  de  tIooz." 
The  writer  of  his  life  in  the  («Biognplue 
Universelle  "  says :  **  He  affected  so  moch  era- 
ditlon  in  his  verses,  and  even  in  his  boob  of 
*  Loves,'  that  his  mistresses  found  it  neceHuy, 
in  order  to  understand  him,  to  resort  to  the  din- 
gerous  aid  of  foreign  eommentatore"  His  dq- 
merous  works,  embracing  almost  every  species 
of  composition,  have  been  several  times  pob- 
lished.  He  was  the  originator  of  the  FreDch 
Pleiades;  the  satellites,  chosen  by  himself  were 
Joachim  du  Bel  lay,  Antoine  de  Balf,  Pontus  de 
Thyard,Remi  Belleau,  Jean  Dorat,  and  itienne 
Jodelle.  He  fell  into  a  premature  decrepitude, 
brought  on  by  excesses,  and  died  at  his  priory 
of  Saint.C6me,  near  Tours,  in  1585. 


TO  HIS  LTRE. 

0  GOLDXif  lyre,  whom  all  the  Muses  claim, 
And  Phoebus  crowns  with  uncontested  hm% 
My  solace  in  all  woes  that  Fate  has  sent ! 
At  thy  soft  voice  all  nature  smiles  content, 
The  dance  springs  gayly  at  thy  jocund  call, 
And  with  thy  music  echo  bower  and  hall. 

When  thou  art  hoard,  the  lightnings  cesse  to 

play. 
And  Jove's  dread  thunder  ftintly  dies  awaj ; 
Low  on  the  triple-pointed  bolt  reclined, 
His  eagle  droops  his  wing,  and  sleeps  resigned, 
As,  at  thy  power,  his  all- pervading  eye 
Yields  gently  to  the  spell  of  minstrelsy. 

To  him  may  ne*er  Elysian  joys  belong. 
Who  prizes  not,  melodious  lyre,  thy  song! 
Pride  of   my  youth,  I  first  in   France  made 

known 
All  the  wild  wonders  of  thy  godlike  tone; 

1  tuned  thee  first, » for  harsh  Uiy  chords  I  foond, 
And  all  thy  sweetness  in  oblivion  bound : 
But  scarce  my  eager  fingers  touch  thy  strings, 
When  each  rich  strain  to  deathless  being  springs. 

Time's  withering  grasp  was  cold  upon  thee 

then. 
And  my  heart  bled  to  see  thee  scorned  of  men; 
Who  once  at  monarchs'  feasts,  sp  gayly  dight, 
Filled  all  their  courts  with  glory  and  delight 

To  give  thee  back  thy  former  magic  tone, 
The  force,  the  grace,  the  beauty  all  thine  own. 
Through  Thebes  I  sought,  Apulia's  realm  ex- 
plored. 
And  hung  their  spoils  upon  each  drooping  chord. 

Then  forth,  through  lovely  France,  we  took  oar 

way, 
And  Loire  resounded  many  an  early  lay : 
I  sang  the  mighty  deeds  of  princes  high, 
And  poured  the  exulting  song  of  victory. 


RONSARD.— BELLAT. 


447 


Hd,  who  would  rouse  thj  eloquence  divine, 
In  campe  or  tourneys  may  not  hope  to  shine, 
Nor  on  the  seas  behold  his  prosperous  sail, 
Nor  in  the  fields  of  warlike  strife  preyail. 

But  thou,  my  forest,  and  each  pleasant  wood 
Which  shades  my  own  Venddme's  majestic 

flood, 
Where  Pan  and  all  the  laughing  nymphs  repose ; 
Te  sacred  choir,  whom  Bray*s  fiiir  walls  in- 
close, 
Te  shall  bestow  upon  your  bard  a  name 
That  through  the  uniyerse  shall  spread  his  ikme. 
His  notes  shall  grace,  and  loye,  and  joy  inspire. 
And  all  be  subject  to  his  sounding  lyre  ! 
Even  now,  my  lute,  the  world  has  heard  thy 

praise. 
Even  now  the  sons  of  France  applaud  my  lays : 
Me,  as  their  bard,  above  the  rest  they  choose.  ■ 
To  you  be  thanks,  O  each  propitious  Muse, 
That,  taught  by  you,  my  voice  can  fitly  sing, 
To  celebrate  my  country  and  my  king  ! 

O,  if  I  please,  O,  if  my  songs  awake 

Some  gentle  memories  for  Ronsard's  sake. 

If  I  the  harper  of  fkir  France  may  be. 

If  men  shall  point  and  say,  **  Lo  !  that  is  he !  *' 

If  mine  may  prove  a  destiny  so  proud 

That  France  herself  proclaims  my  praise  aloud, 

If  on  my  head  I  place  a  starry  crown. 

To  thee,  to  thee,  my  lute,  be  the  renown ! 


LOVES. 

Mr  sorrowing  Muse,  no  more  complain  ! 

'T  was  not  ordained  for  thee, 
While  yet  the  bard  in  life  remain. 
The  meed  of  fame  to  see. 
The  poet,  till  the  dismal  gulf  be  past, 
Knows  not  what  honors  crown  his  name  at  last. 
Perchance,  when  years  have  rolled  away. 
My  Loire  shall  be  a  sacred  stream. 
My  name  a  dear  and  cherished  theme, 
And  those  who  in  that  region  stray 
Shall  marvel  such  a  spot «f  earth 
Could  give  so  great  a  poet  birth. 
Revive,  my  Muse  !  for  virtue's  ore 
In  this  vain  world  is  counted  air, 
But  held  a  gem  beyond  compare 
When  't  is  beheld  on  earth  no  more  : 
Rancor  the  living  seeks,  —  the  dead  alone 
Enjoy  their  fame,  to  envy's  blights  unknown. 


TO  MAKY  STUART. 

All  beauty,  granted  as  a  boon  to  earth. 
That  is,  has  been,  or  ever  can  have  birth. 
Compared  to  hers,  is  void,  and  Nature's  care 
Ne'er  formed  a  creature  so  divinely  fair. 

In  spring  amidst  the  lilies  she  was  bom. 
And  purer  tints  her  peerless  face  adorn ; 
And  though  Adonis'  blood  the  rose  may  paint, 
Beside  her  bloom  the  rose's  hues  are  faint : 


With  all  his  richest  store  Love  decked  her  eyes : 
The  Oraces  each,  those  daughters  of  the  skies. 
Strove  which  should  make  her  to  the  world 

most'  dear. 
And,  to  attend  her,  left  their  native  sphere. 

The  day  that  was  to  bear  her  far  away,— 
Why  was  I  mortal  to  behold  that  day  ? 
O,  had  I  senseless  grown,  nor  heard,  nor  seen  ! 
Or  that  my  eyes  a  ceaseless  fount  had  be^. 
That  I  might  weep,  as  weep  amidst  their  bowers 
The^nymphs,  when  winter  winds  have  cropped 

their  flowers. 
Or  when  rude  torrents  the  clear  streams  deform. 
Or  when  the  trees  are  riven  by  the  storm ! 
Or  rather,  would  that  I  some  bird  had  been. 
Still  to  be  near  her  in  each  changing  scene. 
Still  on  the  highest  mast  to  watch  idl  day. 
And  like  a  star  to  mark  her  vessel's  way  : 
The  dangerous  billows  past,  on  shore,  on  sea. 
Near  that  dear  face  it  still  were  mine  to  be  ! 

O  France!  where  are  thy  ancient  champions 

gone, — 
Roland,  Rinaldo  ?  —  is  there  living  none 
Her  steps  to  follow  and  her  safety  guard, 
And  deem  her  lovely  looks  their  best  reward,  — 
Which  might  subdue  the  pride  of  mighty  Jove 
To  leave  his  heaven,  and  languish  for  her  love  ? 
No  fault  is  hers,  but  in  her  royal  state,  — 
For  simple  Love  dreads  to  approach  the  great ; 
He  flies  from  regal  pomp,  that  treacherous  snare. 
Where  truth  unmarked  may  wither  in  despair. 

Wherever  destiny  her  path  may  lead. 
Fresh-springing  flowers  will  bloom  beneath  her 

tread. 
All  nature  will  rejoice,  the  waves  be  bright. 
The  tempest  check  its  fury  at  her  sight. 
The  sea  be  calm :  her  beauty  to  behold, 
The  sun  shall  crown  her  with  his  rays  of  gold, — 
Unless  he  fears,  should  he  approach  her  throne. 
Her  majesty  should  quite  eclipse  his  own. 


JOACHIM  DU  BELLAT. 

This  writer  was  bom  about  the  year  1525. 
He  early  enjoyed  high  consideration  at  court, 
partly  through  the  influence  of  his  kinsman,  the 
Cardinal  du  Bellay.  His  contemporaries  called 
him  the  French  Ovid  ;  for  he  composed  Latin 
poems  in  the  style  of  Ovid,  and  in  his  French 
verses  endeavoured  to  catch  the  lightness  and 
grace  of  the  Ovidian  manner.  Bellay  was  one 
of  the  Plnades.     He  died  in  1560. 


FROM  THE  VISIONS. 

I. 

It  was  the  time,  when  rest,  soft  sliding  downe 

From  heavens  bight  into  mens  heavy  eyes. 

In  the  forgetfulnes  of  sleepe  doth  drowne 

The  carefoU  thoughts  of  mortall  miseries ; 


448 


FRENCH   POETRY. 


Then  did  a  ghost  before  mine  eyes  appeare, 
On  that  great  rivers  banck,  that  runnes  by 
Rome; 
Which,  calling  me  by  name,  bad  me  to  reare 
My  lookes  to  heaven,  whence  all  good  gifts 
do  come. 
And  crying  lowd,  <^  Lo !  now  beholde,"  quoth 
hee, 
'<  What  under  this  great  temple  placed  is : 
Lo,  all  is  nought  but  flying  vanitee  !  " 

So  I,  that  know  this  worlds  inconstancies, 
Sith  onely  God  surmounts  all  times  decay, 
In  God  alone  my  confidence  do  stay. 


On  high  hills  top  I  saw  a  stately  frame. 

An  hundred  cubits  high  by  iust  assize,^ 
With  bundreth  pillours  fronting  faire  the  same. 

All  wrought  with  diamond  after  Dorick  wize : 
Nor  brick  nor  marble  was  the  wall  in  view, 

But  shining  christall,  which  from  top  to  base 
Out  of  her  womb  a  thousand  rayons '  threw. 

One  hundred  steps  of  Afrike  golds  enchase : 
Golde  was  the  parget  ^ ;  and  the  seeling  bright 

Did  shine  all  scaly  with  great  plates  of  golde ; 
The  floore  of  iasp  and  emeraude  was  dight. 

O,  worlds  Tainesse !  Whiles  thus  I  did  behold. 
An  earthquake  shooke  the  hill  firom  lowest  seat. 
And  overthrew  this  frame  with  ruine  great. 


Then  did  a  sharped  spyre  of  diamond  bright. 

Ten  feete  each  way  in  square,  appeare  to  mee, 
luatly  proportion'd  up  unto  his  hight. 

So  fkr  as  archer  might  his  level  see : 
The  top  thereof  a  pot  did  seeme  to  beare. 

Made  of  the  mettall  which  we  most  do  hon- 
our; 
And  in  this  golden  vessel  couched  weare 

The  ashes  of  a  mightie  emperour  : 
Upon  foure  comers  of  the  base  were  pight,^ 

To  beare  the  frame,  foure  great  lyons  of  gold ; 
A  worthy  tombe  for  such  a  worthy  wight. 

Alas  !  this  world  doth  nought  but  grievance 
hold! 
I  saw  a  tempest  from  the  heaven  descend, 
Which  this  brave  monument  with  flash  did  rend. 


I  saw  raysde  up  on  yvorie  pillowes  tall, 

Whose  bases  were  of  richest  mettalls  warke, 
The  chapters  alabaster,  the  f^yses  christall, 

The  double  front  of  a  triurophall  arke : 
On  each  side  purtraid  was  a  Victoria, 

Clad  like  a  nimph,  that  winges  of  silver  weares. 
And  in  triumphant  chayre  was  set  on  hie 

The  auncient  glory  of  the  Romaine  peares. 
No  worke  it  seem'd  of  earthly  craflsmans  wit. 

But  rather  wrought  by  his  owne  industry, 
That  thunder-dartes  for  love  his  syre  doth  fit. 

Let  me  no  more  see  fkire  thing  under  sky, 
Sith  that  mine  eyes  have  seene  so  faire  a  sight 
With  sodain  fkll  to  dust  consumed  quight. 


1  Meunni. 
t  Beams,  rays. 


9  Vamish,  plaster. 
^Placed. 


Then  was  the  &ire  Dodonian  tree  fkr  seene 

Upon  seaven  hills   to  spread  his  gladsome 
gleame. 
And  conquerours  bedecked  with  his  greene. 

Along  the  bancks  of  the  Ausonian  streame : 
There  many  an  auncient  trophee  was  addrest. 

And  many  a  spoyle,  and  many  a  goodly  show, 
Which  that  brave  races  greatnes  did  attest, 

That  whilome  from  the  Troyan  blood  did  flow. 
Ravisht  I  was  so  rare  a  thing  to  vew ; 

When,  lo !  a  barbarous  troupe  of  clownish 
fone* 
The  honour  of  these  noble  boughs  down  threw: 

Under  the  wedge  I  heard  the  tronck  to  grone ; 
And,  since,  I  saw  the  roote  in  great  disdaine 
A  twinne  of  forked  trees  send  forth  againe. 


I  saw  a  wolfe  under  a  rockie  cave 

Noursing  two  whelpes ;  I  saw  her  litle  ones 
In  wanton  dalliance  the  teate  to  crave. 

While  she  her  neck  wreath  *d  from  them  lor 
the  nones  * : 
I  saw  her  raunge  abroad  to  seeke  her  food. 
And,  roming  through  the  field  with  greedie 
rage, 
T*  embrew  her  teeth  and  clawes  with  lukewarm 
blood 
Of  the  small  beards,  her  thirst  for  to  aaswage : 
I  saw  a  thousand  huntsmen,  which  descended 
Downe  from  the  mountaines  bordring  Lorn- 
bardie, 
That  with  an  hundred  speares  her  flank  wide 
rended : 
I  saw  her  on  the  plaiqe  outstretched  He, 
Throwing  out  thousand   throbs  in  her  owne 

soyle; 
Soone  on  a  tree  uphang*d  I  saw  her  spoyle. 


JEAN  DORAT. 

JxAif  DoRAT  was  bom  early  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  in  Limosin.  He  belonged  to  an 
ancient  family,  whose  name,  Dinemandy,  he 
changed,  euphonut  causd^  into  DoraL  After 
having  completed  his  studies  in  the  college  of 
Limoges,  he  went  to  Paris,  where  he  soon  found 
protectors.  Francis  the  First  made  him  pre- 
ceptor of  his  pages ;  but  after  this,  he  served 
three  years  in  the  army  of  the  dauphin.  In 
1560,  he  was  appointed  Professor  of  Greek  in 
the  ColUge  Royal.  He  was  one  of  the  Plm- 
ades.  In  the  decline  of  life,  he  exposed  him- 
self to  the  pleasantries  of  his  friends  by  a  second 
marriage.  The  object  of  his  choice  was  a  very 
young  woman,  the  daughter  of  a  pastry-cook ; 
and  it  was  said  that  her  whole  dowry  was  a 
pigeon-pie,  which  the  bridegroom  and  his  friends 
ate  on  the  wedding-day.  Dorat  died  at  Paris, 
in  1588. 


»Foea. 


•  For  Um  noDMi  lor  tba  c 


DORAT.— LAB6. 


449 


TO  CATHERINE  DE  ItfEDICIS,  REGENT. 

If  fkithful  to  Ave  kings  I  .'ve  been, 
And  forty  yean  hare  filled  the  fcene. 
Till  learning*!  atream  a  torrent  grows. 
And  France  with  knowledge  overflows. 
While  fame  is  ours  from  shore  to  shore. 
For  ancient  and  for  modern  lore ; 
Methinks,  if  I  desenre  such  fame, 
And  nations  thus  applaud  my  name, 
T  will  sound  but  ill  that  men  should  say, 
"  Beneath  the  Regent  Catherine's  sway,-* 
Patron  of  arts,  of  wits  the  pride,— 
Of  want  and  flimine  Dorat  died  !  " 


LOUISE  LAB^. 

LoviSB  LiBi,  la  heUe  eardUre^  was  bom  at 
Lyons,  in  1526.  She  was  well  educated  in 
music  and  the  languages,  and  was  trained  to  rid- 
ing and  other  bodily  exercises.  She  formed  the 
singular  design  of  serving  in  the  army,  and 
was  actually  present,  under  the  name  of  Gap- 
tain  Lois,  at  the  siege  of  Perpignan.  She  a^ 
terwards  devoted  herself  to  literature  and  po- 
etry, and,  having  married  a  rich  rope-maker, 
Ennemond  Perrin,  was  enabled  to  gratify  her 
literary  tastes.  Her  many  accomplishments,  and 
the  charms  of  her  conversation,  attracted  to  her 
house  the  most  cultivated  and  agreeable  society 
of  Lyons;  and  the  street  where  she  resided  bore 
her  name.  Her  works,  consisting  of  a  dialogue 
in  prose,  entitled  '*  Dispute  between  Love  and 
Folly,**  three  elegies,  and  twenty-four  sonnets, 
first  appeared  in  1556. 

SONNET. 

WiHLK  yet  these  tears  have  power  to  flow 

For  hours  for  ever  past  away ; 
While  yet  these  swelling  sighs  allow 

My  fiiltering  voice  to  breathe  a  lay  ; 
While  yet  my  hand  can  touch  the  chords. 

My  tender  lute,  to  wake  thy  tone ; 
While  yet  my  mind  no  thought  affords, 

But  one  remembered  dream  alone, 
I  aak  not  death,  whate*er  my  state  : 
But  when  my  eyes  can  weep  no  more, 

My  voice  is  lost,  my  hand  untrue, 
And  when  my  spirit's  fire  is  o'er. 

Nor  can  express  the  love  it  knew. 
Gome,  Death,  and  cast  thy  shadow  o'er  my  fate ! 


ELEGY. 

Ths  captive  deer  pants  not  for  freedom  more, 
Nor  storm-beat  vessel  striving  for  the  shore. 
Than  I  thy  blest  return  from  day  to  day. 
Counting  each  moment  of  thy  long  delay ; 
Alas !  I  fondly  fixed  my  term  of  pain, 
The  day,  the  hour,  when  we  should  meet  again : 
But,  O,  this  long,  this  dismal  hope  deferred 
Has  shown  my  trusting  heart  how  much  it  erred ! 
67 


0  thou  unkind,  whom  I  too  much  adore, 
What  meant  thy  promise,  dwelt  on  o'er  and  o*er  ? 
.Could  all  thy  tenderness  so  quickly  fade  ? 

So  soon  is  my  devotion  thus  repaid  ? 

Dar'st  thou  so  soon  to  her  be  fiiithless  grown. 

Whose  thoughts,  whose  words,  whose  soul,  are 

all  thine  own  ? 
Amidst  the  heights  of  rocky  Pan  thy  way 
Perchance  has  been  by  fortune  led  astray. 
Some  foiry  form  thy  wandering  path  has  crossed. 
And  I  thy  wavering,  careless  heart  have  lost ; 
And  in  that  beautiful  and  distant  spot. 
My  hopes,  my  love,  my  sorrow,  are  forgot ! 

If  it  be  so,  —  if  I  no  more  am  prized. 
Cast  from  thy  memory  like  a  toy  despised, 

1  marvel  not  with  love  that  pity  fled, 
And  all  that  told  of  me  and  trutb^  is  dead. 

O,  how  I  loved  thee  !  —  how  my  thoughts  and 

foars 
Have  dwelt  on  thee,  and  made  my  moments 

years ! 
Tet,  let  me  pause, — have  I  not  loved  too  well, 
Far  more  than  even  this  breaking  heart  can  tell  ? 
Have  we  not  loved  so  fondly,  that  to  change 
Were  most  impossible,  most  wild,  most  strange  ? 
No  :  all  my  fond  reliance  I  renew. 
And  will  believe  thee  more  than  mortal  true. 
Thou  'rt  sick! — thou  *rt  suffering!  —  Heaven 

and  I  away ! 
Thou  'rt  in  some  hostile  clime  condemned  to 

sUy! 
Ah,  no !  ah,  no !  Heaven  knows  too  well  my  care, 
And  how  I  weary  every  saint  with  prayer ; 
And  it  were  hard,  if  constancy  like  mine 
Gained  not  protection  from  the  hosts  divine. 
It  cannot  be !  thy  mind,  too  lightly  moved, 
Forgets  in  change  and  absence  how  we  loved  ; 
While  I,  in  whose  sad  heart  no  change  can  be. 
Contented  sufier,  and  implore  for  thee  ! 
O,  when  I  ask  kind  Heaven  to  make  thee  blest. 
No  crime,  methinks,  is  lurking  in  my  breast ; 
Save,  when  my  soul  should  all  be  given  to  prayer, 
I  fondly  pause,  and  find  thy  image  there  ! 

Twice  has  the  moon  her  new-born  light  received 
Since  thy  return  was  promised  and  believed  : 
Tet  silence  and  oblivion  shroud  thee  still. 
Nor  know  I  of  thy  fortune,  good  or  ill. 
Though  for  another  I  am  dead  to  thee, 
She  scarce,  methinks,  can  boast  of  fame  like 

me, — 
If  in  my  form  those  charms  and  graces  shine. 
Which,  some  have  said,  the  world  esteems  as 

mine. 
Alas !  with  idle  praise  they  crowned  my  name : 
Who  can  depend  upon  the  breath  of  fiime  ? 
Yet  not  in  France  alone  the  trump  is  blown  : 
Even  to  the  Pyrenees  and  Calpe  flown, 
Where  the  loud  sea  washes  that  frowning  shore. 
Its  echo  wakes  above  the  billows*  roar ; 
Where  the  broad  Rhine's  majestic  waters  flow. 
In  the  fair  land  where  thou  art  roaming  now ; 
And  thou  hast  told  to  my  too  willing  ear. 
That  gifted  spirits  held  my  glory  dear. 
U.2 


I 


450 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


Take  thou  the  prize  which  ail  have  sought  to 

gaio, 
Staj  thou  where  others  plead  to  stay  in  yaiiiy 
And,  O,  believe  none  may  with  me  compare ! 
I  say  not  she,  my  riva],  is  less  fair, 
But  that  so  firm  her  passion  cannot  prove ; 
Nor  thou  derive  such  honor  from  her  love. 
For  me  are  feasts  and  tourneys  without  end. 
The  noble,  rich,  and  brave  for  me  contend ; 
Tet  I,  regardless,  turn  my  careless  eye, 
And  scarce  for  them  have  words  of  courtesy. 
In  thee  my  good  and  ill  alike  reside, 
In  thee  is  all,  —  without  thee,  all  is  void  ; 
And,  having  thee  alone,  when  thou  art  fled, 
All  pleasure,  all  delight,  all  hope,  is  dead ! 
And  still  to  dream  of  happiness  gone  by, 
And  weep  its  loss,  is  now  my  sad  employ ! 
Gloomy  despair  so  triumphs  o'er  my  mind, 
Death  seems  the  sole  relief  my  woes  can  find, 
And  thou  the  cause  !  —  thy  absence,  mourned 

in  vain. 
Thus  keeps  me  lingering  in  unpitied  pain  : 
Not  living,  —  (or  this  is  not  life,  condemned 
To  the  sharp  torment  of  a  love  contemned ! 

Return  !  return  !  if  still  one  wish  remain 
To  see  this  fading  form  yet  once  again  : 
But  if  stern  Death,  before  thee,  come  to  claim 
This  broken  heart  and  this  exhausted  frame. 
At  least  in  robes  of  sorrow's  hue  appear. 
And  follow  to  the  grave  my  mournful  bier ; 
There,  on  the  marble,  pallid  as  my  cheek. 
These  graven  words  my  epiuph  shall  speak : — 
^*  By  thee  love's  early  flame  was  Uught  to  glow. 
And  love  consumed  her  heart  who  sleeps  below : 
The  secret  fire  her  silent  ashes  keep. 
Till  by  thy  tears  the  flame  is  charmed  to  sleep !  " 


REMI  BELLEAU. 

This  writer  was  bom  at  Nogent-le-Rotrou, 
in  1628.  The  Marquis  d'EIbeuf  took  him  early 
under  his  protection,  and  intrusted  to  him  the 
education  of  his  son.  Ronsard  called  him  the 
Painter  of  Nature.  Besides  various  original 
works,  he  translated  portions  of  the  Old  TesU- 
ment,  the  Odes  of  Anacreon,  and  the  «« Phe- 
nomena" of  Aratus;  but  his  most  singular  pro- 
duction is  a  macaronic  poem,  entitled  <*  Dicta- 
men  Metrificum  de  Bello  Huguenotico."  Bellean 
was  one  of  the  Pleiades.  He  died  at  Paris,  in 
1577.  

THE  PEARL. 

FBOX  Tm  LOVn  OF  TH8  OBMS. »  DSDICATSD  TO  THE 
aUBBN  OF  NAVABRS. 

I  8KBK  a  pearl  of  rarest  worth. 

By  the  shore  of  some  bright  wave,  — 
Such  a  gem,  whose  wondrous  birth 

Radiance  to  all  nature  gave : 
WhKh  no  change  of  tint  can  know, 

Spotless  ever,  pure  and  white, 
'Midst  the  rudest  winds  that  blow 

Sparkling  in  its  silver  light 


Thou,  bright  pearl,  excell'st  each  gem 
In  proud  Nature's  diadem,  — 
Tet  a  captive  iov'st  to  dwell. 
Hid  within  thy  cavern  shell. 
Where  the  sands  of  India  lie 
Basking  in  the  sunny  sky. 

Thou,  fair  gem,  art  so  divine, 

That  thy  birthplace  most  be  hearen. 
Where  the  stars,  thy  neighbour*,  afaine  ; 

And  thy  lucid  hue  was  given 
By  Aurora's  rosy  fingers. 

When  she  colors  herb  and  flower. 
And  with  breath  of  perfume  lingers 

Over  meadow,  dell,  and  bower. 

Lustrous  shell,  from  whose  bright  womb 
Does  this  fiiiry  treasure  come  ? 
If  thou  art  the  ocean's  child. 

Though  thy  kindred  crowd  the  deep. 
Thou  disdain'st  the  moaning  wild 

Which  thy  foamy  lovers  keep. 
And  in  vain  their  vows  they  pour 
Round  thy  closed  and  guarded  door. 

Thou,  proud  beauty,  bidd'st  them  learn 

But  a  sojourner  art  thou  ; 
And  their  idle  hopes  canst  spurn. 

Nor  may  choose  a  mate  below. 

But  when  Spring,  with  treasures  rife. 
Calls  all  nature  forth  to  life. 
Then  upon  the  waves  descending. 
Transient  rays  of  brightness  lending. 
Falls  the  dew  upon  thy  breast. 
And,  thy  heavenly  spouse  confessed. 
Thou  admitt'st  within  thy  cave 
That  bright  stranger  of  the  wave  : 
There  he  dwells,  and  hardens  there 
To  the  gem  so  pure  and  fiiir. 
Which  above  all  else  is  famed. 
And  the  Marguerite  ^   is  named. 

APRIL. 

raOH  LA  BBaOIMS. 

April,  season  blest  and  dear, 
Hope  of  the  reviving  year, 
Promise  of  bright  fruits  that  lie 
In  their  downy  canopy. 
Till  the  nipping  winds  are  past. 
And  their  veils  aside  are  cast ! 
April,  who  delight'st  to  spread 
O'er  the  emerald,  laughing  mead 
Flowers  of  fresh  and  brilliant  dyes, 
Rich  in  wild  embroideries ! 
April,  who  each  zephyr's  sigh 
Dost  with  perf\imed  breath  supply. 
When  they  through  the  forest  rove. 
Spreading  wily  nets  of  love. 
That,  for  lovely  Flora  made. 
May  detain  her  in  the  shade  ! 


>  The  French  wovd  Margtmite,  meaning  both  pearl  i 
datey,  is  a  consunl  theme  for  the  poeU  of  erery  age,  ■ 
fumiehee  a  compliment  to  the  manj  princeeeae  of  tl 


BELLEAU.  — D£   BAIF.^JODELLE. 


451 


April,  by  thy  hand  careased, 
Nature  firom  her  genial  breast 
Loves  her  richest  gifts  to  shower, 
And  awakes  her  magic  power : 
Till  all  earth  and  air  are  rile 
With  delight,  and  hope,  and  life ! 

April,  nymph  for  ever  &ir. 
On  my  mistress's  sunny  hair 
Scattering  wreaths  of  odors  sweet, 
For  her  snowy  bosom  meet ! 
April,  full  of  smiles  and  grace 
Drawn  from  Venus*  dwelling-place ; 
Thou,  from  earth's  enamelled  plain, 
Tield'st  the  gods  their  breath  again  ! 

'T  is  thy  courteous  hand  doth  bring 
Back  the  messenger  of  spring; 
And,  his  tedious  exile  o'er, 
Hail'st  the  swallow's  wing  once  more. 

The  eglantine  and  hawthorn  bright. 
The  thyme,  and  pink,  and  jasmine  white, 
Don  their  purest  robes,  to  be 
Guests,  fair  April,  worthy  thee. 

The  nightingale — sweet,  hidden  sound ! — 
'Midst  the  clustering  boughs  around, 
Charms  to  silence  notes  that  wake 
Soft  discourse  from  bush  and  brake, 
And  bids  every  listening  thing 
Pause  awhile  to  hear  her  sing. 

'T  is  to  thy  return  we  owe 
Love's  fond  sighs,  that  learn  to  glow 
After  Winter's  chilling  reign 
Long  has  bound  them  in  her  chain. 
'T  is  thy  smile  to  being  warms 
All  the  busy,  shining  swarms. 
Which,  on  perfumed  pillage  bent. 
Fly  from  flower  to  flower,  intent ; 
Till  they  load  their  golden  thighs 
With  the  treasure  each  supplies. 

May  may  boast  her  ripened  hues. 
Richer  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  dews. 
And  those  glowing  charms  that  well 
All  the  happy  world  can  tell ; 
But,  sweet  April,  thou  shalt  be 
Still  a  chosen  month  for  me, — 
For  thy  birth  to  her  is  due,* 

Who  all  grace  and  beauty  gave. 
When  the  gaze  of  Heaven  she  drew. 

Fresh  from  ocean's  foamy  wave. 


JEAN  ANTOINE  DE  BAIF. 

JvAir  AjfToiiTB  DK  Baif  wss  bom  at  Ven- 
ice, in  1531,  while  his  father  was  ambassador 
there.  He  was  carefully  educated,  under  Dorat 
He  was  the  most  voluminous  poet  of  his  day ; 
and  his  writings  embrace  nearly  every  kind  of 
composition,  —  from  the  sonorous  ode,  to  the 
sprightly  epigram.     He  translated  the  **  Antigo- 

1  V«DtU. 


ne  "  of  Sophocles,  and  adapted  several  pieces  of 
Plautus  and  Terence.  His  style  is  hard  and 
artificial.  De  Balf  was  one  of  the  PUimdes, 
He  died  in  1502. 


THE  CALCXTLATION  OF  LIFE. 

Thou  art  aged  ;  but  recount, 

Since  thy  early  life  began. 
What  may  be  the  just  amount 

Thou  shouldst  number  of  thy  span  : 
How  much  to  thy  debts  belong. 

How  much  when  vain  hncy  caught  thee, 
How  much  to  the  giddy  throng, 

How  much  to  the  poor  who  sought  thee, 
How  much  to  thy  lawyer's  wiles. 

How  much  to  thy  menial  crew. 
How  much  to  thy  lady's  smiles. 

How  much  to  thy  sick-bed  due. 
How  much  for  thy  hours  of  leisure. 

For  thy  hurrying  to.  and  fro. 
How  much  for  each  idle  pleasure,  •— 

If  the  list  thy  memory  know. 
Every  wasted,  misspent  day, 

Which  regret  can  ne'er  recall,  — 
If  all  these  thou  tak'st  away. 

Thou  wilt  find  thy  age  but  small : 
That  thy  years  were  falsely  told, 
And,  even  now,  thou  art  not  old. 

EPTTAPH  ON  RABELAI& 

Pluto,  bid  Rabelais  welcome  to  thy  shore. 
That  thou,  who  art  the  king  of  woe  and  pain, 

Whose  subjects  never  learned  to  laugh  before. 
May  boast  a  laugher  in  thy  grim  domain. 


ilTIENNE   JODELLE. 

JoDBLLB,  noted  for  having  written  the  first 
regular  tragedy  and  comedy  for  the  French  stage, 
was  bom  at  Paris,  in  1532.     Says  Ronsard, — 
"  Aprto  Amour  la  France  absndonna, 
El  Iocs  Jodelle  heureuflommt  aonoa 
,    D'ano  Toix  humblB  at  d'una  volx  hardle     ' 
La  comMle  arec  la  tia^Mie, 
Et  d'un  ton  double,  ore  bae,  ore  baut, 
RempUt  pTemier  le  Francis' eactaaiaut." 
Jodelle  was  one  of  the  Pleiades.    He  died  in 
poverty,  in  1573.   D'Aubign^  wrote  these  vers- 
es on  his  death  :  — 

"Jodelle  est  mort  de  pauvreU, 
La  pauTTeU  a  eu  puissance 
Sur  la  rlchease  de  la  France. 
O  dieuz  I  quels  tratu  de  cmautA  1 
Le  ciel  arait  mis  en  Jodelle 
Un  esprit  tout  autre  qu'humain ; 
La  Fiance  lui  nla  le  pain, 
Tknt  elle  fut  m^re  cruelle." 

TO  MADAME  DE  PRIMADIS. 

I  SAW  thee  weave  a  web  with  care. 
Where,  at  thy  touch,  fresh  roses  grew. 

And  marvelled  they  were  formed  so  fair. 
And  that  thy  heart  such  nature  knew : 


452 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


Alas !  how  idle  my  surprise  ! 

Since  naught  so  plain  can  be : 
Thy  cheek  their  richest  hue  supplies, 
And  in  thy  breath  their  perfume  lies,  — 
Their  grace,  their  beauty,  all  are  drawn  from  thee ! 


AMADIS  JAMTN. 

Amadis  Jahtn  was  born  about  the  year 
1540,  at  Chaource,  in  Champagne.  Early  in 
life  he  acquired  a  taste  for  literature  and  science, 
under  the  instructions  of  such  teachers  as  Dorat 
and  Tumebus.  Ronsard,  the  French  Apollo  of 
the  age,  was  so  delighted  with  the  verses  of 
Jamyn,  that  he  inyited  him  to  his  house,  treat- 
ed him  as  his  own  son,  and  procured  him  the 
place  of  Secretary  and  Reader  to  the  King. 
After  the  death  of  his  benefactor,  Jamyn  re- 
tired from  the  court  to  his  native  town,  where 
he  died  in  1585.  His  poetical  works,  first  pub- 
lished by  Robert  £tienne  in  1575,  have  been 
repeatedly  republished  since. 

CALLIR^. 
Although,  when  I  depart. 

My  soul  that  moment  flies, 
And  in  death's  chill  my  heart 

Without  sensation  lies, — 
Tet  still  content  am  I 

Once  more  to  tempt  my  pain : 
So  pleasant 't  is  to  die. 

To  have  my  life  again  ! 
Even  thus  I  seek  my  woe, 

My  happiness  to  learn  : 
It  is  so  blest  to  go. 

So  happy  to  return  ! 


MARIE  STUART. 

Thb  life  and  tragical  death  of  this  celebrated 
princess  have  been  so  often  the  subjects  of 
poetry,  biography,  history,  and  romance,  that 
it  is  quite  unnecessary,  and  aside  from  the  pur- 
pose of  this  work,  to  repeat  their  details  here. 
She  was  born  December  8,  1542.  At  the  age 
of  six  she  was  sent  to  France  to  be  educated, 
and  in  1558  was  married  to  the  dauphin,  after- 
wards Francis  the  Second,  at  whose  death  she 
returned  to  Scotland.  After  a  series  of  impru- 
dences, sufferings,  and  misfortunes,  in  the  tar- 
bulent  times  which  followed,  she  threw  herself 
upon  the  protection  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  by 
whom  she  was  detained  in  captivity  eighteen 
years,  and  then  put  to  death,  February  8, 1587. 
This  unfortuna  queen  wrote  Latin  and  French 
with  elegance,  and  was  an  ardent  lover  of  poetry . 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  HUSR&ND,  FRANCIS 
THE  SECOND. 
In  accents  sad  and  low. 

And  tones  of  soft  lament, 

I  breathe  the  bitterness  of  woe 

O'er  this  sad  chastisement : 


With  many  a  mournful  sigh 
The  days  of  youth  steal  by. 

Was  e'er  such  stem  decree 

Of  unrelenting  fate  ? 
Did  merciless  adversity 

E'er  blight  so  fair  a  sUte 
As  mine,  whose  heart  and  eye 
In  bier  and  coffin  lie, — 

Who,  in  the  gentle  spring 
And  blossom  of  my  years. 

Must  bear  misfortune's  piercing  sting, 
Sadness,  and  grief,  and  tears,  — 

Thoughts,  that  alone  inspire 

Regret  and  soft  desire  ? 

What  once  was  blithe  and  gay, 
Changed  into  grief  I  see ; 

The  glad  and  glorious  light  of  day 
Is  darkness  unto  me  : 

The  world — the  world  has  naught 

That  claims  a  passing  thought 

Deep  in  my  heart  and  eye 
A  form  and  image  shine, 

Which  shadow  forth  wan  misery 
On  this  pale  cheek  of  mine 

Tinged  with  the  violet's  blue. 

Which  is  love's  ftvorite  hue. 

Where'er  my  footsteps  stray, 
In  mead  or  wooded  vale. 

Whether  beneath  the  dawn  of  day, 
Or  evening  twilight  pale, — 

Still,  still  my  thoughts  ascend 

To  my  departed  friend. 

If  towards  his  home  above 
I  raise  my  mournful  sight, 

I  meet  his  gentle  look  of  love 
In  every  cloud  of  white ; 

But  straight  the  watery  cloud 

Changes  to  tomb  and  shroud. 

When  midnight  hovers  near. 
And  slumber  seals  mine  eyes. 

His  voice  still  whispers  in  mine  ear. 
His  form  beside  me  lies : 

In  labor,  in  repose. 

My  heart  his  presence  knows. 


FAREWELL  TO  FRANCE. 

Farbwbll,  beloved  France,  to  thee. 

Best  native  land ! 

The  cherished  strand 
That  nursed  my  tender  infancy  ! 

Farewell,  my  childhood's  happy  day  •' 
The  bark  that  bears  me  thus  away 

Bears  but  the  poorer  moiety  hence ', 
The  nobler  half  remains  with  thee,— - 

I  leave  it  to  thy  confidence. 
But  to  remind  thee  still  of  me ! 


^ 


DESPORTEB.—BERTAUT.—HENRI  IV. 


453 


PHILIPPE   DE8PORTES. 

Pbilippb  Dbsporteb  was  born  at  Chartrei, 
in  1546.  An  early  residence  in  Italy  gave  him 
an  opportunity  to  learn  the  Italian  language. 
He  followed  the  duke  of  Anjou  to  Poland,  but 
soon  returned  to  Paris  in  disgust.  When  this 
prince  became  king  of  France,  he  bestowed 
ample  ecclesiastical  revenues  upon  Desportes, 
which  the  poet  used  nobly  for  the  benefit  of 
men  of  letters.  He  died  at  the  abbey  of  Bon- 
port,  in  1606.  His  great  merit  consisted  in 
freeing  French  poetry  from  the  affectation  and 
pedantry  with  which  it  had  been  OTerloaded  by 
Ronsard.     He  was  called  the  French  TibuUus. 


A  DIANE. 

Ir  stainless  faith  and  fondness  tried, 

If  hopes,  and  looks  that  softness  tell, 
If  sighs  whose  tender  whispers  hide 

Deep  feelings  that  I  would  not  quell, 
Swift  blushes  that  like  clouds  appear, 

A  trembling  voice,  a  mournful  gaze, 
The  timid  step,  the  sudden  fear. 

The  pallid  hue  that  grief  betrays. 
If  self-neglect,  to  live  fbr  one. 

If  countless  tears,  and  sighs  nntold. 
If  sorrow,  to  a  habit  grown. 

When  absent  warm,  when  present  cold, — 
If  these  can  speak,  and  thou  unmoved  canst  see. 
The  blame  be  thine,  the  ruin  fells  on  me  \ 


JEAN  BERTAUT. 

This  person,  distinguished  in  the  church 
and  in  public  affairs,  was  bom  at  Caen,  in 
1552.  He  held  in  succession  the  offices  of 
Secretary  and  Reader  to  the  King,  First  Almo- 
ner to  the  Queen,  Marie  de  Medicis,  Counsellor 
to  the  Parliament  of  Grenoble,  Abb^  of  Aunay, 
and  Bishop  of  S^ez ;  and  all  this  good  fortune 
he  owed  originally  to  bis  amorous  poems,  of 
which  Mademoiselle  de  Scud^ri  says, —  "They 
give  a  high  and  beautifhl  idea  of  the  ladies  he 
loved."     He  died  at  Seez,  in  1611. 

LONEUNESa 

FoRTUHB,  to  me  unkind. 

So  Bcofis  at  my  distress. 
Each  wretch  his  lot  would  find. 
Compared  to  mine,  a  life  of  happiness. 

My  pillow  every  night 

Is  watered  by  my  tears ; 
Slumber  yields  no  delight. 
Nor  with  her  gentle  hand  my  sorrow  cheers. 

For  every  fleeting  dream 

But  fills  me  with  alarih  ; 
And  still  my  visions  seem 
Too  like  the  waking  truth,  pregnant  with  harm. 


Justice  and  mercy's  grace. 

With  faith  and  constancy. 

To  guile  and  wrong  give  place. 

And  every  virtue  seems  from  me  to  fly. 

Amidst  a  stormy  sea 

I  perish  in  despair ; 
Men  come  the  wreck  to  see. 
And  talk  of  pity  while  I  perish  there. 

Te  joys,  too  dearly  bought. 

Which  time  can  ne*er  renew. 
Dear  torments  of  my  thought,  * 

Why,  when  ye  fled,  fled  not  your  memory  too  ? 

Alas !  of  hopes  bereft. 

The  dreams,  that  once  they  were. 
Are  all  that  now  is  left. 
And  memory  thus  but  turns  them  all  to  care ! 


HENRI  IV. 

This  illustrious  prince,  whose  name  fills  so 
large  a  space  in  the  political  and  religious  his- 
tory of  France,  was  bom  at  Pau,  December  13th, 
1553.  With  all  his  noble  qualities,  as  a  prince 
and  ruler,  he  possessed  a  just  appreciation  of  lit^ 
erature,  and  did  much  for  the  intellectual  cul- 
ture of  the  nation.  The  monarch  who  had  re- 
stored peace  and  happiness  to  the  French,  after 
years  of  civil  war,  fell  J>y  the  hand  of  an  assassin, 
named  Ravaillac.  His  death 'took  place  May 
14th,  1610.  He  was  an  eloquent  speaker,  and 
the  harangues  which  he  delivered  on  various 
occasions  **  produced,"  says  a  French  writer, 
*^  as  great  an  effect  as  his  most  brilliant  exploits. 
Every  good  Frenchman  ought  to  know  by  heart 
that  which  he  pronounced  in  the  Assembly  of 
Notables  at  Rouen."  Henri  IV.  was  fond  of 
the  society  of  scholars,  and  treated  them  more 
as  a  friend  and  equal  than  as  a  superior.  His 
verses  to  Gabrielle  have  always  excited  the  en- 
thusiasm of  his  countrymen. 

CHABMING  GABRIELLE. 

Mt  charming  Gabrielle ! 

My  heart  is  pierced  with  woe, 
When  glory  sounds  her  knell. 
And  forth  to  war  I  go : 

Parting,  perchance  our  last ! 

Day,  marked  unblest  to  prove ! 
O,  that  my  life  were  past. 
Or  else  my  hapless  love  ! 

Bright  star,  whose  light  I  lose, — 

O,  fetal  memory ! 
My  grief  each  thought  renews !  — 

We  meet  again,  or  die  ! 
Parting,  Ac, 

O,  share  and  bless  the  crown 

By  valor  given  to  me  ! 
War  made  the  prize  my  own, 

My  love  awards  it  thee  I 
Parting,  &c. 


454 


FRENCH   POETRY. 


Let  all  my  trumpets  swell, 
And  every  echo  round 

The  words  of  my  ftrewell 
Repeat  with  mournful  sound ! 
Parting,  Ac. 


D'HUXATIME. 

This  poet  probably  lived  in  the  latter  half  of 
4he  sixteenth  century.  He  was  a  native  of 
Dauphin^.  His  name  is  not  mentioned  in  any 
of  the  common  literary  histories  of  France ;  it 
is  omitted  by  the  Abb^  Goujet ;  it  is  not  allud- 
ed to  by  Girardin ;  it  is  not  included  in  the 
^*  Biographie  Universelle" ;  and  is  unnoticed  by 
Bouterwek.  It  is  mentioned  in  a  list  of  French 
poets  appended  to  a  collection  of  pieces,  from 
the  twelfth  century  to  Malherbe,  in  six  volumes. 
Costello  refers  to  a  work,  called  the  **  Parnasse 
des  Muses  Francoises,'*  published  in  1607,  as 
containing  some  pieces  by  this  poet.  Others 
may  be  found  in  '*  Le  Temple  d'ApoUon,*'  and 
in  the  *<  D^licea  de  la  Po^e  Fran^oise." 


REPENTANCE. 

Return  again,  return !  look  towards  thy  polar 
star ! 
Too  oil  thou  'rt  Icyt,  my  soul ! 
Like  to  the  fiery  steed,  whose  speed  is  urged 
too  far. 
And  dies  without  a  goal. 

As  yet  ungathered  all  by  any  friendly  hand, 

Thy  tender  blossoms  die. 
Like  bending,  fruitful  trees  that  on  the  way- 
side stand. 

But  for  the  passer  by. 


The  lively  flame  that  once  within  me  burned 
so  high 

Is  now  extinct  and  fled ; 
I  feel  another  fire  its  former  place  supply. 

More  holy  and  more  dread. 

My  heart  with  other  love  has  taught  its  pulse 
to  glow ; 

My  prison-gates  unclose ; 
My  laws  I  frame  myself;  no  lord  but  reason  now 

My  rescued  bosom  knows. 

Upon  a  sea  of  love  the  raging  storms  I  braved. 
And  'scaped  the  vengeful  main ; 

Wretched,  alas !  is  he,  who,  fiY>m  the  wreck  once 
saved. 
Trusts  to  the  winds  agun. 

If  I  should  ever  love,  my  flame  shall  flourish 
well. 
More  secret  than  confessed. 
And  in  my  thought  alone  shall  be  content  to 
dwell, 
More  soul  than  body's  guest. 


If  I  should  ever  love,  an  angel's  love  be  mine. 

And  in  the  mind  endure : 
Love  is  a  son  of  heaven,  nor  will  he  e*er  combine 

With  elements  less  pure. 

If  I  should  ever  love,  't  will  be  in  paths  un- 
known. 
Where  virtue  may  be  tried : 
I  ask  no  beaten  way,  too  wide,  too  common 
grown 
To  every  foot  beside. 

If  I  should  ever  love,  't  will  be  a  heart  anstained, 

Which  boldly  struggles  still. 
And  with  a  hermit's  strength  has,  unanbdoed, 
maintained 

A  ceaseless  war  with  ill. 

If  I  should  ever  love,  a  pure,  chaste  heart 't  will 
be, 
And  not  a  winged  thing. 
Which  like  the  swallow  lives,  and  flits  from 
tree  to  tree. 
And  can  but  love  in  spring. 

It  shall  be  you,  bright  eyes,  blest  stars  that  gild 
my  night. 

Centre  of  all  desire. 
In  the  immortal  blaze  and  splendor  of  whose  light 

Fain  would  my  life  expire  \ 

Eyes  which  shine  purely  thus  in  lore  and  ma- 
jesty! 
Who  ever  saw  ye  glow. 
Nor  worshipped  at  your  shrine,  an  infidel  must 
be. 
Or  can  no  transport  know. 

Bright  eyes  !  which  well  can  teach  what  force 
is  in  a  ray. 

What  dread  in  looks  so  dear ; 
Alas !  I  languish  near,  I  perish  when  away. 

And  while  I  hope  I  fear ! 

Bright  eyes !  round  whom  the  stars  in  jealous 
crowds  appear. 
In  envy  of  your  light,  — 
Rather  than  see  no  more  your  splendor,  soft  and 
clear, 
I  'd  sleep  in  endless  night. 

Blest  eyes  !  who  gazes  rapt  sees  all  the  bound- 
less store 
Of  love  and  fond  desire. 
Where  vanquished  Love  himself  has  graven  all 
his  lore 
In  characters  of  fire ! 

Bright  eyes !  ah !  is  't  not  troe  yoor  promises 
are  fair? 
Without  a  voice  ye  sigh : 
Love  asks  from  ye  no  sound,  for  words  are  only 
air 
That  idly  wanders  by. 

Ha !  thus,  my  soul,  at  once  all  thy  sage  visions  fly. 
Thou  tempt'st  again  the  flood : 

Thou  canst  not  fix  but  to  inconstancy. 
And  but  repent'st  of  good ! 


CORNEILLE. 


455 


FOURTH  PERIOD.-FROM  1660  TO  1700. 


«^^t^^l^^^^N^^k^ 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE. 

This  diatingniBhed  poet,  the  6nt  great  writer 
of  the  age  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  was  bom 
at  Rouen,  June  6th,  1606.  He  studied  under 
the  Jesuits  of  that  place,  for  whom  he  eTer 
after  retained  a  high  regard.  His  early  purpose 
was  to  devote  himself  to  the  bar ;  but  a  slight 
and  accidental  occasion  changed  the  current  of 
his  pursuits,  by  disclosing  the  secret  of  his  poet- 
ical powers.  A  young  fiiend  of  his  introduced 
him  to  his  mistress,  and  Gomeille  rendered 
himself  more  agreeable  to  the  lady  than  her 
loyer.  This  litUe  adventure  he  made  the  sub- 
ject of  the  comedy  of  ^  M^lite,'*  which  appeared 
in  16S5.  The  success  of  this  was  so  decided 
that  he  persevered  in  this  career,  and  the  con- 
fidence he  had  inspired  enabled  him  to  form  a 
new  company.  He  produced  in  rapid  succes- 
sion a  series  of  pieces,  which  confirmed  the  im- 
pression made  by  the  first,  and  some  of  them 
retain  their  place  on  the  stage  to  the  present 
day.  His  **  M^d^e,"  written  in  the  declamatory 
style  of  Seneca,  appeared  in  1635.  Cardinal 
Richelieu  at  this  time  had  several  poets  in  his 
pay,  who  were  required  to  write  comedies  on 
plots  furnished  by  him.  Comeille  was  on  the 
point  of  placing  himself  in  this  situation,  but, 
having  offended  the  cardinal  by  making  some 
alterations  in  one  of  his  plots,  withdrew  to 
Rouen,  where,  by  the  advice  of  Chalon,  he 
studied  the  Spanish  language,  with  the  view  of 
writing  tragedies  on  the  Spanish  model.  In 
1636,  he  produced  ««The  Cid,'*  which  received 
the  applause  of  all  the  world,  except  the  car- 
dinal and  the  Academy.  The  great  minister 
and  his  sycophantic  lUeraH  did  their  best  to 
decry  the  poet's  genius,  but  in  vain.  A  series 
of  noble  tragedies,  ^  The  Horaces,"  <«  Cinna,*' 
»*  Polyeucte,"  the  «*Mort  de  Pomp^e,"  and 
others,  were  a  complete  answer  to  his  detrac- 
tors, and  gave  him  a  rank  in  the  French  drama 
which  he  has  never  lost.  Several  pieces,  how- 
ever,  which  followed  these,  such  as  "Rodo- 
guoe,"  **  H^raclius,'*  and  **  Androm^de,"  had 
leas  success,  and  seemed  to  indicate  that  the 
genius  of  Comeille  was  already  exhausted. 
The  **Nicomide,"  which  appeared  in  1652, 
still  retains  its  place  on  the  stage.  Comeille 
now  wished  to  abandon  dramatic  composition, 
and  applied  himself  for  six  years  to  the  trans- 
lation of  the  **I>e  Imitatione  Jesu  Christi,"  but 
was  induced  by  the  entreaties  of  Fonquet  once 
more  to  devote  himself  to  the  drama.  His 
«•  CEdipe,"  produced  in  1659,  and  his  **  Sertori- 
ns,"  in  1662,  were  well  received ;  but  his  sub- 
sequent pieces  show  the  poet's  failing  powers. 
Of  the  thirty-three  pieces  which  he  left,  only 
eight  retain   their  place  upon  the  stage.     He 


died  October  Ist,  1684,  having  been  for  thirty- 
seven  yean  a  member  of  the  Academy,  despite 
the  early  disikvor  with  which  that  learned  body 
regarded  him.  *•  Although  only  six  or  seven  of 
the  thirty-three  pieces  which  be  wrote  are  still . 
represented,"  says  Voltaire,  **he  will  always  be 
the  ftther  of  the  theatre.  He  is  the  first  who 
elevated  the  genius  of  the  nation."  Augustus 
William  Schlegel,  in  his  **  Lectures  on  Dramatic 
Literature,"  has  some  excellent  criticism,  though 
perhaps  rather  too  un&vorable,  on  Comeille. 
His  principal  pieces  are  also  analyzed  at  con- 
siderable length,  and  with  great  ability,  by  La 
Harpe,in  the  «<Cour8  de  Littlrature,"  Vol.  IV. 
Many  of  his  dramas  have  been  translated  into 
English  ;  —  <*  The  Horaces,"  by  Sir  William 
Lower,  London,  1656 ;  again  by  Charles  Cot- 
ton, 1671 ;  «« Pompey,"  by  Mrs.  Catharine  Phil- 
ips, 1663;  again  by  Edmund  Waller,  1664; 
««H^raclius,"  by  Lodowick  Cariell,  1664 ;  «<  Ni- 
comMe,"  by  John  Dancer,  1671 ;  *^  Rodogune," 
by  Aspinwall,  1765;  '^The  Cid,"  by  Joseph 
Rutter,  Part  I.,  1637,  Part  II.,  1640 ;  again  by 
John  Ozell,  1714  ;  again  by  **  a  gentleman  for- 
merly  a  captain  in  the  army,"  1802.  The  best 
edition  of  his  works  is  that  published  by  Re- 
nouard,  Paris,  1817,  in  tWelve  volumes. 

The  fi>llowing  description  of  Comeille,  at 
the  fiunous  H6tel  de  Rambouillet,  is  from  the 
«« Foreign  Quarterly  Review,"  Vol.  XXXII., 
pp.  139,  140. 

«'  The  time  stated  is  the  autumn  of  the  year 
1644,  and  the  object  for  which  the  society 
meets  is  to  hear  a  tragedy  read  by  the  great 
Comeille.  There  are  present  the  tliu  of  the 
town  and  of  the  court :  the  princess  of  Cond^, 
and  her  daughter,  afterwards  the  famous  duchese 
de  Longueville ;  and  a  host  of  names,  then  bril- 
liant, but  since  forgotten,  which  we  pass  for 
thoae  whom  fkme  has  deemed  worthy  of  preserv- 
ing. There  were  the  duchess  of  Chevreuse, 
one  of  that  three  whom  Mazarin  declared  capa- 
ble of  saving  or  overthrowing  a  kingdom  ;  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Scttd6ri,then  in  the  zenith  of  her 
&me ;  and  Mademoiselle  de  la  Vergne,  destined, 
under  the  name  of  Lafbyette,  to  eclipse  her. 
There  were  also  present  Madame  de  Rambou- 
illet's  three  daughters:  the  celebrated  Julie, 
destined  to  continue  the  literary  glory  of  the 
house  of  Rambouillet ;  and  her  two  sisters,  both 
reUgieuseSy  yet  seeing  no  profanity  in  a  play. 
At  the  feet  of  the  noble  dames  reclined  young 
seigneurs,  their  rich  mantles  of  silk  and  gold 
and  silver  spread  loosely  upon  the  floor,  while, 
to  give  more  grace  and  vivacity  to  their  action 
and  emphasis  to  their  discourse,  they  waved 
from  time  to  time  their  little  hats  surcharged 
with  plumes.  And  there,  in  more  modest  at- 
tire, were  the  men  of  letters :  Balzac,  Manage, 


456 


FRENCH   POETRY. 


Scud^ri,  Chapelain,  Costart  (the  most  gallant 
of  pedants  and  pedantic  of  gallants),  and  Con- 
rart,  and  La  Mesnardi^re,  and  Bossuet,  then  the 
Abb^  Bossuet,  and  others  of  less  note.  By  a 
stroke  of  politeness  worthy  of  preservation, 
Madame  de  Rambouillet  has  framed  her  invita- 
tion in  such  wise  that  all  her  guests  shall  have 
arrived  a  good  half-hour  before  the  poet;  so 
that  he  may  not  be  interrupted,  while  reading, 
by  a  door  opening,  and  a  head  bobbing  in,  and 
all  eyes  turning  that  way,  and  a  dozen  signs  to 
take  a  place  here  or  there,  and  moving  up  and 
moving  down,  and  then  an  awkward  trip,  and 
a  whispered  apology,  —  the  attention  of  all  sus- 
pended, the  illusion  broken,  and  the  poor  poet 
chilled ! 

"The  audience  b  tolerably  punctual.  All 
are  arrived  but  one :  and  who  is  he  that  shows 
so  much  indifference  to  the  feelings  of  such  a 
hostess?  Why,  who  should  he  be,  but  an  ec- 
centric, whimsical,  impracticable,  spoiled  pet  of 
a  poet  ?  who  but  Monsieur  Voiture,  the  life,  the 
soul,  the  charm  of  all  ?  He  at  last  comes,  and 
Corneille  may  enter.  But  a  tragic  poet  moves 
slowly  ;  Corneille  himself  has  not  arrived  ;  and 
a  gay  French  company  cannot  endure  the  ennui 
of  waiting.  Time  must  pass  agreeably ;  some- 
thing must  be  set  in  motion ;  and  what  that  is 
to  be  is  suddenly  settled  by  the  Marquis  de 
Vardes,  who  proposes  to  bind  the  eyes  of  Ma- 
dame de  S^vign^  for  a  game  of  Colin  Maillard, 
AnglUk^  blind-man's  buff.  Madame  de  Ram- 
bouillet implores :  but  the  game  is  so  tempting, 
the  prospect  of  fun  so  exhilarating,  that  she  her- 
self is  drawn  into  the  vortex  of  animal  spirits, 
and  yields  assent.  The  ribbon  intended  for 
Madame  de  S^vign^  is  by  the  latter  placed  up- 
on the  eyes  of  the  fair  young  De  Vergne,  then 
only  twelve  years  of  age ;  and  she  is  alone  in 
the  midst  of  the  salon^  her  pretty  arms  out- 
stretched, her  feet  cautiously  advancing, — when 
the  brothers  Thomas  and  Pierre  Corneille  enter, 
conducted  by  Benserade,  a  poet  also,  and  one  of 
extensive  reputation.  Now,  without  abating  one 
tittle  of  our  reverence  for  the  great  Pierre  Cor- 
neille,  we  can  sympathize  with  those  light 
hearts,  whose  game  with  the  then  young  Ma- 
dame de  S^vign^  and  her  younger  friend  was 
interrupted  for  a  graver  though  more  elevating 
entertainment.  Corneille,  like  many  other  po- 
ets, was  a  bad  reader  of  his  own  productions ; 
fortunately  for  him,  upon  this  occasion,  the  young 
Abb^  Bossuet  was  called  upon  to  repeat  some 
of  the  most  striking  passages  of  the  play,  enti- 
tled '  Theodore  Vierge  et  Martyre,'  a  Christian 
tragedy,  which  he  did  with  that  declamatory 
power  for  which  he  was  afterwards  so  remarka- 
ble. Then,  of  that  distinguished  company,  the 
most  alive  to  the  charms  of  poetical  expression 
had,  each,  as  a  matter  of  course,  some  verse  to 
repeat ;  and  repeated  it  with  the  just  emphasis 
of  the  feeling  it  had  awakened,  and  with  which 
it  harmonized,  and  thus  offered,  by  the  simple 
tone  of  the  voice,  the  best  homage  to  genius. 
And  so  the  morning  ended  with  triumph  for 


the  bard,  and  to  the  perfect  gratification  of  his 
auditors." 

The  reader  will  perceive,  that,  in  the  follow- 
ing  extract,  the  names  have  been  changed  by 
the  translator,  and  that  of  Carlos  substituted  for 
the  Cid. 

FROM  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  CH). 

Relentless  Fortune  !  thou  hast  done  thy  part, 
Neglected  nothing  to  oppose  my  love ; 
But  thou  shalt  find,  in  thy  despite,  I  *ll  on. 
Wert  thou  not  blind,  indeed,  thou  hadst  foreseen 
The  honor  done  this  hour  to  old  Alvarez. 
His  being  named  the  prince's  governor 
(Which  I  well  knew  the  ambitious   Gormaz 

aimed  at) 
Must,  like  a  wildfire's  rage,  embroil  their  union. 
Rekindle  jealousies  in  Gormaz'  heart. 
Whose  fatal  flame  must  bury  all  in  ashes. 
But  see,  he  comes,  and  seems  to  ruminate 
With  pensive  grudge  the  king's  too  partial  favor. 

[Gorm 


The  king,  methinks,  is  sudden  in  his  choice. 
'T  is  true,  I  never  sought  (but  therefore  is 
Not  less  the  merit)  nor  obliquely  hinted 
That  I  desired  the  office.     He  has  heard 
Me  say,  the  prince,  his  son,  I  thought  was  now 
Of  age  to  change  his  prattling  female  court. 
And  claimed  a  governor's  instructive  guidance. 
The  advice,  it  seems,  was  fit,  —  but  not  the  ad- 
viser. 
Be  't  so,  —  why  is  Alvarez,  then,  the  man  ? 
He  may  be  qualified,  I  '11  not  dispute ; 
But  was  not  Gormaz,  too,  of  equal  merit .' 
Let  me  not  think  Alvarez  plays  me  foul. 
That  cannot  be, —  he  knew  I  would  not  bear  it. 

And  yet,  why  he  's  so  suddenly  preferred 

I  '11  think  no  more  on  't, — Time  will  soon  re- 
solve me. 


Not  to  disturb,  my  Lord,  your  graver  thooghta. 
May  I  presume 

OOBVXZ. 

Don  Sanchez  may  command  me.  — 

This  youthfbl  lord  is  sworn  our  house's  firiend  ; 

If  there 's  a  cause  for  jealous  thought,  he  *H  find  it. 

[Aside. 

SAMCHBS. 

I  hear  the  king  has  fresh  advice  received 
Of  a  designed  invasion  from  the  Moors. 
Holds  it  confirmed,  or  is  it  only  rumor  ? 

OOEMAS. 

Such  new  alarms,  indeed,  his  letters  bring. 
But  yet  their  grounds  seemed  doubtful  at  the 
council. 

SANCRBZ. 

May  it  not  prove  some  policy  of  state. 
Some  bugbear  danger  of  our  own  creating  ? 
The  king,  I  have  observed,  is  skilled  in  rule, 
Perfoct  in  all  the  arts  of  tempering  minds. 


CORNEILLE. 


457 


And — for  the  public  good — can  giye  alarms 
Where  fears  are  not,  and  hush  them  where  they 
are. 


*T  is  80 !  he  hints  already  at  my  wrongs. 

[Aside. 
sAMcaas. 
Not  but  such  prudence  well  becomes  a  prince  ', 
For  peace  at  home  is  worth  his  dearest  purchase ; 
Tet  he  that  gives  his  just  resentments  up, 
Though  honored  by  the  royal  mediation, 
And  sees  his  enemy  enjoy  the  fruits, 
Must  have  more  virtues  than  his  king,  to  bear  it 
Perhaps,  my  Lord,  I  am  not  understood ; 
Nay,  hope  my  jealous  fears  have  no  foundation ; 
But  when  the  ties  of  friendship  shall  demand  it, 
Dob  Sanchez  wean  a  sword  that  will  revenge 
you. 

[Going. 

OORMJUB. 

Don  Sanchez,  stay, — I  think  thou  art  my  fiiend. 
Thy  noble  father  oft  has  served  me  in 
The  cause  of  honor,  and  bis  cause  was  mine : 
What  thou  hast  said  speaks  thee  Balthazar's 

son, — 
I  need  not  praise  thee  more.     If  I  deserve 
Thy  love,  refuse  not  what  my  heart 's  concerned 
To  ask  :  speak  freely  of  the  king,  of  me, 
Of  old  Alvarez,  of  our  late  alliance, 
And  what  has  followed  since;  then  sum  the 

whole. 
And  tell  me  truly  where  the  account 's  unequal. 


My  Lord,  you  honor  with  too  great  a  trust 
The  judgment  of  my  inexperienced  years ; 
Tet,  for  the  time  I  have  observed  on  men, 
I  *ve  always  found  the  generous,  open  heart 
Betrayed,  an'd  made  the  prey  of  minds  below  it. 
O,  't  is  the  curse  of  manly  virtue,  that 
Cowards,  with  cunning,  are  too  strong  for  heroes ! 
And,  since  you  press  me  to  unfold  my  thoughts, 
I  grieve  to  see  your  spirit  so  defeated,  — 
Your  just  resentments,  by  vile  arts  of 'court, 
Beguiled,  and  melted  to  resign  their  terror, — 
Your  honest  hate,  that  had  for  ages  stood 
Unmoved,  and  firmer  from  your  foe's  defiance, 
Now  sapped  and  undermined  by  his  submiteion. 
Alvarez  knew  you  were  impregnable 
To  force,  and  changed  the  soldier  fi>r  the  states- 
man; 
IVhile  you  were  yet  his  foe  professed, 
He  durst  not  take  these  honors  o'er  your  head ; 
If  ad  you  still  held  him  at  his  distance  due, 
He  would  have  trembled  to-  have  sought  this 

ofiice. 
'When  once  the  king  inclined  to  make  his  peace, 
I  saw  too  well  the  secret  on  the  anvil. 
And  soon  foretold  the  favor  that  succeeded. 
Alas !  this  project  has  been  long  concerted. 
Resolved  in  private  'twizt  the  king  and  him, 
ILtaid  out  and  managed  here  by  secret  agents,  — 
IVbile  he,  good  man,  knew  nothing  of  the  honor, 
Bat  from  his  sweet  repose  was  dragged  to  accept 
it! 

68 


O,  it  inflames  my  blood  to  think  this  fear 
Should  get  the  start  of  your  unguarded  spirit. 
And  proudly  vaunt  it  in  the  plumes  he  stole 
From  you  ! 

ooaviLz. 

0  Sanchez,  thou  hast  %red  a  thopght 
That  was  before  but  dawning  in  my  mind  ! 
O,  now  afresh  it  strikes  my  memory. 

With  what  dissembled  warmth  the  artful  king 
First  charged  his  temper  with  the  gloom  he  wore, 
When  I  supplied  his  late  command  of  general ! 
Then  with  what  fawning  flattery  to  me 

Alvarez fear  disguised  his  trembling  hate. 

And  soothed  my  yielding  temper  to  believe  him. 

SAHOBSZ. 

Not  flattery,  my  Lord  ;  though  I  must  grant 
'T  was  praise  well  timed,  and  therefore  skilful. 

OOAMAZ. 

Now,  on  my  soul,  from  him  't  was  loathsome 
daubing ! 

1  take  thy  friendshipr,  Sanchez,  to  my  heart ; 
And  were  not  my  Ximena  rashly  promised—^ 


Ximena's  charms  might  grace  a  monarch's  bed ; 
Nor  dares  my  humble  heart  admit  the  hope,  — 
Or,  if  it  durst,  some  fitter  time  should  show  it. 
Results  more  pressing  now  demand  your  thought; 
First  ease  the  pain  of  your  depending  doubt. 
Divide  this  fawning  courtier  from  the  friend. 

OOKHAZ. 

Which  way  shall  I  receive  or  thank  thy  love  ? 


My  Lord,  you  overrate  me  now.     But  see, 
Alvarez  comes !    Now  probe  his  hollow  heart. 
Now  while  your  thoughts  are  warm  with  his 

deceit. 
And  mark  how  calmly  he  '11  evade  the  charge. 
My  Lord,  I  'm  gone. 

[Exit 
ooaitAB. 
I  am  thy  friend  for  ever. 

[Alvarez  entazs. 

ALVARB8. 

My  Lord,  the  king  is  walking  forth -to  see 
The  prince,  his  son,  begin  his  horsemanship  : 
If  you  're  inclined  to  see  him,  I  |1I  attend  you. 

OORMAS. 

Since  duty  calls  me  not,  I  've  no  delight 
To  be  an  idle  gaper  on  another's  business. 
You  may,  indeed,  find  pleasure  in  the  office. 
Which  you  *ve  so  artfully  contrived  to  fit. 

ALVABBZ. 

Contrived,  my  Lord  ?  I  'm  sorry  such  a  thought 
Can  reach  the  man  whom  I  so  late  embraced. 

OOBMAZ. 

Men  are  not  always  what  they  seem.    This 

honor, 
Which,  in  another's  vn'ong,  you  've  bartered  for. 
Was  at  the  price  of  those  embraces  bought. 


458 


FRENCH   POETRY. 


ALVABBZ. 

Ha!   bought?    For  shame!  suppress  this  poor 

suspicion ! 
For  if  you  think,  you  can't  but  be  convinced 
Tbe  naked  honor  of  Alvarez  scorns 
Such  base  disguise.     Tet  pause  a  moment ;  — 
Since  our  great  master,  with  such  kind  concern, 
Himself  has  interposed  to  heal  our  feuds, 
Let  us  not,  thankless,  rob  him  of  the  glory. 
And  undeserve  the  grace  by  new,  false  fears. 

OO&MAZ. 

Kings  are,  alas !  but  men,  and  formed  like  us. 
Subject  alike  to  be  by  men  deceived  : 
Tbe  blushing  court  from  this  rash  choice  will  see 
How  blindly  he  o'erlooks  superior  merit. 
Could  no  man  fill  the  place  but  worn  Alvarez .' 

ALVABBZ. 

Worn  more  with  wounds  and  victories  than  age. 
Who  stands  before  him  in  great  actions  past  ? — 
But  I  'm  to  blame  to  urge  that  merit  now. 
Which  will  but  shock  what  reasoning  may  con- 
vince. 

OOBMAZ. 

The  Owning  slave  !     O  Sanchez,  bow  I  thank 
thee !  (Aside. 

ALVABBZ. 

Ton  have  a  virtuous  daughter,  I  a  son. 
Whose  softer  hearts  our  mutual  hands  have 

raised 
Even  to  the  summit  of  expected  joy; 
If  no  regard  to  me,  yet  let,  at  least, 
Tour  pity  of  their  passions  rein  your  temper. 

OORMAZ. 

0  needless  care !  to  n6bler  objects  now, 
That  son,  be  sure,  in  vanity,  pretends  : 
While  his  high  father's  wisdom  is  preferred 
To  guide  and  govern  our  great  monarch's  son, 
His  proud,  aspiring  heart  ]R)rgets  Ximena. 
Think  not  of  him,  but  your  superior  care  : 
Instruct  the  royal  youth  to  rule  with  awe 
His  future  subjects,  trembling  at  his  frown ; 
Teach  him  to  bind  the  loyal  heart  in  love. 
The  bold  and  factious  in  the  chains  of  fear : 
Join  to  these  virtues,  too,  your  warlike  deeds; 
Inflame  him  with  the  vast  fatigues  you  've  borne, 
But  now  are  past,  to  show  him  by  example, 
And  give  him  In  the  closet  safe  renown ; 
Read  him  what  scorching  suns  he  must  endure, 
What  bitter  nights  must  wake,  or  sleep  in  arms, 
To  countermarch  the  foe,  to  give  the  alarm, 
And  to  his  own  great  conduct  owe  the  day ; 
Mark  him  on  charts  the  order  of  the  battle. 
And  make  him  from  your  manuscripts  a  hero. 

ALVARBZ. 

Ill-tempered  man  !  thus  to  provoke  the  heart 
Whose  tortured  patience  is  thy  only  fiiend  ! 

OOBMAZ. 

Thou  only  to  thyself  canst  be  a  friend : 

1  tell  thee,  false  Alvarez,  thou  hast  wronged  me, 
Hast  basely  robbed  me  of  my  merit's  right, 
And  intercepted  our  young  prince's  fiune. 


His  youth  with  me  had  found  the  active  proof^ 
The  living  practice,  of  experienced  war ; 
This  sword  had  taught  him  glory  in  the  field, 
At  once  his  great  example  and  his  guard ; 
His  unfledged  wiiUgs  from  me  had  learned  to 

soar, 
And  strike  at  nations  trembling  at  my  name ; 
This  I  had  done ;  but  thou,  with  servile  arts. 
Hast,  fawning,  crept  into  our  master's  breast. 
Elbowed  superior  merit  from  his  ear. 
And,  like  a  courtier,  stole  his  son  from  glory. 

ALVABBB. 

Hear  me,  proud  man  !  for  now  I  bum  to  speak. 
Since  neither  truth  can  sway,  nor  temper  touch 

thee; 
Thus  I  retort  with  scorn  thy  slanderous  rage : 
Thou,  thou  the  tutor  of  a  kingdom's  heir.' 
Thou  guide  the  passions  of  o'erboiling  youth, 
That  canst  not  in  thy  age  yet  rule  thy  own  ? 
For  shame  !   retire,  and  purge  thy  iraperioos 

heart. 
Reduce  thy  arrogant,  self-judging  pride. 
Correct  the  meanness  of  thy  grovelling  soul, 
Chase    damned    suspicion    from    thj    manly 

thoughts, 
And  learn  to  treat  with  honor  thy  superior. 


Superior,  ha!  dar'st  thou  provoke  me,  traitor? 

ALTABBB. 

Unhand  me,  ruflian,  lest  thy  hold  prove  fttal ! 

OOBMAZ. 

Take  that,  audacious  dotard  ! 

[SirikoiUm. 

ALVABBZ. 

O  my  blood, 

Flow  forward  to  my  arm,  to  chain  this  tiger ! 
If  thou  art  brave,  now  bear  thee  like  a  man. 
And  quit  my  honor  of  this  vile  disgrace  ! 

[Thej  fight ;  Alrares  is  dwanned. 
O  feeble  life,  I  have  too  long  endured  thee ! 

OOBMAZ. 

Thy  sword  is  mine ;  take  back  the  inglorious 

trophy. 
Which  would  disgrace  thy  vic(6r*s  thigh  to  wear. 
Now  forward  to  thy  charge,  read  to  the  prince 
This  martial  lecture  of  my  famed  exploits ; 
And  from  this  wholesome  chastisement  learn 

thou 
To  tempt  the  patience  of  offended  honor ! 

[Exit. 

ALVABBZ. 

O  rage !    O  wild  despair !    O  helpless  age  ! 
Wert  thou  but  lent  me  to  survive  my  honor  ? 
Am  I  with  martial  toils  worn  gray,  ^nd  see 
At  last  one  hour's  blight  lay  waste  my  laurels  ? 
Is  this  famed  arm  to_  me  alone  defenceless  ? 
Has  it.  so  oflen  propped  this  empire's  glory, 
Fenced,  like  a  rampart,  the  Castilian  throne. 
To  me  alone  disgraceful,  to  its  master  useless  ? 
O  sharp  remembrance  of  departed  glory  ! 
O  &tal  dignity,  too  dearly  purchased ! 


CORNEILLE.  —  MOLIJ&RE. 


459 


Now,  haughty  GormBZ,  now  guide  thoo  my 

prince; 
Inrahed  honor  is  unfit  to  approach  him. 
And  thou,  once  glorious  weapon,  fm  thee  well. 
Old  servant,  worthy  of  an  abler  master  ! 
Leave  now  for  ever  his  abandoned  side, 
And,  to  revenge  him,  grace  some  nobler  arm !  — 
My  son! 

[Cbrlos 
O  Carlos !  canst  thou  bear  dishonor  ? 


What  villain  dares  occasion.  Sir,  the  question  ? 
Give  me  bis  name ;  the  proof  shall  answer  him. 

ALVAKBB. 

O  just  reproach !     O  prompt,  resentfbl  fire  ! 
My  blood  rekindles  at  thy  manly  flame. 
And  glads  my  laboring  heart  with  youth's  return. 
Up,  up,  my  son, — I  cannot  speak  my  shame, — 
Revenge,  revenge  me ! 


O,  my  rage ! — Of  what  ? 

▲LVAKIS. 

Of  an  indignity  so  vile,  my  heart 
Redoubles  all  its  torture  to  repeat  it 
A  blow,  a  blow,  my  boy  ! 


Distraction!  ifary! 

ALVAaaz. 
In  vain,  alas  !  this  fbeble  arm  assailed 
With  mortal  vengeance  the  aggressor's  heart; 
He  dallied  with  my  age,  o'erborne,  insulted ; 
Therefore  to  thy  young  arm,  for  sure  revenge. 
My  soul's  distress  commits  my  sword  and  cause : 
Pursue  him,  Carlos,  to  the  world^s  last  bounds, 
And  from  his  heart  tear  back  our  bleeding  honor ; 
Nay,  to  inflame  thee  more,  thou  'It  find  his  brow 
Covered  with  laurels,  and  far-famed  his  prowess: 
O,  I  have  seen  him,  dreadful  in  the  field. 
Cut  through  whole  squadrons  his  destructive 

way, 
And  snatch  the  gore-died  standard  from  the  foe ! 


O,  rack  not  with  his  fiime  my  tortured  heart. 
That  burns  to  know  him  and  eclipae  his  glory ! 


ALVASBX. 


Though  I  foresee 't  will  strike  thy  soul  to  hear  it. 
Yet,  since  our  gasping  honor  calls  for  thy 
Relief,  —  O  Carlos !  —  't  is  Ximena's  father  — 


Ha! 

ALVABBS. 

Pause  not  for  a  reply, — I  know  thy  love, 

I  know  the  tender  obligations  of  thy  heart. 

And  even  lend  a  sigh  to  thy  distress. 

I  grant  Ximena  dearer  than  thy  life ; 

But  wounded  honor  must  surmount  them  both. 

I  need  not  urge  thee  more ;  thou  know'st  my 

wrong; 
T  is  in  thy  heart, — and  in  thy  hand  the  ven- 

geance; 


Blood  only  is  the  balm  for  grief  like  mine. 
Which  tilh  obtained,  I  will  in  darkness  mourn. 
Nor  lift  my  eyes  to  light,  till  thy  return. 
But  haste,  o'ertake  this  blaster  of  my  name, 
Fly  swift  to  vengeance,  and  bring  back  my  &me ! 

[Exit. 

CARLOS. 

Relentless  Heaven  !  is  all  thy  thunder  gone  ? 
Not  one  bolt  left  to  finish  my  despair  ? 
Lie  still,  my  heart,  and  close  this  deadly  wound ! 
Stir  not  to  thought,  for  motion  is  thy  ruin  !  — 
But  see,  the  frighted  poor  Ximena  comes. 
And  with  her  tremblings  strikes  thee  cold  as 

death  ! 
My  helpless  father  too,  o'erwhelmed  with  shame, 
Begs  his  dismission  to  his  grave  with  honor. 
Ximena  weeps ;  heart-pierced,  Alvarez  groans : 
Rage  lifls  my  sword,  and  love  arrests  my  arm. 
O  double  torture  of  distracting  woe  ! 
Is  there  no  mean  betwiit  these  sharp  extremes? 
Must  honor  perish,  if  I  spare  my  love  ? 
O  ignominious  pity  !  shameful  softness  ! 
Must  I,  to  right  Alvarez,  kill  Ximena .' 
O  cruel  vengeance  !     O  heart-wounding  honor ! 
Shall  I  forsake  her  in  her  soul's  extremes. 
Depress  the  virtue  of  her  filial  tears. 
And  bury  in  a  tomb  our  nuptial  joy  ? 
Shall  that  just  honor,  that  subdued  her  heart. 
Now  build  its  &me;  relentless,  on  her  sorrows  ? 
Instruct  me,  Heaven,  that  gav'st  me  this  distress. 
To  choose,  and  bear  me  worthy  of  my  being  ! 
O  Love,  forgive  me,  if  my  hurried  soul 
Should  act  with  error  in  this  storm  of  fortune  ! 
For  Heaven  can  tell  what  pangs  I  feel  to  save 

thee!  — 
But,  hark  !  the  shrieks  of  drowning  honor  call ! 
'T  is  sinking,  gasping,  while  I  stand  in  pause ; 
Plunge  in,  my  heart,  and  save  it  from  the  billows ! 
It  will  be  so, —  the  blow  's  too  sharp  a  pain  ; 
And  vengeance  has  at  least  this  just  excuse. 
That  even  Ximena  blushes  while  I  bear  it : 
Her  generous  heart,  that  was  by  honor  Won, 
Most,  when  that  honor 's  stained,  abjure  my  love. 
O  peace  of  mind,  fkrewell !     Revenge,  I  come. 
And  raise  thy  altar  on  a  mournful  tomb ! 

[Exit. 


JEAN-BAPTISTE  POCQUELIN   DE 
MOLltRE. 

Jear-Baptistb  PocquELiN  was  bom  at  Paris, 
in  1620.  His  father,  a  valet-de-ckambre  and  up- 
holsterer to  the  king,  intended  the  boy  for  the 
same  occupation,  and  educated  him  accordingly, 
up  to  the  age  of  fourteen  years.  Toung  Poc- 
quelin's  grandfather,  who  had  a  passion  for  the 
theatre,  took  him  occasionally  to  the  Hdtel  de 
Bourgogne,  and  thus  helped  to  awaken  an  in- 
vincible repugnance  to  his  destined  profession. 
Through  the  interposition  of  his  grandfkther,  he 
was  soon  placed  under  the  instruction  of  the 
Jesuits,  and  made  great  progress  in  his  studies. 
Gassendi  was  one  of  his  teachers,  and  Chapelle 
and  Bernier  were  among  his  school  friends. 


460 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


He  studied  five  yean.  When  hb  father  had 
become  infinn,  the  yoang  man  was  required  to 
take  hit  place  about  the  person  of  the  king. 
The  French  theatre  at  this  time  was  beginning 
to  flourish,  through  the  genius  of  Comeille,  and 
the  influence  of  Cardinal  Richelieu ;  and  Poc- 
quelin*s  early  passion  for  the  drama  received  a 
new  impulse.  He  formed  a  company  of  young 
persons  who  had  a  talent  for  declamation,  which 
soon  became  distinguished,  and  was  known  un- 
der the  name  of  L'lUuttre  Tkidire,  Pocquelin 
now  resolved  to  apply  himself  wholly  to  the 
drama,  in  the  twofold  capacity  of  author  and  ac- 
tor. He  took  the  surname  of  Molidre,  after  the 
example  of  the  Italian  players,  and  those  of  the 
Hdtel  de  Bourgogne.  Moli^re  remained  un- 
known during  the  civil  wars  of  the  Fronde ; 
but  he  employed  this  time  in  cultivating  his 
powers  and  preparing  for  his  ftiture  career.  His 
first  regular  piece,  in  five  acts,  was  "  L'Etourdi," 
represented  at  Lyons,  in  1653.  The  comedy 
had  great  success,  and  drew  away  all  the  spec- 
tators  from  another  provincial  company,  which 
was  then  playing  at  Lyons.  From  Lyons,  Mo- 
liere  went  to  Languedoc,  where  he  was  warm- 
ly received  by  the  prince  of  Conti,  who  had 
known  him  at  school.  The  "  Etourdi "  was 
played  with  the  same  applause  at  the  theatre  of 
B^ziers,  and  the  "  Depit  Amoureuz  "  and  the 
*^  Pr^cieuses  Ridicules  "  were  also  brought  for- 
ward there.  After  having  visited  all  the  provin- 
ces, Moli^re  arrived  in  Paris,  in  1658,  where  his 
company,  now  called  **  The  Company  of  Mon- 
sieur," was  permitted  to  play  in  the  presence 
of  Louis  the  Fourteenth.  The  kiug  was  so  well 
satisfied  with  Moli^re's  company,  that  he  took 
them  into  his  favor,  and  assigned  the  poet  a 
pension  of  a  thousand  francs.  In  about  fifteen 
years,  Moli^re  produced  thirty  pieces,  among 
which  are  the  <«]S:coIe  des  Maris,"  the  «*FA- 
cheux,"  the  "Ecole  des  Femmes,"  the  "Ma- 
nage Forc^,"  the  "  Misanthrope,"  the  "  Tartufe," 
the  "  Avare,"  the  **  Amphitryon,"  the  "  Bour- 
geois Gentilhomme,"  the  "  Femmes  Savantes," 
and  the  "Malade  Imaginaire."  With  this  piece 
he  closed  his  career.  He  had  been  suffering,  for 
a  long  time,  fi^m  pulmonary  consumption.  At 
the  third  representation  of  this  comedy,  he  was 
more  unwell  than  usual,  and  his  fKends  urged 
him  not  to  play  ;  but  his  concern  for  the  inter- 
ests of  others  prevailed  over  their  advice,  and 
the  effort  cost  him  his  lifo.  He  was  seized  with 
convulsions  while  pronouncing  the  word  juro^ 
in  the  last  scene,  and  was  carried,  dying,  to  his 
home,  where  he  expired,  a  few  hours  after,  Feb- 
ruary 17th,  1673,  at  the  age  of  forty-three  years. 
The  comedy  wss  at  an  end  }  and  Bossuet  was 
austere  enough  to  say :  "  Perhaps  posterity  will 
know  the  end  of  this  poet«comedian,  who, 'in 
playing  his  Malade  Imaginaire^  received  the 
last  blow  of  that  disease  which  terminated  his 
life  a  few  hours  afterwards,  and  passed  fit>m 
the  jests  of  the  theatre,  amid  which  he  almost 
breathed  his  lost  sigh,  to  the  tribunal  of  Him 
who  sai4,  *  Woe  to  those  who  laugh,  for  they 


shall  mourn ! '  "  Five  years  later,  the  Academy 
erected  hb  bust,  with  the  line  firom  Saurin, —  , 
"  Riea  n«  manque  4  sa  glolre ;  il  maoquait  k  la  nAtn." 
La  Harpe  says, — **Of  all  that  have  ever 
written,  Moli^re  has  observed  man  the  best, 
without  proclaiming  his  observation ;  ha  has, 
too,  more  the  air  of  knowing  him  by  heart,  than 
of  having  studied  him.  When  we  read  hb 
pieces  with  reflection,  we  are  astonished,  not 
at  the  author,  but  at  ourselves His  come- 
dies, properly  read,  may  supply  the  place  of  expe- 
rience ;  not  because  he  has  painted  follies,  which 
are  transient,  but  because  he  has  painted  man, 
who  does  not  change.  He  has  given  a  seriei  of 
traits,  not  one  of  which  is  thrown  away  ;  tbb  b 
for  me,  that  is  for  my  neighbour ;  and  it  is  a 
proof  of  the  pleasure  derived  firom  a  perfect 
imitation,  that  my  neighbour  and  I  laugh  very 
heartily  to  see  ourselves  fools,  simpletons,  or 
meddlers,  and  that  we  should  be  furious,  if  any 
body  were  to  tell  us  in  another  manner  one  half 
of  what  Moli^re  says." 

Schlegel  has  not  done  Moli^re  justice,  though 
there  is  some  truth  in  his  criticism.  The  bonnd- 
less  wit,  the  happy  sarcasm,  the  infinite  variety 
of  comic  traits,  which  are  found  in  Moti^re's 
pieces,  place  him  among  the  greatest  comic  wri- 
ters whom  the  world  has  ever  seen,  notwith- 
standing frequent  defocts  of  plot,  some  extrava- 
gances of  character,  and  many  instances  of  pla- 
giarism. An  excellent  account  of  the  life  and 
writings  of  Moli^re  has  been  published  by  J. 
Taschereau,  Paris,  1825,  of  which  a  foil  and 
elegant  analysis  is  contained  in  the  sixty-first 
number  of  the  "North  American  Review.'* 
Most  of  his  pieces  have  been  translated  into 
English,  as  *«  Plays,"  by  John  Ozell,  1714; 
"  Select  Comedies  in  French  and  EnglislL," 
1732 ;  «« Works,  translated  into  English,"  Ber- 
wick, 1770  ;  "  Tartufo,  or  the  French  Puritan, 
a  Comedy,"  translated  by  Matthew  Medboume, 
1620.  His  works  were  published  by  Bret,  in 
six  volumes,  Paris,  1773.  They  have  gone 
through  innumerable  editions  since,  —  among 
others,  a  very  beautiful  illustrated  edition,  pub- 
lished in  1839,  by  Dubochet 


EXTRACT  FROM  THE  MISANTHROPE. 

CSUDOMA. 

Be  seated.  Madam. 

Aasiifoii. 

No,  there  b  no  need,  — 
The  claims  of  friendship  call  for  care  and  speed ; 
And  as  no  cares  of  equal  weight  can  be 
To  those  of  honor  and  propriety, 
A  current  rumor,  sullying  your  fair  fame, 
Has  sent  me  here,  sheltered  by  friendship's  name. 
Last  night,  a  party,  of  distinguished  taste. 
Of  sterling  virtue,  and  of  judgment  chaste. 
On  you,  fiiir  lady,  turned  the  conversation, 
And  at  your  conduct  showed  disapprobation. 
This  crowd  of  visiters  about  you  pressing. 
Tour  gallantry,  which  causes  tales  distressing. 


MOLli:RE.~LA  FONTAINE. 


461 


Foand  censora  rigorous  ftr  beyond  my  Tiews, 
And  much  I  stroTO  your  conduct  to  excuae  ; 
Tou  well  may  judge,  with  seal  I  would  de- 
fend 
And  do  my  best  to  ihield  my  abaent  fKend : 
Act  aa  you  might,  I  said,  you  meant  the  best. 
And  on  my  soul  your  virtue  I  'd  protest. 
rBut  in  this  world,  there  are  some  things,  you 

know, 
Much  as  we  would  excuse,  't  is  hard  to  do : 
I  found  myself  obliged  to  grant  the  rest, — 
Tour  style  of  living  was  not  of  the  best. 
That  it  looked  ill  before  a  slanderous  town. 
And  caused  sad  tales,  which  everywhere  went 

down,  — 
That,  if  you  pleased  your  manners  to  restrain. 
The  world  would  have  less  reason  to  complain : 
Not  that  I  would  your  honesty  impeach,  — 
Heaven  save  me  ftom  the  thought,  much  more 

the  speech  !  — 
But  at  the  fhade  of  vice  we  tremble  so. 
And  't  is  not  for  ourselves  we  live,  you  know. 
So  well  I  know  your  rightly  balanced  mind, 
I  doubt  not  this  advice  will  welcome  find ; 
And  no  unworthy  motive,  you  '11  suppose. 
Excites  me  thus  your  failings  to  disclose. 


Madam,  I  thank  you  for  your  great  good-will. 
And  good  advice,  which  far  from  taking  ill. 
With  interest  I  repay  it  on  the  spot,— - 
For  fHendship's  favors  should  not  be  forgot ; 
And  as  your  tender  friendship  you  display 
In  kindly  telling  all  the  public  say, 
I  your  example  in  return  pursue, 
And  let  you  know  what  they  remark  on  you. 
The  other  day,  some  friends  I  chanced  to  meet. 
Whose  claims  to  taste  and  judgment  are  com- 
plete; 

Conversing  on  the  cares  of  living  well. 
Madam,  on  you,  their  conversation  foil : 
Your,  great  display  of  zeal  and  prudery 
Was  not  the  pattern  which  they  fain  would  see ; 
Your  tedious  speeches,  flourished  out  with  pride, 
or  wisdom,  honor ;  then  your  grave  outside 
At    the   ambiguous  joke,  —  your  looks,  your 

cries,  — 
Of  hidden  meanings,  still  the  worst  supplies ; 
Your  self-esteem,  which  every  one  must  know ; 
Those  looks  of  pity,  which  around  you  throw ; 
Your  frequent  lessons  and  your  censures  hard 
On  things  which  others  just  and  good  regard : 
All  this,  dear  Madam, —  pray  excuse  the  word, — 
"Was  freely  blamed  by  all,  with  one  accord. 
*«  And  whence,*'  said  they,  **  this  modest  face 

and  eye, — • 
This  grave  exterior,  which  her  deeds  deny  ? 
She,  to  the  last,  with  great  exactness  prays. 
But  beats  her  servants,  and  their  dues  delays ; 
Her  holy  zeal  displays  to  public  sight. 
But  sighs  for  beauty,  and  wears  borrowed  white." 
For  xae,  against  them  all  I  took  your  part. 
And  said  't  was  scandal  rank  and  wicked  art; 
Bat  sUl  opinions  were  opposed  to  me, — 
And  aU  insisted  it  would  better  be. 


If  you  less  care  for  others'  deeds  had  shown, 
And  given  more  trouble  to  reform  your  own,— 
That  you  had  better  scan  yourself  with  care. 
And  others'  conduct  forther  censure  spare,— 
That  she,  who  strove  the  public  to  correct. 
Should  lead  a  lifo  the  public  might  respect. 
And  that  it  was  as  well  this  task  to  leave 
To  those  who  might  from  Heaven  the  charge 

receive. 
So  w^ll  I  know  your  rightly  balanced  mind, 
I  doubt  not  this  advice  will  welcome  find ; 
And  no  unworthy  motive,  you  '11  suppose. 
Excites  me  thus  your  failings  to  disclose. 

AKSniOB. 

The  best  of  friends  advice  will  ofl  reject. 
But  this  rejoinder  I  did  not  expect ; 
And,  Madam,  from  its  sharpness,  well  I  see 
My  counsel  bears  a  sting  not  guessed  by  me. 


JEAN  D£  LA  FONTAINE. 

This  universally  popular  author  was  born  at 
Chftteau  Thierry,  in  1631.  His  father  desir- 
ed to  educate  him  for  the  church,  a  career  whol- 
ly unsuited  to  bis  natural  disposition.  At  the 
age  of  nineteen,  he  was  placed  with  the  Fath- 
ers of  the  Oratory,  but  remained  with  them  only 
eighteen  months.  He  was  considered  a  dull  and 
spiritless  youth,  and  manifested  not  the  least 
spark  of  poetry  until  he  was  twenty-two  years 
old,  when  the  recitation  of  an  ode  of  Malberbe's 
roused  his  dormant  genius  and  he  began  to 
compose  verses.  At  the  age  of  twenty-six,  bis 
fkther  persuaded  him  to  marry  a  woman  for 
whom  he  bad  little-  or  no  attachment.  He 
lived,  however,  several  years  with  her,  and 
had  a  son.  He  made  himself  familiar  with  the 
best  writings  of  the  ancients,  particularly  Ho- 
mer, Plato,  Plutarch,  Horace,  Virgil,  Terence, 
and  Quintilian.  Being  invited  to  Paris  by  the 
Duchess  Bouillon,  he  was  there  introduced  to 
Fouquet,  then  Minister  of  Finance,  from  whom 
he  received  an  annual  pension  of  a  thousand 
firancs,  on  condition  of  producing  a  piece  of 
poetry  quarterly.  After  the  fall  of  Fouquet,  he 
was  taken  into  the  service  of  Henrietta,  wifo 
of  Monsieur,  the  king's  brother;  and  when 
she  died,  other  persons  of  distinction  gave  him 
their  protection,  until  Madame  Sabli^re  opened 
her  house  to  him  and  relieved  him  from  every 
care.  With  this  kindest  of  friends  he  lived 
twenty  years.  After  her  death,  he  was  invited 
by  Madame  Mazarin  and  Saint-Evremont  to 
England,  but  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to 
leave  Paris.  In  1693,  he  was  dangerously  ill ; 
and,  when  a  priest  conversed  with  him  on  the 
subject  of  religion,  he  replied,  **  I  have  lately 
been  reading  the  New  Testament,  which  I  as- 
sure you  is  a  very  good  book ;  but  there  is  one 
article  to  which  I  cannot  accede ;  it  is  that  of 
the  eternity  of  punishment  I  cannot  compre- 
hend how  this  eternity  is  compatible  with  the 
goodness  of  God."     After  recovering  fVom  this 

MM  2 


463 


FRENCH   POETRT, 


illness,  La  Fontaine  passed  two  yean  at  the 
bouse  of  Madame  D'Hervart,  during  which  he 
attempted  to  translate  some  pious  hymns,  but 
with  little  success.  He  wrote  his  own  epitaph, 
which  is  at  once  humorous  and  characteristic  : 

"  Jean  s'en  alia  comme  il  6tolt  TeDQi 
Mangea  le  fonds  avec  le  revenu, 

Tint  lea  tr^eora  chose  peu  nteeasalre. 
Quant  &  son  temps,  bien  sut  le  dispenser : 
Deux  parts  en  fit,  dont  il  souloit  passer, 
L'une  A  dormir,  et  I'autre  i  ne  rien  ftiire." 

He  died  at  Paris,  in  1695. 

As  a  man  of  genius.  La  Fontaine  was  one  of 
the  brightest  ornaments  of  the  age  of  Louis  the 
Fourteenth;  in  originality,  he  stood  nearly  at 
the  head  of  his  great  contemporaries.  As  a 
master  of  all  the  delicacies  of  the  French  lan- 
guage, he  was  at  least  equal  to  any  writer  of 
his  day.  His  '*  Fables  "  are,  probably,  more  read 
than  any  other  work  of  the  time,  excepting  the 
comedies  of  Molidre ;  more  read  by  English  read- 
ers than  any  similar  works  of  English  writers. 
They  possess  an  indescribable  fascination,  not 
only  for  children,  but  for  men,  the  '*  children 
of  a  larger  growth."  His  thoughts  are  always 
fresh  and  natural ;  his  little  pictures  of  human 
life  are  perfectly  drawn ;  the  short  stories  in 
which  human  actofs  are  introduced  att  con- 
ceited in  the  same  epirit  as  the  fables  of  ani- 
mats,  and  the  moral  la  worked  out  with  a 
clearneiKj  distinctnejAi,  and  force,  that  moke  an 
indelible  impression  on  the  mind.  Hiii  stjie  is 
marked  by  tfa@  best  qnuliLied  of  the  best  writera 
of  his  age.  It  \s  faniiijar,  yet  elegant ,  idio- 
matic, but  claasic ;  pithy  and  pointed,  without 
any.  apparently  studied  at  temple  at  cuncifle- 
nessj  and  the  versiflcutJon  is  happily  varied, 
and  adapted  to  the  various  characters  and  trains 
of  thought  vvhich  it  la  the  poet'ft  objet^t  to  set 
furth.  The  eiqutslte  turns  of  eTLpresaioni  which 
ao  frequently  occur  in  the  ^ibled  of  La  Fon- 
taine, mark  the  peculiar  character  of  the  French 
language,  and  five  a  better  Idea  of  iti  idiomatic 
richness  than  the  writings  of  any  other  author, 
always  excepting  the  immortal  comedies  of 
Moli^re,  His  humor  te  abundant,  without  de- 
generating into  coaraeneas  \  hia  satire  ia  kean, 
but  never  cynical.  The  faults,  errors,  and 
weaknesses  of  men  are  open  to  hia  searching 
ga2o,  but  he  is  never  misanthropical,  never  nut 
of  humor  with  his  fel low-be ing«;.  That  such 
a  writer  should  be  universally  popular  is  not 
at  all  surpristtJg,  He  lived  on  familiar  t^ms 
with  the  greatest  French  writers,  Molli^re,  Bol- 
leau,  and  Racine,  and  the  principal  men  of 
talent  and  wit  in  the  capltaL  They  called  him 
Le  B&n  Hommej  for  he  was  ^^  aa  simple  oa  the 
heroes  of  his  own  fablea,"  His  wife,  having 
lefV  him  after  a  short  residence  in  Paris,  he  wa« 
accustomed  to  visit  her  from  time  to  time,  and 
on  these  occasions  usually  got  rid  of  a  part  of 
faia  estate.  He  bad  no  skill  in  the  management 
of  alfairF,  and  in  this  respect  his  wife  resembled 
him,  and  the  natural  consequence  was  thai  hrs 
property  fell  into  great  disorder-  He  had  one  son, 


whom  the  archbishop  of  Paris  promised  to  pro- 
vide for.  Meeting  this  son,  after  a  long  separsp 
tion,  at  the  house  of  a  friend,  and  not  recognis- 
ing him,  he  expressed  great  pleasure  in  his 
conversation,  and,  upon  being  told  that  it  was 
his  own  son,  he  said,  '*  Ah  !  I  am  very  glad  of 
it.*'  At  another  time,  he-  vvas  persuaded  by 
Racine  and  Boileau  to  return  to  Chateau  Thier- 
ry and  attempt  a  reconciliation  with  his  wife. 
He  called  at  the  house,  and  learning  from  the 
servant,  who  did  not  know  him,  that  Madame 
La  Fontaine  was  well,  went  to  the  bouse  of  a 
neighbour,  with  whom  he  passed  two  days,  and 
then  returned  to  Paris.  To  his  friends'  inquir- 
ies about  the  success  of  his  mission,  he  said,  *'  I 
have  been  to  see  her,  but  I  did  not  find  her ; 
she  is  well." 

La  Fontaine's  ** Tales"  and  «« Fables"  have 
been  published  with  splendid  illustrations.  The 
best  edition  of  the  former  is  that  of  1762,  with 
Eisen's  designs,  and  vignettes  by  Chofiat.  The 
^*  Fables  "  were  published  in  a  magnificent  edi- 
tion, four  volumes  folio,  1755—59,  each  fid>le 
being  illustrated  with  a  plate.  An  exquisite 
edition  of  the  *' Fables,"  in  octavo,  was  pub- 
lished by  Fournier,  in  1839,  with  designs  bj 
J.  J.  Grandville.  The  reader  of  this  edition  is 
at  a  loss  which  mo^t  to  admire,  the  ejfuber^nt 
humor  and  wisdoni  of  (he  poet,  or  the  extro^ 
ordinary  felicity  with  which  the  artist  has  told 
the  poet's  story  in  his  illuBtmtions. 

La  Fontaine's  fables  have  oflen  been  imi- 
tated, but  never  equalled,  in  Englijjh.  A  collec- 
tion of  such  Imltationsi  done  In  a  very  spirit- 
ed manner,  was  pub^khed  In  Londiin,  1820. 
The  only  entire  Iran s I ii lion  eyer  ntttiiipted  is 
that  by  EliKur  Wright,  Jr.,  Bosttju,  I6ii  i  a 
work  which  has  many  lueritii^  ihoqgh  notffcach- 
ing  the  standard  of  perfect  U'unslailon. 

THE  COUN'CfL  IfBLD  BY  TtfE  RATS, 

Old  Rodllard,  a  certain  cat, 

Such  havoc  of  the  rats  had  mode, 
'T  was  difllqult  to  Jind  a  rat 
With  nature^s  debt  unpaid. 
The  ftsw  that  did  remain, 
To  leave  their  holes  afraid. 
From  U5uai  food  abstain. 
Not  eating  half  tlieir  611. 
And  wonder  no  on^  will. 
That  one,  who  made  on  rats  his  revel^ 
With  rats  passed  not  for  cat,  but  devil. 
Now,  on  a  day,  ibis  dread  rat-eater, 
Who  had  a  wif#,  wiint  out  to  muut  her ; 
And  while  be  held  his  caterwauling. 
The  unkilled  rata,  their  chapter  cutUng, 
Discussed  the  point,  in  gravt^  ddiatc. 
How  they  might  shun  impending  fate. 

Their  dean,  a  prudent  rnt. 
Thought  best,  and  better  soon  than  late, 

To  bell  the  faul  cat  ] 
That,  when  he  took  his  huntlrtg-round. 
The  rats,  well  cautioned  by  the  ^ound, 
Might  hide  in  safety  under  ground ; 


LA  FONTAINE. 


463 


Indeed,  he  knew  no  other  meana. 
And  all  the  rest 
At  once  confessed 

Their  minds  were  with  the  dean's. 
No  better  plan,  thej  all  beliered. 
Could  possibly  have  been  conceived ; 
No  doubt,  the  thing  would  work  right  well, 
If  any  one  would  hang  the  bell. 
But,  one  by  one,  said  every  rat, 
**  I  'm  not  so  big  a  fool  as  that." 
The  plan  knocked  up  in  this  respect. 
The  council  'closed  without  effect. 
And  many  a  council  I  have  seen, 
Or  reverend  chapter  with  its  dean, 

That,  thus  resolving  wisely. 

Fell  through  like  this  precisely. 

To  argue  or  refute, 

Wise  counsellors  abound ; 

The  man  to  execute 
Is  harder  to  be  found. 


THE  CAT  AND  THE  OLD  RAT. 

A  STORT-WRiTiR  of  our  9ort 
Historifies,  in  short, 

Of  one  that  may  be  reckoned  ' 
A  Rodilard  the  Second, — 
The  Alexander  of  the  cats. 
The  Attila,  the  scourge  of  rats, 

Whose  fierce  and  whiskered  head 
Among  the  latter  spread, 
A  league  around,  its  dread ; 
Who  seemed,  indeed,  determined 
The  world  should  be  unvermined. 
The  planks  with  props  more  false  than  slim. 
The  tempting  heaps*  of  poisoned  meal. 
The  traps  of  wire  and  traps  of  steel, 
Were  only  play,  compared  with  him. 
At  length,  so  sadly  were  they  scared. 
The  rats  and  mice  no  longer  dared 
To  show  their  thievish  &ces 
Outside  their  hiding-places. 
Thus  shunning  all  pursuit ;  whereat 
Our  crafly  General  Cat 
Contrived  to  hang  himself,  as  dead, 
Beside  the  wall,  with  downward  head, — 
Resisting  gravitation's  laws 
By  clinging  with  his  hinder  claws 
To  some  small  bit  of  string. 
The  rats  esteemed  the  thing 
A  judgment  for  some  naughty  deed, 
Some  thievish  snatch. 
Or  ugly  scratch ; 
And  tliought  their  foe  had  got  his  meed 
By  being  hung  indeed. 
.    With  hope  elated  all 

Of  laughing  at  his  funeral, 
They  thrust  their  noses  out  in  air ; 
And  now  to  show  their  heads  they  dare, 
J^^ow  dodging  back,  now  venturing  more ; 
At  last,  upon  the  larder's  store 
They  fall  to  filching,  as  of  yore. 
A  scanty  feast  enjoyed  these  shallows ; 
I>own  dropped  the  hung  one  from  his  gallows. 


And  of  the  hindmost  caught. 
**  Some  other  tricks  to  me  are  known," 
Said  he,  while  tearing  bone  from  bone, 

^  By  long  experience  taught ; 
The  point  is  settled,  free  from  doubt. 
That  from  your  holes  you  shall  come  out." 
His  threat  as  good  as  prophecy 
Was  proved  by  Mr.  Mildandsly ', 
For,  putting  on  a  mealy  robe. 
He  squatted  in  an  open  tub. 
And  held  his  purring  and  his  breath )  — 
Out  came  the  vermin  to  their  death. 
On  this  occasion,  one  old  stager, 
A  rat  as  gray  as  any  badger. 
Who  had  in  battle  lost  his  tail, 
Abstained  firom  smelling  at  the  meal ; 
And  cried,  far  off,  «« Ah !  General  Cat, 
I  much  suspect  a  heap  like  that ; 
Tour  meal  is  not  the  thing,  perhaps. 
For  one  who  knows  somewhat  of  traps ; 
Should  you  a  sack  of  meal  become, 
I  'd  let  you  be,  and  stay  at  home." 

Well  said,  I  think,  and  prudently. 
By  one  who  knew  distrust  to  be 
The  parent  of  security. 


THE  COCK  AND  THE  FOX. 

Upon  a  tree  there  mounted  guard 
A  veteran  cock,  adroit  and  cunning ; 
When  to  the  roots  a  fox  up  running 

Spoke  thus,  in  tones  of  kind  regard  :  —  . 
"  Our  quarrel,  brother,  's  at  an  end ; 
Henceforth  I  hope  to  live  your  friend ; 
For  peace  now  reigns 
Throughout  the  animal  domains. 
I  bear  the  news.     Come  down,  I  pray, 
And  give  me  the  embrace  fraternal ; 

And  please,  my  brother,  do  n't  delay : 
So  much  the  tidings  do  concern  all. 

That  I  must  spread  them  far  to-day. 
Now  you  and  yours  can  take  your  walks 
Without  a  fear  or  thought  of  hawks; 
And  should  you  clash  with  them  or  others. 
In  us  you  'II  find  the  best  of  brothers ;  — 
For  which  you  may,  this  joyful  night. 
Your  merry  bonfires  light. 
But,  first,  let 's  seal  the  bliss 
With  one  fraternal  kiss." 
"  Good  friend,"  the  cock  replied,  "  upon  my 

word, 
A  better  thing  I  never  heard ; 
And  doubly  I  rejoice 
To  hear  it  from  your  voice : 
And,  really,  there  must  be  something  in  it. 
For  yonder  come  two  greyhoundis,  which,  I 

flatter 
Myself,  are  couriers  on  this  very  matter ; 
They  come  so  fast,  they  '11  be  here  in  a  minute. 
I  '11  down,' and  all  of  us  will  seal  the  blessing 
With  general  kissing  and  caressing." 
**  Adieu,"  said  fox ;  **  my  errand  's  pressing ; 
I  '11  hurry  on  my  way. 
And  we  '11  rejoice  some  other  day." 


464 


FRENCH   POETRY. 


So  off  the  fellow  scampered,  quick  and  light, 
TogaiD  the  fbx-holes  of  a  neighbouring  height, — 
Less  happy  in  his  stratagem  than  flight. 
The  cock  laughed  sweetly  in  his  sleeve ;  — 
'T  is  doubly  sweet  deceiver  to  deceive. 


thb'wolf  and  the  dog. 

A  PROWLiiro  wolf,  whose  shaggy  skin 
(So  strict  the  watch  of  dogs  had  been) 

Hid  little  but  his  bones. 
Once  met  a  mastiff  dog  astray ; 
A  prouder,  fiitter,  sleeker  Tray 
No  human  mortal  owns. 

Sir  Wolf,  in  famished  plight. 
Would  fain  have  made  a  ration 
Upon  his  fat  relation  ; 

But  then  he  first  must  fight ; 
And  well  the  dog  seemed  able 
To  save  from  wolfish  table 

His  carcass  snug  and  tight. 
So,  then,  in  civil  conversation, 
The  wolf  expressed  his  admiration 
Of  Tray's  fine  case.     Said  Tray,  politely, 
"  Yourself,  good  Sir,  may  be  as  sightly : 
Quit  but  the  woods,  advised  by  me ; 
For  all  your  fellows  here,  I  see, 
Are  shabby  wretches,  lean  and  gaunt, 
Belike  to  die  of  haggard  want ; 
With  such  a  pack,  of  course  it  follows, 
One  fights  for  every  bit  he  swallows. 
Come,  then,  with  me,  and  share 
On  equal  terms  our  princely  fiire." 
*(  But  what  with  you 
Has  one  to  do  ?  " 
Inquires  the  wolf     **  Light  work  indeed," 
Replies  the  dog ;  **  you  only  need 
To  bark  a  little,  now  and  then. 
To  chase  off  duns  and  beggar-men, — 
To  fawn  on  friends  that  come  or  go  forth. 
Your  master  please,  and  so  forth ; 
For  which  you  have  to  eat 
All  sorts  of  well  cooked  meat,  — 
Cold  pullets,  pigeons,  savory  messes^  — 
Besides  unnumbiBred  fond  caresses." 
The  wolf,  by  force  of  appetite. 
Accepts  the  terms  outright. 
Tears  glistening  in  his  eyes. 
But,  faring  on,  he  spies 
A  galled  spot  on  the  mastiff's  neck. 
«  What 's  that  ?  "  he  cries.    "  O,  nothing  bat 
a  speck." 
"A  speck.'**     *'Ay,  ay;  't  is  not  enough  to 

pain  me; 
Perhaps  the  collar's  mark  by  which  they  chain 
me." 
"  Chain,— chain  you  ?  What !  ran  you  not,  then, 
Just  where  you  please,  and  when  ?  " 
«*Not  always.  Sir;  but  what  of  that?  " 
**  Enough  for  me,  to  spoil  your  fiit ! 
It  ought  to  be  a  precious  price 
Which  could  to  servile  chains  entice ; 
For  me,  I  '11  shun  them,  while  I  've  wit." 
So  ran  Sir  Wolf,  and  runneth  yet 


THE  CROW  AND  THE  FOX. 

A  HASTiR  crow,  perched  on  a  tree  one  day, 

Was  holding  in  his  beak  a  cheese ;  — 
A  master  fox,  by  the  odor  drawn  that  way, 
Spake  unto  him  in  words  like  these : 
**  O,  good  morning,  my  Lord  Crow ! 
How  well  you  look !  how  handsome  yoa 
do  grow ! 
'Pon  my  honor,  if  your  note 
Bears  a  resemblance  to  your  coat. 
You  are  the  phoenix  of  the  dwellers  in  these 
woods." 
At  these  words  does  the  crow  exceedingly 

rejoice ; 
And,  to  display  his  beauteous  voice. 
He  opens  a  wide  beak,  lets  fall  his  stolen  goods. 
The  fox  seized  on  't,  and  said,  *'My  good 

Monsieur, 
Learn  that  every  flatterer 
Lives  at  the  expense  of  him  who  hears  him 

out. 
This  lesson  is  well  worth  a  cheese,  no  doubt" 
The  crow,  ashamed,  and  much  in  pain. 
Swore,  but  a  little  late,  they  'd  not  catch  him 
so  again. 


NICHOLAS  BOILEAU  DESPRl^AUX. 

Nicholas  Boilbau  DsspRiAux,  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  ornaments  of  the  age  of  Louis 
the  Fourteenth,  was  born  at  Crosne,  near  Paris, 
in  1636.  He  studied  first  at  the  College  d'Har- 
court,  and  then  at  the  College  de  Beauvais. 
Having  completed  his  academical  studies,  be 
applied  himself  to  the  law ;  but  aoon  becoming 
disgusted  with  this  career,  he  resolved  to  give 
himself  entirely  to  letters.  His  youth  had  been 
assiduously  occupied  with  the  ancient  classics, 
on  which  his  taste,  so  distinguished  for  its  puri- 
ty and  severity,  was  formed.  He  attempted  a 
tragedy  without  success;  but  his  first  satire, 
*'Les  Adieux  k  Paris,"  made  his  talents  known. 
The «« Satires,"  which  he  published  in  1666,  were 
loudly  applauded  for  their  purity  of  language  and 
elegance  of  versification.  His  *^  Epistles  "  have 
retained  their  popularity  to  the  present  day.  The 
next  work  which  he  published  was  the  *'Art 
Po^tique,"  in  imitation  of  the  *<  Ara  Poetica"  of 
Horace.  The  merits  of  thu  poem,  as  a  tasteful 
and  elegant  summary  of  the  principles  of  poet- 
ical style  and  composition,  are  universally  rec- 
ognized, though  his  censures  of  Tasso  and 
Quinault  have  justly  exposed  him  to  the  charge 
of  a  somewhat  narrow  spirit  in  the  criticism  of 
literature.  Another  well  known  work  of  Boi- 
lean  is  the  **  Lutrin,"  a  mock-heroic  poem, 
nearly  equal  in  reputation  to  Pope's  **  Rape  of 
the  Lock"  Louis  the  Fourteenth  gave  him  the 
appointment  of  Historiographer.  -  The  Academy 
did  not  elect  him  a  member  until  1684,  he 
having  attacked  that  body  in  some  of  hu  wri^ 
ings.    Boileao  died  in  1711.    An  edition  of 


BO^LEAU  DESPRl^AUX. 


465 


his  works  was  published  by  Saint-Sarin,  Paris, 
1824,  in  four  volumes. 

Boileau  was  not  a  man  of  profound  and  orig- 
inal genius,  but,  in  the  language  of  Marmontel, 
«He  was  a  sound  and  judicious  critic,  the 
ayenger  and  conservator  of  taste,  one  who  made 
war  upon  bad  writers,  and  discredited  their 
examples.  He  taiugbt  young  people  to  foel  the 
proprieties  of  all  the  various  styles;  gave  a 
neat  and  precise  idea  of  each  of  the  different 
kinds ;  recognized  those  primary  truths  which 
are  eternal  laws,  and  stamped  them  upon  the 
minds  of  men  in  ineffaceable  lines." 

His  works  have  been  translated  into  English ; 
—  «»The  Art  of  Poetry,"  London,  1683;  "Lu- 
trin,"  by  N.  Rowe,  1708;  ««The  Works,"  by 
Ozell  and  others,  1712,  two  volumes;  ** Posthu- 
mous Works,"  by  the  same,  1713-14,  three 
volumes;  <*> Satires,"  London,  1808. 


NINTH  SATIRS. 

Look  ye,  my  mind  !  a  lecture  I  must  read ; 
Tour  faults  I  *11  bear  no  more, — I  won't,  indeed ! 
Too  long  already  has  my  bending  will 
Allowed  your  tricks  and  insolence  their  fill ; 
But  since  you  *ve  pushed  my  patience  to  the  last, 
Have  at  you  now  !  I  'II  blow  a  wholesome  blast. 

Why,  what !  to  see  you  in  that  ethic  mood, 
Like  Cato,  prating  about  bad  and  good. 
Judging  who  writes  with  merit,  and  who  not. 
And  teaching  reverend  doctors  what  is  what, — 
One  would  suppose,  that,  covered  over  quite 
With  darts  of  satire  ready  winged  for  flight. 
To  you  the  sole  prerogative  was  given 
To  hector  every  mortal  under  heaven. 
But  have  a  care, — with  all  that  high  pretence, 
/  know  the  worth  of  both  your  wit  and  sense. 
All  your  defects,  in  all  their  black  amount. 
As  easy  as  my  fingers  I  can  count. 
Ready  I  am  to  burst  with  laughter,  when 
I  see  you  snatch  your  weak  and  sterile  pen. 
And,  with  that  ceAsor-air,  sit  sternly  down 
To  wield  the  scorpion  and  reform  the  town,  -— 
More  rough  and  biting  in  your  satires  &r 
Than  angry  soolds,  or  Gautier  *  at  the  bar. 

But  come,  a  moment's  parley  let  us  hold ;  — 
Say  whence  you  got  that  freak  so  madly  bold. 
How  could  you  dare  attempt  in  verse  to  shine. 
Without  one  glance  of  fkvor  from  the  Nine  ? 
Say,  if  on  you  those  inspirations  roll 
W^faich  stir  the  waters  of  the  godlike  soul ; 
Tell  how  that  rash,  fool-hardy  spirit  grew ;  — 
Has  Phcebus  made  Parnassus  plain  for  you  f 
And  have  you  yet  the  dreadful  truth  to  learn. 
That,  on  that  mount,  where  sacred  splendors 

burn. 
He  who  comes  short  of  its  remotest  height 
Falla  to  the  ground  in  ignominious  plight, 

1  dnds  Gautter,  a  fuaaoB  advocate,  and  •zcMslvely 
MUng  In  Us  racrimiDationo.  Henca  ha  obulnad  Um  nick- 
name of  The  Scold.  Whan  a  plsadar  wlahad  to  Intimi- 
date hifl  opponant,  ha  osad  to  say,  "  I  'U  lat  Gautlar  looao 
upoa  you." 

69 


And,  severed  far  from  Horace  and  Voiture, 
Crawls  round   the  bottom,  —  with   the  Abb^ 

Pure?' 
Tet  still,  if  all  that  I  can  do  or  say 
Can  neither  frighten  nor  persuade  away 
The  dire  approaches  of  that  villain-sprite 
Which  tempts  your  sad  infirmity, —  to  write, — 
Why,  make  your  aeribbling,  then,  a  gainful 

thing. 
And  chant  the  glories  of  our  conqueror-king ; ' 
So  shall  your  whims  and  follies  swell  your  purse. 
And  every  year  shall  fructify  your  verse. 
While  by  your  thriving  Muse  is  duly  sold 
An  ounce  of  smoke,  for  full  its  weight  in  gold. 
**  Ah,  tempt  me  not! "  I  hear  you  thus  reply ; 
**  In  vain  such  splendid  tasks  my  hand  shall  try. 
It  is  no't  every  dabbler  that  can  strike 
So  high  a  chord,  and  thunder,  Orpheu»-like ; 
Not  every  one  can  fill  the  glowing  page 
With  scenes  where  Discord  swells  and  bunts 

with  rage,  — 
Where  hot  Bellona,  thundering,  shrieking,  calls. 
And  frightened  Belgium  shrinks  behind  her 

walls:  4 
On  such  high  themes,  without  a  throb  of  foar, 
Racan*  may  chant,  —  since  Homer  is  not  here. 
But  lack-a-day !  for  me  and  poor  Cotin,* 
Who  rhyme  by  chance,  and  plunge  through 

thick  and  thin, — 
We,  who  turned  poets  only  on  the  plan 
Of  meanly  finding  all  the  fault  we  can, — 
By  crowds  of  schoolboys  though  our  praise  is 

sung. 
Our  safest  way  we  find  —  to  hold  our  tongue. 
Strains  worthy  of  a  flatterer  and  a  dunce 
Degrade  both  author  and  the  king  at  once. 
In  short,  for  me  such  subjects  are  the  worst, — 
My  capabilities  they  sure  would  burst." 
*T  is  thus,  my  mind,  you  lazily  affect 
The  outward  semblance  of  a  chaste  respect, 

*  Tha  AbM  da  Puie  bad  circulatad  soma  black  and  un- 
proTokad  calumniea  agaloat  Boilaau. 

3  Tha  ▼ictoriaa  of  Loula  tha  Fourtaanth  called  fbrth  a 
swann  of  inferior  poets,  who  sought  that  celebrity  from 
thair  theme,  which  they  never  could  gain  of  themsBlraa. 

^  The  king  had  just  taken  Lille,  and  made  himaelf,  tn 
tha  aama  campaign,  master  of  aavanl  other  cltiea  in  Flan- 
ders. 

»  This  complimant  is  either  loo  Ugh,  or  poatarity  la  vary 
an  just  to  this  French  Homer.  Racan,  however,  was  tin 
poite  eatimi. 

*  In  the  Third  Satire,  the  author  azpreaaas  his  fondnaaa 
of  good  accommodation  at  tha  dinnaMaUa,  by  declaring 
that  ha  wbhed  for 

"  As  much  elbow-room  to  indulge  himself  In,  . 
As  Caaaagna  had  at  church,  or  the  AbM  Colin." 
Ousagna  had  tha  good  aenaa  to  testify  no  resentment 
against  tha  author.  Not  ao  with  Cotin.  Ha  could  not  en- 
dure that  his  pulpit  talanta  ahould  be  contested.  In  order 
to  have  his  revenge,  ha  wrote  a  bad  aatira  against  Boileau, 
In  which  ha  reproaches  him,  as  if  it  were  a  great  crime, 
fi>r  having  imitated  Horace  and  JuTanal.  Ha  also  published 
an  aaaay  on  tha  satires  of  tha  times,  tn  which  he  charged 
our  author  with  baring  dona  tha  greatest  lajurias,  and 
Imputed  to  him  Imaginary  crimes.  Thia  only  provoked  a 
new  tiasua  of  raiUeriaa,  of  which  tha  aboTS  la  one;  and, 
MoUiro  beiDg  made  a  party  in  the  game,  tha  repntaUon  of 
Cotin  at  length  sunk  under  tha  contest. 


466 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


While  dark  malignity,  that  poisonous  sin, 
Broods,  rankling,  with  a  double  power  within. 
But  grant,  that,  if  you  sung  such  high-wrought 

things. 
The  lofty  flight  would  melt  your  venturous 

wings,  — 
Were  it  not  better  and  far  nobler,  say, 
Among  the  clouds  to  throw  your  life  away, 
Than  thus  to  sally  on  the  king's  high-road, 
And  slash  about  in  that  unchristian  mood, 
Rhyming  and  scoffing,  as  you  daily  do, 
Insulting  those  who  never  speak  to  you. 
Rashly  endangering  others  and  yourself, — 
Aod  all  to  load  your  publisher  with  pelf.' 
Perhaps  you  think,  puffed  up  with  senseless 

pride, 
To  march  with  deathless  Horace,  side  by  side. 
Even  now  you  hope  that  on  your  rhymes  obscure 
Future  Saumaises^  will  the  rack  endure. 
But  think  what  numbers,  well  received  at  first. 
Have  had  their  foolish  expectations  cursed  ! 
How  many  flourish  for  a  little  date. 
Who  see  their  packed-up  verses  sold  by  weight ! 
To-day,  your  writings,  gathering  wide  renown. 
From  hand  to  hand  spread  briskly  through  the 

town; 
A  few  months  hence,  despite  their  matchless 

worth, 
Powdered  with  dust,  and  never  named  on  earth. 
They  to  the  grocer's  swell  that  solemn  train 
Led  by  La  Serre,*  and  eke  by  Neuf- Germain,* — 
Or,  at  Pont-Neuf,^°  perhaps,  all  gnawed  about. 
Lie  with  their  leaves  defaced  and  half  torn  out. 
Ah  !  the  fine  thing,  to  see  your  works  engage 
A  loitering  lacquey,  or  an  idle  page, — 
Or  make,  perchance,  conveyed  to  some  dark 

nook, 
A  second  volume  to  Savoyard's  book.^  ^ 

Should   fiite  allow,  by  some  good-natured 

whim, 
Tour  verses  on  the  stream  of  time  to  swim. 
Fulfilling,  centuries  hence,  your  spiteful  vow. 
To  load  with  hisses  poor  Cotin,  as  now,  — 
Of  what  avail  will  be  the  future  praise 
Which  men  may  lavish  in  those  distant  days. 
If  in  your  life- time  now  that  trick  of  rhyme 
Blacken  your  conscience  with  repeated  crime .' 
Where  is  the  use  to  scare  the  public  so  ? 
Why  will  you  make  each  sorry  fool  your  foe  ? 
Why  draw  down  many  a  secret  hearty  curse. 
Merely  to  show  your  talent  at  a  verse  f 
What  demon  tempts  you  to  the  vain  display 
Of  proving  out  how  well  you  can  inveigh  ? 
Tou  read  a  book,  —  and  if  it  does  not  strike. 
Who  forces  you  to  publish  your  dislike  ? 

T  CUude  Saumalse,  sn  excellent  critic  and  commeatator. 

•  Tbie  Is  tbat  mlaerable  writer,  of  wbom,  la  the  Third 
Satire,  the  coantrj  nobleman  ezclalms, 

"  La  Serre  le  the  author  of  authors  for  me  I  " 

•  Neuf-Gennaia  la  described  an  a  ridiculous  and  eztrsTa* 
gantpoet. 

10  This  was  a  place  In  Paris,  where  books  were  exposed 
to  aale  as  waste  paper. 

i>  SsToyard  used  to  sing  songs  about  the  streets  of  Paris, 
and  at  length  he  most  pubUeh  his  "  New  CoUectioo  of  the 
Songs  of  SaToyard,  as  smg  by  himself  at  Paris  "  I 


Pray,  let  a  dunce  in  quiet  meet  bis  lot ; 
Shall  not  an  author  unmolested  rot? 
Janas^^*  in  dust,  lies  withered  from  our  sight ; 
Davidf  though  printed,  has  not  seen  the  light; 
Moses  is  stained  with  right  Mosaic  mould 
Along  the  margin  of  each  musty  (old. 
How  can  they  harm  ?  those  who  are  dead  are 

dead; 
Shall  not  the  tomb  escape  your  hostila  tread  ? 
What  poison  have  they  poured  within  your  cup, 
That  you  should  rake  their  slumbering  ashes 

up,— 
Perrin  and  Bardin,  Pradon  and  Hainant, 
Colletet,  Pelletier,  Titreville,  Quinaut,*' 
Whose  names  for  ever  to  some  rhyme  yon  hitch. 
Like  staring  image  in  sepulchral  niche? 
You  say  you  hate  the  nonsense  they  produce. 
And  that  you  're  wearied  out ;  —  a  fine  excuse ! 
Have  they  not  wearied  out  both  court  and  king? 
Yet  who  indictments  has  presumed  to  bring  ? 
Has  the  least  edict,  to  avenge  their  crime, 
Silenced  the  authors,  or  suppressed  the  rhyme? 
Let  write  who  will.    All  at  this  trade  may  lose 
Freely  what  paper  and  what  ink  they  choose. 
Let  a  romance,  whose  volumes  number  ten,*^ 
Dismiss  its  hero,— Heaven  alone  knows  when,— 
Yet  who  can  charge  it  with  a  single  flaw 
Against  the  statute  or  the  common  law .' 
Hence,  to  this  wild  impunity  we  owe 
Those  tides  of  authors  which  for  ever  flow, — 
Whose  annual  swell  has  never  ceased  to  drown, 
Time  out  of  mind,  this  trash-devoted  town. 
Hence,  not  a  single  gate-post  guards  a  door, 
With  puff-advertisements  not  smothered  o'er. 
Fastidious  spirit !  and  will  you  alone, 
Without  prerogative,  with  name  nnknowo. 
Presume  to  vindicate  Apollo's  cause. 
Adjust  his  realm,  and  execute  his  laws  ? 
But  whilst  their  works   thus   roughly  joa 

chastise, 
Will  yours  be  viewed  with  quite  indulgent  eyes? 
No  living  thing  escapes  your  rude  attack ; 
Think  you  no  blow  of  vengeance  shall  cods 

back.? 
Ah,  yes!   e*en    now,  methinks,  some  injured 

Wright 
Exclaims,  <*  Keep  out  of  that  mad  critic's  sight! 
One  cannot  tell  what  often  ails  his  brain, — 
A  paradox,  no  shrewdness  can  explain, — 
A  very  boy,  —  an  inexperienced  fool, 
Who  rashly  grasps  at  universal  rule ; 
Who,  for  a  pair  of  well  turned  verses'  ends, 
Would  run  the  risk  of  losing  twenty  friends. 
He  gives  no  quarter  to  the  godlike  Maid, 
And  wanto  his  will  by  all  the  world  obeyed. 
Is  there  a  faultless  pleader  at  the  bar. 
Whose  eloquence  he  does  not  mock  and  mar?*^ 

1*  The  three  poems,  over  which  a  requiem  Is  mng  to 
these  three  lines,  were  all  the  productions  of  diflhreotao- 
thors,  and  nerer  had  one  breeie  of  auccess. 

19  Poets,  who  had  at  various  times  Inenrrad  the  bmDor 
of  our  author  In  his  Satires. 

»*  The  lomancee  of  "Cyni8,»'  "Qtilo,'*  sad  "Vbtor 
mond  "  each  extended  to  ten  voliimes. 

>•  Our  author  poaaeseed  in  a  rwrj  perfect  dagtm  tha 


BOILEAU   DESPR6aUX. 


467 


Is  there  a.  preacher,  briUiant,  chaste,  and  deep, 
At  whose  discourse  he  does  not  go  to  sleep  ? 
And  who  is  this  Parnassian  monarch-lad  ? 
A  beggar,  in  the  spoils  of  Horace  clad ! 
Did  not  one  Javenal,  before  him,  teach 
How  few  attend  Cotin,  to  hear  him  preach  ?  " 
Those  poets  both  wrote  satires  upon  rhyme ;  ^^ 
And  how  he  fathers  upon  them  his  crime  ! 
Behind  their  glorioas  names  be  hides  his  head. 
'T  is  true,  those  authors 'I  have  little  read  ; 
But  this  I  know,  the  world  would  get  much  good. 
If  all  that  slanderous,  satiric  brood 
Into  the  river  (and  *t  would  be  but  ftir) 
Were  headlong  plunged,  to  make  their  veraes 

there." 
See  how  they  treat  jou,  and  the  world  astound ; 
And  the  world  deems  you  as  alseady  drowned. 
In  vain  will  some  good-natured  friend  essay 
To  beg  for  grace,  and  wipe  your  doom  away ; 
Nothing  can  satisfy  the  jealous  wight. 
Who  reads,  and  trembles  as  be  reads  in  fright. 
Thinks  that  each  shafl  is  aimed  at  him  alone. 
Believing  every  fault  you  paint  his  own. 

You  're  always  meddling  with  some  new  affair, 
Picking  eternal  quarrels  here  and  there. 
Why  are  my  ears  so  frequently  assailed 
With  cries  of  authors  and  of  fools  impaled .' 
When  will  your  zeal  some  due  cessation  find  ? 
Come,  now,  —  I  'm  serious,  —  answer  me,  my 

mind! 
*«My  stars!"  you  answer,  **what  a  mighty 

fuss! 
Why  do  you  let  your  spleen  transport  you  thus  ? 
Must  I  be  hung,  for  having  given,  once 
Or  twice,  a  passing  comment  on  a  dunce  .' 
Where  is  the  man,  who,  when  a  coxcomb  brags 
Of  having  written  a  mere  piece  of  rags. 
Does    not    exclaim,  —  *You    good-for-nothing 

fool! 
Tou  tiresome  dunce  !  you  vile  translating  tool ! 
Why  should  such  nonsense  ever  see  the  day. 
Or  why  such  wordy  nothings  make  display  ?  ' 

*^  Must  this  be  slander  called,  or  honest  speech  ? 
No,  slander  steals  more  softly  to  the  breach. 
Tbns,  were  it  made  a  doubt,  for  what  pretence 

M built  a  convent  at  his  own  expense,  — 

*M ?'  cries  the  slanderer,  with  a  solemn 

whine, 
« Why,  do  n*t  suspect  him,  —  he  's  a  friend  of 

mine. 
I  knew  him  well,  before  his  fortunes  grew,  — 
As  fine  a  lacquey  as  e'er  brushed  a  shoe. 

talent  of  mlmlckry.  Being  a  joung  adTocate,  his  atteod- 
anee  at  tba  courts  of  justice  ODalded  him  to  catch  tlie  tone 
and  mannera  of  the  pleaden  then.  He  was  no  leas  an 
aDDoyaoce  to  ail  preacben  and  all  phy^actoriL 

!•  This  is  the  most  piercing  thrast  in  the  whole  Satire. 
SaintpPaTin  and  the  AbbA  Ootin  had  charged  our  author 
with  stealing  fnm  Horace  and  JuvenaL  Tlie  objection  was 
very  impertinent;  bat  by  making  Juvenal  talk  about  the 
Abb6  Cotin,  who  lived  sixteen  or  seventeen  centuries  af\er 
hixD,  it  fen  back  with  tremendous  force  on  the  heads  of  its 
aotboTs. 

XT  It  is  scarcelf  necessary  to  remind  tlie 'reader,  that 
neither  Horace  nor  Juvenal,  nor  any  other  Latin  poet  before 
the  Dark  Ages,  knew  any  thing  of  rhyme. 


His  pious  heart  and  honorable  mind 
Would  give  to  God  —  his  filchings  from  man- 
kind.' 

**  There  is  a  sample  of  your  slanderer's  art, 
Which  stabs,  with  vast  politeness,  to  the  heart 
The  generous  soul,  to  such  intrigues  unknown, 
Detests  the  soft,  backbiting,  double  tone. 
But  surely,  to  expose  a  wretched  verse. 
Hard  as  a  stone,  and  dismal  as  a  hearse. 
To  draw  a  line  'twixt  merit  and  pretence, 
To  throttle  him  who  throttles  common  sense. 
To  joke  a  would-be  wit  who  wears  out  you,  — 
This  every  reader  has  a  right  to  do. 

**  A  fool  at  court  may  every  day  judge  wrong. 
And  pass    unpunished    through   the    tasteless 

'    throng. 
Preferring  (so  all  standards  they  disturb) 
Theophilus  to  Racan  and  Malherbe, 
Or  e'en  pretend  an  equal  price  to  hold 
For  Tasso's  tinsel  as  for  Maro's  gold. 

*^  Some  understrapper,  for  a  dozen  sous. 
Who  shrinks  notfh>m  the  scorn  of  public  view. 
May  go  and  take  his  station  at  the  pit. 
And  cry  down  AttUa  '*  with  vulgar  wit ; 
Unfit  the  beauties  of  the  Hun  to  feel,         * 
He  chides  those  Vandal  verses  of  Comeille. 

**  There  's  not  a  varlet  author  in  this  town, 
No  drudge  of  pen  and  ink,  no  copyist  clown. 
Who  is  not  ready  to  assume  his  stand. 
And  sternly  judge  all  writings,  scale  in  hand. 
Soon  as  the  anxious  bard  his  fbrtune  tries. 
He  is  the  slave  of  every  dunce  who  buys. 
He  truckles  low  to  every  body's  whim ; 
His  works  must  combat  for  themselves  and  him. 
In  preface  meek,  he  gets  upon  his  knees. 
To  beg  his  candor  —  whom  his  verses  tease  ; 
In  vain,  —  no  mercy  let  the  author  hope, 
When  even  his  judge  stands  ready  with  the  rope. 

**  And  must  /  only  hold  my  peace  the  while  ? 
If  men  are  fools,  shall  I  not  dare  to  smile  ? 
What  harm  have  my  well-meaning  verses  done, 
That  furious  authors  thus  against  me  run  ? 
So  far  from  filching  their  hard-gotten  fame, 
I  but  stepped  in,  and  built  them  up  a  name. 
Had  hot  my  verses  brought  their  trash  to  light, 
It  would  have  sunk,  long  since,  to  hopeless  night. 
Where'er  my  friendly  notice  had  not  reached. 
Who  would    have    known    Cotin    had    ever 

preached  ? 
By  satire's  dashes  fools  are  glorious  made. 
As  pictures  owe  their  brilliancy  to  shade. 
In  all  the  honest  censures  I  have  brought, 
I  have  but  freely  uttered  what  I  thought ; 
And  they  who  say  I  hold  the  rod  too  high. 
Even  they  in  secret  tfunk  the  same  as  I. 

«*  Still  some  will  murmur,  —  *  Sure,  he  was  to 
blame ; 
Where  was  the  need  of  calling  folks  by  name  ?  ** 


18  One  of  Oomeille's  best  dramas. 

>•  One  day,  the  Abb6  Vietoira  met  Boileau,  and  said  to 
him :  "  ChapcOain  is  one  of  my  friends,  and  I  do  n't  like  to 
have  you  call  him  by  name  in  your  Satires.  It  is  true,  that, 
if  lie  had  taken  my  advice,  he  would  never  have  written 
poetry.  Prose  is  much  better  for  his  talents."  "  There  it 
is,  there  it  is  I "  said  our  poet.   "  What  do  I  say  more  than 


468 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


Attacking  Chapelain,  too !  —  bo  good  a  man !  — 
Whom  Balzac  *^  always  praises  when  he  can. 
'T  is  true,  had  Chapelain  taken  my  advico. 
He  ne*er  had  Tersified,  at  any  price  ; 
In  rhyme  he  to  himself  *8  the  worst  of  foes ; 
O,  had  he  always  been  content  with  prose  !  * 

**  Such  is  the  cant  in  which  they  talk  away. 
But  is  it  not  the  very  thing  /  say  ? 
When  to  his  works  I  put  my  pnining-knife, 
Pray,  do  I  throw  rank  poison  on  his  life  ? 
My  Muse,  though  rough,  adopts  the  candid  plan 
Still  to  disjoin  the  poet  from  the  man. 
Grant  him  what  faith  and  honor  are  his  due, 
Allow  him  to  be  civil,  modest,  true, 
Complaisant,  soft,  obliging,  and  sincere,  — 
From  me  not  even  a  scruple  shall  you  hear. 
But  when  I  see  him  as  a  model  shown. 
And  raised  and  worshipped  on  the  poet's  throne. 
Pensioned  far  more  than  wits  of  greater  might,'^ 
My  bile  o'erflows,  and  I  'm  on  fire  to  write. 
If  I  'm  forbidden  what  I  think  to  say 
In  print,  —  then,  like  the  menial  in  the  play, 
I  il  go  and  dig  the  earth,  and  whisper  there, 
That  even  the  reeds  may  publish  to  the  air, 
Till  every  grove,  and  vale,  and  thicket  hears, 
Midas^  King  Midas^  has  an  ass's  ears. 
How  have  my  writings  done  him  any  wrong? 
His  powers  how  frozen,  or  how  chilled  his  song? 
Whene'er  a  book  first  takes  the  vender's  shelf, 
Let  every  comer  judge  it  for  himself 
Bilaine  '*  may  save  it  from  his  bookshop's  dust ; 
Can  he  prevent  a  critic's  keen  disgust? 
A  minister  may  plot  against  7%«  Cid^^^ 
And  every  breath  of  rapture  may  forbid ; 
In  vain,  —  all  Paris,  more  informed  and  wise, 
Looks  on  Ximena  with  Rodfigo*s  eyes.'^ 
The  whole  Academy  may  run  it  down, — 
Still  shall  it  charm  and  win  the  rebel  town. 
But  when  a  work  from  Chapelain's  mint  appears, 
Straightly  his  readers  all  become  Lini^res ;  '^ 
In  vain  a  thousand  authors  laud  him  high,  — 
The  book  comes  forth,  and  gives  them  all  the 

lie. 
Since,  then,  he  lives  the  mark  of  scorn  and  glee 
To  the  whole  town, — pray,  without  chiding  me, 

youf  Why  am  I  reproached  for  saying  in  verse  what 
every  body  else  says  in  proeel  I  am  but  the  secretary  of 
the  public" 

so  Balzac  was  a  nobleman,  and  a  very  popular  writer  of 
letters.  Out  of  about  twenty  of  his  volumes,  six  were 
filled  with  letters  to  Chapelain,  and  encomiums  on  his 
worlcs. 

SI  Chapelain  had,  in  diflhrent  sinecures  and  pensions, 
about  eight  thousand  livres  per  annum. 

ss  Bilaine  was  a  famous  bookseller,  who  kept  his  shop 
in  the  grand  hall  of  the  palace. 

53  CoraelUe  having  obtained  the  representation  of  his  fit* 
rooufl  drama  of  "  The  Cid,"  a  party  was  formed  against  it, 
at  the  head  of  which  was  the  great  Cardinal  Richelieu, 
Prime-minister  of  France.  He  obliged  the  French  Academy 
to  criticise  that  play,  and  their  striaures  were  printed 
under  the  title  of  "  SenUments  of  the  French  Academy 
rsepectlng  The  Cid." 

54  Ximena  and  Rodrigo,— the  heroins  sod  the  hero  of 
"The  Cid." 

s*  Lini«re  waa  an  author  who  wrote  severely  sgainst 
Chapelain's  "  Maid  of  Orleans." 


Let  him  accuse  bia  own  unhappy  vene. 
Whereon  Apollo  baa  pronounced  a  carse ; 
Tes,  blame  that  Muse  that  led  his  steps  astny, 
His  German  Muse,  tricked  out  in  French  amy. 
Chapelain  !  farewell,  for  ever  and  for  aye ! " 
Satire,  they  tell  us,  is  a  dangerous  thing; 
Some  smile,  but  most  are  outraged  at  its  sting; 
It  gives  its  author  every  thing  to  feu, 
And  more  than  once  made  sorrow  for  Regnier.'' 
Quit,  then,  a  path,  whose  wily  power  decoys 
The  thoughtless  soul  to  too  ill-natured  joys ; 
To  themes  more  gentle  be  your  Muse  confined, 
And  leave  poor  Feaillet  *''  to  reform  mankind. 
««What!  give  up  satire?  thwart  my  darling 

drifl  ? 
How  shall  I,  then,  employ  my  rhyming  gift? 
Praj,  would  you  have  me  daintily  explode 
My  inspiration  in  a  pretty  ode; 
And,  vexing  Danube  in  his  course  superb. 
Invoke   his  reeds   with   pilferings  from  Mat- 

herbe.?" 
Save  groaning  Zion  from  the  oppressor's  rod, 
Make  Memphis  tremble,  and  the  crescent  nod; 
And,  passing  Jordan,  clad  in  dread  alarms. 
Snatch  (undeserved  !)  the  Idumean  palms  ?^ 
Or,  coming  with  an  eclogue  from  the  rocks, 
Pipe,  in  the  midst  of  Paris,  to  my  flocks. 
And  sitting  (at  my  desk),  beneath  a  beech, 
Make  Echo  with  my  rustic  nonsense  screech  ? 
Or,  in  cold  blood,  without  one  spark  of  lore. 
Burn  to  embrace  some  Iris  from  above ; 
Lavish  upon  her  every  brilliant  name,  — 
Sun,  Moon,  Aurora,  —  to  relieve  my  flame; 
And  while  on  good  round  fare  I  daily  dine, 
Die  in  a  trope,  or  languish  in  a  line  ? 
Let  whining  fools  such  aflfectation  keep, 
Whose  drivelling  minds  in  luscious  dulness sleep. 
•«  No,  no !  Dame  Satire,  chide  her  ss  yon  will, 
Charms  by  her  novelties  and  lessons  still. 
She  only  knows,  in  fair  proportions  meet. 
Nicely  to  blend  the  useful  with  the  swtfet; 
And,  as  good  sense  illuminates  her  rhymes, 
Unmasks  and  routs  the  errors  of  the  tiroes;— 
Dares  e*en  within  the  altar's  bound  to  tread, 
And   strikes    injustice,   vice,  and   pride  witn 

dread. 
Her  fearless  tongue  deals  caustic  vengeance 

back. 
When  reason  suflTers  from  a  fool's  attack. 
Thus  by  Lucilius,  when  his  LsbIius  bid. 
The  old  Cotins  of  Italy  were  chid ; 
Thus  Attic  Horace,  with  his  killing  leers. 
Braved  and  o'erwhelmed  the  Roman  FelletierB. 

a«  Regnier  was  the  firat  who  wrote  s^res  in  Frw* 
WhUe  rery  young,  his  Teraes  provoked  for  him  so  in»7 
enemiee,  that  his  father  was  obliged  to  chastise  htm. 

»T  Feaillet  was  a  preacher  excessively  ssvere  »  °VT. 
nem,  and  alarming  in  his  exhonaUons,  He  aftciafl  ""B* 
larity  in  his  public  performances.  .     ,.1,0 

»  These  lines  sllude  to  the  writings  o(  one  P»ri«. 
borrowed  and  spoiled  sentences  from  Malherbe.  ^ 

2»  Il  is  posaiUe,  lha^  in  these  few  lines,  he  •™T_w. 
1^«o»s  "  Jerusalem,"  whose  popularity  at  that  «««•  ^IJJ 
have  roused  Bolteau'e  Jealouay  for  the  ancients,  ana  » 
in  his  mind  a  reaction,  both  unfitvonOjIe  and  unjn«  » 
Italian  poet. 


BOILEAU  DESPRl^AUX RACINE. 


469 


Yes,  Satira,  boon  eompaniAn  of  mj  waj, 
Haa  abown  me  wbere  the  patb  of  datj  lay ; 
For  fifteen  yean  haa  taught  me  how  to  look 
With  due  abhorrence  on  a  foolish  book. 
And  eager  o*er  Parnassus  as  I  run, 
She  smites  and  lingers,  willing  to  be  won, 
Strengthens  my  steps,  and  cheers  my  path  with 

light; 
In  short,  for  her, — for  her,  I  Ve  vowed  to  write. 

<*  Tet  e'en  this  instant,  if  you  say  I  most, 
I  *11  quit  her  service,  willing  to  be  just ; 
And,  if  I  can  but  quell  these  floods  of  foes. 
Suppress  the  verse  whence  so  much  mischief 

rose. 
Since  you  command, — retracting,  I  declare, 
Quinaut  's  a  Virgil !  ^  doubt  it,  ye  who  dare ; 
Pradon  '*  shines  forth  on  these  benighted  tkaes. 
More  like  Apollo,  than  a  thing  of  rhymes , 
To  Pelletier  ^  a  higher  palm'  is  due 
Than  fiklls  to  Ablancourt  and  his  Patru  ;  ^ 
Cotin  drawa  all  the  world  to  hear  him  preach. 
And  through  the  crowds  can  scarce  his  pulpit 

reach ; 
Sofal  '^  's  the  phcBniz  of  our  wits  of  fame ; 
Perrin  " Well  done !  my  mind,  pursue  tluU 

game. 
Tet  do  but  see,  how  all  the  maddened  tribe 
Your  very  praise  to  raillery  ascribe. 
Heaven  knows  what  authors  soon,  inflamed 

with  rage. 
What  wounded  rhymesters  will  the  battle  wage. 
Soon  will  you  see  them  dart  the  envenomed  lie, 
Whole  storms  of  slander  will  against  you  fly. 
Each  verse  you  write  be  construed  as  a  crime. 
And  treasonous  aims  be  charged  on  every  rhyme. 
Scarce  will  you  dare  to  sound  your  monarch's 

&me. 
Or  consecrate  your  pages  with  his  name ; 
Who  slights  Cotin  (if  we  believe  Cotin) 
Has  surely  done  the  unpardonable  ain,  — > 
A  traitor  to  his  king,  his  faith,  his  Ood, 
Fit  for  the  hangman,  or  the' beadle's  rod. 

**  But  what !  "  you  say,  ^*  can  ke  do  any  harm  ? 
How  has  Cotin  the  power  to  strike  alarm  ? 
Can  he  forbid,  what  he  esteems  so  high, 
Those  pensions,  which  ne'er  cost  my  heart  a 

sigh  ? 
No,  no !  my  tongue  waits  not  for  sordid  ore. 
To  laud  that  king  whom  fKends  and  foes  adore ; 
Enough  that  I  his  praise  may  flsebly  apeak,  — 
No  other  honor  or  reward  I  seek. 
My  brush  may  seem  capricious  and  severe. 
While  making  vice  in  its  own  swarth  appear. 


90  AUuding  to  Ibe  line  in  the  Third  SaUra : 

"  Reason  mjB  Virgil,  bat  tha  rbjnne  Qainaut." 

9t  A  writar  of  tragedies.  He  sflboted  to  be  the  rind  of 
Racine.    He  wae  rery  ignoFsnU 

»  Pelletier  mm  a  wretcbed  ecribUer  of -eoaiieta. 

*9  Ablencourt  and  Patru  were  rery  cloee  IHends;  both 
elegant  writen. 

34  The  author  of  a  nmnaflcript  history  of  the  antlqaitles 
of  Ftfis,  written  in  a  rery  bombastic  style.  Some  morti- 
fications and  dieappointmente  prerented  the  author  fiom 
szpoeing  It  10  tha  world.  Boileatf%as  a  cuttfaig  Teise  upon 
him  in  the  Serenth  Satire. 


Or  holding  up  a  set  of  fbols  to  shame. 
Who  dare  to  arrogate  an  author's  name ; 
Yet  ahall  I  ever  treat  with  fond  respect 
My  honored  Liege,  with  every  virtue  decked."  ** 

Yes,  yes,  you  always  will ;  that 's  very  well ; 
But,  think  you,  will  it  stop  their  threatening 
yell.:" 

<«  Parnassian  yells,"  you  say,  **  I  little  connt ; 
A  fig  fbr  all  the  Hurona  on  the  mount  I  " 

Man  Dieu^  take  care,  fear  every  thing,  my  mind, 
From  h  bad  author,  fUriously  inclined ; 

Who,  if  he  choose,  can ««What?"  — / 

know  full  well. 
«« Bless  me!  what  is  it.'"  —  Hush!  I  must  not 
tell. 


JEAN  RACINE. 

This  illustrious  poet  was  bom  December  91st, 
1639,  at  Fert6-Milon.  He  received  his  early  ed- 
ucation in  the  abbey  of  Port-Royal-des-Cbamps, 
and  completed  his  studies  at  the  College  d'Har- 
court  His  studies  were  chiefly  directed  to  the 
Greek  drama ;  and  Euripi4,es,  whose  pathos  and 
tenderness  were  congenial  to  his  own  disposi- 
tion, was  his  favorite.  An  ode,  which  he  wrote 
on  the  marriage  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  was 
the  means  of  procuring  him  a  pension  from  the 
monarch.  His  first  tragedy,  <«  Lea  Fr^res  En- 
nemis,"  appeared  in  1664,  and  was  very  favor- 
ably received.  Between  this  period  and  1691, 
he  produced  a  series  of  tragedies,  which  have 
immortalized  his  name,  and  which  are  kno^n 
wherever  the  literature  of  France  is  studied. 
Besides  these  tragedies,  he  produced  a  comedy, 
»»Les  Plaideurs,"  in  1668.  The  Academy 
elected  him  into  their  body  in  1673,  and  Louis 
the  Fourteenth  appointed  him,  in  connection 
with  Boileau,  historiographer  of  his  reign.  Ra- 
cine at  length,  from  religious  motives,  desert- 
ed the  theatre ;  but,  at  the  request  of  Madame 
de  Maintenon,  wrote  the  drama  of  *^  Esther," 
which  was  represented  by  the  pupils  of  Saint- 
Cyr,  in  1669.  A  treatise  on  the  sufferings  of 
the  people  from  the  extravagance  of  the  gov- 


a*  When  the  Eighth  Satira  was  paUlahed,  it  met  with 
eztraordlmtfy  eacceee.  The  king  himself  apoke  of  it  ser^ 
eral  times  with  great  pmlae.  On  one  of  these  occasions, 
the  Sieor  de  Saint-Manris,  of  the  hone-guard,  told  the 
king,  that  Boileaa  had  compoeod  another  Satire  (the  Ninth), 
which  was  still  finer  than  that,  and  in  which  he  apoke  of 
his  Majesty.  The  king  looked  up  with  an  air  of  aurpriee 
and  offended  dignity,  and  replied,  "A  satire,  in  which  he 
speaks  of  me,  say  yon  I "  "  Yes,  Sire,"  answered  Saint- 
Mauris,  "bat  with  all  that  respect  which  is  doe  to  yoor 
Majesty."  The  king  then  expressed  a  cariosity  to  see  it ; 
and  when  It  waa  obtained,  he  admired  it  beyond  measure, 
and  showed  it  to  aereml  bdies  and  othera  about  court. 
Thie  was  contrary  to  Boilean's  wishes;  but  when  the  poem 
was  so  much  circulated,  that  there  was  danger  of  a  defec- 
tive copy  getting  abroad,  he  reeolTed  to  publish  iu  "Thus," 
saya  the  commentator  to  whom  we  owe  this  stoiy,  *'lt 
may  hi  a  manner  be  said,  that  this  piece  came  to  the  pub- 
lic through  the  hands  of  the  king." 


II 


470 


FRENCH   POETRY. 


ermnentf  written  by  Racine  at  the  instigation  of 
Madame  de  Maintenon,  caused  him  to  fall  into 
disgrace  with  the  king.  He  died  soon  after, 
April  22d,  1699. 

Innumerable  editions  of  his  works  have  been 
published ;  among  which  may  be  mentioned 
the  beautiful  edition  of  1760,  in  three  volumes 
quarto ;  the  edition  of  Boisgermain,  in  1767 ; 
and  the  more  complete  edition  of  Lenormand, 
in  1808. 

Racine,  though  not  a  poet  of  the  highest  or- 
der of  genius,  was  yet  unsurpassed  in  some  of 
the  best  qualities  of  the  tragedian.  His  deline- 
ation of  the  tender  passions,  especially  the  pas- 
sion of  love,  is  masterly.  The  grace  of  his 
language,  the  harmony  of  his  versification,  the 
skilful  management  of  the  action,  under  all  the 
restrictions  of  the  French  critical  code,  have 
made  his  tragedies  unrivalled  models  of  dramat- 
ic art,  as  that  art  was  understood  in  the  age  of 
Louis  the  Fourteenth. 


FROM  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  ANDROMAQUE. 

BiaXIONB. 

What  have  I  done  ?  —  Where  am  I .?  —  Where 

is  Pyrrhus  ?  — 
Ye  gods  !  what  mean  these  horrors  ? —  I  'm  un- 

done  ! 
My  soul  is  on  the  rack !  I  cannot  bear  it !  — 
Why  do  I  wander  like  some  guilty  ghost  ? 
What  brought  me  to  this  place  ?    What  keeps 

me  here.^ 
The  court  of  Pyrrhus  has  no  room  for  me  ! 
Do  I  still  doubt  if  I  should  love  or  hate  him.' 
Hard-hearted  man !  how  unconcerned  he  left 

roe ! 
Did  he  once  sigh  ?  bestow  one  pitying  look  ? 
Once  shed  a  tear.'  or  speak  one  soft,  kind  word  ? 
Did  he  so  much  as  feign  one  moment's  sorrow. 
To  calm  my  griefs,  and  mitigate  his  falsehood.' 
Why  am  I  still  thus  anxious  for  his  life  ? 
Why  do  I  start  at  his  impending  fate  ? 
Shall  he,  then,  live .'    Shall  the  base  traitor  live 
To  laugh  at  my  distress .'     No,  let  him  perish ! 
Be  quick,  Orestes !     Execute  my  orders !  — 
Alas !  my  orders !    O  preposterous  guilt ! 
Can  I  decree  the  death  of  him  I  love  ? 
Was  it  for  this  my  soul  delighted  in  him  ? 
Was  it  for  this  I  left  my  father's  court .' 
Have  I,  then,  crossed  so  many  realms  and  seas 
To  murder  Pyrrhus .'  — 

[Cleone  enten. 
O  Cleone,  help  me  !^ 

What  have  I  done  ?  ^  Is  Pyrrhus  yet  alive .' 
*  What  say'st  thou  ?     Answer  me :  where  is  the 

king.' 


Madam,  I  saw  the  cruel  prince  set  forward, 
Triumphant  in  his  looks,  and  ftill  of  joy. 
Still  as  he  walked,  his  ravished  eyes  were  fixed 
On  the  fiur  captive;    while  through  shouting 
crowds 


She  passed  along  with  a  dejected  air. 

And  seemed  to  mourn  her  Hector  to  the  last 

HXBMIONK. 

Insulting  tyrant !     I  shall  burst  with  rage  ! 

But  say,  Cleone,  didst  thou  mark  hiai  well  ? 

Was  his  brow  smooth .'  Say,  did  there  not  ap- 
pear 

Some  shade  of  grief,  some  little  cloud  of  sorrow  ? 

Did  he  not  stop  ?     Did  he  not  once  look  back? 

Didst  thou  approach  him  .'  Was  he  not  con- 
founded .' 

Did  he  not O,  be  quick,  and  tell  me  all ! 


Madam,  the  tumult  of  his  joy  admits 

No  thought  but  love.     Unguarded  he  marched 

|pn, 
'Midst  a  promiscuous  throng  of  friends  and  foes. 
His  cares  all  turn  upon  Astyanaz, 
Whom  he  has  lodged  within  the  citadel. 
Defended  by  the  strength  of  all  his  guards. 


Enough  !    he  dies !    the  traitor !  —  Where  's 
Orestes? 

CLBOm, 

He  *8  in  the  temple  with  his  whole  retinue. 

BBRMIOMS. 

Is.  he  still  resolute  ?     Is  he  still  determined  ? 


Madam,  I  fear 

-  BSltMIOlfB. 

How  !    Is  Orestes  fiilse  ? 
Does  he  betray  me  too .' 

OLSONS. 

A  thousand  doubts 

Perplex  his  soul,  and  wound  him  with  remorse: 

His  virtue  and  his  love  prevail  by  turns. 

He  told  me  Pyrrhus  should  not  &11  ignobly, — 

Pyrrhus,  the  warlike  son  of  great  Achilles. 

He  dreads  the  censure  of  the  Grecian  states,  — 

Of  all  mankind}  and  fears  to  stain  his  honor. 

HBUnOMS. 

Poor  timorous  wretch  !    'T  is  false !    He  basely 

fears 
To  cope  with  dangers,  and  encounter  death ; 
T  is  that  he  fears!  —  Am  I   bright  Helen's 

daughter  ? 
iTo  vindicate  her  wrongs  all  Greece  conspired ; 
For  her,  confederate  nations  fought,  and  kings 

were  slain, 
Troy  was  overthrown,  and  a  whole  empire  fell : 
My  eyes  want  force  to  raise  a  lover's  arm 
Against  a  tyrant  that  has  dared  to  wrong  me  ! 

CLBOHB. 

Madam,  like  Helen,  trust  your  cause  to  Greece. 


No  !  I  '11  avenge  myself:  I  '11  to  the  temple ; 

I  '11  overturn  the  allftr,  stab  the  priest ', 

1  '11  hurl  destruction  like  a  whirlwind  round  me ! 


RACINE. 


471 


They  must  not  wed  !  they  most  not  live  !  they 

shall  not !  — 
Let  me  begone  !     I  have  no  time  to  lose ! 
Stand  off!  hold  me  not !  I  am  all  distraction ! — 
O  Pyrrhiu !  tyrant !  traitor !  thoa  ahalt  bleed  ! 

[OrostM  enten. 
oaasTBS. 
Madam,  *t  is  done ;  your  otdera  are  obeyed : 
The  tyrant  liea  expiring  at  the  altar. 


Is  Pyrrhus  slain  ? 


Even  now  he  gasps  in  death. 
Our  Greeks,  all  undistinguished  in  the  crowd, 
Flocked  to  the  temple,  and  dispersed  themselves 
On  every  side  the  altar.     I  was  there  : 
Pyrrhub  observed  me  with  a  haughty  eye ; 
And,  proud  to  triumph  over  Greece  in  me, 
From  his  own  brows  he  took  the  diadem. 
And  bound  it  on  the  temples  of  his  captive  : 
**  Receive,"  said  he,  *'  my  crown  !  receive  my 

faith! 
Mine  and  my  people's  sovereign,  reign  for  ever ! 
From  this  blessed  hour,  a  father  to  your  son, 
I  *11  scourge  his  foes  :  henceforward  he  be  styled 
The  Trojan  king :  I  swear  it  at  the  altar, 
And  call  the  gods  to  ratify  my  vows !  " 
His  subjects,  with  loud  acclamations  shook 
The  spacious  dome.      Our  Greeks,  enraged, 

cried  out, 
'« Revenge  !    revenge !  "    broke    through    the 

thronging  press. 
And  rushed  tumultuous  on  the  unguarded  king: 
Their  eager  fury  left  no  work  for  me. 
Pyrrhus  awhile  opposed  their  clashing  swords. 
And  dealt  his  fatal  blows  on  every  side 
With  manly  fierceness;  till,  oppressed  by  num- 
bers. 
Streaming  with  blood,  all  over  gashed  with 

wounds. 
He  reeled,  he  groaned,  and  at  the  altar  fell.  — 
Haste,  Madam ;  let  us  fly !   Haste  to  our  ships ! 
They  lie  unmoored :  our  friends  attend  us  there. 

HnunoMa. 
What  have  they  done  ? 

ORXSTBS. 

Madam,  forgive  their  rage  ! 
I  own  your  vengeance  had  tteen  more  complete. 
Had  Pyrrhus  fallen  by  me,  and  had  he  known 
Hermione  chastised  him  by  my  arm. 

BBRMIOmL 

Peace,  monster,  peace !    Go,  tell  thy  horrid  tale 
To  savages,  and  howl  it  in  the  deserts  ! 
TVouldst  thou  impute  to  me  thy  barbarous  guilt  ? 
Me  wouldst  thou  make  the  accomplice  of  thy 

crimes  ? 
Hence  to  thy  Greeks,  and  boast  thy  fi>ul  exploits ! 
My  soul  abhors  them !     I  disclaim  the  deed  ! 
Begone !  I  know  thee  not,  thou  fell  barbarian ! 
What  had  he  done  ?     What  could  provoke  thy 

madness 


To  assassinate  so  great,  so  brave  a  man  ? 
Who  set  thee  on  f 


O,  grant  me  patience.  Heaven  ! 
With  your  own  lips  did  you  not  curse  the  ty- 
rant. 
Pronounce  his  death,  and  urge  me  to  destroy  him  ? 


What  if,  transported  by  my  boundless  passion, 
I  could  not  bear  to  see  him  wed  another,  — 
Were  you  to  obey  a  jealous  woman's  frenzy  ? 
You  should  have  dived  into  my  in;nost  thoughts : 
My  heart,  though  full  <6f  rage,  was  free  from 

malice ; 
And  all  my  anger  was  excess  of  love. 
Why  did  you  take  me  at  my  word  ?     You  saw 
The  struggles  of  my  soul ;  you  heard  me  rave : 
You   should  have  questioned   me  a  thousand 

times. 
Yet  still  have  doubted,  and  still  questioned  on. 
Before  you  ventured  on  a  life  so  precious. 


Hear  me  but  speak : 
will 


Heaven  knows,  against  my 


BnUflONB. 

Why  did  you  not  return  ?   why  not  consult  me 
A  second  time?  and,  undetermined  still. 
Again  return,  and  still  find  new  delays  ? 
What  had  your  rash,  officious  Greeks  —  dire 

bloodhounds  I  — 
To  do  with  my  revenge  ?  What  drew  you  hith- 
er? 
To  bring  on  me  the  vengeful  woes  that  haunt 

you  ? 
Are  these  the  fruits  of  your  detested  love  ? 
Your  &tal  embassy,  your  hateful  presence. 
Drove  Pyrrhus  to  my  rival ;  and  destroys 
Both  him  and  me.     He  might  have  loved  me 

still. 
Had  you  ne'er  interposed. — A  vaunt!    Begone! 
And  leave  me  in  Epirus.     I  renounce 
My  friends,  my  country,  Greece,  and  all  man- 

kind: 
But,  chiefly,  I  renounce  thee,  monster !  thee  ! 

[Exit. 

0KB8TB8. 

Am  I  awake? — Where  am  I ? — Soft,  my  soul ! 

Be  not  too  rash. Was  that  Hermione  ? 

Why  should  her  anger  thunder  against  me  ? 

Was  not  this  blood  shed  all  by  her  command  ?  — 

I  am,  indeed,  a  most  ontrageous  monster  ! 

A  ruffian,  murderer,  a  base  assassin ! 

And  all  to  please  a  false,  ungrateful  woman. 

Henceforward  let  the  laws  of  nations  cease ; 

And  let  the  pale  that  severs  right  and  wrong. 

Things  sacred  and  profane,  be  broken  down  : 

Gods  in  their  temples,  kings  upon  their  thrones. 

Are  not  in  safety,  while  Orestes  lives. 

O,  never  more  shall  my  torn  mind  be  healed. 

Nor  taste  the  gentle  comforts  of  repose ! 

A  dreadful  band  of  gloomy  cares  surround  me. 

And  lay  strong  siege  to  my  distracted  soul ! 


473 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


FIFTH  PERIOD.-CENTURY  XVIII. 


ANONYMOUS. 

This  piece  of  pleasantry,  on* the  supposed 
death  and  burial  of  the  duke  of  Marlborough, 
was  written  after  the  battle  of  Malplaquet,  in 
1 709.  The  bibliophile  Jacob  *  says,  **  Some  mer- 
ry ballad-singer  pronounced  this  funeral  oration 
at  the  bivouac  of  Le  Quesnoy,  the  night  after 
the  battle,  to  console  himself  fi>r  having  no  shirt 
to  his  back,  and  for  having  had  nothing  to  eat 

for  three  days But  it  did  not  survive  the 

hero  of  Malplaquet ;  it  was  preserved  by  tradi- 
tion only  in  some  of  the  provinces,  where  it 
had  been  carried  by  the  soldiers  of  Vi liars  and 
BoufHers.  .....  In  1781,  however,  it  suddenly 

resounded  from  one  end  of  the  kingdom  to  the 
other."  A  peasant  woman,  who  had  been  select- 
ed as  nurse  of  the  dauphin,  the  son  of  Marie 
Antoinette,  used  to  sing  this  song  in  the  royal 
nursery,  **  and  the  royal  infant  opened  his  eyes 
at  the  great  name  of  Marlborough.  This  narhe, 
the  naXve  words  of  the  song,  the  oddity  of  the 
burden,  and  the  touching  simplicity  of  the  air, 
struck  the  queen,  who  retained  the  words  and 
the  music.  Every  body  repeated  them  after  her; 
and  the  king  himself  did  not  disdain  to  hum  in 
unison, 

'  Malbrough  s'en  va-t-en  guerre.' " 


MALBKOUCE. 

Malbrouck,  the  prince  of  commandersi 
Is  gone  to  the  war  in  Flanders ; 
His  fame  is  like  Alexander's ; 
But  when  will  he  come  home  ? 

Perhaps  at  Trinity  Feast,  or 
Perhaps  he  may  come  at  Easter. 
Egad  !  he  had  better  make  haste,  or 
We  fear  lie  may  never  come. 

For  Trinity  Feast  is  over, 
And  has  brought  no  news  fh>m  Dover, 
And  Easter  is  past,  moreover, 
And  Malbrouck  still  delays. 

Milady  in  her  watch-tower 
Spends  many  a  pensive  hour, 
Not  knowing  why  or  how  her 
Dear  lord  from  England  stays. 

While  sitting  quite  forlorn  in 
That  tower,  she  spies  returning 
A  page  clad  in  deep  mourning. 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow. 

**  O  page,  prithee,  come  faster ! 

What  news  do  you  bring  of  yoor  master  ? 


♦  Chanu  et  ChaiuoM  Populairas  de  la  Fnuice. 
mlAreSfals.    Paris:  1943.    8vo. 


Pre- 


I  fear  there  is  some  disaster. 
Your  looks  are  so  full  of  woe." 

(<  The  news  I  bring,  fair  lady," 
With  sorrowful  accent  said  he, 
**  Is  one  you  are  not  ready 
So  soon,  alas !  to  hear. 

"But  since  to  speak  I  *m  hurried,*' 
Added  this  page,  quite  flurried, 
"  Malbrouck  is  dead  and  buried  !  " 
And  here  he  shed  a  tear. 

<*  He  *s  dead  !  he  *s  dead  ^  a  herring ! 
For  I  beheld  his  herrings 
And  four  officers  transferring 
His  corpse  away  from  the  field. 

(( One  officer  carried  his  sabre. 
And  he  carried  it  not  without  labor, 
Muth  envying  his  next  neighbour. 
Who  only  bore  a  shield. 

"  The  third  was  helmet-bearer,  — 
That  helmet  which  on  its  wearer 
Filled  all  who  saw  with  terror, 
And  covered  a  hero's  brains. 

*'  Now,  having  got  so  far,  I 
Find,  that  —  by  the  Lord  Harry  !  — 
The  fourth  is  left  nothing  to  carry ;  — 
So  there  the  thing  remains." 


FRANCOIS-MARIE  AROUET  DE  VOL- 
*  TAIRE. 

Frah^oib-Maris  Arouet,  who  afterwards 
assumed  the  name  of  Voltaire,  was  boni  at 
Chatenay,  February  20th,  1694.  After  having 
studied  in  the  Jesuits'  College,  he  devoted  him- 
self to  the  law,  in  compliance  with  his  father's 
wishes,  but  found  it  repugnant  to  his  own  taste, 
which  inclined  him  strongly  to  literature.  In 
1713,  he  was  sent  to  Holland  in  the  retinue  of 
the  Marquis  de  Chftteajineuf,  but  was  soon  re- 
called  in  consequence  of  a  love  affiiir,  and  forced 
to  resume  the  study  of  the  law.  At  length,  he 
found  a  retreat  at  a  country  estate  of  Caumar- 
tin,  the  Intendant  of  Finances ;  but  after  tba 
death  of,  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  in  1715,  he 
was  imprisoned  in  the  Bastille  a  year,  on  sua- 
picion  of  having  written  some  satirical  verses. 
In  1718,  his  '*(£dipe"  was  represented,  and 
had  great  success.  In  1722,  he  went  to  HoU 
land,  where  he  became  acquainted  with  J.  J. 
Rousseau.  He  returned  to  France  in  1724. 
About  this  time,  a  surreptitioua  edition  of  the 
*«  Henriade,"  which  he  had  sketched  during  his 
imprisonment,  was  published,  under  the  title  of 
*«  La  Ligue."     In  1726,  he  was  again  confined 


VOLTAIRE. 


473 


in  the  Butille,  on  account  of  a  quarrel  with  a 
haughty  young  nobleman,  the  Chevalier  de  Ro- 
han,  but  was  released  at  the  end  of  six  months, 
and  banished  from  the  kingdom.     The  follow- 
ing three  years  he  passed  in  England,  where  he 
became  acquainted  with  many  persons  of  the 
highest  rank,  and  with  the  most  distinguished 
men  of  letters.     Here  he  published  the  **  Hen- 
riade,"  and  wrote  the  **Life  of  Charles  the 
Twelfth,"  the  tragedy  of  "Brutus,"  the  "Essay 
on  Epic  Poetry,"  and  the  "  Philosophical  Let- 
ters."     In  1730,  he  returned  to  Paris,  and,  by 
several  successful  speculations,  acquired  a  large 
fortune.     His  tragedy  of**  Brutus  "  was  brought 
out  at  this  time,  but  with  no  great  success. 
Some  lines,  which  he  wrote  on  the  death  of 
the  actress  Lecouvreur,  who  had  been  refused 
Christian  burial,  forced  him  to  retire  from  Paris, 
and  he  passed  some  time  at  Rouen,  under  an 
assumed  name.     The  tragedy  of  "  Zaire  "  ap- 
peared in  1731 ;  the  poem  called  "  The  Temple 
of  Taste,"  in  1733;  the  tragedy  of"  Cesar,"  in 
1735.     This  piece  and  the  "  Philosophical  Let- 
ters"  raised  a  great  clamor  against  Voltaire, 
and  he  lived   three   years  in  concealment  at 
Cirey,  in  the  house  of  the  learned  Marchioness 
du  ChAtelet,  where  he  wrote  several  of  his  phi- 
losophical works,-  four  tragedies,  and  the  come- 
dy of  "  L*Enftnt  Prodigue."    The  fame  of  Vol- 
taire now  spread  over  all  Europe,  and  gained  him 
the  friendship  and  correspondence  of  the  crown- 
prince  of  Prussia,  afterwards  Frederic  the  Sec- 
ond ;  and  when  this  prince  ascended  the  throne, 
Voltaire  was  sent  to  Berlin,  where  he  was  ena- 
bled to  render  political  service  to  the  French 
court,  by  his  influence  with  the  new  sovereign. 
On  the  marriage  of  the  dauphin,  he  wrote  the 
**  Princesse  de  Navarre,"  and,  through  the  inter- 
est of  Madame  Pompadour,  obtained  a  seat  in 
the  Academy,  and  the  appointment  of  Cham- 
berlain and  Historiographer  of  France.  In  1750, 
he  accepted  the  reiterated  invitations  of  the 
king  of  Prussia,  and  went  to  Potsdam,  where 
he  was  received  with  the  greatest  distinction. 
He  had  an  apartment  assigned  to  him  in  the  pal- 
ace, the  order  of  Merit  was  given  him,  and  a 
pension  of  six  thousand  thalers.     But  difficul- 
ties and  jealousies  soon  interrupted  the  harmo- 
ny of  this  relation,  and  in  three  years  Voltaire 
left  Berlin.     On  his  way,  he  was  arrested,  by 
Frederic's  order,  at  Frankfort,  and  required  to 
surrender  a  collection  of  the  king's  poems  which 
ha   had  taken  with  him,  and  which  the  king 
feared  might  be  used  to  his  prejudice.     After 
this,  Voltaire  lived  a  year  in  Colmar,  and  two 
years  in  Switzerland ;  he  then  purchased  the 
tTTO  estates  of  Tourney  and  Ferney,  in  the  Pays 
da  Gex,  and  at  the  latter  passed  the  last  twen- 
ty years  of  his  life.     Here  he  lived,  surrounded 
by  his  friends  and  dependents,  having  collected 
about    him   manufacturers    and  other  settlers, 
t^bom  he  attached  strongly  to  himself  by  con- 
tinued acts  of  kindness  and  constant  attention 
to    their  interests.     He  prosecuted  his  literary 
IsJt>ors  with   the  greatest  vigor  and    activity. 


waged  a  violent  war  against  the  abuses  of  church 
and  state,  and  attacked  Christianity  itself  with 
unexampled  bitterness.  He  erected  a  church 
with  the  inscription,  Deo  ertxU  VoUaire,  He 
protected  the  victims  of  persecution  and  fknati- 
cism ;  and,  in  the  numerous  writings  which  he 
published  during  this  period  of  his  life,  assailed, 
with  all  the  weapons  of  ridicule  and  eloquence, 
whatever  seemed  to  him  opposed  to  freedom 
and  justice.  An  edition  of  his  works,  which 
appeared  in  1757,  led  to  a  reconciliation  with 
Frederic,  and  a  renewal  of  their  correspondence. 
The  king  sent  him  his  bust,  inscribed,  Viro  im- 
martali ;  and  the  Empress  Catharine  wrote  him 
the  most  flattering  letters,  accompanied  by 
splendid  presents.  In  February,  1778,  he  went 
to  Paris,  where  he  was  enthusiastically  received 
by  the  French  Academy,  who  placed  his  bust 
by  the  side  of  that  of  Corneille ;  the  actors 
waited  upon  him  in  a  body;  his  tragedy  of 
^'  Ir^ne "  was  played  in  the  presence  of  the 
royal  family,  and  at  the  sixth  representation 
a  laurel  wreath  was  presented  to  him  as  he 
entered  the  theatre,  and  at  the  close  of  the  per- 
formance his  bust  was  crowned.  The  excite- 
ment  of  such  scenes,  and  the  change  from  his 
usual  mode  of  life,  were  too  much  for  his  ad- 
vanced age  to  bear.  He  died.  May  30th,  1778, 
in  his  eighty-fifth  year.  ' 

It  is  difficult  to  present  a  satisfactory  view  of 
this  extraordinary  man's  character.  He  was  vain, 
almost  beyond  example.  Subjects  that  men 
thought  sacred,  and  looked  upon  with  awe,  he 
treated  with  levity,  scoffing,  and  contempt.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  nobly  maintained  the  rights 
of  the  oppressed ;  he  vindicated,  with  irresisti- 
ble eloquence,  the  claims  of  suffering  humanity. 
He  was  a  strange  compound  of  virtues  and  vices, 
of  folly  and  wisdom,  of  the  little  and  the  great. 
He  was  capable  of  the  most  gigantic  efforts,  the 
most  astonishing  labors ;  at  the  age  of  eighty, 
he  worked  fourteen  hours  a  day.  He  had  the 
most  piercing  wit,  the  liveliest  imagination,  and 
all  the  graces  of  style  were  at  his  command. 
In  many  different  species  of  literary  composi- 
tion, he  excelled ;  and  in  the  drama,  he  ranks 
next  to  Corneille  and  Racine. 

Barante,  in  his  eloquent  and  philosophical 
"Tableau  de  la  Litt^rature  Fran9aiBe,"  uses  the 
following  language. 

<«The  farther  Voltaire  advanced  in  his  ca- 
reer,  the  more  he  saw  himself  encompassed 
with  feme  and  homage.  Soon  even  sovereigns 
became  his  friends,  and  almost  his  flatterers. 
Hatred  and  envy,  by  resisting  his  triumphs, 
excited  in  him  sentiments  of  anger.  This  con- 
tinual opposition  gave  still  greater  vivacity  to 
his  character,  and  oflen  made  him  lose  moder- 
ation, shame,  and  taste.  Such  was  his  life; 
such  was  the  path  which  conducted  him  to  that 
long  old  age,  which  he  might  have  rendered  so 
honorable;  when,  surrounded  by  unbounded 
glory,  he  reigned  despotically  over  letters, 
which  had  taken  the  first  rank  among  all  the 
objects  to  which  the  curiosity  and  attention  of 
irN2 


474 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


men  are  directed.  It  it  sad  that  Voltaire  did 
not  feel  how  he  might  have  ennobled  and  adorn- 
ed such  a  position,  by  using  the  advantages 
which  it  offered  him,  and  following  the  conduct 
which  it  seemed  to  prescribe.  It  is  deplorable 
that  he  allowed  himself  to  be  carried  away  by 
the  torrent  of  a  degraded  age,  and  yielded  to  a 
wicked  and  shameless  spirit,  which  forms  a  re- 
volting contrast  with  white  hairs,  the  symbol 
of  wisdom  and  purity.  What  more  melancho- 
ly spectacle  than  an  old  man  insulting  the 
Doity  at  the  moment  when  he  is  about  to  be 
recalled,  and  casting  off  the  respect  of  youth  by 
sharing  its  disorders  ! " 

**His  works,"  continues  Barante,  *<have  al- 
most always  been  received  with  enthusiasm  by 
the  public,  but  at  the  same  time  have  encoun- 
tered obstinate  detractors,  and  party  spirit  has 
continually  dictated  the  judgment  that  has  been 
passed  upon  them.  Haifa  century  has  elapsed, 
and  Voltaire's  reputation,  like  the  body  of  Pa- 
troclus,  is  still  disputed  by  two  hostile  par- 
ties. Such  a  conflict  alone  would  be  enough 
to  perpetuate  the  glory  of  his  name.  Men  have 
made  themselves  famous  by  having  defended 
him  ;  others  owe  all  their  celebrity  to  their  in- 
cessant  attacks  upon  him.  In  this  long  con- 
tinued conflict,  the  renown  of  Voltaire  has  doubts 
less  failed  to  preserve  all  the  splendor  with 
which  it  shone  at  first.  There  is  no  longer  that 
national  enthusiasm,  that  admiration,  equal  to 
the  admiration  inspired  by  the  heroes  and  ben- 
efactors of  humanity.  The  triumph  which  was 
decreed  to  him  in  his  last  days  is  no  more. 
A  colder  and  more  measured  judgment  has 
checked  these  lively  manifestations.  But  there 
is  something  absurd  and  ridiculous  in  the  efforts 
of  those  who  labor  to  tarnish  entirely  the  glory 
of  Voltaire." 

The  life  of  Voltaire  has  been  written  by  Con- 
dorcet,  Mercier,  Luchet,  Duvemet,  and  others. 
His  works  have  passed  through  numerous  edi- 
tions. The  principal  are  those  of  Beaumarchais, 
Kehl,  1784;  Palissot,  Paris,  1796;  and  the 
more  recent  one  by  Dupont,  in  seventy  volumes. 
They  were  published  in  English,  in  the  last 
century,  under  the  names  of  Smollett  and 
Franklin,  in  thirty-six  volumes;  again,  in 
1821,  by  Sotheby,  in  thirty-six  volumes.  An 
excellent  paper  on  Voltaire  may  be  found  in 
Carlyle's  <' Miscellanies,"  Vol.  II. 


niOM  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  ALZIRA. 

alzira's  SOLILOQUT. 

Shade  of  my  murdered  lover,  shun  to  view  me ! 
Rise  to  the  stars,  and  make  their  brightness 

sweeter ; 
But  shed  no  gleam  of  lustre  on  Alzira ! 
She  has  betrayed  her  faith,  and  married  Carlos ! 
The  sea,  that  rolled  its  watery  world  betwixt  ns. 
Failed  to  divide  our  hand8,~and  he  has  reached 

me! 
The  altar  trembled  at  the  unhallowed  touch ; 


And  Heaven  drew  back,  reluctant  at  oar  meet- 
ing. 

O  thou  sofi-hovering  ghost,  that  haant*st  my 
&ncy ! 

Thoo  dear  and  bloody  form,  that  ddnim'st  be- 
fore me ! 

Thou  never-dying,  yet  thon  boned  Zamor ! 

If  sighs  ahd  tears  have  power  to  pierce  the 
grave; 

If  death,  that  knows  no  pity,  will  but  bear  me ; 

If  still  thy  gentle  spirit  loves  Alzira ; 

Pardon,  that  even  in  death  she  dared  forsake 
thee ! 

Pardon  her  rigid  sense  of  nature's  duties  : 

A  parent's  will,  —  a  pleading  country's  safety! 

At  these  strong  calls,  she  sacrificed  her  Iots 

To  joyless  glory  and  to  tasteless  peace,  — 

And  to  an  empty  world,  in  which  thou  art  not! 

O  Zamor,  Zamor,  follow  me  no  longer ! 

Drop  some  dark  veil,  snatch  some  kind  clood 
before  thee. 

Cover  that  conscious  face,  and  let  death  hide 
thee! 

lieave  me  to  suffer  wrongs  that  Heareii  allots 
me. 

And  teach  my  bnsy  fancy  to  forget  thee  ! 


DON  ALVAREZ,  DON  GUZMAN,  AND   ALZIRA. 

[Eater  AlrarM  and  Ouanan.— Sbonta;  tmmpeu,  a  kwg 
and  lofty  flourish.] 

ALVABSS. 

DxssRVB,  my  son,  this  triumph  of  yonr  arms. 
Your  numbers  and  your  courage  have  prsTsiled ; 
And  of  this  last,  best  effort  of  the  foe. 
Half  are  no  more,  and  half  are  yours  in  chains. 
Disgrace  not  due  success  by  undue  cruelties ; 
But  call  in  mercy  to  support  your  fiune. 
I  will  go  visit  the  afflicted  captives, 
And  pour  compassion  on  their  aching  woonds. 
Meanwhile,  remember  you  are  man  and  Chris- 
tian: 
Bravely,  at  once,  resolve  to  pardon  Zamor 
Fain  would  I  soften  this  indocile  fierceness, 
And  teach  your  courage  how  to  conquer  hearts. 

OVZHAir. 

Your  words  pierce  mine.    Freely  devote  my  life. 

But  leave  at  liberty  my  just  revenge. 

Pardon  him  ?    Why,  the  savage  brute  is  loved ! 

ALVASXB. 

The  unhappily  beloved  most  merit  pity. 

OVSHAH. 

Pity ! — Could  I  be  sure  of  such  reward, 

I  would  die  pleased, — and  she  should  pity  me 

ALVASaZ. 

How  mnch  to  be  lamented  is  a  heart. 

At  once  by  rage  of  headlong  will  oppressed. 

And  by  strong  jealousies  and  doubtings  torn ! 

evEMAir. 
When  jealousy  becomes  a  crime,  guard.  Heaven, 


VOLTAIRE, 


475 


That  husband's  honor,  whom  his  wife  not  lores ! 
Your  pitj  takes  in  all  the  world  — but  me. 

ALVAKK. 

Mix  not  the  bitterness  of  distant  ftar 

With  yottr  arrired  misfbrtanes Since  Alzira 

Has  Tirtue,  it  will  prove  a  wiser  care 
To  soften  her  for  change,  b  j  patient  tenderness. 
Than,  bj  reproach,  confirm  a  willing  hate. 
Her  heart  is,  like  her  country,  rudely  sweet,—* 
Repelling  force,  but  gentle  to  the  kind. 
Softness  will  soonest  bend  the  stubborn  will. 

euwAJi. 
Softness! — by  all  the  wrongs  of  woman's  hate, 
Too  much  of  softness  but  invites  disdain. 
Flattered  too  long,  beauty  at  length  grows  wan- 
ton. 
And,  insolently  scornftil,  slights  its  praiser. 
O,  rather.  Sir,  be  jealous  for  my  glory ; 
And  urge  my  doubting  anger  to  resolve ! 
Too  low  already  condescension  bowed. 
Nor  blushed  to  match  the  conqueror  with  the 

slave ! 
But,  when  this  alave,  unconscious  what  she 

owes. 
Proudly  repays  humility  with  scorn, 
And  braves  and  hates  the  unaspiring  love. 
Such  love  is  weakness ;  and  submission,  there, 
Gives  sanction  to  contempt,  and  rivets  pain. 


Thus,  youth  is  ever  apt  to  judge  in  haste, 
And  lose  the  medium  in  the  wild  extreme. 
Do  not  repent,  but  regulate  your  passion  : 
Though  love  is  reason,  its  excess  is  rage. 
Give  me,  at  least,  your  promise  to  reflect. 
In  cool,  impartial  solitude ;  and  still. 
No  last  decision  tiU  we  meet  again. 


It  is  ray  ftther  asks, — and,  had  I  will. 
Nature  denies  me  power  to  answer.  No. 
I  will,  in  wisdom's  right,  suspend  my  anger. 
Tet,  spare  my  loaded  heart,  nor  add  more  weight ; 
Liest  my  strength  fiiil  beneath  the  unequal  pres- 
sure. 

ALVABBB. 

Grant  yourself  time,  and  all  you  want  oomes 
with  it  (Exit. 


And  must  I  coldly,  then,  to  pensive  piety 
Give  up  the  livelier  joys  of  wished  revenge  ? 
Must  I  repel  the  guardian  cares  of  jealousy, 
And  slacken  every  rein  to  rival  love  ? 
Must  I  reduce  my  hopes  beneath  a  savage. 
And  poorly  envy  such  a  wretch  as  Zamor? 
A  coarse  luxuriance  of  spontaneous  virtue  ; 
A  shoot  of  rambling,  fierce,  offensive  fi-eedom  ; 
Nature's  wild  growth, — strong,  but  unpruned, 

in  daring; 
A  rough,  raw  woodman  of  this  rugged  clime ; 
Illiterate  in  the  arts  of  polished  life  ; 
And  who,  in  Europe,  where  the  fiiir  can  judge, 
Would  hardly,  in  our  courts,  be  called  a  man  !— 

[Alzlrt  enters. 


She  comes !— Alzira  comes !  ^  unwished,  -^yet 
charming. 


Tou  turn,  and  shun  me  !    So,  I  have  been  told, 
Spaniards,  by  custom,  meet  submissive  wives. 
But  hear  me.  Sir ;  hear  even  a  suppliant  wife ; 
Hear  this  unguilty  object  of  your  anger: 
One,  who  can  reverence,  though  she  cannot  love 

you : 
One,  who  is  wronged  herself,  not  injures  you  : 
One,  who  indeed  is  weak,  and  wants  your  pity. 
I  cannot  wear  disguise  :  be  it  the  effect 
Of  greatness,  or  of  weakness,  in  my  mind. 
My  tongue  could  ne'er  be  moved  but  by  ray 

heart; 
And  that  was  vowed  another's.     If  be  dies. 
The  honest  plainness  of  my  soul  destroys  him. 
You  look  surprised :  I  will  still  more  surprise 

you. 
I  come  to  try  you  deeply, — for  I  mean 
To  move  the  husband  in  the  lover's  favor ! 
I  had  half  flattered  my  unpractised  hope. 
That  you,  who  govern  others,  should  yourself 
Be  temperate  in  the  use  of  your  own  passions. 
Nay,  I  persuaded  my  unchristian  ignorance, 
That  an  ambitious  warrior's  infelt  pride 
Should  plead  in  pardon  of  that  pride  in  others. 
This  I  am  sure  of,  —  that  forgiving  mercy 
Would  stamp  more  influence  on  our  Indian 

hearts 
Than  all  our  gold  on  those  of  men  like  you. 
Who  knows,  did  such  a  change  subdue  your 

breast. 
How  far  the  pleasing  force  might  soften  mine  ? 
Your  right  secures  you  my  respect  and  faith  : 
Strive  for  my  love ;  strive  for  whatever  else 
May  charm,  —  if  aught  there  is  can  charm  like 

love.  — 
Forgive  me !  I  shall  be  betrayed  by  fear 
To  promise  till  I  overcharge  my  power. 
Yet  try  what  changes  gratitude  can  make. 
A  Spanish  wife,  perhaps,  would  promise  more : 
Profuse  in  charms,  and  prodigal  of  tears, 
Would  promise  all  things, —  and  forget  them  all. 
But  I  have  weaker  charms,  and  simpler  arts. 
Guileless  of  soul,  and  left  as  nature  formed  me, 
I  err,  in  honest  innocence  of  aim. 
And,  seeking  to  compose,  inflame  you  more. 
All  I  can  add  is  this :  unlovely  ferce 
Shall  never  bow  me  to  reward  constraint ; 
But  to  what  lengths  I  may  be  led  by  benefits, 
'T  is  in  your  power  to  try,  —  not  mine  to  tell. 

OVZMAX. 

'T  is  well.    Since  justice  has  such  power  to 

guide  you. 
That  you  may  follow  duty,  know  it  first. 
Count  modesty  among  your  country's  virtues ; 
And  copy,  not  condemn,  the  wives  of  Spain. 
'T  is  your  first  lesson.  Madam,  to  forget : 
Become  more  delicate,  if  not  more  kind. 
And  never  let  me  hear  the  name  I  hate. 
You  should  learn,  next,  to  blush  away  your  haste. 
And  wait  in  silence,  till  my  will  resolves 
What  punishment,  or  pity,  suits  his  crimes. 


476 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


Know,  last,  that,  thus  provoked,  a  husbaDd's 

clemency 
Outstretches  nature,  if  it  pardons  you. 
Learn  thence,  ungrateful !  that  I  want  not  pity, 
And  be  the  last  to  dare  believe  me  cruel. 

[Exit. 


Madam,  be  comforted ;  —  I  marked  him  well ; 
I  see,  he  loves;  and  love  will  make  him  softer. 


Love  has  no  power  to  act,  when  curbed  by 

jealousy. 
Zamor  must  die,  —  for  I  have  asked  hb  life. 
Why  did  not  I  foresee  the  likely  danger  ? 
But  has  thy  care  been  happier  ?     Canst  thou 

save  him.' 
Far,  far  divided  from  me,  may  he  live ! 
Hast  thou  made  trial  of  his  keeper's  fiiith  ? 


Gold,  that  with  Spaniards  can  outweich  their 

God,  * 

Has  bought  his  hand ;  and  so  his  faith 's  your  own. 


Then,  Heaven  be  blessed !  this  metal,  formed 

for  crimes. 
Sometimes  atones   the   wrongs   't  is    dug    to 

cause !  — 
But  W9   lose  time.     Why  dost  thou  seem  to 

pause  ? 


I  cannot  think  they  purpose  Zamor*s  death. 
Alvarez  has  not  lost  his  power  so  far ; 
Nor  can  the  council 


They  are  Spaniards  all. 

Mark  the  proud,  partial  guilt  of  these  vain  men  ! 
Ours,  but  a  country  held  to  yield  them  slaves, 
Who  reign  our  kings  by  right  of  different  clime : 
Zamor,  meanwhile,  by  birth,  true  sovereign  here, 
Weighs  but  a  rebel  in  their  righteous  scale. 

O  civilized  ascent  of  social  murder ! - 

But  why,  Emira,  should  this  soldier  stay .' 


We  may  expect  him  instantly.     The  night, 
Methinks,  grown  darker,  veils  your  bold  design. 
Wearied  by  slaughter,  and  unwashed  from  blood. 
The  world's  proud  spoilers  all  lie  hushed  in  sleep. 


Away,  and  find  this  Spaniard  !    Guilt's  bought 

hand 
Opening  the  prison,  innocence  goes  free. 


See  !  by  Cephania  led,  he  comes  with  Zamor. 
Be  cautious.  Madam,  at  so  dark  an  hour ; 
Lest,  met,  suspected  honor  should  be  lost, 
And  modesty,  mistaken,  suffer  shame. 


What  does  thy  ill-taught  fear  mistake  for  shame  ? 
Virtue,  at  midnight,  walks  as  safe  within. 
As  in  the  conscious  glare  of  flaming  day. 


She  who  in  forms  finds  virtue  has  no  virtue. 
All  the  shame  lies  in  hiding  honest  love. 
Honor,  the  alien  phantom,  here  unknown. 
Lends  but  a  lengthening  shade  to  setting  virtue. 
Honor  's  not  love  of  innocence,  but  praise  ; 
The  fear  of  censure,  not  the  scorn  of  sin. 
But  I  was  taught,  in  a  sincerer  clime. 
That  virtue,  though  it  shines  not,  still  is  virtue ; 
And  inbred  honor  grows  not  but  at  home. 
This  my  heart  knows ;  and,  knowing,  bids  me 

dare, 
Should  Heaven  fonake  the  just,  be  bold  and 

save  him. 


JEAN-BAPTISTE-LOUIS  CRESSET. 

This  agreeable  poet  was  bom  at  Amiens,  in 
1709.  He  studied  with  the  Jesuits,  and  at 
the  age  of  seventeen  entered  that  order ;  afler 
which  he  was  sent  to  Paris,  and  completed  his 
education  in  the  College  Louis-le-Grand.  In 
his  twenty-fourth  year,  he  wrote  the  humoroos 
poem,  called  "Ver-Vcrt"  This  was  shortly 
followed  by  "  Le  Car6me  Impromptu,*'  '*  Le 
Lutrin  Vivant,"  and  other  poems,  which  rapid- 
ly gained  him  a  great  reputation.  The  free 
tone  of  his  writings  gave  offence  in  some  pow- 
erful quarters,  and  brought  him  under  the  cen- 
sure of  the  Jesuita,  who  sent  him  to  La  Fl^he, 
by  way  of  punishment.  Here  he  continued  his 
literary  occupations.  At  the  age  of  twenty-eix,  he 
left  the  order,  and  returned  to  Paris,  where  his 
various  and  agreeable  talenta,  and  the  celebrity 
of  his  works,  made  him  the  fovorite  of  society. 
In  1748,  he  was  chosen  a  member  of  the  Acad- 
emy. Soon  after  this,  he  returned  to  Amiens, 
married,  and  established  himself  on  a  beautiful 
estate  near  the  city.  In  1774,  he  was  appmnt- 
ed  to  congratulate  Louis  the  Sixteenth,  in  the 
name  of  the  Academy,  on  his  coronation,  and 
was  ennobled.  He  died  in  his  native  city,  Jane 
16th,  1777. 

Besides  the  poems  mentioned  above,  Greoet 
wrote  several  dramatic  pieces,  which  had  but 
little  success.  The  tragedies,  "  Edouard  III." 
and  **  Sidney,"  were  failures ;  but  the  piece  en- 
titled **  Le  M^chant "  has  distinguished  merit  as 
a  picture  of  manners.  His  style  is  marked  by 
humor,  grace,  and  simplicity.  The  beat  edition 
of  his  works  is  that  by  Renouard,  in  three  vol- 
umes, Paris,  1811. 

The  following  piece,  taken  from  *'Frafler*8 
Magazine,"  is,  as  the  writer  truly  remarks,  Ver- 
vert  merely  ^^  upset  into  English  verse."  It  is  a 
loose  paraphrase,  or  rather,  imitation,  adapted  to 
English  circumstances  and  ideas,  **  for  the  uae  of 
the  melancholy  inhabitanta  of  these  [the  British] 
islands."  Considerable  portions  are  omitted,  oth- 
ers  transposed,  others  altered  so  as  to  be  scarcely 
recognizable ;  and  names,  allusions,  linea,  and 
even  long  passages,  are  freely  introduced,  which 
have  nothing  corresponding  to  them  in  the  orig- 
inal.     A  few  of  these  last  are  here  struck  out. 


ORESSET. 


477 


VEK-VERT,  THE  PARROT. 

BI8    OBIOIHAL   IffHOCXVCX. 

Alas  !  what  evib  I  discern  in 

Too  great  an  aptitade  for  learning ! 

And  ftin  would  all  the  ills  unravel 

That  aye  ensue  from  foreign  tirayel : 

Far  happier  b  the  man  who  tarries 

Quiet  within  his  household  lmre$. 

Read,  and  you  *11  find  how  virtue  vanishes, 

How  foreign  vice  all  goodness  banishes, 

And  how  abroad  young  heads  will  grow  dizsy, 

Proved  in  the  underwritten  Odyssey. 

In  old  Nevers,  so  famous  for  its 
Dark,  narrow  streets  and  Gothic  turrets, 
Close  on  the  brink  of  Loire's  young  flood. 
Flourished  a  convent  usterhood 
Of  Ursulines.     Now,  in  this  order 
A  parrot  lived  as  parlour-boarder ; 
Brought  in  his  childhood  from  the  Antilles, 
And  sheltered  under  convent  mantles. 
Green  were  his  feathers,  green  his  pinions. 
And  greener  still  were  his  opinions : 
For  vice  had  not  yet  sought  to  pervert 
This  bird  who  had  been  christened  Ver-Vert; 
Nor  could  this  wicked  world  defile  him. 
Safe  fit>m  its  snares  in  this  q^lum. 
Fresh,  in  his  teens,  frank,  gay,  and  gracious. 
And,  to  crown  all,  somewhat  loquacious ; 
If  we  examine  close,  not  one,  or  he. 
Had  a  vocation  for  a  nunnery. 

The  convent's  kindness  need  I  mention  ? 
Need  I  detail  each  fond  attention. 
Or  count  the  tit-bits  which  tit  Lent  he 
Swallowed  remorseless  and  in  plenty  ? 
Plump  was  his  carcass ;  no,  not  higher 
Fed  was  their  confessor,  the  friar ; 
And  some  even  say  that  this  young  Hector 
Was  far  more  loved  than  the  director. 
Dear  to  each  novice  and  each  nun,  — 
He  was  the  life  and  soul  of  fun ; 
Though,  to  be  sure,  some  hags  censorious 
Would  sometimes  find  him  too  uproarious, 
What  did  the  parrot  care  for  those  old 
Dames,  while  he  had  for  him  the  household  ? 
He  had  not  yet  made  his  profession, 
Nor  come  to  years  called  of  discretion ; 
Therefore,  unblamed,  he  ogled,  flirted. 
And  romped,  like  any  unconverted  ; 
Nay,  sometimes,  too, — by  the  Lord  Harry ! — 
He  'd  pull  their  caps  and  scapulary. 
But  what  in  all  his  tricks  seemed  oddest 
Was,  that  at  times  he  'd  turn  so  modest. 
That  to  all  bystanders  the  wight 
Appeared  a  finished  hypocrite. 

Placed,  when  at  table,  near  some  vestal. 
His  fare,  be  sure,  was  of  the  best  all,  — 
For  every  sister  would  endeavour 
To  keep  for  him  some  sweet  hars-d*auore. 
Kindly  at  heart,  in  spite  of  vows  and 
Cloisters,  a  nun  is  worth  a  thousand ; 
And  aye,  if  Heaven  would  only  lend  her, 
I  'd  have  a  nun  for  a  nurse  tender ! 


Then,  when  the  shades  of  night  would 


And  to  their  cells  the  sisterp  summon, 
Happy  the  favored  one  whose  grotto 
This  sultan  of  a  bird  would  trot  to. 
Mostly  the  young  ones'  cells  he  toyed  in, — 
The  aged  sisterhood  avoiding ; 
Sure  among  all  to  find  kind  oflices. 
Still  he  was  partial  to  the  novices. 
And  in  their  cells  our  anchorite 
Mostly  cast  anchor  for  the  night ; 
Perched  on  the  box  that  held  the  relics,  he 
Slept  without  notion  of  indelicacy. 
Rare  was  his  luck ;  nor  did  he  spoil  it 
By  flying  f^om  the  morning  toilet : 
Not  that  I  can  admit  the  fitness 
Of,  at  the  toilet,  a  male  witness,  — 
But  that  I  scruple,  in  this  history. 
To  shroud  a  single  fiict  in  mystery. 

Quick  at  all  arts,  our  bird  was  rich  at 
That  best  accomplishment  called  chit-chat; 
For,  though  brought  up  within  the  cloister. 
His  beak  was  not  closed  like  an  oyster. 
But,  trippingly,  without  a  stutter. 
The  longest  sentences  would  utter. 
Pious  withal,  and  moralizing. 
His  conversaUon  was  surprising ; 
None  of  your  equivoques,  no  slander, — 
To  such  vile  tastes  he  scorned  to  pander ; 
But  his  tongue  ran  most  smooth  and  nice  on 
•«  Deo  sit  lout "  and  "  Kyrie  deUan  " ; 
The  maxims  he  gave  with  best  emphasis 
Were  Suarez's  or  Thomas  a  Kempis'. 
In  Christmas  carols  he  was  famous, 
"  OraU^frairee  "  and  "  Oremne  " ; 
If  in  good-humor,  he  was  wont 
To  give  a  stave  from  ^  ITUnk  weU  on '(," 
Or,  by  particular  desire,  he 
Would  chant  the  hymn  of  <«2>tes  tra." 
Then  in  the  choir  he  would  amaze  all. 
By  copying  the  tone  so  nasal 
In  which  the  sainted  sisters  chanted,  — 
At  least,  that  pious  nun,  my  aunt,  did. 

BIS    FATAL   KXHOWH. 

Ths  public  soon  began  to  ferret 
The  hidden  nest  of  so  much  merit. 
And,  spite  of  all  the  nuns'  endeavours. 
The  ftme  of  Ver-Vert  filled  all  Nevers ; 
Nay,  from  Moulines  folks  came  to  stare  at 
The  wondrous  talent  of  this  parrot ; 
And  to  fresh  visiters,  ad  libitum^ 
Sister  Sophie  had  to  exhibit  him. 
Dressed  in  her  tidiest  robes,  the  virgin. 
Forth  from  the  convent  cells  emerging. 
Brings  the  bright  bird,  and  for  his  plumage 
Tint  challenges  unstinted  homage ; 
Then  to  his  eloquence  adverts, — 
"  What  preacher  's  can  surpass  Ver-Vert's  ? 
Truly,  in  oratory,  few  men 
Equal  this  learned  catechumen, 
Fraught  with  the  convent's  choicest  lessons, 
And  stuff*ed  with  piety's  quintessence  ; 
A  bird  most  quick  of  apprehension. 
With  gif^  and  graces  hard  to  mention : 


478 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


Saj,  in  wh«t  pulpit  can  jou  : 

A  ChryMMtom  half  so  diacreet. 

Who  'd  follow,  in  his  ghostly 

So  close  the  &tben  and  tradition  ^  " 

Silent,  meantime,  the  feathered  hermit 

Waits  for  the  sister's  gracious  pennit. 

When,  at  a  signal  from  his  Mentor, 

Quick  on  a  course  of  speeeh  he  '11  enter : 

Not  that  he  cares  for  human  glorj, 

Bent  but  to  save  his  auditory ; 

Hence  he  pours  forth  with  so  mnch  unction, 

That  all  his  hearers  feel  compunction. 

Thus  for  a  time  did  Ver-Vert  dwell 
Safe  in  this  holy  citadel ; 
Scholared  like  any  well-bred  abb^. 
And  loved  by  many  a  cloistered  Hebe ; 
You  *d  swear  that  he  had.  crossed  the  same 

bridge 
As  any  youth  brought  up  in  Cambridge. 
Other  monks  stanre  themselves ;  but  his  skin 
Was  sleek,  like  that  of  a  Franciscan, 
And  far  more  clean ;  for  this  grave  Solon 
Bathed  every  day  in  eau  de  Cologne, 
Thus  he  indulged  each  guiltless  gambol, 
Blessed  had  he  ne*er  been  doomed  to  ramble ! 


O  town  of  Nantz !  yes,  to  thy  bosom 
We  let  him  go,  alas  !  to  lose  him ! 
Edicts^  O  town  fomed  for  revoking  ! 
Still  was  Ver-Vert's  loss  more  provoking. 
Dark  be  the  day  when  our  bright  Don  went 
From  this  to  a  far  distant  convent ! 
Two  words  comprised  that  awfhl  era,—- 
Words  big  with  fate  and  woe,  —  ^  II  ira  !  " 
Yes,  **  he  shall  go !  "  but,  sisters,  mourn  ye 
The  dismal  fruits  of  that  sad  journey,  — - 
Ills  on  which  Nantz's  nuns  ne'er  reckoned. 
When  for  the  beauteous  bird  they  beckoned. 

Fame,  O  Ver-Vert !  in  evil  humor 
One  day  to  Nantz  had  brought  the  rumor 
Of  thy  accomplishments, — acumen^ 
N«5f,  and  tsprit^  quite  superhuman  ; 
All  these  reports  but  served  to  enhance 
Thy  merits  with  the  nuns  of  Nantz. 
How  did  a  matter  so  unsuited 
For  convent  ears  get  hither  bruited  ? 
Some  may  inquire.     But  nuns  are  knowing. 
And  first  to  hear  what  gossip 's  going. 
Forthwith  they  taxed  their  wits  to  elicit 
From  the  famed  bird  a  friendly  visit. 
Girb'  wishes  run  in  a  brisk  current, 
But  a  nun's  fhncy  is  a  torrent. 
To  get  this  bird  they  'd  pawn  the  missal : 
Quick  they  indite  a  long  epistle, 
CarefUl  with  softest  things  to  fill  it. 
And  then  with  musk  perfhme  the  billet. 
Thus,  to  obtain  their  darling  purpose. 
They  send  a  writ  of  kaheat  earpue. 

Off  goes  the  post.     When  will  the  answer 
Free  them  from  doubt's  corroding  cancer  ? 
Nothing  can  equal  their  anxiety,  — > 
Except,  of  course,  their  well  known  piety. 


Things  at  NoTers,  meantime,  went  harder 
Than  well  would  suit  such  pious  ardor; 
It  was  no  easy  job  to  coax 
This  parrot  firom  the  Nevers  folks. 
What !  take  their  toy  from  oonrent  bellaa  ? 
Make  Russia  yield  the  Dardanelles ! 
Filch  his  good  rifle  from  a  Soliote, 
Or  drag  her  Romeo  from  a  Juliet ! 
Make  an  attempt  to  take  Gibraltar, 
Or  try  the  old  corn-laws  to  alter  \ 
This  seemed  to  them,  and  eke  to  vs, 
Most  wastefiil  and  ridiculous. 
Long  did  the  chapter  sit  in  state, 
And  on  this  point  deliberato  : 
The  junior  members  of  the  senato 
Set  their  fair  faces  quite  again*  it ; 
Refuse  to  yield  a  point  so  tender. 
And  urge  the  motto,  —  Jfo  surrender  f 
The  elder  nuns  foel  no  great  scruple 
In  parting  with  the  charming  pupil ; 
And  as  each  grave  affair  of  stato  runs 
Most  on  the  verdict  of  the  matrons. 
Small  odds,  I  ween,  and  poor  the  chance 
Of  keeping  the  dear  bird  from  Nantz. 
Nor  in  my  surmise  am  I  far  out,  — 
For  by  tkar  vote  off  goes  the  parrot. 

BU    BVIL   TOTAOX. 

Eh  ee  terns  M,  a  small  canal-boat. 
Called  by  most  chroniclers  the  <*  Talbot," 
(Talbot,  a  name  well  known  in  France  1) 
Travelled  between  Nevers  and  Nantz. 
Ver-Vert  took  shipping  in  this  craft, 
'T  is  not  said  whether  fore  or  aft ; 
But  in  a  book  as  old  as  Masai nger's 
We  find  a  statement  of  the  passengers : 
These  were,  —  two  Gascons  and  a  piper, 
A  sexton  (a  notorious  swiper), 
A  brace  of  children,  and  a  nurse  ; 
But  what  was  infinitely  worse, 
A  dashing  Cyprian  ;  while  by  her 
Sat  a  most  jolly.looking  firiar. 

For  a  poor  bird  brought  up  in  pority 
'T  was  a  sad  augur  for  fliturity 
To  meet,  just  free  from  his  indentures. 
And  in  the  first  of  his  adventures. 
Such  company  as  formed  his  hansel, — 
Two  rogues !  a  friar ! !  and  a  damsel ! ! ! 
Birds  the  above  were  of  a  foather ; 
But  to  Ver-Vert 't  was  altogether 
Such  a  strange  aggregate  of  scandals 
As  to  be  met  but  among  Vandals. 
Rude  was  their  talk,  bereft  of  polbh, 
And  calculated  to  demolish 
All  the  fine  notions  and  good-breeding 
Taught  by  the  nuns  in  their  sweet  Eden. 
No  Billingsgate  surpassed  the  nurse's. 
And  all  the  rest  indulged  in  curses : 
Ear  hath  not  heard  such  vulgar  gab  in 
The  nautic  cell  of  any  cabin. 
Silent  and  sad,  the  pensive  bird. 
Shocked  at  their  guilt,  said  not  a  word. 

Now  he  of  orders  gray,  accosting 
The  parrot  green,  who  seemed  quite  lost  in 


CRESSET. 


479 


The  contemplation  of  man's  wickedneas, 
And  the  bright  river's  gliding  liquidness,  — 
«*Tip  as  a  stave,"  qooth  Tuck,  <«my  darling! 
Are  n't  you  a  parrot  or  a  starling  ? 
If  you  do  n't  talk,  —  by  the  holy  poker !  — 
I  'II  give  your  ugly  neck  a  choker  I  ** 
Scared  by  this  threat  from  his  propriety. 
Our  pilgrim,  thinking  with  sobriety. 
That  if  he  did  not  speak  they  'd  make  him. 
Answered  the  friar,  *<  Pax  nt  ttewm  !  " 
Here  our  reporter  marks  down  after 
Poll's  maiden-speech,— ^  loud  roars  of  langh- 

ter"; 
And,  sure  enough,  the  bird  so  affable 
Could  hardly  use  a  phrase  more  laughable. 

Poll's  brief  address  met  lots  of  cavillers : 
Badgered  by  all  his  fellow-travellers, 
He  tried  to  mend  a  speech  so  ominous 
By  striking  up  with  "  Dixit  Dommus.** 
But  louder  shouts  of  laughter  follow ;  •— 
This  last  roar  beats  the  former  hollow. 
And  shows  that  it  was  bad  economy 
To  give  a  stave  from  Deuteronomy. 

Posed,  not  abashed,  the  bird  refused  to 
Indulge  a  scene  be  was  not  used  to ; 
And  pondering  on  his  strange  reception, 
**  There  must,"  he  thought,  **  be  some  deception 
In  the  nuns'  views  of  things  rhetorical. 
And  Sister  Rose  is  not  an  oracle  : 
True  wit,  perhaps,  lies  not  in  matins, 
Nor  is  their  school  a  school  of  Athens.'* 

Thus  in  this  villanous  receptacle 
The  simple  bird  at  once  grew  skeptical. 
Doubts  lead  to  hell.     The  Arch-deceiver 
Soon  made  of  Poll  an  unbeliever ; 
And  mixing  thus  in  bad  society, 
He  took  French  leave  of  all  his  piety. 

His  austere  maxims  soon  he  mollified, 
And  all  his  old  opinions  qualified ; 
For  he  had  learned  to  substitute 
For  pious  lore  things  more  astute : 
Nor  was  his  conduct  unimpeachable. 
For  youth,  alas !  is  but  too  teachable ; 
And,  in  the  progress  of  his  madness. 
Soon  he  had  reached  the  depths  of  badness. 
Such  were  his  curses,  such  his  evil 
Practices,  that  no  ancient  devil, 
Plunged  to  the  chin,  when  burning  hot, 
Into  a  holy  water-pot, 
Could  so  blaspheme,  or  fire  a  volley 
Of  oaths  so  drear  and  melancholy. 

Must  the  bright  blossoms,  ripe  and  ruddy, 
And  the  fiiir  fruits  of  early  study. 
Thus  in  their  summer  season  crossed, 
Meet  a  sad  blight, — a  killing  frost? 
Must  that  vile  demon,  Moloch,  oust 
Heaven  from  a  young  heart's  holocaust  ? 
And  the  glad  hope  of  life's  young  promise 
Thus  in  the  dawn  of  youth  ebb  from  us .' 
Such  is,  alas  !  the  sad  and  last  trophy 
Of  the  young  rake's  supreme  catastrophe ; 


For  of  what  use  are  learning's  laurels. 
When  a  young  man  is  without  morals  ? 
Bereft  of  virtue,  and  grown  heinous. 
What  signifies  a  brilliant  genius  ? 
'T  is  but  a  case  for  wail  and  mourning, — 
'T  is  bnt  a  brand  fit  fi>r  the  burning  \ 

Meantime  the  river  wafU  the  barge. 
Fraught  with  its  miscellaneous  charge. 
Smoothly  upon  its  broad  expanse, 
Up  to  tfaie  very  quay  of  Nantz ; 
Fondly  within  the  convent  bowers 
-  The  sisters  calculate  the  hours. 
Chiding  the  breezes  for  their  tardiness. 
And,  in  the  height  of  their  ibolhardioess, 
Picturing  the  bird  as  fancy  painted, — 
Lovely,  reserved,  polite,  and  sainted, — 
Fit  Urayline ;  —  and  this,  I  trow,  meant. 
Enriched  with  every  endowment. 
Sadly,  alas !  these  nuns  anointed 
Will  find  their  fancy  disappointed ; 
When,  to  meet  all  those  hopes  they  drew  on, 
They  'U  find  a  regular  Don  Juah  ! 

TBS   AWFUL   DISCOVSRT. 

ScABCS  in  the  port  was  this  small  croft 
On  its  arrival  telegraphed, 
When,  from  the  boat  home  to  transfer  him, 
Came  the  nuns'  portress.  Sister  Jerome. 
Well  did  the  parrot  recognize 
The  walk  demure  and  downcast  eyes ; 
Nor  aught  such  saintly  guidance  relished 
A  bird  by  worldly  arts  embellished  ; 
Such  was  his  taste  for  profime  gayety, 
He  'd  rather,  much,  go  with  the  laity. 
Fast  to  tbe  bark  he  clung ;  but,  plucked  thence, 
He  showed  dire  symptoms  of  reluctance. 
And,  scandalizing  each  beholder,  \ 

Bit  the  nun's  cheek,  and  eke  her  shoulder  ! 
Thus  a  black  eagle  once,  't  is  said. 
Bore  off  the  struggling  Ganymede. 
Thus  was  Ver-Vert,  heart-sick  and  weary. 
Brought  to  the  heavenly  monastery. 
The  bell  and  tidings  both  were  tolled. 
And  the  nuns  crowded,  young  and  old. 
To  feast  their  eyes,  with  joy  uncommon,  on 
This  wondrous,  talkative  phenomenon. 

Round  the  bright  stranger,  so  amazing 
And  so  renowned,  the  sisters,  gazing. 
Praised  the  green  glow  which  a  warm  lati- 
tude 
Oave  to  his  neck,  and  liked  bis  attitude. 
Some  by  his  gorgeous  tail  are  smitten. 
Some  by  his  beak  so  beauteous  bitten  ! 
And  none  e'er  dreamed  of  dole  or  harm  in 
A  bird  so  brilliant  and  so  charming. 


Meantime,  the  abbess,  to  draw  out 
A  bird  so  modest  and  devout. 
With  soothing  air  and  tone  caressing 
The  pilgrim  of  the  Loire  addressing, 
Broached  the  most  edifying  topics 
To  start  this  native  of  the  tropics ; 


480 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


When,  O,  surprise  !  the  pert  young  Cupid 
Breaks  forth,  —  ^^MorbUit!   those   nuns  are 

stupid !  *' 
Showing  how  well  he  learned  his  task  oa 
The  packet-boat  from  that  vile  Gascon. 
»Fie !  brother  Poll !  "  with  zeal  outbursting, 
Exclaimed  the  abbess,  Dame  Augustin ; 
But  all  the  lady's  sage  rebukes 
Brief  answer  got  from  Poll, — «<  Gadzooks !  " 

Scared  at  the  sound,  —  **  Sure  as  a  gun, 

The  bird  's  a  demon  !  **  cried  the  nun. 

**  O,  the  vile  wretch  !  the  naughty  dog ! 

He  's  surely  Lucifer  incog. 

What !  is  the  reprobate  before  us 

That  bird  so  pious  and  decorous, — 

So  celebrated  ?  "     Here  the  pilgrim. 

Hearing  sufficient  to  bewilder  him. 

Wound  up  the  sermon  of  the  beldam 

By  a  conclusion  heard  but  seldom, — 

"  r«ar«    Saint    Gria ! "    ^Parlieu!"   and 

'^Saere!" 
Three  oaths !  and  every  one  a  whacker ! 

Still  did  the  nuns,  whose  conscience  tender 
Was  much  shocked  at  the  young  offender. 
Hoping  he  'd  change  his  tone,  and  alter. 
Hang  breathless  round  the  sad  defaulter ; 
When,  wrathful  at  their  importunity. 
And  grown  audacious  from  impunity. 
He  fired  a  broadside  —  holy  Mary !  — 
Drawn  from  hell's  own  vocabulary ; 
Forth,  like  a  Congreve  rocket,  burst. 
And  stormed  and  swore,  fiared  up  and  cursed ! 
Stunned  at  these  sounds  of  import  Stygian, 
The  pious  daughters  of  religion 
Fled  from  a  scene  so  dread,  so  horrid ; 
But  with  a  cross  first  signed  their  forehead. 
The  younger  sisters,  mild  and  meek. 
Thought  that  the  culprit  spoke  in  Greek ; 
But  the  old  matrons  and  **  the  bench  " 
Knew  every  word  was  genuine  French  ; 
And  ran  in  all  directions,  pell-mell. 
From  a  flood  fit  to  overwhelm  hell. 
*T  was  by  a  fall  that  Mother  Ruth 
Then  lost  her  last  remaining  tooth. 
**  Fine  conduct  this,  and  pretty  guidance !  '* 
Cried  one  of  the  most  mortified  ones  ; 
'*  Pray,  is  such  language  and  such  ritual 
Among  the  Nevers  nuns  habitual  ? 
'T  was  in  our  sisters  most  improper 
To  teach  such  curses,  —  such  a  whapper ! 
He  sha*  n't  by  me,  for  one,  be  hindered 
From  being  sent  back  to  his  kindred  !  " 
This  prompt  decree  for  Poll's  proscription 
Was  signed  by  general  subscription. 
Straight  in  a  cage  the  nuns  insert 
The  guilty  person  of  Ver-Vert; 
Some  young  ones  wanted  to  detain  him, 
But  the  grim  portress  took  the  paynim 
Back  to  the  boat,  close  in  his  litter : 
'T  is  not  said  this  time  that  be  hit  her. 

Back  to  the  convent  of  his  youth. 
Sojourn  of  innocence  and  truth, 


Sails  the  green  monster,  scorned  and  hated, 
His  heart  with  vice  contaminated. 
Must  I  tell  how,  on  his  return. 
He  scandalized  his  old  sojourn, 
And  how  the  guardians  of  his  infiincy 
Wept  o'er  their  quondam  child's  delioqnen- 

cy? 
What  could  be  done  ?    The  elders  ofteD 
Met  to  consult  how  best  to  soften 
This  obdurate  and  hardened  sinner. 
Finished  in  vice  ere  a  beginner. 
One  mother  counselled  **  to  denounce. 
And  let  the  Inquisition  pounce 
On  the  vile  heretic  " ;  another 
Thought  *Mt  was  best  the  bird  to  smother"; 
Or  ^  send  the  convict,  for  his  fislonies, 
Back  to  his  native  land, — the  colonies." 
But  milder  views  prevailed.     His  sentenee 
Was,  that,  until  he  showed  repentance, 
**  A  solemn  fiist  and  frugal  diet. 
Silence  exact,  and  pensive  quiet. 
Should  be  his  lot " ;  and,  for  a  blister. 
He  got,  as  gaoler,  a  lay-sister. 
Ugly  as  sin,  bad-tempered,  jealous. 
And  in  her  scruples  over-zeslous. 
A  jug  of  water  and  a  carrot 
Was  all  the  prog  she  *d  give  the  parrot ; 
But  every  eve,  when  vesper-bell 
Called  Sister  Rosalie  from  her  cell. 
She  to  Ver-Vert  would  gain  admittance, 
And  bring  of  comfits  a  sweet  pittance. 
Comfits,  —  alas !  can  sweet  confoctions 
Alter  sour  slavery's  imperfections  ? 
What  are  preserves  to  you  or  me. 
When  locked  up  in  the  Marshalsea, — 
A  place  that  certainly  deserves 
The  name  of  *« Best  of  all  Preserves'*? 
The  sternest  virtue  in  the  hulks. 
Though  crammed  with  richest  sweetmetti, 

sulks. 

Taught  by  his  gaoler  and  adversity, 
Poll  saw  the  folly  of  perversity, 
And  by  degrees  his  heart  relented : 
Duly,  in  fine,  the  lad  repented. 
His  Lent  passed  on,  and  Sister  Bridget 
Coaxed  the  old  abbess  to  abridge  it. 

The  prodigal,  reclaimed  and  free. 
Became  again  a  prodigy. 
And  gave  more  joy,  by  works  and  words. 
Than  ninety-nine  Canary-birds, 
Until  his  death; — which  last  disaster 
(Nothing  on  earth  endures !)  came  faster 
Than  they  imagined.     The  transition 
From  a  starved  to  a  stuffed  condition. 
From  penitence  to  jollification. 
Brought  on  a  fit  of  constipation. 
Some  think  he  would  be  living  still. 
If  given  a  vegetaJble  jnU; 
But  from  a  short  lifo,  and  a  merry. 
Poll  sailed  one  day  per  Charon's  ferry. 

By  tears  from  nuns*  sweet  eyelids  wept, 
Happy  in  death  this  parrot  slept; 


DE  L'ISLE.— CHATEAUBRIAND. 


481 


For  him  Elysium  oped  its  portals, 

And  there  he  talks  among  immortals. 

But  I  have  read,  that,  since  that  happy  day 

(So  writes  Cornelius  k  Lapidi, 

rroving,  with  commentary  droll. 

The  transmigration  of  the  soul), 

Still  Ver-Vert  this  earth  doth  haunt. 

Of  oottTent  bowen  a  Tisitant ; 

And  that  gay  novices  among 

He  dwells,  transformed  into  a  tongue  ! 


JOSEPH  R0U6ET-DE-L1SLE. 

RouoxT-DS-L'IsLX  was  bom  May  10th,  1760, 
at  Lons-le-Saulnier,  in  the  department  of  Jura. 
He  was  an  officer  in  the  French  Revolution, 
the  principles  of  which  he  adopted  with  ardor. 
He  is  best  known  as  the  author  of  **  The  Mar- 
seilles Hymn,**  which  he  wrote  and  set  to 
mnsio  in  one  night.  This  became  the  national 
song  of  the  French  patriots,  and  was  famous  in 
Europe  and  America.  Its  author  was,  however, 
imprisoned  in  the  Reign  of  Terror,  and  owed  his 
liberation  to  the  Revolution  of  the  9th  Ther- 
midor  (27th  July,  1794).  He  never  enjoyed 
the  ftvor  of  Napoleon,  either  during  the  Con- 
sulate or  the  Empire.  After  the  Revolution  of 
July, '* The  Marseilles  Hymn"  again  became 
the  national  song  of  France,  and  Louis-Philippe 
bestowed  on  the  author  a  pension  of  fifleen  hun- 
dred francs  from  his  private  purse.  De  L'Isle  has 
published  other  pieces,  both  in  poetry  and  prose. 

THE  MABSEILLES  HYMN. 

Ts  sons  of  France,  awake  to  glory  ! 

Hark !  hark !  what  myriads  bid  you  rise  I 
Tour  children,  wives,  and  grandsires  hoary,  «- 

Behold  their  tears  and  hear  their  cries ! 


Shall  hateful  tyrants,  mischief  breeding, 
With  hireling  hosts,  a  ruffian  band, 
Affiight  and  desolate  the  land, 
While  liberty  and  peace  lie  bleeding? 
To  arms !  to  arms !  ye  brave ! 

The  avenging  sword  unsheathe ! 
March  on !  march  on !  all  hearts  resolved 
On  victory  or  death ! 

Now,  now,  the  dangerous  storm  is  rolling. 
Which  treacherous  kings  confederate  raise; 

The  dogs  of  war,  let  loose,  are  bowling, 
And,  lo !  our  fields  and  cities  blaze. 

And  shall  we  basely  view  the  ruin. 
While  lawless  force,  with  guilty  stride, 
Spreads  desolation  far  and  wide. 

With  crimes  and  blood  his  hands  imbruing  ? 
To  arms !  to  arms !  ye  brave !  Ac, 

With  luxury  and  pride  surrounded. 

The  bold,  insatiate  despots  dare  — 
Their  thirn  of  gold  and  power  unbounded  — 

To  mete  and  vend  the  light  and  air. 
Like  beasts  of  burden  would  they  load  us. 

Like  gods  would  bid  tbeir  slaves  adore ; 

But  man  is  man,  and  who  b  more  ? 
Then  shall  they  longer  lash  and  goad  us  ? 
To  arms !  to  arms !  ye  brave !  Ac. 

O  Liberty,  can  man  resign  thee. 

Once  having  felt  thy  generous  flame  ? 
Can  dungeons,  bolts,  or  bars  confine  thee, 

Or  whips  thy  noble  spirit  tame  ? 
Too  long  the  world  has  wept,  bewailing. 

That  Falsehood's  dagger  tyrants  wield  ; 

But  Freedom  is  our  sword  and  shield, 
And  all  their  arts  are  unavailing. 

To  arms !  to  arms !  ye  brave !  Ae, 


SIXTH  PERIOD.-FROM  1800  TO  1844. 


FRANCOIS-AUGUSTE,  VICOMTE  DE 
^     CHAnTEAUBRIAND. 

This  illustrious  author  and  nobleman  was 
born  in  1769,  at  Combourg,  in  Bretagne.  In 
1786,  he  joined  the  regiment  of  infantry,  called 
the  R^egiment  of  Navarre.  During  the  troubles  of 
the  Revolution,  he  sought  refu^  in  America, 
'where  he  passed  several  years,  and  where  he 
'nrrote  the  prose-poem,  entitled  **Les  Natchez, 
ou  Tableau  de  la  Vie  des  Tribus  Indiennes.'* 
lo  1793,  he  returned  to  Europe,  joined  the  em- 
ijgrants  in  arms,  and  was  wounded  at  the  siege 
of  Thionville ;  after  which  he  went  to  England, 
and,  being  in  narrow  circumstances,  was  obliged 
to  support  himself  by  his  literary  labors.  After 
tho  overthrow  of  the  Directory,  he  returned  to 
61 


France,  and  became  one  of  the  editon  of  the 
"  Mercure  de  France.'*  His  **  O^nie  du  Chris- 
tianisme  "  appeared  in  England  in  1802,  and 
was  reprinted  in  France.  In  180S,  he  visited 
Rome,  where  he  remained  a  short  time  as  Sec- 
retary of  Legation  under  Cardinal  Fesch.  His 
residence  in  Rome  inspired  him  to  write  "  Les 
Martyrs,*'  a  religious  poem  in  prose.  In  the  same 
year,  he  was  appointed  French  minister  in  the 
Valais ;  but  resigned  the  place  after  the  death  of 
the  Due  d'Engbien,  in  March,  1804.  In  1806,  he 
travelled  through  Ghreece  and  Rhodes  to  Jeru- 
salem, visited  Alexandria,  Cairo,  and  Carthage, 
and  returned  to  France  by  way  of  Spain,  in 
May,  1807.  In  1811,  he  was  elected  into  the 
Institute.  In  1814,  after  Napoleon's  fall,  he 
wrote  his  celebrated  pamphlet,'*  De  Bonaparte 


483 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


et  des  Bourbons,"  in  which  he  went  over  to 
the  fide  of  the  ultra-royalists,  to  whom  he  has 
ever  since  remained  faithful.  On  Napoleon's 
return  from  Elba,  he  followed  Louis  the  Eigh- 
teenth to  Ghent,  and  afterwards  returned  with 
him  to  Paris,  where,  in  1815,  he  was  made  a 
minister  of  state  and  a  peer.  In  1816,  he  was 
chosen  a  member  of  the  Academy.  In  1820, 
he  was  sent  as  Minister  Plenipotentiary  and 
Envoy  Extraordinary  to  Berlin,  but  returned  to 
Paris  the  next  year,  and  was  appointed  minister 
of  state,  and  member  5f  the  Privy  Council.  In 
1822,  he  went  as  ambassador  to  London,  and 
afterwards  accompanied  the  Duo  de  Montmo- 
renci  to  the  Congress  of  Verona,  and  in  the 
same  year  succeeded  the  duke  as  Minister  of 
Foreign  Affairs.  After  the  death  of  Louis  the 
Eighteenth,  Chateaubriand  published  a  pam- 
phlet, entitled  ^Le  Roi  est  mort:  vive  le  Roi!*' 
In  1825,  he  published  the  eloquent  **  Note  sur 
la  Gr^e."  Under  the  administration  of  Mar- 
tignac,  he  went  to  Rome  as  French  ambassador; 
but  in  1829,  upon  the  dismissal  of  that  minister, 
he  retired  to  private  life. 

The  Revolution  of  July  called  Chateaubriand 
again  into  political  activity.  He  refused  to  take 
the  oath  of  allegiance  to  Louis- Philippe,  and 
consequently  was  deprived  of  his  place  in  the 
Chamber  of  Peers,  and  a  yearly  income  of 
twelve  thousand  francs.  Since  then,  he  has  de- 
voted himself,  with  chivalrous  fidelity,  to  the 
defence  of  the  Due  de  Bordeaux,  and  bis  moth- 
er, the  Duchesse  de  Berri. 

His  works  were  published  in  1826-31,  by 
Ladvocat,  in  thirty  volumes.  His  writings  show 
a  poetical  imagination,  and  great  power  of  de- 
scription. His  style  is  warm,  copious,  and  elo- 
quent His  prose  has  almost  the  rhythmical 
cadence  of  poetry.  "  But,  however  distinguish- 
ed a  rank,"  says  a  writer  in  the  last  edition  of 
the  **  Conversations-Lexicon,"  '*his  talent  for 
description  has  gained  for  him,  among  the  au- 
thors of  his  nation,  yet  no  one  of  his  works  can 
be  called  classical,  in  the  sense  in  which  this 
distinction  belongs  only  to  the  works  of  a  free 
and  lofty  mind,  which  unite  richness  of  ideas 
with  depth  and  solidity,  without  distorting  the 
truth  by  sophistical  tricks,  or  by  the  illusions  of 
a  self-deceiving  imagination,  or  the  bombast  of 
a  luxuriant  form  of  expression." 


JEUNE  FILLE  ET  JEUNE  FLEUR. 

Tas  bier  descends,  the  spotless  roses  too, 
The  father's  tribute  in  his  saddest  hour  : 
O  Earth !  that  bore  them  both,  thou  hast  thy 
due, — 
The  fair  young  girl  and  flower. 

Give  them  not  back  unto  a  world  again, 

Where    mourning,  grief,   and    agony   have 
power,  •— 
Where    winds    destroy,   and   suns    malignant 
reign,— 
That  fair  young  girl  and  flower. 


Lightly  thou  sleepest,  young  Eliza,  now. 
Nor  fear'st  the   burning  heat,  nor  chilling 
shower ; 
They   both  have   perished  in  their    momiiig 
glow,— 
The  fiur  young  girl  and  flower. 

But  he,  thy  sire,  whose  furrowed  brow  is  pale. 
Bends,  lost  in  sorrow,  o'er  thy  funeral  bower; 
And  Time  the  old  oak's  roots  doth  now  assail, 
O  fair  young  girl  and  flower ! 


CHARLES  DE  CH£nEDOLl£. 

Charlss  ds  CHAzrxDOLLi  was  bom  at  Yire, 
about  the  year  1770,  and  was  educated  at  the 
College  de  Juilly.  At  the  commencement  of 
the  Revolution,  be  emigrated.  On  his  return  to 
France,  he  devoted  himself  to  poetry  and  public 
instruction  in  the  office  of  Professor  of  Belles- 
lettres  in  the  Lyceum  at  Caen.  Ch^nedoH^ 
several  times  gained  the  prize  of  poetry  at  the 
Floral  Games  of  Toulouse.  His  chief  poetic 
works  are,  "The  Genius  of  Man,"  and  <*  Poet- 
ical Studies."  He  also  assisted  M.  FajoUe  in 
editing  the  works  of  Rivarol. 


ODE  TO  THE  SEA. 

At  length  I  look  on  thee  again. 
Abyss  of  azure !  thou  vast  main. 
Long  by  my  verse  implored  in  vain. 

Alone  inspired  by  thee ! 
The  magic  of  thy  sounds  alone 
Can  raise  the  transports  I  have  known  ; 
My  harp  is  mute,  unless  its  tone 

Be  waked  beside  the  sea. 

The  heights  of  Blanc  have  fired  mine  ejes,^ 
Those   three  bare   mounts  that   touch    the 

skies ; 
I  loved  the  terror  of  their  brow, 
I  loved  their  diadem  of  snow, — 
But,  O  thou  wild  and  awful  Sea, 

More  dear  to  me 
Thy  threatening,  drear  immensity ! 

Dread  Ocean !  burst  upon  me  with  thy  shores ! 

Fling  wide  thy  waters  where  the  storms  bear 
sway! 
Thy  boeom  opens  to  a  thousand  prores ; 

Tet  fleets,  with  idle  daring,  breast  thy  spray, — 
Ripple  with  arrow's  track  thy  closing  plain. 
And  graze  the  surface  of  thy  deep  domain. 

Man  dares  not  tread  thy  liquid  way ; 
Thou  spum'st  that  despot  of  a  day. 
Tossed  like  a  snow-flake  or  the  spray 

From  storm-gulft  to  the  skies  : 
He  breathes  and  reigns  on  solid  land. 
And  ruins  mark  his  tyrant  hand  ; 
Thou  bidd'st  him  in  that  circle  stand. 

Thy  reign  his  rage  defies : 


ch£nedoll]6. 


483 


Or  should  he  force  his  passage  there, 
Thou  risest,  mocking  his  despair ; 
The  shipwreck  humbles  all  his  pride  : 
He  sinks  within  the  darksome  tide,  — 
The  surge's  yast  unfathomed  gloom 

His  catacomb,  — 
Without  a  name,  without  a  tomb. 

Thy  banks  are  kingdoms,  where  the  shrine,  the 

throne. 
The  pomp  of  human  things  are  changed  and 

past; 
The  people, — they  were  phantoms,  —  they  are 

flown; 
Time  has  avenged  thee  on  their  strength  at 

last: 
Thy  billows  idly  rest  on  Sidon's  shore. 
And  her  bold  pilots  wound  thy  pride  no  more. 

Rome,  —  Athens,  —  Carthago,  — •  what  are 

they  ? 
Spoiled  heritage,  successive  prey ; 
New  nations  force  their  onward  way, 

And  grasp  disputed  reign : 
Thou  changest  not ;  thy  waters  pour 
The  same  wild  waves  against  the  shore, 
Where  liberty  had  breathed  before. 

And  slavery  hugs  his  chain. 

States  bow ;  Time's  sceptre  presses  still 
On  Apennine's  subsiding  hill ; 
The  steps  of  ages,  crumbling  slow. 
Are  stamped  upon  his  arid  brow : 
No  trace  of  time  is  left  on  thee, 

Unchanging  Sea ! 
Created  thus,  and  still  to  be. 

Sea!  of  AlmightinesB  itself  the  immense 
And  glorious  mirror  !  how  thy  azure  face 

Renews  the  heavens  in  their  magnificence ! 
What  awfijl  grandeur  rounds  thy  heaving 
space! 

Thy  surge  two  worlds  eternal-warring  sweeps. 

And  6od*8  throne  rests  on  thy  majestic  deeps. 


THE  TOUNG  MATRON  AMONG  THE  RUINS  OP 
ROME 

Through  Rome's  green  plains  with  silent  tread 

I  wandered,  and  on  every  side, 
0*er  all  the  glorious  soil,  I  read 

The  nothingness  of  human  pride. 

Where  reared  the  Capitol  its  brow, 
Bntranced  I  gazed  on  desert  glades. 

And  saw  the  tangled  herbage  grow. 

And  brambles  crawl  o'er  crushed  arcades. 

Beneath  a  portal,  half-disclosed. 

By  its  own  ruins  earthward  pressed, 

A  young  Italian  wife  reposed, 

Mild,  blooming,  with  her  babe  at  breast. 

0*er  that  drear  scene  she  breathed  a  grace, 

And  near  her  I  inquiring  drew. 
And  asked  her  of  that  lonely  place. 

The  old  traditions  that  she  knew. 


**  Stranger !  "  she  softly  said,  "  I  grieve 
Thy  question  must  unanswered  be  ; 

These  ruins,  —  I  should  but  deceive. 
Did  I  rehearse  their  history. 

**  Some  defter  tongue,  some  wiser  head. 
May  know,  and  can  instruct  thee  right; 

I  thought  not  whither  I  was  led. 

And  scarce  the  pile  had  caught  my  sight*' 

Thus,  wrapped  in  tenderness  alone, 
Joy's  innocence  becalmed  her  brow ; 

She  loved !  —  no  other  knowledge  known. 
She  lived  not  in  the  past,  but  now. 


REGRETS. 

Whsbx  are  my  dajrs  of  youth,— those  fairy  days. 
Breathing  of  life,  and  strangers  yet  to  pain, — 
When  inspiration  kindled  to  a  blaze 

The  rapture  of  the  heart  and  brain  ? 

Then  nature  was  my  kingdom  ;  and  I  stood 

Rich  in  the  wealth  of  all  beneath  the  pole ; 
An  antique  rock,  a  torrent,  or  a  wood. 
Awaked  the  transport  of  my  soul. 

When  the  young  Spring  her  rosy  arms  outspread, 
And  ice-flakes  melted  from  the  green-tipped 
spray. 
How  rich  the  change !  what  magic  hues  were 
shed 
On  tribes  of  flowers  that  laughed  in  day  ! 

Thou,  too,  black  Winter,  hadst  a  charm  for  me ; 
Thou  held'st  high  festival :  thy  storms  arose. 
Delightsome  in  their  horrid  revelry 

Of  hail-blasts,  hurricanes,  and  snows. 

How  have  I  loved  to  see  the  radiance  run 
O'er  the  calm  ocean  from  an  azure  sky ; 
Or  on  the  liquid  world  the  evening  sun 
Gaze  down  with  burning  eye ! 

Tet  dearer  were  thy  shores,  when,  blackening 
round. 
Thy  waves,  O  Sea,  rolled,  gathering  from  afar ; 
And  all  the  waste  in  pompous  horror  frowned. 
As  storm-lashed  surges  strove  in  war. 

Jura !  thou  throne  of  tempests !  many  a  time 

My  love  has  sought  thee  in  the  musing  hour; 
Oft  was  i  wont  thy  topmost  ridge  to  climb. 
Thy  fir-trae  depths  my  shadowing  bower. 

How,  when  I  saw  thy  lofty  scenes  unfold. 

My  soul  sprang  forth,  transported  at  the  sight ! 
Enthusiasm  there  shook  its  wings  of  gold. 
And  bore  me  up  from  height  to  height. 

My  bounding  step  o'ervaulted  summits  high, 
Where  resting  clouds  had  checked  their  soar- 
ing pride ; 
And  my  foot  seemed  in  hovering  speed  to  vie 
With  eagles  swooping  at  my  side. 


484 


FRENCH   POETRY. 


0|  then  with  what  enamoarad  touch  I  drew 

Thy  pencilled  outlines  desolate  and  grand  ! 
Vast  ice-rifU !  ancient  crags !  your  wonders  grew 
Beneath  my  recreating  hand. 

All  was  enchantment  then  :  but  they  depart. 
Those  days  so  beautiful,  when  the  bright 
flame 
From  unveiled  genius  shot  within  my  heart 
The  noble  pang  of  fiime. 


CHARLES-HUBERT  MILLEVOTE. 

This  poet  was  the  only  son  of  a  merchant 
of  Abbeville.  He  was  bom  December  24th, 
1782.  He  was  first  taught  by  one  of  his  uncles, 
and  afterwards  placed  under  the  care  of  M. 
Bardoux,  a  learned  Greek  scholar,  and  Profes- 
sor in  the  College  of  Abbeville.  At  the  age  of 
thirteen  years,  Millevoye  lost  his  father.  He 
was  sent  by  his  family  to  complete  his  education 
in  Paris,  where  he  distinguished  himself  by  his 
talent  and  industry,  and  began  early  to  display 
his  poetical  genius.  Soon  after  finishing  his 
studies,  he  wrote  a  series  of  poems  which  suc- 
cessively received  the  prize  of  the  Institute. 
He  began  the  study  of  the  law ;  but,  finding  it 
impossible  to  bring  his  brilliant  powers  and 
dreamy  imagination  down  to  the  dry  technical- 
ities of  that  profession,  he  entered  the  estab- 
lishment of  a  bookseller,  hoping  thus  to  unite 
his  favorite  literary  pursuits  with  the  details  of 
business;  but,  not  succeeding  in  this  scheme, 
he  finally  gave  himself  up  wholly  to  study  and 
composition.  He  wrote  the  poems  of**  Charle- 
magne,*' **Be]zunce,"  and  ** Alfred";  and  the 
tragedies  of  *«  Cor^sus,"  **  Ugolin,"  and  "  Con- 
radin,'*  which,  however,  were  not  represented. 
Besides  these,  he  composed  numerous  fugitive 
pieces,  and  a  volume  of  elegies. 

Millevoye's  constitution  was  delicate  from 
his  childhood,  and  he  predicted  his  approach- 
ing end  in  the  touching  elegy  of  **  The  Dying 
Poet.*'  Only  eight  days  before  his  death,  he 
wrote  the  piece  entitled  **Priez  pour  moi." 
He  died  August  12th,  1816,  in  the  thirty-fourth 
year  of  his  age. 

THE  FALL  OF  THE  LEAYEa 

AuTUKH  had  stripped  the  grove,  and  strewed 

The  vale  with  leafy  carpet  o'er. 
Shorn  of  its  mystery  the  wood. 

And  Philomel  bade  sing  no  more: 
Tet  one  still  hither  comes  to  feed 

His  gaze  on  childhood's  merry  path ; 
For  him,  sick  youth !  poor  invalid ! 

Lonely  attraction  still  it  hath. 

u  I  come  to  bid  you  farewell  brief. 
Here,  O  my  infancy  *s  wild  haunt ! 

For  death  gives  in  each  falling  leaf 
Sad  summons  to  your  visitant. 


*T  was  a  stem  oracle  that  told 

My  dark  decree,  —  *  The  womttciid  kUem 

Once  more  't  is  given  thee  to  MhsM, 
Then  comet  ths  inexorable  tomh ! ' 

**The  eternal  cjrprese,  balancing 
Its  tall  fbrm,  like  some  funeral  thing, 

In  silence  o'er  my  head. 
Tells  me  my  youth  shall  wither  fsst, 
Ere  the  grass  fades,  —  yea,  ere  the  last 

Stalk  firom  the  vine  is  shed. 

« I  die !     Tea,  with  his  icy  breath. 

Fixed  Fate  has  frozen  up  my  blood ; 
And  by  the  chilly  blast  of  Death 

Nipped  is  my  life's  spring  in  the  bod. 
Fall,  fall,  O  transitory  leaf. 

And  cover  well  this  path  of  sorrow ; 
Hide  from  my  mother's  searching  grief 

The  spot  where  I  *11  be  laid  to-morrow ! 

<«  But  should  my  loved  one's  fkiry  tread 
Seek  the  sad  dwellmg  of  the  dead. 

Silent,  alone,  at  eve,  — 
O,  then  with  rustling  murmar  meet 
The  echo  of  her  coming  feet. 

And  sign  of  welcome  give ! " 

Such  was  the  sick  youth*s  last  sad  thoogbt; 

Then  slowly  firom  the  grove  he  moved : 
Next  moon  that  way  a  corpse  wss  broog ht, 

And  buried  in  the  bower  he  loved. 
But  at  his  grave  no  form  appeared. 

No  fairy  moumer :  through  the  wood 
The  shepherd*s  tread  alone  was  heard, 

In  the  sepulchral  solitude. 


FRAY  FOR  MB. 

Silent,  remote,  this  hamlet  s ,  , 

How  hushed  the  breeze !  the  eve  faowcaltt- 
Light  through  my  dying  chamber  beams, 

But  hope  comes  not,  nor  healing  bain- 
Kind  villagers !     God  bless  your  shed '. 

Hark !  *t  is  for  prayer, — the  evening  bell: 
O,  stay  !  and  near  my  dying  bed, 

Maiden,  for  me  your  rosary  tell ! 

When  leaves  shall  strew  the  wateriUJ, 

In  the  sad  close  of  autumn  drear. 
Say,  **The  sick  youth  is  freed  from  all  ^^ 

The  pangs  and  woe  he  suffered  here. 
So  may  ye  speak  of  him  that  *s  gone ; 

But  when  your  belfry  tolls  my  knell, 
Pray  for  the  soul  of  that  lost  one,  — 

Maiden,  for  me  your  rosary  tell ! 

0,'pity  her,  in  sable  robe. 

Who  to  my  grassy  grave  will  ©om«  J 
Nor  seek  a  hidden  wound  to  probe !— * 

She  was  my  love  !  —  point  out  my  <*>"*"» 
Tell  her  my  life  should  have  been  ^^^,u 

'T  was  but  a  day !— God's  will !-'«  »^''' 
But  weep  with  her,  kind  villagers ! 

Maiden,  for  me  your  rosary  tell ! 


b£rano£r. 


4d5 


PIERRE-JEAN  DE  B^RANGER. 

BiiiAifoxii,  the  moat  original  and  popular  of 
the  lyrical  poeta  of  France,  was  born  at  Paris, 
August  19th,  1780,  in  a  very  humble  condition. 
He  was  educated  by  his  grandfather,  a  poor 
tailor.  The  books  which  first  aroused  his  ge- 
nius were  the  Bible  and  a  translation  of  Homer. 
His  earliest  poetical  attempts  attracted  the  at- 
tention of  Lucien  Bonaparte.  His  songs,  which 
were  enlivened  by  allusions  to  the  politics  of 
the  day,  had  a  great  run.  Among  his  first  pieces 
were  "Le  Roi  d'Tvetot"  and  <«Iie  S^nateur." 
Biranger  neither  flattered  Napoleon  in  his  pow- 
er, nor  turned  against  him  after  his  fidl ;  but 
jealously  maintained  his  personal  independence. 
After  the  Restoration,  he  fell  under  the  ban  of 
the  government,  was  prosecuted  in  1821,  on 
€x;casion  of  a  new  edition  of  his  poems  being 
subscribed  fi>r  by  his  friends,  and  in  1828  was 
again  prosecuted,  condemned  to  pay  a  fine  of 
ten  thousand  fi^ncs,  and  to  be  imprisoned  nine 
months.  He  took  an  active  part  in  the  July 
Revolution,  but  refiised  all  ofilces  under  the  new 
government.  Since  then,  he  has  written  but 
little.  A  complete  collection  of  his  songs  ap- 
peared at  Paris  in  1831,  with  the  title,  •«  Chan- 
sons de  P.  J.  B^ranger,  nouvelles,  anciennes  et 
in^dites."  A  new  collection,  **  Chansons  nou- 
velles et  demiires,'*  was  published  in  1833,  in 
which  Beranger  took  leave  of  the  Muses. 

The  poems  of  Beranger  are  distinguished  for 
their  genuine  national  spirit,  their  gayety  and 
wit,  and  ibr  a  delicacy  and  pungency  of  ex- 
pression, which  can  scarcely  be  preserved  in 
translation. 

THE  UTILE  BROWN  MAN. 

A  LiTTLs  man  we  've  here, 
All  in  a  suit  of  brown. 
Upon  town ; 
He  *s  as  brisk  as  bottled  beer. 
And,  without  a  shilling  rent, 
Lives  content : 
**For  d'  ye  see,"  says  he,  **my  plan? 
D'  ye  see,"  says  he,  **  my  plan  f 
My  plan,  d'  ye  see,  's  to  —  laugh  at  that ! " 
Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily,  the  little  brown  man ! 

When  every  mad  grisette 
He  has  toasted,  till  his  score 
Holds  no  more ; 
Then,  head  and  ears  in  debt. 

When  the  duns  and  bums  abound 
All  around, 
<«  D'  ye  see,"  says  he,  *'  my  plan  f 
D*  ye  see,"  says  he,  *'  my  plan  ? 
My  plan,  d'  ye  see,  's  to —  laugh  at  that ! " 
Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily,  the  little  brown  man ! 

When  the  rain  comes  through  his  attic. 
And  he  lies  all  day  a-bed 
Without  bread ; 
When  the  winter  winds  rheumatic 


Make  bim  blow  his  nails  ibr  dire 
Want  of  fire, 
*<  D*  ye  see, '  says  he,  **  my  plan  f 
D'  ye  see,    says  he,  **  my  plan  ? 
My  plan,  d*  ye  see,  *s  to — laugh  at  that! " 
Sing  m.errily,  sing  merrily,  the  little  brown  man ! 

His  wife,  a  dashing  figure, 
Makes  shift  to  pay  her  clothes 
By  her  beaux ; 
The  gallanter  they  rig  her. 
The  more  the  people  sneer 
At  ber  dear : 
**  Then  d'  ye  see,"  says  he,  '*  my  plan  ? 
D'  ye  see,'  says  he,  **  my  plan  ? 
My  plan,  d'  ye  see,  's  to  —  laugh  at  that ! " 
Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily,  the  little  brown  man  ! 

When  at  last  laid  fiurly  level. 
And  the  priest  (he  getting  worse) 
'Gan  discourse 
Of  death  and  of  the  Devil, 
Our  little  sinner  sighed, 
And  replied,— 
*< Please  your  reverence,  my  plan,— - 
Please  your  reverence,  my  plan, — 
My  plan,  d'  ye  see,  's  to  —  laugh  at  that ! " 
Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily,  the  little  brown  man ! 


THE  OLD  VAGABOND. 

HsRB  in  the  ditch  my  bones  I  Ml  lay ; 

Weak,  wearied,  old,  the  world  I  leave. 
**  He  *s  drunk,"  the  passing  crowd  will  say : 

'T  is  well,  Ibr  none  will  need  to  grieve. 
Some  turn  their  scornful  heads  away. 

Some  fling  an  alms  in  hurrying  by ;  — 
Haste,  —  't  is  the  village  holyday  ! 
The  aged  beggar  needs  no  help  to  die. 

Tes !  here,  alone,  of  sheer  old  age 
'I  die ;  fbr  hunger  slays  not  all. 

I  hoped  my  misery's  closing  page 
To  ibid  within  some  hospital ; 

But  crowded  thick  is  each  retreat. 
Such  numbers  now  in  misery  lie. 

Alas !  my  cradle  was  the  street ! 
As  he  was  bom  the  aged  wretch  must  die. 

In  youth,  of  workmen,  o*er  and  o  er, 
I  *ve  asked,  **  Instruct  me  in  your  trade." 

**  Begone !  —  our  business  is  not  more 
Than  keeps  ourselves,~go,  beg ! "  they  said. 

Te  rich,  who  bade  me  toil  for  bread. 
Of  bones  your  tables  gave  me  store. 

Tour  straw  has  often  made  my  bed ;  — 
In  death  I  lay  no  curses  at  your  door. 

Thus  poor,  I  might  have  turned  to  theft;-:- 

No !  —  better  still  for  alms  to  pray  ! 
At  most,  I  We  plucked  some  apple,  left 

To  ripen  near  the  public  way. 
Tet  weeks  and  weeks,  in  dungeons  laid 
In  the  king's  name,  they  let  me  {>ine ; 
They  stole  the  only  wealth  I  had,  — 
Though  poor  and  old,  the  sun,  at  least,  was  mine. 
oo2 


486 


FRENCH   POETRY. 


' 


What  coantry  has  the  poor  to  claim  ? 

What  boots  to  me  your  corn  and  win«, 
Tour  busy  toil,  your  vaunted  fame, 

The  senate  where  your  speakers  shine? 
Once,  when  your  homes,  by  war  o'erswept, 

Saw  strangers  battening  on  your  land, 
Like  any  puling  fool,  I  wept ! 
The  aged  wretch  was  nourished  by  their  hand. 

Mankind !  why  trod  you  not  the  worm, 
The  noxious  thing,  beneath  your  heel  ? 

Ah !  had  you  taught  me  to  perform 
Due  labor  for  the  common  weal ! 

Then,  sheltered  from  the  adverse  wind, 
The  worm  and  ant  had  learned  to  grow ; 

Ay,  —  then  I  might  have  loved  my  kind;  — 
The  aged  beggar  dies  your  bitter  foe !     <* 


THE  GARRET. 

O,  IT  was  here  that  Love  his  gifts  bestowed 

On  youth's  wild  age ! 
Gladly  once  more  I  seek  my  youth's  abode, 

In  pilgrimage : 
Here  my  young  mistress  with  her  poet  dared 

Reckless  to  dwell ; 
She  was  sixteen,  I  twenty,  and  we  shared 

This  attic  cell. 

Yes,  't  was  a  garret !  be  it  known  to  all. 

Here  was  Love's  shrine : 
There  read,  in  charcoal  traced  along  the  wall, 

The  unfinished  line. 
Here  was  the  board  where  kindred  hearts  would 
blend : 

The  Jew  can  tell 
How  oft  I  pawned  my  watch,  to  fbast  a  friend 

In  attic  cell ! 

O,  my  Lisette's  fair  fbrm  could  I  recall 

With  fairy  wand ! 
There  she  would  blind  the  window  with  her 
shawl,  — 

Bashful,  yet  fond ! 
What  though  from  whom  she  got  her  dress  I  've 
since 

Learned  but  too  well  ? 
Still,  in  those  days  I  envied  not  a  prince, 

In  attic  cell ! 

Here  the  glad  tidings  on  our  banquet  burst, 

'Mid  the  bright  bowls : 
Yes,  it  was  here  Marengo's  triumph  first 

Kindled  our  souls ! 
Bronze  cannon  roared :  France  with  redonbled 
might 

Felt  her  heart  swell ! 
Proudly  we  drank  our  consul's  health  that  night 

In  attic  cell ! 

Dreams  of  my  youthfbl  days !     I  *d  freely  give. 

Ere  my  life's  close. 
All  the  dull  days  I  'm  destined  yet  to  live. 

For  one  of  those! 


Where  shall  I  now  find  raptures  that  were  Iblt, 

Joys  that  befell. 
And  hopes  that  dawned  at  twenty,  when  I  dwelt 

In  attic  cell  ? 


THE  SHOOTING  CTAEa 

<*  Shsphxrd,  say'st  thou  that  a  star 

Rules  our  days,  and  gems  the  akiea  ?  " 
**  Yes,  my  child  ;  but  in  her  veil 

Night  conceals  it  from  our  eyes." 
^  Shepherd,  they  say  that  to  thy  sight 

The  secret  of  yon  heaven  is  clear  ; 
What  is,  then,  that  star  so  bright, 

Which  flies,  and  flies  to  disappear  ?  ** 

**  My  child,  a  man  has  passed  away  ; 
His  star  has  shed  its  parting  ray : 
He,  amid  a  joyous  throng. 
Pledged  the  wine-cup  and  the  song ; 
Happy,  he  has  closed  his  eyes 

By  the  wine  to  him  so  dear." 
"Yet  another  star  that  flies, — 

That  flies,  and  flies  to  disappear  !  *' 

<^  My  child,  how  pure  and  beautiful ! 

A  gentle  girl  hath  fled  to  heaven  ; 
Happy,  and  in  love  most  true, 

1*0  the  tenderest  lover  given  : 
Flowerets  crown  her  maiden  brow. 

Hymen's  altar  is  her  bier.'* 
<*  Yet  another  star  that  flies,  — 

That  flies,  and  flies  to  disappear  !  '* 

«« Child,  the  rapid  star  behold 

Of  a  great  lord  newly  bom ; 
Lined  with  purple  and  with  gold, 

The  empty  cradle  whence  he  's  gone : 
E'en  now  the  tide  of  flatteries 

Had  almost  reached  his  infant  ear." 
**  Yet  another  star  that  flies,  — 

That  flies,  and  flies  to  disappear !  " 

<«  My  child,  what  lightning  flash  is  that  ? 

A  favorite  has  sought  repose, 
Who  thought  himself  supremely  great, 

When  his  laughter  mocked  our  woes  : 
They  his  image  now  despise. 

Who  once  worshipped  him  in  fear." 
*<  Yet  another  star  that  flies,  — 

That  flies,  and  flies  to  disappear ! " 

«« My  son,  what  sorrow  must  be  oars ! 

A  generous  patron's  eyes  are  dim : 
Indigence  from  others  gleans. 

But  she  harvested  on  him  ; 
This  very  eve,  with  tears  and  sighs. 

The  wretched  to  his  roof  draw  near." 
"  Yet  another  star  that  flies,  — 

That  flies,  and  flies  to  disappear ! " 

<'  A  mighty  monarch's  star  is  dark  ! 

Boy  !  preserve  thy  purity. 
Nor  let  men  thy  star  remark 

For  its  size  or  brilliancy : 


STRANGER LAMARTINE. 


487 


Wert  thou  bright  but  to  their  eyei, 
They  would  nay,  when  death  is  near,  — 

*It  18  but  a  star  that  flies, — 
That  flies,  and  fltee  to  disappear ! '  " 


LOUIS  THB  ELEVENTH. 

Ouit  aged  king,  whose  name  we  breathe  in  dread, 

Louis,  the  tenant  of  yon  dreary  pile, 
Designs,  in  this  fair  prime  of  flowers,  't  is  said, 
To  view  our  sports,  and  try  if  he  can  smile. 
Welcome !  sport  that  sweetens  labor ! 

Village  maidens,  village  boys. 
Neighbour  hand  in  hand  with  neighbour, 
Dance  we,  singing  to  the  tabour. 
And  the  sackbut's  merry  noise ! 

While  laughtor,  love,  and  song  are  here  abroad. 
His  jealous  fears  imprison  Louis  there ; 

He  dreads  hb  peers,  his  people, — ay,  his  Ood ; 
But  more  than  all,  the  mention  of  his  heir. 
Welcome !  sport  that  sweetens  labor !  &o. 

Look  there !  a  thousand  lances  gleam  afar. 
In  the  warm  sunlight  of  this  gentle  spring ! 

And,  *midst  the  clang  of  bolts,  that  grate  and  jar. 

Heard  ye  the  warder's  challenge  sharply  ring? 

Welcome !  sport  that  sweetens  labor !  £&. 

He  comes !  he  comes !    Alas !  this  mighty  king 

With  envy  well  the  hovel's  peace  may  view ; 

See  where  he  stands,  a  pale  and  spectral  thing. 

And    glares    askance    the  serried  halberds 

through  ! 

Welcome !  sport  that  sweetens  labor !  &e. 

Beside  our  cottage  hearths,  how  bright  and  grand 
Were  all  our  visions  of  a  monarch's  air ! 

What !  is  his  sceptre  but  that  trembling  hand  ? 

Is  that  his  crown, — a  forehead  seamed  by  care  ? 

Welcome  !  sport  that  sweetens  labor !  &€. 

In  vain  we  sing ;  at  yonder  distant  chime. 
Shivering,  he  starts !  —  't  was  but  the  village 
bell! 
But  evermore  the  sound  that  notes  the  time 
Strikes  to  his  ear  an  omen  of  his  knell ! 
Welcome  !  sport  that  sweetens  labor !  Ac» 

Alas !  our  joys  some  dark  distrust  inspire  ! 

He  flies,  attended  by  his  chosen  slave  : 
Beware  his  hate ;  and  say,  ^  Our  gracious  sire 

A  loving  smile  to  greet  his  children  gave." 
Welcome !  sport  that  sweetens  la^r !  Ae, 


THE  SONGS  OF  THE  PEOPLE. 

Amid  the  lowly  straw-built  shed, 
Lfong  will  the  peasant  seek  his  glory ; 

And,  when  some  fifty  years  have  fled. 
The  thatch  will  hear  no  other  story. 
Around  some  old  and  hoary  dame 
The  village  crowd  will  oft  exclaim,  -^ 
^  Mother,  now,  till  midnight  chimes. 
Tell  us  teles  of  other  times. 


He  wronged  us  !  say  it  if  they  will. 
The  people  love  his  memory  still ;  — 
Mother,  now  the  day  is  dim. 
Mother,  tell  us  now  of  him !  " 

**  My  children,  in  our  village  here, 
I  saw  him  once  by  kings  attended ; 

That  time  has  passed  this  many  a  year. 
For  scarce  my  maiden  days  were  ended. 
On  fbot  he  climbed  the  hill,  and  nigh 
To  where  I  watehed  him  passing  by  : 
Small  his  hat  upon  that  day. 
And  he  wore  a  coat  of  gray  ; 
And  when  he  saw  me  shake  with  dread, 

*  Good  day  to  you,  my  dear !  *  he  said." 

^  O,  and,  mother,  is  it  true  ? 
Mother,  did  he  speak  to  you  ? " 

"  From  this  a  year  had  passed  away, 
Again  in  Paris'  streets  I  fbund  him : 
To  Notre  Dame  he  rode  that  day. 
With  all  his  gallant  court  around  him. 
All  eyes  admired  the  show  the  while, 
No  fiice  that  did  not  wear  a  smile  : 

*  See  how  brightly  shine  the  skies  ! 

'T  is  for  him  ! '  the  people  cries  : 
And  then  his  face  was  soft  with  joy. 
For  Ood  had  blessed  him  with  a  boy." 

**  Mother,  O,  how  glad  to  see 

Days  that  must  so  happy  be  ! " 

**  But  when  o'er  our  province  ran 
The  bloody  armies  of  the  strangers. 

Alone  he  seemed,  that  famous  man. 
To  fight  against  a  thousand  dangers. 
One  evening,  just  like  this  one  here, 
I  heard  a  knock  that  made  me  fear : 
Entered,  when  I  oped  the  door. 
He,  and  guards  perhaps  a  score  ; 
And,  seated  where  I  sit,  he  said, 

•  To  what  a  war  have  I  been  led  \ '  " 

**  Mother,  and  was  that  the  chair  ? 
Mother,  was  he  seated  there  f" 

«« *  Dame,  I  am  hungry,'  then  he  cried ; 
I  set  our  bread  and  wine  before  him ;  — 
There  at  the  fire  his  clothes  he  dried. 
And  slept  while  watehed  his  followers  o'er 
him. 
When  with  a  stert  he  rose  from  sleep. 
He  saw  me  in  my  terror  weep. 

And  he  said,  *  Nay,  our  France  is  strong ; 
Soon  I  will  avenge  her  wrong.' 
It  is  the  dearest  thing  of  mine,  — 
The  glass  in  which  he  drank  his  wine." 
*<  And  through  change  of  good  and  ill. 
Mother,  you  have  kept  it  still." 


ALPHONSE  DE  LAMAR'HNE. 

This  richly  gifted  writer  was  bom  at  MAcon, 
in  1792.  He  was  educated  at  the  College  of 
Bellay,  which  he  left  in  1809 ;  he  then  resided 


1 


488 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


in  Lyons,  and  4n  Paris,  and  twice  travelled 
through  Italy.  His  temper  was  naturally  in- 
clined to  religious  seriousness,  and  this  was  in- 
creased by  the  circumstances  of  his  life  and  by 
the  condition  of  his  country.  The  writings  of 
Saint-Pierre  and  Chateaubriand  exercised  no 
little  influence  upon  him.  His  **  Meditations 
Po^tiques'*  appeared  in  1820,  and  laid  the  foun- 
dation of  his  fame.  This  was  followed  by  the 
'*  Nouvelles  Meditations  Po^tiques "  and  the 
^  Mort  de  Socrate,"  in  1823.  In  1825,  he  pub- 
lished '*  Le  Dernier  Chant  du  P^lerinage  d*Har- 
old,"  and  the  "  Chant  du  Sacre  " ;  and  in  1829, 
the  **  Harmonies  Po^tiques  et  Religieuses." 
From  1820  to  1822,  Lamartine  was  Secretary  of 
Legation  in  Naples,  then  in  the  same  capacity  in 
London,  and  in  1825  went  to  Florence.  Having 
left  the-  service  of  the  state,  he  lived  until  the 
July  Revolution  alternately  in  Paris  and  at  the 
Chiteau  Pierrepoint.  In  1829,  he  was  elected 
into  the  French  Academy.  After  the  Rev- 
olution, he  became  a  member  of  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies.  In  1832,  he  travelled  to  Con- 
stantinople, Syria,  and  Egypt,  and  on  his  return 
published  his  observations.  The  best  edition 
is  that  in  ten  volumes,  octavo,  with  illustrations 
by  Johannot  and  others. 


ON  LEAVING  FRANCE  FOR  THE  EAST. 

Ir  to  the  fluttering  folds  of  the  quick  sail 
My  all  of  peace  and  comfort  I  impart ; 
If  to  the  treacherous  tide  and  wavering  gale 

My  wife  and  child  I  lend,  my  soul's  best  part; 
If  on  the  seas,  the  sands,  the  clouds,  I  cast 
Fond  hopes,  and  beating  hearts  I  leave  be- 
hind, 
With  no  returning  pledge  beyond  a  mast 
That  bends  with  every  blast  of  wind : 

T  is  not  the  paltry  thirst  of  gold  could  fire 
A  heart  that  ever  glowed  with  holier  flame, 

Nor  glory  tempt  me  with  the  vain  desire 
To  gild  my  memory  with  a  fleeting  fame. 

I  go  not,  like  the  Florentine  of  old, 
The  bitter  bread  of  banishment  to  eat ; 

No  wave  of  faction,  in  its  wildest  roar. 
Broke  on  my  calm  paternal  seat. 

Weeping,  I  leave  on  yonder  valley's  side 
Trees  thick  with  shade,  a  home,  a  noiselesi 
plain. 
Peopled  with  warm  regrets,  and  dim  descried 
Even  here  by  wistful  eyes  across  the  main ; 
Deep  in  the  leafy  woods  a  lone  abode. 

Beyond  the  reach  of  faction's  loud  annoy, 
Whose  echoes,  even  while  tempests  groaned 
abroad. 
Were  sounds  of  blessing,  songs  of  joy. 

There  sits  a  sire,  who  sees  our  imaged  forms, 
When  through  the  battlements  the  breexes 
sweep, 

And  prays  to  Him  who  stirs  or  lays  the  storms 
To  make  his  winds  glide  gentler  o'er  the  deep ; 


There  friends,  and  eeivants  masterleo,  are  try- 
ing 
To  trace  our  latest  footprints  on  the  iwud, 
And  my  poor  dog,  beneath  my  window  lying, 
Howb  when    my    well   known  Dame  ii 
beard. 

There  msters  dwell,  from  the  same  bosom  fed,— 
Boughs  which  the  wind  should  rock  oo  tiie 
same  tree ; 
There  friends,  the  soul's  relations,  dwell,  that 
read 
My  eye,  and  knew  each  thought  that  dawned 
in  me; 
And  hearts  unknown,  that  list  the  Moses'  cill,— 
Mysterious  friends,  that  know  me  ia  ay  'I 
strain,  — 
Like  viewless  echoes,  scattered  over  all 
To  render  back  its  tones  again. 

But  in  the  soul's  unfothomable  wells, 

Unknown,  inexplicable  longings  sleep ; 
Like  that  strange  instinct  which  the  bird  impeli 

In  search  of  other  food  athwart  the  deep. 
What  from  those  orient  climes  have  they  to 
gain.^ 
Have  they  not  neets  as  mossy  in  our  etTei, 
And,  for  their  callow  progeny,  the  graia 

Dropped  from  a  thousand  golden  sbearei? 

I,  too,  like  them,  could  find  my  portion  here,     , 
Enjoy  the  mounUin  slope,  the  river's  fotm,-  ij 

My  humble  wishes  seek  no  loftier  sphere ;         j 
And  yet  like  them  I  go,  —  like  them  I  eome. 

Dim  longings  draw  me  on  and  point  my  path 
To  Eastern  sands,  to  Shem's  deserted  shore, 

The  cradle  of  the  worid,  where  God  in  wrath 
Hardened  the  human  heart  of  yore. 

I  have  not  yet  felt  on  the  sea  of  sand 

The  slumberous  rocking  of  the  desert  bark; 
Nor  quenched  my  thirst  at  eve  with  quiTering 
hand 
By  Hebron's  well,  beneath  the  palm-treei 
dark ; 
Nor  in  the  pilgrim's  tent  my  mantle  epreto, 

Nor  laid  me  in  the  dust  where  Job  bath  lami 
Nor,  while  the  canvass  murmured  overhead, 
Dreamed  Jacob's  mystic  dreams  again. 

Of  the  worid's  pages  one  is  yet  unread:— 
How  the  stars  tremble  in  Cbaldea's  akjt 
With  what  a  sense  of  nothingness  we  tread. 
How  the  heart  beats,  when  God  appesrsw' 
nigh ;  —  • 

How  on  the  soul,  beside  some  column  lone, 

The  shadows  of  old  days  descend  ^odhort^,- 
How  the  grass  speaks,  the  earth  sends  outm 
moan. 
And  the  breeze  wails  that  wanden  orer. 

I  have  not  heard  in  the  Ull  cedar-top 
The  cries  of  nations  echo  to  sod  /n>. 

Nor  seen  from  Lebanon  the  eaglea  drop 
On  Tyre's  deep-buried  palaces  below; 


LAMARTINE. 


489 


I  have  not  laid  my  head  upon  the  ground 

Where  Tadmor's  temples  in  the  dust  decay. 
Nor  startled,  with  my  footfidrs  dreary  sound, 
The  waste  where  Memnon's  empire  lay. 

I  have  not  stretched  where  Jordan's  carrent 
flows. 
Heard  how  the  loud-lamenting  riTer  weeps. 
With  moans  and  cries  sublimer  eyen  than  those 
With  which  the  Moumihl  Prophet  stirred  its 
deeps; 
Nor  felt  the  transports  which  the  soul  inspire 

In  the  deep  grot,  where  he,  the  bard  of  kings. 
Felt,  at  the  dei^  of  night,  a  hand  of  flame 
Seize  on  his  harp,  and  sweep  the  strings. 

I  hare  not  wandered  o'er  the  plain,  whereon, 
Beneath  the  olive-tree,  Tbs  Saviour  wept; 
Nor  traced  his  tears  the  hallowed  trees  upon, 

Which  jealous  angels  have  not  all  outswept ; 
Nor,  in  the  garden,  watched  through  nights  sub- 
lime. 
Where,  while  the  bloody  sweat  was  undergone, 
The  echo  of  his  sorrows  and  our  crime 
Rung  in  one  listening  ear  alone. 

Nor  have  I  bent  my  forehead  on  the  spot 

Where  his  ascending  footstep  pressed  the  clay; 
Nor  worn  with  lips  devout  the  rock-hewn  grot. 
Where,  in  his  mother's  tears  embalmed,  he 
lay; 
Nor  smote  my  breast  on  that  sad  mountain-head. 
Where,  even  in  death,  conquering  the  Powers 
of  Air, 
His  arms,  as  to  embrace  our  earth,  he  spread. 
And  bowed  his  head,  to  bless  it  there. — 

1 
For  these  I  leave  my  home ;  for  these  I  stake 

My  little  span  of  useless  years  below : 
What  matters  it^  where  winter- winds  may  shake 
The  trunk  that  yields  nor  firuit  nor*  foliage 
now? 
Fool !  says  the  crowd.  Theirs  is  the  foolish  part ! 
Not  in  one  spot  can  the  soul's  food  be  found  ;— 
No ! — to  the  poet  thought  is  breads  —  his  heart 
Lives  on  his  Maker's  works  around. 

Farewell,  my  sire,  my  sisters  dear,  again  ! 

Farewell,  my  walnut-shaded  place  of  birth ! 
Farewell,  my  steed,  now  loitering  o'er  the  plain ! 

Farewell,  my  dog,  now  lonely  on  the  hearth ! 
Tour  image  haunts  me  like  the  shade  of  bliss, 

Tour  voices  lure  me  with  their  fond  recall : 
Soon  may  the  hour  arise,  less  dark  than  this. 
The  hour  that  reunites  us  all ! 

And  thou,  my  country,  tossed  by  winds  and  seas. 

Like  this  (rail  bark  on  which  my  lot  is  cast. 
Big  with  the  world's  yet  unborn  destinies,  — 

Adieu !  thy  shores  glide  from  .my  vision  past ! 
O,  that  some  ray  would  pierce  the  cloud  that 
broods 
O'er  throne  and  temple,  liberty  and  thee. 
And  kindle  brighter,  o'er  the  restless  floods. 
Thy  beacon-light  of  immortality  ! 
68 


And  thou,  Marseilles,  at  France's  portals  placed. 
With  thy  white  arms  the  coming  guest  to  greet. 

Whose  haven,  gleaming  o'er  the  ocean's  breast. 
Spreads  like  a  nest,  each  winged  mast  to  meet ; 

Where  many  a  hand  beloved  now  presses  mine. 
Where  my  foot  lingers  still,  as  loth  to  flee,  — 

Thine  be  my  last  departing  accents,  —  thine 
My  first  returning  greeting  be  ! 


THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL. 

Whsh,  in  my  childhood's  morning,  I  rested 

'neath  the  shade 
Of  the  citron  or  the  almond  tree,  with  fruits  and 

bloMoms  weighed. 
While  the  loose  curls  firom  my  forehead  were 

lifted  by  the  breeze. 
Which  like  a  spirit  haunteth  each  living  thing 

it  sees ; 
Then,  in  those  golden  hours,  a  whisper  soft  and 

ligbt 
Stole  on  my  senses,  thrilling  each  pulse  to  wild 

delight : 
'T  was  not  the  perftimed  zephyr,  the  dreamy 

pipe's  low  swell. 
The  tones  of  cherished  kindred,  or  the  distant 

village  bell ; 
O,  no,  my  Guardian  Angel,  that  music  in  the  air 
Was  but  thy  viewless  pinions,  that  hovered 

round  me  there ! 

When  deeper  founts  of  foeling  within  my  bo- 
som sprung. 
And  Love,  with  soft  enchantment,  its  varied 

cadence  rung ; 
When  twilight  after  twilight  still  found  me 

lingering  near 
Ton  green  and  wavy  sycamore,  to  meet  with 

one  most  dear. 
Whose  least  caress  could  liberate  the  full  springs 

of  my  breast. 
Whose  kiss  at  every  parting  gave  strange  but 

sweet  unrest, — 
Ah !  then  the  selfsame  whisper  upon  my  spirit 

fell: 
Say,  could  it  be  his  footsteps,  which  woke  the 

mystic  spell  ? 
O,  no,  my  Guardian  Angel,  who  watchest  over 

me. 
My  heart  returned  that  echo  of  sympathy  from 

thee! 

And  when,  in  bliss  maternal,  I  olastered  round 

my  hearth 
Those  blessings  God  had  lent  me,  to  make  my 

heaven  on  earth ; 
When  at  my  vine-clad  portal  I  watched  their 

buoyant  glee. 
As  my  children,  wild  with  flrolic,  shook   the 

ripe  figs  from  the  tree  ; 
E'en  then,  though  half-defined,  that  voice  with 

sweetness  fraught 
Poured  out  its  notes  fiimiliar  upon  my  raptured 

thought : 


490 


FRENCH   POETRY. 


What  moved  me  then  ?  —  ah !  waa  it  the  bird'a 

Bong  unrepreased  ? 
Or  the  breathinga  of  the  baby  that  alambered 

on  my  breaat? 
O,  DO,  my  Gaardian  Angel,  I  felt  that  thon 

wert  near, 
To  echo  back  the  gladneaa  of  my  heart-muaic 

clear ! 

And  now  old  age  hath  planted  its  snow-crown 

on  my  head. 
And,   sheltered    from    the   bleak   winds    that 

through  the  forest  spread, 
I  feed  the  blazing  embera  that  warm  my  shrink- 
ing frame. 
And  guard  the  lambs  and  children,  who  scarce 

can  lisp  my  name ; 
Yet  in  this  withered  bosom,  aa  in  the  days  of 

youth, 
The  selfiame  voice  conaoles  me  with  words  of 

love  and  truth : 
'T  is  not  the  joys  of  childhood  that  haunt  me 

in  my  sleep. 
Or  the  lost  tones  of  the  dear  one  whom  even 

now  I  weep ; 
O,  no,  my  Guardian  Angel,  my  tried  and  ftith- 

ful  friend. 
It  is  thy  heart  that  twineth  witli  mine  till  life 

shall  end ! 


HTMN. 

A  HTMN  more,  O  my  lyre ! 

Praise  to  the  God  above. 

Of  joy,  and  life,  and  love, 
Sweeping  ita  stringa  of  fire ! 

O,  who  the  speed  of  bird  and  wind 
And  sunbeam's  glance  will  lend  to  me, 

That,  soaring  upward,  I  may  find 
My  resting-place  and  home  in  Thee  ? 

Thou,  whom  my  soul,  'midst  doubt  and  gloom, 
Adoreth  with  a  fervent  flame,  — 

Mysterious  Spirit !  unto  whom 
Pertain  nor  sign  nor  name ! 

Swiftly  my  lyre's  soft  murmurs  go 
Up  from  the  cold  and  joyless  earth. 

Back  to  the  God  who  bade  them  flow. 
Whose  moving  spirit  sent  them  forth : 

But  as  for  me,  O  God  !  for  me. 
The  lowly  creature  of  thy  will. 

Lingering  and  sad,  I  sigh  to  thee. 
An  earth-l>ound  pilgrim  still ! 

Was  not  my  spirit  born  to  shine 
Where  yonder  stars  and  suns  are  glow- 
ing? 
To  breathe  with  them  the  light  divine. 
From  God's  own  holy  altar  flowing? 
To  be,  indeed,  whate'er  the  soul 

In  dreams  hath  thirsted  for  so  long,  — 
A  portion  of  heaven's  glorious  whole 
Of  loveliness  and  aong  ? 


O  watchers  of  the  stars  of  night, 
.  Who  breathe  their  fire,  as  we  the  air,— 
Buns,  thunders,  stars,  and  rays  of  light, 

O,  say,  ia  Hk,  the  Eternal,  there  ? 
Bend  there  around  bia  awful  throne 

The  seraph's  glance,  the  angel's  knee? 
Or  are  thy  inmost  deptha  his  own, 
O  wild  and  mighty  sea  ? 

Thoughts  of  my  soul !  bow  swift  ye  go^ 
Swift  as  the  eagle's  glance  of  fire. 

Or  arrows  from  the  archer'a  bow  — 
To  the  far  aim  of  your  deaire ! 

Thought  after  thought,  ye  thronging  rise. 
Like  spring-doves  fit>m  the  startled  wood, 

Bearing  like  them  your  aacrifice 
Of  music  unto  God ! 

And  shall  there  thoughts  of  joy  and  kre 
Come  back  again  no  more  to  ne,— 

Returning,  like  the  Patriarch's  dove. 
Wing-weary,  from  the  eternal  sea, 

To  bear  within  my  longing  arms 
The  promtae-bough  of  kindlier  skies, 

Plucked  from  the  green,  immortal  paku 
Which  ahadow  paradise  f 

All-moving  Spirit !  fVeely  forth, 

At  thy  command,  the  strong  wind  goes 

Its  errand  to  the  passive  earth ; 

Nor  art  can  stay,  nor  strength  oppose. 

Until  it  folds  its  weary  wing 

Once  more  within  the  hand  divine : 

So,  weary  of  each  earthly  thing. 
My  spirit  turns  to  thine  *. 

Child  of  the  sea,  the  mountain-stream 
From  its  dark  cavema  hurries  on 

Ceaselesa,  by  night  and  morning's  baaiD« 
By  evening's  star  and  noontide's  sun,— 

Until  at  last  it  sinks  to  rest, 
O'erwearied,  in  the  waiting  see. 

And  moans  upon  its  mother's  breast: 
So  turns  my  soul  to  thee ! 

O  Thou  who  bidd'at  the  torrent  flow. 
Who  lendest  wings  unto  the  wind,— 

Mover  of  all  things !  where  art  thou? 
O,  whither  shall  I  go  to  find 

The  aecret  of  thy  resting-place  ? 
Is  there  no  holy  wing  fi>r  me. 

That,  soaring,  I  may  search  the  space 
Of  highest  heaven  for  thee? 

O,  would  I  were  as  free  to  rise,       ^^ 
Aa  leavea  on  autumn's  whirlwind  twrne, 

The  arrowy  light  of  sunset  skies. 
Or  sound,  or  ray,  or  star  of  morn, 

Which  melta  in  heaven  at  twihgh*  »^'^. 
Or  aught  which  soars  unchecked  ■" 

Through  earth  and  heavea,  —  thsl  I  «> V* 
lose 
Myselfin  finding  Thee! 


DELAVIGNE. 


491 


JEAN.FRAN90IS.CASIMIR  DELAVIGNE. 

Casimir  Delatiohx,  one  of  the  best  known 
among  the  recent  French  poets,  was  bom  at 
Havre,  in  1794.  He  first  appeared  as  a  poet 
in  a  **  Dithyrambe  snr  la  Naiasance  da  Roi  de 
Rome,"  in  1811.  His  poem  entitled  **  La  D^ 
couverte  de  la  Vaccine  "  receired  the  first  of 
the  secondary  prizes  from  the  French  Academy. 
Afterwards  he  applied  himself  to  dramatic  poe* 
try,  and  his  tragedies,  **  Les  Vdpres  Siciliennes," 
and  **  Le  Paria,"  were  fiiTorably  received.  Love 
of  country  inspired  his  elegies,  **  Les  Trob  Mes- 
s^niennes,"  in  which  he  bewailed  the  hamilia- 
tion  of  France ;  and  in  the  **  Nouvelles  Mess4- 
niennes  "  he  gives  utterance  to  his  feelings  up- 
on the  Greek  Revolution.  A  new  **Mess4- 
Dienne,"  which  appeared  in  the  tenth  edition 
of  his  **  Mess^niennes  et  Poesies  Diverses,"  is 
consecrated  to  the  memory  of  Byron.  His 
comedy,  *<  L'^cole  dea  Vieillards,"  and  the  trag- 
edies,  «<  Marino  Faliero,"  '<  Louis  XI.,"  and  «*  Les 
Fils  d'Edouard,"  which  appeared  between  1833 
and  1833,  greatly  increased  his  reputation.  In 
1824,  Delavigne  was  elected  a  member  of  the 
French  Academy ;  and  in  1825,  a  pension  of 
twelve  hundred  fivncs  from  the  civil  list,  and 
the  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  were  offered 
him,  both  of  which  he  declined.  He  wrote  the 
*'  Parisienne,"  which  was  to  the  Revolution  of 
July  what  the  ^  Marseillaise  "  had  been  to  the 
old  Revolution. 

BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO. 

Thkt  breathe  no  longer :  let  their  ashes  rest ! 

Clamor  unjust  and  calumny 
They  stooped  not  to  confute;  but  flung  their 
breast 
Against  the  legions  of  your  enemy, 
And  thus  avenged  themselves :  for  you  they 
die. 

Woe  to  you,  woe !  if  those  inhuman  eyes 
Can  spare  no  drops  to  mourn  your  country's 
weal; 

Shrinking  before  your  selfish  miseries ; 
Against  the  common  sorrow  hard  as  steel : 

Tromble !  the  hand  of  death  upon  you  lies  : 
Tott  may  b^  forced  yourselves  to  feel. 

Bat  no, — what  son  dt  France  has  spared  his 
tears 
For  her  defenders,  dying  in  their  fame .' 
Though  kings  return,  desired  through  lengthen- 
ing years, 
What  old  man's  cheek  is  tinged  not  with  her 
shame  ? 
What  veteran,  who  their  fortune's  treason  hears. 
Feels  not  the  quickening  spark  of  his  old 
youthful  flame .' 

Great  Heaven!   what  lessons  mark  that  one 

day's  page ! 
What  ghastly  figures  that  might  crowd  an  age ! 


How  shall  the  historic  Muse  record  the  day, 
Nor,  starting,  cast  the  trembling  pen  away  ? 
Hide  from  me,  bide  those  soldiers  overborne. 
Broken  with  toil,  with  de&th-bolts  crushed  and 

torn, — 
Those  quivering  limbs  with  dust  defiled, 
And  bloody  corses  upon  corses  piled ; 

Veil  from  mine  eyes  that  monument 

Of  nation  against  nation  spent 

In  struggling  rage  that  pants  for  breath ; 

Spare  us  the  bands  thou  sparedst.  Death !' 
O  Varvs  !  where  the  warriors  thou  hast  led.' 
RxsTORjB  OUR  LxGioNs !  —  givc  us  back   the 
dead! 

I  see  the  broken  squadrons  reel  $ 

The  steeds  plunge  wild  with  spuming  heel ; 

Our  eagles  trod  in  miry  gore  ; 

The  leopard  standards  swooping  o'er ; 

The  wounded  on  their  slow  cars  dying ; 

The  rout  disordered,  wavering,  flying; 
Tortured  with  struggles  vain,  the  throng 
Sway,  shock,  and  drag  their  shattered  mass 

along. 
And  leave  behind  their  long  array 
Wrecks,  corses,  blood, — the  fool-marks  of  their 
way. 

Through    whirlwind    smoke    and    flashing 
flame, — 

O  grief!  —  what  sight  appalls  mine  eye  ? 
The  sacred  band,  with  generous  shame. 

Sole  'gainst  an  army,  pause  —  to  die  ! 

Struck  with  the  rare  devotion,  't  is  in  vain 
The  foes  at  gaze  their  blades  restrain. 
And,  proud  to  conquer,  hem  them  round :  the  cry 
Returns,  **  The   guard   surrender  not !  —  they 
die ! " 

'T  is  said,  that,  when  in  dust  they  saw  them  lie, 
A  reverend  sorrow  for  their  brave  career 

Smoto  on  the  foe  :  they  fixed  the  pensive  eye. 
And  first  beheld  them  undisturbed  with  fear. 

See,  then,  these  heroes,  long  invincible. 

Whose  threatening  features  still  their  con- 
querors brave ; 
Frozen  in  death,  those  eyes  are  terrible  ; 

Feats  of  the  past  their  deep-scarred  brows 
engrave : 
For  these  are  they  who  bore  Italia's  sun. 

Who  o'er  Castilia's  mountain-barrier  passed ; 
The  North  beheld  them  o'er  the  rampart  run. 

Which  firosts  of  ages  round  her  Russia  cast : 
All  sank  subdued  before  them,  and  the  dAte 

Of  combats  owed  this  guerdon  to  their  glory. 
Seldom  to  Franks  denied,  —  to  fall  elate 

On  some  proud  day  that  should  survive  in 
story. 

Let  us  no  longer  mourn  them ;  for  the  palm 
Unwithering  shades  their  features  storn  and 

calm : 
Franks  !  mourn  we  for  ourselves,  —  our  land's 

disgrace,  — 
The  proud,  mean  passions  that  divide  her  race. 


492 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


What  age  so  rank  in  treasons  ?  to  our  blood 
The  love  is  alien  of  the  common  good ; 
Friendship,  no  more  unbosomed,  hides  her  tears, 
And  man  shuns  man,  and  each  his  fellow  fears ; 
Scared  firom  her  sanctuary,  Faith  shuddering  flies 
The  din  of  oaths,  the  Taunt  of  perjuries. 

O  cursed  delirium  !  jars  deplored, 

That  yield  our  home-hearths  to  the  stranger*s 

sword  ! 
Our  fiithless  hands  but  draw  the  gleaming  blade 
To  wound  the  bosom  which  its  point  should  aid. 

The  strangers  raze  our  fenced  walls ; 
The  castle  stoops,  the  city  falls; 
Insulting  foes  their  trace  forget ', 
The  unsparing  war-bolt  thunders  yet; 
Flames  glare  our  ravaged  hamlets  o'er, 
And  funerals  darken-  every  door ; 
Drained  provinces  their  greedy  prefects  rue, 
Beneath  the  lilied  or  the  triple  hue ; 
And  Franks,  disputing  for  the  choice  of  power. 
Dethrone  a  banner,  or  proscribe  a  flower. 
France  !  to  our  fierce  intolerance  we  owe 
The  ills  that  from  these  sad  divisions  flow; 
'T  is  time  the  sacrifice  were  made  to  thee 
Of  our  suspicious  pride,  our  civic  enmity : 
Haste,  —  quench  the  torches  of  intestine  war ; 
Heaven  points  the  lily  as  our  army's  star; 
Hoist,  then,  the  banner  of  the  white, — some  tears 
May  bathe  the  thrice-dyed  flag  which  Austerlitz 
endears. 

France !  France !   awake,  with  one  indignant 

mind! 
With  new-bom  hosts  the  throne's  dread  pre- 
cinct bind ! 
Disarmed,  divided,  conquerors  o*dr  us  stand ; 
Present  the  olive,  but  the  sword  in  hand. 
And  thou,  O  people,  flushed  with  our  defeat. 
To  whom  the  mourning  of  our  land  is  sweet. 
Thou  witness  of  the  death-blow  of  our  brave ! 
Dream  not  that  France  is  vanquished  to  a  slave ; 
Gall  not  with  pride  the  avengers  yet  to  come  : 
Heaven  may  remit  the  chastening  of  our  doom ; 
A  new  Germanicus  may  yet  demand 
Those  eagles  wrested  from  our  Varus*  hand. 


PARTHENOPE  AND  THE  STELANGEB. 

««  What  wouldst  thou,  lady  ? "    <«  An  asylum." 

"Say, 
What  is  thy  crime?"     "None."     "Who  ac- 
cuse thee?"     "They 
Who  are  ungrateful."     "  Who  thine  enemy  ?  " 
"  Each  whom  the  succour  of  my  sword  set  five ; 
Adored  but  yesterday,  proscribed  to^lay." 
"  What  shall  my  hospiulity  repay  ?  " 
"  A  day's  short  peril ;  laws  eternal."    <'  Who 
Within  my  city  dare  thy  steps  pursue  ?  " 
"  Kings."   "  When  arrive  they  ?  "     "  With  the 

mom."     "  From  whence  ? " 
"  From  every  side.  Say,  shall  thy  gates'  defence 
Be  mine  ?  "     "Tes,  enter  :  but  reveal  to  me 
Thy  name,  O  stranger  I  "     "I  am  Libbrtt  ! " 


Receive  her,  ramparts  old,  again  ! 
For  ye  her  dwelling  were  of  yore ;  — 
Receive  her  'midst  your  gods  once  more, 

O  every  antique  fane  !  — 
Rise,  shades  of  heroes !  hover  o'er. 

To  grace  her  awful  train  ! 

Fair  sky  of  Naples,  laugh  with  gladdening  nys! 

Bring  forth,  O  earth,  thy  hosts  on  every  side  I 
Sing,  O  ye  people  !  hymn  the  goddess*  praise ! 

'T  is  she  for  whom  Leonidas  once  died. 

Her  brows  all  idle  ornaments  refuse ; 

Half-opened  flowers  compose  her  diadem ; 
Reared  in  Thermopyle  with  gory  dews. 

Not  twice  a  thousand  years  have  tarnished 
them. 

The  wreath  immortal  sheds  a  nameless  balm. 
Which  courage  raptured  breathes :  in  acceoff 
calm. 

Yet  terrible,  her  conquering  Toice  disarms 
The  rebel  to  her  sway  :  her  eyes  impart 
A  holy  transport  to  the  panting  heart, 

And  virtue  only  boasts  superior  charms. 

The  people  pause  around  her ;  and  their  cries 
Ask  from  what  cause  these  kings,  forgetting 
ruth, 
Cherish  their  anger  :  the  strange  maid  replies, 

"  Alas  !  I  told  to  monarchs  truth  ! 
If  hate  or  if  imprudence  in  my  name 

Had  shook  their  power,  which  I  would  but 
restrain. 
Why  should  I  bear  the  burden  of  the  blame? 
And  are  they  Germans,  who  would  forge  my 
chain  ? 

"  Have  they  forgot,  these  slaves  of  yesterday. 
Who  now  oppress  you  with  their  tyrant  sway,    | 
How,  in  sore  straitness  when  to  me  they  cried, 
I  joined  their  phalanx  by  Arminias'  side? 
Rallying  their  tribes,  I  scooped  the  blood-tinged 

snows 
In  gaping  death-beds  for  their  sinking  foes. 

"Avenge  ye,  gods,  that  look  upon  my  wrong! 
And  may  the  memory  of  my  bounties  psst 
Pursue  these  ingrates, — dog  their    scattering 
throng! 
May  Odin's  sons  upon  the  cloudy  blast. 
With  storm- wrapt  brows,  above  them  stray,— 
Glare  by  them  in  the  lightning's  midnight  ray ! 
And  may  Rome's  legions,  with  whose  wbites- 
ing  bones 
I  strewed  their  plains  in  ages  past. 
Rise  in  their  sight  and  chase  them  to  their 
thrones ! 

"  Ha !  and  does  Rome  indeed  sepulchred  lie 
In  her  own  furrows'  crumbling  mould  ? 

Shall  not  my  foot  with  ancient  potency 
Stamp,  and  from  earth  start  forth  her  legioat 
old? 


DELAVIONE. 


493 


*<  Foel'it  thou  not,  Rome,  within  thy  entndlf 
deep, 

The  cold  bones  shaking,  and  the  spirits  stir 
Of  citizens,  that,  in  their  marble  sleep. 

Rest  under  many  a  trophied  sepulchre  ? 

**  Break,  Genoese,  your  chains ! — the  impatient 
flood 
Murmurs  till  ye  from  worthless  8k>th  hare 
started. 
And  proudly  heares  beneath  your  floating  wood. 
Where  streams  the  flag  whose  glory  is  de- 
parted. 

«<Fair  widow  of  the  Medici !  be  bom 
Again,  thou  noble  Florence !    Now  unclasp 
Thy  arms  to  my  embrace:   from  slavery's 
grasp 

Breathe  free  in  independence's  stormy  mom ! 

**  O  Neptune's  daughter,  Venice !  city  fiur 
At  Venus,  and  that  didst  like  her  emerge 
From  the  foam-silvered,  beauty-ravished  surge, 
Let  Albion  see  thee  thy  shorn  beams  repair  \ 
Doge,  in  my  name  command !    Within  your 
walls 
Proclaim  me,  Senate !    Zeno,  wake ! 
Aside  thy  sleep,  Pisani,  shake !  -— 
'T  is  Liberty  that  calls ! " 

She  spoke :  and  a  whole  people  with  one  will 
Caught  that  arousing  voice:    the   fiimace- 

light 
Glowed,  and  the  hardening  steel  grew  white ; 

Against  the  biting  file  the  edge  rang  shrill ; 

Far  clanged  the  anvil ;  brayed  the  trumpet ;  one 

Furbished  his  lance,  and  one  his  steed's  capari- 


The  fiither  throws  his  weight  of  years  aside. 
Accoutring  glad  the  youngest  of  his  sons ; 
Nor  tarries,  but  his  steps  outruns. 
And   foremost  joins  the   lines  with  emulous 

stride: 
The  sister,  smiling  at  his  spleen,  detains 
The  baby  warrior,  who  the  lap  disdains. 
And  cries,  **  I  go  to  die  upon  the  plains !  " 

Then  what  did  they,  or  might  they  not  have 

done, 
Whose  courage  manhood  nerved  ?  or  say,  could 

one 
Repose  his  hope  in  flight,  or  fear  the  death 
Claimed  by  the  aged  and  the  infant  breath  ? 

Yes !  —  all  with  common  voice  exclaimed  aloud, 
**  We  nt  beneath  thy  laurel,  and  will  guard 
Its  leaves  from  profimation  :  take,  O  bard. 
Thy  lyre,  and  sing  our  feats,  their  best  reward ! 
For  Virgil's  sacred  shroud 

Shall  ne'er  be  spumed  by  victor  footstep  proud." 

They  marched,  this  warlike  people,  in  their 

scom ; 
And  when  one  moon  had  filled  her  horn, 


The  oppressor  German  took  his  rouse 
And  drained  his  draughts  of  Rhenish  tranquil- 

And  they  lay  round  him,  sheltered  by  the 
boughs 

Of  Virgil's  laurel-tree. 

With  eyes  averted.  Liberty  had  fled : 
Parthenope  recalled  her ;  she  her  head 
Bent  for  a  moment  fVom  the  height  of  air : 
*<Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  guest:   be&ll   thee 

fiur!" 
"Art  gone  fi)r  ever?"     "They  await   me." 

"Where.?" 
"Iff  Grjbbcb."    "They  will  pursue  thee  thith- 

er  too." 
"  Defenders  will  be  found."  "  They  too  may 

yield. 
And  numbers  then  may  sweep  thee  from  thy 

field." 
"  Ay ;  but 't  is  possible  to  die :  adieu  !  " 


LA  PABISIENNB. 

Gallart  nation !  now  before  you 

Freedom,  beckoning  onward,  stands ! 
Let  no  tyrant's  sway  be  o'er  you,  — 
Wrest  the  sceptre  from  his  bands ! 
Paris  gave  the  general  cry : 
Glory,  Fame,  and  Liberty ! 
Speed,  warriors,  speed. 
Though  thousands  bleed. 
Pierced  by  the  leaden  ball,  or  crushed  by  thun- 
dering steed ! 
Conquest  waits, — your  fbemen  die  ! 

Keep  your  serried  ranks  in  order ; 

Sons  of  France,  your  country  calls ! 
Gory  hecatombs  accord  her,  — 
Well  she  merits  each  who  falls ! 
Happy  day !  the  general  cry 
Echoed  naught  but  Liberty  \ 
Speed,  warriors,  speed. 
Though  thousands  bleed. 
Pierced  by  the  leaden  ball,  or  crushed  by  thun- 
dering steed ! 
Conquest  waits,  —  your  fbemen  die ! 

Vain  the  shot  may  sweep  along  you. 
Ranks  of  warriors  now  displayed  ! 
Touthfbl  generals  are  among  you. 
By  the  great  occasion  made  ! 
Happy  day !  the  general  cry 
Echoed  naught  but  Liberty ! 
Speed,  warriors,  speed, 
Though  thousands  bleed, 
Pierced  by  the  leaden  ball,  or  crashed  by  thun- 
dering steed ! 
Conquest  waits,  —  your  fbemen  die  ! 

Foremost,  who  the  Carlist  lances 
With  the  banner-staff'  has  met  ? 

Freedom's  votary  advances. 
Venerable  Lafayette ! 


494 


FRENCH   POETRY. 


Happy  day !  the  general  cry 
Echoed  naught  but  Liberty ! 
Speed,  warriors,  speed, 
Though  thousands  bleed, 
Pierced  by  the  leaden  ball,  or  crushed  by  thun- 
dering steed  ! 
Conqueat  waiu, — your  foemen  die ! 

Triple  dyes  again  combining, 

See  the  squadrons  onward  go ! 
In  the  country's  heaven  shining, 
Mark  the  varioua-colored  bow  ! 
Happy  day  !  the  general  cry 
Echoed  naught  but  Liberty  ! 
Speed,  warriors,  speed, 
Though  thousands  bleed. 
Pierced  by  the  leaden  ball,  or  crushed  by  thun- 
dering steed ! 
Conquest  waits,-— your  fbemen  die ! 

Heroes  of  that  banner  gleaming, 
Te,  who  bore  it  in  the  fray, — 
Orleans'  troops  !  your  blood  was  streaming 
Freely  on  that  fetal  day  ! 
From  the  page  of  history 
We  hare  learned  the  general  cry  ! 
Speed,  warriors,  speed. 
Though  thousands  bleed. 
Pierced  by  the  leaden  ball,  or  crashed  by  thun- 
dering steed  ! 
Conquest  waits, — your  ibemen  die  ! 

Muffled  dram,  thy  music  lonely 

Answers  to  the  mouraer's  sighs ! 
Laurels,  for  the  valiant  only. 
Ornament  their  obsequies ! 
Sacred  fane  of  Liberty, 
Let  their  memories  never  die  ! 
Bear  to  his  grave 
Each  warrior  brave 
Who  foil  in  Freedom's  cause,  hb  country's 
rights  to  save, 
Crowned  with  fome  and  victory ! 


VICTOR-MARIE   HUGO. 

Victor-Marib  Hugo  was  born  Febraary 
26th,  1802,  at  Besan^on.  Several  years  of  his 
childhood  were  passed  in  Elba ;  then  two  years 
in  Paris  ;  then  two  years  in  the  Neapolitan  dis- 
trict of  Avellino,  where  his  fother  was  governor ; 
again  in  Paris,  where  his  mother  superintended 
his  education  in  strict  privacy.  In  1811,  he 
went  to  Madrid,  where  he  passed  a  year ;  and 
in  1815,  entered  the  College  Louis-Ie-Grand. 
He  already  began  to  meditate  the  plans  of  sev- 
eral tragedies.  In  1§17,  be  wrote  a  poem,  '*  Sur 
lea  Avantages  de  TEtude,*'  for  the  Academy's 
prize ;  which,  however,  he  failed  to  obtain.  In 
]819,  he  gained  two  prizes  from  the  Academy 
of  the  Floral  Games.  The  first  volume  of  his 
lyrical  poems  appeared  in  1822.  Louis  the 
Eighteenth  bestowed  on  the  young  poet  a  pen- 


sion of  three  thousand  frtincs,  which  enabled  him 
to  marry  in  1823.  He  was  soon  acknowledged 
as  the  leader  of  the  Romantic  School  in  Franee, 
and  as  such  has  been  assailed  with  unexampled 
violence  by  the  Classicists.  Besides  his  lyrical 
poems,  of  which  several  collections  have  ap- 
peared, Victor  Hugo  has  published  novels,  the 
most  celebrated  of  which  is  ^*  Notre  Dame  de 
Paris."  His  dramas, "  Cromwell,"  "  Heraani," 
'*  Marion  Delorme,"  <«Triboulet,  on  le  Roi 
s*amuse,"  ••Lncr^e  Borgia,'*  and  <*  Marie  Tki- 
dor,"  are  foil  of  vigorous  and  striking  passages. 
He  published,  in  1834,  a  collection  of  miscella- 
neous writings,  entitled  **  Litt^ratnre  et  Philoso- 
phie  Mdl^ea."  The  collections  of  his  lyrical 
poems  are,  «*  Odes  et  Ballades,"  *'  Les  Orien- 
tales,"  <«  Chants  du  Cr^puscules," «« Les  Fenilles 
d'Automne,"  "Les  Rayons  et  les  Ombres,"  and 
"  Voix  Int^rieures." 

Victor  Hugo  stands  undoubtedly  at  the  head 
of  the  modern  French  poets.  In  vigor  of  thought 
and  splendor  of  diction,  in  beauty  and  variety 
of  poetical  illustration,  he  is  unrivalled  by  any 
of  his  contemporaries.  At  the  same  time  it 
must  be  admitted  that  he  often  foils  into  extrav. 
agance,  and  has  written  much  that  a  purer  taste 
condemns. 


INFANCY. 

Iv  the  dusky  alcove, 

Near  the  altar  laid. 
Sleeps  the  child  in  shadow 

Of  his  mother's  bed  ; 
Softly  he  reposes, 
And  his  lids  of  roses, 
Closed  to  earth,  uncloses 

On  the  heaven  o'erhead. 

Many  a  dream  is  with  him. 
Fresh  from  foiry  land : 

Spangled  o'er  with  diamonds 
Seems  the  ocean  sand  ; 

Suns  are  gleaming  there ; 

Troops  of  ladies  foir 

Souls  of  infimts  bear 
In  their  charming  hand. 

O  enchanting  vision ! 

Lo !  a  rill  upsprings. 
And  from  out  its  bosom 

Comes  a  voice  that  sings. 
Lovelier  there  appear 
Sire  and  sisters  dear, 
While  his  mother  n«:ar 

Plumes  her  new-born  wings. 

But  a  brighter  vision 

Yet  bis  eyes  behold  : 
Roses  all  and  lilies 

Every  path  unfold ; 
Lakes  in  shadow  sleeping, 
Silver  fishes  leaping, 
And  the  waters  creeping 

Through  the  reeds  of  gold. 


VICTOR   HUGO. 


495 


Slumber  on,  sweet  iniaiit, 

Slumber  peacefiilly ! 
Tby  young  soul  knows  not 

What  th  J  lot  may  be. 
Like  dead  leayes  that  sweep 
Down  the  stormy  deep. 
Thou  art  borne  in  sleep  : 
What  is  all  to  thee  ? 


Innocent !  thou  sleepest !  — 
See  !  the  heavenly  band, 

Who  foreknow  the  trials 
That  for  man  are  planned, 

Seeing  him  unarmed, 

Unfearing,  unalarmed. 

With  their  tears  have  warmed 
His  unconscious  hand. 

Angels,  hovering  o'er  him, 
Kiss  him  where  he  lies ; 

Hark !  he  sees  them  weeping : 
"Gabriel!"  he  cries; 

t^Hush  ! "  the  angel  says. 

On  his  lip  he  lays 

One  finger,  and  displays 
His  native  skies. 


HER  NAME. 

A  lilt's  pure  perfume  ;  a  halo's  light ; 

The  evening's  voices  mingling  sofi  above ; 
The  hoar's  mysterious  farewell  in  its  flight ; 

The  plaintive  story  told 
By  a  dear  friend  who  grieves,  yet  is  consoled ; 

The  sweet,  soft  murmur  of  a  kiss  of  love  -, 

The  scarf,  seven-tinted,  which  the  hurricane 
Leaves  in  the  clouds,  a  trophy  to  the  sun ; 
The  well  remembered  tone, 
IVhich,  scarcely  hoped  for,  meets  the  ear  again ; 
The  pure  wish  of  a  virgin  heart ;  the  beam 
That  hovers  o'er  an  in&nt's  earliest  dream ; 

The  voices  of  a  distant  choir ;  the  sighs 

That  fabulous  Memnon  breathed  of  yore  to 
greet 
The  coming  dawn;  the  tone  whose  murmurs 

rise,  "^ 

Then,  witli  a  cadence  tremulous,  expire; — 

These,  and  all  else  the  spirit  dreams  of  sweet, 
Are  not  so  sweet  as  her  sweet  name,  O  lyre ! 

Pronounce  it  very  softly,  like  a  prayer ; 

Tet  be  it  heard,  the  burden  of  the  song : 
Ah  !  let  it  be  a  sacred  light  to  shine 
In  the  dim  fane;  the  secret  word,  which  there 

Trembles  for  ever  on  one  fkithful  tongue, 
In  the  lone,  shadowy  silence  of  the  shrine. 

Sut  O,  or  e'er,  in  words  of  flame, 
My  Muse,  unmindful,  with  the  meaner  crowd 
or  names,  by  worthless  pride  revealed  aloud. 

Should  dare  to  blend  the  dear  and  honored 
name. 


By  fond  aflection  set  apart. 

And  hidden,  like  a  treasure,  in  my  heart ; 

My  strain,  soft-syllabled,  should  meet  the  ear 
Like  sacred  music  heard  upon  the  knees ; 
The  air  should  vibrate  to  its  harmonies. 
As  if,  light^hovering  in  the  atmosphere. 
An  angel,  viewless  to  the  mortal  eye. 
With  his  fine  pinions  shook  it,  rustling  nigh. 


THE  VEIL. 

Bism. 
What  ails,  what  ails  you,  brothers  dear  ? 

Those  knitted  brows  why  cast  ye  down  ? 
Why  gleams  that  light  of  deathly  fear 

'Neath  the  dark  shadows  of  your  frown  ? 
Torn  are  your  girdles'  crimson  bands ; 

And  thrice  already  have  1  seen, 
Half-drawn  within  your  shuddering  hands, 

Glitter  your  poniards'  naked  sheen. 

■LDIST  BaOTBSB. 

Sister,  hath  not  to-day  thy  veil  upraised  been  ? 


As  I  returned  from  the  bath,  — 

From  the  bath,  brothers,  I  returned, — 
By  the  mosque  led  my  homeward  path. 

And  fiercely  down  the  hot  noon  burned ; 
In  my  uncovered  palanquin. 

Safe  from  all  eye  of  infidel, 
I  gasped  fi>r  air,  — I  dreamed  no  sin, — 

My  veil  a  single  instant  fell. 


A  man  was  passing?  —  in  green  cafUn?- 
sister,  tell ! 


Yes,  yes,  —  perhaps;  — but  his  bold  eye  I- 

Saw  not  the  blush  upon  my  cheek.  — 
Why  speak  ye  thus  aside?    O,  why. 

Brothers,  aside  do  ye  thus  speak  ? 
Will  ye  my  blood  ?  —  O,  hear  me  swear. 

He  saw  me  not, —  he  could  not  see ! 
Mercy !  —  will  ye  refuse  to  spare 

Weak  woman  helpless  on  her  knee  ? 

mniD  BROTHBL 

When  sank  the  sun  to-night,  in  robe  of  red 
was  he ! 


Mercy ! —  O,  grant  me,  grant  me  grace  k — 

O  God  !  fbur  poniards  in  my  side  !  — 
Ah  !  by  your  knees  which  I  embrace !  — 

My  veil !  my  veil  of  snowy  pride  !  — 
Fly  me  not  now  !  —  in  blood  I  swim  ! 

Support,  support  my  sinking  head  ! 
For  o'er  my  eyes,  now  dark  and  dim. 

Brothers,  the  veil  of  death  is  spread. 

pouavB  BsomsB. 
That  veil,  at  least,  is  one  thou  ne'er  shalt  lift 
again! 


\ 


496 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


THE  DJINNa 

Town,  tower, 
Shore,  deep. 
Where  lower 
Clifi  steep  ; 
Waves  graj. 
Where  play 
Winds  gay, — 
All  sleep. 

Hark !  a  sound, 
Far  and  slight. 
Breathes  around 
On  the  night : 
High  and  higher, 
Nigh  and  nigher, 
Like  a  fire 
Roaring  bright. 

Now  on  't  is  sweeping 

With  rattling  beat. 

Like  dwarf  imp  leaping 

In  gallop  fleet : 

He  flies,  he  prances, 

In  fi-olic  fiuicies, 

On  wave-crest  dances 

With  pattering  feet. 

Hark,  the  rising  swell, 
With  each  nearer  burst ! 
Like  the  toll  of  bell 
Of  a  convent  cursed ; 
Like  the  billowy  roar 
On  a  storm-lashed  shore,  — 
Now  hushed,  now  once  more 
Maddening  to  its  worst. 

O  God  !  the  deadly  sound 
Of  the  Djinns*  fearful  cry  ! 
Quick,  'neath  the  spiral  round 
Of  the  deep  staircase  fly  ! 
See,  see  our  lamplight  fade  ! 
And  of  the  balustrade 
Mounts,  mounts  the  circling  shade 
Up  to  the  ceiling  high ! 

'T  is  the  Djinns*  wild  streaming  swarm 
Whistling  in  their  tempest-flight ; 
Snap  the  tall  yews  *neath  the  storm, 
Like  a  pine-flame  crackling  bright. 
Swift  and  heavy,  lo,  their  crowd 
Through  the  heavens  rushing  loud. 
Like  a  livid  thunder-cloud 
With  its  bolt  of  fiery  night ! 

Ha !  they  are  on  us,  close  without ! 
Shut  tight  the  shelter  where  we  lie  ! 
With  hideous  din  the  monster  rout, 
Dragon  and  vampire,  fill  the  sky  ! 
The  loosened  rafter  overhead 
Trembles  and  bends  like  quivering  reed ; 
Shakes  the  old  door  with  shuddering  dread. 
As  from  its  rusty  hinge  't  would  fly ! 

Wild  cries  of  hell !  voices  that  howl  and  shriek ! 
The  horrid  swarm  before  the  tempest  tossed  — 
O  Heaven  !  —  descends  my  lowly  roof  to  seek : 
Bends  the  strong  wall  beneath  the  ftirions  host. 


Totters  the  house,  as  though,  like  dry  leaf  shorn 
From  autumn  bough  and  on  the  mad  blast  borne,   {| 
Up  from  its  deep  foundations  it  were  torn 
To  join  the  stormy  whirl.    Ah !  all  is  lost ! 

O  Prophet !   if  thy  hand  but  now 
Save  firom  these  foul  and  hellish  things, 
A  pilgrim  at  thy  shrine  I  'U  bow, 
Laden  with  pious  oflTerings. 
Bid  their  hot  breath  its  fiery  rain 
Stream  on  my  fiuthftil  door  in  vain. 
Vainly  upon  my  blackened  pane 
Grate  the  fierce  claws  of  their  dark  wings ! 

They  have  passed ! — and  their  wild  legion 
Cease  to  thunder  at  my  door ; 
Fleeting  through  night's  rayless  region. 
Hither  they  return  no  more. 
Clanking  chains  and  sounds  of  woo 
Fill  the  forests  as  they  go ; 
And  the  tall  oaks  cower  low. 
Bent  their  flaming  flight  before. 

On !  on !  the  storm  of  wings 
Bears  far  the  fiery  foar. 
Till  scarce  the  breeze  now  brings 
Dim  murmurings  to  the  ear ; 
Like  locusts'  humming  hail. 
Or  thrash  of  tiny  fiail 
Plied  by  the  pattering  hail 
On  some  old  roof>tree  near. 

Fainter  now  are  borne 
Fitful  mutterings  still ; 
As,  when  Arab  horn 
Swells  its  magic  peal. 
Shoreward  o*er  the  deep 
Fairy  voices  sweep. 
And  the  infiint's  sleep 
Golden  visions  fill. 

Each  deadly  Djinn, 
Dark  child  of  fright. 
Of  death  and  sin. 
Speeds  the  wild  flight. 
Hark,  the  dull  moan. 
Like  the  deep  tone 
Of  ocean's  groan, 
Afiir,  by  night ! 

More  and  more 
Fades  it  now, 
As  on  shore 
Ripple's  flow,  — 
As  the  plaint 
Far  and  faint 
Of  a  saint 
Murmured  low. 

Hark!  hist! 
Around, 
I  list ! 
The  bounds 
Of  space 
All  trace 
Efface 
Of  sound. 


VICTOR  HUGO TA8TU. 


497 


MOONUOHT. 

BsioHT  shone  the  meny  moonbeame  cbmcing 
o'er  the  wave ; 
At  the  cool  cuement,  to  the  evening  breeae 

flung  wide, 
Leana  the  aultana,  and  delighta  to  wateh  the 
tide. 
With  band  of  ailreiy  aheen,  jon  sleeping  islets 
lave. 

From  her  hand  as  it  ftlls,  vibrates  her  light 
guitar;  — 
She  Ibtens, — hark,  that  sound  that  echoes 

dull  and  low ! 
Is  it  the  beat  upon  the  Archipelago 
Of  some  deep  galley's  oar,  from  Scio  bound  aftr  ? 

Is  it  the  cormorants,  whose  black  wings,  one  by 
one. 
Cut  the  bine  wave  that  o'er  them  breaks  in 

liquid  pearls  ? 
Is  it  some  hovering  djinn  with  whistling 
scream  that  hurls 
Down  to  the  deep  firom  jon  old  tower  each 
loosened  stone  ? 

Who  thus  disturbs  the  tide  near  the  serag^o  ? 
T  is  no  dark  cormorants  upon  the  sea  that 

float,— 
T  is  no  dull  plunge  of  stones,— -no  oars  of 
Turkish  boat 
With  measured  beat  along  the  water  sweeping 
slow. 

'T  is  heavy  sacks,  borne  each  by  voiceless 
eunuch  slave ; 
And  could  you  dare  to  sound  the  depth  of 

yon  dark  tide. 
Something  like  human  form  would  stir  within 
its  aide. 
Bright  shone  the  merry  moonbeams  dancing  o'er 
the  wave. 


THE  SACK  OP  TBE  CTtY. 

Thy  will,  O  King,  is  done !     Lighting  but  to 
consume, 
The  roar  of  the  fierce  flames  drowned  even 
the  shouts  and  shrieks ; 
Reddening  each  roo^  like  some  day-dawn  of 
blwdy  doom. 
Seemed  they  in  joyous  flight  to  dance  above 
their  wrecks. 

Slaughter  his  thousand  giant  arms  hath  tossed 
on  high. 
Fell  fathers,  husbands,  wives,  beneath  his 
streaming  steel ; 
Prostrate  the  palaces  huge  tombs  of  fire  lie. 
While  gathering  overhead  the  vultures  scream 
and  wheel. 

Died  the  pale  mothers ;— and  the  virgins,  firom 
their  arms, 
O  Caliph,  fiercely  torn,  bewailed  their  young 
years'  blight ; 

63 


With  staba  and  kisses  fouled,  all  their  yet  quiv- 
ering charms 
At  our  fieet  coursers'  heels  were  dragged  in 
mocking  flight. 

Lo,  where  the  city  lies  mantled  in  pall  of 
death! 
Lo,  where  thy  mighty  arm  hath  passed,  all 
things  must  bend ! 
As  the  priests  prayed,  the  sword  stopped  their 
accursed  breath,  — 
Vainly  their  sacred  book  for  shield  did  they 
extend. 

Some  infimts  yet  survived,  and  the  unsated 


Still  drinks  the  lifb-blood  of  each  whelp  of 

Christian  hound. 
To  kiss  thy  sandal's  foot,  O  King,  thy  people 

kneel, 
With  golden  circlet  to  thy  glorious  ankle 

Ixrand, 


EXPECTATION. 

SquinnzL,  mount  yon  oak  so  high. 
To  its  twig  that  next  the  sky 

Bends  and  trembles  as  a  flower ! 
Strain,  O  stork,  thy  pinion  well,  — 
From  thy  nest  'neath  old  church-bell. 
Mount  to  yon  tall  citadel, 

And  its  talleat  donjon  tower ! 

To  yon  mountain,  eagle  old. 

Mount,  whose  brow  so  white  and  cold 

Kisses  the  last  ray  of  even ! 
And,  O  thou  that  lov'st  to  mark 
Mom's  first  sunbeam  pierce  the  dark. 
Mount,  O,  mount,  thou  joyous  lark. 

Joyous  lark,  O,  mount  to  heaven  \ 

And  now  say,  from  topmost  bough. 
Towering  shaft,  and  peak  of  snow. 

And  heaven's  arch,  —  O,  can  ye  see 
One  white  plume  that  like  a  star 
Streams  along  the  plain  aiar. 
And  a  steed  diat  from  the  war 

Bears  my  lover  back  to  me  ? 


AMABLE  TA8TU. 

Madams  Tastu  is  one  of  the  most  pleasing 
and  elegant  of  the  living  poets  of  France.  Her 
style  is  rich  and  copious,  and  frequently  sug. 
gests  the  impassioned  manner  and  stately  dic- 
tion of  Mrs.  Hemans.  The  pieces  entitled  "  La 
Mort "  and  **  L'Ange  Gardien  "  are  among  her 
best  and  most  vigorous  productions.  Her  works 
are  very  popular.  The  sixth  edition  wss  pub- 
lished in  1838,  with  vignettes  after  the  designs 
of  Johannot. 

pp2 


498 


FRENCH  POETRY. 


LEAYBS  OF  THE  WILLOW-TREE. 

The  air  was  pleasant ;  the  last  autumn  day 
With  its  sad  parting  tore  away 

The  garland  fW>m  the  tree  : 
I  looked,  and,  lo !  before  me  passed 
The  sun,  the  autumn,  life,  at  last,  — 

One  company ! 

Sitting  alone  a  mossy  trunk  beside. 
The  presence  of  the  evil  days  to  hide 

From  my  heart  I  sought ; 
Upon  the  stream,  amid  my  musing  grief, 
Silently  fell  a  withered  leaf: 

I  looked,  and  thought ! 

Over  my  head  an  ancient  willow-tree,  — 
My  hand,  all  indolent  and  listlessly, 

A  green  bough  taketh ; 
The  light  leaves  casting,  one  by  one, 
I  watch,  as  on  the  stream  they  run. 

The  course  each  taketh. 

0  folly  of  my  fancy's  idle  play  ! 

1  asked  each  broken  fragment,  on  its  way. 

Of  future  years: 
Linked  to  thy  fortune,  let  me  see 
What  is  my  &te  of  life  to  be,  — 

Gladness,  or  tears  ? 

One  moment  only  in  my  longing  sight, 
Like  a  bark  that  glideth  in  the  light 

Upon  the  main. 
The  billow  hurls  it  'gainst  the  shore, 
The  little  leaf  returns  no  more, — 

I  wait  in  vain. 

Another  leaf  upon  the  stream  J  throw, 
Seeking  my  fond  lute's  fate  to  know, 

Iffair  itbe: 
Vainly  I  look  for  miracles  to-day ; 
My  oracle  the  wind  hath  borne  away. 

And  hope  from  me  ! 

Upon  this  water  where  my  fortune  dieth. 
My  song  upon  the  zephyr's  pinion  flieth. 

The  wild  wind's  track : 
O,  shall  I  cast  a  vow  more  dear 
Upon  this  faithless  stream  ?    My  hand,  with 
fear. 

Hath  started  back ! 

My  feeble  heart  its  weakness  knoweth  well, 
Tet  cannot  banish  that  dark,  gloomy  spell, — 

That  vague  affright : 
The  sick  heart  heedeth  each  mysterious  thing : 
About  my  soul  the  clouds  are  gathering. 

Blacker  than  night ! 

The  green  bough  fidleth  from  my  hands  to 

earth : 
Mournfully  I  turned  unto  my  hearth, 

Tet  slow  and  ill ; 
And  in  the  night,  around  that  willow-tree 
And  its  prophetic  leaves  my  memory 

Did  wander  still. 


DEATH. 

Embakkino  on  the  sea  of  life, 
The  in&nt  smiles  at  coming  yean ; 
But  Death  is  there !  and,  like  a  small,  thin  cloud, 
Upon  the  horizon's  edge  appears,  — 
Seen  only  by  the  mother's  eye, 
Which  ever  watcheth  fearfully  : 
He  laugheth  in  his  cradle  of  delight. 
His  lovely  morning  thinketh  not  of  night: 

Death  is  there !  when  in  the  hands  of  Time 
The  sands  of  infancy  are  running  by. 

The  veiled  phantom  riseth  up 
Unto  youth's  affrighted  eye ; 

In  the  bosom  of  his  play, 
A  sudden  restlessness  doth  bring. 

Even  from  wisdom's  flowery  way, 
His  heart  back  to  that  fearful  thing: 
Slowly  fiilleth  back  the  veil  from  that  dark 
visioning !  • — 
There  is  an  hour,  when  from  oar  blinded  youth 
X  The  drunkenness  of  empty  dreaming  fliei,— 
An  hour  of  mourning,  when  the  voice  of  grief 
Draweth  the  first  tear  from  our  shaded  ejet: 
All  earth  unmantleth  itaelf  to  sight: 
Death  is  there!  but  Death  appeareth  bright} 
'T  is  a  young  angel,  in  hb  bearing  sweet, 
With  a  light  moumer-garmeot  folded  round ; 
With  pale,  pale  flowers  his  shining  head  if 
crowned, 
And  like  a  friend  he  cometh  nigh  to  greet; 
No  sound  of  fear  is  following  his  feet; 
His  pure  hand  presseth  from  the  torch  of  life 

Its  mortal  brightness  on  the  ground ; 
His  face  doth  breathe  a  slumber  upon  pain,  — 
He  smiles,  and  pointeth  to  the  heaven  around. 
The  daylight  gleameth  on  our  hearts  fbrloro, 
And,  shaking  off  the  vapors  of  the  mom, 
The  angel  wazeth  mightier,  and  prood 
From  behind  the  fading  cloud 
His  forehead  towereth  up  in  scorn ! 
He  strideth  forward,  and  men's  spirits  quake '. 
His  mighty  hand  unfolds  itself^  to  take 
The  towers  in  his  path, —  the  warrior  in  his  mail ! 
Then  it  is  that  Death  doth  make  the  heart  grow 

pale; 
He  cometh  nigh,  and  towereth  ceaselessly. — 
The  soul  beholds  the  boundary  of  its  way; 
Already  'neath  the  stooping  shadow  it  depart- 
eth. 
The  dying  light  of  eve  without  another  day! 
The  weight  of  age  upon  our  neck  doth  hang : 

Death  is  there !  by  years  and  sorrow  bowed, 
While  we  are  kneeling  at  his  dreadful  feet, 

His  face  is  hidden  in  a  cloud ; 
But  if  the  darkness  firom  our  sight  the  spectre 

hide. 
We  foel  iu  presence  all  around,— on  eveiy  ffld«- 

And  I  shall  die  !  yea,  time  shall  bring 
The  sad  and  lonely  day, — 

A  day  of  silence,  whence  returns  not 
The  music  of  my  bosom's  lay  : 
Tea,  when  the  joys  the  future  keepeth 

Shall  seek  me,  earth  will  know  me  not; 


BARBIER. 


499 


A  flower,  a  lonely  flower,  that  dieth 

In  some  green  woodland  spot ; 

A  little  perfume,  and  a  few  pale  leaves. 

To  keep  my  memory  unfbrgot. 


THE  ECHO  OF  THE  HABP. 

Poor  poet-harp  !  upon  the  wall  suspended, 

Tboo  Bleepest,  in  that  silence  long  unbroke ! 
The  night-wind,  with  its  cold  and  wandering 
breath, 

Upon  thy  chord  a  whisper  hath  awoke. 
So  sleepeth  in  my  breast  this  hidden  lyre. 

Untouched  save  by  the  Muse's  hand  alone ; 
Then,  when  a  mighty  word,  a  dream,  a  thought, 

A  pilgrim  fimcy,  lovely  in  its  tone, 
Shaketh  the  flowers  from  its  passing  wing. 

It  vibrates  suddenly :  the  sound  that  leapeth 
Into  the  clouds  my  bosom  doth  not  hear,  — 

The  echo  of  that  sound  alone  it  keepeth. 


AU6USTE  BARBIER. 

Or  this  young  poet,  a  writer  in  the  "  Foreign 
Quarterly  Review"    (No.  LXI.)   says,— «*  It 
was  shortly  after  the  Revolution  of  July,  that 
Auguste    Barbier,  then  a  very  young    man, 
brought  out  the  poem,  which,  his  contempora- 
ries agree,  at  once  raised  hiih  to  the  rank  he 
has  since  held.     This  poem  was  *  La  Cur^e.* 
He  followed  up  his  success  by  other  volumes, 
which  had  also  the  seal  of  originality  upon  them. 
Barbier  is  not  what  is  ordinarily  called  a  de- 
scriptive poet,  and  seldom  a  poet  of  tenderness. 
His  inspiration  is  not  of  the  mountain  or  the 
Ibrest ;  the  outward  forms  of  the  grand  and  the 
beautiful  are  not  necessary  to  iu  awakening ; 
he  has  found  it  most  in  the  thick  of  cities,  —  in 
truth,  always.     He  is  not  a  bard  of  soft  num- 
bers, but  to  be  noted  chiefly  for  the  characteris- 
tic  boldness  and  manly  vigor  he  has  thrown 
into  a  form  of  verse  not  commonly  deemed  sus- 
ceptible of  either.     Always  harmonious  he  is 
not,  but  for  the  most  part  he  is  something  bet- 
ter.    He  selects  the  word  of  his  thought;  it 
Telle  slightly,  or  lays  wholly  bare ;  but  it  is 
troth  which  is  below,  and  sometimes  in  her 
rudest  nakedness.     He  is  a  child  of  the  Paris 
he  knows  so  well  and  has  portrayed  so  truly." 

THE  BRONZE  STATUE  OF  NAPOLEON. 

CoMK,  Stoker,  come,  more  coal,  more  fuel,  heap 

Iron  and  copper  at  our  need, — . 
Come,  your  broad  shovel  and  your  long  arms 
steep. 

Old  Vulcan,  in  the  forge  yon  feed  ! 
To  your  wide  furnace  be  full  portion  thrown, — 

To  bid  her  sluggish  teeth  to  grind, 
Tear,  and  devour  the  weight  which  she  doth 
own, 

A  fire-palace  she  must  find. 


'T  is  well, — 't  is  here !  the  flame,  wide,  wild, 
intense. 

Unsparing,  and  blood-colored,  flung 
From  the  vault  down,  where  the  assaults  com- 
mence 

With  lingot  up  to  lingot  clung. 
And  bounds  and  howlings  of  delirium  bom, — 

LfCad,  copper,  iron,  mingled  well, 
All  twisting,  lengthening,  and  embraced,  and 
torn. 

And  tortured,  like  the  damned  in  hell. 
The  work  is  done  !  the  spent  flame  burns  no 
more. 

The  furnace  fires  smoke  and  die. 
The  iron  flood  boils  over.     Ope  the  door. 

And  let  the  haughty  one  pass  by  ! 
Roar,  mighty  river,  rush  upon  your  course, 

A  bound,  —  and,  from  your  dwelling  past, 
Dash  forward,  like  a  torrent  from  its  source, 

A  flame  from  the  volcano  cast ! 
To  gulp  your  lava-waves  earth's  jaws  extend. 

Tour  fiiry  in  one  mass  fling  forth,  — 
In  your  steel  mould,  O  Bronze,  a  slave  descend. 

An  emperor  return  to  earth  ! 
Again  Napolkor,  —  't  is  his  form  appears  ! 

Hard  soldier  in  unending  quarrel. 
Who  cost  so  much  of  insult,  blood,  and  tears, 

For  only  a  few  boughs  of  laurel ! 

For  mourning  France  it  was  a  day  of  grief. 

When,  down  fh>m  its  high  station  flung, 
His  mighty  statue,  like  some  shameful  thief, 

In  coils  of  a  vile  rope  was  hung ; 
When  we  beheld  at  the  grand  column's  base, 

And  o'er  a  shrieking  cable  bowed. 
The  stranger's  strength  that  mighty  bronze  dis- 
place 

To  hurrahs  of  a  foreign  crowd  ; 
When,  forced  by  thousand  arms,  bead-foremost 
thrown, 

The  proud  mass  cast  in  monarch  mould 
Made  sudden  fall,  and  on  the  bard,  cold  stone 

Its  iron  carcass  sternly  rolled. 
The  Hun,  the  stupid  Hun,  with  soiled,  rank  skin. 

Ignoble  fury  in  his  glance. 
The  emperor's  form  the  kennel's  filth  within 

Drew  after  him,  in  face  of  France  ! 
On  those  within  whose  bosoms  hearts  hold  reign, 

That  hour  like  remorse  must  weigh 
On  each  French  brow, —  't  is  the  eternal  stain. 

Which  only  death  can  wash  away  ! 
I  saw,  where  palace-walls  gave  shade  and  ease, 

The  wagons  of  the  foreign  force  ; 
I  saw  them  strip  the  bark  which  clothed  our 
trees. 

To  cast  it  to  their  hungry  horse. 
I  saw  the  Northman,  with  his  savage  lip. 

Bruising  our  flesh  till  black  with  gore. 
Our  bread  devour, — on  our  nostrils  sip 

The  air  which  was  our  own  before  ! 

In  the  abasement  and  the  pain, — the  weight 
Of  outrages  no  words  make  known,  — 

I  charged  one  only  being  with  my  hate : 
Be  thou  aecursedy  Jfapolean! 


500 


FRENCH   POETRY. 


O  lank-baired  Corsican,  your  France  was  fair, 

In  the  full  Bun  of  Messidor ! 
She  was  a  tameless  and^  rebel  mare. 

Nor  steel  bit  nor  gold  rein  she  bore  ; 
Wild  steed  with  rustic  flank  > — yet,  while  she 
trod, — 

Reeking  with  blood  of  royalty, 
But  proud  with  strong  foot  striking  the  old 
sod, 

At  last,  and  for  the  first  time,  flree,— 
Never  a  hand,  her  virgin  form  passed  o'er, 

Left  blemish  nor  affront  essayed ; 
And  never  her  broad  sides  the  saddle  bore, 

Nor  harness  by  the  stranger  made. 
A  noble  vagrant, — with  coat  smooth  and  bright. 

And  nostril  red,  and  action  proud,  — 
As  high  she  reared,  she  did  the  world  affright 

With  neighings  which  rang  long  and  loud. 
Tou  came ;  her  mighty  loins,  her  paces  scanned, 

Pliant  and  eager  for  the  track ; 
Hot  Centaur,  twisting  in  her  mane  your  hand, 

Tou  sprang  all  booted  to  her  back. 
Then,  as  she  loved  the  war's  exciting  sound. 

The  smell  of  powder  and  the  drum, 
You  gave  her  Earth  for  exercising  ground. 

Bade  Battles  as  her  pastimes  come  \ 
Then,  no  repose  for  her,— no  nights,  no  sleep ! 

The  air  and  toil  for  evermore ! 
And  human  forms  like  unto  sand  crushed  deep, 

And  blood  which  rose  her  chest  before  ! 
Through  fifteen  years   her  hard  hoofs'  rapid 
course 

So  ground  the  generations. 
And  she  passed  smoking  in  her  speed  and 
force 

Over  the  breast  of  nations ; 
Till, — tired  in  ne'er  earned  goal  to  place  yain 
trust, 

To  tread  a  path  ne'er  left  behind. 
To  knead  the  universe  and  like  a  dust 

To  uplift  scattered  human  kind,  — 
Feebly  and  worn,  and  gasping  as  she  trode, 

Stumbling  each  step  of  her  career. 
She  craved  for  rest  the  Corsican  who  rode. 

But,  torturer !  you  would  not  hear ; 
You  pressed  her   harder  with  your   nervous 
thigh, 

You  tightened  more  the  goading  bit. 
Choked  in  her  foaming  mouth  ber  firantic  cry, 

And  brake  her  teeth  in  fiiry-fit. 
She  rose,  —  but  the  strife  came.    From  ftrther 
fall 

Saved  not  the  curb  she  could  not  know,-— 
She  went  down,  pillowed  on  the  cannon-ball. 

And  thou  wert  broken  by  the  blow  ! 

Now  bom  again,  from  depths  where  thoa  wert 
hurled, 

A  radiant  eagle  dost  thou  rise ; 
Winging  thy  flight  again  to  rule  the  world. 

Thine  image  reascends  the  skies. 
No  longer  now  the  robber  of  a  crown, — 

The  insolent  usurper,— he. 
With  cushions  of  a  throne,  unpitying,  down 

Who  pressed  the  throat  of  Liberty,  — 


Old  slave  of  the  Alliance,  sad  and  lone, 

Who  died  upon  a  sombre  rock. 
And  France's  image  until  death  dragged  od 

For  chain,  beneath  the  stranger's  stroke,— 
Napolxon  stands,  unsullied  by  a  stain ! 

Thanks  to  the  flatterer's  tuneful  race, 
The  lying  poets  who  ring  praises  vain, 

Has  Cesar  'mong  the  gods  found  place ! 
His  image  to  the  city-walls  gives  light; 

His  name  has  made  the  city's  hum,— 
Still  sounded  ceaselessly,  as  through  the  fight 

It  echoed  fiutber  than  the  drum. 
From  the  high  suburbs,  where  the  people  crowd, 

Doth  Paris,  an  old  pilgrim  now. 
Each  day  descend  to  greet  the  pillsr  proud. 

And  humble  there  his  monaroh  brow; — 
The  arms  encumbered  with  a  mortal  wreath. 

With  flowers  for  that  bronze's  pall, 
(No  mothera  look  on,  as  they  pass  beneath,— 

It  grew  beneath  their  teara  so  tall !)  — 
In  working-vest,  in  drunkenness  of  soul, 

Unto  the  fife's  and  trumpet's  tone. 
Doth  joyous  Paris  dance  the  Carmagnole 

Around  the  great  Napoleon. 

Thus,  Gentle  Monarchs,  pass  unnoted  on ! 

Mild  Pastora  of  Mankind,  away ! 
Sages,  depart,  as  common  brows  have  gone, 

Devoid  of  the  immortal  ray ! 
For  vainly  you  make  light  the  people's  chsin; 

And  vainly,  like  a  calm  flock,  come 
On  your  own  footsteps,  without  sweat  or  pain, 

The  people, — treading  towards  their  tomb. 
Soon  as  your  star  doth  to  its  setting  glide, 

And  its  last  lustre  shall  be  given 
By  your  quenched  name, —  upon  the  popnlsr  tide 

Scarce  a  fkint  furrow  shall  be  riven. 
Pass,  pass  ye  on  !  For  you  no  statue  high ! 

Your  names  shall  vanish  finom  the  horde: 
Their  memory  is  for  those  who  lead  to  die 

Beneath  the  cannon  and  the  sword ; 
Their  love,  for  him  who  on  the  humid  field 

By  thousands  lays  to  rot  their  bones; 
For  him,  who  bids  them  pyramids  to  build,— 

And  bear  upon  their  backs  the  stones ! 


SONNET  TO  MADABIE  ROLAND. 

'T  IS  well  to  hold  in  Good  our  fiuth  entire, 

Rejecting  doubt,  refbsing  to  despond, 
Believing,  beneath  skies  of  gloom  and  fire, 

In  splendora  of  a€rial  worlds  beyond : 
As  erst,  when  gangs  of  infamy  inhuman. 

At  Freedom  striking  still  through  fieemen  • 
lires,  . 

Her  great  support  devoted  to  their  knives, 
The  Soul  of  Gironde,  an  inspired  woman. 

Serene  of  aspect,  and  unmoved  of  eye. 
Round  the  stern  car  which  bare  her  on  to  ««». 

A  brutal  mob  applauded  to  the  ^^'     , 
But  vain  beside  the  pure  the  vile  might  oe  • 

Her  heart  despaired  not;  and  her  ^P,^^^ 
Blessed  thee  unto  the  lasL  O  sainted  LiW"7 


ITALIAN  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


^^^»^^M^^^M^^^N^^^^^^>^^l^»^^i^*^>^i^>^>^ 


LiKi  the  French  and  Spanish,  the  Italian  is 
a  bnmch  of  that  wide-ipread  and  not  verj  uni- 
form Ronuma  Rustua^  which  waa  formed  by 
the  intermingHng  of  barbaric  words  and  idioms 
with  the  Lower  Latinity  of  Italy,  France,  and 
Spain,  and  which  prerailed  in  the  earlier  part 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  with  many  local  forms  and 
peculiarities,  through  a  large  portion  of  the 
Sooth  of  Europe* 


*  In  ngud  to  the  origin  of  the  Italian  Umgnage,  thrse 
dlAnni  theories  hava  been  brought  tvward  I7  Italian 
writen. 

L  Leonaxdo  Branl,  somamed  PArttino,  firom  Areiso,  the 
place  of  hie  birth,  a  writer  of  the  fifteenth  oentary,  and  the 
first  among  his  countrTmen  who  tieated  of  this  subject, 
maintains  that  the  Italian  language  is  coeval  with  the 
Latin;  that  both  were  need  at  the  same  time  in  ancient 
Rome,— the  Latin  bf  the  learned  in  their  writings  and 
pabUcdtecoarses,  and  the  Italian  bf  the  popnlace,  and  in 
ftmOlar  conTemtioia.  Oucdinal  Bembo  and  Fzanceseo  Sa- 
rerio  Qoadrio  have  since  maintained  the  same  oplnkm. 
In  proof  of  their  theory,  these  writers  cite  the  langoage  of 
the  plebeian  personages  In  the  comedies  of  Plaatns  and 
Terence.  There  they  find  many  words  and  expraaiions, 
which  bear  some  resemUanee  to  the  modem  Italian,  and 
which  have  nerer  gained  admKtance  Into  the  worica  of 
other  daaslc  writen ;  and  from  these,  and  some  Interchange 
of  letten,  such  as  the  use  of  o  for  e,  aa  in  vo$tria  for  vet- 
trig,  and  9  for  6,  as  in  veUum  for  beUum,  they  draw  the 
conclusion,  that,  as  the  vulgar  Latin  was  not  classic  Latin, 
it  must  hare  been  Italian. 

IL  The  next  theory  is  tbat  of  the  Maniuis  Scipio  Maflbl. 
He  rejecu  the  opinion  of  Brunl  and  his  disciples,  because, 
in  his  own  wordta,  "  vulgarisms  are  not  sufBclMit  to  form 
a  language,  nor  to  render  it  adequate  to  literary  usaa."   He 
also  rejects  the  general  opinion,  which  we  shall  next  con- 
sider, that  the  Italian  was  formed  by  the  corruptions  Intro- 
duced into  the  Latin  by  the  Northern  conquerors ;  asserting 
that  "neither  the  Lombards  nor  the  Goths  had  any  part 
whatever  in  the  formation  of  the  Italian  language."    The 
theory  he  advances  is,  that  the  Italian  was  formed  from 
the  gradual  corruption  of  the  claasic  Latin,  without  the 
Intervention  of  any  foreign  Influence ;  or,  to  use  his  own 
words,  that  "it  originated  from  abandoning  in  common 
^conversation  the  dassic,  grammatical,  and  correct  Latin, 
and  generally  adopting,  In  Ito  stead,  a  vulgar  mode  of 
speech.  Incorrect  In  structure  and  vicious  in  pronuncia- 
tion."   In  proof  of  this,  he  asssrts,  that  many  words  and 
forms  of  expression,  which  are  generally  supposed  to  have 
been  derived  from  the  barbarians  of  the  North,  were  In  use 
in  Italy  before  their  invasions.    The  examples  he  brings  In 
evidence  are  taken  chiefly  from  the  writings  of  Aulus  Oel- 
line,  Gaaslodoras,  Saint  Jerome,  and  othen,  who  wrote 
when  the  Latin  had  alraady  lost  much  of  lu  purity ;  and 
we  beliere  It  to  be  a  ftet  very  generally  acknowledged  by 
llterarj  historians,  that  this  first  corruption  of  the  Latin 
was  produced  by  the  crowds  of  strangen  that  filled  the 
elty  of  Rome,  during  the  reigns  of  the  foreign  emperors. 
How  moch  greater  must  that  corraption  have  become, 
when  the  Goths  and  Lombards  filled,  not  only  the  city  of 
Rome,  but  the  whole  of  Italy  northward  1    But  Maflbi  sup- 
poeee  that  the  numben  of  the  barbarian  conquerora  were 


The  earliest  well  authenticated  specimen  of 
the  Italian  language  belongs  to  the  close  of  the 
twelfth  century.  It  is  the  **  Canzone  "  of  Ciullo 
d*  Alcamo,  by  birth  a  Sicilian,  and  the  earliest 
Italian  poet  whose  name  is  on  record.  He 
wrote  about  the  year  1197.  The  song  consists 
of  thirty-two  stanzas,  some  of  which  are  not 
entire,  and  is  written  in  the  form  of  a  colloquy 
between  the  poet  and  a  lady.  The  language  is 
a  rude  Sicilian  dialect,  and  in  many  places  un- 
intelligible. 

Before  proceeding  forther,  it  will  be  neces- 
sary to  throw  a  passing  glance  upon  the  rarious 
dialects  which  divide  the  Italian  language. 
These  are  all  of  greater  antiquity  than  the 
classic  Italian,  the  Parlare  lUustrty  CardinaU^ 
AwUeOy  e  Cortigiano;  and  many  of  them  dis- 
pute the  honor  of  having  given  birth  to  it. 
Dante  enumerates  fifteen  dialects  existing  in 
his  day,  and  gives  their  names.  He  then  ob- 
serves  forther:   *'From   this  it  appears,  that 


too  small  to  have  produced  any  changes  In  the  language  of 
the  conquered  people.  Can  this  be  sof  Muratori,  in  a 
dissertation  upon  this  subject,  eays,  that.  In  the  Gothic 
invasion  of  the  year  406,  King  Radagalso  entered  Italy 
with  an  army  of  two  hundred  thooaand  men ;  and  it  is 
weQ  known,  that,  at  a  later  period,  whole  nations,  rather 
than  armies,  followed  the  Lombard  bannen  towards  the 
South. 

m.  The  oldest  and  most  generally  received  opinion  In 
regard  to  the  formation  of  the  Italian  language  is  that 
which  is  advocated  by  Muratori,  Pontanini,  Tlraboechl, 
Denina,  GInguenA,  asmondl,  and  most  of  the  philologen  of 
the  present  day.  All  these  writen  recognise  the  immediate 
cooperation  of  the  Northern  languages  in  the  formation  of 
the  Italian.  Their  theory  is  briefly  this.  Before  the  North- 
em  Invasions,  the  Latin  language  had  lost  much  of  its 
elegance  even  in  the  writings  of  the  learned,  and  in  the 
mouths  of  the  Illiterate  had  become  exceedingly  corrupt ; 
but  stIU  it  was  Latin.  When  these  invasions  took  place, 
the  conquerora  found  themselves  under  the  necessity  oif 
Isamlng,  to  a  certain  extent,  the  language  of  the  conquered. 
This,  however,  was  a  task  not  eeslly  accomplished  bf  un* 
lettered  men,  who,  in  their  eflbrte  to  speak  the  Latin,  in- 
troduced a  vicious  pronunciation,  and  many  of  the  ftmiliar 
forms  and  idioms  of  their  native  languages.  Thus  the 
articles  came  into  use ;  prepositions  were  substituted  ibr 
the  variotte  terminations  of  the  Latin  declensions ;  and  the 
auxiliary  verbs  crept  into  the  conjugations.  Though  the 
great  maas  of  words  remained  virtually  the  same,  yet  most 
of  them  were  more  or  less  mutilated,  and  a  great  number 
of  Gotldc  and  Lombard  words  were  naturalised  In  Italy,  by 
giving  them  a  Latin  termination.  To  tlie  conquered  people, 
the  gradual  transition  firom  one  degree  of  corruption  in 
their  huiguage  to  another  still  lower  was  both  natural  and 
easy ;  and  thus  a  conventional  language  was  formed,  which 
very  naturally  divided  itself  into  numerous  dialects,  and 
was  denominated  Vtdgo/rt  in  contradistinction  to  the  Latin ; 
for  the  Latin  still  continued  to  be  the  written  language  of 
the  studious  and  the  leemed. 


502 


ITALIAN   LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


the  Italian  language  alone  is  divided  into  at 
least  fourteen  dialects,  each  of  which  is  again 
subdivided  into  under-dialects,  — as,  the  Tuscan 
into  the  Sienese  and  Aretine,  the  Lombard 
into  the  dialects  of  Ferrara  and  Piacenza ;  and 
even  in  the  same  city  some  varieties  of  lan- 
guage may  be  found.  Hence,  if  we  include  the 
leading  dialects  of  the  Italian  Volgdre  with  the 
under-dialects  and  their  subdivisions,  the  varie- 
ties of  language  common  in  this  little  corner  of 
the  world  will  amount  to  a  thousand,  and  even 
more."  *  This  diversity  of  the  Italian  dialects 
is  doubtless  to  be  attributed  in  a  great  measure 
to  the  varieties  of  dialect  existing  in  the  vulgar 
Latin  at  the  time  of  the  Northern  invasions, 
and  to  similar  varieties  in  the  original  dialects 
of  the  invaders  themselves,  who,  it  will  be 
recollected,  were  of  different  tribes  of  the  vast 
family  of  the  Gotho- Germans,  among  which 
were  the  Ostrogoths,  the  Visigoths,  the  Lom- 
bards, the  Gepidi,  the  Bulgari,  the  Sarmati,  the 
Pannonii,  the  Suevi,  and  the  Norici.  Much, 
too,  must  be  attributed  to  the  accidental  but 
inevitable  changes  wrought  in  a  language  by  the 
gradual  progress  of  its  history,  and  the  contin- 
gencies of  time  and  place ;  and  something  to 
the  new  development  of  national  character  pro- 
duced by  the  admixture  of  the  Roman  and 
Teutonic  races.t 

After  enumerating  the  dialects  which  pre- 
vailed in  his  day,  Dante  goes  into  a  discussion 
of  the  beauties  and  defects  of  some  of  the  more 
prominent.  He  disposes  of  all  these  by  observ- 
ing that  neither  of  them  is  the  Volgare  lUustre^ 
to  discover  which  he  had  instituted  the  inquiry ; 
and  hence  draws  the  conclusion,  **  that  the  Vol- 
gare JUustre^  CardinaUy  AvUeOy  e  Cartigiano  of 
Italy  is  the  language  common  to  all  the  Italian 
cities,  but  peculiar  to  none."  In  other  words, 
it  exists  everywhere  in  parts,  but  nowhere  as 
a  whole,  save  in  the  pages  of  the  classic  writer. 
This  opinion,  however,  has  been  warmly  con- 
tested, and  the  champions  of  four  or  five  parties 
have  taken  the  field.  The  first,  with  Machia- 
velli  and  the  host  of  the  Florentine  Academy 
at  their  head,  have  asserted  the  supremacy  of 


*  De  Yulgarl  Eloquentia.  Gap.  Z. 
t  Each  of  the  lullan  cities  is  marked  by  peculiar  traits 
of  character  in  Its  inhabitants,  which  bear  In  the  months 
of  the  populace  some  epithet  of  praise,  or  are  the  subject 
of  gibe  and  ribaldry.  For  example,  the  Milanese  have  the 
toMquet  of  buom  buxxiconi;  and  In  the  foUowing  lines, 
quoted  in  HoweH'a  "Slgnorle  of  Venice,"  p.  66,  numerous 
epitheu  are  applied. 

"Fama  tra  noi ;  Romapofnposa e  ttmtaf 

Yenetla  Boggia^  Hea^  tignorik; 

Napoli  odorijbra  e  gentile  ; 

Fiorenza  betla,  tutto  U  mondo  cants ; 

Chande  Mtlano  In  Italia  si  vanU ; 

Bologna  gnuaa  ;  Ferrara  eMle  ; 

Padoua  dottOj  e  Bergamo  eottilei 

Genoa  dl  euperMa  altiera  planu ; 

Verona  degna^  e  Perugia  eangtiigna  ; 

Breacia  V  armata,  e  Mantoa  glorioea  / 

Rimini  bttona^  e  Plstola/errigna  ; 

Cremona  anHea^  e  Luca  induetrioeaf 

Furli  bixarro,  e  Rarenna  benigna  ;  "  dec 


the  language  of  the  city  of  Florence ;  and,  ac- 
tuated, it  would  seem,  more  by  the  zeal  of  local 
prejudice,  than  any  generous  feeling  of  natioosl 
pride,  have  contended,  that  the  classic  language 
of  that  literature,  in  whose  ample  field  the 
name  of  their  whole  country  was  already  so 
proudly  emblazoned,  was  the  dialect  of  Flor- 
ence, and  should  be  called,  not  Italian,  not 
even  Tuscan,  —  but  Florentine.  In  the  bitter- 
ness of  dispute,  Machiavelli  exclaims  agaiott 
the  author  of  the  *<Divina  Comoaedia," — "In 
every  thing  he  has  brought  infamy  upon  bis 
country ;  and  now,  even  in  her  language,  he 
would  tear  firom  her  that  reputation  which  be 
imagines  his  own  writings  have  conferred  upon 
her."*  There  spake  the  politician,  not  the 
scholar.  Machiavelli's  own  writings  are  the 
best  refutation  of  his  theory.  Bern  bo,  though 
a  Venetian,  and  Varchi,  the  historian  of  the 
wars  of  the  Florentine  Republic,  were  also  ad- 
vocates of  the  same  opinion.  In  bumble  imi- 
tation of  these,  some  members  of  the  Academj 
of  the  Intronati  in  Siena  put  in  their  claims  in 
favor  of  their  native  Sienese ;  and  one  writer, 
at  least,  of  Bologna  asserted  the  supremacy  of 
the  Bolognese.  Their  pretensions,  howeyer, 
seem  neither  to  have  caused  alarm,  nor  even  to 
have  excited  attention.  The  champions  of  th« 
name  and  glory  of  the  Tuscan  show  a  more 
liberal  spirit,  inasmuch  as  they  extend  to  a 
whole  province  what  the  Florentine  and  Sie- 
nese academicians  would  have  shut  up  within 
the  walls  of  a  single  city.  Among  those  who 
have  enlisted  beneath  this  banner  are  Doke 
and  Tolomei.  But  far  more  of  the  high  sod 
liberal  spirit  of  the  scholar  is  shown  by  those 
writers  who  do  not  arrogate  to  their  own  native 
city  or  province  that  glory  which  rightly  be- 
longs to  their  whole  country.  Among  those 
who  assert  the  common  right  of  all  the  provin- 
ces of  Italy  to  share  in  the  honor  of  baring 
contributed  something  to  the  classic  Italiso, 
and,  consequently,  say  that  it  should  bear  the 
name  of  Italian,  rather  than  that  of  Floreotioe, 
Sienese,  or  Tuscan,  afUr  Dante,  are  CasteWetro, 
Muzio,  and  Cesarotti.  Now,  as  is  almost  oni- 
versally  the  case  in  literary  warfare,  an  exclu- 
sive and  uncompromising  spirit  has  urged  the 
combatants  onward,  and  they  have  contended 
for  victory  rather  than  for  truth,  which  seemi 
to  lie  prostrate  in  the  field  midway  between 
the  contending  parties,  unseen  and  trampled 
upon  by  all.  The  ikcts  which  may  be  gathered 
fiom  the  contending  arguments  lead  one  U> 
embrace  the  opinion,  that  the  classic  Italian  is 
founded  upon  the  Tuscan,  but  adorned  and  en- 
riched by  words  and  idioms  from  all  the  proT- 
inces  of  Italy.  In  other  words,  each  of  tbe 
Italian  dialects  has  contributed  something  to 
its  formation,  but  most  of  all  the  Tuscan  ;  and 
the  language  thus  formed  belongs  not  to  a  single 

*  Dlscorao  in  cui  si  eaamina  se  la  lingua  In  cui  scrlMtro 
Dante,  11  Boccaccio,  e  II  Petiarca  el  debba  chiaoMie  Im- 
llana,Toscana,oFiorantina.  Maobiavklu.  Opera.  IVhdo 
X,  p.  371. 


ITALIAN  LANaUAOE  AND  POETRY. 


603 


citj,  Dor  a  single  province,  but  is  the  common 
pottessioD  of  the  whole  of 

"  n  bel  paese  1*  dove  11  al  swMW." 
Sach  is  the  languafe,  which  in  the  fourteenth 
ceotary  was  carried  to  its  highest  state  of  per^ 
fection  in  the  writings  of  Dante,  Petrarch,  and 
Boccaccio.     Beneath  their  culture,  the  tree, 
whose  fa^spreading  roots  drew   nourishment 
from  the  soil  of  every  province,  reared  aloft  its 
leafy  branches  to  the  skj,  vocal  with  song,  and 
proffered  shelter  to  all  who  came   to  sit  be- 
neath its  shadow  and  listen  to  the  laughing 
tale,  the  amorous  laj,  or  the  awful  mysteries 
of  another  life.     Dante  Alighieri  was  bom  at 
Florence  in  1265,  and   died   at  Ravenna  in 
1321.    As  an  author,  he  belongs  to  the  fbur- 
teenth  century.     Boccaccio  says,  that  he  wrote 
in  his  native  dialect ;  but  it  is  conceded  on  all 
bands,  and  all  his  writings  prove  the  fact,  that 
he  did  not  confine  himself  exclusively  to  any 
one  dialect,  but  drew  from  all  whatever  they 
contained  of  force  and  beauty.     In  the  words 
of  Gesarotti,  in  his  **  Essay  on  the  Philosophy 
of  Language,"  *<  The  genius  of  Dante  was  not 
the  slave  of  his  native  idiom.     His  zeal  was 
rather  national  than  simply  patriotic.     The  cre- 
ator of  a  philosophic  language,  he  sacrifices  all 
conventional   elegance   to   expressiveness  and 
force ;  and,  far  fh>m  flattering  a  particular  dia- 
lect, lords  it  over  the  whole  language,  which 
he  seems  at  times  to  rule  with  despotic  sway.*' 
In  this  way,  Dante  advanced  the  Italian  to  a 
high  rank  among  the  living  languages  of  his 
age.     Posterity  has  not  withheld   the   honor, 
then  bestpwed  upon  him,  of  being  the  most 
perfect  master  of  the  vulgar  tongue,  that  had 
appeared :    and  this  seems  to  strengthen  and 
establish  the  argument,  that  the  Italian  language 
consists  of  the  gems  of  various  dialects  enchas- 
ed in  the  pure  gold  of  the  Tuscan. 

Francesco  Petrarca  was  bom  in  1304,  and 
Jied  in  1374.  During  his  residence  at  Vau- 
slose,  he  made  the  Provencal  language  and  the 
>oetry  of  the  Troubadours  his  study.  From 
he  former  he  enriched  the  vocabulary  of  bis 
lative  tongue,  and  from  the  latter  his  own  son- 
lets  and  canzom  ;  but  we  are  inclined  to  think, 
hat,  in  both  these,  critics  have  much  exaggerated 
be  amouDt.  Many  Italian  words  supposed  to 
ave  been  introduced  by  him  from  the  Proven- 
al  are  of  native  origin  ;  and  in  regard  to  the 
la^ariams  (torn  Mossen  Jordf,  those  cited  are 
>w  in  number,  and  may  be  in  part  accounted 
T  by  regarding  them  as  simple  coincidences 
*  thought,  or -by  referring  them  to  that  myste- 
OU9  principle  of  the  mind,  by  which  the  ideas 
e  have  gathered  from  books  or  from  those 
oand  us  start  up  like  the  spontaneous  off- 
ring  of  our  own  powers.  But  Petrarch's  res- 
ence  at  Avignon,  and  his  study  of  the  Trou- 
doam  of  Provence,  were  productive  of  more 
U  adTantages  than  these ;  for  there  the  poet 
tight  the  cunning  art  of  his  melodious  peri- 
s,  and  thus  infused  into  his  native  language 
the  softness  and  flexibility  of  the  dialect  of 


the  South  of  France.  Dante  Itad  already  given 
majesty  and  force  to  the  Italian ;  Petrarch  im- 
parted to  it  elegance  and  refinement.  To  use 
the  language  of  an  Italian  author, — **  He  wrote 
¥rith  so  great  elegance,  and  such  a  delicate 
choice  of  words  and  phrases,  that  for  the  space 
of  four  hundred  yean  no  one  has  appeared  who 
can  boast  of  having  carried  to  greater  perfec- 
tion, or  refined  in  any  degree,  the  style  of  his 
«« Canzoniere."  On  the  contrary,  he  stands  so 
sovereign  and  unrivalled  a  master  of  this  lan- 
guage, particularly  in  poetry,  that  perhaps  no 
author  exists  in  any  tongue,  whose  expressions 
may  be  so  freely  and  unhesitatingly  imitated 
both  in  verse  and  in  prose,  as  those  of  Petrarch, 
although  he  wrote  four  centuries  ago,  and  the 
language  has  still  continued  a  living  language, 
subject  to  the  continual  changes  of  time."* 

Giovanni  Boccaccio  was  bom  in  Paris,  in 
1313,  and  died  in  1375.  Italian  critics  do  not 
bestow  the  same  unqualified  praise  upon  his 
language  as  upon  that  of  Petrarch.  They  find 
him  something  old  and  musty ;  and  complain 
of  his  Latin  inversions,  and  that  Ciceronian 
fulness  of  periods,  which  characterizes  the  style 
of  the  Tuscan  novelist.  And  yet  they  all  agree 
in  awarding  him  the*  praise  of  being  a  strong  and 
energetic  writer,  and  are  willing  to  confess,  that, 
single-handed,  he  did  for  Italian  prose  what 
Dante  and  Petrarch  had  done  for  its  poetry. 
M  The  *  Decameron '  of  Boccaccio,"  says  the  au- 
thor just  quoted,  "  is  by  far  the  best  model  of 
eloquence  which  Italian  literature  can  boast. 
There  are  other  writings  whose  style  may  be 
more  elegant  and  pure,  others  more  useful  on 
account  of  a  more  obvious  and  perhaps  greater 
abundance  of  important  information ;  but  with- 
out  reading  the  *  Decameron '  of  Boccaccio,  no 
one  can  know  the  true  spirit  of  our  language." 

By  such  writers  was  the  Italian  language 
brought  to  its  highest  point  of  literary  culture, 
befi>re  the  close  of  the  fi)urteenth  century.  Dur- 
ing the  fifteenth,  there  is  nothing  remarkable  in 
its  history ;  but  at  the  commencement  of  the 
sixteenth,  a  literary  contest  arose  concerning  it, 
which  terminated  in  results  most  favorable  to 
its  prevalence  and  permanence.  The  writings 
of  Dante,  Petrarch,  and  Boccaccio  in  the  vulgar 
tongue  produced  so  great  a  revolution  in  public 
taste,  and  raised  the  language  in  which  they 
were*  composed  into  such  repute,  that  those 
uninitiated  in  the  mysteries  of  learning  began 
to  jeer  the  wisdom  of  the  schools,  and  to  point 
the  finger  of  ridicule  at  all  who  walked  be- 
fisre  them  in  the  strange  and  antiquated  garb 
of  the  Latin.  The  Academies,  too,  of  which 
such  a  vast  number  saw  the  light  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  sixteenth  century,  began  to 
occupy  themselves  seriously  with  the  study  of 
the  vulgar  tongue,  examining  the  works  of  its 
classic  writers  in  order  to  draw  from  them  ex- 
amples and  authorities  whereon  to  rest  its 
philosophical  principles,  and  thus  reducing  to  a 

*  DmiNA.    Sagglo  sopra  la  Lettaratara  Italiana. 


504 


ITALIAN  LANGUAGE   AND   POETRY. 


regular  sjatem  Vhat  had  previously  been  the 
result  of  usage  or  caprice.  This  progress  in 
the  Italian  language  excited  the  jealousy  of  all 
the  devotees  of  the  Latin,  and  thej  soon  de- 
clared an  exterminating  warfiure  against  the  in- 
truding dialect  Romolo  Amaseo,  Professor  of 
Eloquence  and  Belles-lettres  at  Bologna,  was 
Peter-the-Hermit  in  this  literary  crusade ;  and 
in  the  year  1529,  in  the  presence  of  the  Em- 
peror Charles  the  Fifth  and  Pope  Clement  the 
Seventh,  he  harangued  for  two  successive  days 
against  the  Italian  language,  maintaining  with 
eloquence  that  the  Latin  ought  to  reign  su- 
preme, and  the  Italian  be  degraded  to  a  patoU^ 
and  confined  to  the  peasant's  hut,  and  the 
shambles  and  marketpplaces  of  the  city.  Many 
other  learned  men  of  the  age  followed  him  to 
the  field,  and  contended  with  much  zeal  for 
the  cause  of  the  Latin  ;  some  even  went  so  far 
as  to  wish  the  Italian  banished  entirely  from 
the  world.  But  stalwart  champions  were  not 
wanting  on  the  other  side ;  and,  to  be  brief, 
the  impulse  of  public  opinion  soon  swept  away 
all  opposition,  and  the  popular  cause  was  trium- 
phant.* The  effect  of  this  was  to  establish  the ' 
Italian  upon  a  firmer  foundation.  One  noble 
monument  of  the  literary  labors  of  this  century 
in  behalf  of  the  Italian  is  the  **  Vocabulary  " 
of  the  renowned  Aeeademia  deUa  Crusea^  which 
was  first  published  in  1612,  and  has  ever  since 
remained  the  irrefi-agable  code  of  pure  and 
classic  language. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  pursue  the  history  of  the 
Italian  more  in  detail,  or  to  bring  it  down  to  a 
later  period.  What  changes  have  since  taken 
place  are  the  gradual  and  inevitable  changes 
which  time  works  in  all  things,  and  which  are 
io  picturesquely  described  by  the  Roman  poet : 

"Ul  aylrffi  follifl  pmatm  muuntur  In  anhoa^ 
Prima  ciulunl;  ita  Terborym  Teiua  i  uteri  L  slas, 
El  juvBiipm  ritu  floftnt  mqdo  nata,  TigBJilque, 


MuLla  nnaKenttir  qum  jam  cec^Eden,  cad«niqiia 
Quffi  nunc  emit  tn  lH>iit>na  vocAbtila,  il  roldt  umu: 
Quern  p«tuu  arbitiium  fnt^  el  jue  ol  norma  ioquendl.'* 

The  prindpd   dJaLects  of  the  Italian   are: 

I.  The  Bidlian;  2.  The  Calabrian ;  3.  The 
Neapolitan  ;  4.  The  Roman ;  &,  The  Norcian ; 
6.  The  Tuscan  ;  7.  The  Bolognese ;  8.  The 
Venetian  j  9.  The  Friuliftn  ;  10.  The  Faduan ; 

II.  The  Lombard  ;  12.  The  Milanese  ;  13.  The 
Bergamash  ^  H.  The  Piedmonteie;  15.  The 
Genoese ;  16,  The  Coreican ;  17,  The  Sardin- 
ian. 

I.  The  Biciliaet,  This  was  the  first  of  the 
Italian  dialects,  which  was  converted  la  literary 
U9es,  So  far,  at  leofFi,  it  may  be  cat  led  the 
mot  her- tongue  of  t[ie  Its  1  tan  Muse,  as  Sicily 
itseLr  fait«  of\en  been  called  her  cradle.  It  ex- 
hibit vestige^,  more  or  le&s  diRtinct,  of  all  the 
ancient  and  succeBiive  lords  of  the  island, 
Greeks,  Carthaginians,  Romani,  Byzantines, 
ArabSf  Normans,  Garman§,  French,  and  Span- 

*■  Far  4  more  delailad  nccDunt  aTih\$  Litenrr  contest,  mo 
QtHiumtk,  Hi«t»  UVL  d'ttolle,  Tvtn.  Ylt,  pp.  3g7,  et  seq. 


iards.  Its  best  form  is  that  spoken  at  Palenno; 
though  but  slight  local  varieties  are  to  be  fouad 
in  any  part  of  the  island.  One  circoDistaooe, 
however,  is  worthy  of  remark ;  which  is,  that 
in  the  towns  and  villages  on  the  southero  ooirt 
Arabic  words  predominate,  whereas  in  all  odier 
parts  the  Qreek  and  Proven^  prevail. 

II.  Thb  Calabriah.  The  Calabrian  diaket 
is  a  connecting  link  between  the  Sicilian  and 
the  Neapolitan.  It  possesses  many  of  the  pecn- 
liarities  of  each  of  these,  and  a  few  which  an 
found  in  neither  of  them. 

III.  Thjb  Nbapolitah.  The  Neapolitan  ia one 
of  the  principal  dialects  of  Italy.  In  its  train  it 
counts  several  subordinate  dialects,  such  aa  the 
PugUese  or  Apnlian,  the  Sabine,  and  that  of  the 
island  of  Capri.  Even  in  Naples,  the  diffennt 
quarters  of  the  city  are  marked  bj  difieieot 
jargons,  though  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that 
these  subdivisions  exhibit  any  varieties  so  strik- 
ing as  to  diminish  the  universal  sway  cfPidd- 
laeUa,  or  to  prevent  that  monarch's  voice  fifon 
being  understood  in  every  nook  and  corner  of 
his  own  peculiar  dominion. 

IV.  Thb  Rom ak.  The  Roman  is  by  ftr  the 
most  easily  underetood  of  all  the  Italian  dia- 
lects, though  at  the  same  time  neither  the  moat 
beautiful  nor  the  most  cultivated.  At  its  origin, 
it  seems  to  have  been  the  rudest  of  all.*  Bot 
this  was  while  the  papal  court  resided  at  Arig- 
non.  lu  removal  to  Rome  produced,  doubtlea^ 
a  great  change  in  the  language  of  that  city ;  and 
the  large  concourse  of  strangers,  and  partico- 
larly  of  ecclesiastics,  firom  all  quarters  of  ItaJj, 
must  have  had  a  tendency  to  depriveit  of  locii 
and  provincial  peculiarities,  and  to  give  it  a 
character  more  conformable  to  the  written  lan- 
guage of  Italy ;  for  all  who  resorted  thither  from 
the  remoter  towns  and  provinces  would  natn- 
rally,  in  their  daily  intercourse,  divest  their 
speech  of  the  grosser  peculiarities  of  their  re- 
spective  dialects. 

The  Roman  populace  is  divided  into  three 
distinct  and  well  defined  classes;— the  Al»- 
teggiani,  who  inhabit  the  region  of  the  fi^ 
quiline,  Quirinal,  and  Capitoline  Wlw;  "^ 
PopolanH,  who  reside  in  the  neighbourhood  o 
the  Porta  del  Popolo,  both  within  and  witbow 
the  gate;  and  the  Trasteoerini,  who  h^e  on 
the  western  bank  of  the  Tiber,  toward  »uni 
Peter's  and  the  Janiculum.  Each  of  »«» 
classes  has  some  disUnguishing  P««"'**"^,i: 
iu  dialec^  and  to  these  three  ^^'^'^'^^^^ 
Unguaggio  Romaneseo  may  be  added  a  mr^i 
that  of  the  Ghetto,  or  Jewish  quarter  of  »omt. 
This  last  is  rather  a  dialect  of  a  ditjif^^  ««* 
may  be  found  in  most  of  the  Italian  «»*"*■*. 

V.  Thb  Norcian.  Proceeding  nortfcwan. 
from  the  Eternal  City,  the  next  diaJect  we  w|- 
counter  is  the  Romana  Rustiea  of  NorciS; 


*  Danta,  In  his  treatise  "De  Volgari  ^S^il  P^ 
■enres;  "DiclDiaa  ergo  Romanomm  noo  •"f^"^^  jor- 
Hue  triMtHofuium,  Itatoram  vulgariom  '>^*^^^ 
pinlmam;  nee  mlnun,  cum  etiam  ^'^^'^^Jr^^ 


deformitate  pr»  conctia  rldeantur  ftateie. 


Cap.  XL 


ITALIAN  LANeUAG£  AND  POETRY. 


505 


dialect  which  Dante  deaignatea  aa  the  ^jfoUUno. 
Norda  ia  a  amall  city  in  the  duchy  of  Spoleto, 
about  fifty  milea  north-eaat  firom  Rome.  The 
language  apoken  there  and  in  the  aurroaoding 
eoantry  ia  called  the  dimUtio  JfifrdmO' 

VI.  Ths  Tvboah.  The  dialect  of  Tuaoany 
aenda  forth  aix  distinct  branchea.  Each  of  theae 
diviaiona  ia  marked  by  ita  peculiaritiea.  They 
are :  1.  Toscaiuf  Fiarmtmo^  apoken  at  Florence ; 
2.  ToMcano  Smuse^  apoken  at  Siena ;  3.  Tifsean/9 
FistojoMO^  spoken  at  Piatoja;  4.  Tose^no  Piaono, 
apoken  at  Pisa;  5.  TMcano  Luechese^  spoken  at 
Lucca;  6.  Ibscano  Jiretino^  spoken  at  Arezzo. 

In  the  Florentine  dialect,  a  diatinction  is  alao 
made  between  the  lingua  Fiorentina  di  cUtd^ 
or  the  language  of  the  lower  claasea  in  the  city, 
and  the  Uigua  Fiorentina  ruatiea  di  ecntado^  or 
the  language  of  the  oeasantry  in  the  vicinity. 
The  Florentine  di  eiUa  is  alao  subdivided,  with* 
in  the  very  walla  of  the  city,  into  the  two  dia- 
leeia  of  the  Mereato  Veeehio  and  the  Mercato 
Jfuovo^  and  the  riboboU  or  pithy  sayings  of  either 
of  these  qn&rters  ef  the  city  would  not  be  fiiUy 
understood  and  felt  by  the  inhabitanta  of  the 
other. 

The  tbteano  Samse  is  the  same,  in  the  main, 
as  the  Florentine. 

Among  all  the  Tuacan  dialecta,  the  Piatoian 
has  the  least  of  the  disagreeable  gorgia  Fiortur 
Una^  or  guttural  aapirate  of  Florence. 

The  (Ualect  of  Pisa  ia  more  atrongly  marked 
with  the  Florentine  aapirate. 

The  dialect  of  Locca  haa  the  reputation  of 
being  aa  pure  aa  any,  if  not  the  pureat,  among 
the  Tuacan  dialecta.  Still,  it  ia  not  without  ita 
Tolgariama  and  plebeian  peculiaritiea. 

VII.  Tbb  BoLOGVxsK.  The  Bologneae  is  the 
moat  southern  of  the  harah  Lombud  dialecta 
of  the  North  of  Italy.  In  thia  dialect,  not  only 
are  the  Yowela  cut  off  at  the  termination  ii 
vrorda,  but,  generally  apeaking,  a  word  loses  all 
its  vowels,  saving  that  which  beara  the  accent 
Indeed,  ita  elementa  may  be  conaidered  —  we 
uae  the  forcible,  but  very  inelegant,  metaphor  of 
a  modem  Engliah  traveller*— aa  **  Tuacan  vo- 
<»ble8  gutted  and  truaaed.'*  Thia  condenaation 
oF  words  by  the  suppression  of  their  vowels 
constitutes  the  chief  peculiarity  of  the  Bolo^^ 
neae  dialect;  aa,  for  example,  «#m  for  asino; 
Uigrm  for  lagrime;  de  voU  for  ddU  vpiU;  yr 
fkj/r  per;  st  for  quuto;  ij  for  beUi;  dbo. 

Dante  speaks  in  praise  of  the  Bolognese  dia* 
lect.t  He  calla  it  a  beautiful  language,  ^^ad  lau' 
dahiUnt  suamtatem  temperata.** 

VIIL  Thb  Vehxtiah.  The  Venetian  ia  the 
moet  beautiful  of  all  the  Italian  dialects.  Its 
proounciation  is  remarkably  soft  and  pleasant ; 
the  sound  of  the  sek  and  tfdk,  so  firequent  in 
tbe  ^Tuscan  and  Southern  dialecta,  being  chang- 
ed into  the  aoft  s  and  is.  This  peculiarity  of 
the  Venetian,  aurrounded  aa  it  ia  by  the  harah, 


*  Ijeitsn  from  tbt  North  of  luly :  addrsnod  to  Haaiy 
BalUtiB,  E«i.,  VoL  Q.,  p.  19L 

t  I>a  Yitlg.  Eloq.,  Lib.  L,  Oip.  XV. 
64 


unmusical  dialects  of  the  North,  can  be  attrib- 
uted to  no  other  cause  than  the  local  situation 
of  the  city.  Sheltered  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Adriatic,  it  lay  beyond  the  reach  of  thoae  bar- 
barooa  hordea  which  ever  and  anon  with  deso- 
lating blaat  awept  the  North  of  Italy  like  a 
mountain  wind.  Hence,  it  grew  up  aoft,  flexi- 
ble, and  melodious,  and  unencumbered  with 
thoae  harsh  and  barbarous  sounds  which  so 
strikingly  deform  the  neighbouring  dialects  of 
the  North  of  Italy. 

IX.  Thx  FniuLiAir.  The  Friulian,  or  dialeUo 
Fta-lano^  is  the  language  of  the  province  of 
Friuli,  lying  north  of  the  Venetian  Gulf,  and 
bounded  westward  by  the  Trevisan,  the  Feltrin, 
and  the  Belluneae.  It  is  a  mixture  of  corrupt 
Italian  with  tbe  Sclavonic  and  Southern  French. 
The  French  admixture  must  have  taken  place 
in  the  fourteenth  century,  when  Bertrand  de 
Querci  and  Cardinal  Philip  went  to  that  prov- 
ince with  great  numbers  of  Gascons  and  Pro- 
veni^ala.*  The  dialect  is  not  uniform  through- 
out the  province  of  Friuli. 

X.  Thx  Papuan.  The  Paduan  dialect,  or 
lingua  ru9tica  Pavana^  is  a  stepping-stone  from 
the  Venetian  to  the  Lombard.  It  is  composed 
of  an  admixture  of  these  two,  and  ia  one  of  the 
moat  unintelligible  of  the  Italian  dialects. 

XI.  Thx  LoMBARi).  This  is  the  dialect  spo- 
ken in  that  fortile  country  watered  by  the  river 
Po,  and  stretching  westward  from  the  Adige 
to  the  Bergamaaco  and  the  Milanese,  and  south- 
ward till  it  includea  the  duchies  of  Parma  and 
Modena.  The  wide  territory,  over  which  thia 
dialect  may  be  aaid  to  sway  the  aceptre  of  the 
tongue,  includea  the  cities  of  Mantua,  Cremona, 
and  Breacia  on  the  northern  side  of  the  Po,  and 
Ferrara,  Modena,  Piacenza,  and  Parma  on  the 
southern.  Of  course,  no  great  uniformity  of 
language  prevaila,  inaamuch  aa  each  of  these 
cities  has  its  peculiarities  and  modifications  of 
the  general  dialect  Beaides,  the  line  of  de- 
marcation which  separates  one  dialect  from 
another  can  never  be  perfectly  distinct  and 
well  defined.  On  the  bordera  of  each  province, 
the  varioua  and  fluctuating  tides  of  language 
must  meet  and  mingle.  Thus,  in  its  northern 
districts,  the  Lombard  haa  much  in  common 
with  the  Bergamaak  and  the  Milanese,  the 
Paduan  connecta  it  with  the  Venetian,  and  in 
Modena  and  Ferrara  it  is  so  closely  connected 
with  the  Bolognese  aa  to  be  almost  the  aame 
language. 

XII.  Thx  Mila5XSX.  Like  all  the  rest  of 
the  Lombard  dialecta,  the  diaUUo  Milanese  ez- 


*  West  of  Friuli,  In  the  Boatbem  portion  of  the  7yn>* 
leee,  two  dlaleeto  of  Germao  origin  are  spoken.  Thtj  are, 
the  dialect  of  the  Sette  ComwU,  apoken  In  tbe  countrj 
round  Ylcenia,  and  that  of  the  Tndud  Comuni  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Verona.  They  are  remnants  of  the  Up- 
per German,  or  Ober-JDeuieeh.  As  these  are  not  dialects 
of  tbe  Italian  language,  though  spoken  within  the  territory 
of  Italy,  we  shall  not  notice  them  more  partlculariy,  but 
refer  the  reader  to  Adelung's  "  Mithridatas,"  YoL  H,  p.  216, 
tit  a  more  minute  account  of  them. 

0,0, 


506 


ITALIAN   LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


faibits,  in  its  mutilated  syllables  and  harsh  con- 
sonant terminations,  strong  marks  of  the  march 
and  empire  of  Northern  invaders.  It  is  di- 
vided into  a  city  and  a  country  dialect.  Near 
the  Lago  di  Lugano  and  the  Lago  di  Como 
this  dialect  is  more  unintelligible  than  else- 
where, on  account  of  the  intercourse  of  the 
people  with  their  German  neighbours,  and  the 
necessary  admixture  of  their  language ;  and 
westward,  upon  the  shores  of  the  Lago  Maggi- 
ore,  the  Milanese  passes  gradually  into  the 
Piedmontese.  ^ 

XIII.  The  Bkroamask.  This  is  the  dialect 
of  the  province  of  Bergamasco,  lying  north-east 
of  the  Milanese,  among  the  lakes  and  moun- 
tains which  mark  the  northern  boundary  of 
Italy.  It  is  the  harshest  of  all  the  Italian  dia- 
lects, and  the  most  remarkable  for  its  contrac- 
tions and  mutilations. 

XIV.  The  Piedmontese.  This  dialect  very 
clearly  declares  the  neighbourhood  of  the  French 
frontier.  In  the  province  of  Piedmont,  two 
great  branches  of  the  old  Romaneef  the  French 
and  Italian,  may  be  said  to  meet  and  mingle ; 
or  rather,  amid  its  snowy  hills  to  have  had  a 
common  fountain,  the  one  flowing  westward  to 
the  plains  of  France,  and  the  other  pouring  its 
4ributary  stream  down  the  southern  declivity  of 
the  Alps. 

XV.  The  Genoese.  The  dialect  of  Genoa 
is  called  the  dialetto  Zenetxe,  from  Zena,  the 
name  of  the  city  in  the  popular  tongue.  Like 
the  Piedmontese,  it  possesses  much  in  common 
with  the  French. 

This  dialect  has  several  subdivisions,  both 
within  the  city  of  Genoa  and  in  the  surround- 
ing country.  Westward,  towards  the  French 
frontier,  it  assimilates  itself  more  and  more  to 
the  French ;  and  towards  the  south  and  east, 
becomes  more  nearly  allied  to  the  Italian. 

Along  the  seaboard,  in  Mentone  and  Mo- 
naco, a  kind  of  frontier  dialect  is  spoken.  It 
is  a  mixture  of  Genoese,  Piedmontese,  and  Pro- 
vencal ;  the  first  two  predominating.  Many 
Spanish  words  are  also  intermingled,  Monaco 
having  formerly  been  under  the  government  of 
Spain.  Though  Monaco  and  Mentone  are  but 
a  few  miles  distant  from  each  other,  some  mark- 
ed peculiarities  of  dialect  may  be  observed  in 
the  two  places.  At  Nice  the  Provencal  is  spok- 
en, though  mixed  with  many  Italian  words. 

XVI.  The  Corsican.  The  dialect  of  the 
island  of  Corsica  seems  never  to  have  attract- 
ed very  strongly  the  attention  of  Italian  schol- 
ars. Travellers  have  seldom  penetrated  beyond 
the  cities  of  the  seashore,  so  that  no  accounts 
are  given  of  the  dialect  of  the  interior ;  and  as 
literary  curiosity  has  never  been  excited  upon 
the  subject,  no  work,  we  believe,  has  been  pub- 
lished in  the  dialect,  or  dialects,  of  the  island. 
Denina  says,  in  his  «« Clef  des  Langues,"  that 
the  language  of  the  higher  classes  bears  a  strong, 
er  resemblance  to  the  Tuscan  than  do  the  dia- 
lects of  the  other  islands  of  the  Gulf  of  Genoa, 
as  formerly  a  very  lively  commerce  opened  a 


constant  intercourse  between  Leghorn  and  the 
Corsican  seaboard.  Some  remarks  upon  this 
dialect  may  be  found  in  the  *'  Voyage  d«  Ljoo- 
m^e  en  Corse."  | 

XVII.  The  Sardinian.  The  island  of  Sar-  | 
dinia  has  been  inhabited  and  governed  by  a  ra- 
rious  succession  of  colonists.  Huns,  Greeks, 
Carthaginians,  Romans,  Vandals,  BjrzantiDes, 
Ostrogoths,  Lombards,  Franks,  Arabians,  Pisass, 
and  Aragonese,  —  all  these  have  at  varioas 
epochs  dwelt  within  its  territory.  Hence  the 
variety  of  the  dialects  which  checker  the  lan- 
guage of  the  island,  or  rather  the  variety  of  lao- 
guages  there  spoken.  The  first  and  principal 
division  of  these  is  into  the  lingiia  SardA,  the 
vernacular  Sardinian,  and  the  lingtte  Fore^uri^ 
or  the  foreign  dialects  spoken  in  some  parts  of 
the  island.     Each  of  these  has  its  subdiviaiofli. 

1.  The  lingua  Sarda  is  divided  into  the  dU- 
letto  CampiiUnes*  and  the  dialetto  Logodtn^ 
and  contains  a  great  number  of  Greek,  French, 
German,  and  Spanish  words. 

The  dialetto  Campidanese  is  the  laogotfe 
spoken  in  the  southern  part-  of  the  island.  On 
the  eastern  shore  it  has  much  in  common  with 
the  Sicilian,  and  on  the  western  with  the  Cata- 
Ionian  dialect  of  Spain. 

The  dialetto  Logodoro  is  the  language  of  the 
North  of  Sardinia,  though  it  does  not  univenal- 
ly  prevail  there.  It  partakes  of  the  various  pe- 
culiarities which  we  have  mentioned  as  belong- 
ing to  the  Campidanese^  and  the  main  distioc- 
tion  between  these  two  dialects  seems  to  be, 
that  the  Logodoro  is  not  so  uniform  in  the  use 
of  these  peculiaritieB  as  the  Campidanese.  This, 
without  doubt,  must  be  attributed  to  the  influ- 
ence of  the  Tuscan^  which  is  spoken  in  many 
of  the  principal  cities  and  villages  of  the  North. 
Indeed,  the  dialetto  Logodoro  seems  to  be  a  mix* 
tnre  of  the  Tuscan  and  Campidanese. 

2.  Ungue  Forestieri  of  Sardinia.  The  Cet- 
alonian  and  the  I^iscan  are  the  two  principal 
foreign  dialects  spoken  in  the  island.  As  dia- 
lects, these  are  confined  to  the  North,  though 
their  influence  seems  to  extend  through  the 
whole  country.  The  Catalonian  is  spoken  in 
the  city  of  Alghieri,  which  is  a  Spanish  colony 
on  the  western  coast.  The  Tuscan  has  a  more 
extended  sway,  and  is  the  language  of  Saasan, 
Castel-Sardo,  Tempio,  and  the  surrounding 
country ;  though,  of  course,  with  many  local 
modifications.* 

The  history  of  Italian  poetry  may  be  con- 
veniently divided  into  four  periods.  I.  F'^"' 
1200  to  1400.  II.  From  1400  to  1500.  HI. 
From  1500  to  1600.  IV.  From  1600  to  the 
present  time. 

I.  From  1200  to  1400.  The  earliest  of  the 
lUlian  poets  is  Ciullo  d'  Alcamo,  the  Sicilian, 
who  flourished  at  the  close  of  the  tweWh  cen- 
tury, about  1197.     From   his  day  to  that  of 


*  For  a  mora  elaborate  accoant  of  the  Italian  dlala^* 
and  their  lltantuK,  aee"  North  American  Renew/  w 
October,  1838. 


ITALIAN  LAN6UAOE  AND  POETRY. 


607 


Dante,  flourished  some  thirty  rhyme-smitht, 
among  whom  Brunetto  Latini  wrote  the  most, 
and  Beato  Benedetti,  Guido  Guinicelli,  and  Fra 
Guittone  d'  Arezzo  the  best.  Beato  Benedetti 
is  the  reputed  author  of  the  beautiful  Latin 
hjmn  of  ^  Stabat  Mater  *' ;  and  Guido  Guini- 
celli  is  the  bard  whom  Dante  eulogizes  as  the 
writer  of 

"  Thoss  dulcet  lays,  all  which,  as  long 
As  of  our  tongue  the  besulj  does  not  &de, 
Shall  make  ua  lore  the  rary  ink  that  wrote  them." 

The  age  of  Dante  was  an  age  of  Tiolence, 
when  the  law  of  force  prevailed.  The  Floren- 
tines were  a  heroic  people.  Thej  declared 
war  by  sending  a  bloody  glove  to  their  enemy ; 
and  the  onset  of  battle  was  sounded,  not  by 
the  blast  of  trumpets,  but  by  the  ringing  of  a 
great  bell,  which  was  wheeled  about  the  field. 
Florence  was  then  a  republic.  So  were  all  the 
neighbouring  states.  The  spirit  of  liberty  was 
wild,  not  easily  tamed,  not  easily  subjected  to 
laws.  Amid  civil  discords,  family  feuds,  tavern 
quarrels,  street  broils,  and  the  disaffection  of 
the  poor  towards  the  rich,  it  was  in  vain  for 
Fra  Giovanni  to  preach  the  ^^  Kiss  of  Peace." 
Buondelmonte  was  dragged  from  his  horse  and 
murdered  at  the  base  of  Mars*s  statue,  in  broad 
day ;  Ricoverino  de*  Cerchi  had  his  nose  cut 
off  in  a  ball-room ;  and  the  exile  of  Dante 
can  be  traced  back  to  a  drunken  quarrel  be- 
tween Godfrey  Cancellieri  and  his  cousin  Amsp 
doro  in  a  tavern  at  Pistoja. 

The  pride  of  human  intellect  in  that  age  was 
displayed  in  the  scholastic  philosophy.  Peter 
Lombard,  the  Wise  Master  of  Sentences,  had 
been  mouldering  in  bis  grave  just  one  hundred 
years  when  Dante  was  born ;  and  the  mystic 
poet  was  still  a  child,  when  the  Angelic  Doctor, 
Thomas  Aquinas,  —  called  by  his  schoolmates, 
at  Cologne,  the  Dumb  Ox, —  having  at  length 
fulfilled  the  prophecy  of  his  master,  Albertus 
Magnus,  and  given  "  such  a  bellow  in  learning 
afl  was  heard  all  over  the  world,"  had  fallen 
asleep  in  the  Cistercian  convent  at  Terracina, 
saying,  *'  This  is  my  rest  for  ages  without  end." 
These  great  masters  were  gone ;  but  others  had 
arisen  to  take  their  places,  and  to  teach  that  the 
true  religion  is  the  true  philosophy,  and  the  true 
philosophy  the  true  religion.  Among  these 
were  Henry  of  GothQls,  the  Doctor  SolemnU^ 
and  Richard  of  Middletown,  the  Doctor  SoUdua^ 
and  Giles  of  Cologne,  the  Doctor  Fundatissi' 
mus,  and  John  Duns  Scotus,  the  Doctor  dubtUis, 
and  founder  of  the  Formalists, — who  taught  that 
the  end  of  philosophy  is,  to  find  out  the  quid- 
dity of  things,  —  that  every  thing  has  a  kind  of 
quiddity  or  quidditive  existence, —  and  that  noth- 
ingness is  divided  into  absolute  nothingness, 
mrhich  has  no  quiddity  or  thingness,  and  rela- 
tive nothingness,  which  has  no  existence  out  of 
the  understanding.  Side  by  side  with  these 
stood  Raymond  Lully,  the  Doctor  lUunUnatats, 
and  Francis  of  Mayence,  the  Magister  Acutus 
Abstraetionum^  and  William  Durand,  the  Doctor 
MesoltUisnmuSy  and  Walter  Burleigh,  the  Doctor 


Planus  et  Perspicuus,  and  William  Occam,  the 
Doctor  InvincAUis,  SingulariSf  et  VenerabUis. 
These  were  men  of  acute  and  masculine  intel- 
lect: 

For  In  tboae  dark  and  Iron  daya  of  old, 
Arooe,  amid  the  plgmiee  of  their  age, 

Minda  of  a  maaslve  and  gigantic  mould, 
Whom  we  must  measure  as  the  Cretan  aage 

Meaaured  the  pyramids  of  ages  past;  — 

By  the  fiirreachlng  shadows  that  they  cast. 

These  philosophic  studies  are  here  alluded  to 
because  they  exercised  a  powerful  influence 
upon  the  poetry  of  Dante  and  of  bis  age.  As 
we  look  back  upon  that  age  with  reference 
to  the  theme  before  us,  from  the  confused  group- 
ing of  history  a  few  figures  stand  forth  in  strong- 
er light  and  shade.  The  first  is  a  tall,  thin 
personage,  clothed  in  black.  His  face  is  that 
of  a  scholar ;  his  manners  are  grave  and  mod- 
est; he  has  a  pleasant,  humorous  mouth,  and  a 
jesting  eye,  which  somewhat  temper  his  modest 
gravity.  In  his  whole  appearance  there  is  a 
strange  mixture  of  the  schoolmaster,  philoso- 
pher, and  notary  public.  He  has  been  a  tray- 
eller,  and  a  soldier,  and  the  author  of  much 
rhyme.  He  fought  in  the  campaign  of  Siena, 
and,  after  the  war,  wrote  with  his  own  hand 
the  treaty  of  peace  between  the  two  republics, 
which,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  was  better  written 
than  his  rhymes.  This  is  Brunetto  Latini,  the 
instructer  of  Dante  in  his  youth, — who  rewards 
his  services  with  a  place  in  the  ^*  Inferno,"  — 
grammarian,  theologian,  politician,  poet,  and 
Grand-Master  of  Rhetoric  in  Florence.  His 
principal  work  is  the  poem  of  the  *<  Tesoro," 
which  he  wrote  in  France  and  in  the  French 
language.  It  is  a  kind  of  doggerel  encyclopedia, 
containing,  among  other  matters,  the  History 
of  the  Old  and  New  Testament,  to  which  is 
appended  an  abridgment  of  Pliny's  "Natural 
History,"  the  '* Ethics"  of  Aristotle,  and  a 
treatise  on  the  Virtues  and  Vices ;  together 
with  the  Art  of  Speaking  with  Propriety,  and 
the  Manner  of  Governing  the  Republic  !  He 
wrote,  likewise,  a  poem  called  the  "  Tesoret- 
to,"  —  a  small  treasury  of  moral  precepts; 
also  a  satirical  poem  called  "  II  Pataffio,"  in  the 
vulgar  Florentine  street-jargon,  very  difficult  of 
comprehension. 

He  is  followed  by  a  nobler  figure ;  a  youth 
of  beautiful  but  melancholy  countenance,  cour- 
teous in  manner,  yet  proud  and  solitary.  He 
seems  lost  in  thought,  and  is  much  alone  among 
the  old  tombs,  —  the  marble  sepulchres  about 
the  church  of  Saint  John.  In  vain  do  Betto 
Bruneleschi  and  his  boon  companions  come 
dashing  up  on  horseback,  and  make  a  jest  of 
his  dreams  and  reveries.  He  turns  away  and 
disappears  among  the  tombs.  This  is  Guido 
Cavalcanti,  the  bosom  friend  of  Dante,  and  no 
mean  poet.  But  he  loves  the  dreams  of  phi- 
losophy better  than  the  dreams  of  poetry,  and 
the  popular  belief  is,  that  all  his  solitary  studies 
and  meditations  have  no  other  object  than  to 
prove  that  there  is  no  God.    It  is  of  this  Guido 


508 


ITALIAN  LANGUAGE  AND    POETRY. 


that  the  poet  tpeaks  in  the  tenth  canto  of  the 
*'  Inferno,"  where  a  form  looks  out  of  i(a  fiery 
sepulchre  and  asks,  *•  Where  is  my  son  ?  and 
why  is  he  not  with  thee  ?  " 

And  now,  attended  by  two  coortly  dames,  a 
maiden  dad  in  white  approaches.  She  is  veil- 
ed ;  but  from  beneath  the  veil  look  forth  soft 
emerald  eyes, — eyes  of  the  color  of  the  sea.* 
Well  might  it  be  said  of  her, 

"Anei«la 
Hath  not  so  graen,  so  quick,  so  &ir  an  eye." 

So  beautiful  is  she,  that  many  in  the  crowd 
exclaim,  as  she  passes,  **  This  is  no  mortal,  but 
one  of  God's  angels.*'  And  this  is  Beatrice  ; 
and  she  walks  all  crowned  and  garmented  with 
humility,  showing  no  vain-glory  of  that  which 
she  beholds  and  bears.t 

The  figure  that  advances  to  meet  her  is  that 
of  a  young  man  of  middle  stature,  with  a  dark, 
melancholy,  thoughtfiil  face.  His  eyes  are 
large,  his  nose  aquiline,  his  lower  lip  project- 
ing, his  hair  and  beard  thick,  black,  and  curled. 
His  step  is  quiet  and  solemn.  He  is  clothed 
in  long,  flowing  garments,  and  wears  sandals 
on  his  feet,  and  on  his  head  a  cap,  from  which 
two  broad  bands  descend  upon  the  shoulders. 
This  is  Dante. 

But  the  crowd  throng  around  us,  and  we 
behold  but  indistinctly  the  shadowy  images  of 
Guido  Novello,  and  Francesco  Malaspins,  and 
the  great  Lombard,  Can  Grande  della  Scale, 
and  Giano  della  Bella,  the  friend  of  the  Flo- 
rentine populace  ;  and  the  superb  Philippe  Ar- 
genti,  his  horse's  hoofs  shod  with  silver ;  and 
Corso  Donati,  the  proud,  bad  man,  but  valiant 
cavalier  and  eloquent  orator,  dragged  at  his 
horse's  heels,  and  murdered  at  the  gate  of  a 
convent;  and  Monferrato,  exposed,  like  a  wild 
beast,  in  a  wooden  cage  in  the  market-place, 
and  dying  broken-hearted  with  rage  and  hu- 
miliation. 

After  Dante,  the  principal  poets  of  this  pe- 
riod are  Giovanni  Boccaccio,  whose  prose  is 
more  splendid  than  his  verse,  and  Francesco 
Petrarca,  of  whom  Chaucer  says, 

"  His  rlMtoric  sweet 
BnlumiMd  aU  Italy  of  poetiy." 

II.  From  1400  to  1500.  This  period  em- 
braces the  age  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  sumamed 
the  Magnificent.  He  was  the  fiiend  of  poets, 
and  himself  a  poet  of  no  mean  pretension. 
Speaking  of  him  and  his  times,  Macaulay  says :  t 

^*  Knowledge  and  public  prosperity  continued 
to  advance  together.  Both  attained  their  me- 
ridian in  the  age  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent. 
We  cannot  refirain  from  quoting  the  splendid 
passage  in  which  the  Tuscan  Thucydides  de- 

*  Erano  1  suol  occhi  d'  un  tmchlDo  verdieelo,  eimlle  a 
quel  del  mare.— Lawi.   Annotaxkml. 

t  BU,  corenau  e  TesUu  d'  umilti,  e'  aadava,  nulla  glo- 
ria moetnndo  di  ciA  ch*  ella  redera  ed  odlva.— Damtm.  Vi- 
ta Nuora. 

1  Critical  and  Mlecellaaeoue  Eeeays,  hj  T.  B.  Macaulat 
(Philadelphia,  1843,  4  rda.,  12mo.),  VoL  L,  p.  77. 


scribes  the  state  of  Italy  at  thai  period:  — 
^Restored  to  supreme  peace  and  tranqoillitj, 
eultivatod  no  less  in  her  most  mountainoas  and 
sterile  places  than  in  her  plains  and  more  ftr* 
tile  regions,  and  subject  to  no  other  empire 
than  her  own,  not  only  was  she  most  abundant 
in  inhabitanta  and  wealth,  but,  in  the  higbeat 
degree  illustrious  by  the  magnificence  of  many 
princes,  by  the  splendor  of  many  most  noble  and 
beautifiil  cities,  and  by  the  seat  and  majestj  of 
religion,  she  flourished  with  men  preeminent  in 
the  administration  of  public  affairs,  and  with 
geniuses  skilled  in  all  the  sciences,  and  in  eveiy 
elegant  and  useftil  art.'*  When  we  peruse  this 
just  and  splendid  description,  we  can  scarcely 
persuade  ourselves  that  we  are  reading  of  times 
in  which  the  annals  of  England  and  France 
present  us  only  with  a  ftightftil  spectacle  of 
poverty,  barbarity,  and  ignorance.  From  the 
oppressions  of  illitarata  masters,  and  the  suffer- 
ings of  a  brutalized  peasantry,  it  is  delightfttl  to 
turn  to  the  opulent  and  enlightened  States  of 
Italy, — to  the  vast  and  magnificent  cities,  the 
porta,  the  arsenals,  the  villas,  the  museoms,  the 
libraries,  the  marta  filled  with  every  article  of 
comibrt  or  luxury,  the  manufiictories  swarming 
with  artisans,  the  Apennines  covered  with  rich 
cultivation  up  to  their  very  summits,  the  Po 
wafting  the  harvesta  of  Lombardy  to  the  grana- 
ries of  Venice,  and  carrying  back  the  silks  of 
Bengal  and  the  fiirs  of  Siberia  to  the  palaces  of 
Milan.  With  peculiar  pleasure  every  cnlti- 
vated  mind  must  repose  on  the  ftir,  the  happy, 
the  glorious  Florence, — on  the  halls  which 
rung  with  the  mirth  of  Fulci,  -^  the  cell  where 
twinkled  the  midnight  lamp  of  Folitian,  —  the 
statues  on  which  the  young  eye  of  Miehel 
Angelo  glared  with  the  frensy  of  a  kindred 
inspiration, — the  gardens  in  which  Lorenxo 
meditated  some  sparkling  song  for  the  May-day 
dance  of  the  Etrurian  viigins.  Alas  lor  the 
beautiful  eity !  Alas  for  the  wit  and  the  learn- 
ing, the  genius  and  the  love ! 

"  *  Le  donne  e  I  caralier,  gli  afltoni  e  gli  agi, 
Che  ne  'nrogliara  amoro  e  corteela, 
lA  dove  i  cuor  eon  frul  el  malragi.' "  f 

The  principal  poeto  of  this  period  are  Angelo 
Poliziano,  author  of  the  «*  Orfeo,"  the  earliest 
classic  drama  of  the  Italians ;  and  Loigi  Fnlci, 
author  of  the  ^  Morgante  Maggiore,'*  the  first  of 
that  series  of  romantic  fictions, — those  mm^- 
namme  memxogne^  —  of  which  Bojardo*s  ^  Or- 
lando Innamorato  "  was  the  second,  and  which 
in  the  following  century  made  Italian  song  so 
illustrious.  To  these  may  be  added  Andrea  del 
Basso,  a  priest  of  Ferrara,  and  author  of  a  re- 
markable «*Ode  to  a  Dead  Body,"  which  will 
be  found  among  our  eztracte. 

To  this  perioid  belongs  the  origin  of  the  Ital- 
ian drama.  The  dark  night  which  descended 
upon  the  Roman  empire  enveloped  the  theatre 


*  GtnoGXAaunn.   Lib.  L 
t  Damtb.   Purgatorio,  XIY. 


ITALIAN  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


609 


with  its  shadows ;  and  it  ia  only  in  times  com- 
paratiTely  modern  that  we  are  able  to  disoern 
with  distinctness  the  reviving  drama  of  Italy. 
There  is  the  testimony  of  Cassiodorua,  that  pan* 
tomimie  plays  were  performed  as  early  as  the 
sixth  century,*  and  it  appears  that  firom  this 
time  they  flourished  among  the  people  of 
Italy.  These  spectacles,  however,  required 
and  received  but  slight  support  from  literature. 
Afterwards,  in  the  thirteenth  century,  Thomas 
Aquinas  speaks  of  the  comedy  of  his  times  as 
having  already  subsisted  many  centuries.  To 
him,  who  was  revered  as  the  Angel  of  the 
Schools,  and  the  arbiter  in  difficult  questions  of 
duty,  was  submitted  the  doubt,  whether  the  art 
of  the  theatre  could  be  practised  without  sin. 
The  Angelic  Doctor  replied,  that  it  was  to  be 
regarded  as  a  pleasure  necessary  for  the  recrea* 
tion  of  the  life  of  man,  due  regard  being  had 
to  circumstances  of  place,  time,  and  person. 

It  seems  that  the  pantomimic  representations 
in  the  earliest  days  were  confined  to  prefkne 
subjects ;  but,  in  process  of  time,  things  spirit- 
ual were  brought  on  the  stage,  and  the  churches 
became  the  Uieatres.  Finally,  the  archbish- 
op of  Florence,  Antoninus,  at  the  same  time 
that  he  affirmed  the  opinion  of  Aquinas,  add- 
ed this  decree  :  ^  Whereas  the  representations 
which  are  now  made  of  things  spiritual  are 
mixed  with  buffooneries,  with  ludicrous  words 
and  conduct,  and  with  masks ;  therefore  they 
ought  no  longer  to  be  performed  in  the  church- 
es, nor  by  the  clergy  in  any  manner." 

The  earliest  specimens  of  dramatic  composi- 
tion in  Italy,  which  have  been  preserved,  are 
in  the  Latin  tongue.     In  the  beginning  of  the 
ibarteenth  eentory,  the  historian  Albertino  Mus- 
I  sato  wrote  two  tragedies  in  Latin,  after  the 
manner  of   Seneca.    They  are    divided  Into 
fire  acts,  with  a  chorus  at  the  end  of  each  act. 
In  the  same  century,  we  find,  also,  a  tragedy 
by  Giovanni  Manzoni,  and  some  comedies  by 
Petrarch,  both  of  whom  scorned  the   vulgar 
tongne,  though  the  latter  owes  his  immortality 
to  bis  Italian  poems.     Still  later,  among  many 
other  plays  in  the  Latin  language,  we  find  a 
tragedy  by  Bernardino,  on  the  Passion  of  Christ, 
ipvluch  was  dedicated  to  Pope  Sixtus  the  Fourth. 
This  use  of  the  language  and  form  of  antiquity 
resembled  the  practice  of  the  Catholic  Ohurch, 
fvhich  melted  the  statues  of  the  heathen  gods  to 
fashion  the  images  of  Christian  saints. 

The  Latin  contintied  to  be  exclusively  used 
in  dramatic  poetry  till  after  the  middle  of  the 
fifteenth  century.  Only  at  this  late  period, 
more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  after  the 
-verse  of  Dante,  more  than  a  hundred  years 
after  the  prose  of  Boccaccio  had  refined  and 
matured  the  Italian  tongue,  it  was  thought  wor- 
thy to  be  employed  in  the  drama.  Quadrio,  on 
the  authority  c^  other  writers,  mentions  the 
**  Floriana,"  a  comedy,  or  fiirce,  in  Urza  rima, 
by  an  unknovm  author,  who  was  supposed  to 

*  Quadrio.    Lib.  2,  DIst.  8,  Osp.  S. 


have  lived  at  the  beginning  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  or,  perhaps;  even  earlier ;  but  this  play 
was  not  printed  till  1523,  and  Tiraboschi,  whose 
authority  in  questions  of  Italian  letters  is  almost 
supreme,  doss  not  seem  to  consider  it  so  ancient 
as  was  supposed  by  others.  To  the  rich  and 
precocious  genius  of  Angelo  Poliziano  belongs 
the  honor  of  producing  the  fimt  Italian  play 
which  can  be  considered  as  entitled  to  a  place 
in  the  regular  drama.  This  is  the**Orieo," 
which,  though  sometimes  regarded  as  a  pastoral 
fable,  and  partaking  somewhat  of  this  charac- 
ter, may,  on  account  of  its  action,  and  the  tragic 
nature  of  its  close,  be  treated  as  of  the  legiti- 
mate drama.  It  is  difficult  to  determine  the 
exact  date  when  ihe  Muse  of  Tragedy  first  lis- 
tened to  the  sweet  Italian  words  of  this  piece. 
It  is  supposed  that  it  was  represented  in  1472, 
at  Mantua,  when  the  Cardinal  Francesco  Gon- 
zaga  made  a  solemn  entry  into  his  native  city. 
At  this  time  Poliziano  was  only  eighteen  years 
old.  At  this  tender  age  he  opened  for  his  coun- 
try the  fountain  of  new  delights,  whose  waters 
in  the  next  century  refreshed  the  whole  land.* 

Satisfied  with  the  brilliant  success  of  his 
"  Orfeo  "  and  his  *«  Stanze,"  Poliziano  ceased 
to  write  in  his  native  tongue.  In  so  doing,  he 
followed  the  suggestions  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lived,  which  was  overshadowed  still  by  the 
mighty  spirit  of  antiquity.  His  genius  was  now 
applied  to  the  cultivation  of  the  La6n  language, 
which  he  employed  in  the  copious  works  of  his 
matnrer  lifii.  In  the  excess  of  his  care,  he  re- 
fused to  read  the  Bible,  in  the  Latin  Vulgate, 
M  for  fbar  of  spoiling  his  style  *' ;  on  which  our 
English  Doctor  South  has  remarked,  that  **  he 
showed  himself  no  less  a  blockhead  than  an  in- 
fidel.'* It  has,  indeed,  been  insinuated,  that  the 
Latin  Muses  were  reserved  and  coy  to  one  who 
had  obtained  the  favor  of  their  sisters  at  so 
early  an  age.  But  a  Latin  poem,  to  whitji  he 
gave  the  title  of '^Rusticus,'*  is  pronounced  by 
Mr.  Roscoe  t  "  inferior  in  its  kind  only  to  the 
^  Georgics '  of  Virgil " ;  and  he  is  said,  by  the 
same  high  authority, "  to  approach  nearer  to  the 
standard  of  the  ancients  than  any  man  of  his 
time." 

Among  the  writers  of  this  age,  whose  genius 
may  still  be  recognized  in  the  unnatural  trans- 
ibrmation  to  which  they  voluntarily  subjected 
themselves,  are  Landino,  Naldo  Naldio,  Ugolino 
Verini,  Michel  Verini,  Pontano,and  Sannazza- 
ro,  the  last  of  whom  found  repose  for  his  mortal 
remains  in  the  classic  Parthenope,  near  the 
tomb  of  Virgil,  whom  he  had  revered  as  his 
master  in  song.  Vain  effi>rt  to  revive  the  extin. 
goished  glories  of  a  language  which  has  ceased 
to  be  animated  by  the  breath  of  living  men ! 

*  On  this  subject  sm  RioooBom,  HIstoIra  du  TMttre 
Italien,  depais  la  decadence  de  la  ComMfe  Latlne ;  also, 
Hlitoin  du  ThdLtra  Italien,  depuls  son  lUtabliMemenl  en 
France,  7  rols.,  Paris,  1709, 12ino. ;  and  Sionorblu,  Storia 
Critica  de*  Testri  Antichi  e  ModemI,  6  rols.,  Napoll,  1787 
-90,  8yo. 

t  Lift  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medfcl,  YoL  L,  Ch.  8,  p.  ITS. 
MS 


510 


ITALIAN   LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


It  is  not  among  the  powers  of  genias,  magical 
though  they  be,  to  infuse  into  a  dead  tongue 
the  Promethean  heat  which  shall  its  former  light 
relume ! 

III.  From  1500  to  1600.  This  is  a  golden 
period  in  the  history  of  Italian  poetry,  and  sec- 
ond only  to  the  age  of  Dante.  It  is  true,  there 
appeared  in  it  no  one  production  that  can  bear 
a  moment's  comparison  with 

"The  Poom  Sacred, 
To  which  both  beeren  and  earth  hare  set  their  hands  " ; 

but  it  produced  more  great  poems  than  any 
other  period.  Then  in  the  halls  of  Este  Ariosto 
sang,  in  copious  and  flowing  numbers,  the  beau- 
ty of  Angelica,  and  Orlando's  madness ;  then 
Berni  told  his  tale  of  love  to  the  illustrious  Ga- 
briella  Gonzaga,  and  Vittoria  Colonna,  the  glo- 
rious  Marchesa  di  Pescara,  wrapped  in  her  sable 
gown,  and  lamenting  "  the  naked  spirit  and  little 
earth"  of  him  who  was  her  husband;  then 
Guarini  found  in  princes*  courts  how  cold  may 
be  '^  the  best  enamel  of  nobility  " ;  then  Tas- 
so's  songs  resounded  in  the  palaces  of  Ferra- 
ra,  and  his  groans  in  its  dungeons  ;  then  Michel 
Angelo  crowded  a  long  life,  embracing  three 
generations  of  men,  with  noble  works  in  sculp- 
ture, in  painting,  and  in  song,  so  that  Ariosto 
fitly  called  him, 

"Michel,  pl4  ch'  Angelo  dlrino" ; 
and  then,  too,  Machiavelli,  whose  soul  was 
fretted  by  the  cares  of  state  and  by  the  burdens 
of  embassies,  and  who  was  forced  to  "eat  his 
heart  through  comfortless  despairs  "  of  poverty 
and  neglect,  enriched  his  native  Tuscan  with 
some  of  its  most  nervous  prose,  and  diverted 
himself  with  the  Muses  of  Poetry  and  the  Drama. 

In  the  brilliant  troop  of  Italian  poets  which 
swarmed  through  this  period,  these  names  are 
the  most  conspicuous.  Separated  from  all  these 
by  her  sex,  and  superior  to  most  of  them,  in  the 
beauty  and  elevation  of  her  genius,  stands  Vit- 
toria Colonna,  faithful  in  an  age  of  falsehood, 
pure  in  an  age  of  licentiousness,  the  greatest  po- 
etess of  Italy,  to  whom  her  contemporaries  gave, 
by  acclamation,  the  title  of  Divine.  Other  dis- 
tinguished authors  of  the  time  will  be  noticed 
hereafter,  in  connection  with  extracts  from  their 
writings. 

The  Italian  had  now  arrived  at  its  highest 
excellence.  It  had  become  ^miliar  to  the  peo- 
ple through  the  works  of  poets,  of  historians, 
and  philosophers;  and  was  employed  by  the 
learned  in  writings,  which,  in  another  age,  would 
have  been  locked  in  a  dead  tongue.  Galileo, 
whose  glorions  career  extends  into  the  next 
century,  being  asked  by  what  means  he  had  ac- 
quired the  remarkable  talent  of  giving  perspicu- 
ity and  grace  to  his  philosophical  writings,  re- 
ferred it  to  the  continual  study  of  Ariosto.  But 
while  the  native  language  obtained  snch  favor, 
the  Latin  continued  during  the  early  part  of 
this  century  to  hold  with  it  a  divided  empire 
over  the  realm  of  poetry.  The  great  poets  of 
the  Augustan  age  were  thought  to  bo  revived  in 


the  productions  of  Fracastoro,  Vida,  Naugerio, 
and  Flaminio,  who  have  been  vaunted  as  the 
rivals  of  Virgil,  of  Ovid,  and  of  Catullus.  The 
admiration  which  they  received  in  their  own 
age  has  ceased,  and  the  attention  of  the  curioua 
scholar  is  arrested  only  for  a  moment  by  the 
inanimate  beauty  of  their  verse :  — 

"So  cokllj  sweet,  to  deadly  fiiir, 
We  start,  for  soul  is  wanting  tbere." 

IV.  From  1600  to  the  present  time.  To  the 
golden  age  of  the  dnquecenUsH,  succeeded  the 
affected  productions  of  the  seieentUtiy  which 
usher  in  the  present  period.  The  Italian  mind, 
contented  or  weary  with  the  triumphs  of  the 
previous  century,  now  found  its  chief  expression 
in  odes  and  sonnets,  marked  by  conceits  and 
exaggerated  refinements  of  style.  The  leader 
in  this  corruption  of  the  national  taste  was  Gi- 
ambattista  Marini,  whose  acknowledged  genius 
increased  the  influence  of  his  vicious  style. 
The^greatest  poetic  names  of  this  period  are  Ma- 
rini, Chiabrera,  Redi,  Filicaja,  Mafiei,  Goldoni, 
Gozzi,  Metastasio,  Alfieri,  Monti,  Pindemonte, 
Foscolo,  Manzoni,  Parini,  Niccolini,  PelHco, 
Grossi,  and  Berchet.  Mightiest  among  these 
stands  Alfieri,  a  glorious  example  of  the  power 
of  a  strong  will  and  a  fixed  purpose.  He  is  the 
last  great  sign  in  that  celestial  zodiac  of  Italian 
song,  which  encircles  the  earth  with  its  glory, 
and  of  which  Dante,  in  the  majestic  procession 
of  the  ages,  was  the  first  to  appear  above  the 
horizon,  chasing  the  darkness  before  him,  and, 
like  Sagittarius,  filling  the  whole  heaven  with 
his  golden  arrows. 

On  the  subject  of  Italian  poetry  the  reader  is 
referred  to  the  following  works :  —  **  Italy :  Gen- 
eral Views  of  its  History  and  Literature,"  by  L. 
Mariotti,  2  vols.,  London,  1841,  8vo. ;  an  admi- 
rable work,  written  with  great  power  and  beauty ; 
—  "  Storia  della  Letteratura  Italiana,"  del  Cav. 
Abate  Girolamo  Tiraboschi,  9  vols.,  Firenze, 
1805-13, 8vo.;~«<  Delia  Storia  e  della  Ragiooe 
d'  ogni  Poesia,"  di  Francesco  Saverio  Quadrio, 
7  vols.,  Bologna  e  Milano,  1739-52,  4to. ;  — 
^*  L'  Istoria  della  Volgar  Poesia,"  da  Gio.  Mario 
Crescimbeni,  5  vols.,  Venezia,  1730,  4to. ;  — 
<<  Discorso  sopra  le  Vicende  della  Letteratura,** 
deir  Ab.  Cario  Denina,  2  vols.,  Napoli,  1792, 
6vo. ; — «  Saggi  di  Prose  e  Poesie  de'  pi6  celebri 
Scrittori  d'  ogni  Secolo,"  da  L.  Nardini  e  S. 
Buonaiuti,  6  vols.,  London,  1796-98,  8vo.;  — 
«  Geschichte  der  Italienischen  Poesie  und  Be- 
redsamkeit,"  von  Friedrich  Bouterwek,  2  vob., 
Gottingen,  1801,  6vo.; — "Historical  View  of 
the  Literature  of  the  South  of  Europe,**  by  J.  C. 
L.  Simonde  de  Stsmondi,  translated  by  Thomas 
Roecoe,  Esq.,  2  vols..  New  York,  1827,  8vo. ;  — 
*<  Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Europe,'*  by 
Henry  Hallam,  4  vols.,  London,  1840, 8vo. ;  — 
«<  Lives  of  the  Italian  Poets,*'  by  Henry  Steb> 
bing,  3  vols.,  London,  1837,  8vo. ;  —  and  «'  His- 
toire  Litt^raire  d'ltalie,'*  par  P.  L.  Gingaen^, 
9  vols.,  Paris,  1824,  8vo. 


FIRST  PERIOD.-CENTURIES  XIIL,  XIV. 


GUIDO   GUINICELLI. 

GuiDo  GuiNicELLi  of  Bologna^  to  whom  by 
BcclamatioD  is  given  the  honor  of  being  the 
first  among  the  Italian  poets  who  embodied  in 
verse  the  subtilties  of  philosophy,  and  gave 
terseness,  force,  and  elevation  to  poetic  style, 
flourished  about  1250.  Dante  has  recorded  his 
ikme  in  the  twenty-sixth  canto  of  the  ^*  Purga- 
torio,"  where  he  speaks  of  his  dold  detH^  and 
calls  him 

'^npsdra 
Mio  e  degll  altti  mlel  mlglior  cbe  maJ 
Rime  d'  amore  uaar  dolcl  e  leggladra." 

The  praise  of  sweet-flowing  language  is  cer- 
tainly merited  by  this  ancient  poet,  as  may  be 
seen  from  the  following  extract.  It  is  the  com- 
mencement of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  author's 
eanxoni. 

The  writings  of  Guido  Guinicelli  exhibit  the 
Italian  language  under  the  best  form  it  wore 
during  the  first  half  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
Otherwise,  they  would  not  have  been  so  highly 
extolled  by  Dante,  who  never  loses  an  oppor- 
tunity of  setting  forth  their  merit,  and  who  still 
more  plainly  shows  the  esteem  in  which  he 
held  the  quaint  language  of  his  poetic  father, 
by  appropriating  one  of  his  lines. 

"  Amor  ch'  al  cor  fentll  rttto  a*  appranda," 
in  the  description  of  Francesco  da  Rimini,  in 
the  fifth  canto  of  the  *<  Inferno,"  was  doubtless 
■uggcstod  by  Guinicelli's 

"Fuoco  d'  Amora  In  gentil  cor  a*  apprande." 

Dante  places  the  spirit  of  Guinicelli  in  the 
seventh  circle  of  the  *'  Purgatorio." 


THE  NATURE  OP  LOVE. 

To  noble  heart  Love  doth  for  shelter  fly. 

As  seeks  the  bird  the  forest^s  leafy  shade ; 

Xjove  was  not  felt  till  noble  heart  beat  high, 

N^or  before  love  the  noble  heart  was  made. 

Soon  as  the  sun*s  broad  flame 

IVas  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, 
y^9  hidden  virtue  in  the  precious  stone  : 
This  virtue  comes  not  from  the  stars  above, 
T'ill  round  it  the  ennobling  sun  has  shone ; 
^ut  when  his  powerful  blaze 
U.ta  drawn  forth  what  was  vile,  the  stars  impart 


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  fh>m  wo- 
man's eye. 


FRA   GUITTONE  D'  AREZZO. 

GuiTTORs  d'  Arszzo,  Called  Fra  Guittone, 
from  the  order  of  Fraii  Oodenii^  to  which  he 
belonged,  was  bom  in  Arezzo,  near  the  middle 
of  the  thirteenth  century.  He  is  distinguished 
in  literary  history  for  having  brought  the  Italian 
sonnet  to  its  present  form.  Many  of  his  pieces 
are  f^nd  in  the  collection  of  ancient  poets  by  the 
GtunH.  There  are  also  remaining  forty  letters 
by  him,  in  Italian,  published  in  Rome  in  1745. 
They  are  remarkable  for  being  the  most  ancient 
example  of  Italian  letters  extant.  In  1293, 
Fra  Guittone  founded  the  order  of  Camaldoli, 
and  died  in  the  fi>llowing  year. 


SONNEia 


UiTHAPPT  is  my  star  and  hard  my  fate ; 

For  bitter  life  e*en  from  the  stars  may  come, 

And  prudence  seldom  can  repair  the  doom 

That  by  the  stars  is  moulded  for  our  state. 

From  the  first  day  I  was  predestinate 

To  Love's  fell  sport,  where  so  much  woe  hath 

room, 
As  maketh  life  less  precious  than  the  tomb : 
Wretch,  whom  the  skies  did  for  such  hap  create ! 
And  yet  to  shun  this  fatal  star  of  love, 
A  thousand  times  to  Athens  have  I  run. 
Addressing  to  each  school  my  steps  in  turn ; 
And  then  I  fled  for  help  to  Heaven  above, 
That  I  these  keen  and  gilded  shafb  might  shun: 
But  naught  avails;  whence,  refl  of  hope,  I 

mourn. 


Ths  more  I  am  destroyed  by  my  thought. 
Which  doth  its  birth  from  others'  hardness  date. 
So  much  the  lower  falls  my  sad  estate. 
And  hope  in  me  with  flight  of  hope  is  wrought : 
For  to  this  end  are  all  my  reasonings  brought, 
That  I  shall  sink  under  so  heavy  weight. 
Though  still  desire  maintains  the  firm  debate. 
And  I  pursue  what  bringeth  me  to  naught. 
This  hour,  perchance,  the  mortal  may  be  bom. 
Who,  when  he  reads  my  doleful  sighs  in  rhyme. 
Shall  sorrow  for  a  lot  as  mine  severe. 


512 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


Who  knows  but  she  that  holds  me  oow  in  scorn, 

Seeing  her  loss  linked  to  my  ill,  in  time 

May  for  my  death  shed  one  compunctious  tear  ? 


LAPO   GIANNI. 

This  poet  is  supposed  by  Crescimbeni  to  have 
lived  about  the  time  of  Guittone.  He  was  a 
Florentine  by  birth,  and  a  notary  by  profession. 
Muratori  argued,  from  the  character  of  his  style, 
that  he  muat  have  belonged  to  the  fourteenth 
century. 

CANZONE. 

This  Dew>bom  rose, 

That  pleaseth  in  its  early  blossom  so, 

O  Love,  doth  show 

What  rare  perfection  from  her  virtue  flows. 

Were  I  with  power  endued 

To  make  report  of  this  new  miracle. 

How  Nature  hath  adorned  her  I  might  tell : 

But  if  my  speech  be  rude, 

Nor  of  her  worth  able  to  sum  the  proof,  * 

Speak,  Love,  in  my  behoof,  -^ 

For  thou  alone  mayst  fitly  speak  her  praise. 

Tet  this  I  tell,  —  how,  lifting  once  my  sight 

On  her  to  gaze, 

Her  sweet  smile  won  me,  and  the  rays 

That  trembled  in  her  eyes  with  star-like  light 

Mine  straightway  veiled  to  thee, 

Not  powerful  to  hold  up  against  the  beam 

That  in  an  instant  to  my  heart  did  stream. 

**  And  this,"  saidst  thou,  "is  she 

Must  rule  thee ;  long  as  she  her  life  shall  have, 

Thou  art  ordained  her  slave." 

Wherefore,  sweet  Lord,  I  thank  thy  sovereigO 

might, 
That  to  such  bondage  hath  my  spirit  swayed ; 
For  in  delight 

Henceforth  live  I,  a  blissful  wight, 
Thinking  whose  vassal  thou  my  soul  hast  made. 
Go,  stripling  song. 

Tell  her  that  hath  the  flaxen  tresses  free, 
That  I,  so  long 
As  Love  hath  told,  her  servitor  must  be. 


DANTE  ALIGHIERI. 

Dahtx  was  the  son  of  Alighiero  degli  Alighi- 
eri,  and  was  christened  in  the  church  of  Saint 
John  the  Baptist  by  the  name  of  Durante ; 
which  name  was  playfully  changed  in  child- 
hood to  Dante.  He  was  born  at  t^Iorence,  in 
May,  1265,  and  died  at  Ravenna,  in  September, 
1321. 

The  life  of  Dante  natnrally  divides  itself  into 
three  epochs,  each  of  which  is  very  distinctly 
marked.  The  first  is  that  of  his  early  youth, 
—  firom  his  birth  to  the  time  when  Beatrice 
died  J — a  period  of  twenty-five  years  (1265- 


1290).  The  second,  his  public  and  political 
life ;  —  a  period  of  twelve  years,  in  the  prime 
of  early  manhood,  from  the  age  of  twenty-five 
to  that  of  thirty-seven,  when  he  was  banuhed 
from  Florence  (1290-1302).  And  the  third, 
his  exile  and  wanderings,  and  death ;— a  period 
of  nineteen  years ;  namely,  from  the  age  of 
thirty-seven  to  that  of  fifly-six  (1302-1321). 

What  Dante's  youth  was  we  know  from  bii 
own  lips,*  and  from  the  busy  pens  of  many 
biographers.  It  was  a  quiet,  peaceful  youth, 
passed  in  the  study  of  philosophy,  and  mucic, 
and  painting,  and  verse;  and  in  the  compaa- 
ionship  of  learned  men  and  artists,  such  u 
Latini,  Cavalcante,  Giotto,  and  Casella.  Into 
this  perhaps  sober-colored  warp  of  lift  wu 
early  woven  the  bright,  dream-like  figure  of 
Beatrice.  As  he  himself  tells  us,  he  had  not 
yet  completed  his  ninth  year,  when  he  beheld 
her  for  the  first  time;  and,  to  use  his  own 
words,  *'The  spirit  of  life,  that  dwelleth  io  the 
most  secret  cluunbers  of  the  heart,  alUtrembling, 
spake  these  words  :  <  Behold  a  god  more  pow- 
erful than  I ! '  "  Boocaoeto  says  that  this  was 
at  a  May-day  festival, — <«In  that  season,  whea 
the  mildness  of  heaven  reclothes  the  earth 
with  its  own  ornaments,  and  all  with  manifold 
flowers  mingled  among  the  verdant  leaves  mak' 
•th  her  to  laugh.*'  t 

Beatrice  died  in  yoath.  She  had  not  ye( 
completed  her  twenty-fi>urth  year.t  Soon  after- 
wards, Dante  was  unhappily  married  to  Madon- 
na Gemma  de'  Donati. 

Such  was  the  first  epoch  of  Dante's  life. 
The  second,  which  embraces  his  public  and 
political  career,  was  as  full  of  trouble  as  the 
first  was  full  of  peace.  Now  came  the  dish 
of  parties,  and  the  battles  of  Campaldino  and 
Pisa,  and  the  fourteen  embassies  treading  cloie 
upon  each  other's  heeU.  So  much  astir  were 
all  men,—  ~ 

busy  with 

home  and  abroad,~that  he  exclaims,  despairing 
of  the  power  of  others  to  govern  the  republic,— 
»» If  I  stoy,  who  is  there  to  go .?  If  I  go,  w^*> 
is  there  to  stay .' " 

It  was  on  one  of  these  political  pilgrimages 
that  he  led  Florence  for  Rome,  never  more  to 
enter  the  gates  of  his  native  city.  They  were 
closed  against  him  Ibr  ever.  But,  in  the  words 
of  Michel  Angelo, 

"HaavaD  unbarred  to  him  her  lofty  gataf,  ^^ 
To  whom  his  eoontry  hscs  refufled  to  ope. 
Being  at  Rome,  he  heard  the  sentence  pro- 
nounced against  him;  perpetual  exile,  co""f! 
cation  of  his  property,— and  death  by  fire,  should 
he  ever  again  set  foot  in  Florence. 

*  Vita  Nuova.  ^ 

t  Nel  tamps,  nal  quale  k  dolcaoa  del  «••>•  "!Jt^ 
siiol  omameDtl  la  terra,  e  tutu  per  h  TarteU  de' non  nw 
•colaU  paUe  veide  frondi  la  ft  ridente.- Vlu  di  ^^^ 

I  Boccaccio  eaye,  thai  Beatrice  waa  vmrtwd  J»  »^ 
de'  Baidl ;  and  of  Dante's  marriage  he  aayt,-  "  "^ 
ceiraUe  toKurel  to  lire,  and  conrewe,  and  growoio, 
die  with  such  a  jealous  creatorB! 


other's  heeU.     So  much  astir  were 

-and  Dante,  in  the  midst  of  all,  so 

the  afifairs  of  state,  so  necessary  at 


DANTE  ALIGHIERI. 


513 


Thos,  in  the  life  of  Dante,  cIomi  the  lecond 
epoch,  and  the  third  begins; — a  long  and  aor- 
rowful  period  of  nineteen  yean,  doaing  with 
bia  death.  The  prior  of  Florence  waa  now  a 
poor  and  homeleaa  man.  The  companion  of 
the  rich  and  great  waa  bow  their  penaioner. 
Their  rooft  aheltered  him, -^  their  hands  gave 
him  bread.  Well  might  he  exclaim,  in  piteous 
aeceota,  —  **  I  am  sorry  for  all  who  suffer ;  but  I 
have  greater  pity  for  those,  who,  being  in  exile 
and  affliction,  behold  their  native  land  in  dreams 
only."  *  One  may  easily  believe,  that  to  the  lips 
of  those  •*  who  have  drank  the  waters  of  the 
Aroo  before  they  had  teeth  "  t  the  waters  of  all 
other  streama  should  have  a  bitter  taste. 

We  need  not  follow  the  poet  in  his  wander- 
ings, blown  to  and  fro  **by  the  sharp  wind  that 
springs  from  sad  poverty."  There  are,  how- 
ever, one  or  two  scenes  in  this  last  moumfUl 
period  of  his  life,  which  cannot  be  passed' over 
in  silence.  They  are  too  striking  and  charac- 
teristic, not  to  find  a  place  here.  The  first  is 
an  interview  of  the  exiled  poet  with  Frata 
Ilario  in  the  convent  of  the  Corvo  alle  Foci 
della  Marca.  We  copy  the  monk's  own  words, 
as  he  wrote  them  down  at  the  time,  in  a  letter 
to  Uguccione  della  Fagginola,  one  of  Dante's 
fast  and  faithful  friends. 

•*  Hither  he  came,  passing  through  the  dio- 
eese  of  Luni,  moyed  either  by  the  religion  of 
Che  place,  or  by  some  other  feeling.    And  see- 
ing him,  as  yet  unknown  to  me  and  to  all  my 
brethren,  I  questioned  him  of  bis  wishings  and 
his  seekings  there.     He  moved  not ;  but  stood 
dlently  contemplating  the  columns  and  archea 
of  the  cloister.    And  again  I  asked  him  what 
he  wished  and  whom  he  sought   Then,  slowly 
turning  his  head,  and  looking  at  the  friars  and 
at  me,  he  answered:  *Paee!*    Thence  kind- 
ling more  and  more  the  wish  to  know  him  and 
who  he  might  be,  I  led  him  aside  somewhat, 
and,  having  spoken  a  few  words  with  him,  I 
knew   him;   for  although  I   had   nevdr  seen 
him  till  that  hour,  his  fame  had  long  since 
reached  me.    And  when  he  saw  that  I  hung 
upon  his  countenance,  and  listened  to  him  with 
strange  afiection  (eon  raro  a§€tto\  he  drew  firom 
his   boeom  a  book,  did  gently  open  it,  and 
offered  it  to  me,  saying :  <  Sir  Friar,  here  is  a 
portion  of  my  work,  which  peradventure  thou 
faaat  not  seen.    This  remembrance  I  leave  with 
thee.   Forget  me  not'  And  when  he  had  given 
me  the  book,  I  pressed  it  gratefVilly  to  my  bo- 
■om,  and  in  his  presence  fixed  my  eyes  upon  it 
mrith  great  love.     But  I  beholding  there  the 
vulgar  tongue,  and  showing  by  the  fashion  of 
wof  countenance  my  wonderment  thereat,  he 
aaked  the  reason  of  the  same.     I  answered, 
that  I  marvelled  he  should  sing  in  that  Ian- 
Ipiage;    fbr  it  seemed  a  difficult  thing,  nay, 
incredible,  that  those  moet  high  conceptions 
could  be  expressed  in  common  language ;  nor  did 


♦  Db  Vvlg.  Boq.,  Ub.  n.,  Gap.  6. 
t  IbkL,  Ubi  I.,  &p.  8. 

65 


it  seem  to  me  right,  that  such  and  so  worthy  a 
science  should  be  clothed  in  such  plebeian  gar- 
ments. *Tou  think  aright,'  he  said,  *and  I 
myself  have  thought  so.  And  when  at  first  the 
seeds  of  these  matters,  perhapa  inspired  by 
Heaven,  began  to  bud,  I  chose  that  language, 
which  waa  most  worthy  of  them :  and  not  alone 
ehose  it,  hut  began  ferthwith  to  poetize  therein, 
this  ' 


<*  Uktana  ngna  caaam  inids  eoDtennina  mnndo, 
S|)iritlb«s  qia»  lau  patent ;  qua  pnuaia  solnuiit 
Pro  meritb  cuicanique  miifl." 
But  when  I  recalled  the  condition  of  the  pres- 
ent age,  and  aaw  the  songs  of  the  illustrious 
poets  esteemed  almost  as  naught,  and   knew 
that  the  generous  men,  for  whom  in  better  days 
these  things  were  written,  had  abandoned  (oJU 
doUrr^ ! )  Uie  liberal  arts  unto  vulgar  bands,  I 
threw  aside  the  delicate  lyre,  which  had  armed 
my  flank  {onde  amatami  U  fianeo),  and  at- 
tuned another  more  befitting  the  ear  of  mod- 
ems ;  —  for  the  food  that  is  hard  we  hold  in 
vain  to  the  mouths  of  sucklings.'  "* 

And  not  less  striking  is  the  closing  scene  of 
that  eventful  life ;  when,  his  work  on  earth 
accomplished,  the  great  poet  lay  down  to  die, 
in  the  palace  of  Ravenna,  wrapped  in  the  cowl 
and  mantle  of  a  Franciscan  friar.  By  his  side 
was  his  friend  Guide  Novello,  the  unhappy 
fether  of  that  Francesca,  whose  passionate  de- 
sires and  cruel  death  have  become  immortal  in 
the  poet'a  song.  It  was  the  day  of  the  Holy 
Cross }  and,  perhaps,  a  solemn  anthem  was  the 
last  sound  that  reached  the  ears  of  the  dying 
man,  when,  between  life  and  death,  "  he  beheld 
eyes  of  light,  that  wandered  like  stars."  And 
alter  death,  the  cowl  and  mantle  were  removed, 
and  he  was  clothed  in  the  garments  of  a  poet ; 
and  his  firiend  pronounced  hia  eulogy  in  the 
palace. 

Thus  died  the  greatest  of  the  Italian  poets ; 
and  it  may  truly  be  aaid,  that  the  gloomy  forests 
of  Ravenna  seem  still  to  breathe  forth  the  sighs 
of  the  dying  man ;  so  intimately  associated  with 
his  spirit  are  all  the  places  that  knew  him 
upon  earth ! 

Dante's  writings  are  the  <«  Vita  Nuova,"  a 
romantic  record  of  his  early  life  and  love,  writ- 
ten in  prose,  and  interapersed  with  sonnets  and 
canzoni ;  the  **  Convito,"  a  prose  commentary 
upon  three  cknzoni,  to  which  the  reader  is  in- 
vited as  to  a  festival;  the  ^< Canzoniere,"  or 
collection  of  sonnets  and  canzoni ;  the  two  Lat- ' 
in  treatises,  **  De  Monarchia,"  and  **  De  Vulgari 
Eloquentii";  and  the  great  masterpiece  and 
labor  of  his  mature  life,  the  "  Divina  Comme- 
dia." 

The  **  Divina  Commedia"  is  not  what  we 
understand  by  an  allegorical  poem,  in  the  strict 
sense  of  the  word,  —  in  the  same  sense,  for  in- 
stance, as  the  ^  Faery  Queen."  And  yet  it  is 
full  of  allegory ;  full  of  literal  and  figurative 
meanings;  fell  qf  symbols  and   things  signi- 


*  OomeaH  Storico  dl  FenUnaodo  Aninbne,  p.  38a 


514 


ITALIAN   POETRT. 


fied.  Dante  himgelf  mjb,  in  a  letter  which  he 
sent  with  the  poem  to  his  firieod  Can  Grande 
della  Scala :  **  It  is  to  be  remarked,  that  the 
sense  of  this  work  is  not  simple ;  but,  on  the 
contrary,  one  maj  say,  manifold.  For  the  first 
sense  is  that  which  it  derives  from  its  langaage ; 
and  another  is  that  which  it  derives  firom  the 
things  signified  by  the  language ;  —  the  one,  lit- 
eral ;  the  other,  allegorical The  subject  of 

the  whole  work,  taken  literally,  is  the  condition 
of  the  soul  after  death.  But  if  you  well  observe 
the  express  words,  you  will  easily  perceive, 
that,  in  an  allegorical  sense,  the.  poet  is  treating 
of  this  hell,  in  which,  journeying  onward  like 
travellers,  we  may  deserve  reward  or  punish- 
ment." The  machinery,  then,  of  the  poem  is 
allegorical ;  but  the  characters  are  real  person- 
ages, in  their  true  fiirms.  Among  these  some 
masks  and  disguises  are  introduced :  —  the  Age ; 
the  Church ;  the  Empire  of  Rome ;  the  Virtues, 
shining  as  stars,  &c.  Properly  speaking,  the 
poem  is  a  mixture  of  realities  and  symbols,  as 
best  suits  the  author's  feeling  at  the  moment.* 

We  are  to  consider  the  Divine  Poem  as  the 
mirror  of  the  age  in  which  its  author  lived ; 
or  rather,  perhaps,  as  a  mirror  of  Italy  in  that 
age.  The  principal  historic  events  and  per- 
sonages, the  character  and  learning  of  the  time, 
are  faithfully  imaged  and  reproduced  therein. 
Mostof  the  events  described  had  just  transpir- 
ed ;  most  of  the  persons  were  just  dead ;  the 
memory  of  both  was  still  warm  in  the  minds 
of  men.  The  poet  did  not  merely  imagine,  as 
a  possibility;  but  felt,  as  a  reality.  He  was 
wandering  about  homeless,  as  he  composed  ;  al. 
most  borrowing  the  inic  he  wrote  with.  They 
who  had  wronged  him  still  lived  to  wrong  him 
further.  No  wonder,  then,  that  in  his  troubled, 
burning  soul  arose  great  thoughts  and  awftil, 
like  Farinata,  from  his  burning  sepulchre.  When 
he  approached  a  city's  gates,  he  could  not  but 
be  reminded  that  into  the.  gates  of  Florence  he 
could  go  no  more.  When  he  beheld  the  towers 
of  feudal  castles  cresting  the  distent  hills,  he 
felt  how  arrogant  are  the  strong,  how  much 
abused  the  weak.  Every  brook  and  river  re- 
minded him  of  the  Amo,  and  the  brookleta  that 
descend  from  Casentino.  Every  voice  he  heard 
told  him,  by  its  strange  accent,  that  he  was  an 
exile;  and  every  home  he  saw  said  to  him,. in 
ite  sympathies  even,  ^  Thou  art  homeless  !  *' 
All  these  things  found  expression  in  his  poem ; 
and  much  of  the  beautiful  description  of  land- 
scape, and  of  the  morning  and  the  evening,  bears 
the  freshness  of  that  impression  which  is  made 
on  the  mind  of  a  foot-traveller,  who  sits  under 
the  trees  at  noon,  and  leaves  or  enters  towns 
when  the  morning  or  evening  bells  are  ringing, 
and  he  has  only  to  hear  **how  many  a  tele 
their  music  tells." 

Dante,  in  his  Latin  treatise  *<  De  Monarcbift," 
says,  that  man  is  a  kind  of  middle  term  be- 


*  See,  upon  this  nibject,  Roasam,  Splrito  Antipapale 
de'  QMiIci  luliaoi,  Cap.  V. 


tween  the  corruptible  and  the  incorruptible,  and, 
being  thus  twofold  in  his  nature,  is  destined 
to  a  twofold  end ;  **  namely,  to  faappinesi  in  ihii 
life,  which  consists  in  the  practice  of  virtue, 
and  is  figured  forth  in  the  Terrestrial  Panuliee ; 
and  eternal  beatitude,  which  consists  in  the 
fruition  of  the  divine  presence ;  to  which  we 
cannot  arrive  by  any  virtue  of  our  own,  oaleii 
aided  by  divine  light ;  and  this  is  the  Celestial 
Paradise."  *  This  idea  forms  the  thread  of  the 
««Commedia." 

Midway  in  life  the  poet  finds  himself  loet 
in  the  gloomy  forest  of  worldly  cares,  beset  by 
Pride,  Avarice,  and  Sensual  Pleasure.  MonJ 
Philosophy,  embodied  in  the  form  of  Virgil, 
leads  him  forth  through  the  hell  of  worldly 
sin  and  passion  and  suffering,  through  the  pur- 
gatory of  repentent  feelings,  to  the  quiet  repoie 
of  earthly  happiness.  Farther  than  this  mere 
philosophy  cannot  go.  Here  Divine  Wisdom, 
or  Theology,  in  the  form  of  Beatrice,  receives 
the  pilgrim,  and,  ascending  from  planet  to 
planet,  brings  him  to  the  throne  of  God. 

Upon  this  slender,  golden  threftd  hangs  this 
universe  of  a  poem ;  in  which  things  visible 
and  invisible  have  their  appointed  place,  and 
the  spheres  and  populous  stars  revolve  harmo- 
nious about  their  centre. 

Dante  supposes,  that,  when  Lucifer  fell  from 
heaven,  he  struck  the  earth  with  such  violence 
as  to  make  a  vast  chasm,  tunnel-shaped,  quite 
down  to  the  earth's  centre,  where  he  lies  frozen 
in  eternal  ice.  Down  the  sloping  sides  of  this 
great  tunnel  sucks  the  groaning  maelstrom  of 
Dante's  Ii^emo;  through  whose  various  eddies 
and  whirlpools  the  shuddering  poet  is  hurried 
forward,  amid  the  shrieking  shipwrecked  souls. 
There  sighs  and  lamentations  and  deep  woes 
resounded  through  the  air  without  a  star : 

"  And  diverse  languacet,  and  horrible  toncuea, 
Outcries  of  anguish,  accents  of  fierce  wrath, 
And  voices  hlfh  and  boam,  aod  sound  of  hands  thovwiik, 
Bfads  up  a  tumult  that  goes  whirling  on 
For  ever  In  ihat  air  of  palpatde  bbckness, 
Like  unto  sand,  when  the  wUd  whirlwind  hnaihaB."t 

Through  these  several  circles  Dante  follows 
Virgil.  The  first  is  Limbo,  where  are  the  souls 
of  children  and  the  unbaptized ;  the  heathen 
poete  and  philosophers, 

"  With  slow  and  solemn  tjm. 
And  gieat  authority  In  their  countenance. 
Who  speak  but  aaldom  with  aoft,  pleasant  fokes." 

They  are  neither  in  pain  nor  glory.  No  groans 
are  heard,  but  the  whole  air  is  tremulous  with 
sifhs. 

In  the  second  circle  the  sin  of  lost  is  pos- 
tshed.    The  spirite  are  tossed  to  and  firo  in  a 

*  DeMonarehlA,  Cap.  98,  99. 

t  Of  this  Inferno  a  certain  Antonio  MaaetU  has  wmk 
a^pfoOle  and  plan,  with  meaaufements.'*  To  thsaew 
circles  described  bj  Danle  he  allows  a  thooaand  miles; 
and  seven  hundred  mors  to  the  gulf  of  Malabolgs,  with 
lU  Un  (bases.  It  la  in  the  Zatu  edition  of  Dante :  Venice, 
1767,  Tom.  I.  A  still  better  view  of  the  Inleraal  Tunnel 
may  be  found  In  the  De  Romania  edltkm:  Rome,  1815, 4io. 


DANTE  ALIGHIERI. 


515 


whirlwind,  and  dashed  agaiiwl  each  other  with 
moans  and  blasphemies : 

**  As  cranes, 
Chaatinff  tlylr  doloraos  noiss,  trnvsno  iha  ak/, 
Sintched  out  In  long  smj;  so  I  bsMd 
Spirits,  who  cams  loud  wslUof,  hnrrisd  on 
By  their  dire  doom." 
In  the  third  circle   the   miserable  souls  of 
gluttons  lie  howling  like  dogs  onder  an  eternal 
and  accursed  shower,  wherein  large  hailstones, 
and  black  rain, 

"and  sleety  flaw, 
Throngh  the  dun  midnight  air  stream  down  amain." 

In  the  fourth  circle  the  prodigal  and  arari- 
cious  are  punished  by  being  set  in  eternal  con- 
flict, clashing,  howling,  and  rolling  great  weights 
against  each  other. 

In  the  fiflh  is  the  Stygian  pool}  immersed  in 
whose  filthy,  stagnant  waters,  the  souls  of  the 
irascible  are  smiting  each  other,  naked  and 
muddy,  while  others,  breathing  under  the  water, 
cover  the  whole  pool  with  bubbles : 

"  How  many  now  are  mighty  kings  on  earth, 
Who  here  like  swine  shall  wallow  In  the  nUrs; 
LeaTing  behind  them  horrible  dispraise  I " 
The  sixth  circle  is  the  fiery  city  of  Dis,  with 
walla  of  heated  iron,  and  bale-fires  flaming  on 
the  towers.     The  whole  place  within  is  like  a 
Tast  cemetery,  where  the  souls  of  heretics  lie 
buried  in  fiery  graTea,  which  are  open,  and 
from  which  terrific  groans  are  constantly  as- 
cending. 

From  high  cliffs  the  poet  looks  down  into 
the  seventh  circle,  which  is  divided  into  three 
rounds,  or  girom^  where  the  violent  are  tor- 
mented ;  those  who  have  done  violence  to  their 
neighbours  are  plunged  into  a  river  of  blood  ; 
those  who  have  laid  violent  hands  upon  them- 
selTOs  are  changed  to  trees,  and 

"  Eren  as  a  green  stick,  that,  being  kindled, 
Bums  at  one  end,  and  at  the  other  groans 
And  biases  with  the  air  that  Is  escaping, 
So  fiK>m  the  broken  limb  came  out  tofstlier 
Both  words  and  blood"; 
and  in  the  third  girone^  or  division,  those  who 
have  been  riolent  against  Crod,  Nature,  or  Art, 
vif  alk  upon  a  sandy  plain  under  a  shower  of  fire, 
¥irhose  broad  flakes  come  slowly  wafted  down, 
*«  like  snow  upon  the  Alps  when  winds  are 
mtiU." 

"Fhe  eighth  circle  is  the  gulf  of  Malabolge, 
into  which  the  Phlegethon,  the  river  of  blood, 
falls  with  a  hollow  roar ;  and  down  into  whose 
bosom  the  two  poets  are  borne  on  the  back  of 
the  winged  monster  Geryon,  hearing  all  the 
^rhile  the  horrible  crash  of  the  cataract  of 
blood.  Here,  in  ten  concentrie  fosses,  spanned 
by  bridges,  rarioas  sinners  suffer  yarious  tor- 
ments :  seducers  are  scourged  by  demons ;  flat^ 
terers  wallow  in  filth ;  simoniacs  are  plunged 
bead  foremost  into  holes  in  the  earth ;  sooth- 
sajTors  have  their  heads  turned  backwards; 
peculators  seethe  in  a  lake  of  boiling  pitch ; 
lijrpocrites  wear  gilded  hoods  of  lead ;  robbers 
sue  stung  by  venomous  serpents ;  evil  counsel- 
lors live  in  flames,  in  each  flame  a  sinfbl  soul ; 


schismatics  are  maimed  and  cut  asunder ;  and 
alchemists  and  forgers  lie  rotting  with  disease, 
as  in  a  lazar-house,  or  rather,  as  if 

"  BBch  lasarbouse 
Of  Yaldichlana,  In  the  saltry  time 
Twizt  July  and  September,  with  the  Isis 
Sardinia,  and  Maremma*s  pestilent  An, 
Had  heaped  their  maladies  aU  in  one  fons 
Together." 

From  among  the  sobbing  ghosts  of  Malabolge 
they  pass  onward,  and  the  sound  of  ii  horn  is 
heard,  more  terrible  than  Orlando's,  and  the 
fi>mis  of  giants  are  seen,  like  the  towers  of  a 
city,  through  the  gross  and  misty  atmosphere. 
Anteus  takes  the  poets  in  his  hands,  and  sets 
them  down  in  the  ninth  and  last  circle  of  the 
h^emOi  where  the  souls  of  traitors  lie  in  the 
frozen  lake,  and  in  the  midst  Lucifer,  the  fallen 
archangel,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  earth, 
**  like  a  worm  boring  through  the  centre  of  the 
world."  Down  his  shaggy,  icy  sides  they  slide, 
and,  tuning  their  heads  round,  begin  to  ascend 
to  the  earth's  surface,  through  a  cavern,  guided 
upivard  by  the  sound  of  a  brooklet,  «*and  thence 
oome  forth  to  see  the  stars  sgain." 

The  fall  of  Lucifisr  made  not  only  the  gulf 
of  Hell,  but  threw  up  on  the  opposite  surface 
of  the  earth  a  huge  cone,  which  is  the  moun- 
tain of  Purgatory.  Seven  broad  terraces  are 
cut  into  its  sides,  and  on  its  summit  is  the  Tei^ 
reatrial  Paradise,  to  which  the  poets  climb, 
ushered  onward  from  terrace  to  terrace  by  an- 
gels. On  these  terraces,  the  seven  mortal  sins 
are  purged  away. 

On  the  first  terrace  the  spirits  of  the  proud 
are  made  to  totter  under  huge  stones,  that  are 
placed  upon  their  shoulders ;  and  he  who  had 
most  patience  in  his  looks,  weeping,  did  seem 
to  say,  ^^I  can  no  more.*' 

On  the  second  terrace  sit  the  souls  of  the 
envious,  having  their  eyelids  sewed  together 
with  iron  wire,  and  turning  their  faces  up 
piteously,  like  blind  beggars  at  the  gates  of 
churches. 

On  the  third  terrace  the  sin  of  anger  is 
purged.  The  souls  walk  enveloped  in  dense, 
suflfocating  smoke,  and  in  darkness  like  that  of 
a  starless  night. 

On  the  fourth  terrace  the  sin  of  lukewarm- 
ness  is  punished.  The  crowd  of  ghosts  comes 
sweeping  round  the  hill,  ridden  and  spurred 
onward  by  a  righteous,  though  tardy  zeal. 

On  the  fifth  terrace  the  souls  of  the  avari- 
cious lie  with  their  fiices  in  the  dust,  weeping 
and  wailing. 

On  the  sixth,  the  souls  of  gluttons  ^*  drink 
the  sweet  wormwood  of  their  torment,"  being 
emaciated  by  fiimine,  till  the  hollow  sockets  of 
their  eyes  seem  rings,  from  which  the  gems 
have  fiJien. 

On  the  seventh  and  last  terrace  the  sin  of 
incontinence  is  purged  by  fire.  Beyond  this, 
on  the  summit  of  the  mountain,  stands  the  Ter- 
restrial Paradise,  where,  amid  flowers,  and 
leaves,  and  living  waters,  the  poet  meets  Bea- 


516 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


trice,  who  -  becomes  his  guide  among  the  stan 
of  Paradise. 

The  Paradise  of  Dante  is  dirided  into  nine 
heavens,  or  spheres.  Through  these  the  two 
travellers  ascend,  drawn  upward  by  heavenly 
desire. 

The  first  sphere  is  that  of  the  moon ;  where 
the  poet  learns  that  the  story  of  the  man  in  the 
moon,  or,  as  the  Italian  popular  tradition  says, 
Cain  with  a  pitchfork,  is  only  a  ftble ;  and  that 
in  this  sphere  dwell  the  souls  of  those,  who, 
having  once  taken  monastic  vows,  were  forced 
to  violate  them. 

The  second  heaven  is  the  planet  Mercury, 
where  dwell  the  spirits  of  those  whom  the  de- 
sire of  fame  has  moved  to  noble  enterprises.  - 

The  third  heaven  is  the  planet  Venus,  where 
are  those  who  on  earth  were  celebrated  fbr 
their  holy  passion. 

The  fburth  heaven  is  the  sun,  *>  inhabited 
by  the  most  worthy  theologians,  doctors,  and 
fathers  of  the  church ;  among  whom  is  the  An* 
gelic  Doctor,  Thomas  Aquinas. 

The  fifth  heaven  is  the  sphere  of  Mara : 
and  here  are  the  heroic  souls  of  crusaders,  and 
those  who  died  fighting  for  the  true  faith,  ar- 
ranged in  the  sign  of  a  gloriohs  cross,  over 
which  the  spirits  move  in  music. 

In  the  sixth  heaven,  which  is  Jupiter,  are 
the  souls  of  just  and  upright  princes,  who  gov- 
erned their  people  wisely.  They  are  arranged 
in  the  form  of  an  eagle,  in  the  centre  of  whose 
flaming  eye  sits  King  David. 

The  seventh  heaven  is  the  planet  Saturn; 
where  those  reside  who  on  earth  passed  their 
lives  in  holy  retirement  and  contemplation. 

The  eighth  heaven  is  that  of  the  fixed  stan ; 
where,  sitting  in  the  constellation  of  the  Twins, 
the  poet  looks  back  upon  his  heavdnly  path- 
way, and  beholds  this  little  ball  of  earth  swing- 
ing below  him,  a  mere  speck  in  the  universe. 
In  this  sphere  are  the  souls  of  Adam  and  the 
most  illustrious  saints ;  and  the  fbrms  of  Christ 
triumphant  and  the  Virgin  Mary  pass  before 
him,  and  vanish  fkr  above. 

Beyond  this  is  the  ninth  heaven,  wherein  the 
poet  has  a  glimpse  of  the  Divine  Essence,  sur- 
rounded by  the  nine  choirs  of  angels,  in  thre6 
hierarchies. 

The  tenth  and  last  heaven  is  the  vast  em- 
pyrean, where  Beatrice  leaves  Dante  with 
Saint  Bernard;  assisted  by  whose  prayera  to 
the  Virgin  Mary,  the  poet  is  vouchsafed  one 
fearful  gaze  upon  the  great  mystery  of  the  Ood- 
. head. 

The  ^  Divina  Commedia  *'  has  been  many 
times  translated  into  English  verse ;  by  Boyd, 
Cory,  and  Wright,  and  in  part  by  Rogers,  How- 
ard, Hume,  and  Parsons.  In  introducing  ex- 
tracts from  such  a  poem  into  a  work  like  this, 
we  fbel  that  we  are  imitating  Christina  of  Swe- 
den, who  clipped  two  of  the  finest  paintings  of 
Titian,  in  order  to  fit  them  to  the  panels  of  her 
gallery. 


80NNSTS  FROM  THB  YTTA  NUOYA. 
WHAT  IS  LOYEt 

LoTB  and  a  generous  heart  are  but  one  thing, 
As  says  the  wise  man  in  his  apophthegm ; 
And  one  can  by  itself  no  more  exist 
Than  reason  can,  vrithout  the  reasoning  soul. 
Nature  in  kindliest  mood  creates  the  two : 
Makes  Love  a  king, the  heart  his  palace  makes; 
Within  whose  chambera  sleeping,  his  repose 
ts  sometimes  brief,  and  sometimes  long  endures. 
Beauty  with  sense  combined  in  lady  charms 
The  observing  eye,  and  then  within  the  heart 
Desire  to  obtain  the  pleasing  object  springs. 
There  sometimes  grows,  and  strength  in  time 

acquires 
The  spirit  of  Love  from  slumber  to  arouse : 
lAki  power  o*er  lady's  heart  hath  manly  worth. 


LOYBLINKSS  OF  BEATRICE. 

The  throne  of  Love  is  in  my  lady's  eyes. 
Whence  every  thing  she  looks  on  is  ennobled : 
On  her  all  eyes  are  turned,  where'er  she  moves, 
And  his  heart  palpitates  whom  she  salutes. 
So  that,  with  countenance  cast  down  and  pale. 
Conscious  unworthiness  his  sighs  express : 
Anger  and  pride  before  her  presence  fly. 
O,  aid  me,  gentle  dames,  to  do  her  honor ! 
All  sweetness  springs,  and  every  humble  thoQght, 
Within  the  heart  of  him  who  bean  her  speak ; 
And  happy  may  be  deemed  who  once  bath  seen 

her. 
What  she  appeara  when  she  doth  gently  smile 
Tongue  cannot  tell  nor  memory  retain,  — 
So  beauteous  is  the  miracle,  and  new. 


Beatrice's  salutatioh. 

So  noble  is  Madonna's  air,  so  kind, 
So  full  of  grace  to  all,  when  she  salutes. 
That  every  tongue  with  awe  is  mote  and  trem- 
bles. 
And  every  eye  shrinks  back  fVom  her  regard. 
Clothed  in  humility,  she  hean  her  praise. 
And  passes  on  with  calm  benignity ; 
Appearing  not  a  thing  of  earth,  but  come 
From  heaven,  to  show  mankind  a  miracle. 
So  pleasing  is  her  countenance,  that  he 
Who  gazes  feels  delight  expand  the  heart. 
Which  must  be  proved,  or  cannot  be  conceived ; 
And  fiiom  her  lip  there  seems  to  emanate 
A  spirit  full  of  mildness  and  of  loye, 
Which,  counselling  the  soul,  still  sajs,  *^0, 
«gh!" 

THE  ANNIYERSART. 


ory  c 
B  Lo^ 


Iirro  the  chambera  of  my  memor 
That  noble  lady,  whom  in  tean  Love  moame, 
The  very  moment  when  his  power  led  you 
To  watch  the  labore  that  my  hand  employed. 
Love  to  the  seat  of  memory  felt  her  come, 
And  woke  fi^om  slumber  in  my  wretched  heart, 


DANTE  ALIGHIERI. 


517 


And,  calliDg  to  Um  ngha^  exclaimed,  ««Go  ibrth ! " 
The  eif  hfl  in  mournfhl  crowds  with  haste  obeyed, 
And  issaed  from  my  breast,  uttering  such  aoands 
Of  griei^  as  often  draw  flrom  these  sad  eyee 
The  fellowship  of  my  unhappy  tears. 
But  of  the  sighs  sent  forth  with  greatest  pain 
Are  those  which  say,  *«  O  noble  mind,  this  day 
Completes  the  year  sinoe  thy  ascent  to  heaven !  " 

TBK  PILGRIMS. 

Tell  me,  ye  pilgrims,  who  so  thoughtfiil  go. 
Musing,  perhaps,  on  objects  far  away, 
Come  ye  <h>m  wandering  in  such  distant  land 
(As  by  your  looks  and  garb  we  most  inlbr), 
That  you  our  city  trsTerse  in  her  woe, 
And  mingle  with  her  crowda,  yet  tears  with- 

hold. 
Like  perM>ns  quite  unconscious  of  her  state, 
Who  ne'er  have  heard   the  heavy  loss  she 

mourns? 
O,  should  you  stay,  and  lend  a  willing  ear. 
My  sighing  heart  feels  sure  its  tale  would  cause 
Your  tears  to  flow,  and  sad  you  would  depart 
The  city  mourns  her  Beatrice ;  she  's  dead ! 
And  that  which  we  can  truly  say  of  her 
Has  power  to  force  even  strangers*  eyes  to  weep. 


SONNETS  FROM  THB  CANZONIER& 
THE  C17R8X. 

AcovussD  be  the  day  when  first  I  saw 
The  beams  which  sparkle  in  your  traitorous  eyes ! 
The  moment  cursed,  when  to  my  heart  you  came. 
And  reached  its  pinnacle  to  steal  the  soul ! 
Accursed  be  Love's  labor,  which  my  style 
Has  polished,  and  the  beauteous  tints  refined 
That    I    for  you    invented,  and    with  verse 

adorned. 
To  Ibrce  the  world  to  honor  yoa  for  ever ! 
Accarsed  be  my  stubborn  memory. 
So  firm  in  holiUog  what  must  cause  my  death. 
The  wicked  image  of  your  beauteous  form } 
Through  which  Love's  perjuries  so  firequent  are, 
That  he  and  I  are  ridiculed  by  all. 
And  I  am  tempted  Fortune's  wheel  to  aeiEe ! 


THX  FARKWELL. 

Ihto  thy  hands,  sweet  lady  of  my  soul^ 
The  spirit  which  b  dying  I  commend ; 
In  grief  so  sad  it  takes  its  leave,  that  Love 
Views  it  with  pity  while  dismissing  it. 
By  thee  to  his  dominion  it  wss  chained 
So  firmly,  that  no  power  it  hath  retained 
To  call  him  aught  except  its  sovereign  lord ; 
For  whatsoe'er  thou  wilt,  thy  will  is  mine. 
I  know  that  every  wrong  displeaseth  thee ; 
Therefore  stem  I>eath,  whom  I  have  never 

served. 
Enters  my  heart  with  ftr  more  bitterness : 
O  noble  lady,  then,  whilst  life  remaina. 
That  I  may  die  in  peace,  my  mind  consoled. 
Vouchsafe  to  be  less  dear  unto  these  eyes. 


MAtnrT  AND  VIRTUE. 

Two  ladies  on  the  summit  of  my  mind 
Their  station  take,  to  hold  discourM  of  love : 
Virtue  and  courtesy  adorn  the  one. 
With  modesty  and  prudence  in  her  train  ; 
Beauty  and  lively  elegance  the  other. 
With  every  winning  grace  to  do  her  honor : 
And  I,  thanks  to  my  sweet  and  sovereign  lord. 
Enamoured  of  the  two,  their  slave  remain. 
Beauty  and  virtue  ^ach  address  the  mind. 
And  doubts  express  if  loyal  heart  can  rest 
Between  the  two,  in  perfect  love  divided: 
The  fountain  of  true  eloquence  replies,  — 
<*  Both  may  be  loved :  beauty,  to  yield  delight; 
And  virtue,  to  excite  to  generous  deeds." 


TBE  LOTER. 

Whxit  night  with  sable  wing  the  earth  en- 

shroods, 
And  day,  departing,  hides  itself  in  heaven, 
In  ocean,  and  in  grove,  and  bird  and  beast 
Amid  the  boughs  or  in  the  stall  find  rest ;  || 

And  sleep  o'er  every  limb  its  gentle  balm 
Diffuses,  undisturbed  by  care  or  thought, 
Until  Aurora  with  her  tresses  feir 
Returns,  and  day's  fetigue  sgain  renews : 
Then,  wretched,  I  am  banished  firom  sleep's 

fold; 
For  grief  and  sighs,  the  enemies  of  rest. 
Mine  eyes  keep  open  and  my  heart  awake ; 
And  like  a  bird  enveloped  in  a  net, 
The  more  I  seek  and  struggle  to  escape. 
The  more  I  am  entangled  and  in  error  lost 

TO  OUIDO  CAVALCANTI. 

Frixhd  Guide,  would  that  Lappo,  you,  and  I 
Were  carried  by  enchantment  for  from  care. 
And  sailing  in  a  bark  upon  the  sea. 
Where  wind  and  wave   our   bidding  should 

obey; 
Where  never  fortune  cross,  nor  weather  foul. 
To  interrupt  our  joy  should  have  the  power ; 
And  wishes  ne'er  lo  part  should  still  increase. 
While  granted  were  the  wish  to  live  together. 
And  might  the  good  enchanter  place  beside  us 
Our  Beatrice,  and  Vanna,  and  the  lady 
Who  stands  preeminent  amidst  the  thirty, 
There  would  we  never  cease  to  talk  of  love ; 
And  each  feir  dame,  I  trust,  would  be  content, 
As  I  am  confident  that  we  should  be. 

TO  B0880KE  d'  AOOBIO. 

O  THOU  who  tread'st  the  cool  and  shady  hill 
Skirting  the  river,  which  so  softly  glides 
That  gentle  Linceus  't  is  by  natives  called. 
In  its  Italian,  not  its  German,  name,  — - 
Contented  sit  thee  down  at  morn  and  eve ; 
For  thy  beloved  child  already  bears 
The  fiiiit  desired,  and  his  march  hath  been 
Rapid  in  Grecian  and  in  Gallic  Ipre. 
Genius,  alas !  no  longer  holds  her  throne 


618 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


In  that  Hesperia,  now  the  aboda  of  woe, 
Whose  gardens  once  such  noble  promise  gave. 
None  fairer  than  thy  Raphael ;  then  rejoice, 
For  thou  shalt  see  him  float  amid  the  learned, 
Admired  as  a  galliot  on  the  wave. 


CANZONI   FROM  THE  VITA  NUOYA. 
▼I8I0N  OF.BBATHICB'8  DEATH. 

A  LADT,  young,  compassionate,  and  ftir. 
Richly  adorned  with  every  human  grace. 
Watched  o'er  my  couch,  where  oft  I  called  on 

death ; 
And  noticing  the  eyes  with  sorrow  swollen, 
And  listening  to  the  folly  of  my  words. 
Fear  seized  upon  her,  and  she  wept  aloud. 
Attracted  by  her  moaning,  other  dames 
Gave  heed  unto  my  pitiable  state, 
And  from  my  view  removed  her. 
They  then  approached  to  rouse  me  by  their  voice. 
And  one  cried,  «*  Sleep  no  more ! " 
And  one,  <*  Why  thus  discomfort  thee  ?  " 
With  that  the  strange,  delirious  fancy  fled, 
And,  calling  on  my  lady's  name,  I  woke. 
So  indistinct  and  mournful  was  my  voice, 
By  anguish  interrupted  so,  and  teitfs. 
That  I  alone  the  name  heard  in  my  heart : 
Then   with   a   countenance   abashed,  through 

shame. 
Which  to  my  face  had  mounted  visibly, 
Prompted  by  Love,  I  turned  towards  my  friends, 
And  features  showed  so  pale  and  wan. 
It  made  beholders  turn  their  thoughts  on  death. 
"  Alas !  our  comfort  he  Inust  have," 
Said  every  one,  with  kind  humility. 
Then  oft  they  questioned  me, 
«<What   hast  thou  seen,  that  has  unmanned 

thee  thus  P  " 
And  when  I  was  in  part  restored,  I  said, 
<*  Ladies,  to  you  the  vision  I  'II  relate. 
Whilst  I  lay  pondering  on  my  ebbing  lifb. 
And  saw  how  brief  its  tenure,  and  how  firail, 
Love  wept  within  my  heart,  where  he  abides ; 
For  my  sad  soul  was  wandering  so,  and  lost, 
That,  sighing  deeply  at  the  thought,  it  said, 
*  Inevitable  death  attends  Madonna  too.' 
Such  consternation  then  my  senses  seised. 
The  eyes  weighed  down  with  fear  were  closed ; 
And  scattered  fer  and  wide 
The  spirits  fled,  and  each  in  error  strayed ; 
And  then  imagination's  powers. 
Of  recollection  and  of  truth  bereft, 
Showed  me  the  fleeting  forms  of  wretched  dames. 
Who  shouted,  *  Death ! '  still  crying, « Tbou  shalt 

die  I' 
Many  the  doubtful  things  which  next  I  saw. 
Wandering  in  vain  imagination's  maze. 
I  seemed  to  be  I  know  not  in  what  plaee, 
And  ladies  loosely  robed  saw  fleet  along. 
Some  weeping,  and  some  uttering  loud  laments 
Which  darted  burning  griefs  into  the  soul. 
And  then  methought  I  saw  a  gradual  veil 
Obscure  the  sun ;  the  star  of  Love  appeared. 
And  son  and  star  seemed  both  to  weep ; 


Birds  flying  through  the  dusky  air  dropped  down ; 
Trembled  the  earth  : 

And  then  appeared  a  man,  feeble  and  pale, 
Who  cried  to  me,  *  What !  here  ?  Heard'st  not 

the  news  ? 
Dead  is  thy  lady,  —  she  who  was  so  ftir.' 
I  raised  the  eyes  then,  moistened  with  my  teini 
And,  softly  as  the  shower  of  roaona  fell, 
Angels  I  saw  returning  up  to  heaven  : 
Before  them  was  a  slender  cloud  extended^ 
And  from  behind  I  heard  them  shout,  *•  Hosan> 

na!' 
What  mo^  was  song  I  know  not,  or  would  tell. 
Then   Love   thus  spoke:    'Concealment  ben 

shall  end ; 
Come  now,  and  see  our  lady  who  lies  dead.' 
Imagination's  fellaey 

Then  led  me  where  in  death  Madonna  lay ; 
And  after  I  had  gazed  upon  her  ferm, 
Ladies  I  saw  conceal  it  with  a  veil ; 
And    such    true    meekness    from   its  featorei 

beamed. 
It  seemed  to  say  to  me,  <I  dwell  in  peace.' 
So  meek  in  my  affliction  I  became. 
Seeing  such  meekness  on  her  brow  exprened, 
That  I  exclaimed,  •  O  Death,  I  hold  thee  sweet, 
Noble  and  kind  henceforth  thou  must  be  deemed. 
Since  thou  hast  been  united  to  Madonna;' 
Piteous,  not  cruel,  must  thy  nature  he- 
Behold  desire  so  strong  to  be  enrolled 
Thy  follower,  my  feith  and  thine  seem  one! 
Come,  for  the  heart  solicits  thee ! ' 
I  then  departed,  all  sad  rites  complete ; 
And  when  I  found  myself  alone. 
With  eyes  upraised  to  the  realms  above  I  ssid, 
*  Blessed  is  be  beholds  thee,  beauteous.soul ! ' 
That  instant,  through  your  kindness,  I  awoke." 

DIROK  OF  BBATRICK. 

Thx  eyes,  which  mourn  the  sorrows  of  the  besit, 
Such  torture  have  endured  in  shedding  tean, 
That  they  at  last  are  utterly  subdued ; 
And  should  I  strive  to  find  relief  from  woe. 
Which  by  degrees  is  leading  me  to  death. 
Sad  notes  of  misery  are  my  sole  resource. 
And  as  I  well  remember  how  I  spoke 
My  thoughts  of  my  loved  mistress,  while  she 

lived. 
Most  willingly  to  you,  my  noble  dames, — 
Now  to  no  other  will  I  speak 
Than  to  the  gentle  heart  in  lady's  breast ; 
And  weeping,  then,  my  song  shall  be  of  her 
Who  has  to  heaven  departed  suddenly, 
And  Love  has  left  companion  of  my  sorrows. 
To  highest  heaven  our  Beatrice  is  gone. 
Unto  the  realm  where  peace  and  angels  dwell; 
With  them  she  rests,  and  you,  feir  dames,  hstb 

left 
No  Icy  chill  or  fever's  heat  deprived 
Us  of  her,  as  in  nature's  course ; 
But  solely  her  transcendent  excellence. 
For  the  bright  beam  of  her  humility 
Passed  with  such  virtue  the  celestial  spheres, 
It  called  forth  wonder  in  the  Eternal  Sire ; 


DANTE  ALIGHIERI. 


519 


And  tbea  his  pleasure  was 
To  claim  a  soul  so  healthAil  and  so  pure, 
And  make  it  from  our  earth  ascend  to  him ; 
Deeming  this  life  of  weariness  and  care 
Unworthy  of  a  thing  so  excellent. 
Forth  from  its  lovely  frame  the  soul  is  fled, 
In  &ror  as  in  excellence  most  high, 
And  sHs  in  glory  on  a  worthy  throne. 
He  who  can  speak  of  her  without  a  tear 
A  heart  of  stone  must  hare,  wicked  and  vile. 
Where  never  spirit  benign  can  entrance  find. 
The  ignoble  heart  is  fraught  with  sense  too  low 
To  form  imagination  faint  of  her ; 
And  hence  desire  to  weep  offends  ^ot  him. 
But  sadness  him  assails,  and  sighs, 
And  tears  of  deadly  sorrow,  and  his  soul 
Of  every  consolation  is  bereft. 
Who,  even  in  thought,  has  once  beheld  how  good 
And  fair  she  was,  and  how  from  us  she  's  taken. 
Anguish  intolerable  attends  my  sighs. 
When  to  the  mind  returns  the  afflicting  thought 
Of  the  beloved  who  my  heart  hath  shared. 
And  often,  when  I  ruminate  on  death, 
A  wuh  so  soothing  o*er  my  senses  comes, 
The  color  of  my  features  it  transforms. 
But  when  imagination  holds  me  fast. 
Pain  so  severe  oft  seizes  every  nerve. 
That  I  am  roused  through  very  agony ', 
And  I  such  spectacle  become, 
That  from  mankind  I  separate  abashed. 
Then  solitary,  weeping,  I  lament  and  call 
On  Beatrice,  and  say,  *«  Art  thou,  then,  dead?" 
And  while  I  call  on  her,  am  comforted. 
Sorrow  and  tears  and  sighs  of  mental  anguish 
So  waste  my  heart,  whene'er  I  am  alone. 
That  who  should  hear  me  must  compassion  feel ; 
And  what  my  state  hath  been,  since  to  the  world 
Unknown  Madonna  took  her  flight  from  earth. 
No  tongue  of  human  power  can  express. 
And  therefore,  ladies,  even  with  the  will 
To  tell  you  what  I  am,  the  ability  must  fail ; 
So  am  I  harassed  by  my  bitter  life, 
Oisheartened  and  degraded  so,  that  all 
Who  mark  the  death-like  color  of  my  cheek. 
Pass  on,  and  seem  to  say,  «<  I  thee  abandon  !  '* 
Bat  what  I  am  Madonna  knows  full  well. 
And  still  from  her  I  hope  for  my  reward. 
My  plaintive  song,  now  mournful  take  thy  way. 
And  find  the  ladies  and  the  damsels  kind. 
To  whom  thy  sisters  blithe 
"Wore  wont  to  bear  the  merry  notes  of  joy ; 
And  thou,  who  art  the  daughter  of  my  sorrow, 
Oiflconsolate  depart  and  dwell  with  them  i 


CANZONI  FROM  THB  CANZONIERE. 
BEATRICE. 

1*iiosx  curled  and  flaxen  tresses  I  admire, 
or  which,  with  strings  of  pearl  and  scattered 

flowers. 
Hath  Love  contrived  a  net  fer  me,  his  prey 
To  take  me ;  and  I  find  the  lure  succeed. 
And  chief^  those  beauteous  eyes  attract  my  gaze, 
vV^Wch  pass  through  mine  and  penetrate  the  heart 


With  rays  so  animating  and  so  bright. 

That  from  the  sun  itself  they  seem  to  flow. 

Virtue  still  growing  is  in  them  displayed ; 

Hence  I,  who  contemplate  their  charms  so  rare. 

Thus  commune  with  myself  amid  my  sighs  : 

**  Alas !  why  cannot  I  be  placed 

Alone,  unseen,  with  her  where  I  would  wish; 

So  that  with  those  fiiir  tresses  I  might  play, 

And  separate  them  wave  by  wave ; 

And  of  her  beauteous  eyes,  which  shine  supreme. 

Might  form  two  mirrors  fbr  delight  of  mine  ?  " 

I  next  the  fair  and  lovely  mouth  survey. 

The  spacious  forehead,  and  the  enamouring  look. 

The  fingers  white,  the  nose  correctly  straight, 

The  eyebrow  smooth  and  dark,  that  pencilled 


Then  wandering  thought  imagination  stirs, 
Saying :  **  Observe  the  winning  grace  and  joy 
Within  that  delicate  and  vermeil  lip, 
Where  all  that 's  sweet  ai}d  zest  can  give  is  seen  ! 
O,  stay,  and  hear  how  lovely  her  discourse, 
What  tenderness  and  goodness  it  reveals. 
And  how  her  converse  she  imparts  to  all ! 
Admire,  how,  when  she  smiles. 
All  other  charms  in  sweetness  are  surpassed !  " 
Thus  to  expatiate  on  that  mouth  my  thought 
Still  spurs  me  on  ;  for  I 
Have  nothing  upon  earth  I  would  not  give. 
Could  I  from  it  obtain  one  unreluctant  <*  Tes." 
Then  I  regard  her  white  and  well  turned  throat, 
So  aptly  joined  to  shoulders  and  to  bust ; 
And  little  rounded  chin,  with  dimple  stamped. 
In  form  as  true  as  painter's  eye  conceives. 
My  thought,  which  ever  turns  its  flight  to  her. 
Then  says:  **  With  joy  contemplate  the  delight. 
To  clasp  within  the  arms  that  lovely  neck. 
And  on  the  throat  a  tender  seal  impress ! " 
Then  fiirther  says :  ^  Let  fency  take  the  wing ; 
Think,  if  the  parts  exposed  so  beauteous  are. 
What  must  the  others  be,  concealed  and  veiled  ? 
Our  admiration  of  the  glorious  works 
Displayed  in  heaven,  the  sun  and  other  stars. 
Alone  persuades  us  paradise  is  there : 
So,  if  with  fixed  regard  thou  meditate. 
Thou  must  imagine  every  earthly  bliss 
Is  found  where  eye  is  not  allowed  to  pierce.** 
Her  arms  I  next  observe,  spacious  and  full ; 
Her  hand,  white,  smooth,  and  soft  as  down ; 
Her  fingers,  long  and  delicately  thin. 
Proud  of  the  ring  which  one  of  them  enclasps ; 
And  thought  then  says  to  me :  **  If  thou  wert  now 
Within  those  arms,  thy  life  would  pleasure  know 
And  share  with  her,  which  to  describe 
In  least  degree  defies  my  utmost  skill. 
Obsenv,  that  every  limb  a  picture  seems ; 
Exact  the  size  and  shape  her  frame  requires. 
And  colored  with  angelic  hues  of  pearl : 
Grace  is  in  every  look  ; 
And  indignation,  if  offence  provoke  : 
Meek,  modest,  temperate,  and  calm. 
To  virtue  ever  dear. 

O'er  all  her  noble  manners  reigns  a  charm. 
Which  universal  reverence  inspires. 
Stately  and  soft  she  moves  as  Juno's  bird. 
Erect  and  firmly  poised  as  any  crane. 


500 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


One  charm  remark,  pecoliarly  hers, — 
An  elegance  unmatched,  with  modeety  com- 
bined ; 
And  would  you  see  it,  in  a  liying  prool^" 
Saya  thought  to  me,  *^  Attend  well  to  thy  mind. 
When,  with  a  lady  elegant  and  fair 
Harmoniouaiy  conjoined,  she  moves  «long ; 
Then,  as  the  brilliant  stars  seem  chased  away 
By  greater  brightness  of  the  advancing  son. 
So  vanish  other  charms  when  hers  are  viewed. 
Think,  then,  how  pleasing  she  must  be 
Whose  loveliness  and  beauty  equal  are  ; 
And  beauty  past  compare  in  her  is  found. 
Habits  of  virtue  and  of  loyalty 
Alone  can  please  her  and  her  cause  can  serve: 
But  in  her  welfare  only  place  thy  hope." 
My  song,  well  may'st  thou  vouch  for  true. 
That,  since  the  day  when  first  was  born 
A  beauteous  lady,  none  ever  pleased  like  her 
Thou  celebratest,  take  her  all  in  all  t 
For  joined  in  her  are  Ibund 
Personal  beauty  and  a  virtuous  mind ; 
Nor  aught  deficient,  but  some  grains  of  pity. 

FA.REW£LL. 

Farswkll,  for  ever  gone  those  tresses  bright, 

From  whence  the  hills  around 

Drew  and  refiected.  tints  of  shining  gold  1 

Farewell  the  beauteous  look,  the  glances  sweet, 

Implanted  in  my  heart 

By  those  fair  eyes  that  well  remembered  day  I 

Farewell  the  graceful  bloom 

Of  sparkling  countenance ! 

Farewell  the  endearing  smile, 

Disclosing  pearls  of  snowy  white  between 

Roses  of  vermeil  hues  throughout  the  year ! 

Why  without  me,  O  Death, 

These  bast  thou  robbed  us  of  in  flower  of  spring  ? 

Farewell  the  playfiil  mind  and  wise  reserve. 

The  welcome  frank  and  sweet. 

The  ready  wit,  and  the  determined  heart ! 

Farewell  the  meek,  yet  lofty,  just  disdain. 

Confirming  my  resolve 

All  baseness  to  detest  and  greatness  love ! 

Farewell  desire,  the  child 

Of  beauty  overflowing ! 

Farewell  the  aspiring  hope. 

Which  made  me  view  all  other  far  behind, 

And  rendered  light  to  me  Love's  heaviest  load ! 

These  hast  thou  shivered.  Death, 

As  glass,  and  me  alive  suspended  as  one  dead. 

Lady,  fknweill !  of  every  virtue  queen, 

Goddess  preferred  to  all, 

For  whom,  through  Love,  all  others  I  renoonce, 

Farewell !    What  column  of  such  precious  stone 

On  earth  were  worthy  found 

To  raise  thy  temple,  and  in  air  sustain  .' 

Farewell,  thou  vessel  filled 

With  Nature's  miracles ! 

By  fortune's  evil  turn. 

Beyond  the  rugged  mountains  thou  wast  led. 

Where  Death  has  closed  thee  in  the  cruel  tomb, 

And  of  my  eyes  hath  formed 

Two  fountains  wearied  with  incessant  tears. 


Farewell !   And  thou  without  excuse,  O  Death, 
Observe  these  sorrowiifg  eyes,  and  own  tt  leait, 
Until  thy  hand  destroy  me, 
Endless  should  be  my  cry,  ''Alas,  ftreweUi" 


GANZQNB  FSOM  THE  CX>NyiTa 
PHILOSOPHT. 

LovB  with  delight  discourses  in  my  mind 
Upon  my  lady's  admirable  gifU, 
And  oft  expatiates  with  me  on  deserts 
Beyond  the  range  of  human  intelli»ct. 
In  sounds  so  sweetly  eloquent  bis  voice 
Touches  the  listening  and  enraptured  soul. 
That  it  exclaims,  «<  Alas !  how  weak  my  pow« 
To  tell  what  of  my  lady  now  I  hear ! " 
For  first,  I  am  compelled  to  throw  aside, 
When  I  attempt  of  what  I  hear  to  treat, 
All  that  my  mind  in  vain  would  comprehend} 
And  next,  of  what  I  even  understand. 
Great  part,  that  my  ability  transcends. 
If,  then,  my  verse  should  in  defecU  abound. 
Which  fondly  enters  on  Madonna's  praise. 
The  feeble  understanding  must  be  blamed, 
And  language  feeble,  wanting  power  with  ma 
The  merits  to  portray  which  Love  describes. 
The  sun,  revolving  round  this  earthly  globe. 
Nothing  beholds  so  excellent  and  fair. 
As  in  that  hour  he  lighta  the  land  where  dwelk 
The  lady  for  whom  Love  commands  my  aoog. 
Angelic  essences  her  worth  admire ; 
And  they  on  earth  whom  she  hath  once  ensm- 

cured 
Still  find  her  image  present  to  their  thougbte, 
When  Love  calms  all  emotions  into  peace. 
With  such  complacency  her  Maker  views 
His  work,  his  virtue  still  he  showers  on  ber. 
In  gifts  beyond  our  nature's  utmost  call. 
Her  pore  and  spotless  soul. 
Which  owes  its  health  to  the  Creator's  boon. 
Proclaims  his  hand  in  her  material  frame. 
Which  beauties  in  such  varied  form  displays, 
The  eyes  of  those  on  whom  her  coontenanes 


Send  thoughts  into  the  heart,  with  wishes  filled, 
Which  thence  take  wing  in  air,  tiansfbrmed  to 

sighs. 
Virtue  divine  descends  on  her,  as  on 
An  angel  who  the  beatific  vision  sees  : 
If  there  be  gentle  dame  who  disbelieves, 
Let  her  converse  with  her,  and  mark  ber  ways. 
For  when  she  speaks,  she  draws  an  angel  down 
From  heaven,  who  joyful  testimony  bean, 
That  the  high  worth  in  her  possession  seen 
Exceeds  the  endowments  suited  to  our  wants. 
Her  acts  of  courtesy,  conferred  on  all. 
Strive  each  which  best  shall  call  on  Love 
In  language  which  he  never  fails  to  feel. 
Of  her  it  may  be  said. 
Graceful  in  lady  what  in  her  we  find. 
And  beautifhl  what  most  resembles  her. 
And  truly  may  we  say,  her  countenance  aids 
In  miracles  belief;  for  one  she  seems. 
And  thus  our  faith  confirms,  and  was  for  this 


DANTE  ALIOHIERI. 


581 


Created  and  eternally  ordaiDed. 

Channi  in  ber  countenance  appear,  which  ahow 

Of  pandiae  the  ineffable  delighta : 

Of  bar  aweet  amile  I  ipeakf  and  of  her  eyea, 

Which  Lore  attract  aa  to  hia  proper  throne. 

Onr  intellect  they  daszle  and  eobdne, 

Ae  the  enn'a  raya  o'erpower  the  ibeble  eight : 

Mine  may  not  look  on  them  with  fixed  regard, 

And  hence  to  icant  their  honors  I  am  ftin. 

Her  beauty  fidla  in  gentle  ehowera  of  flame, 

Each  animated  with  a  ipirit  benign. 

Which  is  creator  of  all  Tirtnona  thooghti, 

And  abetters  like  the  thunderbolt 

All  inbred  vioea  which  the  mind  debate. 

Therefore  let  beauteona  dame,  who  oensare 

eama. 
By  wanting  a  deportment  meek  and  atill. 
View  thia  exemplar  of  humility ; 
Her,  before  whom  each  ainner  dropa  hia  pride. 
Her,  whom  the  MoTer  of  the  world  conceiTod. 
My  iong,  thy  speech  may  aeem  to  contradict 
The  language  we  have  heard  thy  aiater  hold ; 
For  she  the  lady  calls  both  fierce  and  proud. 
Whom  thou  so  humble  represent'st,  and  meek. 
But  well  thou  know*st  that  heaTen  is  ever  bright 
And  clear  and  cloudless,  aa  regards  itself; 
Although  our  eyes,  from  many  a  cauae. 
May  aometimes  call  the  sun  itself  obscure : 
So  when  your  sister  calls  this  lady  proud, 
Sbe  viewa  her  not  consistently  with  truth, 
But  forms  a  judgment  on  appearanoea ; 
For  oft  my  soul  has  feared, 
And  still  BO  foars,  that  cruelty  I  see. 
Whene'er  I  come  where  she  my  thoughta  may 

know. 
Excuse  me  thua,  my  aong,  if  there  be  need  ; 
And  when  thou  canst,  present  thee  to  Madonna, 
And  say  to  her, — **If  you  such  course  approre. 
My  praiae  I  will  rehearse  throughout  the  world." 


FROM  THB  DIYINA  0OMMEDIA.~INFEBNO. 
FRANCISCA  DA   EIMIVI.* 

**  Thx  land  where  I  was  born  nts  by  the  seaa. 
Upon  that  abore  to  which  the  Po  deacenda, 
With  all  his  followers,  in  search  of  peace. 

Lore,  which  the  gentle  heart  soon  apprehenda, 
Seized  him  for  the  foir  person  which  was  ta*en 
From  me ;  and  me  even  yet  the  mode  ofiTenda. 

Love,  who  to  none  beloved  to  love  again 
Remits,  seized  me  with  wish  to  please,  so  strong, 
That,  aa  thou  seest,  yet,  yet  it  doth  remain. 

Love  to  one  death  conducted  us  along, 

*  Fiancesea,  dao^htar  of  Gaido  da  Polrau,  loid  of  Ka- 
▼vona  and  of  Oerria,  wai  gtrea  hj  her  Ikther  In  marrlafs 
U>  Lanciotto,  aon  of  MaUtasta,  lord  of  Rimini,  a  man  of 
Aztraofdlnary  courage,  but  deformed  In  hia  pefsoa.  His 
tMtAhar  Paolo,  wIm  ontaappHj  poaBeawd  thoae  graoea  which 
alM  hartMnd  of  Fkanceeca  wanted,  angi^ed  her  aflbetiona; 
tABj  wera  both  pat  to  death  h7  the  eoiaged  Landotlo.  The 
Intaffeat  of  the  nanatire  la  mocli  Inenaaed,  wben  H  le 
svcdlectod  that  the  &ther  of  thia  unfortunate  bulj  wae  the 
laelored  friend  and  generoui  protector  of  Dantei  during  hia 
lAttardavs. 

66 


But  CainA  *  waits  for  him  our  lift  who  ended.*' 
These  were  the  accents  uttered  by  ber  tongue. 
8inoe  I  first  listened  to  these  souls  offended, 
I  bowed  my  visage,  and  ao  kept  it,  till 
«  What  think'at  thon  ?"  said  the  bard ;  when  I 


And  recommenoed :  ^  Alas !  unto  such  ill 
How  many  sweet  thoughts,  what  strong  ecataaies, 
Led  theae  their  evU  fortune  to  flilfil ! " 

And  then  I  turned  unto  their  side  my  eyea, 
And  aatd, — •^Franeesca,  thy  aad  deatiniea 
Have  made  me  aotrow  till  the  teara  ariae. 

But  tell  me,  in  the  aeaaon  of  aweet  aigha, 
By  what  and  how  thy  love  to  passion  roae, 
So  as  hu  dim  desires  to  recognise.  '* 

Then  she  to  me :  «  The  greatest  of  all  woes 
la,  to  remind  na  of  our  happy  daya 
In  misery ;  and  that  thy  teacher  knows. 

But  if  to  learn  our  passion's  first  root  pieys 
Upon  thy  spirit  with  such  sympathy, 
I  will  do  even  aa  he  who  weepa  and  says. 

We  read  one  day  for  paatime,  seated  nigh. 
Of  Lancilot,  how  Love  enchained  him  too. 
We  were  alone,  quite  unsuspiciously. 

But  oft  our  eyes  met,  and  our  cheeks  in  hue 
All  o'er  discolored  by  that  reading  were ; 
But  one  point  only  wholly  us  o'erthrew : 

When  we  read  the  long  aighed-for  amile  of  her. 
To  be  thus  kissed  by  such  devoted  lover, 
He  who  from  me  can  be  divided  ne'er 

Kissed  my  mouth,  trembling  in  the  act  all 
over. 
Accursed  was  the  book  and  he  who  wrote ! 
That  day  no  forther  leaf  vre  did  uncover." 

While  thus  one  spirit  told  us  of  their  lot. 
The  other  wept,  so  that  with  pity's  thralla 
I  swooned,  aa  if  by  death  I  had  been  smote. 

And  foil  down  even  aa  a  dead  body  folia. 

FARUfATA. 

Now  by  a  narrow  path  my  master  winda, 
Conducting  me  'twixt  thoae  tormenting  tombs 
And  the  town  walls.    "  O  thou,  whoae  good- 
ness  finds 

A  paasage  for  me  through    these  impious 
glooms, 
Say,  sovereign  Virtue,  satisfy  my  hope  : 
May  man  behold  the  wretchea  buried  here 

In  theae  dire  aepulchrea  ? — the  lids  are  ope, — 
Suspended  all, — and  none  is  watching  near." 
To  this  he  anawered  :  "  When  they  come  at  last. 

Clothed  in  their  now  forsaken  frames  of  clay. 
From  dread  Jehoshaphat,— the  judgment  past, —  i 
Theae  flaming  dena  must  all  be  barred  for  aye. 

Here  in  their  cemetery,  on  this  side. 
With  his  whole  sect  is  Epicurus  pent. 
Who  thought  the  spirit  with  its  body  died  : 

Soon,  therefore,  thy  desire  shall  be  content, — 
Ay,  and  the  aecret  wish  thou  hid'st  from  me." 
**  Good  guide,"  I  said,  "  I  only  veil  my  heart, 

Lest  of  mine  utterance  I  appear  too  firee : 

1  That  part  of  the  Jf\fkrm  to  which  murderan  are  ooft' 
ana 


522 


ITALIAN  POETRY, 


Thyself  my  monitor  of  silence  art." 

(( O  Tuscan,  thou  who  com'st  with  gentle  speech, 

Through  Hell's  hot  city,  breathing  from  the 
earth, 
Stop  in  this  place  one  moment,  I  beseech ',  — 
Thy  tongue  betrays  the  country  of  thy  birth. 

Of  that  illustrious  land  I  know  thee  sprung, 
Which  in  my  day  perchance  I  somewhat  vexed." 
Forth  from  one  vault  these  sudden  accents  rung. 

So  that  I  trembling  stood  with  fear  perplexed. 
Then  as  I  closer  to  my  master  drew,  — 
*^  Turn  back  !  what  dost  thou  ?  "  he  exclaimed 
in  haste; 

"  See  !  Farinata  rises  to  thy  view  ! 
Now  may'st  behold  him  upward  from  his  waist." 
Full  in  his  face  already  I  was  gazing. 

While  his  front  lowered,  and  his  proud  bosom 
swelled ; 
As  though  even  there,  amid  his  burial  blazing, 
The  infernal  realm  in  high  disdain  he  heM. 

My  leader  then,  with  ready  hands  and  bold. 
Forced  me  toward  him,  among  the  graves  to 

pace. 
Saying,  "  Thy  thoughts  in  open  words  unfold." 

So  by  his  tomb  I  stood,  —  beside  its  base. 
Glancing  upon  me  with  a  scornful  air, 
**  Who  were  thine  ancestors  ? "  he  coldly  asked. 

Willing  to  answer,  I  did  not  forbear 
My  name  or  lineage,  but  the  whole  unmasked. 
Slightly  the  spirit  raised  his  haughty  brows, 

And  said,  —  **  Thy  sires  to  mine  were  aye  ad- 
verse,— 
To  me,  and  to  the  cause  I  did  espouse ; 
Wherefore  their  legions  twice  did  I  disperse." 

**  What  though  they  banished  were  ?  they  all 
returned, 
Each  time  of  their  expulsion,"  I  replied  : 
*'  That  is  an  art  thy  party  never  learned." 

Hereat  arose  a  shadow  at  his  side : 
Uplifted  on  his  knees  he  seemed  to  me. 
For  his  face  only  to  his  chin  was  bare  ; 

And  round  about  be  stared,  as  though  to  see 
If  other  mortal  with  myself  were  there. 
But  when  that  momentary  dream  was  o'er, 

Weeping,  he  groaned,  —  *'  If  thou  this  dun- 
geon dim. 
Led  by  thy  soaring  genius,  dost  explore, 
Where  is  my  son  f  ah,  wherefore  bring'st  not 
him  ?  " 

"  Not  of  myself  I  seek  this  realm  forlorn; 
He  who  waits  yonder  marshals  me  my  road ; 
Whom    once,  perchance,  thy    Guido    had    in 
scorn."  . 

My  recognition  thus  I  fully  showed ; 
For  in  the  pangs  on  that  poor  sinner  wreaked. 
And  in  bis  question,  plain  his  name  I  read. 

Suddenly  starting  up, —  "  What !  what !  "  -— 
he  shrieked ; 
**Say'stthou,  «HeA4u{'?    What  mean  ye?    Is 

he  dead  ? 
Doth   heaven's  dear  light  his  eye  no  longer 
bless?" 

Perceiving  how  I  hesitated  then. 
Ere  I  responded  to  his  wild  address. 
Backward  he  sunk,  nor  looked  he  forth  again. 


FROM  THE  DIVINA  OOMMEDEA.-PUBGAIQU0. 
THE  CELESTIAL  PILOT. 

And  now,  behold !    as  at  the  approach  of 
morning, 
Through  the  gross  vapors.  Mars  grows  fiery  rsd, 
Down  in  the  west  upon  the  ocean  floor. 

Appeared  to  me,  —  may  I  again  behold  it!  — 
A  light  along  the  sea,  so  swiftly  coining, 
Its  motion  by  no  flight  of  wing  is  equalled. 

And  when  therefrom  I  had  withdrawn  a  little 
Mine  eyes,  that  I  might  question  my  conductor, 
Again  I  saw  it  brighter  grown,  and  larger. 

Thereafter,  on  all  sides  of  it,  appeared 
I  knew  not  what  of  white ;  and  underneath, 
Little  by  little,  there  came  forth  another. 

My  master  yet  had  uttered  not  a  word, 
While  the  first  brightness  into  wings  unfolded; 
But  when  he  clearly  recognized  the  pilot, 

He  cried  aloud,  — «« Quick,  quick,  and  bow 
the  knee !  « 

Behold  the  Angel  of  God  !  fold  up  thy  hands! 
Henceforward  shah  thou  see  such  officers! 

See,  how  he  scorns  all  human  arguments, 
So  that  no  oar  he  wants,  nor  other  sail 
Than  his  own  wings,  between  so  distant  shores! 

See,  how  he  holds  them,  pointed  straight  to 
heaven. 
Fanning  the  air  with  the  eternal  pinions. 
That  do  not  moult  themselves  like  mortal  hair ! ' 

And  then,  as  nearer  and  more  near  as  came  I, 
The  Bird  of  Heaven,  more  glorious  he  appeared,  | 
So  that  the  eye  could  not  sustain  his  presence, 

But  down  I  calit  it ;  and  he  came  to  shore      |{ 
With  a  small  vessel,  gliding  swift  and  light. 
So  that  the  water  swallowed  naught  tbereot 

Upon  the  stern  stood  the  Celestial  Pilot; 
Beatitude  seemed  written  in  his  face; 
And  more  than  a  hundred  spirits  sat  within. 

«<  In  ezUu  Israel  out  of  Egypt !  " 
Thus  sang  they  all  together  in  one  voice. 
With  whatso  in  that  Psalm  is  afler  written. 

Then  made  he  sign  of  holy  rood  upon  them; 
Whereat  all  cast  themselves  upon  the  shore, 
And  he  departed  swiftly  as  he  came. 

THE  TERRESTRIAL  PARADISE. 

LoNOiNO  already  to  search  in  and  round 
The  heavenly  forest,  dense  and  living-green, 
Which  to  the  eyes  tempered  the  new-born  day, 

Withouten  more  delay  I  left  the  bank, 
Crossing  the  level  country  slowly,  s^o^v*  . 
Over  the  soil,  that  everywhere  breathed  ira- 
grance. 

A  gently  breathing  air,  that  no  mutauon 
Had  in  itself,  smote  me  upon  the  forehead,— 
No  heavier  blow  than  of  a  pleasant  breeze : 

Whereat  the  tremulous  branches  reBdilJ 
Did  all  of  them  bow  dow.nward  towards  that  «o» 
Where  its  first  shadow  casts  the  Holy  Moantaio , 

Yet  not  from  their  uprijjht  direcuon  ben^ 
So  that  the  little  birds  upon  their  tops 
Should  cease  the  pracUcc  of  their  tunefiJi  an , 

But,  with  fiiU-throated  joy,  the  hours  of  pno« 


DANTE  ALIORIERI. 


Singing  received  they  in  Um  midit  of  foliage 
That  made  monotonoui  burden  to  their  rhjmes; 
Even  as  from  branch  to  braaeh  it  gathering 
iwella 
Through  the  pine  forests  on  the  shore  of  Chiassi, 
When  £olu8  unlooses  the  siroooo. 

Already  my  slow  steps  had  led  me  on 
Into  the  ancient  wood  so  far,  that  I 
Could  see  no  more  the  place  where  I  had  en- 
tered; 
And,  lo !  my  farther  conrM  cut  off  a  rirer, 
Which,  towards  the  left  hand,  with  its  little 

waves, 
Bent  down  the  grass  that  on  its  margin  sprang. 

All  waters  that  on  earth  most  limpid  are 
Would  seem  to  have  within  themselves  some 

mixture. 
Compared  with  that,  which  nothing  doth  oon*' 
ceal. 
Although  it  moves  on  with  a  brown,  brown 
current. 
Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 
Ray  of  the  sun  lets  in,  nor  of  the  moon. 


BEATRICE. 

Even  as  the  blessed,  in  the  new  covenant. 
Shall  rise  up  quickened,  each  one  from  his  grave, 
Wearing  again  the  garments  of  the  flesh,  — 

80,  upon  that  celestial  chariot, 
A  bondnd  roee  ad  voeem  tanti  senis^ 
Ministers  and  messengers  of  life  eternal. 

They  all  were  saying:  ^^Benedictus  qui  vents T* 
And,  scattering  flowers  above  and  round  about, 
**ManihiS,  O,  date  lilia  plenis!  " 

I  once  beheld,  at  the  approach  of  day, 
The  orient  sky  all  stained  with  roseate  hues. 
And  the  other  heaven  with  light  serene  adorned, 

And  the  sun's  fiice  uprising  overshadowed. 
So  that,  by  temperate  influence  of  vapors. 
The  eye  sustained  his  aspect  for  a  long  while : 

Thus  in  the  bosom  of  a  cloud  of  flowers, 
Which  from  those  hands  angelic  were  thrown 

up. 
And  down  descended  inside  and  without. 

With  crown  of  olive  o'er  a  snow-white  veil, 
Appeared  a  lady  under  a  green  mantle. 
Vested  in  colors  of  the  living  flame. 


Even  as  the  snow,  among  the  living  rafters 
Upon  the  back  of  Italy,  congeals, 
Slown  on  and  beaten  by  Sclavonian  winds, — 

And  then,  dissolving,  filters  through  itself, 
IVbene'er  the  land,  that  loses  shadow,  breathes, 
I^ike  as  a  taper  melts  before  a  fire : 

Even  such  I  was,  without  a  sigh  or  tear, 
J3elbre  the  song  of  those  who  chime  for  ever, 
After  the  chiming  of  the  eternal  spheres ; 

But  when  I  heard  in  those  sweet  melodies 
Oompassion  for  me,  more  than  had  they  said, 
««  O,  wherefore,  lady,  dost  thou  thus  consume 
him?" 

The  ice,  that  was  about  my  heart  congealed, 
1*0  air  and  water  changed,  and,  in  my  anguish. 


Throagh  lips  and  eyes  came  gushing  from  my 


Conffasion  and  dismay,  together  mingled. 
Forced  such  a  feeble  «•  Yes !  **  out  of  my  mouth, 
To  understand  it  one  had  need  of  sight 

Even  as  a  crossbow  breaks,  when  't  is  dis- 
charged. 
Too  tensely  drawn  the  bowstring  and  the  bow. 
And  with  less  fi>ree  tlie  arrow  hits  the  mark : 

So  I  gave  way  under  this  heavy  burden, 
Ouahing  forth  into  bitter  tears  and  sighs. 
And  the  voice,  Anting,  flagged  upon  its  passage. 


FROM  THE  DIYINA  0OMMEDIA.-PA11ADI90. 
SPIRITS   IN   THE   PLANET   MERCURY. 

And  as  an  arrow  to  the  mark  is  driven. 
Or  e'er  the  cord  that  sent  it  be  at  rest, 
80  swiftly  passed  we  to  the  second  heaven. 

Entered  within  the  precincts  of  the  light, 
I  saw  my  guide's  fair  countenance  possessed 
With  joy  so  great,  the  planet  glowed  more  bright: 

And  if  the  very  star  a  smile  displayed. 
Well  might  I  smile, — to  change  by  nature  prone. 
And  varying  still  with  each  impression  made. 

As  in  some  water  that  is  smooth  and  clear 
The  fish  are  drawn  to  any  object  thrown 
So  as  to  make  it  like  their  food  appear : 

So  saw  I  more  than  thousand  splendors  move 
Towards  us,  and  every  one  was  heard  to  say, 
»  Behold  one  here,  who  will  increase  our  love ! " 

And  as  each  soul  approached  us,  the  delight 
It  felt  was  manifested  by  the  ray 
That  from  within  was  thrown  upon  my  sight. 

Think,  reader,  if  the  wondrous  history 
That  here  begins  should  also  terminate. 
How  painful  would  thy  dearth  of  knowledge  be ! 

Then  may'st  thou  tell  if  I  were  not  possessed 
By  strong  desire  to  learn  of  these- their  state. 
The  moment  they  became  thus  manifest. 

**  O  well-bom  spirit,  whom  grace  permits  to 
see 
The  thrones  of  the  eternal  triumph,  ere 
Closed  is  thine  earthly  warflire,  —  know  that  we 

Are  kindled  by  the  light  which  fills  the  wide 
Expanse  of  heaven  :  —  if  thou  art  fain  to  hear 
Of  our  condition,  be  thy  wish  supplied." 

One  of  those  pious  spirits  thus  I  heard ; 
When  Beatrice  :  **  Speak  on  without  dismay ; 
And  trust,  as  they  were  gods,  their  every  word.** 

^  I  see  full  well  how  in  the  light  divine 
Thou  dwell'st ;  and  that  thine  eyes  a  joy  dis- 
play, 
Which  when  thou  smilest  more  serenely  shine : 

But  who  thou  art  I  know  not ;  neither  why, 
O  worthy  soul,  a  sphere  is  given  to  thee. 
Hid  by  another's  ray  from  mortal  eye.*' 

These  words  I  spake  unto  the  joyous  light 
That  had  been  first  to  address  me, — whereat  she 
Arrayed  herself  in  splendor  still  more  bright: 

And  as  the  sun  conceals  himself  from  view 
In  the  pure  splendor  of  the  new-bom  day. 


594 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


Banting  bis  mantle  of  the  early  dew ; 

£*en  80  that  holy  form  herself  concealed 
Within  the  luatre-of  her  own  pare  ray. 


SPIRITS  IX   THE  8VN. 

Trsh,  like  a  clock  that  sammoni  oa  away, 
What  time  the  Spouse  of  God  at  matin  hour 
Hastes  to  her  Husband,  for  bis  lore  to  pray, — 

And  one  part  urges  on  the  other,  sounding 
Tin  Tin  in  notes  so  sweet,  that  by  its  power 
The  soul  is  thrilled,  with  pious  love  abounding: 

So  I  beheld  that  glorious  circle  move ; 
And  with  such  sweet  accord  and  harmony 
Take  up  the  song  of  praise,  as  none  may  prove. 

Save  where  is  joy  through  all  eternity. 


HEAYEITLY   JUSTICE. 

Ahd  hence  the  heavenly  Justice  can  no  more 
By  mortal  ken  be  fiithomed,  than  the  sea : 
For  though  the  eye  of  one  upon  the  shore 

May  pierce  its  shallow  tide,  the  depths  beyond 
Baffle  his  ken ;  yet  there  is  also  laid 
A  bottom,  viewless  through  the  deep  prolbund. 

As  the  stork  lifts  herself  the  nest  above. 
When  she  hath  fed  her  little  ones ;  and  they 
Regard  their  mother  with  a  look  of  love : 

E'en  so  that  ever-blessed  Bird  appeared,— 
Raising  its  wings,  excited  by  the  sway 
Of  numerous  thoughts;  —  and  so  my  eyes  I 
reared. 

Turning  around,  it  sang :  *<  Obscure  to  thee 
As  have  been  found  these  mystic  notes  of  mine; 
So  dark  to  man  is  Heaven's  all-wise  decree." 


BEATRICE. 

Like  as  the  bird,  who  on  her  nest  all  night 
Had  rested,  darkling,  with  her  tender  brood, 
'Mid  the  loved  foliage,  longing  now  for  light. 

To  gaze  on  their  dear  looks  and  bring  them 
food, — 
Sweet  task,  whose  pleasures  all  its  toil  repay,— > 
Anticipates  the  dawn,  and,  through  the  wood 

Ascending,  perches  on  the  topmost  spray, 
There,  all  impatience,  watching  to  descry 
The  first  faint  glimmer  of  approaching  day : 

Thus  did  my  lady,  toward  the  southern  sky. 
Erect  and  motionless,  her  visage  turn ; 
The  mute  suspense  that  filled  her  wistfiil  eye 

Made  me  like  one  who  waits  a  friend's  return. 
Lives  on  this  hope,  and  will  no  other  own. 
Soon  did  my  eye  a  rising  light  discern ; 

High  up  the  heavens  its  kindling  splendon 
shone. 
And  Beatrice  exclaimed,  ^  See,  they  appear. 
The  Lord's  triumphal  hosts !     For  this  alone 

These  spheres  have  rolled   and  reap  their 
harvest  here !  v 
Her  ftce  seemed  all  on  fire,  and  in  her  eye 
Danced  joy  unspeakable  to  mortal  ear. 

As  when  foil-orbed  Diana  smiles  on  high, 


While  the  eternal  nymphs  her  form  sarround, 
And,  scattering  beauty  through  the  cloudless  tky. 

Float  on  the  bosom  of  the  blue  profound: 
O'er  thousands  of  bright  flowers  was  seen  to  blan 
One  son  transcendent,  from  whom  all  aromid. 

As  from  our  sun  the  planets,  drew  their  rayi; 
He  through  these  living  lights  poured  such  a  tide 
Of  glory,  as  o'erpowered  my  foeble  gace. 

**  O  Beatrice,  my  sweet,,  my  precioos  guide !  ** 


FRANCESCO  FETRARCA. 

Fravcbsco  Fbtrarca,  uenally  called  Pe- 
trarch, in  English,  was  the  son  of  a  Floreatine, 
who  was  banished,  at  the  same  time  with  Daale, 
from  his  native  city.  He  was  born  in  1304,  st 
Aresso,  in  Tuscany.  His  early  childhood  wsi 
passed  on  an  estate  of  his  father's,  at  Andss; 
but  when  he  was  seven  years  old,  the  ftmily 
removed  to  Avignon,  then  the  capital  of  the 
Roman  see.  They  next  resided  in  Carpentna, 
a  small  town  in  the  neighbourhood,  where  Pe- 
trarch was  placed  under  the  tuition  of  CoareD- 
nole,  with  whom  he  studied  about  ^vt  yean. 
At  the  age  of  fourteen,  he  was  aent  to  MoB^ 
pellier,  to  study  the  law;  but  the  strong  tasie 
which  he  early  manifested  for  poetry  and  elo- 
quence interfered  so  much  with  his  profossioflBl 
studies,  that  his  fother  removed  him  to  Bologna, 
hoping  that  the  Professors  of  the  Univenity 
there  would  be  more  successful  in  stimulatinf 
his  industry.  Visiting  his  son  one  day,  he  was 
so  much  irritated  by  finding  the  table  covered 
with  the  manuscripts  of  Cicero  and  Virgil,  cbat 
he  seized  the  scrolls  and  threw  them  into  the 
fire ;  but  the  young  student  made  such  a  piteou 
outcry,  that  the  frither's  heart  relented,  and  he 
snatched  the  manuscripts  from  the  flames,  say- 
ing, «« that  he  must  read  Virgil  for  his  eonafort, 
and  Cicero  as  an  excitement  to  punoe  tbe 
study  of  the  law  with  more  ardor."  After  his 
fother's  death,  Petrarch  lefl  Bologna,  and  re- 
nounced the  study  of  the  law.  In  1396,  be 
returned  to  Avignon,  embraced  the  eccle- 
siastical profession,  and  gave  himself  up  with 
ardor  to  literary  pursuits.  A  short  time  befbie 
Petrarch  went  to  Avignon,  Giacopo  Colonna, 
son  of  Stefeno  Colonna,  the  representative  of 
one  of  the  oldest  and  moot  illustrious  families 
in  Italy,  had  established  himself  there,  "rbe 
young  man  had  been  a  fellow-student  with 
Petrarch  at  the  University  of  Bologna.  Tbe 
former  acquaintance  was  renewed  at  the  papal 
court,  and  the  similarity  of  their  characterB  sod 
tastes  was  the  foundation  of  a  close  and  laslipg 
friendship.  The  other  members  of  that  dis- 
tinguished femily  recognized  the  merit  of  the '  M 
young  scholar,  and  were  affectionately  attached  I 
to  him  for  life. 

Petrarch  first  saw  Laura  in  the  twenty-third  | 
year  of  his  age.     He  met  her  in  the  church  of 
Saint  Clara,  on  the  morning  of  the  6th  <^  April,  | 


PETRARCA. 


59S 


1327 ;  and  from  that  raoai«al  commenced  the 
freat  paMion  which  was  eztinguubad  only  with 
bis  life.  Whether  there  ever  was  such  a  per- 
son as  Laara,  and,  if  so,  who  she  was,  are  ques- 
tions which  have  been  firequently  and  warmly 
discussed ;  but  there  can  now  remain  scarcely 
a  doubt,  either  of  her  existence,  or  of  the  reality 
of  Petrarch's  love.  It  is  genenlly  agreed,  that 
she  was  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  and  distin- 
guished gentleman,  Andeberto  de  Noves,  of 
Avignon  ;  that  she  had  married,  after  her  fttb- 
er*s  death,  Ugo  de  Bade,  a  young  man  of  Avig- 
non, whose  character  seems  not  to  have  been 
very  amiable ;  and  that,  though  she  was  by  no 
means  insensible  to  the  poet's  homage,  her 
conduct  was  always  above  reproach.  For  three 
years  after  this  momentous  meeting,  Petrarch's 
occupations  were  the  study  of  literature,  the 
celebration  of  his  mistress,  and  the  cultivation 
of  his  friendly  relations  with  the  Colonna  fiunily ; 
but  when  Giacopo  Colonna  was  made  bishop  of 
Lombez,  he  accompanied  him  thither.  After 
an  agreeable  summer  passed  in  this  retirement, 
they  returned  to  Avignon.  Finding  his  passion 
for  Laura  still  undiminished,  Petrarch  under- 
took a  long  journey,  which  occupied  him  eight 
months,  and,  on  his  return  to  Avignon,  he  found 
that  his  friend,  the  bishop  of  Lombez,  had  been 
summoned  to  Rome  by  the  affairs  of  his  fomily. 
Accounts  of  his  travels  are  contained  in  his 
«•  Epistols  Familiares." 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Petrarch  began  to 
visit  the  vale  of  Vaucluse,  which  was  peculiarly 
attractive  to  him  in  his  present  state  of  fooling. 
His  mind  was  also  earnestly  occupied  with  his 
fovorite  idea  of  persuading  the  pope  to  remove 
his  court  from  Avignon  to  Rome,  and,  when 
Benedict  the  Twelfth  succeeded  to  the  pontifi- 
cal  chair,  he  addressed  to  the  new  pontiff*  a 
long   letter  on   this  subject,  in   Latin   verse. 
Towards  the  end  of  1336,  he  left  France  on  his 
way  to  Italy,  and  reached  Rome  in  the  follow- 
ing February,  where  he  was  received  in  the 
moat  friendly  manner  by  the  Colonni.    After 
having  eagerly  examined  all  the  monuments  of 
antiquity  with  which  the  city  was  embellished, 
he   returned  the  same  year  to  Avignon;  but 
finding  himself  still  agitated  by  his  love  for 
Laura,  he  determined  to  withdraw  to  the  soli- 
tudes of  Vaucluse,  and  purchased  a  cottage  and 
a  small  estate  in  that  beautiful  retreat     Here 
Petrarch  wrote  a  great  part  of  his  poems,  many 
of  his  Latin  letters,  and  many  of  his  eclogues, 
besides  several  of  his  larger  works,  in  Latin 
prose.     Here,  also,  he  commenced  his  Latin 
epic,  entitled  "  Africa,"  on  which  he  supposed 
bis  lame  would  chiefly  rest.     The  rumor  of 
this  work  excited  the  greatest  interest  at  the 
time,  and  made  Petrarch  an  object  of  universal 
wonder.     He  received,  in  his  retreat,  the  visits 
of  many  of  his  friends,  and  of  the  learned  men 
who    <»me    to  Avignon.     Among  others,   he 
became  acquainted,  about  the  year  1339,  with 
the  monk  Barlaam,  ambassador  at  Avignon  from 
the    Greek  emperor,  Andronicus,  and  by  this 


learned  person  was  instructed  in  the  language 
and  literature  of  Greece.  Robert,  the  king  of 
Naples,  and  the  great  patron  of  the  scholars 
and  poets  of  his  age,  whom  the  fome  of  Pe- 
trarch's genius  and  works  had  reached,  wrote 
him  a  letter  about  this  time,  sending  him  a  copy 
of  an  epiteph,  composed  by  himself,  on  his 
niece  CUmence,  the  queen  of  France,  to  which 
the  poet  sent  a  most  courtly  and  flattering  re- 
ply. This  incident  was  only  a  prelude  to  the 
honors  which  the  royal  scholar  determined 
should  be  conferred  on  Petrarch.  The  ancient 
custom  of  bestowing  on  illustrious  poets  the 
laurel  crown,  with  public  pomp  and  ceremony, 
in  the  Capitol,  had  gradually  disappeared  with 
the  decline  of  letters  and  the  arts  in  the  Roman 
empire.  Petrarch  had  long  desired  to  attain  to 
this  great  distinction,  and  bad  directed  his 
studies  and  labors  with  a  view  to  this  end.  In 
the  year  1340,  a  letter  was  sent  to  him  from 
the  Roman  senate,  inviting  him  to  come  to 
Rome  and  receive  the  crown ;  and  soon  after, 
he  received  another  letter,  from  Robert  Bardi, 
chancellor  of  the  University  of  Paris,  urging 
him  to  proceed  to  that  city,  and  accept  the 
honors  of  a  public  coronation  there.  The  Ro- 
man  senate  had  been  powerftilly  influenced  to 
take  this  step  by  King  Robert.  After  some  de- 
liberation, Petrarch  decided  in  fovor  of  Rome. 
On  his  way  thither  he  visited  the  Neapoliten 
court,  and  was  received  with  the  highest  dis- 
tinction by  King  Robert,  who  was  never  weary 
of  conversing  with'  him  on  poetry  and  litera^ 
ture.  Petrarch  read  to  the  king  several  books 
of  his  <* Africa."  The  king  was  charmed  with  the 
poem,  and  signified  his  desire  that  it  should  be 
dedicated  to  him.  Before  proceeding  to  Rome, 
Petrarch  resolved  to  psss  a  public  examination. 
This  was  conducted  by  King  Robert  with  great 
ceremony,  and  continued  through  three  days, 
in  the  presence  of  the  whole  court,  and  the 
poet-scholar  was  pronounced  to  be  every  way 
worthy  of  the  coronation.  Petrarch  was  wel- 
comed, on  his  arrival,  by  Orso  di  Anguillara, 
senator  of  Rome,  and  the  8th  of  April  was 
appointed  for  the  coronation.  On  that  day,  the 
poet  received  the  laurel  crown  fit>m  the  band 
of  Orso,  in  the  Capitol,  amidst  the  applauses  of 
the  whole  Roman  people,  aurrounded  by.  the 
most  illustrious  nobles  of  the  city.  On  his  re- 
turn fit>m  Rome,  he  visited  Parma,  where  he  re- 
mained about  a  year,  employed  upon  the  poem 
of «(  Africa."  He  returned  to  France  in  1342. 
Tiraboscbi  says,  that  the  immediate  motive  of  his 
return  at  this  time  was  the  circumstance  of  his 
having  been  appointed,  together  with  the  cele- 
brated Cola  di  Rienzi,  on  an  embassy  from  the 
Roman  senate  and  people,  to  congratulate  the 
new  pope,  Clement  the  Sixth,  on  bis  accession, 
and  to  solicit  him  to  remove  the  court  to  Rome. 
In  1343,  he  was  sent  by  the  pope  to  Naples,  to 
guard  the  interests  and  claims  of  the  papal  see 
in  that  court;  and  on  his  return,  Clement 
offered  him  the  office  of  Apostolical  Secretary, 
which  he  declined.    The  revolution  brought 


626 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


aboat  by  Rieozi  at  Rome,  which  began  in 
1347,  excited  in  Petrarch  the  profoundest  in- 
terest; and  he  was  bitterly  disappointed,  when 
the  mad  conduct  of  the  tribune  destroyed  the 
dream,  in  which  he  had  indulged,  of  the  restora- 
tion of  Rome  to  her  ancient  glory.  In  1348, 
he  went  to  Padua,  where  he  became  acquainted 
with  Jacopo  da  Carrara.  This  'year  was  sig- 
nalized by  the  terrible  pestilence  which  rav- 
aged all  Europe ;  and  the  death  of  Laura,  who 
fell  a  victim  to  it  on  the  6th  of  April,  made  it 
a  memorable  epoch  in  the  life  of  the  poet.  The 
remainder  of  this  year,  and  nearly  the  whole  of 
the  following,  he  passed  at  Parma.  In  1350, 
he  went  to  Mantua,  where  he  was  honorably 
received  by  Gonzaga,  and  thence  returned  to 
Padua.  It  was  in  this  year  that  he  wrote 
his  eloquent  letter  to  the  emperor,  Charles  the 
Fourth,  entreating  him  to  deliver  Italy  from  the 
evils  which  that  unhappy  country  was  suffer- 
ing. He  also  visited  Rome  the  same  year. 
Returning  to  Carrara,  he  found  his  protector, 
Jacopo  da  Carrara,  dead.  At  this  time  he 
fbrmed  a  close  friendship  with  the  celebrated 
Andrea  Dandolo,  the  doge  of  Venice,  and  nsed 
his  influence,  though  without  success,  to  bring 
about  a  peace  between  that  republic  and  Genoa. 
Meantime  the  Florentines,  having  resolved  to 
restore  to  Petrarch  his  paternal  estate,  and  to 
offer  him  the  charge  of  their  newly  established 
University,  selected  Boccaccio  to  be  the  bear- 
er of  the  missive.  He  was  at  first  inclined 
to  accept  the  ofler,  but,  changing  his  mind,  he 
returned  to  France  in  1351,  and  divided  his 
time  for  two  years  between  Vaucluse  and  the 
city  of  Avignon.  Clement  the  Sixth  died  in 
1352,  and  the  Cardinal  Stefano  Alberti  suc- 
ceeded him.  The  new  pope  was  so  illiterate, 
that  he  looked  upon  Petrarch  as  a  magician  ; 
and  this  disfavor  is  supposed  to  have  caused 
the  poet's  return  to  Italy.  He  went  to  Milan, 
where  the  urgency  of  Giovanni  Visconti  in- 
duced him  to  remain.  He  was  highly  honored 
by  this  prince  and  his  successors,  and  employed 
by  them  in  the  most  important  public  affairs. 
He  was  sent,  in  1354,  on  an  embassy  to  the 
doge  of  Venice.  In  the  same  year,  the  em- 
peror, Charles  the  Fourth,  who  had  at  length 
entered  Italy,  sent  for  him  to  meet  him  at  Man- 
tua. In  1356,  he  was  sent  by  Galeazzo  Vis- 
conti on  an  embassy  to  the  emperor  at  Prague, 
and  soon  after  his  return  received  from  Charles 
the  dignity  of  Count  Palatine.  Notwithstand- 
ing these  honors  and  employments,  Petrarch 
sighed  for  solitude.  He  selected  a  villa  about 
three  miles  from  the  city,  which  he  called  Lin- 
temo,  where  he  passed  the  principal  part  of  his 
time  for  several  years.  In  the  year  1360,  he 
was  sent  by  Galeazzo  to  Paris,  to  congratulate 
King  John  on  his  restoration  from  bis  long 
captivity  in  England.  On  his  return,  he  re- 
ceived a  pressing  invitation  from  the  Emperor 
Charles  to  his  court,  but  declined.  In  1361, 
Pope  Innocent  the  Sixth  offered  him  the  post 
of  Apostolical  Secretary,  which  he  bad  already 


repeatedly  refbsed.     The  plague  which  nTBged 
Italy  in  1362  induced  Petrarch  to  go  for  safety 
to  Venice,  a  city  which   be  repeatedly  fttited 
in  the  following  years,  and  where  he  was  al- 
ways sure  of  a  distinguished  reception.    About 
this   time,  the  citizens  of  Florence,  mortified 
that  so   distinguished   a  person   should  oeTer 
return  to  his  own  country,  besought  the  pope 
to  bestow  on  him  an    ecclesiastical   office  in 
Florence  or  Fiesole ;  but  Urban,  who  had  rao- 
ceeded  to  the   chair   of   Saint   Peter,  holding  | 
Petrarch  in  high  esteem,  and  desiring  to  keep  < 
him  near  the  papal  court,  made  him  Canon  in  J 
Carpentras.    In  the  following  year,  he  wrote  to 
the   pope  a  letter   on    his  favorite   subject  of 
transferring  the  papal   see   to  Rome ;  a  letter, 
which,  perhaps,  finally   determined  Urban  to 
carry  the  project  into  effect ;   for  he  actualij 
removed  to  Rome,  the  next  year.     In  1370, 
Petrarch  finally  resolved  to  make  the  joornej 
to  Rome,  in  compliance  with  the  fi^quent  and 
urgent  solicitations  of  Urban«     Having  previ- 
ously made  bis  will,  he  departed  from  Padoa; 
but  had  scarcely  reached  Ferrara,  when  he  was 
attacked  by  a  severe   illness,  which  compelled 
him  to  return.     He  now  withdrew  to  the  villi 
of  Arquk,  where  he  had  frequently  resided  dar- 
ing the  last  four  years.     He  had  scarcely  estab- 
lished himselflhere,  when  he  heard,  with  great 
displeasure,  that  Urban  had  abandoned  luly  and 
returned  to  Avignon.     The  war  between  the 
Venetians  and  Francesco  da  Carrara  called  Pe- 
trarch from  his  retirement  in  1373,  and  forced 
him  to  undertake  another  embassy  to  Venice. 
On  this  occasion,  he  was  obliged  to  addreae  the 
senate;  "but,"  says  Tiraboschi,  "themajestj 
of  that  august  assembly  confused  him  to  such  a 
degree,  that,  weakened  as  he  had  been  by  ftr 
tigues   and  by  years,  he  had   not  strength  to 
speak,  and  it  was  necessary  to  postpone  ine 
discourse  until  the  next  day,  when  he  delivered 
it  with   happier  success."      On   his  return  to 
Padua,  Petrarch  again  withdrew  to  his  villa  in 
Arquk,  in  an  enfeebled  state,  where  he  linfe^  | 
ed  on,  until  the  night  of  July  1 8th,  1374.    Tb* 
following  morning,  he  was  found  dead  in  hw 
library,  with  his  head  resting  on  a  book.    He 
was  buried  with  solemn  pomp,  the  last  ritea  be- 
ing attended  by  the  prince  of  Padua,  the  eccle- 
siastical dignitaries,  and   the  students  of  the 
University. 

"There  Is  a  tomb  in  Aiqui;— reared  In  air, 

Pillarad  in  tbeir  eareophagua,  repose 
Theboneiof  Laura'alorer;  bare  repair 

Many  familiar  witli  liis  well  aun^  woea, 

The  pil^rime  of  hia  genina.    He  arose 
To  raise  a  language,  and  bia  land  reclaim 

From  the  duU  yoke  of  her  bartaric  foes ; 
Watoring  the  tree  that  bears  hia  lady's  name 
With  hia  melodioua  teara,  he  gare  WataOf  ut  ma^ 

The  character,  genius,  and  labors  of  Petrarch 
form  one  of  the  most  remarkable  and  interw- 
ing  chapters  in  the  literary  history  of  i»J^ 
In  his  youth  he  was  strikingly  *'*"**"''""*t„  jji, 
manners  were  polished  and  coorleona. 


PETRARCA, 


527 


dress  he  appears  to  have  been  something  of  a  fop. 
u  Do  you  remember,"  says  he,  in  a  letter  to  his 
brother  Gherardo,  *'  how  much  care  we  employ- 
ed in  decorating  our  persons  ?  When  we  travers- 
ed the  streets,  with  what  attention  did  we  not 
avoid  every  breath  of  wind  which  might  discom- 
pose our  hair ;  and  with  what  caution  did  we  not 
prevent  the  least  speck  of  dirt  from  soiling  our 
garments ! "  But  even  at  this  time,  he  found  op- 
portunities to  make  large  acquisitions  of  know- 
ledge, and  to  write,  both  in  Latin  and  Italian. 
His  Italian  sonnets  and  canzoni,  through  which 
he  is  popularly  known,  display  only  one  side 
of  his  many-sided  character.   The  theme  which 
runs  through  them  is  the  great  passion  of  his 
life,  —  his  love  for  Laura.     This  he  sings  under 
every  possible  variety  of  form,  and  in  a  style 
melodious  and  polished  to. the  last  degree  of 
elaborate  finish  of  which  expression  is  capable. 
Following  sometimes  the  example  of  his  pre- 
decessors, the  Proven^]  Troubadours,  he  inter- 
mingles with  the  eloquence  of  profound  passion 
those   conceits,   both   of  thought  and   phrase, 
which   seem  incompatible  with   real  foeling; 
but,  in  general,  hia  taste  is  as  faultless  as  his 
language  is  expressive  and  musical.    He  mould- 
ed the  Italian  language  to  forms,  which,  for  five 
hundred  years,  it  has  retained ',  and  it  is  re- 
marked by  the  critics  of  his  country,  that  scarce- 
ly a  word  which  he  used  has  become  obsolete* 
or  antiquated.    Judging  him,  however,  by  these 
productions  alone,  we  should  suppose  him  to 
be  a  sentimental  lover,  wasting  bis  sighs  upon 
an  object  he  could  never  lawfully  possess;  a 
poet  of  delicate  genius,  but  too  shrinking  and 
sensitive   to  grapple   with   the   affairs  of  the 
world ;  withdrawing  into  a  romantic  solitude, 
there  to  brood  over  his  imaginary  woes,  until 
the  manliness  of  his  soul  had  melted  away  in 
the    heat  of  fantastic  desires ;    consoling  him- 
self for  ideal  sufferings  by  the  images  of  super- 
natural charms  and  angelic  perfections,  which 
an  over-indulged  imagination  was  ever  conjur- 
ing  up  before  him.     But  he  was  not  this  alone ; 
he  was,  at  the  same  time,  much  more  and  much 
better.     He  was  one  of  the  ablest  scholars  of 
hie  age.     His  enthusiasm  for  ancient  learning 
knew  no  bounds.     In  searching  for  manuscripts 
of  the  classics,  he  shrunk  from  no  labor  and 
spared  no  expense.     He  employed  numerous 
transcribers,   and   copied   many  volumes  with 
his  own  hand.  Thpugh  he  did  not  study  Greek 
in  his  youth,  he  seized  every  opportunity  to  ao- 
quire   it,  and  applied  himself  to  it  with  enthu- 
siasiD,   under  the   instructions  of  the   learned 
G-reek,  Barlaam.     He  was  the  friend  of  popes, 
emperors,  cardinals,  and   princes,  and    corre- 
sponded with  them  in  a  tone  of  equality  and 
independence.   He  never  hesitated  to  denounce 
vice    and'  wickedness  in   the   highest    places. 
The   abominations  practised  at  the  papal  court 
mrere   lashed  by  him  with  a  vigor  and  fearleas- 
nese    that  remind  us  of  the  terrible  dennncisr 
tions   of  Luther  and  the  Reformers.     He  was 
frequently  employed  in  diplomatic  negotiations 


of  delicacy  and  difficulty,  and  always  acquitted 
himself  with  address  and  eloquence.  He  was 
a  warm  and  faithfol  friend,  generous  to  those 
in  distress,  eager  to  do  good,  and  disinterested 
in  rendering  services  to  others.  His  industry 
was  wonderful.  He  carried  on  an  immense 
Latin  correspondence,  in  addition  to  his  other 
and  constant  labors,  and  wrote  several  long  trea- 
tises, besides  an  epic  poem  and  numerous  minor 
pieces,  in  the  same  language.  His  restless  en- 
ergies, quite  as  much  as  his  consuming  passion 
for  Laura,  drove  him  about  from  city  to  city, 
from  province  to  province,  and  from  country  to 
country,  and  he  found  no  repose  but  the  repose 
of  the  grave.  A  name  that  fills  so  large  a 
space  as  Petrarch's  could  not  fkil  to  be  the  sub- 
ject of  frequent  discussion,  speculation,  and  in- 
quiry. Among  the  best  things  that  have  been 
written  on  hia  lifo  and  writings  are  the  chap- 
ters in  Tiraboschi's  and  Ginguen^'s  literary  his- 
tories, the  "  Essays  on  Petrarch,'*  by  Ugo  Fos- 
colo,  and  a  tasteful  and  eloquent  paper  in  the 
*<  North  American  Review,"  Vol.  XL.  Profos- 
sor  Manaand,  at  Padua,  collected  a  *<  Biblioteca 
Petrarchesca,"  of  nine  hundred  volumes,  all 
devoted  to  the  history  of  Petrarch.  It  was 
bought  by  the  king  of  France,  in  1829,  for  his 
private  library  in  the  Louvre.  A  complete  edi- 
tion of  Petrarch's  (*Rime,"  in  two  volumes, 
appeared  at  Padua  in  1827-29.  His  Latin 
works  were  printed  at  Basel,  in  folio,  in  1496 
and  1581.  The  » Triumphs"  have  been  three 
times  translated ;  by  H.  P.  Knyght,  by  Mrs.  Anna 
Hume,  —  both  of  these  translations  very  scarce, 
—  and  by  the  Rev.  Henry  Boyd,  London,  1807. 
A  collection  of  the  sonnets  and  odes,  with  the 
original  text,  appeared  in  London  in  1777 ;  an- 
other collection  Jn  1808.  The  life  of  Petrarch 
has  been  written  in  English  by  Mrs.  S.  Dob- 
son,  London,  1775,  2  vols.,  8vo.  This  work 
is  chiefly  founded  on  De  Sade's  **  M^moires," 
and  has  passed  through  several  editions.  The 
late  Mr.  Campbell,  the  poet,  has  recently  pub- 
lished an  elaborate  life  of  Petrarch,  in  two  vol- 
umes, 8vo. 

SONNETSL 

Thb  palmer  bent,  with  locks  of  silver-gray. 
Quits  the  sweet  spot  where  he  has  passed  his 

years,— 
Quits  his  poor  fkmily,  whose  anxious  foars 
Paint  the  loved  father  fainting  on  his  way  ; 
And  trembling,  on  his  aged  limbs  slow  borne. 
In  these  last  days  that  close  his  earthly  course. 
He    in   his  soul's  strong   purpose   finds  new 

force. 
Though  weak  with  age,  though  by  long  travel 

worn: 
Thus  reaching  Rome,  led  on  by  pious  love, 
He  seeks  the  image  of  that  Saviour  Lord 
Whom  soon  he  hopes  to  meet  in  bliss  above. 
So,  oh  in  other  forms  I  seek  to  trace 
Some  charm,  that  to  my  heart  may  yet  aflTord 
A  faint  resemblance  of  thy  matchless  grace. 


628 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


Poor,  solitary  bird,  that  poar'st  thj  lay, 

Or  baply  mournest  the  sweet  season  gone, 

As  chilly  night  and  winter  hurry  on, 

And  daylight  fades,  and  summer  flies  away ! 

If,  as  the  cares  that  swell  thy  little  throat, 

Thou  knew'st  alike  the  woes  that  wound  my 

rest, 
O,  thou  wouldst  house  thee  in  this  kindred 

breast. 
And  mix  with  mine  thy  melancholy  note ! 
Tet  little  know  I  ours  are  kindred  ills : 
She  still  may  live  the  object  of  thy  song : 
Not  so  for  me  stem  Death  or  Heaven  wills  ! 
But  the  sad  season,  and  less  grateful  hour. 
And  of  past  joy  and  sorrow  thoughts  that  throng, 
Prompt  my  full  heart  this  idle  lay  to  pour. 

Alohx  and  pensive,  the  deserted  strand 
I  wander  o'er  with  slow  and  measured  pace, 
And  shun  with  eager  eye  the  lightest  trace 
Of  human  foot  imprinted  on  the  sand. 
I  find,  alas !  no  other  resting-place 
From  the  keen  eye  of  man ;  for,  in  the  show 
Of  joys  gone  by,  it  reads  upon  my  fac0 
The  traces  of  the  flame  that  bums  below. 
And  thus,  at  length,  each  leafy  mount  and  plain. 
Each  wandering  stream  and  shady  forest,  know, 
What  others  know  not,  all  my  life  of  pain. 
And  e*en  as  through  the  wildest  tracts  I  go, 
Love  whispers  in  my  ear  his  tender  strain. 
Which  I  with  trembling  lip  repeat  to  him  again. 

The  soil  west  wind,  returning,  brings  again 
Its  lovely  family  of  herbs  and  flowers ; 
Progne's  gay  notes  and  Philomela's  strain 
Vary  the  dance  of  springtide's  rosy  hours ; 
And  joyously  o'er  every  field  and  plain 
Glows  the  bright  smile  that  greets  them  from 

above, 
And  the  warm  spirit  of  reviving  love 
Breathes  in  the  air  and  murmurs  from  the  main. 
But  tears  and  sorrowing  sighs,  which  gushingly 
Pour  from  the  secret  chambers  of  my  heart, 
Are  all  that  spring  returning  brings  to  me  ; 
And  in  the  modest  smile,  or  glance  of  art. 
The  song  of  birds,  the  bloom  of  heath  and  tree, 
A  desert's  ragged  tract  and  savage  forms  I  see. 

Swift  current,  that  from  rocky  Alpine  vein, 
Gathering  the  tribute  to  thy  waters  free, 
Mov'st  joyous  onward  night  and  day  with  me, 
Where  nature  leads  thee,  me  love's  tyrant  chain ! 
Roll  freely  on  ;  nor  toil  nor  rest  restrain 
Thine  arrowy  course ;  but  ere  thou  yieldest  in 
The  tribute  of  thy  waters  to  the  main. 
Seek  out  heaven's  purest  sky,  earth's  deepest 

green; 
There  wilt  thou  find  the  bright  and  living  beam 
That  o'er  thy  left  bank  sheds  its  heavenly  rays : 
If  unto  her  too  slow  my  footsteps  seem,  -^ 
While  by  her  feet  thy  lingering  current  strays, 
Forming  to  words  the  murmurs  of  its  stream, — 
Say  that  the  weary  flesh  the  willing  soul  delays. 


Ih  tears  I  trace  the  memory  of  the  days, 
When  every  thought  was  bent  on  human.  lo?e, 
Nor  dared  direct  its  eager  flight  above, 
And  seek,  as  Heaven  designed,  a  nobler  pnise. 
O,  whilst  thine  eye  my  wretched  state  surTeji, 
Invinble,  immorUU  King  of  Heaven, 
Unto  my  weak  and  erring  soul  be  given 
To  gather  strength  in  thy  reviving  rays; 
So  that  a  life,  'mid  war  and  tempest  passed, 
A  peaceful  port  may  find,  and  close,  at  last, 
On  Jesus'  breast  its  years  of  vanity  ! 
And  when,  at  length,  thy  summons  sets  me  free, 
O,  may  thy  powerful  arms,  around  me  cast, 
Support  the  fainting  soul  that  knows  no  trait 
but  thee ! 

Ik  what  ideal  world  or  part  of  heaven 
Did  Nature  find  the  model  of  that  face 
And  form,  so  fraught  with  loveliness  and  giaee, 
In  which,  to  our  creation,  she  has  given 
Her  prime  proof  of  creative  power  above  ? 
What  fountain  nymph  or  goddess  ever  let 
Such  lovely  tresses  float  of  gold  refined 
Upon  the  breeze,  or  in  a  single  mind 
Where  have  so  many  virtues  ever  met, 
E'en  though  those  charms  have  slain  my  bos- 
om's weal? 
He  knows  not  love,  who  has  not  seen  her  ejei 
Turn  when  she  sweetly  speaks,  or  smiles,  or  sighs, 
Or  how  the  power  of  love  can  hurt  or  heal. 

Orxatures  there  be,  of  sight  so  keen  and  high, 
That  even  on  the  sun  they  bend  their  gaze ; 
Others,  who,  dazzled  by  too  fierce  a  blaze. 
Issue  not  forth  till  evening  veils  the  sky ; 
Others,  who,  with  insane  desire,  would  try 
The  bliss  which  dwells  within  the  fire's  bright 

rays. 
But,  in  their  sport,  find  that  its  fervor  slays. 
Alas !  of  this  last  heedless  band  am  I : 
Since  strength  I  boast  not,  to  support  the  light 
Of  that  fair  form,  nor  in  obscure  sojourn 
Am  skilled  to  fence  me,  nor  enshrouding  night; 
Wherefore,  with  eyes  which  ever  weep  and 

mourn. 
My  fate  compels  me  still  to  court  her  sight, 
Conscious  I  follow  flamee  which  shine  to  ban. 


Wavkd  to  the  winds  wer^  those  long  locks  of 

gold  « 

Which  in  a  thousand  burnished  ringlets  flowed, 
And  the  sweet  light  beyond  alf  measure  glowed 
Of  those  fair  eyes  which  I  no  more  behold. 
Nor  (so  it  seemed)  that  face  aught  harsh  or  cold 
To  me  (if  true  or  false,  I  know  not)  showed ; 
Me,  in  whose  breast  the  amorous  lure  abode. 
If  flames  consumed,  what  marvel  to  unfold  ? 
That  step  of  hers  was  of  no  mortal  guise, 
But  of  angelic  nature,  and  her  tongue 
Had  other  utterance  than  of  human  sounds. 
A  living  sun,  a  spirit  of  the  skies, 
I  saw  her.     Now,  perhaps,  not  so.    But  wouads 
Heal  not,  for  that  the  bow  is  sinoe  nnstrnng. 


PETRARCA. 


Those  eyes,  ipy  bright  and  glowing  theme  ere- 

whiie,  — 
That  arm,  those  hands,  that  lovely  foot,  that  ftce, 
Whose  view  was  wont  my  fancy  to  beguile, 
And  raise  me  high  o*er  all  of  haman  race,  — 
Those  golden  locks  that  flowed  in  liquid  grace, 
And  the  sweet  lightning  of  that  angel  smile, 
Which  made  a  paradise  of  every  place,  — 
What  are  they  ?  dust,  insensible  and  vile ! 
And  yet  I  live !  O  grief!  O  rage !  O  shame ! 
Reft  of  the  guiding  star  I  loved  so  long, 
A  shipwrecked  bark,  which  storms  of  woes  as- 
sail! 
Be  this  the  limit  of  my  amorous  song : 
Quenched  in  my  bosom  is  the  sacred  flame, 
And  my  harp  murmurs  its  expiring  wail. 


I  FEEL  the  well  known  breeze,  and  the  sweet 

hill 
Again  appears,  where  rose  that  beauteous  light. 
Which,  while  Heaven  willed  it,  met  my  eyes, 

then  bright 
With  gladness,  but  now  dimmed  with  many  an  ill. 
Vain  hopes  !  weak  thoughts !     Now,  turbid  is 

the  rill; 
The  flowers  have  drooped ;  and  she  hath  ta'en 

her  flight 
From  the  cold  nest,  which  once,  in  proud  de- 
light. 
Living  and  dying,  I  had  hoped  to  fill : 
I  hoped,  in  these  retreats,  and  in  the  blaze 
Of  her  Bar  eyes,  which  have  consumed  my  heart. 
To  taste  the  sweet  reward  of  troubled  days. 
Thou,  whom  I  serve,  how  hard  and  proud  thou 

art! 
Erewhile,  thy  flame  consumed  me;   now,  I 

mourn 
Over  the  ashes  which  have  ceased  to  bum. 


CANZONE. 

Iir  the  still  evening,  when  with  rapid  flight 

XjOW  in  the  western  sky  the  sun  descends 

To  give  expectant  nations  life  and  light. 

The  aged  pilgrim,  in  some  clime  unknown 

Slow  journeying,  right  onward  fearful  bends 

IVith  weary  haste,  a  stranger  and  alone  ; 

Yet,  when  his  labor  ends, 

He  solitary  sleeps. 

And  in  short  slumber  steeps 

£ach  sense  of  sorrow  hanging  on  the  day, 

And  all  the  toil  of  the  long  past  way : 

But,  O,  each  pang,  that  wakes  with  mom*s  first 

ray, 
More  piercing  wounds  my  breast, 
'When  heaven's  eternal  light  sinks  crimson  in 

the  west! 

His  burning  wheels  when  downward  Phoebus 

bends 
And  leaves  the  world  to  night,  its  lengthened 

shade 
Each  towering  mountain  o*er  the  vale  extends ; 
Tlie  thrifty  peasant  shoulders  light  his  spade, 


With  sylvan  carol  gay  and  uncouth  note 
Bidding  his  cares  upon  the  wild  winds  float. 
Content  in  peace  to  share 
His  poor  and  humble  fere, 
As  in  that  golden  age 
We  honor  still,  yet  leave  its  simple  ways ; 
Whoe'er  so  list,  let  joy  his  hours  engage  : 
No  gladness  e'er  has  cheered  my  gloomy  days. 
Nor  moment  of  repose, 

However  rolled  the  spheres,  whatever  planet 
rose. 

When  as  the  shepherd  marks  the  sloping  ray 
Of  the  great  orb  that  sinks  in  ocean's  bed. 
While  on  the  east  soft  steals  the  evening  gray. 
He  rises,  and  resumes  the  accustomed  crook. 
Quitting  the  beechen  grove,  the  field,  the  brook, 
And  gently  homeward  drives  the  flock  he  fed ; 
Then,  Bur  firom  human  tread. 
In  lonely  hut  or  cave. 
O'er  which  the  green  boughs  wave, 
In  sleep  without  a  thought  he  lays  his  head : 
Ah  !  cruel  Love  !  at  this  dark,  silent  hour. 
Thou  wak'st  to  trace,  and  with  redoubled  pow- 

The  voice,  the  step,  the  air 
Of  her,  who  scorns  thy  chain,  and  flies  thy  fetal 
snare. 

And  in  some  sheltered  bay,  at  evening's  close. 
The  mariners  their  rude  coats  round  them  feld. 
Stretched  on  the  rugged  plank  in  deep  repose : 
But  I,  though  Phosbtts  sink  into  the  main, 
And  leave  Granada  wrapt  in  night,  with  Spain, 
Morocco,  and  the  Pillars  femed  of  old, — 
Though  all  of  human  kind. 
And  every  creature  blest. 
All  hush  their  ills  to  rest. 
No  end  to  my  unceasing  sorrows  find  : 
And  still  the  sad  account  swells  day  by  day  ; 
For,  since  these  thoughts  on  my  lorn  spirit  prey, 
I  see  the  tenth  year  roll ; 
Nor  hope  of  freedoni  springs  in  my  desponding 
soul. 

Thus,  as  I  vent  my  bursting  bosom's  pain, 
Lo  !  from  their  yoke  I  see  the  oxen  freed. 
Slow  moving  homeward  o'er  the  flirrowed  plain : 
Why  to  my  sorrow  is  no  pause  decreed  ? 
Why  from  my  yoke  no  respite  must  I  know  ? 
Why  gush  these  tears,  and  never  cease  to  flow  ? 
Ah  me  !  what  sought  my  eyes, 
When,  fixed  in  fend  surprue, 
On  her  angelic  fece 

I  gazed,  and  on  my  heart  each  charm  impressed  ? 
From  whence  nor  ferce  nor  art  the  sacred  trace 
Shall  e'er  remove,  till  I  the  victim  rest 
Of  Death,  whose  mortal  blow 
Shall  my  pure  spirit  free,  and  this  worn  firame 
lay  low. 

CANZONE. 

Yb  waters  clear  and  fresh,  to  whose  bright  wave 

She  all  her  beauties  gave,  — 

Sole  of  her  sex  in  my  impassioned  mind  ! 


530 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


Thou  sacred  branch  bo  graced,  — 

With  sighs  e'en  now  retraced, — 

On  whose  smooth  shaft  her  lieavenly  form  re- 
clined ! 

Herbage  and  flowers,  that  bent  the  robe  beneath, 

Whose  graceful  folds  compressed 

Her  pure  angelic  breast ! 

Te  airs  serene,  that  breathe 

Where  Love  first  taught  me  in  her  eyes  his  lore ! 

Tet  once  more  all  attest 

The  last  sad,  plaintive  lay  my  woe-worn  heart 
may  pour ! 

If  so  I  must  my  destiny  fulfil, 

And   Love   to  close  these   weeping  eyes  b^ 

doomed 
By  Heaven's  mysterious  will, 
O,  grant  that  in  this  loved  retreat  entombed 
My  poor  remains  may  lie. 
And  my  fi^ed  soul  regain  its  native  sky  ! 
Less  rude  shall  Death  appear, 
If  yet  a  hope  so  dear 
Smooth  the  dread  passage  to  eternity  : 
No  shade  so  calm,  serene, 
My  weary  spirit  finds  on  earth  below ; 
No  grave  so  still,  so  green. 
In  which  my  o'ertoiled  frame  may  rest  fi^m 

mortal  woe. 

Yet  one  day,  haply,  she — so  heavenly  fair! 

So  kind  in  cruelty  !  — 

With  careless  steps  may  to  these  haunts  repair; 

And  where  her  beaming  eye 

Met  mine  in  days  so  blest, 

A  wistful  glance  may  yet  unconscious  rest. 

And,  seeking  me  around. 

May  mark  among  the  stones  a  lowly  mound. 

That  speaks  of  pity  to  the  shuddering  sense : 

Then  may  she  breathe  a  sigh. 

Of  power  to  win  me  mercy  from  above, 

Doing  Heaven  violence ; 

All-beautifiil  in  tears  of  late  relenting  love. 

Still  dear  to  memory,  when,  in  odorous  showers 

Scattering  their  balmy  flowers. 

To  summer  airs  the  o'ershadowing  branches 
bowed ; 

The  while,  with  humble  state. 

In  all  the  pomp  of  tribute  sweets  she  sat. 

Wrapt  in  the  roseate  cloud ! 

Now  clustering  blossoms  deck  her  vesture's  hem. 

Now  her  bright  tresses  gem,  — 

In  that  all-blissful  day. 

Like  burnished  gold  with  orient  pearls  in- 
wrought ;  — 

Some  strew  the  turf;  some  on  the  waters  float; 

Some,  fluttering,  seem  to  say. 

In  wanton  circlets  tossed,  —  *<Here  Love  holds 
sovereign  sway  ! " 

Oft  I  exclaimed,  in  awful  tremor  rapt,  — 

"  Surely  of  heavenly  birth 

This  gracious  form  that  visits  the  low  earth  ! " 

So  in  oblivion  lapped 

Was  reason's  power,  by  the  celestial  mien. 

The  brow,  the  accents  mild. 


The  angelic  smile  serene. 
That  now,  all  sense  of  sad  reality 
O'erbome  by  transport  wild, — 
*'  Alas !  how  came  I  here,  and  when  ? "  I  eiy,- 
Deeming  my  spirit  passed  into  the  skj! 
E'en  though  the  illusion  cease. 
In  these  dear  haunts  alone  my  tortured  heut 
finds  peace. 

If  thou  wert  graced  with  numbers  sweet,  mj 

To  match  thy  wish  to  please ; 
Leaving  these  rocks  and  trees. 
Thou  boldly  might'st  go  fi>rth,  and  dare  the 
assembled  throng. 


CANZONR 

From  hill  to  hill  I  roam,  from  thought  to  thought, 
With  Love  my  guide ;  the  beaten  path  I  flj, 
For  there  in  vain  the  tranquil  life  is  Bought : 
If  'mid  the  waste  well  forth  a  lonely  rill. 
Or  deep  embosomed  a  low  valley  lie. 
In  its  calm  shade  my  trembling  heart  is  still; 
And  there,  if  Love  so  will, 
I  smile,  or  weep,  or  fondly  hope,  or  fear ; 
While  on  my  varying  brow,  that  speaks  the  sool, 
The  wild  emotions  roll. 
Now  dark,  now  bright,  as  shifUng  skies  appear; 
That  whoso'er  has  proved  the  lover's  state 
Would  say,  •<  He  feels  the  flame,  nor  knows  his 
future  ftte." 

On  mountains  high,  in  forests  drear  and  wide, 
I  find  repose,  and  fhom  the  thronged  resort 
Of  man  turn  fearfully  my  eyes  aside; 
At  each  lone  step,  thoughts  ever  new  arise 
Of  her  I  love,  who  oft  with  cruel  sport 
Will  mock  the  pangs  I  bear,  the  tears,  the  sigks: 
Yet  e'en  these  ills  I  prize, — 
Though  bitter,  sweet, — nor  would  they  were 

removed ; 
For  my  heart  whispers  me, "  Love  yet  has  power 
To  grant  a  happier  hour : 
Perchance,  though  self-despised,  thou  yet  art 

loved": 
E'en  then  my  breast  a  passing  sigh  will  heaTe, 
"Ah  !  when,  or  how,  may  I  a  hope  so  wild  be- 
lieve?" 

Where  shadows  of  high  rocking  pines  dark  wave, 
I  stay  my  footsteps,  and  on  some  rude  stone 
With  thought  intense  her  beauteous  face  en- 
grave : 
Roused  from  the  trance,  my  bosom  bathed  I  find 
With  tears,  and  cry,  "Ah  !  whither  ihrnthw 
Hast  thou  far  wandered,  and  whom  left  behind? 
But  as  with  fixed  mind 
On  this  fair  image  I  impassioned  rest. 
And,  viewing  her,  forget  awhile  my  in>i 
Love  my  rapt  fancy  fills  ; 
In  its  own  error  sweet  the  soul  is  blest. 
While  all  around  so  bright  the  visions  «*w«  * 
O,  might  the  cheat  endure!     I  ask  not  aught 
beside. 


PETRARCA. 


631 


Her  form  portrayed  within  the  lacid  stream 
Will  oft  appear,  or  on  the  yerdant  lawn, 
Or  glossy  beech,  or  fleecy  cloud,  will  gleam 
So  lovely  fiur,  that  Leda's  self  might  say, 
Her  Helen  sinks  eclipsed,  as  at  the  dawn 
A  star  when  covered  by  the  solar  ray  : 
And  as  o*er  wilds  I  stray, 
Where  the  eye  naught  but  savage  nature  meets, 
There  fancy  most  her  brightest  tints  employs ; 
But  when  rude  truth  destroys 
The  loved  illusion  of  those  dreamed  sweets, 
I  sit  me  down  on  the  cold,  rugged  stone,  — 
Less  cold,  less  dead  than  I, — and  think  and 
weep  alone. 

Where  the  huge  mountain  rears  his  brow  sub- 
lime. 
On  which  no  neighbouring  height  its  shadow 

flings. 
Led  by  desire  intense  the  steep  I  climb ; 
And  tracing  in  the  boundless  space  each  woe, 
Whose  sad  remembrance  my  torn  bosom  wrings. 
Tears,  that  bespeak  the  heart  o'erfiraught,  will 

flow:      , 
While,  viewing  all  below, 
**  From  me,'*  I  cry,  *♦  what  worlds  of  air  divide 
The  beauteous  form,  still  absent,  and  still  near ! " 
Then,  chiding  soft  the  tear, 
I  whisper  low,  <*  Haply  she  too  has  sighed 
That  thou  art  far  away":  a  thought  so  sweet 
Awhile   my  laboring  soul  will  of  its  burden 
cheat. 

Gro  thou,  my  song,  beyond  that  Alpine  bound, 
Where  the  pure,  smiling  heavens  are  most  serene ! 
There  by  a  murmuring  stream  may  I  be  found, 
Whose  gentle  airs  around 
Waft  grateful  odors  from  the  laurel  green  : 
Naught  but  my  empty  form  roams  here  un blest ; 
There  dwells  my  heart  with  her  who  steals  it 
fi-om  my  breast. 

CANZONE. 

[>  M7  own  Italy !  though  words  are  vain 
The  mortal  wounds  to  close, 
LTii numbered,  that  thy  beauteous  bosom  stain, 
Tet  may  it  soothe  my  pain 
To  sigh  forth  Tiber's  woes, 
ind  Arno's  wrongs,  as  on  Po's  saddened  shore 
Sorrowing  I  wander,  and  my  numbers  pour. 
iuler  of  Heaven  !   by  the  all-pitying  love 
That  could  thy  Godhead  move 
?o  d^ell  a  lowly  sojourner  on  earth, — 
ram.  Lord,  on  this  thy  chosen  land  thine  eye ! 
>ee,  Ood  of  Charity, 

*rom  what  light  cause  this  cruel  war  has  birth ! 
knd  the  hard  hearts  by  savage  discord  steeled, 
*hou.  Father,  from  on  high, 
!'ouch  by  my  humble  voice,  that  stubborn  wrath 
may  yield ! 

^e,  to  whose  sovereign  hands  the  Fates  confide 
H"  this  fair  land  the  reins,  — 
*hi8    land,  for   which   no   pity   wrings    your 
breast, — 


Why  does  the  stranger's  sword  her  plains  infest? 
That  her  green  fields  be  dyed, 
Hope  ye,  with  blood  firom  the  barbarians'  veins  ? 
Beguiled  by  error  weak. 
Ye  see  not,  though  to  pierce  so  deep  ye  boast. 
Who  love  or  faith  in  venal  boeobis  seek  : 
When  thronged  your  standards  most, 
Te  are  encompassed  most  by  hostile  bands. 
O  hideous  deluge  gathered  in  strange  lands. 
That,  rushing  down  amain, 
O'erwhelms  our  every  native  lovely  plain  ! 
Alas !  if  our  own  hands 

Have  thus  our  weal  betrayed,  who  shall  our 
cause  sustain  ? 

Well  did  kind  Nature,  guardian  of  our  state. 

Rear  her  rude  Alpine  heights, 

A  lofty  rampart  against  German  hate ; 

But  blind  Ambition,  seeking  his  own  ill. 

With  ever  restless  will. 

To  the  pure  gales  contagion  foul  invites  : 

Within  the  same  strait  fold 

The  gentle  flocks  and  wolves  relentless  throng. 

Where  still  meek  innocence  must  suffer  wrong; 

And  these  —  O  shame  avowed !  — 

Are  of  the  lawless  hordes  no  tie  can  hold  : 

Fame  tells  how  Marius'  sword 

Erewhile  their  bosoms  gored,  — 

Nor  has  Time's  hand  aught  blurred  the  record 
proud !  -^ 

When  they,  who,  thirsting,  stooped  to  quaff  the 
flood. 

With  the  cool  waters  mixed,  drank  of  a  com- 
rade's blood  ! 

Great  Caesar's  name  I  pass,  who  o'er  our  plains 

Poured  forth  the  ensanguined  tide, 

Drawn  by  our  own  good  swords  from  out  their 

veins ; 
But  now,  —  nor  know  I  what  ill  stars  preside, — 
Heaven  holds  this  land  in  hate  ! 
To  you  the  thanks,  whose  hands  control  her 

helm !  — 
Tou,  whose  rash  feuds  despoil 
Of  all  the  beauteous  earth  the  fairest  realm  ! 
Are  ye  impelled  by  judgment,  crime,  or  fate. 
To  oppress  the  desolate  ? 
From  broken  fortunes,  and  from  humble  toil. 
The  hard-earned  dole  to  wring, 
While  from  afar  ye  bring 
Dealers  in  blood,  bartering  their  souls  for  hire  ? 
In  truth's  great  cause  I  sing. 
Nor  hatred  nor  disdain  my  earnest  lay  inspire. 

Nor  mark  ye  yet,  confirmed  by  proof  on  proof, 
Bavaria's  perfidy. 

Who  strikes  in  mockery,  keeping  death  aloof ; 
(Shame,  worse  than  aught  of  loss,  in  honor's 

eye!) 
While  ye,  with  honest  rage,  devoted  pour 
Your  inmost  bosom's  gore  ?  — 
Yet  give  one  hour  to  thought, 
And  ye  shall  own  how  little  he  can  hold 
Another's  glory  dear,  who  sets  his  own  at  naught. 
O  Latin  blood  of  old. 


532 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


1 


Arise,  and  wrest  from  obloquj  thy  fame, 
Nor  bow  before  a  name 

Of  hollow  pound,  whose  power  no  laws  enforce ! 
For  if  barbarians  rude 
Have  higher  minds  subdued. 
Ours,  ours  the  crime !  —  not  such  wise  Nature's 
course. 

Ah  !  is  not  this  the  soil  my  foot  first  preesed  ? 
And  here,  in  cradled  rest. 
Was  I  not  softly  hushed, — here  fondly  reared  ? 
Ah  !  is  not  this  my  country, — so  endeared 
By  every  filial  tie, — 

In  whose  lap  shrouded  both  my  parents  lie  ? 
O,  by  this  tender  thought 
Tour  torpid  bosoms  to  compassion  wrought, 
Look  on  the  people's  grief^ 
Who,  after  CU>d,  of  you  expect  relief ! 
And  if  ye  but  relent. 
Virtue  shall  rouse  her  in  embattled  might, 
Against  blind  fury  bent. 

Nor  long  shall  doubtful  hang  the  unequal  fight ; 
For  no,  —  the  ancient  flame 
Is  not  extinguished  yet,  that  raised  the  Italian 
name ! 

Mark,  sovereign  lords,  how  Time,  with  pinion 

strong. 
Swift  hurries  life  along ! 
E'en  now,  behold.  Death  presses  on  the  rear ! 
We  sojourn  here  a  day,  —  the  next,  are  gone ! 
The  soul,  disrobed,  alone, 
Must  shuddering  seek  the  doubtful  pass  we  fear. 
O,  at  the  dreaded  bouro, 
Abase  the  lofty  brow  of  wrath  and  scorn ! 
^Storms  adverse  to  the  eternal  calm  on  high !) 
And  ye,  whose  cruelty 
Has  sought  another's  barm,  by  feirer  deed, 
Of  heart,  or  hand,  or  intellect,  aspire 
To  win  the  honest  meed 
Of  just  renown,  —  the  noble  mind's  desire  !  — 
Thus  sweet  on  earth  the  stay  ! 
Thus,  to  the  spirit  pure,  unbarred  is  heaven's 

way  ! 

My  song,  with  courtesy,  and  numbers  sooth. 
Thy  daring  reasons  grace ! 
For  thou  the  mighty,  in  their  pride  of  place. 
Must  woo  to  gentle  ruth, 
Whose  haughty  will  long  evil  customs  nurse, 
Ever  to  truth  averse ! 
Thee  better  fortunes  wait. 
Among  the  virtuous  few,  —  the  truly  great ! 
Tell  them  —  But  who  shall  bid  my  terrors  cease  ? 
Peace  !  Peace !  on  thee  I  call !  return,  O  hea- 
ven-born Peace ! 


Y1SI0N& 
I. 
Being  one  day  at  my  window  all  alone. 

So  manie  strange  things  happened  me  to  see, 
As  much  it  grieve th  me  to  thinke  thereon. 

At  my  right  hand  a  hynde  appear'd  to  mee. 
So  faire  as  mote  the  greatest  god  delite ; 
Two  eager  dogs  did  her  pursue  in  chace, 


Of  which  the  one  was  blacke,  the  other  white :    | 
With  deadly  force  so  in  their  cruel  I  race 

They  pincht  the  haunches  of  that  gentle  beast, 
That  at  the  last,  and  in  abort  time,  I  spide. 

Under  a  rocke,  where  she  alas,  opprest. 

Fell  to  the  ground,  and  there  untimely  dide. 

Cruell  death  vanquishing  so  noble  beaatie 

Oft  makes  me  wayle  so  hard  a  destenie. 


After,  at  sea  a  tall  ship  did  appear^ 
Made  all  of  heben  *■  and  white  y  vorie  ; 

The  sailes  of  golde,  of  silke  the  tackle  were : 
Milde  was  the  winde,  calme  seem'd  the  sea  to 

The  skie  eachwhere  did  show  full  bright  and 
feire: 

With  rich  treasures  this  gay  shipfitughted  was: 
But  sudden  storme  did  so  turmoyle  the  aire. 

And  tumbled  up  the  sea,  that  she  (alaa) 
Strake  on  a  rock,  that  under  water  lay. 

And  perished  past  all  recoverie. 
O !  how  great  ruth,  and  sorrowftill  assay, 

Doth  vex  my  spirite  with  perplexitie. 
Thus  in  a  moment  to  see  lost,  and  drown'd. 
So  great  riches,  as  like  cannot  be  found. 


The  heavenly  branches  did  I  see  arise 

Out  of  the  ftesh  and  lustie  lawrell  tree. 
Amidst  the  yong  greene  wood  of  paradise ; 

Some  noble  plant  I  thought  my  seUe  to  see : 
Such  store  of  birds  therein  ysfarowded  were, 

Chaunting  in  shade  their  sundrie  melodic. 
That  with  their  sweetnes  I  was  ravisht  nere. 

While  on  this  lawrell  fixed  was  mine  eie. 
The  skie  gan  everie  where  to  overcast. 

And  darkned  was  the  welkin  all  about. 
When  sudden  flash  of  heavens  fire  out  brast,^ 

And  rent  this  royall  tree  quite  by  the  roote ; 
Which  makes  me  much  and  ever  to  complaine  -, 
For  no  such  ahadow  shalbe  had  againe. 


Within  this  wood,  out  of  a  rocke  did  rise 

A  spring  of  water,  mildly  rumbling  downe. 
Whereto  approched  not  in  anie  wise 

The  homely  shepheard,  nor  the  ruder  clowne ; 
But  manie  muses,  and  the  nymphes  withali. 

That  sweetly  in  accord  did  tune  their  voyce 
To  the  soft  sounding  of  the  waters  fell ; 

That  my  glad  hart  thereat  did  much  reioyce. 
But,  while  herein  I  tooke  my  cfaiefe  delight, 

I  saw  (alas)  the  gaping  earth  devoure 
The  spring,  the  place,  and  all  cleane  out  of  sight ; 

Which  yet  aggreeves  my  hart  even  to  this 
houre. 
And  wounds  my  soule  with  rufuH  memorie. 
To  see  such  pleasures  gon  so  suddenly. 


I  saw  a  phcBuix  in  the  wood  alone, 

With  purple  wings,  and  crest  of  golden  hewe ; 


>  Ebonj. 


t  Bant. 


BOCCACCIO. 


533 


Strange  bird  he  was,  whereby  I  thought  anone, 

That  of  some  heavenly  wight  I  had  the  vewe ; 
Untill  he  -came  onto  the  broken  tree, 

And  to  the  spring,  that  late  devoured  was. 
What  say  I  more  .'  each  thing  at  last  we  see 

Doth  passe  away  :  the  phoenix  there  alas, 
Spying  the  tree  destroid,  the  water  dride, 

Himselfe  smote  with  his  beake,  as  in  disdaine, 
And  so  foorthwith  in  great  despight  he  dide ; 

That  yet  my  heart  burnes,  in  exceeding  peine, 
For  ruth  and  pitie  of  so  haples  plight : 
O  !  let  mine  eyes  no  more  see  such  a  sight. 


At  last  so  ikire  a  ladie  did  I  spie. 

That  thinking  yet  on  her  I  bume  and  quake ; 
On  hearbs  and  flowres  she  walked  pensively, 

Milde,  but  yet  love  she  proudly  did  forsake : 
White  seem*d  her  robes,  yet  woven  so  they 
were. 

As  snow  and  golde  together  had  been  wrought : 
Above  the  wast  a  darke  clowde  shrouded  her, 

A  stinging  serpent  by  the  heele  her  caught ; 
Wherewith  she  languisht  as  the  gathered  fioure ; 

And,  well  assur'd,  she  mounted  up  to  ioy. 
Alas,  on  earth  so  nothing  doth  endure. 

But  bitter  griefe  and  sorrowful!  annoy  : 
Which  make  this  life  wretched  and  miserable, 
Tossed  with  stormes  of  fortune  variable. 


When  I  beheld  this  tickle '  trusties  state 

Of  vaine  worlds  glorie,  flitting  too  and  fro, 
And  mortall  men  tossed  by  troublous  &te 

In  restles  seas  of  wretchednes  and  woe ; 
I  wish  I  might  this  wearie  life  forgoe, 

And  shoitly  turne  unto  my  happie  rest. 
Where  my  free  spirits  might  not  anie  moe  ^ 

Be  vext  with  sights,  that  doo  her  peace  molest 
And  ye,  faire  ladie,  in  whose  bounteous  brest 

All  heavenly  grace  and  vertne  shrined  is. 
When  ye  these  rythmes  doo  read,  and  vew  the 
rest. 

Loath  this  base  world,  and  thinke  of  heavens 
blis: 
And  though  ye  be  the  ftirest  of  Oods  crtotures, 
Tet  thinke,  that  Death  shall  spoyle  your  goodly 
features. 


GIOVANNI  BOCCACCIO. 

This  great  writer,  the  "  Bard  of  Prose,"  one 
of  the  immortal  triumvirate  of  the  early  Italian 
literature,  was  the  natural  son  of  a  Florentine 
merchant  His  &mily  originated  in  Certaldo, 
a  village  of  Tuscany.  Giovanni's  mother  was 
a  Parisian,  and  he  was  bom  in  Paris,  in  1313. 
The  boy  was  early  brought  to  Florence,  where 
he  commenced  his  studies,  and  showed  a  preco- 
cious love  of  letters  and  poetry.  At  the  age  of 
ten,  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  merehant,  who  took 
him  back  to  Paris,  and  kept  him  there  six  years. 


3  Uncartaia. 


*  More. 


He  tlien  resided  eight  years  in  Naples.  But  his 
taste  for  literature  gave  him  a  dislike  to  mercan- 
tile life,  and  led  to  the  formation  of  intimacies 
with  the  Neapolitan  and  Florentine  scholars  who 
had  been  assembled  around  the  poetical  king, 
Robert  of  Naples.  He  fell  in  love  with  the  lady 
Mary,  a  natural  daughter  of  the  king,  to  please 
whom  he  wrote  several  works,  both  in  prose  and 
poetry.  This  princess  he  celebrated  under  the 
name  of  Fiammetta.  The  favor  of  his  royal 
mistress,  the  interoourse  which  he  enjoyed  with 
learned  men,  the  brilliant  reception  of  Petrarch 
at  the  Neapolitan  court,  when  on  his  way  to  re- 
ceive the  laurel  crown  at  Rome,  and  the  friend- 
ship which  he  formed  with  that  illustrious  poet 
and  scholar,  cooperating  with  his  natural  inclina- 
tion, induced  him  finally  to  embrace  the  pursuit 
of  literature  and  poetry.  Having  spent  two  years 
in  Florence  with  his  father,  he  returned  to  Na- 
ples, and  was  favorably  received  by  Queen  Jo- 
anna, for  whose  amusement,  as  well  as  that  of 
his  mistress,  Fiammetta,  he  wrote  the  *'  Decar 
merone,"  or  Tales  of  the  Ten  Days. 

Mr.  Mariotti,  an  eloquent  writer,  who,  though 
an  Italian,  has  mastered  the  elegancies  of  En- 
glish style,  in  his  work  on  Italian  history  and 
literature,*  has  drawn  the  following  fanciilil 
picture  of  Boccaccio  about  this  period :  — 

**  Above  the  entrance  of  that  tenebrous  pas- 
sage, in  a  fracrant  grove  of  oranee  and  myrtle, 
in  sight  of  Naples  and  her  gulf,  of  Vesuvius 
and  its  wide-spreading  sides,  exhibited  to  the 
worship  of  five  hundred  thousand  souls,  there 
lies  an  ancient  monument,  from  time  immemo- 
rial designated  by  fiime  as  the  tomb  of  Virgil. 
The  tradition  among  the  less  cultivated  classes 
in  the  country  is,  that  this  Virgil  was  an  old 
wizard,  whose  tomb  stands,  as  it  were,  as  the 
guard  of  the  grotto,  that  was  dug  in  one  night, 
at  his  bidding,  by  a  legion  of  demons  enlisted 
in  his  service. 

"  Over  that  haunted  sepulchre  there  grew  a 
laurel,  which  some  of  our  grandfathers  remem- 
ber still  to  have  seen ;  and  which  might  per- 
chance be  there  still,  braving  the  inclemencies 
of  the  north  winds,  and  the  lightnings  of  heav- 
en, had  it  not  been  plucked  to  the  very  roots 
by  the  religious  enthusiasm  of  classical  tourists. 

<(  Under  the  shade  of  that  hallowed  tree, 
kneeling  on  the  marble  steps  of  that  holy  tomb, 
there  was,  five  hundred  and  seven  years  ago,  a 
handsome  youth,  of  about  twenty  years  of  age, 
with  long  dark  locks  falling  upon  his  shoul- 
ders, with  a  bright  smiling  countenance,  a  no- 
ble forehead,  and  features  afler  the  best  an- 
tique Florentine  csst,  with  the  hues  of  health 
and  good-humor  on  his  cheeks,  and  the  habit- 
ual smile  of  a  man  whose  lifo-path  had  hitherto 
lain  amidst  purple  and  roses. 

•'  That  youth  was  Giovanni  Boccaccio. 

<*  Bom  under  unfavorable  ciroumstances,  and 
obliged  to  atone  by  a  brilliant  life  for  the  stain 

*  Italy :  Oeneral  Views  of  Ita  History  and  Llterattire,  in 
Reference  to  Its  present  Sute.  By  L.  MAaiom  (8  role., 
London,  1841, 12mo.).  Vol.  I.  pp.  S78,  S79. 

882 


532 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


Arise,  and  wrest  from  obloquy  thy  fame, 
Nor  bow  before  a  name 

Of  hollow  found,  whose  power  no  laws  enforce ! 
For  if  barbarians  rude 
Have  higher  minds  subdued, 
Ours,  ours  the  crime  \  —  not  such  wise  Nature's 
course. 

Ah  !  is  not  this  the  soil  my  foot  first  pressed  ? 
And  here,  in  cradled  rest, 
Was  1  not  softly  hushed, — here  foadly  reared? 
Ah  !  is  not  this  my  country,  —  so  endeared 
By  every  filial  tie,  — 

In  whose  lap  shrouded  both  my  parents  lie  ? 
O,  by  this  tender  thought 
Tour  torpid  bosoms  to  compassion  wrought. 
Look  on  the  people's  grie^ 
Who,  aAer  Gk>d,  of  you  expect  relief ! 
And  if  ye  but  relent. 
Virtue  shall  rouse  her  in  embattled  might. 
Against  blind  fury  bent. 

Nor  long  shall  doubtful  hang  the  unequal  fight ; 
For  no,  -;—  the  ancient  flame 
Is  not  extinguished  yet,  that  raised  the  Italian 
name ! 

Mark,  sovereign  lords,  how  Time,  with  pinion 

strong, 
Swifl  hurries  life  along ! 
E'en  now,  behold,  Death  presses  on  the  rear ! 
We  sojourn  here  a  day,  —  the  next,  are  gone ! 
The  soul,  disrobed,  alone. 
Must  shuddering  seek  the  doubtful  pass  we  fear. 
O,  at  the  dreaded  bourn. 
Abase  the  lofty  brow  of  wrath  and  scorn ! 
(Storms  adverse  to  the  eternal  calm  on  high !) 
And  ye,  whose  cruelty 
Has  sought  another's  barm,  by  fiiirer  deed, 
Of  heart,  or  hand,  or  intellect,  aspire 
To  win  the  honest  meed 
Of  just  renown,  —  the  noble  mind's  desire !  — 
Thus  sweet  on  earth  the  stay  ! 
Thus,  to  the  spirit  pure,  unbarred  is  heaven's 

way  ! 

My  song,  with  courtesy,  and  numbers  sooth. 
Thy  daring  reasons  grace ! 
For  thou  the  mighty,  in  their  pride  of  place, 
Must  woo  to  gentle  ruth, 
Whose  haughty  will  long  evil  customs  nurse, 
Ever  to  truth  averse  ! 
Thee  better  fortunes  wait, 
Among  the  virtuous  few,  —  the  truly  great! 
Tell  them  —  But  who  shall  bid  my  terrors  cease  ? 
Peace  !  Peace !  on  thee  I  call !  return,  O  hea- 
ven-born Peace ! 


VISIONS. 
I. 
Bkino  one  day  at  my  window  all  alone. 

So  manie  strange  things  happened  me  to  see, 
As  much  it  grieveth  me  to  thinke  thereon. 

At  my  right  hand  a  hynde  appear'd  to  mee, 
So  faire  as  mote  the  greatest  god  delite ; 
Two  eager  dogs  did  her  pursue  in  chace. 


Of  which  the  one  was  blacke,  the  other  white: 
With  deadly  force  so  in  their  craeil  nu» 

They  pincht  the  haunches  of  that  gentle  beist, 
That  at  the  last,  and  in  short  time,  I  sjHde, 

Under  a  rocke,  where  she  alas,  opprest, 
Fell  to  the  ground,  and  there  untimely  dide. 

Cruell  death  vanquishing  so  noble  beaatis 

Oft  makes  me  wayle  so  hard  a  destenie. 


After,  at  sea  a  tall  ship  did  appeare. 

Made  all  of  heben  *■  and  white  y vorie ; 
The  sailes  of  golde,  of  silke  the  Uckle  wers: 

Milde  was  the  winde,  calme  seem'd  the  sea  to 
bee. 
The  skie  eachwhere  did  show  fiill  bright  lod 
faire  : 

With  rich  treasures  this  gay  shipfiraighted  wu: 
But  sudden  storme  did  so  turmoyle  the  aiie, 

And  tumbled  up  the  sea,  that  she  (slat) 
Strake  on  a  rock,  that  under  water  lay. 

And  perished  past  all  recoverie. 
O !  how  great  ruth,  and  sorrowfuU  aassj, 

Doth  vex  my  spirite  with  perplexitie, 
Thus  in'  a  moment  to  see  lost,  and  drown'd, 
So  great  riches,  as  like  cannot  be  found. 


The  heavenly  branches  did  I  see  arise 

Out  of  the  fresh  and  lustie  lawrell  tree, 
Amidst  the  yong  greene  wood  of  paradise ; 

Some  noble  plant  I  thought  my  selfe  to  see: 
Such  store  of  birds  therein  yshrowded  were, 

Chaunting  in  shade  their  sundrie  melodie, 
That  with  their  sweetnes  I  was  ravieht  nere. 

While  on  this  lawrell  fixed  was  mine  eie, 
The  skie  gan  everie  where  to  overcaat, 

And  darkned  was  the  welkin  all  about,  ^ 
When  sudden  flash  of  heavens  fire  out  brast, 

And  rent  this  royall  tree  quite  by  the  roote; 
Which  makes  me  much  and  ever  to  complaiw; 
For  no  such  shadow  shalbe  had  againe. 


Within  this  wood,  out  of  a  rocke  did  rise 

A  spring  of  water,  mildly  rumbling  dowse, 
Whereto  approched  not  in  anie  wise 

The  homely  shepheard,  nor  the  nidcrclowDe; 
But  manie  muses,  and  the  nymphes  withall, 

That  sweetly  in  accord  did  tune  their  voyce 
To  the  soft  sounding  of  the  waters  fell; 

That  my  glad  hart  thereat  did  much  reioyce. 
But,  while  herein  I  tooke  my  chiefs  delight, 

I  saw  (alas)  the  gaping  earth  devours 
The  spring,  the  place,  and  all  cleane  out  of ««« » 

Which  yet  aggreeves  my  hart  even  to  twi 
houre, 
And  wounds  my  soule  with  rufuH  memone, 
To  see  such  pleasures  gon  so  suddenly. 

V. 

I  saw  a  phoenix  in  the  wood  alone. 

With  purple  wings,  and  crest  of  golden  MWf ; 


li 


>  Ebony. 


BOCCACCIO. 


533 


Straog«  bird  ho  was,  whereby  I  thought  anone, 

That  of  Bome  heavenly  wight  I  had  the  vewe ; 
Until!  he  4»me  unto  the  broken  tree, 

And  to  the  spring,  that  late  devoured  was. 
What  say  I  more  ?  each  thing  at  last  we  see 

Doth  passe  away  :  the  phoenix  there  alas, 
Spying  the  tree  destroid,  the  water  dride, 

Himaelfe  smote  with  his  beake,  as  in  disdaine, 
And  so  foorthwith  in  great  despight  he  dide ; 

That  yet  my  heart  burnes,  in  exceeding  paine, 
For  ruth  and  pitie  of  so  haples  plight : 
O  !  let  mine  eyes  no  more  see  such  a  sight. 


At  last  so  (aire  a  ladie  did  I  spie. 

That  thinking  yet  on  her  I  bume  and  quake ; 
On  hearbs  and  flowres  ihe  walked  pensively, 

Milde,  but  yet  love  she  proudly  did  forsake : 
White  aeem'd  her  robes,  yet  woven  so  they 
were. 

As  snow  and  golde  together  had  been  wrought: 
Above  the  wast  a  darke  clowde  shrouded  her, 

A  stinging  serpent  by  the  heele  her  caught ; 
Wherewith  she  languisht  as  the  gathered  floure ; 

And,  well  assured,  she  mounted  up  to  ioy. 
Alas,  on  earth  so  nothing  doth  endure, 

But  bitter  griefe  and  sorrowilill  annoy  : 
Which  make  this  life  wretched  and  miserable, 
Tossed  with  stormes  of  fortune  variable. 


When  I  beheld  this  tickle'  trusties  state 

Of  vaine  worlds  glorie,  flitting  too  and  Iro, 
And  mortal!  men  tossed  by  troublous  &te 

In  restles  seas  of  wretchednes  and  woe ; 
I  wish  I  might  this  wearie  life  fbrgoe. 

And  shortly  turns  unto  my  happie  rest. 
Where  my  free  spirits  might  not  anie  moe  * 

Be  vext  with  sights,  that  doo  her  peace  molest 
And  ye,  faire  ladie,  in  whose  bounteous  brest 

All  heavenly  grace  and  vertue  shrined  is. 
When  ye  these  rythmes  doo  read,  and  yew  the 
rest, 

Loath  this  base  world,  and  thinke  of  heavens 
blis: 
And  though  ye  be  the  ftirest  of  Oods  creatures, 
Tet  thinke,  that  Death  shall  spoyle  your  goodly 
features. 


GIOVANNI  BOCCACCIO. 

This  great  writer,  the  "  Bard  of  Prose,"  one 
of  the  immortel  triumvirate  of  the  early  Italian 
literature,  was  the  natural  son  of  a  Florentine 
merchant  His  &mily  originated  in  Certaldo, 
a  village  of  Tuscany.  Giovanni's  mother  was 
a  Parisian,  and  he  was  bom  in  Paris,  in  1313. 
The  boy  was  early  brought  to  Florence,  where 
he  commenced  his  studies,  and  showed  a  preco- 
cious love  of  letters  and  poetry.  At  the  age  of 
ten,  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  merchant,  who  took 
him  back  to  Paris,  and  kept  him  there  six  years. 


a  Unoettaio. 


*  Moro. 


He  tlien  resided  eight  years  in  Naples.  But  his 
taste  for  literature  gave  him  a  dislike  to  mercan- 
tile life,  and  led  to  the  formation  of  intimacies 
with  the  Neapolitan  and  Florentine  scholars  who 
had  been  assembled  around  the  poetical  king, 
Robert  of  Naples.  He  fell  in  love  with  the  lady 
Mary,  a  natural  daughter  of  the  king,  to  please 
whom  he  wrote  several  works,  both  in  prose  and 
poetry.  This  princess  he  celebrated  under  the 
name  of  Fiammetta.  The  favor  of  his  royal 
mistress,  the  intercourse  which  he  enjoyed  with 
learned  men,  the  brilliant  reception  of  Petrarch 
at  the  Neapolitan  court,  when  on  his  way  to  re- 
ceive the  laurel  crown  at  Rome,  and  the  friend- 
ship which  he  formed  with  that  illustrious  poet 
and  scholar,  cooperating  with  his  natural  inclina- 
tion, induced  him  finally  to  embrace  the  pursuit 
of  literature  and  poetry.  Having  spent  two  years 
in  Florence  with  his  father,  he  returned  to  Na- 
pies,  and  was  fiivorably  received  by  Queen  Jo- 
anna, for  whose  amusement,  as  well  as  that  of 
his  mistress,  Fiammetta,  he  wrote  the  "  Decar 
merone,"  or  Tales  of  the  Ten  Days. 

Mr.  Mariotti,  an  eloquent  writer,  who,  though 
an  Italian,  has  mastered  the  elegancies  of  En- 
glish style,  in  his  work  on  Italian  history  and 
literature,*  has  drawn  the  following  fanciflil 
picture  of  Boccaccio  about  this  period :  — 

**  Above  the  entrance  of  that  tenebrous  pas- 
sage, in  a  fracrant  grove  of  orange  and  myrtle, 
in  sight  of  Naples  and  her  gulf,  of  Vesuvius 
and  its  wide-spreading  sides,  exhibited  to  the 
worship  of  five  hundred  thousand  souls,  there 
lies  an  ancient  monument,  from  time  immemo- 
rial designated  by  &me  as  the  tomb  of  Virgil. 
The  tradition  among  the  less  cultivated  classes 
in  the  country  is,  that  this  Virgil  was  an  old 
wizard,  whose  tomb  stands,  as  it  were,  as  the 
guard  of  the  grotto,  that  was  dug  in  one  night, 
at  his  bidding,  by  a  legion  of  demons  enlisted 
in  his  service. 

"  Over  that  haunted  sepulchre  there  grew  a 
laurel,  which  some  of  our  grandfathers  remem- 
ber still  to  have  seen ;  and  which  might  per- 
chance be  there  still,  braving  the  inclemencies 
of  the  north  winds,  and  the  lightnings  of  heav- 
en, had  it  not  been  plucked  to  the  very  roots 
by  the  religious  enthusiasm  of  classical  tourists. 

"Under  the  shade  of  that  hallowed  tree, 
kneeling  on  the  marble  steps  of  that  holy  tomb, 
there  was,  live  hundred  and  seven  years  ago,  a 
handsome  youth,  of  about  twenty  years  of  age, 
with  long  dark  locks  falling  upon  his  shoul- 
ders, with  a  bright  smiling  countenance,  a  no- 
ble forehead,  and  features  afler  the  best  an- 
tique Florentine  cast,  with  the  hues  of  health 
and  good-humor  on  his  cheeks,  and  the  habit- 
ual smile  of  a  man  whose  life-path  had  hitherto 
lain  amidst  purple  and  roses. 

«*  That  youth  was  Giovanni  Boccaccio. 

'*  Born  under  unfavorable  circumstances,  and 
obliged  to  atone  by  a  brilliant  life  for  the  stain 

*  Italy :  General  Views  of  Ita  Hietory  aiid  Literature,  in 
Reference  to  its  present  State.  By  L.  MABiom  (8  role., 
London,  1841, 12mo.).  Vd.  I.  pp.  278,  279. 

88  2 


634 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


inflicted  upon  hii  nativity  by  the  imprudence 
and  levity  of  his  parents,  he  was  long  secretly 
preyed  upon  by  a  vague  ambition,  which  in 
vain  he  endeavoured  to  lay  asleep  among  the 
dissipations  of  a  disorderly  youth.  There,  on 
the  urn  of  the  Latin  poet,  to  which  he  often 
resorted  in  his  disgust  of  every  thing  around 
him,  he,  according  to  his  own  account,  *felt 
himself  suddenly  seized  by  a  sacred  inspiration, 
and  entered  into  a  daring  vow  with  himself  that 
his  name  should  not  perish  with  him.'  " 

After  his  father's  death,  Boccaccio  established 
himself  in  Florence,  where  he  wrote  the  cele- 
brated description  of  the  plague, — a  pieoe  of  his- 
torical painting  which  almost  rivals  the  terrible 
picture  of  the  plague  of  Athens,  in  Thucydides. 
When  the  republic  of  Florence  resolved  to  recall 
Petrarch,  and  to  restore  to  him  the  estate  of  his 
father,  who  died  in  banishment,  they  made 
choice  of  Boccaccio  to  bear  the  message  to  the 
poet,  then  living  in  Padua.  TlTe  disturbances 
in  Florence  induced  him  to  withdrew  to  Cer- 
taldo,  where  he  possessed  a  small  estate.  In 
this  retirement  he  composed  several  historical 
works  in  Latin.  Boccaccio  was  a  very  good 
classical  scholar.  In  addition  to  his  ftuniliar 
knowledge  of  Latin,  he  made  acquirements  in 
Greek,  extraordinary  for  his  age  and  country, 
under  the  instruction  of  Leontius  Pilate,  whom 
he  kept,  at  his  own  charge,  three  years  in  his 
house ;  and  he  had  the  honor  of  being  the  first 
to  procure  from  Greece  transcripts  of  the  **  Iliad  " 
and  "Odyssey."  He  exerted  all  his  influence 
to  induce  his  contemporaries  to  substitute  the 
study  of  classical  antiquity  for  the  scholastic 
pursuits  on  which  their  intellectual  energies 
were  expended.  He  was  twice  sent  on  impor- 
tant public  afTaira  to  the  papal  court,  and  ac- 
quitted himself  of  the  duties  of  these  embassies 
with  signal  ability.  When  the  Florentines, 
desirous  of  making  atonement  to  the  memory 
of  their  great  countryman,  Dante,  for  the  per- 
secution and  banishment  with  which  they  had 
wronged  him  while  living,  established  in  tbeir 
University  a  professorship  for  the  explanation 
and  illustretion  of  his  poem,  Boccaccio  was 
placed  in  the  chair.  Dante  had  always  been  the 
object  of  his  admiration  and  reverence  ;  and  he 
devoted  himself  to  the  work  of  his  office  with 
such  diligence  that  he  seriously  injured  his 
health,  which  was  never  completely  restored. 
The  news  of  the  death  of  Petrarch,  his  instructer 
and  friend,  was  a  violent  shock,  and  he  survived 
him  but  little  more  than  a  year.  He  died  at 
Certaldo,  December  21st,  1375. 

The  genius  of  Boccaccio  is  most  favorably 
exhibited  in  the  prose  of  his  **  Decamerone  " ; 
a  work  which  places  him  unquestionably  in  the 
first  rank  of  Italian  writers.  He  accomplished 
for  Italian  prose  the  same  great  service  which 
Dante  and  Petrarch  effected  for  poetry.  But 
besides  this,  he  wrote  **  La  Teseide,"  the  fint 
Italian  epic  in  the  oUava  rtma,  of  which  he  was 
the  inventor ;  the  «« Amorosa  Visione,"  a  long 
poem  in  the  terza  rima;  and  other  productions  in 


verse,  which  are  obecured  by  the  superior  tplto- 
dor  of  the  *•*•  Decamerone."  He  also  wrote  i 
work  entitled  **  Origine,  Vita  e  Costumi  di  Din- 
te  Alighieri,"  and  a  "  Comento  sopra  la  Cooi- 
media  di  Dante,"  which,  however,  extends  onlj 
to  the  seventeenth  canto  of  the  **  loftrno."  The 
best  edition  of  his  works  is  that  of  Floraaoe, 
in  seventeen  volumes,  1827-34. 

DANTE. 

Dahtx  am  I,  —  Minerva's  son,  who  knew 
With  skill  and  genius  (though  in  style  obscure) 
And  elegance  maternal  to  mature 
My  toil,  a  miracle  to  mortal  view. 
Through  realms  tartarean  and  celestial  flew 
My  lofty  fancy,  swift- winged  and  secure; 
And  ever  shall  my  noble  work  endure, 
Fit  to  be  read  of  men,  and  angels  too. 
Florence  my  earthly  mother's  glorious  Dsme ; 
Stepdame  to  me,  —  whom  from  her  side  ibe 

thrust, 
Her  duteous  son :  bear  slanderoos  tongaes  tiie 

blame; 
Ravenna  boused  my  exile,  holds  my  dust ; 
My  spirit  is  with  Him  from  whom  it  ctme,— 
A  Parent  envy  cannot  make  unjust 

SONOS  FROM  THE  DECAIIERONS. 

Cupid,  the  charms  that  crown  my  ftir 

Have  made  me  slave  to  you  and  her : 
The  lightning  of  her  eyes. 
That  darting  through  my  bosom  flies, 

Doth  still  your  sovereign  power  dedsie: 

At  your  control. 

Each  grace  binds  fast  my  vanquished  sooi. 

Devoted  to  your  throne 
From  hencefi>rth  I  myself  confess; 
Nor  can  I  guess 

If  my  desires  to  her  be  known, 
Who  claims  each  wish,  each  thought,  so  w, 
That  all  my  peace  depends  on  her. 

Then  haste,  kind  godhead,  and  inspire 
A  portion  of  your  sacred  fire ; 

To  make  her  feel 

That  self-consuming  zeal, 
The  cause  of  my  decay. 
That  wastes  my  very  heart  away. 


Go,  Love,  and  to  my  lord  declare 
The  torment  which  for  him  I  find; 

Go,  say  I  die,  whilst  still  ny  <«<' 
Forbids  me  to  declare  my  n>>o<>' 

With  hands  uplifted,  I  thee  pray, 
O  Love,  that  thou  wouldst  haste  «waj, 
And  gently  to  my  lord  impart 
The  warmest  wishes  of  my  h«art; 
Declare  how  great  my  sorrows  •«•"'. 
Which,  sighing,  blushing,  I  endure  for  di". 
Go,  Love,  dc«. 


PULCI. 


535 


Why  was  I  not  so  bold  to  tell, 
For  oDce,  the  passioo  that  I  feel  ? 
To  him,  for  whom  I  grieve  alone, 
The  anguish  of  my  heart  make  known  ? 
He  might  rejoice  to  hear  my  grief 
Awaits  his  single  pleasure  for  relief. 
Go,  Love,  &c. 


But  if  this  my  request  be  vain, 
Nor  other  means  of  help  remain. 
Yet  say,  that  when  in  armor  bright 
He  marched,  as  if  equipped  for  fight. 
Amidst  his  chiefs,  that  fatal  day, 
I  saw,  and  ga2ed  my  very  heart  away. 
Go,  Love,  &c. 


SECOND  PERIOD.-CENTURY  XV. 


LUIGI  PULCI. 

Luioi  PuLci  was  bom  in  Florence,  Dec.  3, 
1431.  He  belonged  to  a  very  respectable 
ftimily,  and  was  the  youngest  of  three  brothers, 
all  distinguished  for  their  abilities  and  learning. 
He  lived  on  intinuite  terms  with  the  great  Lo- 
renzo de*  Medici,  whose  accomplished  mother, 
Lucrezia  Tornabuoni,  induced  him  to  write  the 
poem  of  *^  II  Morgante  Maggiore,"  in  which 
are  celebrated  the  exploits  of  Orlando  and  the 
giant  Morgante.  Very  little  is  known  of  his 
life,  which  was  passed  in  privacy,  and  was 
wholly  devoted  to  letters.  The  time  and  cir- 
cumstances of  his  death  are  also  unknown. 

The  principal    work  of  Luigi  Pulci  is  that 
already  mentioned,  the  **  Morgante  Maggiore." 
It  is  one  of  the  romantic  narrative  poems  on 
the  adventures  of  Charlemagne  and  his  pala- 
dins.    The  character  of  this  work  has  been  the 
subject  of  critical  disputes.     *<  Some,"  says  Ti- 
raboschi,  **  place  it  among  serious,  others  among 
burlesque  poems ;  some  speak  of  it  with  con- 
tempt, others  do  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  it 
equal  to  the  *  Furioso '  of  Ariosto.     All  this 
proves,  merely,  that  there  is  no  absurdity  which 
haa  not  been  written  and  adopted  by  some  one. 
A  little  good  sense  and  good  taste  is  sufficient 
to    discover  in  the  *■  Morgante  '  a  burlesque,  in 
ipvhicfa  are  seen  invention  and  poetic  fiincy  and 
parity  of  style,  so  far  as  appertains  to  Tuscan 
proverbs  and  jests,  of  which  it  is  full."     But, 
on    the  other  hand,  he  censures  the  want  of 
connection   and   order  in   the   narratives,  the 
hardness  of  the  versification,  the  absence  of  ele- 
vated expression,  and  especially  the  ridicule  of 
sacred  things,  '^  a  defect,  however,  common  at 
that  time  to  not  a  few  of  the  burlesque  poets." 


FROM  THE  MORGANTE  MAGGIORE. 
ORLANDO  AND  TBI  GIANT. 

Tbkh  full  of  wrath  departed  from  the  place, 
And  far  as  pagan  countries  roamed  astray. 

And  while  he  rode,  yet  still  at  every  pace 
The  traitor  Can  remembered  by  the  way ; 

And  wandering  on  id  error  a  long  space. 
An  abbey  which  in  a  lone  desert  lay. 


'Midst  glens  obscure,  and  distant  lands,  he  found. 
Which  formed  the  Christian's  and  the  pagan's 
bound. 

The  abbot  was  called  Clermont,  and  by  blood 
Descended  from  Angrante  ',  under  cover 

Of  a  great  mountain's  brow  the  abbey  stood. 
But  certain  savage  giants  looked  him  over ', 

One  Passamont  was  foremost  of  the  brood. 
And  Alabaster  and  Morgante  hover 

Second  and  third,  with  certain  slings,  and  throw 

In  daily  jeopardy  the  place  below. 

The  monks  could  pass  the  convent  gate  no  more. 
Nor  leave  their  cells  for  water  or  for  wood. 

Orlando  knocked,  but  none  would  ope,  before 
Unto  the  prior  it  at  length  seemed  good ; 

Entered,  he  said  that  he  was  taught  to  adore 
Him  who  was  bom  of  Mary's  holiest  blood. 

And  was  baptized  a  Christian  ;  and  then  showed 

How  to  the  abbey  he  had  found  his  road. 

Said  the  abbot,  ^*  Tou  are  welcome ;  what  is  mine 
We  give  you  freely,  since  that  you  believe 

With  us  in  Mary  Mother's  Son  divine  ; 
And  that  you  may  not,  Cavalier,  conceive 

The  cause  of  our  delay  to  let  you  in 
To  be  rusticity,  you  shall  receive 

The  reason  why  our  gate  was  barred  to  you : 

Thus  those  who  in  suspicion  live  must  do. 

**  When  hither  to  inhabit  first  we  came 

These  mountains,  albeit  that  they  are  obscure. 

As  you  perceive,  yet  without  fear  or  blame 
They  seemed  to  promise  an  asylum  sure : 

From  savage  brutes  alone,  too  fierce  to  tame, 
'T  was  fit  our  quiet  dwelling  to  secure ; 

But  now,  if  here  we  'd  stay,  we  needs  must  guard 

Against  domestic  beasts  with  watch  and  ward. 

^  These  make  us  stand,  in  fact,  upon  the  watch  ; 

For  late  there  have  appeared  three  giants 
rough; 
What  nation  or  what  kingdom  bore  the  batch 

I  know  not,  but  they  are  all  of  savage  stuff: 
When  force  and  malice  with  some  genius  match, 

Tou  know,  they  can  do  all,  —  we   're  not 
enough : 
And  these  so  much  our  orisons  derange, 
I  know  not  what  to  do,  till  matters  change. 


536 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


'*  Oar  ancient  fathers,  living  the  desert  in, 
For  just  and  holy  works  were  duly  fed  ; 

Think  not  they  lived  on  locusts  sole,  't  is  certain 
That  manna  was  rained  down  from  heaven 
instead : 

But  here  't  is  fit  we  keep  on  the  alert  in 

Our  bounds,   or  taste  the  stones  showered 
down  for  bread, 

From  off  yon  mountain  daily  raining  faster. 

And  flung  by  Passamont  and  Alabaster. 

*<  The  third,  Morgante,  *s  savagest  by  far ;  he 
Plucks  up  pines,  beeches,  poplar-trees,  and 
oaks. 

And  flings  them,  our  community  to  bury ; 
And  all  that  I  can  do  but  more  provokes." 

While  thus  they  parley  in  the  cemetery, 
A  stone  from  one  of  their  gigantic  strokes, 

Which  nearly  crushed  Rondell,  came  tumbling 
over. 

So  that  he  took  a  long  leap  under  cover. 

«  For  6od*s  sake,  Cavalier,  come  in  with  speed ! 

The  manna  *s  falling  now,'*  the  abbot  cried. 
'*  This  fellow  does  not  wish  my  horse  should 
feed. 

Dear  Abbot,"  Roland  unto  him  replied. 
*<  Of  restiveness  he  *d  cure  him,  had  he  need ; 

That  stone  seems   with  good-will  and  aim 
applied." 
The  holy  father  said,  **  I  do  n't  deceive ; 
They  Ml  one  day  fling  the  mountain,  I  believe." 

Orlando  bade  them  take  care  of  Rondello, 
And  also  made  a  breakfast  of  bis  own : 

^«  Abbot,"  he  said,  ^*  I  want  to  find  that  fellow 
Who  flung  at  my  good  horse  yon  corner-stone." 

Said  the  abbot,  ^*  Let  not  my  advice  seem  shal- 
low; 
As  to  a  brother  dear  I  speak  alone  ; 

I  would  dissuade  you,  Baron,  from  this  strife. 

As  knowing  sure  that  you  will  lose  your  life. 

*<  That  Passamont  has  in  his  hand  three  darts, — 
Such  slings,  clubs,  ballast-stones,  that  yield 
you  must; 

Tou  know  that  giants  have  much  stouter  hearts 
Than  us,  w*ith  reason,  in  proportion  just : 

If  go  you  will,  guard  well  against  their  arts. 
For  these  are  very  barbarous  and  robust." 

Orlando  answered,  **  This  I  '11  see,  be  sure, 

And  walk  the  wild  on  foot  to  be  secure." 

The  abbot  signed  the  great  cross  on  his  front : 
<*  Then  go  you  with  God's  benison  and  mine." 

Orlando,  after  he  had  scaled  the  mount. 
As  the  abbot  had  directed,  kept  the  line 

Right  to  the  usual  haunt  of  Passamont ; 
Who,  seeing  him  alone  in  this  design. 

Surveyed  him  fore  and  aft  with  eyes  observant. 

Then  asked  him,  if  he  wished  to  stay  as  servant ; 

And  promised  him  an  office  of  great  ease. 

But  said  Orlando,  **  Saracen  insane ! 
I  come  to  kill  you,  if  it  shall  so  please 

God, — not  to  serve  as  fbotboy  in  your  train; 


You  with  his  monks  so  oSi  have  broke  the  peace, 
Vile  dog !   't  is  past  his  patience  to  lustain." 
The  giant  ran  to  fetch  his  arms,  quite  fiirioua, 
When  he  received  an  answer  so  injurioua. 

And  being  returned  to  where  Orlando  stood, 
Who  had  not  moved  him  from  the  spot,  and 
swinging 
The  cord,  he  hurled  a  stone  with  strength  lo 
rude, 
As  showed  a  sample  of  his  skill  in  slinging; 
It  rolled  on  Count  Orlando's  helmet  good, 
And  head,  and  set   both  head  and  helmet 
ringing. 
So  that  he  swooned  with  pain  as  if  he  died, 
But  more  than  dead,  he  seemed  so  stupefied. 

Then  Passamont,  who  thought  him  sUin  oat- 
right. 

Said,  *<  I  will  go,  and,  while  he  lies  along, 
Disarm  me  :  why  such  craven  did  I  fight  ? " 

But  Christ  his  servants  ne'er  abandons  long, 
Especially  Orlando,  such  a  knight 

As  to  desert  would  almost  be  a  wrong. 
While  the  giant  goes  to  put  off"  his  defences, 
Orlando  has  recalled  hb  force  and  senses ; 

And  loud  he  shouted,  ^  Giant,  where  dost  go? 

Thou  thought'st  me,  doubtless,  for  the  bier 
outlaid ; 
To  the  right  about !  without  wings  tboa  'rt  too 
slow 

To  fly  my  vengeance,  currish  renegade ! 
'T  was  but  by  treachery  thou  Inid'st  me  low." 

The  giant  his  astonishment  betrayed. 
And  turned  about,  and  stopped  his  journey  on, 
And  then  he  stooped  to  pick  up  a  great  stone. 

Orlando  had  Cortana  bare  in  hand ; 

To  split  the   head  in  twain  was  what  he 
schemed : 
Cortana  clave  the  skull  like  a  true  brand. 

And  pagan  Passamont  died  unredeemed ; 
Yet  harsh  and  haughty,  as  he  lay  he  banned, 

And  most  devoutly  Macon  still  blasphemed : 
But  while  his  crude,  rude  blasphemies  he  heard, 
Orlando  thanked  the  Father  and  the  Word,— 

Saying, «« What  grace  to  me  thou  'st  this  day 
given ! 

And  I  to  thee,  O  Lord,  am  ever  boun*. 
I  know  my  life  was  saved  by  thee  from  heaven, 

Since  by  the  giant  I  was  fairly  downed. 
All  things  by  thee  are  measured  just  and  even; 

Our  power  without  thine  aid  would  naugM 
be  found : 
I  pray  thee,  take  heed  of  me,  till  I  can  ^ 
At  least  return  once  more  to  Carlomsn* 

And  having  said  thus  much,  he  went  his  w«y; 

And  Alabaster  he  found  out  below, 
poing  the  very  best  that  in  him  lay 

To  root  from  out  a  bank  a  rock  or  two. 
Orlando,  when  be  reached  him,  \*Md  *gan  */» 

"  How  think'st  thou,  glutton,  such  a  stone  w 
throw?" 


PULCI. 


637 


When  Alabaster  heard  his  deep  voice  ring. 
He  eu^enlj  betook  him  to  his  sltng, 

And  hurled  a  fragment  of  a  size  so  large, 
That,  if  it  had  in  fact  fulfilled  its  mission, 

And  Roland  not  availed  him  of  his  targe, 
There  would  have  been  no  need  of  a  phy- 
sician. 

Orlando  set  himself  in  turn  to  charge,* 
And  in  his  bulky  bosom  made  incision 

With  all  his  sword.    The  lout  fell ;  but,  o*er- 
thrown,  he. 

However,  by  no  means  forgot  Macone. 

Morgante  had  a  palace  in  his  mode. 

Composed  of  branches,  logs  of  wood,  and 
earth. 

And  stretched  himself  at  ease  in  this  abode. 
And  shut  himself  at  night  within  his  berth. 

Orlando  knocked,  and  knocked  again,  to  goad 
The  giant  from  his  sleep ;  and  he  came  forth. 

The  door  to  open,  like  a  crazy  thing ; 

For  a  rough  dream  had  shook  him  slumbering. 

He  thought  that  a  fierce  serpent  had  attacked 
him; 
And  Mahomet  he  called  ;  but  Mahomet 
Is  nothing  worth,  and  not  an  instant  backed 
htm; 
But  praying  blessed  Jesu,  he  was  set 
At  liberty  from  all  the  fears  which  racked  him ; 

And  to  the  gate  he  came  with  great  regret. 
*«  Who  knocks  here  ?  "  grumbling  all  the  while, 

said  he. 
»  That,"  said  Orlando,  "  you  will  quickly  see. 


*«  I  come  to  preach  to  you,  as  to  your  brothers,  — 
Sent  by  the  miserable  monks,  —  repentance ; 
For  Providence  Divine,  in  you  and  others. 
Condemns  the  evil  done  my  new  acquaintp 
ance. 
'T  is  writ  on  high,  your  wrong  most  pay  an- 
other's ;  • 
From  heaven  itself  is  issued  out  this  sen- 
tence. 
Know,  then,  that  colder  now  than  a  pilaster 
I  left  your  Passamont  and  Alabaster." 

Morgante  said,  **  O  gentle  Cavalier, 
Now^  by  thy  God,  say  me  no  villany ! 

riie  ftvor  of  your  name  I  fain  would  hear. 
And,  if  a  Christian,  speak  for  courtesy." 

ECoplied  Orlando,  **  So  much  to  your  ear 
I,  by  my  faith,  disclose  contentedly ; 

Z^lirist  I  adore,  who  is. the  genuine  Lord, 

%.nd,  if  you  please,  by  yon  may  be  adored." 

riie  Saracen  rejoined,  in  humble  tone, 
*<I  have  had  an  extraordinary  vision  : 

^  savage  serpent  fell  on  me  alone, 

^nd  Macon  would  not4>ity  my  condition; 

^0iice,  to  thy  God,  who  fer  ye  did  atone 
Upon  the  cross,  preferred  I  my  petition ; 

Cis  timely  succour  set  me  safe  and  free, 

LZBci  I  a  Christian  am  disposed  to  be." 


MOROANTB  AT  THB  CONVENT. 


Tbxn  to  the  abbey  they  went  on  together. 
Where  waited  them  the  abbot  in  great  doubt 

The  monks,  who  knew  not  yet  the  feet,  ran 
thither 
To  their  superior,  all  in  breathless  rout. 

Saying,  with  tremor,  **  Please  to  tell  us  whether 
You  wish  to  have  this  person  in  or  out." 

The  abbot,  looking  through  upon  the  giant. 

Too  greatly  feared,  at  first,  to  be  compliant. 

Orlando,  seeing  him  thus  agitated. 

Said  quickly,'  <^  Abbot,  be  thou  of  good  cheer ; 
He  Christ  believes,  as  Christian  must  be  rated. 

And  hapi  renounced  his  Macon  false  " ;  which 
here 
Morgante  with  the  hands  corroborated,  — 

A  proof  of  both  the  giants'  fete  quite  clear : 
Thence,  with  due  thanks,  the  abbot  Gx)d  adored. 
Saying,  **  Thou  hast  contented  me,  O  Lord ! " 

He  gazed ;  Morgante's  height  he  calculated. 
And  more  than  once  contemplated  his  size ; 

And  then  he  said,  <*  O  giant  celebrated,- 
Know,  that  no  more  my  wonder  will  arise, 

How  you  could  tear  and  fling  the  trees  you  late 
did. 
When  I  behold  your  form  with  my  own  eyes. 

Ton  now  a  true  and  perfect  friend  will  show 

Yourself  to  Christ,  as  once  you  were  a  foe. 

^  And  one  of  our  apostles,  Saul  once  named. 
Long  persecuted  sore  the  feith  of  Chrigt, 

Till,  one  day,  by  the  Spirit  being  inflamed, 
*Why  dost  thou  persecute  me  thus?'  said 
Christ ; 

And  then  fivm  his  oflence  he  was  reclaimed. 
And  went  for  ever  after  preaching  Christ, 

And  of  the  faith  became  a  trump,  whose  sounding 

0*er  the  whole  earth  is  echoing  and  rebounding. 

^  So,  my  Morgante,  you  may  do  likewise  ; 

He  who  repents— ^ thus  writes  the  Evange- 
list— 
Occasions  more  rejoicing  in  the  skies 

Than  ninety-nine  of  the  celestial  list. 
You  may  be  sure,  should  each  desire  arise 

With  just  zeal  for  the  Lord,  that  you  '11  exist 
Among  the  happy  saints  for  evermore ; 
But  you  were  lost  and  damned  to  hell  before ! " 

And  thus  great  honor  to  Morgante  paid 
The  ab^t.     Many  days  they  did  repose. 

One  day,  as  with  Orlando  they  both  strayed, 
And  sauntered  here  and  there,  where'er  they 
chose. 

The  abbot  showed  a  chamber,  where  arrayed 
Much  armor  w&s,  and  hung  up  certain  bows ; 

And  one  of  these  Morgante  for  a  whim 

Girt  on,  though  useless,  he  believed,  to  him. 

There  being  a  want  of  water  in  the  place, 
Orlando,  like  a  worthy  brother,  said, 

"  Morgante,  I  could  wish  you,  in  this  case. 
To  go  fer  water."     ^*  You  shall  be  obeyed 


538 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


Id   all  commaDdB,"  was  the  reply,  **  itraigbt- 
waya." 
Upon  his  shoulder  a  great  tub  he  laid. 
And  went  out  on  his  way  unto  a  fbuntain, 
Where  he  was  wont  to  drink  below  the  moun- 
tain. 

Arrived  there,  a  prodigious  noise  he  hears, 
Which  suddenly  along  the  forest  spread ; 

Whereat  from  out  his  quiver  he  prepares 
An  arrow  for  his  bow,  and  lifts  his  head ; 

And,  lo!  a  monstrous  herd  of  swine  appears. 
And  onward  rushes  with  tempestuous  tread. 

And  to  the  fountain's  brink  precisely  pours; 

So  that  the  giant 's  joined  by  all  the  boars. 

Morgante  at  a  venture  shot  an  arrow. 
Which  pierced  a  pig  precisely  in  the  ear. 

And  passed  unto  the  other  side  quite  thorough ; 
So  that  the  boar,  defunct,  lay  tripped  up  near. 

Another,  to  revenge  his  fellow-farrow. 
Against  the  giant  rushed  in  fierce  career. 

And  reached  the  passage  with  so  swifl  a  foot, 

Morgante  was  not  now  in  time  to  shoot. 

Perceiving  that  the  pig  was  on  him  close. 
He  gave  him  such  a  punch  upon  the  head 

As  floored  him  so  that  he  no  more  arose. 
Smashing  the  very  bone  ;  and  he  fell  dead 

Next  to  the  other.     Having  seen  such  blows, 
The  other  pigs  along  the  valley  fled. 

Morgante  on  his  neck  the  bucket  took, 

Full  from  the  spring,  which  neither  swerved 
nor  shook. 

The  tun  was  on  one  shoulder,  and  there  were 
The  hogs  on  t'  other ;  and  he  brushed  apace 

On  to  the  abbey,  though  by  no  means  near. 
Nor  spilt  one  drop  of  water  in  his  race. 

Orlando,  seeing  him  so  soon  appear 

With  the  dead  boars,  and  with  that  brimful 
vase, 

Marvelled  to  see  his  strength  so  very  great ; 

So  did  the  abbot,  and  set  wide  the  gate. 

The  monks,  who  saw  the  water  fresh  and  good. 
Rejoiced,  but  much   more  to  perceive  the 
pork: 

All  animals  are  glad  at  sight  of  food. 

They  lay  their  breviaries  to  sleep,  and  work 

With  greedy  pleasure,  and  in  such  a  mood. 
That  the  flesh  needs  no  salt  beneath  their 
fork. 

Of  rankness  and  of  rot  there  is  no  fear, 

For  all  the  fasts  are  now  left  in  arrear. 

As  though  they  wished  to  burst  at  once,  they 
ate; 

And  gorged  so,  that,  as  if  the  bones  had  been 
In  water,  sorely  grieved  the  dog  and  cat, 

Perceiving  that  they  all  were  picked  too  clean. 
The  abbot,  who  to  all  did  honor  great,   ' 

A  few  days  after  this  convivial  scene. 
Gave  to  Morgante  a  fine  horse,  well  trained. 
Which  he  long  time  had  for  himself  maintained. 


The  horse  Morgante  to  a  meadow  l«d, 
To  gallop,  and  to  put  him  to  the  proof^ 

Thinking  that  he  a  back  of  iron  had. 
Or  to  skim  eggs  anbroke  was  light  eoongk. 

But  the  horse,  ainking  with  the  paio,  fell  M, 
And  burst,  while  oold  on  earth  lay  bead  ind 
hoof.     * 

Morgante  said,  <«  Get  up,  thou  sulky  cor!" 

And  still  continued  pricking  with  the  spur. 

But  finally  he  thought  fit  to  dismount, 
And  said,  *«  I  am  as  light  as  any  feather, 

And  he  has  burst :  to  this  what  say  yon,  Const?" 
Orlando  answered,  *<  Like  a  ship's  mast  ntber 

Ton  seem  to  me,  and  with  the  truck  for  frosL 
Let  him  go ;  Fortune  wills  that  we  together 

Should  march,  but  you  on  foot,  Morgaote,  itUl." 

To  which  the  giant  answered,  »  So  I  will. 

«« When  there  shall  be  occasion,  you  will  eee 
How  I  approve  my  courage  in  the  fighL" 

Orlando  said,  «*  I  really  think  you  '11  be, 
If  it  should  prove  God's  will,  a  goodly  kDJgkt; 

Nor  will  you  napping  there  discover  me. 
But  never  mind  your  horse;  though  outofagfcl 

*T  were  best  to  carry  him  into  some  wood. 

If  but  the  means  or  way  I  understood." 

The  giant  said,  •<  Then  carry  him  I  will. 
Since  that  to  carry  me  he  was  so  slack,— 

To  render,  as  the  gods  do,  good  for  ill  i        ^, 
But  lend  a  hand  to  place  him  on  my  back. 

Orlando  answered,  *•  If  my  counsel  still 
May  weigh,  Morgante,  do  not  undertake 

To  lift  or  carry  this  dead  courser,  who. 

As  you  have  done  to  him,  will  do  to  you. 

««Take  care  he  do  n't  revenge  himseH  thwgk 
dead. 

As  Nessus  did  of  old,  beyond  all  cure : 
I  do  n't  know  if  the  fact  you  *ve  heard  or  re** ; 

But  he  will  make  you  burst,  yon  may  be  wwe- 
"  But  help  him  on  my  back,"  Morgante  m^ 

"And  you  shall  see  what  weight  I  caneDdort- 
In  place,  my  gentle  Roland,  of  this  palfrey*^ 
With  all  the  bells,  I  'd  carry  yonder.belfry. 

The  abbot  said,  «*The  steeple  may  do  '^'^m 
But  for  the  bells,  you  've  broken  them.iw* 

Morgante  ansvrered,  «*  Let  them  p«y  »"  'jf ' 
The  penalty  who  lie  dead  in  yon  grot 

And  hoisting  up  the  horse  from  where  he  WJi 
He  said,  "  Now  look  if  I  the  goot  h«^„f^ 

Orlando,  in  the  legs,  —  or  if  I  have  ****   V^ 

And  then  he  made  two  gambols  with  the  hw*- 

Morgante  was  like  any  mountain  firtmed ; 

So  if  he  did  this,  't  is  no  prodigy ; 
But  secretly  himself  Orlando  blamed. 

Because  he  was  one  of  his  fkmily ;     ^, 
And,  fharing  that  he  might  be  hurt »' "»»T7 

Once  more  be  bade  him  lay  hi"  '^'™T  f.  •• 
**  Put  down,  nor  bear  him  fiirtber  the  desert  ^  • 
Moigante  said,  "I  '11  carry  him,  for  cerlsJB. 


BOJARDO._LOR£NZO  DE'   MEDICI. 


539 


He  did ;  and  stowed  him  in  some  noob  away, 
And  to  the  abbey  then  returaed  with  speed. 

Orlando-eaid,  **  Why  longer  do  we  stay  ? 
Morgante,  here  is  naught  to  do  indeed/* 

The  abbot  by  the  hand  he  took  one  day. 
And  said,  with  great  respect,  he  had  agreed 

To  leave  his  Reverence ;  but  fbr  this  decision 

He  wished  to  haye  his  pardon  and  permission. 


MATTEO  MARIA   BOJARDO. 

Mattxo  Maria  Boj&rdo,  Conte  di  Scandi- 
ano,  sprung  from  an  ancient  and  noble  family 
of  Reggio,  was  born,  according  to  Tiraboschi, 
about  the  year  1430,  at  Fratta,  near  Ferrara. 
According  to  others,  his  birth  took  place  in 
1434.  Of  his  early  life  little  is  known.  He 
is  said  to  have  been  a  pupil  of  the  celebrated 
philosopher,  Soccini  Benzi,  in  the  University  of 
Ferrara.  He  acquired  a  knowledge  of  the  civil 
law,  and  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages. 
His  abilities  and  various  accomplishments  gained 
the  favorable  notice  of  Borso,  duke  of  Modena, 
whom  he  accompanied  on  his  journey  to  Rome 
in  1471,  when  Borso  received  the  investiture 
of  the  dukedom  of  Ferrara.  Hercules  the  First, 
the  successor  of  Borso,  held  Bojardo  in  equal 
estimation,  and  sent  him,  with  other  nobles,  to 
conduct  his  fhture  bride  from  Aragon  to  Ferrara. 
He  was  employed  on  several  other  missions  to 
the  most  powerful  princes  of  Italy.  In  1478, 
the  duke  made  him  governor  of  Reggio ;  in 
1481,  captain  in  Modena;  and  aflerwards,  gov- 
ernor of  Reggio  a  second  time.  He  died  at 
Reggio,  in  1494. 

Bojardo  was  one  of  the  most  accomplished 
and  able  men  of  his  age.  He  translated  the 
History  of  Herodotus  firom  the  Greek,  and 
from  the  Latin,  *«  The  Golden  Ass  "  of  Apule- 
ius.  He  wrote  many  short  poems  both  in  Latin 
and  Italian,  and  a  drama  in  five  acts,  called 
**I1  Timone,"  founded  on  Lucian's  *' Misan- 
thrope." Bat  his  fame  rests  chiefly  upon  the 
celebrated  poem,  the  '*  Orlando  Innamorato," 
which,  though  inferior  in  point  of  style  to  some 
of  bis  minor  pieces,  and  though  he  did  not  live 
to  <»mplete  the  plan,  or  to  put  the  last  touches 
to  the  composition,  shows  a  high  poetical  and 
creative  genius,  and  a  fervid  fancy.  The  poem 
was  aflerwards  recast  by  Bemi,  and  received 
with  boundless  applause.  A  part  of  it  was  trans- 
lated into  English  by  Robert  Tofle,  and  pub- 
lished in  1598. 


80NNEI& 

BKAUTirvi.  gift,  and  dearest  pledge  of  love, 
Woven  by  that  fiiir  hand  whose  gentle  aid 
Alone  can  heal  the  wound  itself  hath  made. 
And  to  my  wandering  life  a  sure  guide  prove  ! 
O  dearest  gift,  all  others  far  above, 
Curiously  wrought  in  many-colored  shade, 


Ah !  why  with  thee  has  not  the  spirit  stayed. 
That  with  such  tasteful  skill  to  form  thee  strove? 
Why  have  I  not  that  lovely  hand  with  thee  ? 
Why  have  I  not  with  thee  each  fond  desire 
That  did  such  passing  beauty  to  thee  give  ? 
Through  life  thou  ever  shalt  remain  with  me, 
A  thousand  tender  sighs  thou  shalt  inspire, 
A  thousand  kisses  day  and  night  receive. 


I  SAW  that  lovely  cheek  grow  wan  and  pale 
At  our  sad  parting,  as  at  times  a  cloud. 
Stealing  the  mom  or  evening  sun  to  shroud. 
Casts  o'er  his  glorious  light  an  envious  veil. 
I  saw  the  rose's  orient  color  fail, 
Yielding  to  lilies  wan  its  empire  proud. 
And  saw,  with  joy  elate,  by  sorrow  bowed. 
How  from  those  eyes  the  pearls  and  crystal  fell. 
O  precious  words,  and  O  sweet  tears,  that  steep 
In  pleasing  sadness  my  devoted  heart. 
And  make  it  with  its  very  bliss  to  weep  ! 
Love  With  you  weeping  sighed,  and  did  impart 
Such  sweetness  to  you,  that  my  sorroj?  deep 
To  memory  comes  devoid  of  sorrow's  dart. 


LORENZO  DE*   MEDICI. 

LoRXMzo  de'  Mxdici,  distinguished  by  the 
name  of  the  Magnificent,  was  the  son  of  Piero, 
and  grandson  of  Cosmo  de'  Medici,  the  founder 
of  the  splendid  political  fortunes  of  that  ancient 
femily.  He  was  born  January  Ist,  1448.  His 
mother,  Lucrezia  Tornabuoni,  superintended  his 
early  education,  and,  with  the  assistance  of  able 
teachers,  inspired  him  with  a  taste  for  the  fine 
arts  and  for  literature.  At  the  age  of  sixteen, 
Piero,  then  at  the  head  of  the  republic  of  Flor- 
ence, sent  him  to  several  courts,  to  prepare  him 
for  his  future  station.  Soon  aAer  his  return,  he 
had  the  good  fortune  to  defeat  a  powerful  con- 
spiracy which  had  been  formed .  against  Piero's 
life.  In  1471,  on  the  death  of  his  father,  Lo- 
renzo was  acknowledged  as  the  bead  of  the 
republic.  The  history  of  his  wise  and  enlight- 
ened administration  of  the  government  does 
not  belong  to  this  place.  His  generous  protec- 
tion of  arts  and  letters  procured  him  the  name 
of  the  Augustus  of  Florence.  He  established 
libraries,  sparing  no  expense  in  procuring  books, 
caused  academies  to  be  opened,  and  supported 
with  liberal  hand  men  of  science  and  letters. 
He  wss  himself  a  scholar  of  no  mean  attain- 
ments, and  in  his  youth  distinguished  himself 
by  his  poetical  compositions.  He  wrote  son- 
nets, dramas,  eanti  camasdalachi,  or  carnival 
songs,  and  in  all  showed  great  talent  and 
taste.  His  influence  made  Florence  the  favored 
seat  of  letters,  science,  and  art.  Philological 
pursuits,  and  especially  the  study  of  Plato, 
flourished  greatly  under  his  fostering  support. 
"  Nor,"  says  Hallam,*  "  was  mere  philology  the 


*  IntrodactioD  to  the  Literature  of  Europe,  by  Hbnrt 
Hallam  (3  role.,  London,  1840,  8to.).  VoL  L,  pp.  243-245. 


540 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


sole,  or  the  leading  pursuit,  to  which  bo  truly 
noble  a  mind  accorded  its  encouragement.  He 
sought  in  ancient  learning  something  more  ele- 
vated than  the  narrow,  though  necessary,  re- 
searches of  criticism.  In  a  villa  overhanging  the 
towers  of  Florence,  on  the  steep  slope  of  that 
lofty  hill  crowned  by  the  mother  city,  the  an- 
cient Fiesole,  in  gardens  which  Tully  might 
have  envied,  with  Ficino,  Landino,  and  Politian 
at  his  side,  he  delighted  his  hours  of  leisure 
with  the  beautiful  visions  of  Platonic  philosophy, 
for  which  the  summer  stillness  of  an  Italian  sky 
appears  the  most  congenial  accompaniment. 

"Never  could  the  sympathies  of  the  soul 
with  outward  nature  be  more  finely  touched ; 
never  could  more  striking  suggestions  be  pre- 
sented to  the  philosopher  and  the  statesman. 
Florence  lay  beneath  them ;  not  with  all  the 
magnificence  that  the  later  Medici  have  given 
her,  but,  thanks  to  the  piety  of  former  times, 
presenting  almost  as  varied  an  outline  to  the 
sky.  One  man,  the  wonder  of  Cosmo's  age, 
Brunelleschi,  had  crowned  the  beautiful  city 
with  the  vast  dome  of  its  cathedral ;  a  struc- 
ture unthought  of  in  Italy  before,  and  rarely 
since  surpassed.  It  seemed,  amidst  clustering 
towers  of  inferior  churches,  an  emblem  of  the 
Catholic  hierarchy  under  its  supreme  head ; 
like  Rome  itself,  imposing,  unbroken,  unchange- 
able, radiating  in  equal  expansion  to  every 
part  of  the  earth,  and  directing  its  convergent 
curves  to  heaven.  Round  this  were  numbered, 
at  unequal  heights,  the  Baptistery,  with  its  gates 
worthy  of  paradise ;  the  tall  and  richly  deco- 
rated belfry  of  Giotto ;  the  church  of  the  Car- 
mine, with  the  frescoes  of  Masaccio ;  those  of 
Santa  Maria  Novella,  beautiful  as  a  bride,  of 
Santa  Croce,  second  only  in  magnificence  to 
the  cathedral,  and  of  Saint  Mark ;  the  San 
Spirito,  another  great  monument  of  the  genius 
of  Brunelleschi ;  the  numerous  convents  that 
rose  within  the  walls  of  Florence,  or  were  scat- 
tered immediately  about  them.  From  these 
the  eye  might  turn  to  the  trophies  of  a  republi- 
can government  that  was  rapidly  giving  way 
before  the  citizen  prince  who  now  surveyed 
them ;  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  in  which  the  seig- 
niory of  Florence  held  their  councils,  raised  by 
the  Guelf  aristocracy,  the  exclusive,  but  not 
tyrannous  faction,  that  long  swayed  the  city ;  or 
the  new  and  unfinished  palace  which  Brunel- 
leschi had  designed  for  one  of  the  Pitti  family, 
before  they  fell,  as  others  had  already  done,  in 
the  fruitless  struggle  against  the  house  of  Me- 
dici ;  itself  destined  to  become  the  abode  of  the 
victorious  race,  and  to  perpetuate,  by  retaining 
its  name,  the  revolutions  that  had  raised  them 
to  power. 

"  The  prospect,  from  an  elevation,  of  a  great 
city  in  its  silence,  is  one  of  the  most  impres- 
sive, as  well  as  beautiful,  we  ever  behold.  But 
far  more  must  it  have  brought  home  thoughts 
of  seriousness  to  the  mind  of  one,  who,  by  the 
force  of  events,  and  the  generous  ambition  of 
his  family,  and  his  own,  was  involved  in  the 


dangerous  necessity  of  governing  without  the 
right,  and,  as  far  as  might  be,  without  the  nm- 
blance  of  power ;  one  who  knew  the  TiadietiTQ 
and  unscrapuloos  hostility,  which,  at  home  end 
abroad,  he  had  to  encounter.  If  thougfals  tike 
these  could  bring  a  cloud  over  the  brow  of  Lo- 
renzo, unfit  for  the  object  he  sought  in  thit 
retreat,  he  might  restore  its  serenity  bj  other 
scenes  which  his  garden  commanded.  Moyn- 
tains,  bright  with  various  hues,  and  clothed  witb 
wood,  bounded  the  horizon,  and,  on  most  ndea, 
at  no  great  distance  ;  but  embosomed  in  tbeie 
were  other  villas  and  domains  of  his  own; 
while  the  level  country  bore  witness  to  his 
agricultural  improvements,  the  classic  direnioo 
of  a  statesman's  cares.  The  same  curious  spirit 
which  led  him  to  fill  his  garden  at  Careggi  with 
exotic  flowers  of  the  East,  the  first  insUnce  of  a 
botanical  collection  in  Europe,  had  introdaced 
a  new  animal  from  the  same  regions.  Herdi 
of  buffaloes,  since  naturalized  in  Italy,  who* 
dingy  hide,  bent  neck,  curved  horns,  and  low- 
ering aspect  contrasted  with  the  grayish  hoe 
and  full,  mild  eye  of  the  Tuscan  oxen,  psstured 
in  the  valley,  down  which  the  yellow  Amo steak 
silently  through  its  long  reaches  to  the  sea." 

Lorenzo  died  in  1492,  greatly  honorea  and 
beloved.  His  life  has  been  written,  amooj 
others,  by  Fabroni,  Pisa,  in  two  volumes  qoar. 
to;  and  by  William  Roscoe,  in  two  volumef 
quarto,  Liverpool,  1795. 


STANZASL 

Follow  that  fervor,  O  devoted  spirit. 

With  which  thy  Saviour's  goodnew  firei  thj 
breast ! 
Go  where  it  draws,  and  when  it  calls,  0,  hear 
it! 
It  is  thy  Shepherd's  voice,  and  leads  to  wrt- 

In  this  thy  new  devotedness  of  feeling, 
Suspicion,  envy,  anger,  have  no  claim ; 

Sure  hope  is  highest  happiness  revealing, 
With  peace,  and  genUeness,  and  purest  ftm*- 

For  in  thy  holy  and  thy  happy  sadness 
If  tears  or  sighs  are  sometimes  sown  by  tliee, 

In  the  pure  regions  of  immortal  gladness 
Sweet  and  eternal  shall  thine  harvest  be. 

Leave  them  to  say,—"  This  people's  meditatioo 
Is  vain  and  idle !  " — sit  with  ear  and  eye 

Fixed  upon  Christ,  in  childlike  dedication, 
O  thou  inhabiunt  of  Bethany ! 


SONNET. 

Opt  on  the  recollection  sweet  I  ^^^^^^J^ 
Yea,  never  firom  my  mind  can  aoght  •***. 
The  dress  my  mistress  wore,  the  Ume,  «*J^  I 
Where  first  she  fixed  my  eyes  in  ^V^^C^ 
How  she  then  looked,  thou.  Love,  remm^ 
well. 


LORENZO  DE'   MEDICI POLIZIANO. 


641 


For  thou  her  side  hast  never  ceased  to  grace ; 
Her  gentle  air,  her  meek,  angelic  fkce, 
The  powers  of  language  and  of  thought  excel. 
When  o'er  the  mountain-peaks  deep-clad  in 

snow 
Apollo  pours  a  flood  of  golden  light. 
So  down  her  white-robed  limbs  did  stream  her 

hair: 
The  time  and  place  't  were  words  but  lost  to 

show; 
It  must  be  day,  where  shines  a  sun  so  bright. 
And  paradise,  where  dwells  a  form  so  fair. 


ORAZIONR 

All  nature,  hear  the  sacred  song ! 

Attend,  O  earth,  the  solemn  strain ! 
Te  whirlwinds  wild  that  sweep  along, 
Te  darkening  storms  of  beating  rain, 
Unibrageous  glooms,  and  forests  drear, 
And  solitary  deserts,  hear  ! 
Be  still,  ye  winds,  whilst  to  the  Maker's  praise 
The  creature  of  his  power  aspires  his  voice  to 
raise! 

O,  may  the  solemn-breathing  sound 

Like  incense  rise  before  the  throne, 
Where  he,  woose  glory  knows  no  bound. 
Great  Cause  of  all  things,  dwells  alone! 
'T  is  he  I  sing,  whose  powerfbl  band 
Balanced  the  skies,  outspread  the  land ; 
Who  spoke, — from  ocean's  stores  sweet  waters 

came. 
And  burst  resplendent  forth  the  heaven-aspiring 
flame.     . 

One  general  song  of  praise  arise 

To  him  whose  goodness  ceaseless  flows ; 
Who  dwells  enthroned  beyond  the  skies, 

And  life  and  breath  on  all  bestows  ! 
Great  Source  of  intellect,  his  ear 
Benign  receives  our  vows  sincere  : 
Rise,  then,  my  active  powers,  your  task  fulfil. 
And  give  to  him  your  praise,  responsive  to  my 
will ! 

Partaker  of  that  living  stream 

Of  light,  that  pours  an  endless  blaze, 
O,  let  thy  strong  reflected  beam. 

My  understanding,  speak  bis  praise ! 
My  soul,  in  steadfast  love  secure. 
Praise  him  whose  word  is  ever  sure : 
To  him,  sole  just,  my  sense  of  right  incline : 
Join,  every  prostrate  limb;   my  ardent  spirit, 
join! 

Let  all  of  good  this  boeom  fires. 

To  him,  sole  good,  give  praises  due : 
ILiet  all  the  truth  himself  inspires 

Unite  to  sing  him  only  true : 
To  him  my  every  thought  ascend. 
To  him  my  hopes,  my  wishes,  bend : 
From  earth's  wide  bounds  let  louder  hymns 

arise. 
And  his  own  word  convey  the  pious  sacrifice ! 


In  ardent  adoration  joined. 

Obedient  to  thy  holy  will. 
Let  all  my  flu»ilties  combined. 

Thy  just  desires,  O  God,  fulfil ! 
From  thee  derived.  Eternal  King, 
To  thee  our  noblest  powers  we  bring : 
O,  may  thy  hand  direct  our  wandering  way ! 
O,  bid  thy  light  arise,  and  chase  the  clouds  away ! 

Eternal  Spirit,  whose  command 

Light,  life,  and  being  gave  to  all, 
O,  hear  the  croature  of  thy  hand, 

Man,  constant  on  thy  goodness  call ! 
By  £n^  by  water,  air,  and  earth. 
That  soul  to  thee  that  owes  itf  birth, — 
By  these,  he  supplicates  thy  blest  repose  : 
Absent  from  thee,  no  rest  his  wandering  spirit' 
knows. 


ANGELO  POLIZIANO. 

This  distinguished  scholar  was  bom  July 
24th,  1454,  at  Monte  Pulciano,  in  the  Florentine 
republic.  His  learning  and  accomplishments 
gained  him  the  favor  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnifi- 
cent, who  made  him  tutor  to  his  children.  He 
was  well  skilled  in  the  Greek  and  Latin  lan- 
guages, and  holds  a  preeminent  rank  among  the 
scholars  of  his  time.  Among  his  literary  labors, 
his  translation  of  the  *'  Iliad  "  into  Latin  hexam- 
eters, and  his  commentary  upon  the  "  Pandects  " 
of  Justinian,  merit  special  mention.  He  also 
wrote  Latin  epigrams ;  and  a  poem  on  rural  life, 
entitled  '^  Rusticus,"  upon  which  the  highest 
encomiums  have  been  bestowed.  His  principal 
poems  in  Italian  are,  the  "  Stanze  sopra  la  Gi; 
ostra  di  Giuliano,"  and  the  tragedy  of"  Orfeo," 
which  has  already  been  noticed  in  the  Intro- 
duction, as  the  first  regular  drama  of  the  Italian 
stage.  They  were  both  written  before  the  age 
of  nineteen,  and  are  remarkable  for  the  preco- 
cious talent  they  display.  His  writings  in  gen- 
eral are  marked  by  elegance  of  expression  and 
elevation  of  sentiment.     He  died  in  1492. 


FROM  THE  CTANZB  SOPRA  LA  GIOSTRA. 

Now,  in  his  proud  revenge  exultipg  high. 
Through  fields  of  air  Love  speeds  his  rapid 
flight. 
And  in  his  mother's  realms  the  treacherous  boy 

Rejoins  his  kindred  band  of  flutterers  light; 
That  realm,  of  each  bewitching  grace  the  joy. 
Where   Beauty  wreathes   with  sweets  her 
tresses  bright,  — 
Where  Zephyr  importunes,  on  wanton  wing. 
Flora's  coy  charms,  and  aids  her  flowers  to 
spring. 

Thine,  Erato,  to  Love's  a  kindred  name,  — 
Of  Love's  domains  instruct  the  bard  to  tell ; 

To  thee,  chaste  Muse,  alone  't  is  given  to  claim 
Free  ingress  there,  secure  from  every  spell : 


548 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


Thou  rul'st  of  soft  amours  the  vocal  frame. 

And  Cupid,  oft  a«  cbildish  thoughts  impel 
To  thrill  with  wanton  touch  its  golden  itrings, 
Behind  his  winged  back  his  quiver  flings. 

A  mount  overlooks  the  eharming  Cyprian  isle, 
Whence,  towards  the  morn's  first  blush,  the 
eye  sublime 
Might  reach  the  sevenfold  course  of  mighty  Nile ; 
But  ne'er  may  mortal  foot  that  prospect  climb  : 
A  verdant  hill  o'erhangs  its  highest  pile, 
Whose  base,  a  plain,  that  laughs  in  vernal 
prime ; 
Where  gentlest  airs,  'midst  flowers  and  herbage 

gay, 
Urge  o'er  the  quivering  blade  their  wanton  way. 

A  wall  of  gold  secures  the  utmost  bound. 

And,  dark  with  viewless  shade,  a  woody  vale ; 

There,  on  each  branch,  with  youthful  foliage 

crowned, 

Some  feathered  songster  chants  his  amorous 

tale; 

And  joined  in  murmurs  soft,  with  grateful  sound. 

Two  rivulets  glide  pellucid  through  the  dale ; 

Beside  whose  streams,  this  sweet,  that  bitter 

found. 
His  shaft  of  gold  Love  tempera  for  the' wound. 

No  flowerets  here  decline  their  withered  heads. 
Blanched  with  cold  snows,  or  fringed  with 
hoar-frost  sere ; 

No  Winter  wide  his  icy  mantle  spreads  j 
No  tender  scion  rends  the  tempest  drear. 

Here  Spring  eternal  smiles ;  nor  varying  leads 
His  change  quadruple  the  revolving  year : 

Spring,  with  a  thousand  blooms  her  brows  en- 
twined. 

Her  auburn  locks  light  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

The  inferior  band  of  Loves,  a  childish  throng. 
Tyrants  of  none,  save  hearts  of  vulgar  kind. 

Each  other  gibing  with  loquacious  tongue. 
On  strid  ulcus  stones  their  barbed  arrows  grind : 

Whilst  Pranks  and  Wiles,  the  rivulet's  marge 
along, 
Ply  at  the  whirling  wheel  their  task  assigned ; 

And  on  the  sparkling  stone,  in  copious  dews, 

Vain  Hopes  and  vain  Desires  the  lymph  eflTuse. 

There  pleasing  Pain  and  flattering  fond  Delight, 
Sweet  Broils,  Caresses  sweet,  together  go ; 

Sorrows,  that  hang  their  heads  in  doleful  plight. 
And  swell  with  tears  the  bitter  streamlet's 
flow; 

Paleness  all  wan,  and  dreaming  still  of  slight; 
Affection  fond,  with  Leanness,  Fear,  and  Woe ; 

Suspicion,  casting  round  his  peering  eye ; 

And  o'er  the  midway,  dancing,  wanton  Joy. 

Pleasure  with  Beauty  gambols;  light  in  air, 
Bliss  soars  inconstant;  Anguish  sullen  sits; 

Blind  Error  flutters,  bat-like,  here  and  there; 
And  Frenzy  raves,  and  strikes  his  thigh  by 


Repentance,  of  past  folly  late  aware. 

Her  fruitless  penance  there  ne'er  intennita; 
Her  hand  with  gore  fell  Cruelty  diataios, 
And  seeks  Despair  in  death  to  end  his  paini. 

Gestures  and  Nods,  that  inmost  thoughts  impart, 
Illusions  silent.  Smiles  that  guile  intend, 

The  Glance,  the  Look,  that  speak  the  impai. 
sioned  heart, 
'Mid  flowery  haunts,  for  youth  their  toils  aua- 
pend; 

And  never  from  his  griefs  Complaint  apart, 
Prone  on  his  palm  his  face  is  seen  to  beod ; 

Now  hence,  now  thence,  in  unrestrained  goiae, 

Licentiousness  on  wing  capricious  flies. 

Such  ministers  thy  progeny  attend, 

Venus,  fair  mother  of  each  fluttering  power! 
A  thousand  odors  from  those  fields  ascend, 
While  Zephyr  brings  in   dews  the  pearij 
shower. 
Fanned  by  his  Qight,  what  time  their  inceaae 
blend 
The  lily,  violet,  rose,  or  other  flower; 
And  views  with  conscious  pride  the  exalliog 

scene. 
Its  mingled  azure,  vermeil,  pale,  and  green. 

The  trembling  pansy  virgin  fears  alarm; 
Downward    her   modest   eye  she  bloshing 
bends : 
The  laughing  rose,  more  specious,  bold,  and 
warm. 
Her  ardent  bosom  ne'er  from  Sol  defends; 
Here  from   the   capsule   bursts  each  openiDf 
charm. 
Full-blown,  the  invited  hand  she  here  attenda; 
Here,  she,  who  late  with  fires  delightful  glowed, 
Droops  languid,  with  her  hues  the  mead  be- 
strewed. 

In  showers  descending,  courts  the  enamooredair 
The  violet's  yellow,  purple,  snowy  hoea; 

Hyacinth,  thy  woes  thy  bosom's  marks  declare; 
His  form  Narcissus  in  the  stream  yet  views; 

In  snowy  vest,  but  fringed  with  purple  glare. 
Pale  Clytia  the  parting  sun  pursues ; 

Fresh  o'er  Adonis  Venus  pours  her  woes; 

Acanthus  smiles ;  her  lovers  Crocus  shows. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  MAID. 

"Maids  of  these  hills,  so  fair  and  gay. 
Say  whence  you  come,  and  whither  stray." 

"  From  yonder  heights :  our  lowly  shed 
Those  dumps  tluit  rise  so  green  disclose ; 

There,  by  our  simple  parents  bred. 
We  share  their  blesaing  and  repose ; 
Now,  evening  from  the  flowery  close 

Recalls,  where  late  our  flocks  we  fed." 

**Ah,  tell  me,  in  what  region  grew 

Such  fruits,  transcending  all  compare  ? 
Methinks,  I  Love's  own  offspring  view. 


TIBALDEO.  —  DEL  BASSO. 


643 


Such  graces  deck  your  shape  and  air ; 
Nor  gold  nor  diamonds  glitter  there ; 
Mean  your  attire,  but  angels  you. 

"Tet  well  such  beauties  might  repine 
'Mid  desert  hills  and  vales  to  bloom ; 

What  scenes,  where  pride  and  splendor  shine. 
Would  not  your  brighter  charms  become  ? 
But  say, — with  this  your  Alpine  home, 

Can  ye,  content,  such  bliss  resign  ?  " 

<t  Far  happier  we  our  fleecy  care 
Trip  lightly  aAer  to  the  mead. 

Than,  pent  in  city  walls,  your  filr 
Foot  the  gay  dance  in  silks  arrayed : 
Nor  wish  have  we,  save  who  should  braid 

With  gayest  wreaths  her  flowing  hair." 

EUROPA. 

Beneath  a  snow-white  bull's  majestic  guise, 
Here  Jove,xoncealed  by  Love's  transforming 
power. 

Exulting  bears  his  peerless,  blooming  prize  : 
With  wild   afiiright  she  views  &e  parting 
shore ; 

Her  golden  locks  the  winds  that  adverse  rise 
In  loose  disorder  spread  her  bosom  o'er ; 

Light  floats  her  vest,  by  the  same  gales  upborne ; 

One  hand  the  chine,  one  grasps  the  circling  horn. 

Her  naked. feet,  as  of  the  waves  alraid. 

With  shrinking  effort,  seem  to  avoid  the  main ; 

Terror  and  grief  in  every  act ;  for  aid 
Her  cries  invoke  the  Mr  attendant  train : 

They,  seated  distant  on  the  flowery  mead. 
Frantic,  recall  their  mistress  loved,  in  vain,  — 

^<  Return,  Europa ! "  far  resounds  the  cry : 

On  sails  the  god,  intent  on  amorous  joy. 


ANTONIO  TIBALDEO. 

The  birth  of  this  scholar  and  poet  has  been 
variously  stated,  —  some  placing  it  in  1456,  and 
others  in  1463.  The  fbrroer  date  is  the  one 
commonly  adopted.  He  belonged  to  Ferrara, 
and  is  said  to  have  been  educated  as  a  physi- 
cian ;  but,  as  Comiani  says,  '^  he  was  more  se- 
quacious of  Apollo,  as  the  father  of  the  Muses, 
than  as  the  progenitor  of  £sculapiua."  Accord- 
ing to  one  story,  he  was  crowned  as  poet  in 
Ferrara,  by  the  Emperor  Frederic  the  Third, 
in  1469 ;  but  this  is  disputed  by  Tiraboschi  on 
strong  grounds.  He  wrote  poems  both  in  Latin 
and  Italian.  His  earliest  productions  were  in 
bis  mother  tongue,  and  were  received  with 
^^at  applause.     He  died  at  Rome,  in  1537. 


SONNETS. 

F*ROM  Cypnis'  isle,  where  Love  owns  every 
bower. 

Or  from  the  neighbouring  shores  of  Jove's  do- 
main. 


Thou  surely  com'st,  sweet  Roa^ ;  since  this  our 

plain       ^ 
Bears  not  the  stem  where  bloomed  so  &ir  a 

flower. 
For  I,  who  late  was  near  my  last  sad  hour, 
No  sooner  from  her  band  the  gift  obtain. 
Than  thy  sweet  breath  did  charm  away  my  pain, 
And  to  my  limbs  restore  their  wonted  power. 
But  mark  one  thing,  that  wakes  a  just  surprise : 
Thy  pallid  form  with  life  but  faintly  glows. 
That  late  of  loveliest  hue  blushed  vermeil  dies. 
Haste,  to  the  thoughtless  fkir  go  sorrowing. 

Rose! 
Bid  her,  by  thy  waned  beanty  taught,  be  wise  '^ 
For  her  own  good  provide,  and  my  repose. 


Lord  of  my  love  !  my  soul's  far  dearer  part ! 
As  thou  wilt  live,  and  still  enjoy  the  day, 
Wouldst  thou  in  peace  I  breathe  my  soul  away? 
Then  moderate  the  grief  that  rends  thy  heart ; 
Thy  sobs  and  tears  give  death  a  double  smart. 
If  weep  thou  must,  O,  grant  a  short  delay, 
Till  my  faint  spirit  leave  this  house  of  clay  ! 
E'en  now  I  feel  it  struggling  to  depart. 
This  only  boon  I  crave,  ere  I  go  hence  : 
Spotless  maintain  the  bed  of  our  chaste  love. 
Which  cold  I  leave  while  youth  refines  each 

sense ; 
And,  O,  if  e'er  my  will  unduly  strove 
With  thine,  —  as  oft  occurred, —  forgive  the 

oflfence ! 
I  go,  ^ftrewell !  —  for  thee  I  wait  above. 


ANDREA  DEL  BASSO. 

Andrea  del  Basso  was  an  ecclesiastic  of 
Ferrara.  He  is  known  in  literary  history  chief- 
ly as  a  commentator  on  the  **  Teseide  "  of  Boc- 
caccio. Other  works  of  the  same  kind,  by  him, 
exist  in  manuscript.  He  flourished  in  the  latter 
half  of  the  fifteenth  century.  Several  of  his 
poetical  compositions  are  found  in  the  collection 
of  Bamfialdi. 


ODE  TO  A  DEAD  BODY. 

Rise  from  the  loathsome  and  devouring  tomb, 

Give  up  thy  body,  woman  without  heart, 

Now  that  its  worldly  part 

Is  over ;  and  deaf,  blind,  and  dumb. 

Thou  servest  worms  for  food,    . 

And  from  thine  altitude 

Fierce  death  has  shaken  thee  down,  and  thou 

dost  fit 
Thy  bed  within  a  pit. 
Night,  endless  night,  hath  got  thee 
To  clutch,  and  to  englut  thee ; 
And  rottenness  confounds 
Thy  limbs  and  Jheir  sleek  rounds ; 
And  thou  art  stuck  there,  stuck  there,  in  despite, 
Like  a  foul  animal  in  a  trap  at  night. 


544 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


Come  in  the  public  path,  and  see  how  all 
Shall  fly  thee,  as  a  child  goes  shrieking  back 
From  something  long  and  black,' 
Which  mocks  along  the  wall. 
See  if  the  kind  will  stay, 
To  hear  what  thou  wouldst  say ; 
See  if  thine  arms  can  win 
One  soul  to  think  of  sin ; 
See  if  the  tribe  of  wooers 
Will  now  become  pursuers, 
And  if,  where  they  make  way, 
Thou  'It  carry  now  the  day  ', 
Or  whether  thou  wilt  spread  not  such  foul  night. 
That  thou  thyself  shait  feel  the  shudder  and  the 
firighty— . 

Tes,  till  thou  turn  into  the  loathly  hole, 

As  the  least  pain  to  thy  bold-facedness. 

There  let  thy  foul  distress 

Turn  round  upon  thy  soul. 

And  cry,  O  wretch  in  a  shroud, 

That  wast  so  headstrong  proud, 

This,  this  is  the  reward 

For  hearts  that  are  so  hard. 

That  flaunt  so,  and  adorn 

And  pamper  them,  and  scorn 

To  cast  a  thought  down  hither. 

Where  all  things  come  to  wither ; 

And  where  no  resting  is,  and  no  repentance. 

Even  to  the  day  of  the  last  awful  sentence. 

Where  is  that  alabaster  bosom  now, 
That  undulated  once,  like  sea  on  shore  f 
'T  is  clay  unto  the  core. 
Where  are  those  sparkling  eyes 
That  were  like  twins  o'  th'  skies  ? 
Alas  !  two  caves  are  they, 
Filled  only  with  dismay. 
Where  is  the  lip  that  shone 
Like  painting  newly  done  ? 
Where  the  round  cheek .'  and  where 
The  sunny  locks  of  hair  ? 
And  where  the  symmetry  that  bore  them  all  ? 
Gone,  like  the  broken  clouds  when  the  winds 
fall. 

Did  I  not  tell  thee  this,  over  and  over,  — 
The  time  will  come,  when  thou  wilt  not  be  fair. 
Nor  have  that  conquering  air. 
Nor  be  supplied  with  lover  ? 
Lo !  now  behold  the  fruit 
Of  all  that  scorn  of  shame  ; 
Is  there  one  spot  the  same 
In  all  that  fondled  flesh.' 
One  limb  that  *s  not  a  mesh 
Of  worms,  and  sore  oflence, 
And  horrible  succulence  ? 
Tell  me,  is  there  one  jot,  one  jot  remaining. 
To  show  thy  lovers  now  the  shapes  which  thou 
wast  vain  in  ? 

Love  ?  —  Heaven  should  be  implored  for  some- 
thing else,  — 
For  power  to  weep,  and  to  bow  down  one's  soul. 
Love  ?  —  *T  is  a  fiery  dole ; 
A  punishment  like  helKs. 


Tet  thou,  puffed  with  thy  power. 

Who  wert  but  as  the  flower 

That  warns  us  in  the  Psalm, 

Didst  think  thy  veins  ran  balm 

From  an  immort^  fount ; 

Didst  take  on  thee  to  mount  * 

Upon  an  angel's' wings. 

When  thou  wert  hut  as  things 

Clapped,  on  a  day,  in  Egypt's  catalogue, 

Under  the  worshipped  nature  of  a  dog. 

Ill  would  it  help  thee,  now,  were  I  to  say. 

Go,  weep  at  thy  confessor's  feet,  and  cry, 

^  Help,  father,  or  I  die  ! 

See,  see,  he  knows  his  prey, 

Even  he,  the  dragon  old  ! 

O,  be  thou  a  stronghold 

Betwixt  my  foe  and  me ! 

For  I  would  fain  be  free ; 

But  am  so  bound  in  ill. 

That,  struggle  as  I  will. 

It  strains  me  to  the  last. 

And  I  am  losing  fast 

My  breath  and  my  poor  soul ;  and  thon  art  be 

Alone  canst  save  me  in  thy  piety." 

But  thou  didst  smile,  perhaps,  thou  thing  be- 
sotted, 

Because,  with  some,  death  is  a  sleep,  a  word. 

Hast  thou,  then,  ever  heard 

Of  one  that  slept  and  rotted  ? 

Rare  is  the  sleeping  face 

That  wakes  not  as  it  was. 

Thou  shouldst  have  earned  high  heaven  ; 

And  then  thou  might'st  have  given 

Glad  looks  below,  and  seen 

Thy  buried  bones,  serene, 

As  odorous  and  as  fair 

As  evening  lilies  are ; 

And  in  the  day  of  the  great  trump  of  doom, 

Happy  thy  soul  had  been  to  join  them  at  the 
tomb. 

Ode,  go  thou  down  and  enter 

The  horrors  of  the  centre : 

Then  fly  amain,  with  news  of  terrible  ftte. 

To  those  who  think  they  may  repent  them  late. 


JACOPO  SANNAZZARO. 

Jacopo  Savvazzaro  belonged  to  an  ancient 
and  distinguished  Italian  family.  He  was  born 
in  1458,  at  Naples.  He  received  his  early, 
instruction  in  Greek  and  Latin  chiefly  from 
Giuniano  Majo ;  and  on  entering  the  Neapolitan 
Academy,  the  head  of  which  was  Pontano,  be 
assumed  the  name  of  Actius  Syncems.  At  the 
age  of  eight  years,  he  conceived  a  childish  pas- 
sion for  Carmasina  Bonifacia,  a  girl  of  about 
the  same  age,  whose  praises  he  afterwards  soDg, 
under  the  names  of  Harmoaina  and  Phillis.  His 
poems  attracted  the  notice  of  King  Ferdinand, 
who  received  him  into  his  house  and  became 


SANNAZZARO. 


545 


hifl  wann  friend.  Frederic,  who  succeeded  Fer- 
dinand, bestowed  on  the  poet  the  villa  of  Mer- 
goglino  and  a  pension  of  six  hundred  ducats. 
When  his  patron  was  driven  from  the  throne,  in 
1501,  Sannazzaro  accompanied  him  to  France, 
and  served  him  ftithfully  until  the  king's  death. 
After  this,  he  returned  to  Naples,  where  he 
died  in  1530,  or,  according  to  others,  in  1532. 

Sannazzaro  led  a  blameless  life,  and  was  dis- 
tinguished both  in  Latin  and  Italian  poetry.  In 
the  former,  his  most  original  and  elegant  works 
are  the  ^*  Piscatory  Eclogues,"  and  the  poem 
<*De  Partn  Virginia";  in  the  latter,  he  wrote 
sonnets,  canzoni,  and  the  **  Arcadia,"  a  classical 
work  in  the  pastoral  kind,  and  the  first  of  any 
importance  in  Italian.  **If  the  *  Arcadia'  of 
Sannazzaro  bad  never  been  written,"  says  Ros- 
coe,*  **  his  sonnets  and  lyrical  pieces  would 
have  secured  to  him  the  distinction  of  one  of 
the  chief  poets  that  Italy  has  produced." 


ELBQT  FROM  THE  ARCADIA. 

O,  BKixr  as  bright,  too  early  blest, 
Pure  spirit,  freed  firom  mortal  care, 
Safe  in  the  fiir-off  mansions  of  the  sky, 
There,  with  that  angel  take  thy  rest. 
Thy  star  on  earth ;  go,  take  thy  guerdon  there ! 
Together  quaff  the  immortal  joys  on  high, 
Scorning  our  mortal  destiny  ; 
Display  thy  sainted  beauty  bright, 
'Mid  those  that  walk  the  starry  spheres, 
Through  seasons  of  unchanging  years ; 
By  living  fountains,  and  by  fields  of  light. 
Leading  thy  blessed  flocks  above ; 
And  teach  thy  shepherds  here  to  guard  their 
care  with  love. 

Thine,  other  hills  and  other  groves. 
And  streams  and  rivers  never  dry, 
On  whose  fresh  banks  thou  pluck'st  the  am- 
aranth flowers ; 
While,  following  other  Loves 
Through  sunny  glades,  the  Fauns  glide  by, 
Surprising  the  fond  Nymphs  in  happier  bow- 
ers. 
Pressing  the  fragrant  flowers, 
Androgeo  there  sings  in  the  summer  shade, 
By  Daphnis'  and  by  Melibcsus'  side. 
Filling  the  vaulted  heavens  wide 
"With  the  sweet  music  made  ; 
"While  the  glad  choirs,  that  round  appear, 
Listen  to  his  dear  voice  we  may  no  longer  hear. 

As  to  the  elm  is  his  embracing  vine, 
As  their  bold  monarch  to  the  herded  kine, 
As  golden  ears  to  the  glad  sunny  plain, 
Such  wert  thou  to  our  shepherd  youths,  O 

swain  ! 
Remorseless  Death !  if  thus  thy  flames  consume 
The  best  and  loftiest  of  his  race, 
l^ho  ma^  escape  his  doom  ? 

«  Ufe  of  Lao  Ui6  Tsnth,  YoL  L,  p.  61. 
09 


What  shepherd  ever  more  shall  grace 
The  world  like  him,  and  with  his  magic  strain 
Call  forth  the  joyous  leaves  upon  the  woods. 
Or  bid  the  wreathing  boughs  embower  the  sum- 
mer floods .' 

SONNETS. 

BzLOvzD,  well  thou  know'st  how  many  a  year 
I  dwelt  with  thee  on  earth,  in  blissfiil  love ; 
Now  am  I  called  to  walk  the  realms  above, 
And  vain  to  me  the  world's  cold  shows  appear. 
Enthroned  in  bliss,  I  know  no  mortal  fear ; 
And  in  my  death  with  no  sharp  pangs  I  strove. 
Save  when  I  thought  that  thou  wert  lef%  to  prove 
A  joyless  fete,  and  shed  the  bitter  tear. 
But  round  thee  plays  a  ray  of  heavenly  light. 
And,  ah !  I  hope  that  ray  shall  lend  its  aid 
To  guide  thee  through  the  dark  abyss  of  night. 
Weep,  then,  no  more,  nor  be  thy  heart  dismayed ; 
When  close  thy  mortal  days,  in  fend  delight 
My  soul  shall  meet  thee,  in  new  love  arrayed. 


0  THov,  so  long  the  Muse's  fevorite  theme, 
Expected  tenant  of  the  realms  of  light. 
Now  sunk  fer  ever  in  eternal  night. 

Or  recollected  only  to  thy  shame  ! 
From  my  polluted  page  thy  hated  name 

1  blot,  already  on  my  loathing  sight 
Too  long  obtruded,  and  to  purer  white 
Convert  the  destined  record  of  thy  fame. 
On  thy  triumphant  deeds  fer  other  strains 

I  hoped  to  raise ;  but  now  defraud'st  the  song. 
Ill-omened  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  day's  broad 

eye! 
Oo,  then ;  and  whilst  the  Muse  thy  praise  dis- 
dains. 
Oblivion's  flood  shall  sweep  thy  name  along, 
And  spotless  and  unstained  the  paper  lie.^ 

STANZE. 

O  PVRX  and  blessed  soul, 

That,  from  thy  clay's  control 
Escaped,  hast  sought  and  found  thy  native  sphere. 

And  from  thy  crystal  throne 

Look'st  down,  with  smiles  alone. 
On  this  vain  scene  of  mortal  hope  and  fear  ! 

Thy  happy  feet  have  trod 

The  starry  spangled  road, 
Celestial  flocka  by  field  and  fountain  guiding ; 

And  from  their  erring  track 

Thou  charm'st  thy  shepherds  back, 
With  the  soft  music  of  thy  gentle  chiding. 

O,  who  shall  Death  withstand, — 

Death,  whose  impartial  hand 
Levels  the  lowest  plant  and  loftiest  pine  ? 

When  shall  our  ears  again 

Drink  in  so  sweet  a  strain. 
Our  eyes  behold  so  fair  a  form  as' thine? 


I  This  aonnet  Is  rapposed  to  refer  to  the  staaxnaful  abdi- 
cailoQ  and  flight  of  King  Alphonao  ftom  Naples,  in  1495. 


546 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


1 


THIRD  PERIOD.-CENTURY  XVI. 


PIETRO  BEMBO. 

This  distin^ished  person,  known  as  an  ec- 
clesiastic, a  historian,  and'  a  poet,  was  the  son 
of  Bernardo  Bembo,  an  illustrious  member  of 
the  Venetian  aristocracy,  and  of  Elena  Marcella, 
a  lady  of  noble  birth.  He  was  bom  at  Venice, 
in  1470.  At  the  age  of  eight  years,  he  accom- 
panied his  father,  who  was  sent  as  ambassador 
to  Florence.  Returning  to  Venice  two  years 
after,  he  was  placed  under  the  instruction  of 
Giovanni  Alessandro  Urticio,  to  learn  the  Latin 
language  and  other  branches,  of  polite  literature. 
In  1489,  he  went  with  his  fkther,  who  had 
been  appointed  podestd  in  Bergamo,  and  re- 
mained there  two  years.  Being  desirous  of 
learning  the  Greek  language,  he  obtained  per- 
mission, in  1492,  to  visit  Messina,  in  Sicily, 
where  the  celebrated  Constantino  Lascaris 
taught  that  language.  He  remained  there  until 
1495,  incessantly  occupied  with  his  studies,  and 
acquired  so  thorough  a  knowledge  of  the  Greek, 
that  he  not  only  read,  but  wrote  it  with  facility. 
Towards  the  end  of  1495,  he  went  to  Padua 
and  cultivated  philosophy  in  the  school  of  Nic- 
col6  Leonico  Tomeo.  He  was  recalled  to  Ven- 
ice in  the  following  year  by  his  father,  and 
took  a  part  in  the  public  business;  but  soon 
finding  this  career  incompatible  with  bis  fiivor- 
ite  pursuits,  he  went  to  Ferrara,  where  he  con- 
tinued for  two  years  employed  in  his  studies, 
.  and  enjoying  the  intimate  friendship  of  such 
men  as  Ercole  Strozzi,  Antonio  Tibaldeo,  and 
Jacopo  Sadoleto.  On  his  return  to  Venice,  he 
became  one  of  the  chief  ornaments  of  the 
academy,  or  literary  society,  established  there  by 
the  famous  printer,  Aldus  Manutius.  In  1506, 
he  went  to  the  court  of  Urbino,  where  he  lived 
about  six  years.  In  1513,  he  went  to  Rome 
with  Giuliano  de*  Medici,  whose  brother,  Leo 
the  Tenth,  made  Bembo  bis  secretary,  with 
Sadoleto  for  a  colleague.  At  this  time  he  formed 
a  connection  with  the  beautiful  Morosina,  which 
continued  until  her  death,  in  1525.  He  was 
the  confidential  fKend  of  the  pontiff,  who  em- 
ployed him  not  only  as  secretary,  but  on  many 
important  missions.  His  labors  having  at 
length  affected  his  health,  he  removed,  in  1520, 
with  the  pope's  advice  and  consent,  to  Padua, 
where  he  speedily  recovered.  After  the  death 
of  Leo,  Bembo  lived  at  Padua,  preferring  the 
tranquillity  of  a  private  and  studious  life  to 
public  employments.  He  collected  a  library,  a 
cabinet  of  medals  and  antiquities,  and  made 
his  house  the  favonte  resort  of  the  members  of 
the  University,  and  other  learned  men,  both 
strangers  and  citizens  of  Padua.  In  1529,  the 
office  of  Historiographer  of  the  Venetian  repub- 
lic was  bestowed  upon  him,  and  he  was  at  the 


same  time  appointed  Librarian  of  Saint  Mark. 
His  historical  labors  occupied  him  until  Panl 
the  Third  honored  him  with  the  Cardinal's  bat, 
in  1539,  when  he  removed  to  Rome.  From  tb'is 
time  Bembo  devoted  himself  to  the  sacred  stud- 
ies which  befitted  bis  ecclesiastical  office,  cod- 
tinuing  only  the  History  of  Venice.  In  1541, 
Paul  bestowed  on  him  the  bishopric  of  Gub- 
bio,  whither  he  went  in  1543,  and  would  have 
fixed  his  abode  there,  had  not  the  pope  by 
express  command  recalled  him  to  Rome.  In  | 
1544,  he  received  the  bishopric  of  Bergamo, 
but  remained  in  Rome  until  hie  death,  which 
took  place  in  1547. 

Bembo,  though  not  a  man  of  original  genioi, 
was  an  able  scholar,  and  an  elegant  writer,  both 
in  Latin  and  Italian.  His  most  important  worki 
are,  "  The  History  of  Venice,"  written  in  both 
languages ;  '*  Le  Prose,"  a  series  of  dialogues 
on  the  principles  of  the  Italian  language ;  "  Gli 
Asolani,"  dialogues  on  Love;  and  '*Le  Rime," 
a  collection  of  sonnets  and  canzonets.  A  col- 
lection of  his  works  appeared  at  Venice  io 
1729,  in  four  volumes,  folio. 


SONNETS. 
TO  ITALY. 

Fair  land,  once  loved  of  Heaven  o'er  all  beside, 

Which  blue  waves  gird  and  lofty  mountsios 
screen! 

Thou  clime  of  fertile  fields  and  sky  serene. 

Whose  gay  expanse  the  Apennines  divide ! 

What  boou  it  now,  that  Rome's  old  warlike 
pride 

Left  thee  of  humbled  earth  and  sea  the  queen  ? 

Nations,  that  served  thee  then,  now  fierce  con- 
vene 

To  tear  thy  locks  and  strew  them  o*er  the  tide. 

And  lives  there  son  of  thine  so  base  at  core. 

Who,  luring  foreign  friends  to  thine  embrace, 

Stabs  to  the  heart  thy  beauteous,  bleeding  frame  ? 

Are  these  the  noble  deeds  of  ancient  fame? 

Thus  do  ye  God*s  almighty  name  adore  ? 

O  hardened  age !  O  falae  and  recreant  race ! 


TURMINO  TO  OOD. 

Ip,  gracious  God,  in  life's  green,  ardent  jtMTy 
A  thousand  times  thy  patient  love  I  tried ; 
With  reckless  heart,  with  conscience  bard  and 

sere, 
Thy  gifU  perverted,  and  thy  power  defied : 
O,  grant  roe,  now  that  wintry  snows  appear  ^ 
Around  my  brow,  and  youth's  bright  promise 

hide, — 
Grant  me  with  reverential  awe  to  bear 
Thy  holy  voice,  and  in  thy  word  confide  *. 


I 


BEMBO ARIOSTO. 


547 


Blot  from  my  book  of  lift  its  early  stain  ! 
Since  days  misspent  will  never  more  return, 
My  future  path  do  thou  in  mercy  trace ; 
So  cause  my  soUl  with  pious  leal  to  burn, 
That  all  the  trust,  which  in  thy  name  I  place. 
Frail  as  I  am,  may  not  prove  wholly  vain ! 

SOLITUDE. 

Dkar,  calm  retreat !  where  from  the  world  I 

steal, — 
Where  to  myself  I  live,  and  dwell  alone,  — 
Why  seek  thee  not,  when  Phoebus,  fiercer  crown, 
Has  left  the  Twins  behind  his  burning  wheel  ? 
With  thee  I  rarely  grief  or  anger  feel ; 
Nowhere  my  thoughts  to  heaven  so  oft  have 

flown ; 
Nowhere  my  pen  such  industry  has  shown, 
When  to  the  Muse  I  chance  to  make  appeal. 
How  truly  sweet  a  state  is  solitude. 
And  how  from  cares  to  have  my  bosom  free. 
And  live  at  ease,  was  taught  me  in  thy  school ! 
Dear  rivulet !  and  thou  delightful  wood  ! 
O,  that  these  parching  sands,  this  glaring  sea. 
Were  changed  for  your  green  shades  and  waters 

cool ! 

DEATH. 

Thou,  the  stem  monareh  of  dismay. 
Whom  Nature  trembles  to  survey,—- 
O  Death  !  to  me,  the  child  of  grief. 
Thy  welcome  power  would  bring  relief. 

Changing  to  peaceful  slumber  many  a  care. 
And  though  thy  stroke  may  thrill  with  pain 
Each  throbbing  pulse,  each  quivering  vein ; 
The  pangs  that  bid  existence  close. 
Ah  !  sure,  are  far  less  keen  than  those 

Which  cloud  its  lingering  moments  with  despair. 


FOLTnANI  TDBfULUa 

Whilst,  borne  in  sable  state,  Lorenzo's  bier 
The  tyrant  Death,  his  proudest  triumph,  brings. 

He  marked  a  hard,  in  agony  severe. 

Smite  with  delirious  hand  the  sounding  strings. 

He  stopped, — he  gazed ;  —  the  storm  of  passion 
rsged, 
*  And  prayers  with  tears  were  mingled,  tears 
with  grief; 
For  loet  Lorenzo,  war  with  fiite  he  waged. 
And  every  god  was  called  to  bring  relief. 

Xbe  tyrant  smiled,  —  and  mindful  of  the  hour 
When  from  the  shades  his  consort  Orpheus 
led, 
**  Rebellious  too  wouldst  thou  usurp  my  power. 
And   burst  the  chain  that  binds  the  captive 
dead?" 

JEIe  spoke, — and  speaking,  launched  the  shaft 
of  fate. 
And  closed  the  lips  that  i^owed  with  sacred 
fire: 
.His  timeless  doom  't  was  thus  Politian  met, — 
Politian,  master  of  the  Ausonian  lyre. 


LODOVICO  ARIOSTO. 


This  illustrious  poet  was  the  son  of  Niccol6 
Ariosto,  a  nobleman  of  Ferrara,  and  of  Daria 
Maleguzzi,  a  lady  of  Reggio.  He  was  born, 
September  8th,  1474,  at  Reggio,  where  his  fa- 
tl^er  was  commander  of  the  fortress  and  gov- 
ernor of  the  territory,  in  the  service  of  Hercules 
the  First.  He  was  the  oldest  of  ten  children, 
Ave  sons  and  five  daughters.  From  his  earliest 
years  he  gave  proof  of  his  poetical  tendencies, 
having  in  his  childhood  dramatized  the  story 
of  M  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,"  and  caused  it  to 
be  enacted  by  his  brothers  and  sisters,  «'no 
doubt  as  happily,"  says  an  English  writer,  *<  as 
the  same  subject  in  the  '  Midsummer  Night*s 
Dream'  was  enacted  by  Bottom  the  weaver 
and  his  comrades,  or  rather,  as  happily  as  Obe- 
Ton,  Titania,  and  their  train  could  have  done  it 
in  fiiiry-land."  Lodovico^s  father  had  held 
judicial  office  in  Ferrara,  and  naturally  desired 
his  promising  son  to  pursue  the  same  career; 
but  after  five  years  of  useless  and  wearisome 
study  of  the  law,  the  youthful  Ariosto  was 
aUowed  to  follow  bis  own  inclination.  He  de- 
voted himself  ardently  to  the  study  of  the  Latin 
language  under  the  direction  of  Gregorio  da 
Spoleti,  and  wrote  at  an  early  age  two  conte- 
dies,  entitled  «  La  Cassaria  "  and  '<  I  Suppositi," 
suggested  by  bis  studies  in  Plautus  and  Terence. 
The  departure  of  Gregorio  to  France  in  1499, 
and  the  death  of  his  father,  which  took  place  in 
1500,  interrupted  Ariosto 's  studies,  and  he  was 
left  with  small  property,  and  with  the  whole 
care  of  his  brothers  and  sisters ;  but  he  so  well 
discharged  his  duties  towards  them,  that  he  por- 
tioned his  sisters,  and  provided  for  the  educa- 
tion of  hb  brothei^  until  they  were  able  to 
provide  for  themselves.  In  the  midst,  however, 
of  these  onerous  domestic  duties,  he  found  time 
to  carry  forward  his  literary  labors,  and  to  write 
poems  both  in  Latin  and  Italian.  His  genius 
and  acquirements  commended  him  to  the  favor 
of  the  Cardinal  Ippolito  d'  Este,  brother  of 
Alphonso,  duke  of  Ferrara.  The  duke  em- 
ployed him  twice  on  important  embassies  to  the 
court  of  Pope  Julius  the  Second,  and  he  showed 
on  these  occasions  a  courage  and  an  intelligence 
which  increased  the  reputation  he  already  en- 
joyed at  the  court  of  Ferrara.  When  the  war- 
like pontiflf  sent  his  forces,  and  Venice  des- 
patched her  fleet  in  conjunction  with. the  papal 
troops,  against  Ferrara,  Ariosto  showed  that  he 
possessed  the  valor  to  perform,  as  well  as  the 
genius  to  celebrate,  heroic  deeds ;  for  he  fought 
bravely  at  the  battle  against  the  papal  and 
Venetian  armaments,  and  captured  one  of  the 
largest  ressels  of  the  enemy.  On  his  second 
embassy,  the  pope  was  so  violently  irritated 
with  him,  that  he  threatened  to  throw  him  into 
the  sea,  unless  he  left  the  papal  territories  forth- 
with, which  Ariosto  accordingly  did. 

Meantime,  Ariosto's  literary  ambition  being 
rekindled  by  the  example  of  the  scholars  whom 


548 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


Ippolito  had  drawn  around  him,  he  conceived 
the  idea,  when  he  was  thirty  years  old,  of 
writing  a  poem  which  should  place  him  among 
the  great  authors  of  his  country.  His  first  plan 
was,  to  celebrate  the  exploits  of  Obizzo,  a  young 
and  warlike  member  of  the  family  of  Este; 
and  he  actually  began  a  poem  on  this  subject 
in  terza  rimaf  but  soon  gave  it  up,  and,  tuip- 
ing  his  attention  to  Bojardo's  '*  Oilando,"  de- 
termined to  continue  the  adventures  of  the 
principal  personages  in  that  poem.  Such  was 
the  origin  of  that  immortal  work,  the  **  Orlando 
FurioBO.'*  His  familiar  abquaintance  with  the ' 
old  romance-writers,  which  had  formed  his 
principal  reading  for  many  years,  strengthened 
his  natural  inclination  for  that  species  of  com- 
position, and  furnished  his  mind  with  abundant 
materials  for  his  work.  He  communicated  his 
plan  to  Bembo,  who  urged  him  to  write  his 
poem  in  Latin  ',  but  Ariosto  had  the  good  sense 
to  reply,  that  he  would  rather  be  one  of  the  first 
poets  in  Italian  than  secondary  to  Ovid  and 
Virgil  in  Latin.  When  Leo  the  Tenth  suc- 
ceeded to  the  papal  chair,  in  1513,  Ariosto, 
who  had  long  been  on  good  terms  with  the 
Medici  family,  hastened  to  Rome  with  the  not 
unreasonable  hope  of  improving  his  ^fortunes 
through  the  patronage  of  his  ancient  friend.  He 
was  well  received,  but  that  seems  to  have  been  all. 
At  any  rate,  he  soon  lefl  the  city,  and  returning' 
by  way  of  Florence,  where  he  remained  some 
time,  resumed  his  interrupted  labors  upon  the 
"  Orlando,"  of  which  the  first  edition  appeared 
in  1516.  When  he  presented  a  copy  of  the 
work  to  Ippolito,  the  only  acknowledgment 
the  surly  cardinal  made  was,  to  ask  him  where 
he  had  found  all  that  stuff*.  Soon  after  this  the 
poet*8  connection  with  Ippolito  was  broken  off, 
by  his  refusal  to  accompany  him  to  Hungary, 
in  1518.  This  circumstance,  and  the  conse- 
quent loss  of  his  salary,  which,  inconsiderable 
as  it  was,  formed  an  important  part  of  his  in- 
\  come,  induced  him  to  take  up  his  residence  on 
an  estate  of  his  kinsman,  Maleguzzo,  between 
Reggio  and  Rubiera.  Afler  the  death  of  Ip- 
polito, on  the  invitation  of  Alphonso,  Ariosto 
returned  to  Ferrara,  where  he  built  a  house,  in 
the  midst  of  a  large  garden.  During  this  period 
of  his  life,  the  duke  bestowed  on  him  an  ap^ 
pointment  seemingly  little  adapted  to  his  genius 
or  his  tastes.  It  was  the  office  of  pacificator 
of  the  disturbed  province  of  Grafiagnana.  Ac- 
cording to  Sir  John  Harrington,  be  so  well 
succeeded,  that  "  he  left  them  all  in  good  peacjs 
and  concord  ;  winning  not  only  the  love  of  the 
better  sort,  but  also  a  wonderful  reverence  of 
the  wilder  people,  and  a  great  awe  even  in 
robbers  and  thieves." 

The  following  incident  is  said  to  have  befall- 
en him  at  this  time.  A  gang  of  brigands  met 
him  one  day  in  a  forest  with  a  guard  of  only 
Bve  or  SIX  horsemen.     He  was  sufiTered,  how- 

fK^'u^V'**®  °°""™°^®"*«^5  *>"^  lJ»o  leader  of 
uie  band,  Philippo  Pachione,  a  celebrated  free- 
Dooter,  baving  learned  from  one  of  the  attend- 


ants  that  the  distinguished-looking  person  whe 
had  just  passed  him  was  his  Excellency  the 
governor,  immediately  galloped  up  to  him,  and 
addressing  him  with  the  greatest  courtesy,  apol- 
ogized in  his  own  name  and  that  of  his  oom- 
pany'ibr  not  having  done  due  honors  in  passing, 
as  they  did  not  know  his  Excellency's  persoo. 
He  then  was  so  obliging  as  to  praise  the  **0^ 
lando  Furioso  "  in  the  most  enthusiastic  Unas, 
and  offered  his  humble  services  to  the  author. 

During  this  period,  a  proposition  was  made  to 
Ariosto  to  go  a  third  time  on  an  embassy  to 
Rome,  and  to  reside,  as  the  representative  of  hu 
sovereign,  at  the  court  of  Clement  the  Seventh: 
but  he  declined  the  honor.  His  govemmeDt 
lasted  three  years ;  at  the  expiration  of  which, 
he  returned  with  new  ardor  to  his  poetical 
labors,  giving  much  time  and  anxious  care  to 
a  revision  of  the  *' Orlando,"  and  composing 
several  dramatic  pieces.  He  amused  himsetf 
also  with  gardening ;  though,  from  all  acooanis, 
he  knew  so  little  aboqt  the  matter,  that  be  often 
watched  the  growth  of  some  useless  weed  with 
the  greatest  delight,  fancying  it,  all  the  time,  to 
be  a  beautiful  flower.  The  «  Orlando  "  was, 
during  this  period,  making  coDstant  progress 
towards  the  form  which  it  finally  assumed.  Sir 
John  Harrington  illustrates  the  poet*s  sensitive- 
ness by  the  following  anecdote.  <*  As  he  him- 
self could  pronounce  very  well,  so  it  wss  a 
great  penance  to  him  to  hear  others  pronounce 
ill  that  which  himself  had  written  excellent 
well.  Insomuch  ps  they  tell  of  him,  bow, 
coming  one  day  by  a  potter's  shop,  that  bad 
many  earthen  vessels,  ready  made,  to  sell  on 
his  stall,  the  potter  fortuned  at  that  time  to  sing 
some  stave  or  other  out  of  ^  Orlando  Furioso,' 
I  think  where  Rinaldo  requesteth  his  horse  to 
tarry  for  him,  in  the  first  book,  the  thirty-sec- 
ond stanza :  — 

*  Feraia,  Bajardo  mto,  deh  ferma  il  piede ! 
Cha  V  ener  saosa  ta  tioppo  mi  nuoce,' 
or  some  such  grave  matter,  fit  for  a  potter.  Hot 
he  plotted  the  verses  out  so  ill-fiivoredly  (as 
might  well  beseem  his  dirty  occupation),  that 
Ariosto  being,  or  at  least  making  semblance  to 
be,  in  a  great  rage  withal,  with  a  little  walking- 
stick  he  had  in  his  hand  brake  divers  pots. 
The  poor  potter,  put  quite  beside  his  song  sod 
almost  beside  himself  to  see  his  market  half 
marred  before  it  was  a  quarter  done,  in  a  pitiful 
sour  manner,  between  railing  and  whining, 
asked  what  he  meant,  to  wrong  a  poor  man 
that  had  never  done  him  injury  in  all  his  life. 
*  Yes,  varlet ! '  quoth  Ariosto,  *•  I  am  scarce  even 
with  thee  for  the  wrong  thou  hast  done  me 
here  before  my  face;  for  I  have  broken  but 
half  a  dozen  base  pots  of  thine,  that  are  not 
worth  so  many  half^pence ;  but  thou  hast  broken 
and  mangled  a  fine  stanza  of  mine,  worth  a 
mark  of  gold.' " 

Ariosto  was  employed  by  Alphonso  to  direct 
the  theatrical  representations  at  his  court  A 
magnificent  theatre  was  constructed  on  a  plan 
suggested  by  the  poet,  and  a  number  of  dramas 


ARIOSTO. 


549 


written  by  him  were  represented.  But  theie 
demands  upon  bu  time  did  not  withdraw  him 
fiom  the  great  work  on  which  hie  future  fame 
was  to  rest.  The  ** Orlando"  had  already 
passed  through  seyeral  editions,  since  its  first 
appearance  in  1516.  The  last  edition  which 
was  printed  in  his  lifetime  came  out  in  1532, 
in  ibrty-six  cantos ;  but  it  was  so  badly  printed, 
that  he  was  accustomed  to  say  he  haid  been 
assassinated  by  his  printer.  Immediately  after 
this,  his  health  began  rapidly  to  decline,  and 
he  died,  at  the  age  of  fifty-eight,  June  6th,  1533. 
The  great  romantic  epic,  the  *«  Orlando  Furi- 
oso,"  has  been  pronounced  by  excellent  judges 
the  greatest  poem  of  its  kind  in  modern  litera- 
ture. It  displays  a  wonderful  richness  and 
splendor  of  invention,  and  the  most  marrellous 
skill  in  narrative.  These  qualities,  and  the 
extraordinary  felicity  of  the  style,  have  made  it, 
ever  since  its  first  publication,  one  of  the  most 
popular  poems  that  the  world  has  seen.  Ber- 
nardo Tasso,  in  a  letter  to  Varchi,  written  in 
1559,  says,  *' There  is  neither  scholar,  nor  arti- 
san, nor  boy,  nor  girl,  nor  old  man,  who  is  con- 
tent to  read  it  only  once.  Are  not  those  stanzas 
of  his  the  comfort  of  the  exhausted  traveller  on 
his  weary  journey,  who  reKeves  the  cold  and  the 
fatigues  by  singing  them  on  his  way  ?  Do  you 
not  hear  people  every  day  singing  them  in  the 
streets  and  in  the  fields.'  I  do. pot  believe,  that, 
in  the  same  length  of  time  as  has  passed  since 
that  most  learned  gentleman  gave  his  poem  to 
the  world,  there  have  been  printed  or  seen  so 
many  Homers  or  Virgils  as  Fiiriosos." 

The  poem,  however,  has  been  censured  for 
want  of  unity  in  the'  action,  and  of  a  skilful 
adjustment  of  the  parts.  It  embodies  so  wide 
and  varied  a  circle  of  chivalrous  adventures, 
that  the  separate  threads  of  the  story  are  fre- 
quently dropped  and  then  again  resumed.  Ital- 
ian critics  have  also  charged  the  style  with 
errors  of  language,  forced  rhymes,  and  vulgar 
expressions.  But  the  most  serious  charge  brought 
against  the  poem  is  the  licentiousness  by  which 
it  is  in  too  mtny  passages  disgraced.  In  reply 
to  the  former  objections,  Ginguen^  *  strikingly 
•ajra:  — 

«*  To  judge  rightly  of  Ariosto,  the  reader  must 
figure  to  himself  the  court  of  Ferrara,  one  of 
the  most  frequented  and  most  polished  that 
sou  Id  be  found  in  Italy  during  the  sixteenth 
seotury.  He  must  consider  it  as  forming  every 
^▼eiiing  a  brilliant  circle,  of  which  Alphonso 
1'  £8te  and  the  Cardinal  Ippolito  were  the 
centre  ;  he  must  forget  the  subsequent  unkind- 
lefls  of  the  Prince  of  the  Church,  and  only 
egard  the  splendor  which  surrounds  him,  his 
oppoeed  love  of  letters,  and  attachment  to  the 
loet.  In  this  noble  and  festive  assembly  he 
lust  imagine  the  bard  to  be  riveting  the  atten- 
'^n    of  all  eyes  and  ears  during  an  hour  or 


4c  Hlstoira  tltUnln  d'lulie,  Tom.  IV.,  pp.  481  >  484. 
.  I^i'Tw  of  the  Italian  PoeU,  bj  the  Rav.  Hbmry  Stkb- 
3V«  <3  vols.,  LoodoD,  183S,  12mo.),  ToL  H.,  pp.  84-88. 


more  for  forty-six  evenings.  The  first  day,  he 
proposes  his  subject ;  he  addresses  himself  to 
the  cardinal,  his  patron ;  he  promises  to  cele- 
brate the  origin  of  his  illustrious  race ;  he  com- 
mences the  recital ;  but  as  soon  as  he  thinks 
the  attention  of  his  audience  may  be  wearied, 
he  stops,  saying,  that  what  remains  to  be  told 
is  reserved  for  another  canto.  The  next  day, 
the  party  again  assemble,  and  wait  with  impa- 
tience the  appearance  of  the  poet ;  he  enters, 
and,  after  some  short  reflections  on  the  ca- 
priciousness  of  Love,  resumes  the  thread  of  his 
story.  The  third  day,  he  changes  his  tone  and 
method,  and  consecrates  this  period  of  his  song 
to  pre^cting  the  glory  of  the  house  of  Este. 
Having  completed  his  complimentary  stanzas, 
he  ceases,  and,  as  usual,  promises  to  renew  the 
recital  in  another  canto,  sometimes  adding,  *  If 
it  be  agreeable  to  you  to  hear  this  story ' ;  or, 
*  Ton  will  hear  the  rest  in  another  canto,  if  you 
come  again  to  hear  me.'  He  found  these  forms 
established  by  the  custom  of  the  oldest  romantic 
poets;  he  considered  them  natural  and  con- 
venient for  his  purpose,  and  he  borrowed  them. 
Like  these,  hb  predecessors,  he  also  avoids 
losing  sight  of  his  audience,  even  in  the  course 
of  the  recital.  He  addresses  himself  to  the 
princes  who  might  be  presiding  at  the  meeting, 
and  to  the  ladies  who  graced  it  by  their  pres- 
ence ;  not  unfrequently  apologizing,  when  he 
told  some  incident  which  seemed  incredible, 
with  such  words  as  these  :  •  This  is  very  won- 
derful ;  you  believe  it  not ;  but  I  do  not  say  it 
of  myself,  but,  Turpin  having  put  it  into  his  his- 
tory, I  put  it  into  mine.'  Place  yourself  in  this 
point  of  view ;  seat  yourself  in  the  midst  of  that 
attentive  assembly ;  attend ;  join  in  its  admira- 
tion of  that  fertile  genius,  —  that  inimitable 
story-teller,  —  that  adroit  courtier,  —  that  sub- 
lime poet;  slop  when  he  stops;  suffer  your- 
self to  wander,  to  be  elevated,  to  be  inflamed, 
as  he  does  himself;  lay  aside  the  too  severe 
taste  which  might  diminish  your  pleasure. 
Hear  Ariosto,  above  all,  in  bis  own  language  ; 
study  his  niceties ;  learn  to  perceive  their  grace, 
their  force,  and  harmony ;  and  you  will  then 
know  what  to  think'  of  the  atrabilious  critics 
who  have  dared  to  treat  unjustly  so  true  and 
great  a  genius." 

Besides  the  great  poem  of  «•  Oriando,"  Ariosto 
wrote  satires  of  distinguished  merit ;  plays,  as 
before  mentioned ;  and  many  other  minor  pieces. 
The  •*  Orlando  Furioso  "  has  been  several  times 
translated  into  English  :  by  Sir  John  Harring- 
ton, in  1591 ;  by  Henry  Croker,  1755 ;  by  John 
Hoole,  1783;  and  5y  W.  S.  Rose,  1825-27. 

SONNET. 

Ths  sun  was  hid  in  veil  of  blackest  dye, 
That  trailing  swept  the  horizon's  verge  around. 
The  leaves  all   trailing  moaned   with   hollow 

sound. 
And  peals  of  thunder  scoured  along  the  sky ; 
I  saw  fierce  rain  or  icy  storm  was  nigh, 


550 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


Tet  ready  stood  o*er  the  rough  waves  to  bound 
Of  that  proud  stream  that  hides  in  tomb  profound 
The  Deiian  lord's  adventurous  progeny ; 
Wheo,  peering  o'er  the  distant  shore,  the  beam 
I  caught  of  thy  bright  eyes,  and  words  I  heard 
That  me  Leander's  fate  may  bring,  one  day: 
Instant  the  gathered  clouds  dispersed  away, 
At  once  unveiled  the  sun's  full  orb  appeared, 
The  winds  were  silent,  gently  flowed  the  stream. 


FROM  THE  CAPTTOU  AMOR06I. 
THE  LAtTREL. 

Iir  that  sweet  season,  when  *t  was  spring-time 
still, 
A  laurel  slip  I  set,  with  carefbl  hand. 
On  a  small  plain  half  up  an  easy  hill. 

Fortune  smiled  on  it ',  the  bright  air  was  bland ; 
The  sun  upon  it  shone  benignly  too. 
Both  from  the  Indian  and  the  Afoorish  strand. 

Refreshing  streams  with  patient  zeal  I  drew 
To  where  it  stood,  their  grassy  banks  between. 
And  brought  to  it  the  earth  where  first  it  grew. 

It  faded  not,  —  its  leaves  a  cheerful  green 
Still  wore ;  and,  to  reward  my  care  and  toil, 
It  took  new  root,  and  soon  firesh  buds  were  seen. 

Nor  Nature  strove  my  earnest  hopes  to  foil,   , 
But  breathed  benignant  on  my  rising  tree, 
Which  seemed  to  flourish  in  a  genial  soil. 

Sweet,  lonely,  faithful  bowers  it  made  for  me. 
Within  whose  shade  I  poured  my  plaints  of  love 
From  my  fond  heart,  while  none  could  hear  or 
see. 

Venus  ofhimes  forsook  her  seat  above. 
And  Cytberean  fanes,  where  odors  sweet 
Of  gums  and  rich  Sabean  spices  strove, 

The  rose-linked  Graces  on  this  spot  to  meet ; 
And  while  the  Loves  above  them  plied  the  wing. 
Danced  round  my  laurel  with  unwearied  feet. 

Thither  Diana  her  bright  nymphs  would  bring ; 
For  she  preferred  my  laurel  to  all  those 
That  in  the  woods  of  Erymanthus  spring. 

Other  fair  deities  its  shadow  chose, 
To  spend  the  sultry  day  in  cool  delight ; 
Blessing  the  hand  that  placed  it  where  it  rose. 

Whence  came  the  early  tempest  thus  to  blight 
My  tree  so  loved  ?  and  whence  the  pinching  cold 
That  covered  it  with  snow's  untimely  white  ? 

Ah,  why  did  Heaven  its  favoring  smile  with- 
hold.?— 
My  laurel  drooped ;  its  fbliage  green  was  refl ; 
A  bare,  bleak  trunk  it  rose  from  barren  mould  ! 

Still  one  small  branch,  with  few  pale  leaves, 
is  left ; 
And  between  hope  and  fear  I  still  exist, 
Lest  even  of  that  rude  Winter  should  make  theft 

Ye|  fear  prevails,  —  hope  is  well-nigh  dis- 
missed, — 
That  icy  frosts  —  not  yet,  I  fear  me,  o'er^ 
This  last  and  weakly  spray  can  ne'er  resist 

And  are  there  none  to  teach  me  how,  before' 
The  sickly  root  itself  is  quite  decayed. 
Its  former  vigorous  life  I  may  restore  ? 


PhoBbus,  by  whom  the  heavenly  signs  are 
swayed. 
By  whom  in  Thessaly  a  laurel  crown 
So  oft  was  borne,  now  lend  this  tree  thine  aid ! 

Vertumnus  and  Pomona,  both  look  down, 
Bacchus,  Nymphs,  Satyrs,  Fauna,  and  Dryads 

fair. 
On  this,  my  tree,  o'er  which  the  SeasoiM  frown! 

And  all  ye  deities,  that  have  in  care 
The  woods  and  forests,  bend  a  ftvoring  eye 
Towards  my  laurel !    I  its  frite  must  share ; 

Living,  I  live  with  it,  —  or  dying,  die  ! 


FROM  THE  ORLANDO  FURIOSO. 
ORLANDO*8  MADNB88. 

The  coufM  in  pathless  woods,  which,  witboot 
rein. 

The  Tartar's  charger  had  pursued  astray. 
Made  Roland  for  two  days,  with  fruitless  pain. 

Follow  him,  without  tidings  of  his  way. 
Orlando  reached  a  rill  of  crystal  vein. 

On  either  bank  of  which  a  meadow  lay ; 
Which  stained  with  native  hues  and  rich  he 

sees, 
And  dotted  o'er  witfi  fair  and  many  trees. 

The  mid-day  fbrvor  made  the  shelter  sweet 
To  hardy  herd  as  well  as  naked  swain  ; 

So  that  Orlando  well  beneath  the  heat 

Some  deal  might  wince,  oppressed  with  plate 
and  chain. 

He  entered,  for  aepose,  the  cool  retreat. 
And  found  it  the  abode  of  grief  and  pain  ; 

And  place  of  sojourn  more  accursed  and  f^ll, 

On  that  unhappy  day,  than  tongue  can  tell. 

Turning  him  round,  he  there,  on  many  a  tree. 
Beheld  engraved,  upon  the  woody  shore. 

What  as  the  writing  of  his  deity 
He  knew,  as  soon  as  he  had  marked  the  kne. 

This  was  a  place  of  those  described  by  me. 
Whither  ofttimes,  attended  by  Medore, 

From  the  near  shepherd's  cot  ha<^  wont  to  atray 

The  beauteous  lady,  sovereign  of  Catay. 

In  a  hundred  knots,  amid  those  green  abodes. 
In  a  hundred  parts,  their  ciphered  names  aie 
dight; 

Whose  many  letters  are  so  many  goads. 

Which  Love  has  in  his  bleeding  heart-core 
pight 

He  would  discredit,  in  a  thousand  modes. 
That  which  he  credits  in  his  own  despite  ; 

And  would  parfbrce  persuade  himself^  that  rind 

Other  Angelica  than  his  had  signed. 

"  And  yet  I  know  these  characters,"  be  cried, 
**  Of  which  I  have  so  many  read  and  i 

By  her  may  this  Medoro  be  belied. 
And  me,  she,  figured  in  the  name,  may  i 

Feeding  on  such  like  phantasies,  beside 
The  real  truth,  did  sad  Orlando  lean 

Upon  the  empty  hope,  though  ill-contented. 

Which  he  by  self-illusions  had  fomented. 


ARIOSTO. 


551 


But  stirred  anil  aye  rekindled  it,  the  more 
That  he  to  quench  the  ill  Buapicion  wrought, 

Like  the  iocautioue  bird,  by  fowler's  lore. 
Hampered  in   net  or  lime;    which,  in  the 
thought 

To  free  its  tangled  pinioni  and  to  soar, 
By  straggling,  is  hut  more  securely  caught. 

Orlando  passes  thither,  where  a  mountain 

O'erhangs  in  guise  of  arch  the  crystal  fountain. 

Splayfooted  ivy,  with  its  mantling  spray, 
And  gadding  vine,  the  cavern's  entry  case; 

Where  often  in  the  hottest  noon  of  day 
The  pair  had  rested,  locked  in  fond  embrace. 

Within  the  grotto,  and  without  it,  they 
Had  oftener  than  in  any  other  place 

With  charcoal  or  with  chalk  their  names  por- 
trayed. 

Or  floarished  with  the  knife's  indentiqg  blade* 

Here  firom  his  horse  the  sorrowing  county  lit, 
And  at  the  entrance  of  the  grot  surveyed 

A  cloud  of  words,  which  seemed  but  newly  writ. 
And  which  the  young  Medoro's  hand  had 
made. 

On  the  great  pleasure  he  had  known  in  it. 
This  sentence  he  in  verses  ha^  arrayed ; 

Which  in  his  tongue,  I  deem,  nright  make  pr^ 
tence 

To  polished  phrase ;  and  such  in  ours  the  sense  :— 

^  Gay  plants,  green  herbage,  rill  of  limpid  vein. 
And,  grateful  with  cool  shade,  thou  gloomy 
cave. 

Where  oft,  by  many  wooed  with  fruitless  pain, 
Beauteous  Angelica,  the  child  of  grave 

King  Galaphron,  within  my  arms  has  lain  ; 
For  the  convenient  harbourage  you  gave, 

[,  poor  Medoro,  can  but  in  my  lays, 

is  recompense,  for  ever  sing  your  praise ; 

'  And  any  loving  lord  devoutly  pray, 
Damsel  and  cavalier,  and  every  one, 

Vhom  choice  or  fortune  hither  shall  convey, 
Stranger  or  native,  —  to  this  crystal  run, 

Ibade,  caverned  rock,  and  grass,  and  plants,  to 
say, 
*  Benignant  be  to  you  the  fostering  sun 

od  moon,  and  may  the  choir  of  nymphs  provide 

bat  never  swain  his  flock  may  hither  guide ! ' " 

I  Arabic  was  writ  the  blessing  said. 
Known  to  Qrlando  like  the  Latin  tongue, 
''ho,  versed  in  many  languages,  best  read 
Was  in  this  speech ;  which  oftentimes  from 

wrong, 
id  injury,  and  shame,  had  saved  his  head, 
What  time  he  roved  the  Saracens  among. 
t  let  him  boast  not  of  its  former  boot, 
srbalanced  by  the  present  bitter  fruit 

ree  times,  and  four,  and  six,  the  lines  im- 
pressed 
Jpon  tbe  stone  that  wretch  perused,  in  vain 
iking^  another  sense  than  was  expressed, 
ind  ever  saw  the  thing  more  clear  and  plain ; 


And  all  the  while,  within  his  troubled  breast. 

He  folt  an  icy  hand  his  heart-core  strain. 
With  mind  and  eyes  close  fastened  on  the  block, 
At  length  he  stood,  not  differing  from  the  rock. 

Then  well-nigh  lost  all  fooling, — so  a  prey 
Wholly  was  he  to  that  o'ermastering  woe. 

This  is  a  pang — believe  the  experienced  say 
Of  him  who  speaks  —  which  does  all  grieft 
outgo. 

His  pride  had  firom  his  forehead  passed  away. 
His  chin  had  fallen  upon  his  breast  below ; 

Nor  found  he  -*  so  grief  barred  each  natural 
vent — 

Moisture  for  tears,  or  utterance  for  lament. 

Stifled  within,  the  impetuous  sorrow  stays, 
Which  would  too  quickly  issue ;  so  to  abide 

Water  is  seen,  imprisoned  in  the  vase 

Whose  neck  is  narrow  and  whose  swell  u 
wide; 

What  time,  when  one  turns  up  the  inverted  base. 
Towards  the  mouth  so  hastes  the  hurrying 
tide. 

And  in  the  strait  encounters  such  a  stop. 

It  scarcely  works  a  passage,  drop  by  drop. 

He  somewhat  to  himself  returned,  and  thought 
How,  possibly,  the  thing  might  be  untrue  ; 

That  some  one  (so  he  hoped,  desired,  and  sought 
To  think)  his  lady  would  with  shame  pursue ; 

Or  with  such  weight  of  jealousy  had  wrought 
To  whelm  his  reason,  as  should  him  undo ; 

And  that  he,  whosoe'er  the  thing  had  planned. 

Had  eounteifeited  passing  well  her  hand. 

With  snch  vain  hope  he  sought  himself  to  cheat. 
And  manned  some  deal  his  spirits  and  awoke ; 

Then  pressed  the  foithful  Brigliadoro's  seat, 
As  on  the  sun's  retreat  his  sister  broke. 

Nor  far  the  warrior  had  pursued  his  beat. 
Ere  eddying  from  a  roof  he  saw  the  smoke, 

Heard  noise  of  dog  and  kine,  a  farm  espied, 

And  thitherward  in  quest  of  lodging  hied. 

Languid,  he  lit,  and  left  his  Brigliador 
To  a  discreet  attendant :  one  undressed 

His  limbs,  one  doffed  the  golden  spurs  be  wore. 
And  one  bore  o^  to  clean,  his  iron  vest 

This  was  the  homestead  where  the  young  Me- 
dore 
Lay  wounded,  and  was  here  supremely  blest 

Orlando  here,  with  other  food  unfed. 

Having  supped  foil  of  sorrow,  sought  his  bed. 

The  more  the  wretched  sufferer  seeks  for  ease. 
He  finds  but  so  much  more  distress  and  pain ; 

Who  everywhere  the  loathed  handwriting  sees, 
On  wall,  and  door,  and  vrindow :  he  would 
foin 

Question  his  host  of  this,  but  holds  his  peace ; 
Because,  in  sooth,  he  dreads  too  clear,  too 
plain. 

To  make  the  thing,  and  this  would  rather  shroud. 

That  it  may  less  offend  him,  with  a  cloud. 


552 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


Little  availed  the  count  his  aelf-deceit, 

For  there  was  one  who  spake  of  it  ansoaght; 

The  shepherd  swain ;  who  to  allay  the  heat, 
With  which  he  saw  his  guest  so  troubled, 
thought : 

The  tale  which  he  was  wonted  to  repeat,  —  * 
Of  the  two  lovers,  —  to  each  listener  taught, 

A  history  which  many  loved  to  hear, 

He  now,  without  reserve,  'gan  tell  the  peer :  — 

How,  at.  Angelica's  persuasive  prayer, 

He  to  his  farm  had  carried  young  Medore, 

Grievously  wounded  with  an  arrow  ;  where. 
In  little  space,  she  healed  the  angry  sore. 

But  while  she  exercised  thfs  pious  care. 
Love  in  her  heart  the  lady  wounded  more . 

And  kindled  from  small  spark  so  fierce  a  fire, 

She  burnt  all  over,  restless  with  dedire : 

Nor  thinking  she  of  mightiest  king  was  bom. 
Who  ruled  in  the  East,  nor  of  her  heritage. 

Forced  by  too  puissant  love,  had  thought  no  scorn 
To  be  the  consort  of  a  poor  foot-p^e.  — 

His  story  done,  to  them  in  proof  was  borne 
The  gem,  which,  in  reward  for  harbourage 

To  her  extended  in  that  kind  abode, 

Angelica,  at  parting,  had  bestowed. 

A  deadly  axe  was  this  unhappy  close. 

Which,  at  a  single  stroke,  lopped  off  the  bead ; 

When,  satiate  with  innumerable  blows. 

That  cruel  hangman.  Love,  his  hate  had  fed. 

Orlando  studied  to  conceal  his  woes; 

And  yet  the  mischief  gathered  force  and  spread. 

And  would  break  out  parforce  in  tears  and  sighs. 

Would  he,  or  would  he  not,  from  mouth  and 
eyes. 

When  he  can  give  the  rein  to  raging  woe, 
Alone,  by  others'  presence  unrepressed. 

From  his  full  eyes' the  tears  descending  flow. 
In  a  wide  stream,  and  flood  his  troubled  breast. 

'Mid  sob  and  groan,  he  tosses  to  and  fro 
About  his  weary  bed,  in  search  of  rest ; 

And  vainly  shifting,  harder  than  a  rock 

And  sharper  than  a  nettle  found  its  flock. 

Amid  the  pressure  of  such  cruel  pain. 

It  passed  into  the  wretched  sufferer's  head, 

That  ofl  the  ungrateful  lady  must  have  lain, 
Together  with  her  leman,  on  that  bed  : 

Nor  less  he  loathed  the  couch  in  his  disdain, 
Nor  from  the  down  upstarted  with  less  dread. 

Than  churl,  who,  when  about  to  close  his  eyes. 

Springs  from  the  turf,  if  he  a  serpent  spies. 

In  him,  forthwith,  such  deadly  hatred  breed 
That  bed,  that  house,  that  swain,  he  will  not 
stay 

Till  the  mom  break,  or  till  the  dawn  succeed, 
Whose  twilight  goes  before  approaching  day. 

In  haste  Orlando  takes  his  arms  and  steed. 
And  to  the  deepest  gMenwood  wends  his  way; 

And,  when  assured  that  he  is  there  alone. 

Gives  utterance  to  his  grief  in  shriek  and  groan. 


Never  from  tears,  never  from  sorrowmg, 
He  paused ;  nor  fbund  he  peace  by  night  or 
day : 

He  fled  firom  town,  in  forest  harbouring. 
And  in  the  open  air  on  hard  earth  lay. 

He  marvelled  at  himself,  how  such  a  spriog 
Of  water  from  his  eyes  could  stream  awaj, 

And  breath  was  for  so  many  sobs  supplied ; 

Aqd  thus ofltimes,  amid  his  mourning,  cried:— 

***  These  are  no  longer  real  tears  which  rise, 
And  which  I  scatter  from  so  full  a  vein : 

Of  tears  my  ceaseless  sorrow  lacked  supplies; 
They  stopped,  when  to  mid-height  scarce  rose 
my  pain. 

The  vital  moisture  rashing  to  my  eyes. 
Driven  by  the  fire  within  me,  now  would  gain 

A  vent ;  and  it  is  this  which  I  expend. 

And  which  my  sorrows  and  my  life  will  end. 

<*  No;  these,  which  are  the  index  of  mj  woes, 
These  ai»  not  sighs,  nor  sighs  are  such ;  they 
fiiil 

At  times,  and  have  their  season  of  repose: 
I  feel  my  breast  can  never  less  exhale 

Its  sorrow  :  Love,  who  with  his  pinions  blows 
The  fire  about  my  heart,  creates  this  gale. 

Love,  by  what  miracle  dost  thou  contrive, 

It  wastes  not  in  the  fire  thou  keep'st  alive  ? 

*t  I  am  not — am  not  what  I  seem  to  sight: 
What  Roland  was  is  dead  and  under  groandi 

Slain  by  that  most  ungratefbl  lady's  spite, 
Whose  faithlessness  inflicted  such  a  wound. 

Divided  from  the  flesh,  I  am  his  sprite, 
Which  in  this  hell,  tormented,  walks  itsroond, 

To  be,  but  in  its  shadow  lefl  above, 

A  warning  to  all  such  as  trust  in  Love." 

All  night  about  the  fbrest  roved  the  count, 
And,  at  the  break  of  daily  light,  was  biooght 

By  his  unhappy  fortune  to  the  fount. 

Where  his  inscription  young  Medoro  wrooght 

To  see  his  wrongs  inscribed  upon  that  mount 
Inflamed  his  fury  so,  in  him  was  naught 

But  turned  to  hatred,  fVenzy,  rage,  and  spite ; 

Nor  paused   he  more,  but  bared  his  fiilchioB 
bright; 

Clefl  through  the  writing  ;  and  the  solid  block 
Into  the  sky,  in  tiny  fragments,  sped. 

Woe  worth  each  sapling  and  thatcavemed  rock, 
Where  Medore  and  Angelica  were  read ! 

So  scathed,  that  they  to  sheplierd  or  to  flock 
Thenceforth  shall  never  furnish  shade  or  bed. 

And  that  sweet  fountain,  late  so  clear  and  pare, 

From  such  tempestuous  wrath  was  ill  secure. 

For  he  turf,  stone,  and  tronk,  and  shoot,  and  lop. 
Cast  without  cease  into  the  beauteous  source; 

Till,  turbid  from  the  bottom  to  the  top. 
Never  again  was  clear  the  troubled  course. 

At  length,  for  lack  of  breath,  compelled  to  stop,— 
When  he  is  bathed  in  sweat,  and  wasted  ftiee 

Serves  not  his  fury  more,  —  he  falls,  and  hea 

Upon  the  mead,  and,  gazing  upward,  sigbs. 


MICHEL  ANGELO. 


553 


Wearied  and  wobegone,  he  fell  to  grooDd, 
And  turned  hie  eyes  toward  heaven ;   nor 
spake  he  aught, 

Nor  ate,  nor  slept,  till  in  his  daiW  round 
The  golden  sun  had  broken  tbnce,  and  sought 

Hit  rest  anew ;  nor  ever  ceased  his  wound 
To  rankle,  till  it  marred  his  sober  thought. 

At  length,  impelled  by  frenzy,  the  fourth  day, 

He  from  hb  limbs  tore  plate  and  mail  away. 

Here  was  his  helmet,  there  his  shield  bestowed ; 

His  arms  far  off;  and,  farther  than  the  rest. 
His  cuirass ;  through  the  greenwood  wide  was 
strewed 

All  his  good  gear,  in  fine  :  and  next  his  vest 
He  rent;  and,  in  his  fury,  naked  showed 

His  shaggy  paunch,  and  all  his  back  and 
breast ; 
And  *gan  that  frenzy  act,  so  passing  dread, 
Of  stranger  folly  never  shall  be  said. 

So  fierce  his  rage,  so  fierce  his  fury  grew. 
That  all  obscured   remained   the   warrior's 
spright ; 

Nor,  lor  ibrgetfulness,  bis  sword  he  drew. 
Or  wondrous  deeds,  I  trow,  had  wrought  the 
knigbt : 

But  neither  this,  nor  bill,  nor  axe  to  hew. 
Was  needed  by  Orlando's  peerless  might. 

He  of  his  prowess  gave  high  proofs  and  fiill, 

Who  a  tali  pine  uprooted  at  a  pull. 

He  many  others,  with  as  little  let 

As  fennel,  wall  wort-stem,  or  dill,  uptore ; 

And  ilex,  knotted  oak,  and  fir  upset, 

And  beech,  and  mountain-ash,  and  elm-tree 
hoar: 

He  did  what  fowler,  ere  he  spreads  his  net. 
Does,  to  prepare  the  champagne  for  his  lore, 

By  stubble,  rush,  and  nettle-stalk ;  and  broke, 

Ltike  these,  old  sturdy  trees  and  stems  of  oak. 


The  shepherd  swains,  who  hear  the  tnmult  nigh, 
Leaving  their  flocks  beneath  the  greenwood 
tree,  ' 

Some  here,  some  there,  across  the  forest  hie, 
And  hurry  thither,  all,  the  cause  to  see.  — 

But  I  have  reached  such  point,  my  history. 
If  I  o'erpass  this  bonnd,  may  irksome  be ; 

And  I  my  story  will  delay  to  end. 

Rather  than  by  my  tediousness  offend. 


MICHEL  ANGELO  BUONAROTTI. 

This  extraordinary  man  belonged  to  an  an- 
sient  fiunily  of  the  counts  of  Canosa.  He  was 
bom  in  1474,  at  Caprese,  or  Chiusi.  He  was 
Barly  distinguished  for  the  comprehensiveness 
and  sublimity  of  his  genius.  The  details  of  his 
bistory  as  an  artist  do  not  belong  to  this  place. 
[t  is  snificient,'  on  this  point,  to  say,  that,  for  a 
•ombination  of  powers,  making  him  alike  illus- 
jrious  in  architecture,  painting,  and  sculpture, 

70 


he  has  no  equal  in  the  history  of  the  human 
mind.  The  building  of  Saint  Peter's,  which  he 
directed  many  years,  the  tomb  of  Julius  the 
Second,  the  statue  of  Moses,  and  the  painting 
of  the  Last  Judgment  in  the  Sistine  chapel,  are 
works  each  of  which  is  enough  for  immortality. 
All  the  popes,  from  Julius  the  Second  to  Pius 
the  Fourth,  made  him  the  object  of  their  mu- 
nificence. Cosmo  de*  Medici  many  times  at- 
tempted by  splendid  offers  to  engage  him  in 
the  embellishment  of  Florence.  Alphonso  the 
First,  duke  of  Ferrara,  the  republic  of  Venice, 
Francis  the  First,  king  of  France,  and  even  the 
Sultan  Solyman,  vied  with  each  other  in  the 
tempting  offers  they  held  out  to  lure  him  into 
their  respective  services.  He  was  not  only  a 
great  genius  in  architecture,  painting,  and  sculp- 
ture, but  vitas  equally  master  of  the  arts  of  for- 
tification and  defence;  and,  as  if  to  put  the 
crowning  glory  to  her  work,  nature  bestowed 
upon  him  the  gift  of  poetry,  and  thus,  the  mag- 
nificent mausoleum  erected  by  the  Florentines  in 
the  church  of  Saint  Lorenzo,  to  do  honor  to  his 
memory,  was  properly  decorated  with  statues, 
representing  Painting,  Sculpture,  Architecture, 
and  Poetry ;  the  last  holding  a  lyre,  and  in  the 
costume  of  Calliope.  He  died  at  Rome,  Feb- 
mary  17th,  1564. 

The  poems  of  Michel  Angelo,  consisting  of 
sonnets  and  canzoni,  were  published  at  Flor- 
ence in  1623,  and  again  in  1726.  The  compo- 
sition of  them  was  merely  the  amusement  of 
his  leisure  hours;  but  they  are  in  harmony 
with  the  productions  of  his  genius  in  the  arts. 
They  are  for  the  most  part  sonnets,  written  in 
a  severe  and  simple  style,  and  seeming  as  if  cut 
fi'om  marble.  He  also  wrote,  in  prose,  lectures 
and  speeches,  to  be  found  in  the  collection  of 
<«  Prose  Fiorentine,'*  and  letters,  printed  in  Bot- 
tari*8  »*  Lettere  Pittoriche." 


SONNETS. 

Tbs!  hope  may  with  my  strong  desire  keep 

pace. 
And  I  be  undeluded,  unbetrayed : 
For  if  of  our  affections  none  find  grace 
In  sight  of  Heaven,  then  wherefore  hath  God 

made 
The  world  which  we  inhabit?     Better  plea 
Love  cannot  have,  than,  that,  in  loving  thee. 
Glory  to  that  eternal  Peace  is  paid. 
Who  such  divinity  to  thee  imparts 
As  hallows  and  makes  pure  all  gen  tie  hearts. 
His  hope  is  treacherous  only  whose  love  dies 
With  beauty,  which  is  varying  every  houjr ; 
But  in  chaste  hearts,  uninfluenced  by  the  power  ^ 
Of  outward  change,  there  blooms  a  deathless 

flower. 
That  breathes  on  earth  the  air  of  paradise. 


No  mortal  object  did  these  eyes  behold. 
When  first  they  met  the  placid  light  of  thine, 


554 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


And  my  soul  felt  her  destiny  divine, 

And  hope  of  endless  peace  in  me  grew  bold : 

Heaven-born,   the  soul  a  heavenward  course 

must  hold ; 
Beyond  the  visible  world  she  soars  to  seek 
(For  what  delights  the  sense  is  false  and  weak) 
Ideal  Form,  the  universal  mould. 
The  wise  man,  I  affirm,  can  find  no  rest 
In  that  which  perishes ;  nor  will  he  lend 
His  heart  to  aught  which  doth  on  time  depend. 
'T  is  sense,  unbridled  will,  and  not  true  love, 
That  kills  the  soul :  love  betters  what  is  best, 
]Bven  here  below,  but  more  in  heaven  above. 


The  prayers  I  make  will  then  be  sweet  indeed. 
If  Thou  the  spirit  give  by  which  I  pray  : 
My  unassisted  heart  is  barren  clay,  . 
That  of  its  native  self  can  nothing  feed : 
Qf  good  and  pious  works  thou  art  the  seed, 
That  quickens  only  where  thou  say*st  it  may  : 
Unless  thou  show  to  us  thine  own  true  way. 
No  man  can  find  it ;  Father !  thou  must  lead. 
Do  thou,  then,  breathe  those  thoughts  into  my 

mind 
By  which  such  virtue  may  in  me  be  bred 
That  in  thy  holy  footsteps  I  may  tread : 
The  fetters  of  my  tongue  do  thou  unbind. 
That  I  may  have  the  power  to  sing  of  thee, 
And  sound  thy  praises  everlastingly. 


Mr  wave- worn  bark  through  life's  tempestuous 

sea 
Has  sped  its  coarse,  and  touched  the  crowded 

shore. 
Where  all  must  give  account  the  Judge  before, 
And,  as  their  actions  merit,  sentenced  be. 
At  length  fVom  Fancy's  wild  enchantments  free. 
That  made  me  Art  as  some  strange  god  adore, 
I  deeply  feel  how  vain  its  richest  store. 
Now  that  the  one  thing  needful  fkileth  me. 
Vain  dreams  of  Love !  once  sweet,  now  yield 

they  aught. 
If,  earned  by  them,  a  twofold  death  be  mine, — 
This,  doomed  me  here,  —  and  that,  beyond  the 

grave  ? 
Nor  painting's   art,   nor  sculptor's  skill,  e'er 

brought 
Peace  to  the  soul  that  seeks  that  Friend  Divine 
Who  on  the  cross  stretched  out  his  arms  to  save. 


If  it  be  true  that  any  beauteous  thing 
Raises  the  pure  and  just  desire  of  man 
From  earth  to  God,  the  eternal  Fount  of  all, 
Such  I  believe  my  love  :  for  as  in  her 
So  fair,  in  whom  I  all  besides  forget, 
I  view  the  gentle  work  of  her  Creator, 
I  have  no  care  for  any  other  thing. 
Whilst  thus  I  love.     Nor  is  it  marvellous, 
Since  the  effect  is  not  of  my  own  power. 
If  the  soul  doth  by  nature,  tempted  forth 
Enamoured  'through  the  eyes. 
Repose  upon  the  eyes  which  it  resembletb, 


And  through  them  risetb  to  the  primal  love, 
As  to  its  end,  and  honors  in  admiring : 
For  who  adores  the  Maker  needs  must  love  hii 
work. 

O,  BLX88KD  ye  who  find  in  heaven  the  joy. 
The  recompense  of  tears,  earth  cannot  yield ! 
Tell  me,  has  Love  still  power  over  you  ? 
Or  are  ye  freed  by  Death  from  his  constraint? 
The  eternal  rest  to  which  we  shall  return. 
When  time  has  ceased  to  be,  is  a  pure  love. 
Deprived  of  envy,  loosed  fi'om  sorrowing. 
Then  is  my  greatest  burden  still  to  live. 
If,  whilst  I  love,  such  sorrows  must  be  mine. 
If  heaven  '^  indeed  the  fnend  of  those  who  love, 
The  world  their  cruel  and  ungrateful  foe, 
O,  wherefore  was  I  bom,  with  such  a  love  ? 
To  live  long  years  ?  'T  is  this  appalleth  me : 
Few  are  too  long  fi>r  him  who  serveth  well. 


How,  lady,  can  it  be, — which  yet  is  shown 

By  long  experience,  —  that  the  imaged  form 

Lives  in  the  mountain-stone,  and  long  sunrivsi 

Its  maker,  whom  the  dart  of  Death  soon  strikes? 

The  frailer  cause  doth  yield  to  the  effect. 

And  Nature  is  in  this  by  Art  surpassed. 

I  know  it  well,  whom  Sculpture  so  befriends. 

Whilst  evermore  Time  breaketh  faith  with  me. 

Perchance  to  both  of  us  I  may  impart 

A  lasting  life,  in  colors  or  in  stone. 

By  copying  the  mind  and  face  of  each ; 

So  that,  for  ages  after  my  decease, 

The  world  may  see  how  beautiful  thou  wert, 

How  much  I  loved  thee,  nor  in  loving  erred. 

Thou  high-bom  spirit,  on  whose  countenance, 
Pure  and  beloved,  is  seen  reflected  all 
That  Heaven  and  Nature  can  on  earth  achieve. 
Surpassing  all  their  beauteous  works  with  one,— 
Fair  spirit,  within  whom  we  hope  to  find. 
As  in  thine  outward  countenance  appears. 
Love,  piety,  and  mercy,  things  so  rare 
As  with  such  faith  were  ne'er  in  beauty  found ! 
Love  seizes  me,  and  beauty  chains  my  soul ; 
The  pitying  love  of  thy  blest  countenance 
Gives  to  my  heart,  it  seems,  firm  confidence. 
Thou  faithless  world,  thou  sad,  deceitfhl  life ! 
What  law,  what  envious  decree,  denies 
That  Death  should  spare  a  work  so  beautifiil  ? 

Return  me  to  the  time  when  loose  the  curb. 
And  my  blind  ardor's  rein  was  unrestrained; 
Restore  the  face,  angelic  and  serene, 
Which  took  from  Nature  all  she  had  of  cbarai ; 
Restore  the  steps,  wasted  with  toil  and  pain, 
That  are  so  slow  to  one  now  full  of  years ; 
Bring  back  the  tears,  the  fire  within  my  bresit, 
If  thou  wouldst  see  me  glow  and  weep  again. 
Tet  if 't  is  true,  O  Love,  that  thou  dost  live 
Alone  upon  our  sweet  and  bittcf  tears. 
What  canst  thou  hope  from  an  old,  dying  man? 
Now  that  my  soul  has  almost  reached  the  sb«e, 


MICHEL  ANGELO. 


555 


'T  is  time  to  prove  the  darts  of  other  loTe, 
And  become  food  of  a  more  worthy  fire. 

Alrxadt  full  of  years  and  heaviness, 
I  turn  to  former  thoughts  of  young  desires, 
As  weight  that  to  its  centre  graTitates, 
Which  ere  it  reach,  it  findeth  no  repose. 
Heaven  holdeth  out  the  key ; 
Love  turns  it,  and  unlocks  to  virtuous  minds 
The  sanctuary  of  the  Beautiful. 
He  chaseth  from  me  every  wrong  desire. 
And  leads  me  on,  feeble  and  weak  with  age, 
And  all  unworthy,  'midst  the  good  and  great 
For  from  this  Beauty  there  doth  grace  proceed 
So  strange,  so  sweet,  and  of  such  influence. 
That  he,  who  dies  through  her,  through  her  doth 
live. 

If  much  delay  doth  oft  lead  the  desire 
To  its  attainment  more  than  haste  is  wont. 
Mine  but  afflicts  and  pains  me  in  these  years ; 
For  late  enjoyment  lasteth  little  time. 
'T  is  contrary  to  heaven,  to  nature  strange,     , 
To  bum  as  I  for  lady  do,  in  years 
That  are  more  used  to  freeze :  therefore  my  sad 
And  solitary  tears  I  balance  with  old  age. 
But,  alas !  now  that,  at  the  close  of  day, 
'Already  with  the  sun  I  've  almost  passed 
The  horizon,  amid  dark  and  chilling  shades, 
If  Love  inflames  us  only  in  mid  life. 
Perchance  that  Love,  thus  aged  and  consumed. 
May  point  the  dial  back  to  the  noon  hours. 

I  SCARCE  beheld  on  earth  those  beauteous  eyes. 
That  were  two  suns  in  life's  dark  pilgrimage. 
Before  the  day  when,  closed  upon  the  light. 
Heaven  hath  reoped  them  to  contemplate  God. 
I  know,  and  grieve ;  yet  mine  was  not  the  fault 
To  admire  too  late  the  beauty  infinite. 
But  cruel  Death's.    You  he  hath  not  despoiled. 
But  ta'en  her  from  a  blind  and  wicked  world. 
Therefore,  Luigi,  to  eternalize 
The  unique  form  of  that  angelic  face 
In  living  stone,  which  now  with  us  is  earth,  — 
Sioce  Love  such  transformations  doth  effect, 
And  Art  the  object  cannot  reach  unseen, 
'T*  is  meet,  to  sculpture  her,  I  copy  you. 

ON   DANTS. 

TnxBK  is  no  tongue  to  speak  his  eulogy ; 

Xoo  brightly  burned  his  splendor  for  our  eyes : 

Far  easier  to  condemn  his  injurers. 

Than  for  the  tongue  to  reach  his  smallest  worth. 

He  to  the  realms  of  sinfulness  came  down. 
To  teach  mankind ;  ascending  then  to  God, 
£f  eaven  unbarred  to  him  her  lofty  gates. 
To  vhom  his  country  hers  refosed  to  ope. 
XJo^ratefol  land !  to  its  own  injury, 
M'urse  of  his  fate  !  Well,  too,  does  this  instruct 
That  greatest  ills  fall  to  the  perfoctest. 
And,  'midst  a  thousand  proofs,  let  this  suflke,— 
That,  as  his  exile  had  no  parallel. 
Bo  siever  was  there  man  more  great  than  be. 


CANZONB. 

So  much,  alas !  have  I  already  wept 
And  mourned,  I  thought  that  all  my  grief 
Had  sighed  itself  away,  or  passed  in  tears. 
But  Death  still  nourishes  the  root  and  veins 
With  bitter  waters  from  the  fount  of  woe. 
Renewing  the  soul's  heaviness  and j»ain. 
Then  let  another  grief,  another  pen. 
Another  tongue,  distinguish  in  one  point 
A  twofold  bitterest  regret  for  you. 
Thy  love,  my  brother,  and  the  thought  of  thee, 
Our  common  parent,  weigh  upon  my  heart. 
Nor  do  I  know  my  greater  misery. 
Whilst  busy  memory  pictures  forth  the  one. 
Another  love,  betrayed  in  my  pale  looks, 
Graves  livingly  the  other  on  my  soul. 
'T  is  true,  that,  since  to  the  serene  abode 
Te  are  returned  (as  Love  doth  whisper  me), 
I  ought  to  still  the  grief  that  fills  my  breast. 
Unjust  is  grief,  that  welleth  in  the  heart. 
For  those  who  bear  their  harvest  of  good  deeds 
To  heaven,  released  from  all  earth's  crooked 

ways. 
Tet  cruel  were  the  man  that  should  not  weep, 
When  he  may  never  here  behold  again 
Him  who  first  gave  him  being,  nourishment. 
Our  sufferings  are  more  or  less  severe 
In  just  proportion  to  our  sense  of  pain  ; 
And  thou,  O  Lord,  dost  know  how  weak  I  am. 
But  if  the  soul  to  reason  yield  consent. 
So  cruel  the  restraint  that  checks  my  tears. 
That  the  attempt  but  makes  me  suffer  more. 
And  if  the  thought  in  which  I  steep  my  soul 
Did  not  assure  me  that  thou  now  canst  smile 
Upon  the  death  thou  'st  foared  in  this  world, 
I  had  no  comfort :  but  the  pajnfol  str6ke 
Is  tempered  by  a  firm  abiding  faith 
That  he  who  lives  aright  finds  rest  in  heaven. 
The  infirmities  of  flesh  so  weigh  upon 
Our  intellect,  that  death  more  sorrow  brings. 
The  more  with  false  persuasion  sense  prevails. 
For  ninety  years  had  the  revolving  sun 
In  the  far  ocean  yearly  bathed  his  fires. 
Ere  thou  wert  gathered  to  the  peace  of  heaven. 
Now  heaven  has  ta'en  thee  from  our  misery. 
Have  pity  still  for  me,  though  living,  dead. 
Since  God  hath  willed  me  to  be  bom  through 

thee. 
Thou  art  released  from  death,  and  made  divine. 
Fearing  no  longer  change  of  lifo  or  will : 
Scarce  can  I  write  it  without  envying. 
Fortune  and  Time  attempt  not  to  invade 
Your  habitation ;  they  conduct  the  steps 
'Midst  doubtful  happiness  and  certain  grief. 
No  cloud  is  there  to  intercept  your  light. 
The  measured  hours  pass  o'er  you  unobserved. 
Chance  and  necessity  no  longer  rule. 
Tour  splendor  shineth  unobscured  by  night. 
Nor  borroweth  lustre  from  the  eye  of  day. 
When  the  high  sun  invigorates  bis  fire. 
Thy  death  reminds  and  teaches  me  to  die, 
O  happy  father !  I  in  thought  behold  thee^ 
Where  the  world  rarely  leads  the  wayfarer. 
Death  is  not,  as  some  think,  the  worst  of  ills 


556 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


To  him  whose  closing  day  excels  the  first, 
Through  grace  eternal  from  the  mercy-seat. 
There,  thanks  to  God  !  I  do  helieve  thee  gone, 
And  hope  to  see  thee,  if  my  reason  can 
Draw  this  cold  heart  from  its  terrestrial  clay. 
And  if  pare  love  doth  find  increase  in  heaven 
'Twixt  son  and  fiither,  with  increase  of  virtue, 
Rendering  |11  glory  to  my  Maker,  there 
I  shall,  with  my  salvation,  share  thine,  too. 


SONG. 

Mine  eyes,  ye  are  assured 
That  the  time  passeth,  and  the  hour  is  nigh 
Which  shuts  the  floodgates  of  the  tears  and  sight. 
Let  gentle  Pity  keep  ye  still  unclosed, 

Whilst  she,  my  heavenly  fair, 
Tet  deigneth  to  inhabit  upon  earth. 

But  if  the  heaven  dispart, 
The  singular  and  peerless  beauty  to  receive 

Of  my  terrestrial  sun, — 
If  she  return  to  heaven,  amid  the  choir 
Of  blessed  soub,  't  is  well  that  ye  may  close. 


GALEAZZO  DI  TARSIA. 

Galea zzo  di  Tarsia  belonged  to  a  noble 
family  in  Cosenza.  He  was  bom  in  1476. 
Though  a  soldier  by  profession,  he  was  devoted 
to  letters,  and  attained  to  high  distinction  as  a 
poet.  He  was,  to  a  certain  extent,  an  imitator 
of  Petrarch.  Most  of  his  pieces  are  addressed 
either  to  Vittoria  Colonna,  of  whom  he  was  a 
sort  of  platonic  lover,  or  to  Camilla  Carrasa, 
who  was  his  wife.  He  was  accustomed  to  em- 
ploy the  intervals  of  leisure,  which  his  military 
profession  allowed  him,  in  singing  the  praises 
of  these  two  ladies,  in  the  retirement  of  his 
castle  of  Belmonte,  in  Calabria.  His  death  took 
place,  according  to  Crescimbeni,  in  1530 ;  ac- 
cording to  Ginguen^,  in  1535.  His  poetical 
pieces  consist  of  thirty-four  sonnets  and  one 
canzone.  They  are  marked  by  originality  and 
elegance.  ^ 

SONNET. 

Tempestuous,  loud,  and  agitated  sea ! 

In  thy  late  peaceful  calm  and  quiet,  thou 

Didst  represent  my  happy  state ;  but  now. 

Art  picture  true  of  my  deep  misery  ! 

From  thee  is  fled  each  joyous  thing,  the  glee 

Of  sportive  Nereid,  and  smooth-gliding  prow : 

From   me,  —  what  late  made  joy  illume  my 

brow. 
And  makes  these  present  hours  so  drear  to  be. 
Alas !  the  time  is  near,  when  will  return 
The  season  calm,  and  all  thy  waves  be  gay. 
And  thou  this  fellowship  of  woe  forsake  : 
The  mistress  of  my  soul  can  never  make 
Serene  the  night  for  me,  or  clear  the  day,  -~ 
Whether  the  sun  be  hid,  or  cloudless  burn. 


GIROLAMO  FRACA8TORO. 

This  famous  scholar,  philosopher,  physician, 
astronomer,  and  poet  was  bom  at  Verona,  in 
1483.  Afier  completing  his  education  in  hit 
native  place,  he  went  to  Padua,  and  delivered 
public  lectures  in  the  academy  established 
by  D*  Alviano,  in  Pordenone.  About  the  year 
1509,  he  returned  t6  his  native  place  and  ocgq- 
pied  himself  with  scientific  and  literary  pur- 
suits. Some  of  his  most  celebrated  Latin  poeiry 
was  written  at  this  period.  Paul  the  Tbiri 
made  him  the  medical  adviser  of  the  Council 
of  Trent.  Fracastoro  died  of  apoplexy,  at  hia 
villa  of  Incafll,  in  1553.  He  is  chiefly  knows 
as  a  man  of  science  and  a  Latin  poet ;  but  be 
wrote  a  few  pieces  in  the  mother  tongue,  which 
show  liveliness  and  fkciUty  of  poetical  oompoa* 
tion. 

SONNETS. 
TO  A  LADT. 

Ladt,  the  angelic  hosts  were  all  arrayed 
In  paradise,  around  boon  Nature's  throne,  «- 
The  silver  moon,  the  sun,  resplendent  shone, 
When  faultless  Beauty  in  thy  form  was  made; 
The  air  was  calm,  the  day  without  a  shade ; 
Kind  Venus  gave  her  sire  the  magic  zone ; 
And  Love  amid  the  Graces  rose  alone. 
To  view  his  future  home  in  thee,  fair  maid ! 
Henceforth,  thy  form's  all-perfect  symmetry 
Was  fixed  the  eternal  model  here  below 
Of  Beauty,  by  the  never-changing  Fates. 
Let  others  boast  a  beauteous  hand  or  eye, 
A  lovely  lip,  or  yet  more  lovely  brow, — 
But  Heaven  all  others'  charms  by  thine  creates. 


HOMBR. 

Poet  of  Greece !  whene'er  thy  various  song, 
In  deep  attention  fixed,  my  eyes  survey, — 
Whether  Achilles'  wrath  awake  thy  lay. 
Or  wise  Ulysses  and  his  wanderings  long. 
Seas,  rivers,  cities,  villas,  woods  among, — 
Methinks  I  view  from  top  of  mountain  gray, 
And  here,  wild  plains,  there,  fields  in  rich  ar- 

Teeming  with  oonntless  forms,  my  vision  throng. 
Such  various  realms,  their  manners,  rites,  ex- 
plores 
Thy  verse,  and  sunny  banks,  and  grottos  cold, 
Valleys  and  mountains,  promontories,  shores, 
'T  would  seem — so  loves  the  Muse  thy  genioi 

bold— . 
That  Nature's  self  but  copied  from  thy  stores, 
Thou  first  great  painter  of  the  scenes  of  old ! 


VITTORIA  COLONNA. 

This  celebrated  lady,  the  most  distinguished  ! 
among  the  poetesses  of  Italy,  was  the  daughter  j 
of  Fabrizio  Colonna,  grand  constable  of  the  | 


VITTORIA  COLONNA TOLOMEI. 


557 


kiDgdom  of  Naples,  and  of  Anoa  di  Montefeltro, 
daughter  of  the  duke  of  Urbino.     She  was  born 
in  Marino,  a  fief  of  her  fiunily,  about  the  year 
1490.    At  the  age  of  four  jeara,  ahe  was  be- 
trothed to  Ferdinando  Francesco  Davaloa,  mar- 
quis of  Fescara,  a  child  of  about  the  same  age. 
At  a  very  early  period  of  her  life,  her  rare  bean- 
ty,  her  extraordinary  mental  endowments,  and 
the  accomplishments  which  a  most  careful  edu- 
cation had  bestowed  upon  her,  rendered  her 
the  object  of  universal  admiration.     Even  sov- 
ereign princes  sought  her  hand  in  marriage; 
but  she  remained  fidthful  to-  the  object  of  her 
parents'  choice,  and  the  youthful  pair  were 
married  at  the  age  of  seventeen.     The  marriage 
proved  eminently  happy ;  the  noble  and  gidlant 
character  of  the  marquis,  the  beauty,  grace,  and 
virtue  of  Vittoria,  the  advantages  of  fortune,  and 
a  perfect  unanimity  of  feeling,  were  inexhausti- 
ble sources  of  felicity.    But  this  scene  of  peace- 
ful happiness  was  soon  overcast  by  the  storms 
of  war.    The  hostilities  that  broke  out  between 
the  French  and  the  Spanish  called  the  marquis 
from  retirement,  and,  during  his  absence,  Vit- 
toria solaced  the  weary  hours  by  study  and  com- 
position.     History,  belles-lettres,  and   poetry 
cheered  her  solitude,  and  the  regrets  of  sepa- 
ration were  the  subjects  of  her  song.     At  the 
battle  of  Ravenna,  where  the  marquis  had  com- 
mand of  the  cavalry,  he  was  severely  wounded, 
and  taken  prisoner  with  the  Cardinal  de'  Med- 
ici, afterwards  Leo  the  Tenth.     After  having 
recovered  his  liberty  by  the  friendly  aid  of  Mar- 
shal Trivubdo,  he  speedily  gained  the  highest 
military  reputation.     He  entered  the  service  of 
the  emperor,  and  was  present  at  the  battle  of 
Pavia,  in  1525,  where  Francis  the  First  was 
taken    prisoner.      He    displayed    consummate 
ability  and  bravery ;  but  received  a  wound,  of 
w^hich  he  died  the  same  year,  leaving  a  name 
or  historical  eminence  in  the  annals  of  the  times, 
though  he  has  not  escaped  reproach  for  having 
Ibaght  in  the  ranks  of  strangers,  instead  of  in 
the  defence  of  his  country.    Vittoria  found  con- 
solation for  her  bereavement  in  those  pursuits 
VFhich  had  been  the  ornament  of  her  prosperity, 
and  in  celebrating  the  virtues  and  immortalizing 
the  memory  of  her  husband  in  poetry.      She 
vrithdrew  from  the  world  to  the  tranquil  retire- 
ment of  the  island  of  Ischia,  and  firmly  refused 
aJl  the  offers  of  marriage  which  her  beauty,  her 
Henius,  her  virtues,  and  her  fhme  induced  several 
persons  of  princely  rank  to  make.     The  indul- 
gence of  her  sorrows  in  solitude  soon  gave  her 
mind  a  strongly  religious  turn ;  and  though  she 
did  not  cease  to  exercise  her  poetical  talents,  they 
^irere  henceforth  employed  chiefly  on  sacred 
themes.  Among  her  friends  she  numbered  many 
oF  the  most  distinguished  of  her  contemporaries. 
She  corresponded  with  the   cardinals  Bembo, 
Oontarini,  and  Polo ;  and  the  poets  Guidiccioni, 
Flaminio,  Molza,  and  Alamanni  were  among 
her   intimates.     That  great  genius,  Michel  An- 
^elo,  was  one  of  her  most  devoted  friends  and 
n<inBirers,  and  to  her  many  of  his  sonnets  are 


addressed.  In  1541,  desirous  of  finding  a  more 
complete  seclusion,  she  retired  to  a  monastery 
in  Orvieto,  and  thence  to  that  of  Santa  Catari- 
na  in  Viterbo.  She  returned,  however,  once 
more  to  Rome,  where  she  died,  towards  the  end 
of  February,  1547. 

Her  poems,  which  passed  through  four  edi- 
tions during  her  lifetime,  place  her  in  the  first 
rank  of  the  followers  of  Petrarch.  Her  son- 
neto  show,  besides  the  finished  elegance  of  the 
language,  a  vigor  and  vivacity  of  thought,  a 
tenderness  of  fueling,  and  a  brilliancy  of  imag- 
ination, which  justify  the  admiration  folt  for 
her  by  the  most  illustrious  among  her  contem- 
poraries. 

SONNETS. 

Fathxb  of  heaven  !  if  by  thy  merey*s  grace 
A  living  branch  I  am  of  that  true  vine 
Which  spreads  o'er  all, — and  would  we  did 

reaign 
Ourselves  entire  by  faith  to  its  embrace  !  — 
In  me  much  drooping,  Lord,  thine  eye  will  trace. 
Caused  by  the  shade  of  these  rank  leaves  of 

mine, 
Unless  in  season  due  thou  dost  refine 
The  humor  gross,  and  quicken  its  dull  pace. 
So  cleanse  me,  that,  abiding  e*er  with  thee, 
I  feed  me  hourly  with  the  heavenly  dew, 
And  with  my  fidling  tears  refresh  the  root. 
Thou  saidst,  and  thou  art  truth,  thou  'dst  with 

me  be: 
Then  willing  come,  that  I  may  bear  much  fruit. 
And  worthy  of  the  stock  on  which  it  grew. 


Blest  union,  that  in  heaven  was  ordained 
In  wondrous  manner,  to  yield  peace  to  man, 
AVhich  by  the  spirit  divine  and  mortal  frame 
Is  joined  with  sacred  and  with  love-strong  tie  ! 
I  praise  the  beauteous  work,  its  author  great ; 
Tet  fain  would  see  it  moved  by  other  hope, 
By  other  zeal,  before  I  change  this  form, 
Since  I  no  longer  may -enjoy  it  here. 
The  soul,  imprisoned  in  this  tenement. 
Its  bondage  hates ;  and  hence,  distressed,  it  can 
Neither  live  here,  nor  fly  where  it  desires. 
My  glory  then  will  be  to  see  me  joined 
With  the  bright  sun  that  lightened  all  my  path ; 
For  in  his  lifo  alone  I  learned  to  live. 


CLAUDIO  TOLOMEI. 

Claudio  Tolomxi  was  bom  of  an  ancient 
and  noble  fhmily  in  Siena,  about  1492.  He 
was  destined  for  the  profession  of  the  law ;  but, 
after  having  taken  his  degree,  he  changed  his 
mind,  and  persisted  in  resigning  the  doctorate 
with  as  much  ceremony  as  he  had  received  it ; 
upon  which  Brunetti  quaintly  remarks,  that, 
*<  although  be  despoiled  himself  of  the  insignia, 
he  did  not  despoil  himself  of  his  learning,  or 
uu2 


658 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


of  bis  repatation,  which  is  dow  greater  than 
6Ter/'  He  then  attached  himself  to  the  service 
of  Cardinal  Ippolito  de'  Medici,  and  is  supposed 
to  have  had  some  part  in  the  unsuccessfbl  mili- 
tary expedition  undertaken  by  Clement  the 
Seventh  against  Siena,  in  1526.  At  any  rate, 
a  sentence  of  banishment  from  his  native  city 
was  passed  upon  him  that  year,  which  was  not 
revoked  until  1542.  In  1527,  he  interested 
himself  warmly  for  the  imprisoned  pontiff,  in 
whose  behalf  he  composed  five  discourses  ad- 
dressed to  the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth.  In 
1532,  he  was  sent  by  Cardinal  Ippolito,  in  bis 
own  name,  to  Vienna.  Some  time  after  the 
death  of  the  cardinal,  he  is  supposed  to  have 
entered  the  service  of  Pier  Loigi  Farnese,  duke 
of  Parma  and  Piacenza.  He  remained  in  Pia- 
cenza,  with  the  title  of  Minister  of  Justice,  until 
the  tragical  death  of  Pier  Luigi,  in  1547;  he 
.  then  retired  to  Padua,  where  he  remained  until 
the  following  year,  when  he  went  to  Rome.  In 
1549,  he  was  made  bishop  of  Corzola,  a  small 
island  in  the  Adriatic  Sea.  In  1552,  he  was 
again  in  Siena,  and  had  the  honor  to  be  appoint- 
ed one  of  the  sixteen  citizens  who  were  intrust- 
ed with  the  conservation  of  the  public  liberty. 
He  was  also  sent  with  three  others  to  thank 
the  king  of  France  for  the  protection  he  had 
extended  to  the  republic,  and  the  discourse  he 
delivered  to  that  monarch  at  Compiegne  has 
been  preserved.  He  returned  two  yean  after, 
and  died  in  Rome,  March  23d,  1555. 

Tolomei  was  a  writer  of  considerable  merit. 
He  is  well  known  for  the  part  he  took  in  the 
violent  controversy  on  the  question,  whether 
the  language  should  be  called  the  Italian,  or  the 
Tuscan,  or  the  Vulgar ;  he  proposed  also  to  re- 
form the  alphabet  by  introducing  several  new 
characters,  and  warmly  advocated  the  applica- 
tion of  the  ancient  laws  of  versification  to  the 
Italian.  He  published  the  rules  and  some  speci- 
mens of  this  kind  of  verse,  defending  them  on 
the  principles  of  philosophy  and  music.  But 
apart  from  these  vagaries,  he  was  an  active  pro- 
moter of  learning,  and  deserves  an  honorable 
place  in  literary  history. 


SONNET. 
TO  THE  ETENINO  STAR. 

Blest  Star  of  Love,  bright  Hesperus,  whose  glow 
Serves  for  sweet  escort  through  the  still  of  night, 
Of  Love  the  living  flame,  the  friendly  light, 
And  torch  of  Venus  when  she  walks  below  ! 
Whilst  to  my  mistress  fair  in  stealth  I  go, 
Who  dims  the  sun  in  orient  chambers  bright, 
Now  that  the  moon  is  low,  nor  cheers  the  sight. 
Haste,  in  her  stead  thy  silver  cresset  show  ! 
I  wander  not  these  gloomy  shades  among, 
Upon  the  wayworn  traveller  to  prey. 
Or  graves  dbpeople  with  enchanter's  song : 
My  ravished  heart  from  cruel  spoiler's  sway 
I  would  redeem  :  then,  O,  avenge  my  wrong, 
Blest  Star  of  Love,  and  beam  upon  my  way  ! 


BERNARDO  TASSO. 

Bernardo  Tasso,  famous  as  a  poet,  but  more 
famous  as  the  father  of  a  greater  poet,  belonged 
to  an  ancient  and  noble  fiimily,  and  was  born 
at  Bergamo,  November  11th,  1493.  He  was 
early  instructed  by  the  celebrated  grammarian, 
Batista  Pio,  and  made  rapid  progress  in  Greek 
and  Roman  literature.  His  uncle, *the  Bishop 
Luigi  Tasso,  who,  afler  the  death  of  Bernar- 
do's  father,  had  stood  to  him  in  the  place  of  a 
parent,  having  been  assassinated  in  1520,  the 
young  man  was  compelled  to  leave  his  country 
in  search  of  some  honorable  means  of  support. 
It  was  about  this  period  that  he  hoped,  per- 
haps, to  find  in  love  some  solace  for  his  troubles, 
and  occupied  himself  for  a  season  in  loving 
and  celebrating  in  his  verses  Ginevra  Malatesta. 
But  when  he  saw  her  united  in  marriage  to 
the  Chevalier  Degli  Obizzi,  and  that  this  was 
not  the  way  to  improve  his  condition,  towards 
1525,  he  entered  the  service  of  Guido  Rangone, 
at  that  time  general  of  the  pontifical  armies. 
On  the  marriage  of  Ginevra, ''  he  bewailed  his 
misfortune,"  says  Ginguen6,  '*  in  a  sonnet  so 
tender,  that  there  was  neither  man  nor  woAan 
in  all  Italy  who  did  not  wish  to  know  it  by 
heart."  Tasso  was  employed  by  Rangone  in 
the  most  delicate  negotiations,  both  at  the  papal 
court,  and  at  the  court  of  Francis  the  First.  In 
1529,  he  entered  the  service  of  the  duchess  of 
Ferrara,  but  soon  after  went  to  Padua,  an4 
thence  to  Venice,  where  he  passed  some  time 
in  the  society  of  his  friends  and  the  cultivation 
of  letters.  While  there,  he  published  a  collec- 
tion of  his  poems,  which  rapidly  spread  bis 
fame  throughout  Italy,  and  gave  him  a  distin- 
guished rank  among  the  poets  of  the  country. 
These  poems  made  him  known  to  Ferrante 
Sanseverino,  prince  of  Salerno,  who  offered 
him  the  post  of  Secretary,  with  an  honorable 
salary.  He  accompanied  the  prince  in  varioun 
expeditions.  He  was  present  with  him  at  the 
siege  of  Tunis,  and  distinguished  himself  by 
feats  of  daring ,  and  he  bore  arms  in  Flanders 
and  Germany.  He  was  afterwards  sent  on  im- 
portant business  to  Spain,  and,  after  his  return, 
obtained  permission  to  revisit  his  friends  in 
Venice,  where  he  published  a  new  colleetioo 
of  poems,  and  remained  about  a  year.  Return- 
ing to  Salerno,  he  married  Porzia  de*  Rossi,  a 
noble  lady  of  great  beauty  and  talents ;  and  was 
permitted  by  the  prince,  who  desired  to  give 
him  an  opportunity  of  pursuing  his  studies  in 
tranquillity,  to  retire  to  Sorrento.  There  he 
lived  until  1547,  when  the  scene  was  sudden- 
ly changed.  He  was  involved  in  the  great- 
est embarrassments  by  the  misfortunes  of  the 
prince,  who  fell  under  the  displeasure  of  the 
Empero^  Charles  the  Fifth,  for  opposing  the 
establishment  of  the  Inquisition  in  Naples. 
Tasso  toon  found  himself  deprived  of  all  re-  ' 
sources ;  was  obliged  to  seek  another  place  of 
refuge,  after  having  exerted  himself  to  the  nt- 


BERNARDO  TASSO— FIRENZUOLA.  — ALAMANNI. 


659 


most  to  maintain  the  cauBO  of  his  unhappy  mas- 
ter ;  was  separated  from  his  wife  and  children  ; 
and,  to  finish  the  climax  of  his  misfortunes,  lost 
his  wife,  who  died  of  sorrow  in  a  convent  to 
which  she  had  retired.  At  length  he  was  invited 
by  Guidubaldo  the  Second,  duke  of  Urbino,  to 
hii  court,  and  a  charming  residence  was  assigned 
him  in  Pesaro,  where  he  again  occupied  him- 
self with  letters,  and  put  the  last  hand  to  his 
'*  Amadigi,'*  or  Amadis.  On  the  completion  of 
this  poem,  he  went  to  Venice,  where  he  was 
received  with  every  mark  of  esteem,  became 
a  member  of  the  Venetian  Academy,  and,  in 
1560,  published  a  beautiful  edition  of  the  long 
expected  work.  In  1563,  the  duke  of  Man- 
tua invited  Tasso  to  his  court  and  appointed  him 
Chief  Secretary,  and  subsequently  governor  of 
Ostiglia,  a  small  place  on  the  Po ;  but  about  a 
month  after  this  last  appointment,  he  ftll  ill,  and 
died  September  4th,  1569. 

The  principal  work  of  Bernardo  Tasso  is  the 
(<  Amadigi,*'  a  romantic  epic ;  the  <*  Floridante," 
an  episode  of  the  preceding,  was  intended  to  be 
formed  into  a  separate  poem,  but,  being  left  in- 
complete at  his  death,  was  afterwards  published 
by  his  son.  His  other  works  are  five  books  of 
*'Rime,"  with  eclogues,  elegies,  hymns,  and 
odes ;  a  discourse  on  poetry,  and  tbree  books 
of  letters.  His  style  is  distinguished  for  polish, 
sweetness,  and  purity.  In  delineations  of  nar 
ture,  in  the  description  of  battles,  and  in  the 
narration  of  adventures,  he  excels. 


SONNET. 

This  shade,  that  never  to  the  sun  is  known. 
When  in  mid-heaven  his  eye  all-seeing  glows ; 
Where  myrtle-boughs  with  foliage  dark  inclose 
A  bed  with  marigold  and  violets  strown ; 
Where  babbling  runs  a  brook  with  tuneful  moan, 
And  wave  so  clear,  the  sand  o*er  which  it  flows 
Is  dimmed  no  more  than  is  the  purple  rose 
When    through   the  crystal  pure  its  blush  b 

shown ; 
An  humble  swain,  who  owns  no  other  store, 
To  thee  devotes,  fair,  placid  god  of  sleep. 
Whose  spells  the  care-worn  midd  to  peace  re- 
store. 
If  thou  the  balm  of  slumbers  soft  and  deep 
On  theee  his  tear-distempered  eyes  wilt  pour,  — 
£yes,  that,  alas  !  ne*er  open  but  to  weep. 


AGNOLO  FIRENZUOLA. 

AoH OLD,  or  Ahoslo,  FntsHzuoLA  belonged  to 
an  ancient  Florentine  family,  and  was  bom  in 
1493.  He  studied  in  Siena  and  Perugia;  though 
the  greater  part  of  his  time  was  devoted  to 
pleasure.  He  was  confirmed  in  his  dissipat* 
ed  habits  by  the  influence  of  Fietro  Aretino^ 
with  whom  he  became  acquainted  in  Pemgiaf 


and  continued  his  intimacy  afterwards  in  Rome. 
His  biographers  relate,  that  he  entered  upon 
the  ecclesiastical  career ;  that  he  took  the  habit 
in  the  monastery  of  Vallombrosa,  obtained  in 
order  several  promotions,  and  finally  became 
an  abate.  Tiraboscbi,  without  denying  the  truth 
of  the  statement,  questions  the  sufficiency  of 
the  evidence. 

The  early  debaucheries  of  Firenzuola  broke 
down  his  constitution.  In  a  letter  to  Aretino, 
written  in  1541,  he  complains  of  a  disease  of 
eleven  years'  standing.  He  died  a  few  years 
afterwards,  in  Rome. 

The  works  of  Firenzuola  were  published  at 
Florence  in  three  volumes.  They  are  partly 
in  prose,  and  partly  in  verse.  He  translated 
the  <<  Grolden  Ass  "  of  Apuleius,  adapting  it  to 
the  circumstances  of  his  own  age.  Of  his 
poems,  some  are  burlesque  and  some  are  seri- 
ous. His  style  is  light  and  graceful ;  but  the 
tone  of  some  of  his  pieces  is  free  even  to  licen- 
tiousness. 

SONNET. 

0  THOV,  whose  soul  from  the  pure  sacred  sd^am. 
Ere  it  was  doomed  this  mortal  veil  to  wear. 
Bathed  by  the  gold-haired  god,  emerged  so  fair. 
That  thou  like  him  in  Delos  bom  didst  seem  ! 
If  zeal,  that  of  my  strength  would  wrongly  deem. 
Bade  me  thy  virtues  to  the  world  declare. 
And,  in  my  highest  flight,  struck  with  despair, 

1  sunk  unequal  to  such  lofty  theme ; 
Alas !  I  suffer  firoro  the  same  mishap 

As  the  fklse  ofispring  of  the  bird  that  bore 
The  Phrygian  stripling  to  the  Thunderer's  lap : 
Forced  in  the  sun's  full  radiance  to  gaze, 
Such  streams  of  light  on  their  weak  vision  pour. 
Their  eye*  are  blasted  in  the  furious  blaze. 


LUIGI  ALAMANNI. 

Luioi  Alamanhi  was  bom  at  Florence,  in 
1495.  He  belonged  to  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished fkmilies  in  the  republic.  Having  been 
concerned  in  a  conspiracy  against  Cardinal  Giu- 
lio  de'  Medici,  and  the  conspiracy  being  dis- 
covered, he  fled  to  Venice,  and,  on  the  acces- 
sion of  the  cardinal  to  the  papal  chair,  took  re- 
ftige  in  France.  He  returned  to  Florence  in 
1527,  but  was  again  driven  into  exile  by  the 
Duke  Alessandro.  He  was  favorably  received 
by  Francis  the  First,  king  of  France,  who  sent 
him  as  ambassador  to  the  Emperor  Charles  the 
Fifth.  Henry  the  Second,  also,  held  the  talents 
of  Alamanni  in  high  esteem,  and  intrasted  him 
with  important  public  business.  He  died  at 
Amboise,  in  1556,  where  the  French  court  was 
at  that  time. 

The  works  of  Alamanni  embrace  almost 
every  species  of  poetry :  two  epics,  "  Oirone 
il  Cortese  "  and  "  La  Avarchide  "  ;  a  tragedy, 
^L*  Antigone";  lyric  poems,  satires,  eclogues. 


5€0 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


a  didactic  poem  entitled  *'  Cohivazione,"  and  a 
collection  of  epigraniB.  His  works  are  charac- 
terized bjT  grace  and  elegance. 


SONNETS. 
TO   ITALY. 
Thavks  be  to  God,  my  feet  are  now  addressed, 
Proud  Italy,  at  least  to  visit  thee. 
After  six  weary  years,  since  destiny 
Forbids  me  in  thy  dear-loved  lap  to  rest 
With  weeping  eyes,  with   look  and  heart  de- 
pressed, 
Upon  my  natal  soil  I  bend  the  knee. 
While  hope  and  joy  my  troubled  spirit  flee. 
And  anguish,  rage,  and  terror  fill  my  breast. 
I  turn  me,  then,  the  snowy  Alps  to  tread. 
And  seek  the  Gaul,  more  kindly  prompt  to 

greet 
The  child  of  other  lands,  than  thou  art  thine : 
Here,  in  these  shady  vales,  mine  old  retreat, 
I  lay,  in  solitude,  mine  aching  head. 
Since  Heaven  decrees,  and  thou  dost  so  incline. 


PETRARCA*S  RETREAT. 

Vaucluse,  ye  hills  and  glades  and  shady  vale, 
So  long  the  noble  Tuscan  bard's  retreat. 
When  warm  his  heart  for  cruel  Laura  beat. 
As  lone  be  wandered  in  thy  beauteous  dale ! 
Ye  flowers,  which  heard  him  oft  his  pains  bewail 
In  tones  of  love  and  sorrow,  sad,  but  sweet ! 
Ye  dells  «nd  rocks,  whoee  hollow  sides  repeat, 
Even  yet,  his  ancient  passion's  moving  tale  ! 
Fountain,  which  pourest  out  thy  waters  green 
In  ever-flowing  streams  the  Sorgue  to  fill, 
Whoee  charms  the  lovely  Arno's  emulate  I 
How  deeply  I  revere  your  holy  scene. 
Which  breathes  throughout  the  immortal  poet 

still. 
Whom  I,  perchance  all  vainly,  imitate ! 


GIOVANNI  GUIDICCIONI. 

Giovanni  Guidiccioni  was  bom  at  Lucca, 
in  1500.  He  studied  successively  at  the  Uni- 
versities of  Pisa,  Padua,  Bologna,  and  Ferrara, 
at  the  last  of  which  he  took  the  degree  of  Doc- 
tor of  Law.  His  uncle,  the  Cardinal  Bartolom- 
meo,  attached  him  to  the  service  of  Alexander 
Farnese,  afterwards  Pope  Paul  the  Third.  At 
the  conrt  of  the  cardinal,  he  cultivated  the 
iriendship  of  the  learned  men  who  adorned  it, 
and  especially  of  Annibale  Caro.  In  1533,  he 
retired  to  his  own  country ;  but  as  soon  as  the 
cardinal  was  elevated  to  the  papal  chair,  was 
summoned  by  him  lo  Rome.  From  this  time 
forth,  he  was  charged  with  important  offices,  the 
duties  of  which  be  performed  to  the  great  sat- 
isfaction of  his  employer,  until  his  death,  which 
took  place  in  1541. 

As  a  poet,  Guidiccioni  was  an  imitator  of 


Petrarch.  His  pieces  have  been  published  with 
those  of  Bembo  and  Case.  They  are  not  con> 
fined  to  the  expression  of  personal  fbelings,  but 
many  of  them  breathe  a  patriotic  spirit,  and 
bewail  the  misfortunes  of  Italy. 


SONNETS. 


Thou  noble  nurse  of  many  a  warlike  chief, 
Who  in  more  brilliant  times  the  world  subdued; 
Of  old,  the  shrines  of  gods  in  beauty  stood 
Within  thy  walls,  where  now  are  shame  and 

grief: 
I  hear  thy  broken  voice  demand  relief. 
And  sadly  o'er  thy  faded  fame  I  brood, — 
Thy  pomps  no  more, — thy  temples  fiiillen  and 

rude,  — 
Thine  empire  shrunk  within  a  petty  fief. 
Slave  as  thou  art,  if  saoh  thy  majesty 
Of  bearing  seems,  thy  name  so  holy  now, 
That  even  thy  scattered  fragments  I  adore,  — 
How  did  they  feel,  who  saw  thee  throned  on  high 
In  pristine  splendor,  while  thy  glorious  brow 
The  golden  diadem  of  nations  bore  .' 


TO   ITALY. 

From  ignominious  sleep,  where  age  on  age 
Thy  torpid  faculties  have  slumbering  lain. 
Mine  Italy,  enslaved,  ay,  more,  insane, — 
Wake,  and  behold  thy  wounds  with  noble  rage ! 
Rouse,  and  with  generous  energy  engage 
Once  more  thy  long-lost  freedom  to  obtain ; 
The  path  of  honor  yet  once  more  regain. 
And  leave  no  blot  upon  my  country's  page ! 
Thy  haughty  lords,  who  trample  o*er  thee  now, 
Have  worn  the  yoke  which  bows  to  earth  thy 

neck. 
And  graced  thy  triumphs  in  thy  days  of  fame. 
Alas  !  thine  own  most  deadly  foe  art  thou. 
Unhappy  land  !  thy  spoils  the  invader  deck, 
While  self-wrought  chains  thine  infamy  pro- 
claim ! 


FRANCESCO  BERNI  DA  BIBBIENA. 

Frahoksco  Bxrni,  or  Bkrnia,  the  great  mss- 
ter  and  perfecter  of  the  humorous  style  in  Ital- 
ian poetry,  vras  born  in  a  small  town  of  Tot- 
cany,  called  Lamporecchio,  about  the  end  of 
the  fifteenth  century.  Hb  family  was  noble, 
but  in  reduced  circumstances.  He  passed  his 
early  youth  in  Florence,  where  he  remained, 
until  he  was  nineteen  years  old,  in  a  state  of 
great  poverty.  He  then  went  to  Rome  and 
entered  the  service  of  Cardinal  Bernardo  da 
Bibbiena,  to  whom  he  was  distantly  related ; 
and  after  the  death  of  that  ecclesiastic,  attached 
himself  to  Cardinal  Angelo  Bibbiena,  but  with 
little  advantage  to  his  fortunes.  Finally,  he 
became  secretary  to  Ghiberti,  bishop  of  Verona, 


BERNI. 


561 


who  then  held  the  office  of  Datary  to  the  Ro- 
mao  see.      Berni  remained  with   him  leTen 
yean,  and,  having  aasamed   the  ecclesiastical 
habit,  was  employed  by  him  in  the  affairi  of  hb 
distant  benefices.     But  the  occupations  and  re- 
straints to  which  he  waa  subjected  agreed  but 
ill  with  his  temperament,  and  he  failed  to  de- 
HTe  those  advantages  from  his  position  which 
might  naturally  have  been  expected.     He  was, 
however,  a  great  fiivorite  with  all  who  loved 
literature  and  the  arta,  and  became  one  of  the 
leading  members  of  the  learned  and  convivial 
society  called  the  JiceadsnUa  lis'  VignaiuoUf  or 
Club  of    the  Vine-dressers,  the  members  of 
which,  in  the  whimsical  spirit  of  the  age,  as- 
sumed names  bearing  some  relation  or  allusion 
to  the  vine  ; — one,  fbr  instance,  rejoiced  in  the 
appellation  of /Z  Motto j  or  Must ;  another  called 
himself  L*  Agresto^  or  The  Sour-grape  ;  and  a 
third,  R  CotognOy  or  Quince, — Peter  Quince, 
perhaps.   Among  these  jolly  academicians  were 
numbered  such  men  as  Firenzuola,  Delia  Case, 
Mauro,  and  Molza.     They  met  at  the  house  of 
Uberto  Strozzi,  and  at  his  table,  under  the  in- 
spiration of  wine  and  merriment,  improvised 
verses  which  are  said  to  have  astonished  the 
authors   themselves,  —  a  thing  not  at  all  im- 
probable.    He  was  living  at  Rome  when  that 
city  was  attacked  by  the  party  of  the  Colonni, 
and  in  the  pillage  of  the  Vatican  he  lost  every 
thing.     At  length,  wearied  out  with  the  court 
of  Rome,  he  obtained  th^  easy  and  profitable 
station  of  Canon  of  Florence.     To  this  city  he 
retired,  and  soon  became  intimate  with  the  young 
Cardinal  Ippolito  de'  Medici,  as  well  as  with 
the  Duke  Alessandro,  the  cardinars  mortal  foe. 
Here  he  led  a  life  of  ease  and  tranquil  enjoy- 
ment, until  the  hostility  between  his  two  pro- 
I    tectors  brought  him  into  trouble,  and,  according 
I    to  the  accounts  of  some  biographers,  led  to  his 
death.     As  the  story  is  usually  told,  one  of  the 
rivals  proposed  to  Berni  to  destroy  the  othei^  by 
poison  ;  and  when  he  refUsed  to  participate  in 
the  crime,  poison  was  administered  to  him,  of 
which  he  died,  July  26th,  1536.  The  statement, 
however,  has  been  doubted;  fbr  the  cardinal 
died  in  1535,  a  year  before  the  death  of  Berni, 
and  no  very  probable  motive  can  be  attribu- 
ted to  the  duke  fbr  poisoning  the  poet  at  that 
time. 

The  principal  works  of  Berni  are  the  <*  Orlan- 
do Innamorato,"  which  is  the  poem  of  Bojardo 
remodelled,  and  the  *'Rime  Burlesche."  He 
^wrote  also  Latin  verses  with  great  facility  and 
elegance.  In  wit,  humor,  and  burlesque,  Berni 
■tends  so  preeminent  among  the  poets  of  his 
country,  that  the  peculiar  style  in  which  he 
-verote  has  been  called  the  maniera  Bemssea. 
JElls  versification  is  light  and  graceful,  though 
the  excellence  of  his  language  is  said  to  be  the 
result  of  repeated  and  careful  corrections.  The 
^reat  blemish  of  his  works  is  their  fi«quent  and 
^roes  licentiousness. 

Bemi's  style  has  often  been  imitated,  but  by 
none  more  notoriously  than  by  Lord  Byron. 

71 


FROM  THE  OBLANDO  INNAMORATO. 
THE  author's  own  PORTRAIT. 

A  BOOH  companion,  to  increase  this  crew, 
By  chance,  a  gentle  Florentine  was  led ; 

A  Florentine,  although  the  father  who 
Begot  him  in  the  Casentine  was  bred ; 

Who,  nigh  become  a  burgher  of  his  new 
Domicil,  there  was  well  content  to  wed ; 

And  so  in  Bibbiena  wived,  which  ranks 

Among  the  pleasant  towns  on  Arno*s  banks. 

At  Lamporecchio  he  of  whom  I  write 

Was  bom,  fbr  dumb  Masetto  famed  of  yore  ; 

Thence  roamed  to  Florence;   and  in  piteous 
plight 
There  sojourned  till  nineteen,  like  pilgrim 
poor; 

And  shifted  thence  to  Rome,  with  second  flight. 
Hoping  some  succour  from  a  kinsman's  store; 

A  cardinal  allied  to  him  by  blood. 

And  one  that  neither  did  him  harm  nor  good. 

He  to  the  nephew  passed,  this  patron  dead. 
Who  the  same  measure  as  his  uncle  meted ; 

And  then  again,  in  search  of  better  bread. 
With  empty  bowels  from  his  house  retreated ; 

And  hearing — fbr  his  name  and   fame  were 
spread  — 
The  praise  of  one  who  served  the  pope  re- 
peated, 

And  in  the  Roman  court  DtUario  bight. 

He  hired  himself  to  him  to  read  and  Mrrite. 

This  trade  the  unhappy  man  believed  he  knew ; 

But  this  belief  was,  like  the  rest,  a  bubble ; 
Since  he  could  never  please  the  patron  who 

Fed  him,  nor  ever  once  was  out  of  trouble. 
The  worse  he  did,  the  more  he  had  to  do. 

And  only  made  his  pain  and  penance  double : 
And  thus,  vrith  sleeves  and  bosom  stuffed  with 

papers. 
Wasted  his  wits,  and  lived  oppressed  with  vapors. 

Add  for  his  mischief  (whether  't  was  hit  little 

Merit,  misfortune,  or  his  want  of  skill), 
Some  cures  he  ftrmed  produced  him  not  a  tittle. 

And  only  were  a  source  of  plague  and  ill : 
Fire,  water,  storm,  or  devil,  sacked  vines  and 
victual. 
Whether  the  luckless  wretch  would  tithe  or 
tUI. 
Some  pensions,  too,  which  he  possessed,  were 

naught. 
And,  like  the  rest,  produced  him  not  a  groat 

This  notwithstanding,  he  his  miseries  slighted. 
Like  happy  man  who  not  too  deeply  feels ; 

And  all,  but  most  the  Roman  lords,  delighted. 
Content  in  spite  of  tempests,  writs,  or  seals ; 

And  oftentimes,  to  make  them  mirth,  recited 
Strange  chapters  upon  urinals  and  eels ; 

And  other  mad  vagaries  would  rehearse. 

That  be  had  hitched.  Heaven  help  him !  into 
verse. 


562 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


His  mood  was  choleric,  and  his  tongae  was  vi- 
ciouB ; 

But  he  was  praised  for  singleness  of  heart. 
Not  taxed  as  avaricioiis  or  ambitious; 

Affectionate,  and  frank,  and  void  of  art, 
A  lover  of  bis  friends,  and  unsuspicious ; 

But  where  be  hated,  knew  no  middle  part ; 
And  men  his  malice  by  his  love  might  rate  : 
But  then  he  was  more  prone  to  love  than  hate. 

To  paint  his  person,  —  this  was  thin  and  dry ; 

Well  sorting  it, — his  legs  were  spare  and  lean ; 
Broad  was  his  visage,  and  his  nose  was  high, 

While  narrow  was  the  space  that  was  be- 
tween 
His  eyebrows  sharp ',  and  blue  his  hollow  eye. 

Which  for  his  bushy  beard  had  not  been  seen. 
But  that  the  maater  kept  this  thicket  cleared. 
At  mortal  war  with  moustache  and  with  beard. 

No  one  did  ever  servitude  detest 

Like  him ;  though  servitude  was  still  his  dole : 
Since  fortune  or  the  Devil  did  their  best 

To  keep  him  evermore  beneath  control. 
While,  whatsoever  was  his  patron's  best. 

To  execute  it  went  against  his  soul  > 
His  service  would  he  freely  yield,  unasked. 
But  lost  all  heart  and  hope,  if  he  were  tasked. 

Nor  mutic,  hunting-match,  nor  mirthfiil  measare. 
Nor  play,  nor  other  pastime,  moved  him  aught; 

And  if 't  was  true  that  horses  gave  him  pleasure, 
The  simple  sight  of  them  was  all  he  sought, 

Too  poor  to  purchase ;  and  his  only  treasure 
His  naked  bed ;  his  pastime  to  do  naught 

But  tumble  there,  and  stretch  his  weary  length. 

And  so  recruit  his  spirits  and  his  strength. 

Worn  with  the  trade  he  long  was  used  to  slave  in, 
80  heartless  and  so  broken  down  was  he. 

He  deemed  he  could  not  find  a  readier  haven 
Or  safer  port  from  that  tempestuous  sea. 

Nor  better  cordial  to  recruit  his  craven 
And  jaded  spirit,  when  he  once  was  fW>e, 

Than  to  betake  himself  to  bed,  and  do 

Nothing,  and  mind  and  matter  so  renew. 

On  this,  as  on  an  art,  he  would  dilate 

In  good  set  terms,  and  styled  his  bed  a  vest. 

Which,  as  the  wearer  pleased,  was  small  or  great, 
And  of  whatever  &shion  liked  him  best ; 

A  simple  mantle,  or  a  robe  of  state ; 

With  that  a  gown  of  comfort  and  of  rest : 

Since  whosoever  slipped  his  daily  clothes 

For  this,  put  off  with  these  all  worldly  woes. 

He  by  the  noise  and  lights  and  music  jaded 
Of  that  long  revel,  and  the  tramp  and  tread 

(Since  every  guest  in  his  desires  was  aided. 
And  knaves  performed  their  will  as  soon  as 
said). 

Found  out  a  chamber  which  was  uninvaded. 
And  bade  those  varlets  there  prepare  a  bed. 

Garnished  with  bolsters  and  with  pillows  fiur. 

At  its  four  borders,  and  exactly  square. 


This  was  six  yards  across  by  mensuration, 
With  sheets  and  curtains  bleached  by  wave 
and  breeze, 

With  a  silk  quilt  fer  farther  consolation. 
And  all  things  fitting  else :  thoogh  hard  to 
please. 

Six  souls  therein  had  found  aocoanmodatioa ; 
But  this  man  sighed  fbr  elbow-room  and  eaie, 

And  here  as  in  a  bed  was  fiun  to  swim. 

Extending  at  hu  pleasure  length  and  limb. 

By  chance,  with  him,  to  join  the  fairy's  traui, 
A  Frenchman  and  a  cook  was  thither  brougbt; 

One  that  had  served  in  court  with  little  gain. 
Though  he  with  sovereign  care  and  cunning 
wrought 

For  him,  prepared  with  sheet  and  counterpane, 
Another  bed  was,  like  his  fellow's,  sought: 

And  'twixt  the  two  sufficient  space  was  seen 

For  a  fair  table  to  be  placed  between. 

Upon  this  table,  fbr  the  pair  to  dine. 

Were  savory  viands  piled,  prepared  with  art; 

All  ordered  by  this  master-cook  divine ; 
Boiled,  roast,  ragouts  and  jellies,  paste  snd  tart : 

But  soups  and  syrups  pleased  the  Florentine, 
Who  loathed  fiit^e  like  death,  and,  fbr  hii 
part. 

Brought  neither  teeth  nor  fingers  into  play ; 

But  made  two  varlets  feed  him  as  he  lay. 

Here  oouchant,  nothing  but  his  head  was  spied, 
Sheeted  and  quilted  to  the  very  chin ; 

And  needful  food  a  serving-man  supplied 
Through  pipe  of  silver,  placed  the  mooth 
within. 

Meantime  the  sluggard  moved  no  part  beside. 
Holding  all  motion  else  were  shame  and  sin; 

And  (so  his  spirits  and  his  health  were  broke) 

Not  to  fiitigue  this  organ,  seldom  spoke. 

The  cook  was  Master  Peter  bight,  and  be 
Had  tales  at  will  to  while  away  the  day ; 

To  him  the  Florentine:  •^Thoee  fiM>ls,  pardie. 
Have  little  wit,  who  dance  that  endless  Hay  " ; 

And  Peter  in  return,  •*  I  think  with  thee." 
Then  with  some  merry  story  backed  the  saj, 

Swallowed  a  mouthfbl,  and  turned  round  in  bed; 

And  so,  by  starts,  talked,  turned,  and  slept,  and 

And  so  the  time  these  careless  comrades  chested, 
And  still,  without  a  change,  ate,  drank,  and 
slept. 

Nor  by  the  calendar  their  seasons  meted. 
Nor  register  of  days  or  sennights  kept : 

No  dial  told  the  passing  hours  which  fleeted. 
Nor  bell  was  beard ;  nor  servant  overstepped 

The  threshold  (so  the  pair  proclaimed  their  will) 

To  bring  them  tale  or  tidings,  good  or  ill. 

Above  all  other  curses,  pen  and  ink 

Were  by  the  Tuscan  held  in  hate  and  soon ; 

Who,  worse  than  any  loathsome  sight  or  stink} 
Detested  pen  and  paper,  ink  and  horn : 


BERNI. 


563 


So  deeply  did  a  deadly  Tenom  dnk, 

So  festered  in  his  flesh  a  rankling  thorn. 
While,  night  and  day,  with  heart  and  garments 

rent. 
Seven  weary  years  the  wretch  in  writing  spent 

or  all  their  ways  to  balBe  time  and  tide. 
This  seems  the  strangest  of  their  waking 
dreams: 
Couched  on  their  back,  the  two  the  rafUrs  eyed, 
And  taxed  their  drowsy  wits  to  count  the 
heams; 
T  is  thoa  they  mark  at  leisure  which  is  wide. 
Which  short,  or  which  of  due  ]iroportioo 
seems; 
And  which  worm-eateD  are,  and  which  are 

sound; 
And  if  the  total  sum  is  odd  or  roiud. 


THl  TWO  rOUNTJUVS  IR  THI  FOREST  OF  ARDKH. 

Thb  alabaster  Tase  was  wrought  with  gold. 
And  the  white  ground  o*erlaid  with  curious 
care; 

While  he  who  looked  within  it  might  behold 
Green  grove,  and  flowers,  and  meadow,  pic- 
tured there. 

Wise  Merlin  made  it,  it  is  said,  of  old, 
For  Tristan,  when  he  sighed  for  Tseult  ftir; 

That,  drinking  of  its  waye,  he  might  Ibrego 

The  peerless  damsel,  and  forget  his  w6e. 

But  he,  to  his  misfortune,  neyer  found 

That  fountain,  built  beneath  the  greenwood 
tree; 
Although  the  warrior  paced  a  weary  round, 
Encompassing  the  world  by  land  and  sea. 
The  wayes  which  in  the  magic  basin  bound 

Make  him  unlove  who  loves.  Nor  only  he 
Foregoes  his  former  love ;  but  that,  which  late 
Was  his  chief  pride  and  pleasure,  has  in  hate. 

Mount  Alban*s  lord,  whose  strength  and  spirits 
sink, — 

For  yet  the  sun  was  high  and  passing  hot,  — 
Stood  gazing  on  the  pearly  fountain's  brink. 

Rapt  with  the  sight  of  Uiat  delicious  spot. 
At  length  he  can  no  more,  but  stoopa  to  drink ; 

And  thirst  and  love  are  in  the  draught  for- 
got: 
For  such  the  virtue  those  cold  streams  impart, 
Changed  in  an  instant  is  the  warrior's  heart. 


Him,  with  that  forest's  wonders  unacquainted. 
Some  paces  to  a  second  water  bring. 

Of  crystal  waye  with  rain  or  soil  untainted. 
With  all  the  flowers  that  wreath  the  brows 
of  Spring 

Kind  Nature  b^  the  yerdant  margin  painted : 
And  there  a  pine  and  beech  and  oliye  fling 

fFbeir  boughs  above  the  stream,  and  form  a 
bower, 

A.  grateful  shelter  firora  the  noontide  hour. 


This  ;was  the  stream  of  Love,  upon  whose  shore 
He  chanced,  where  Merlin  no  enchantments 
shed; 

But  Nature  here,  unchanged  by  magic  lore. 
The  fountain  with  such  sovereign  virtue  fod, 

That  all  who  tasted  loved :  whence  many,  soro 
Lamenting  their  mistake,  were  ill-bested. 

Rinaldo  wandered  to  this  water's  brink, 

But,  sated,  had  no  further  wish  to  drink. 

Tet  the  delicious  trees  and  banks  produce 
Desire  to  try  the  gratefhl  shade  ;  and  needing 

Repose,  he  lights,  and  turns  his  courser  loose, 
Who  roamed  the  forest,  at  his  pleasure  foeding ; 

And  there  Rinaldo  cast  him  down,  at  truce 
With  care ;  and  slumber  to  repose  succeeding. 

Thus  slept  supine :  when  spitefol  fortune  brought 

Her  to  the  spot  whom  least  the  warrior  sought 

She  thirsts,  and,  lightly  leaping  fh>m  her  steed. 
Ties  the  gay  palfrey  to  the  lofty  pine ; 

Then  plucking  from  the  stream  a  little  reed. 
Sips,  as  a  man  might  savor  muscat  wine ; 

And  foels,  while  yet  she  drinks  (such  marvel 
breed 
The  waters  fraught  with  properties  divine). 

She  is  no  longer  what  she  was  before ;       i 

And  next  beholds  the  sleeper  on  the  shore. 


MICR0008M08. 

He,  who  the  name  of  little  world  applied 
To  man,  in  this  approved  his  subtle  wit : 

Since,  save  it  is  not  round,  all  things  beside 
Exactly  with  this  happy  symbol  fit ; 

And  I  may  say,  that  long  and  deep,  and  wide 
And  middling,  good  and  bad,  are  found  in  it. 

Here,  too,  the  various  elements  combined 

Are  dominant;  snow,  rain,  and  mist,  and  wind. 

Now  clear,  now  overcast     'T  is  there  its  land 
Will  yield  no  fhiit,  here  bears  a  rich  supply,  — - 

As  the  mixed  soil  is  marl,  or  barren  sand. 
And  haply  here  too  moist,  or  there  too  dry. 

Here  foaming  hoarse,  and  there  with  murmur 
bland. 
Streams  glide,  or  torrents  tumble  from  on  high : 

Such  of  man's  appetites  convey  the  notion ; 

Since  these  are  infinite,  and  still  in  motion. 

Two  solid  dikes  the  invading  streams  repel ; 

The  one  is  Reason,  and  the  other  Shame : 
The  torrents,  if  above  their  banks  they  swell. 

Wit  and  discretion  are  too  weak  to  tame  : 
The  crystal  waters,  which  so  smoothly  well, 

Are  appetites  of  things  devoid  of  blame. 
Thoee  winds,  and  rains,  and  snows,  and  night, 

and  day, 
Te  learned  clerks,  divine  them  as  ye  may. 

Among  these  elements,  misfortune  wills 

Our  nature  should  have  most  of  earth :  for  she, 

Moved  by  what  influence  heaven  or  sun  instils. 
Is  subject  to  their  power ;  nor  less  are  we. 


564 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


In  her,  this  itar  or  that  in  barren  bills 

Produces  mines  in  rich  variety : 
And  those  who  human  nature  wisely  scan 
May  this  discern  peculiarly  in  man. 

Who  would  believe  that  various  minerals  grew, 
And  many  metals,  in  our  rugged  mind ; 

From  gold  to  nitre  ?     Tet  the  thing  is  true ; 
But  out,  alas !  the  rub  is  how  to  find 

This  ore.  Some  letters  and  some  wealth  pursue; 
Some  fancy  steeds;  some  dream,  at  ease  re- 
clined ; 

These  song  delights,  and  those  the  cittern's 
sound  : 

Such  are  the  mines  which  in  our  world  abound. 

As  these  are  worthier,  more  or  less,  so  they 
Abound  with  lead  or  gold;    and  practised 
wight, 

The  various  soil  accustomed  to  survey. 
Is  fitted  best  to  find  the  substance  bright. 

And  such  in  our  Apulia  is  the  way 

They  heal  those  suffering  from  the  spider's 
bite. 

Who  strange  vagaries  play,  like  men  possessed ; 

TararOulaUd,  as  't  is  there  expressed. 

For  this,  't  is  needful,  touching  sharp  or  fiat. 
To  seek  a  sound   which   may  the  patients 
please ; 

Who,  when  they  find  the  merry  music  pat. 
Dance  till  they  sweat  away  the  foul  disease. 

And  thus  who  should  allure  this  man  or  that, 
And  still  with  various  offer  tempt  and  tease, 

I  wot,  in  little  time,  would  ascertain 

And  sound  each  different  mortal's  mine  and 


'T  was  so  Brunello  with  Rogero  wrought. 
Who  offered  him  the  armor  and  the  steed. 

Thus  by  the  cunning  Greek  his  aid  was  brought. 
Who  laid  fair  Ilion  smoking  on  the  mead  : 

Which  was  of  yore  in  clearer  numbers  taught; 
Nor  shall  I  now  repeat  upon  my  reed, 

Who  from  the  fUrrow  let  my  ploughshare  stray, 

Unheeding  how  the  moments  glide  away. 

As  the  first  pilot  by  the  shore  did  creep, 

Who  launched  his  boat  upon  the  billows  dark. 

And  where  the  liquid  ocean  was  least  deep, 
And  without  sails,  impelled  his  humble  bark ; 

But  seaward  next,  where  foaming  waters  leap. 
By  little  and  by  little  steered  his  ark, 

With  nothing  but  the  wind  and  stars  to  guide, 

And  round  about  him  glorious  wonders  spied  : 

Thus  I,  who  still  have  sung  a  humble  strain. 
And  kept  my  little  bark  within  its  bounds, 

Now  find  it  fit  to  launch  into  the  main, 

And  sing  the  fearfiil  warfare  which  resounds 

Where  Africa  pours  out  her  swarthy  train, 
And  the  wide  world  with  mustered  troops 
abounds ; 

And,  fanning  fire  and  forge,  each  land  and  nation 

Sends  forth  the  dreadful  note  of  preparation. 


BENEDETTO  VARCHI. 

BxHBDXTTO  Varchi,  ouo  of  the  most  labori- 
ous men  of  letters  in  the  sixteenth  century,  was 
a  native  of  Florence,  where  he  was  bora  in 
1502.  His  father  was  a  lawyer,  and  destined 
him  for  the  same  profession.  He  was  sent  first 
to  the  University  of  Padua,  where  he  made 
great  progress  in  polite  literature,  and  after- 
wards to  Pisa,  for  the  purpose  of  studying  the 
law.  On  the  death  of  his  father,  he  abandoned 
the  law  and  gave  himself  wholly  to  literature. 
Among  other  things,  he  studied  Greek  under 
the  learned  Pier  Vettori.  When  the  civil  wars 
broke  out,  he  joined  the  party  opposed  to  the 
Medici,  and  was  driven  into  exile.  He  went  to  j 
Venice,  then  to  Bologna,  then  to  Padua,  and 
again  to  Bologna.  In  the  two  cities  last  men- 
tioned he  passed  several  years  in  study,  and  in 
the  society  of  the  learned  men  who  were  there 
in  great  numbers  at  that  time.  Notwithatanding 
the  part  he  had  taken,  Duke  Cosmo  the  First 
recalled  him  to  Florence,  and  assigned  him  the 
office  of  writing  the  history  of  the  late  roTolo- 
tions,  with  a  fixed  salary.  While  he  was  en- 
gaged in  this  work,  some  persons,  whose  con- 
duct was  likely  to  appear  in  an  unfavorable 
light  in  his  history,  attacked  him  by  night,  and 
attempted  to  assassinate  him.  He  recovered 
from  his  wounds,  but  refused  to  divulge  the 
names  of  the  assailants,  though  they  were  well 
known  to  him.  Paul  the  Third  invited  him  to 
Rome,  but  he  preferred  remaining  in  Florence. 
He  died  in  1565,  of  apoplexy. 

The  principal  work  of  Varchi  is  his  volumi- 
nous history  of  Florence,  from  1527  to  1538, 
which  was  left  unfinished  at  his  death.  He 
also  wrote  many  discourses,  distinguished  for 
their  purity  of  language.  His  poetical  works 
are  «*Rime,"  "Capitoli,"  eclogues,  a  comedy, 
and  several  Latin  poems;  besides  which,  be 
translated  parts  of  Seneca,  and  BoCthius  **  De 
Consolatione."  He  read  many  papers  before 
the  Florentine  Academy,  on  morals,  philosophy, 
criticism,  and  the  arts,  which  were  marked  by 
erudition  and  elegance  of  style. 

SONNET. 
ON  TBS  TOMB  OF  PETBAKCA. 

**  Yx  consecrated  marbles,  proud  and  dear. 
Blest,  that  the  noblest  Tuscan  ye  infold, 
And  in  your  walls  his  holy  ashes  hold. 
Who,  dying,  left  none  greater,  —  none  his  peer ; 
Since  I,  with  pious  hand,  with  soul  sincere. 
Can  send  on  high  no  costly  perfumed  fold 
Of  firankincense,  and  o'er  the  sacred  mould 
Where  Petrarch  lies  no  gorgeous  altars  rear ; 
O,  scorn  it  not,  if  humbly  I  impart 
My  grateful  ofiTering  to  these  lovely  shades. 
Here  bending  low  in  singleness  of  mind ! " 
Lilies  and  violets  sprinkling  to  the  wind. 
Thus  Damon  prays,  while  the  bright  hills  and 

glades 
Murmur, «  The  gift  is  small,  but  rich  the  heart." 


DELLA   CASA COSTANZO. 


565 


GIOVANNI  DELLA  CASA. 

GioTAiriri  DBLLA  Ca8a  wai  descended,  both 
on  the  ftther*8  and  mother's  side,  from  the  no- 
blest  fkmilies  in  Florence.  He  was  bom  in  1503, 
bat  the  place  of  his  natiyity  is  unknown.  The 
troubles  which  agitated  the  city  forced  his  pa- 
rents to  expatriate  themselves  for  a  time,  and 
he  received  his  early  education  at  Bologna. 
Aflerwards  he  returned  to  Florence,  where, 
about  1524,  he  was  under  the  instruction  of 
Ubaldino  BaldinelH.  Having  chosen  the  eccle- 
siastical career,  he  went  to  Rome,  and  was  ap- 
pointed, in  1538,  Clerk  of  the  Apostolical  Cham- 
ber. Here  he  divided  his  time  between  study 
and  amusement,  perfected  his  knowledge  of 
Latin  and  Greek,  and  had  a  son  to  whom  he 
gave  the  name  of  Quirinus.  In  1540,  he  was 
sent  to  Florence,  as  Apostolical  Commissary,  to 
superintend  the  collection  of  the  church  tithes, 
and  on  tbat  occasion  was  enrolled  in  the  Floren- 
tine Academy,  of  which  he  was  considered  one 
of  the  brightest  ornaments.  Returning  to  Rome, 
he  was  promoted,  three  years  after,  in  1544, 
to  the  archbishopric  of  Benevento,  and  was  sent 
in  tho  same  year,  as  Nuncio,  to  Venice.  On  the 
death  of  Paul  the  Third,  Delia  Casa  returned  to 
Rome ;  but  fiiUing  into  disgrace  with  Julius  the 
Third,  retired  to  Venice,  where  he  lived  several 
years  in  the  tranquil  pursuit  of  literature,  inter- 
rupted only  by  the  gout.  On  the  accession  of 
Paul  ^he  Fourtb,  he  was  recalled  to  Rome,  and 
nominated  Secretary  of  State.  He  died  there, 
November  14th,  1556. 

The  early  poetical  vmtings  of  Delia  Casa 
were  stained  by  the  prevalent  licentiousness  of 
the  age,  and  have  cast  reproach  upon  his  name. 
But  he  was,  nevertheless,  an  elegant  and  vigor- 
ous writer,  both  in  Latin  and  Italian.  In  his 
**  Rime,"  published  two  years  after  his  death, 
he  surprised  the  world  by  a  vigor  of  expression 
and  a  boldness  of  imagery  to  which  the  Pe- 
trarchista  had  long  been  strangers. 

SONNETS. 

SwBET  lonely  wood,  that  like  a  friend  art  found 
To  soothe  my  weary  thoughto  that  brood  on 

woe, 
"Whilst  through  dull  days  and  short  the  north 

winds  blow, 
Numbing  with   winter's    breath   the   air  and 

ground ; 
Thy  time-worn  leafy  locks  seem  all  around, 
Like  mine,  to  whiten  with  old  age*s  snow, 
Now   that  thy  sunny  banks,  where  late  did 

grow 
The  painted  flowers,  in  frost  and  ice  are  bound. 
A.8  I  go  musing  on  the  dim,  brief  light 
That  still  of  life  remains,  then  I,  too,  feel 
The  creeping  cold  my  limbs  and  spirita  thrill : 
JBut  I  with  sharper  fh>st  than  thine  congeal ; 
Since  ruder  winds  my  winter  brings,  and  night 
or  ^eater  length,  and  days  more  scant  and  chill. 


Thxsb  marble  domes,  by  wealth  and  genius 
graced 

With  sculptured  fbrms,  bright  hues,  and  Parian 
stone, 

Were  once  rude  cabins  'midst  a  lonely  waste. 

Wild  shores  of  solitude,  and  isles  unknown. 

Pure  from  each  vice,  't  was  here  a  virtuous  train. 

Fearless,  in  fragile  barks  explored  the  sea; 

Not  theirs  a  wish  to  conquer  or  to  reign  : 

They  sought  these  island-precincto  —  to  be  free. 

Ne'er  in  their  souls  ambition's  flame  arose ; 

No  dream  of  avarice  broke  their  calm  repose ; 

Fraud,  more  than  death,  abhorred  each  artless 
breast: 

O,  now,  since  Fortune  gilds  their  brightening 
day. 

Let  not  those  virtues  languish  and  decay, 

O'erwhelmed  by  luxury,  and  by  wealth  op- 
pressed! 


ANGELO  DI  COSTANZO. 

This  writer,  known  as  a  historian  and  a 
poet,  belonged  to  a  noble  fkmily  of  Naples. 
He  was  bom  about  the  year  1507.  His  ac- 
quaintance with  Sannazzaro  and  Poderico, 
whose  friendship  he  enjoyed,  stimulated  and 
assbtod  him  in  his  studies.  He  gained  much 
reputation  by  his  poems ;  but  the  work  which 
chiefly  occupied  his  attention  was  a  history  of 
the  kingdom  of  Naples,  which  he  undertook 
by  the  advice  of  his  two  friends,  with  whom 
he  retired  to  a  villa  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Somma,  during  the  plague  of  1527.  In  the 
midst  of  his  literary  labors  he  was  exiled  from 
Naples,  for  some  unknown  cause,  and  probably 
never  returned.  He  spent  more  than  forty 
years  in  the  preparation  and  composition  of  bis 
historical  work,  which  appeared  first  in  1572, 
and  again,  corrected  and  enlarged,  in  1581.  He 
probably  died  about  the  year  1591. 

Costanzo,  as  a  poet,  is  ranked  among  the 
best  writers  of  sonneta  in  his  age.  His  style  is 
lively  and  graceful. 

SONNET. 

The  lyre  that  on  the  banks  of  Mincius  suug 
Daphnis  and  MelilxBus  in  such  strains. 
That  never  on  Arcadia's  hills  or  plains 
Have  rustic  notes  with  sweeter  echoes  rung ; 
When  now  ita  chords,  more  deep  and  tuneful 

■trung. 
Had  sung  of  rural  gods  to  listening  swains. 
And  that  great  Exile's  deeds  and  pious  pains 
Who  from  Anchises  and  the  goddess  sprung. 
The  shepherd  hung  it  on  yon  spreading  oak, 
Where,  if  winds  breathe  the  sacred  strings 

among. 
It  seems  as  if  some  voice  in  anger  spoke : 
•<  Let  none  dare  touch  me  of  the  unhallowed 

throng: 


666 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


Unless  some  kindred  hand  my  strains  awoke, 
To  Titjrrus  alone  mjr  chords  belong." 


BERNARDINO  ROTA. 

BsRiTARDiiio  Rota  was  a  contemporarj  and 
friend  of  Costanzo,  and  a  Neapolitan.  He  was 
born  in  1509.  In  early  youth  he  distingnished 
himself  by  the  elegance  of  his  compositions,  both 
in  Latin  and  in  Italian.  In  his  Italian  pieces 
he  imitated  the  style  of  Petrarch.  He  wrote 
sonnets  and  canzoni.  Many  of  his  poems  are 
consecrated  to  the  memory  of  Porzia  Capece, 
his  wife,  to  whom  he  was  tenderly  attached. 
He  died  at  Naples,  in  1575. 


SONNET. 
ON   THB  DBATH  OJ  PORZIA  CAPBCE. 

Mt  breast,  my  mind,  my  bursting  heart  shall  be 
Thy  sepulchre,  —  and  not  this  marble  tomb, 
Which  I  prepare  for  thee  in  grief  and  gloom : 
No  meaner  grave,  my  wife,  is  fitting  thee. 
O,  ever  cherished  be  thy  memory,  — 
And  may  thine  image  dear  my  path  illume. 
And  leave  my  heart  fbr  other  hopes  no  room. 
While  sad  I  sail  o*er  sorrow's  troubled  sea  ! 
Sweet,  gentle  soul,  where  thou  wert  nsed  to 

reign. 
My  spirit's  queen,  when  wrapt  in  mortal  day, 
There,  when  immortal,  shalt  thou  rule  again. 
Let  death,  then,  tear  my  love  from  earth  away ; 
Urned  in  my  bosom,  she  will  still  remain, 
Alive  or  dead,  untarnished  by  decay. 


LUIGI  TANSILLO. 

LuiGi  Taitsillo  was  bom  in  Venosa,  aboat 
the  year  1510.  He  lived  chiefly  in  Naples, 
and  served,  successively,  the  viceroy,  Don  Pe- 
dro' de  Toledo,  and  his  son,  Don  Garcia,  the 
former  of  whom  he  accompanied  in  his  Afri- 
can expedition.  He  was  a  gentleman  of  many 
noble  qualities,  and  highly  accomplished  in  the 
sciences  and  in  lettera.  His  poems  were  much 
praised  in  their  time,  some  even  preferring  them 
to  Petrarch's.  He  has  been  called,  also,  the 
inventor  of  the  pastoral  drama.  His  death  oc- 
curred about  159i5. 


FROM  LA  BAUA. 
THE  MOTHER. 

Ahd  can  ye,  then,  whilst  Nature's  voice  divine 
Prascribes  your  duty,  to  yourselves  confine 
Tour  pleased  attention  ?    Can  ye  hope  to  prove 
More  bliss  from  selfish  joys  than  social  love  .' 


Nor  deign  a  mother's  best  delights  to  share. 
Though  purchased  oft  with  watchfhlness  and 

care? — 
Pursue  your  course,  nor  deem  it  to  your  shame 
That  the  swart  African,  or  Parthian  dame. 
In  her  bare  breast  a  softer  heart  infolds 
Than  your  gay  robe  and  cultured  boeom  holds : 
Tet  hear,  and  blush,  whilst  I  the  truth  diacloae. 
Than  you  the  ravening  beast  more  pity  knows. 
Not  the  wild  tenant  of  the  Hyreanian  wood. 
Intent  on  slaughter,  and  athirat  for  blood. 
E'er  turns  regardless  from  her  ofibpring's  cries. 
Or  to  their  thirst  the  plenteous  rill  denies. 
Gaunt  is  the  wol^ —  the  tiger  fierce  and  strong ; 
Tet,  when  the  safety  of  their  helpless  young 
Alarms  their  fisars,  the  deathftil  war  they  wage 
With  strength  unconquered  and  resistless  rage. 
One  lovely  babe  your  fiietering  care  demands ; 
And  can  ye  trust  it  to  a  hireling's  hands. 
Whilst  ten  young  wolvelings  shelter  find  and 

rest 
In  the  soft  precincts  of  their  mother's  breast, 
'Till  forth  they  rush,  with  vigorous  nurture  bold. 
Scourge  of  the  plain,  and  tenror  of  the  fold  ? 

Mark,  too,  the  feathered  tenants  of  the  air  : 
What  though  their  breasts  no  milky  fouotain 


Tet  well  may  youn  a  soft  emotion  prove. 

From  their  example  of  maternal  love. 

On  rapid  wing  the  anxious  parent  flies 

To  bring  her  helpless  brood  their  due  supplies. 

See  the  young  pigeon  from  the  parent  beak 

With  struggling  eagerness  its  nurture  take! 

The  hen,  whene'er  the  long-sought  grain  is 

found. 
Calls  with  assiduous  voice  her  young  around  ; 
Then  to  her  breast  the  little  stragglera  brings, 
And  screens  from  danger  by  her  guardian  wings. 
Safo  through  the  day,  beneath  a  mother's  eye. 
In  their  warm  nests  the  unfledged  cygnets  lie ; 
But  when  the  sun  withdraws  Us  garish  beam, 
A  father's  wing  supports  them  down  the  stream. 
Tet  still  more  wondrous  Tif  the  long-told  tale 
Hide  not  some  moral  trutn  in  fiction's  veil). 
The  pelican  her  proper  bosom  tears, 
And  with   her  blood  her  numerous  offiipring 

rean; 
Whikt  you  the  balmy  tide  of  lifo  restrain. 
And  truth  may  plead,  and  fiction  court,  in  vain. 

Ton  fikvorite  lap-dog,  that  your  steps  attends, 
Peru,  or  Spain,  or  either  India  sends. 
What  feara  ye  foel,  as  slow  ye  take  your  way. 
Lest  from  its  path  the  minion  chance  to  stray  ! 
At  home  on  cushions  pillowed  deep  he  lies. 
And  silken  slumbera  veil  his  wakeful  eyes ; 
Or  still  more  fkvored,  on  your  snowy  breast 
He  drinks  your  fragrant  breath,  and  sinks  to 

rest: 
Whilst  your  young  babe,  that  from  its  mother's 

side 
No  threats  should  sever,  and  no  foree  divide. 
In  hapless  hour  is  banished  far  aloof 
Not  only  from  your  breast,  —  but  from  your  roof. 


TANSILLO GUARINI. 


567 


THE  HIRELINO   MUR8I. 

What  oeaieleis  dread  a  mother's  breast  alarmi, 
Whilst  her  loved  offipriog  fills  another's  arms ! 
Foarful  of  ill,  she  starts  at  every  noise. 
And  hears,  or  thinks  she  hears,  her  children's 

cries; 
Whilst,  more  imperious  grown  from  day  to  day. 
The  greedy  nurse  demands  increase  of  pay. 
Vexed  to  the  heart  with  anger  and  expense, 
Toa  hear,  nor  murmur  at,  her  proud  pretence ; 
Compelled  to  bear  the  wrong  with  semblance 

mild. 
And  soothe  the  liireiing  as  she  soothes  your  child. 
But  not  the  dainties  of  Lucullus*  feast 
Can  gratify  the  nurse's  pampered  taste  ; 
Nor,  though  your  babe,  in  infant  beauty  bright. 
Spring  to  its  mother's  arms  with  fond  delight. 
Can  all  its  gentle  blandishments  suffice 
To  compensate  the  torments  that  arise 
From  her  to  whom  its  early  years  you  tmst, 
Intent  on  spoil,  ungrateful,  and  unjust. 


Were  modem  truths  inadequate  to  show 
That  to  your  young  a  sacred  debt  you  owe, 
Not  hard  the  task  to  lengthen  out  my  rhymes 
With  sage  examples  drawn  from  ancient  times. 
Of  Rome's  twin  founders  ofl  the  bard  has  sung. 
For  whom  the  haggard  wolf  fbrsook  her  young: 
True  emblem  she  of  all  the  unnatural  crew 
Who  to  another  give  their  offspring's  due. 
But  say,  when,  at  a  Saviour's  promised  birth. 
With  secret  gladness  throbbed  the  conscious 

earth. 
Whose  fostering  care  his  infant  wants  repressed  ? 
Who  laved  his  limbs,  and  hushed  his  cares  to 

rest? 
She,  at  whose  look  the  proudest  queen  might 

hide 
Her  gilded  state,  and  mourn  her  humbled  pride : 
She  all  her  bosom's  sacred  stores  unlocked. 
His  footsteps  tended,  and  his  cradle  rocked ; 
Or,  whilst  the  altar  blazed  with  rites  divine, 
Assiduous  led  him  to  the  sacred  shrine  : 
And,  sure,  the  example  will  your  conduct  guide, 
If  true  devotion  in  your  hearts  preside. 

But  whence  these  sad  laments,  these  moumfhl 

sighs. 
That  all  around  in  solemn  breathings  rise  ? 
The  accusing  strains,  in  sounds  distinct  and  clear. 
Wake  to  the  sense  of  guilt  your  startled  ear. 
flark  in  dread  accents  Nature's  self  complain, 
ier  precepts  slighted,  and  her  bounties  vain ! 
}ee,  sacred  Pity,  bending  fh>m  her  skies, 
Turns  from  the  ungenerous  deed  her  dewy  eyes ! 
latemal  fondness  gives  her  tears  to  flow 
n  all  the  deeper  energy  of  woe ; 
Vbilet  Christian  Charity,  enshrined  above, 
Vhose  name  is  mercy  and  whose  soul  is  love, 
'eels  the  just  hatred  that  your  deeds  inspire, 
kDd  where  she  smiled  in  kindness  burns  with 

ire. 
ee,  true  Nobility  laments  his  lot, 
idignant  of  the  foul,  degrading  blot ; 


And  Courtesy  and  Courage  o'er  him  bend. 
And  all  the  virtues  that  his  state  attend ! 
But  whence  that  ory  that  steals  upon  the  sense  ? 
T  is  the  low  wail  of  injured  innocence  ; 
Accents  unfbrmed,  that  yet  can  speak  their 

wrongs 
Loud  as  the  pleadings  of  a  hundred  tongues. 
See  in  dread  witness  all  creation  rise. 
The  peopled  earth,  deep  seas,  and  circling  skies ; 
Whilst  conscience,  with  consenting  voice  within. 
Becomes  accomplice  and  avows  the  sin ! 


GIOVANNI  BATTISTA   GUARINI. 

GiovARVi  Battista  GuARiiri,  the  celebra- 
ted author  of  the  '<  Pastor  Fido,"  was  bom  at 
Ferrara,  in  1537.  He  studied  at  Fenrara,  Pisa, 
and  Padua,  and  was  for  several  years  Professor 
of  Belles-lettres  in  the  University  of  the  firat- 
mentioned  city.  At  the  age  of  thirty,  he  enter- 
ed the  service  of  the  duke  <^  Ferrara,  fh>m  whom 
he  received  the  honor  of  knighthood.  In  1577, 
he  was  sent  to  congratulate  the  new  doge  of 
Venice,  and  the  discourse  which  he  delivered 
on  that  occasion  was  printed.  Gnarini  was 
charged  with  many  other  important  embassies 
by  the  duke.  He  was  sent  successively  to  the 
duke  of  Savoy,  to  the  emperor,  to  Henry  the 
Third,  when  he  was  elected  king  of  Poland, 
and  idterwards  into  Poland,  to  advocate  the 
claims  of  Duke  Alphonso,  when  the  throne  of 
that  country  had  been  abandoned  by  Henry.  He 
was  appointed  Secretary  of  State,  in  1585,  as  a 
reward  for  his  services,  but  was  dismissed  from 
office  within  two  yean.  He  was  compelled, 
through  the  influence  of  the  duke,  who  had  be- 
come his  enemy,  to  leave  the  courts  of  Savoy 
and  Mantua;  but  afUr  Alphonso's  death,  went 
to  Florence,  and  was  received  with  great  honor 
by  the  Grand  Duke  Ferdinand,  into  whose  ser- 
vice he  entered  in  1597.  Quitting  this  service 
in  a  short  time,  he  went  to  Urbino,  and  then 
returned  to  Ferrara.  In  1605,  he  was  sent  by 
his  native  city  to  congratulate  Paul  the  Fiflh  on 
his  accession  to  the  papal  chair.  He  died  in 
1612,  at  Venice,  whither  he  had  been  called  by 
a  lawsuit  in  which  he  bad  involved  himself. 

Guarini  is  considered  one  of  the  best  writers 
of  Italy.  His  style,  both  in  prose  and  poetry, 
is  distinguished  by  purity  and  elegance.  His 
chief  works  are,  letters,  a  dialogue  called  "  U 
Segretario,"  five  orations  in  Latin,  a  comedy 
entitled  *<Idropica,"  **Rime,"  and  especially 
the  pastoral  drama,  already  mentioned,  called 
**I1  Pastor  Fido,"  by  which  he  is  principally 
known  to  other  nations.  It  has  been  translated 
into  most  of  the  languages  of  Europe,  and,  among 
the  rest,  five  or  six  times  into  English.  The 
translation  by  Sir  Richard  Fanshaw,  originally 
published  in  1647,  has  gone  through  several 
editions,  besides  being  several  times  remodelled 
by  other  writera. 


668 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


FROM  IL  PASrrOR  FIDO. 

How  I  forsook 
Elis  and  Piia  after,  and  betook 
Myself  to  Argos  and  Mycenas,  where 
An  earthly  god  I  worshipped,  with  what  there 
I  suffered  in  that  hard  capUvity, 
Would  be  too  long  for  thee  to  hear,  for  me 
Too  sad  to  utter.     Only  thus  much  know }  — 
I  lost  my  labor,  and  in  sand  did  sow : 
I  writ,  wept,  sung ;  hot  and  cold  fits  I  had ; 
I  rid,  I  stood,  I  bore,  now  sad,  now  glad. 
Now   high,   now  low,  now  in  esteem,  ^ow 

scorned ; 
And  as  the  Delphic  iron,  which  is  turned 
Now  to  heroic,  now  mechanic  use, 
I  feared  no  danger,  —  did  no  pains  refiise ; 
Was  all  things, — and  was  nothing;  changed 

my  hair, 
Condition,  custom,  thoughts,  and  life,  —  but 

ne'er 
Could  change  my  fortune.   Then  I  knew  at  last. 
And  panted  after,  my  sweet  fi'eedom  past. 
So,  flying  smoky  Argos,  and  the  great 
Storms  that  attend  on  greatness,  my  retreat 
I  made  to  Pisa,  —  my  thought's  quiet  port. 

Who  would  haTe  dreamed  'midst  plenty  to  grow 

poor; 
Or  to  be  less,  by  toiling  to  be  more  ? 
I  thought,  by  how  much  more  in  princes'  courts 
Men  did  excel  in  titles  and  supports. 
So  much  the  more  obliging  they  would  be, 
The  best  enamel  of  nobility. 
But  now  the  contrary  by  proofi  I  're  seen : 
Courtiers  in  name,  and  courteous  in  their  mien. 
They  are ;  but  in  their  actions  I  could  spy 
Not  the  least  transient  spark  of  courtesy. 
People,  in  show,  smooth  as  the  calmed  waves, 
Tet  cruel  as  the  ocean  when  it  raves : 
Men  in  appearance  only  did  I  find, — 
Love  in  the  face,  but  malice  in  the  mind ; 
With  a  straight  look  and  tortuous  heart,  and  lea^t 
Fidelity  where  greatest  was  professed. 
That  which  elsewhere  is  virtue  is  vice  there : 
Plain  truth,  fiiir  dealing,  love  unfeigned,  sincere 
Compassion,  faith  inviolable,  and 
An  innocence  both  of  the  heart  and  hand. 
They  count  the  folly  of  a  soul  that 's  vile 
And  poor,  —  a  vanity  worthy  their  smile. 
To  cheat,  to  lie,  deceit  and  theft  to  use. 
And  under  show  of  pity  to  abuse. 
To  rise  upon  the  ruins  of  their  brothers. 
And  seek  their  own  by  robbing  praise  from  oth- 
ers. 
The  virtues  are  of  that  perfidious  race. 
No  worth,  no  valor,  no  respect  of  place. 
Of  age,  or  law,  —  bridle  of  modes^,  — 
No  tie  of  love  or  blood,  nor  memory 
Of  good  received ;  nothing 's  so  venerable, 
Sacred,  or  just,  that  is  inviolable 
By  that  vast  thirst  of  riches,  and  desire 
Unquenchable  of  still  ascending  higher. 
Now  I,  not  fearing,  since  I  meant  not  ill, 
And  in  court-craft  not  having  any  skill. 


Wearing  my  thoughts  charactered  on  my  brow, 
And  a  glass  window  in  my  heart, — judge  tbou 
How  open  and  how  fair  a  mark  my  heart 
Lay  to  their  envy's  unsuspected  dart 


TORQUATO  TASSO. 

ToRt^UATO  Tasso,  whose  genius  is  so  splen- 
did an  ornament  to  the  annals  of  his  couDtrj, 
and  whose  misfortunes  fill  one  of  the  most  af- 
fecting chapters  in  the  history  of  the  human 
mind,  was  born  at  Sorrento,  March  11th,  1544. 
His  fother  was  Bernardo  Tasso,  of  whom  a 
notice  has  already  been  given;  his  mother 
was  Porzia  Rossi.  The  morning  of  bis  life 
opened  under  the  fairest  auspices.  His  ftther 
was  distinguished  and  proeperons;  high  in  rank, 
and  enjoying  the  smiles  of  fortune  and  the  favor 
of  the  great.  Torquato  was  sent  early  to  the 
schools  of  the  Jesuits  in  Naples,  and  his  biogra- 
phers describe  his  progress  as  rapid  and  marvel- 
lous. Bernardo  Tasso,  having  been  obliged  to 
leave  Naples,  sent  for  his  son  to  join  bins  in 
Rome,  where  his  education  was  carefully  contin- 
ued under  the  superintendence  of  MaurizioCat- 
taneo,  and  he  acquired  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
the  Latin  and  Greek  languages.  At  the  age  of 
twelve,  he  went  by  his  father's  direction  to 
Padua,  to  study  the  severer  sciences,  and  ap- 
plied himself  with  such  diligence,  that  at  the 
age  of  seventeen  he  received  the  honors  in  the 
four  departments  of  ecclesiastical  and  civil  law, 
theology,  and  philosophy.  The  study  of  juris- 
prudence was  not,  however,  to  his  taste;  his 
genius  attracted  him  to  poetry,  and,  about  a  year 
after,  his  epic  poem  **  Rinaldo  "  appeared,  which 
he  dedicated  to  the  Cardinal  Luigi  d*  Bate.  It 
spread  the  reputation  of  the  young  poet  rapidly 
through  Italy,  and  some  pronounced  it  equal  to 
the  best  works  of  the  kind  that  had  been  written 
in  Italian.  Torquato  was  now  permitted  to  de- 
vote himself  wholly  to  letters.  He  accepted  an 
invitation  to  the  University  of  Bologna,  recently 
established  by  Pope  Pius  the  Fourth  and  Pier 
Donato  Cesi,  bishop  of  Nami.  While  pursuing 
his  studies  earnestly  at  this  seat  of  literature,  and 
enjoying  the  conversation  of  the  learned  men 
who  had  been  collected  there,  Tasso  commenced 
the  execution  of  the  plan  he  had  previously 
formed,  of  writing  an  epic  poem  on  the  Con- 
quest of  Jerusalem.  Being  falsely  accused  of 
having  written  some  satirical  verses,  he  left 
Bologna,  and  went  to  Padua,  on  the  invitation 
of  Scipio  Gonzaga,  who  had  founded  an  acade- 
my in  that  city.  Here  he  continued  his  literaiy 
pursuits  with  unabated  ardor,  and  made  his 
studies  centre  upon  the  epic  poem  which  was 
constantly  in  his  mind.  The  dedication  of  his 
«« Rinaldo "  to  the  Cardinal  Luigi  commended 
him  to  the  favorable  notice  of  the  poweriiil 
family  of  Este,  and,  in  1565,  he  was  invited 
to  the  court  of  Alphonso  the  Second,  duke  of 


TORQUATO  TASSO. 


Ferrara,  where  he  aniyed  in  October,  1565, 
and  was  present  at  the  splendid  festivities  with 
which  the  marriage  of  the  duke  and  the  arch- 
dacheis  Barbara  of  Austria  was  celebrated. 
Tasao  was  received  with  every  demonstration 
of  respect  The  sisters  of  the  duke,  Lucretia 
and  Leonora,  gave  him  their  friendship.  The 
duke  assigned  him  lodgings  and  a  handsome 
support,  being  desirous  that  he  should  complete 
the  poem  on  which  he  had  now  been  some 
years  engaged.  In  1570,  he  accompanied  the 
cardinal  to  France,  and  received  ftom  the  king, 
Charles  the  Ninth,  from  the  court,  and  from  the 
learned  men  of  the  University  the  most  flat- 
tering testimonials  of  regard.  He  acquired  the 
fnendship,  among  others,  of  the  poet  Ronsard. 
He  returned  to  Italy  the  following  year,  and  re- 
sumed the  composition  of  his  poem.  Soon 
after  this  time,  while  Alphonso  was  absent  on  a 
journey  to  Rome,  Tasso  wrote  the  idyllic  drama, 
**  Aminta,"  which  he  had  long  been  meditating. 
On  the  return  of  the  duke,  it  was  represented 
with  the  greatest  splendor.  Tasso  then  visited 
Pesaro,  where  he  was  kindly  welcomed  by  the 
old  prince  Guidnbaldo.  He  returned  to  Ferrara 
in  a  few  months,  and  occupied  himself  again 
with  his  epio  poem ;  but  a  fbver  which  he  con- 
tracted in  a  journey  to  Venice  interrupted  his 
labors.  In  1575,  however,  h%  finished  the 
poem,  and  wishing  to  subject  it  to  the  criticism 
of  his  friends,  obtained  leave  to  visit  Rome, 
where  he  was  well,  received  by  Scipione'di 
Gonzaga,  and  the  other  eminent  persons  there. 
On  his  return  to  Ferrara,  the  duke  conferred 
upon  him  the  vacant  office  of  Historiographer  of 
the  house  of  Este,  and  at  this  time  the  young 
and  beautiful  countess  Leonora  Sanvitale,  whose 
name  is  interwoven  with  Tas80*s  sad  history, 
arrived  there. 

And  now  commences  the  dark  and  inexpli- 
cable period  of  Tasso's  life.     This  is  not  the 
place  to  enter  at  great  length  into  the  melan- 
choly details.    The  poet's  exquisitely  organized 
mind  seems,  by  degrees,  to  have  lost  its  bal- 
ance ;  the  eflfects  of  repeated  illness,  and  the 
vexations  caused  by  peveral  imperfect  and  sur- 
reptitious editions  of  his  poems,  reduced  him  to 
a  morbid  and  unhappy  state ;  he  became  gloomy, 
suspicious,  and  irritable,  and,  at  length,  in  1577, 
fled  fh>m  Ferrara,  and  reaching  Sorrento  in  a  s^ate 
of  great  destitution,  took  refbge  with  his  sister 
Cornelia.     He  returned  to  Ferrara,  but  his  mel- 
ancholy again  overcoming  him,  he  escaped  a 
second  time,  and  after  seeking  reffage  in  Man- 
tua, Padua,  and  Venice,  was  received  at  the 
court  of  Urbino ;  but  the  kindness  and  friend- 
ship with  which  he  was  treated  were  all  in 
vain.     He  lefl  Urbino  in  a  most  unhappy  state 
and  went  to  TVirin.    Finally,  he  returned  again 
to  Ferrara,  where  he  was  coldly  received,  and 
his  misfortunes  consequently  rose  to  their  height. 
Irritated   beyond  endurance  by  this  treatment, 
be  broke  forth  into  violent  reproaches  against 
tbe  duke  and  his  court,  and  was  arrested  and 
abut  up  in  the  hospital  of  Santa  Anna  as  a 
78 


madman.  The  unfortunate  poet  was  confined 
in  this  dreary  abode,  surrounded  by  the  most 
appalling  sights  and  sounds  of  human  misery, 
more  than  seven  years,  notwithstanding  the 
repeated  and  urgent  intercessions  of  the  most 
eminent  persons  in  Italy  for  his  liberation. 
During  this  time,  he  was  visited  by  the  most 
distinguished  men,  who  lightened  his  suffering 
by  spontaneous  and  heartfelt  tributes  to  his 
genius.  Nor  was  his  pen  idle  in  this  sad  in- 
terval. Innumerable  letters,  poetical  composi- 
tions, and  admirable  replies  to  the  assailants 
of  his  epic  were  written  by  him  in  his  lucid 
moments.  The  motive  of  this  long  and  appar- 
ently cruel  imprisonment  of  Tasso,  which  has 
left  an  indelible  blot  on  the  name  of  Alphonso, 
has  been  the  subject  of  many  inquiries,  but  has 
never  been  satisfactorily  explained.  The  most 
thorough  and  scholarlike  investigation  of  this 
part  of  the  poet's  history  is  contained  in  a  work 
by  Richard  Henry  Wilde,  entitled  **  Conjectures 
and  Researches  concerning  the  Love,  Madness, 
and  Imprisonment  of  Torquato  Tasso  "  (2  vols. 
12mo.,  New  Tork,  1842),  to  which  the  reader 
is  referred. 

At  length,  in  1586,  Alphonso  yielded  to  the 
intercession  of  his  brother-in-law,  Vincenzo 
Gonzaga,  prince  of  Mantua,  and  liberated  Tas- 
so. He  went  in  the  autumn  of  the  same  year 
to  Mantua,  where  he  was  kindly  received,  and 
resumed  his  literary  labors,  completing,  among 
other  things,  the  poem  of  "  Floridante,"  which 
had  been  commenced  by  his  father.  After  the 
"death  of  the  duke  of  Mantua,  Tasso  went  to 
Rome,  and  in  1588,  to  Naples,  for  the  purpose 
of  settling  some  lawsuits  concerpine  the  fortune 
of  his  parents.  The  last  years  of  his  life  were 
divided  between  Rome  and  Naples,  except  a 
few  months  in  1590,  which  he  passed  in  Flor- 
ence, by  the  invitationof  the  Grand  Duke  Fer- 
dinand. His  sufferings  both  of  mind  and  body, 
and  the  destitution  to  which  he  was  often  re- 
duced, present  one  of  the  most  piteous  specta- 
cles of  the  vicissitudes  of  fortune.  He  arrived 
at  Rome  for  the  last  time  in  November,  1594 ; 
his  friend,  the  cardinal  Cintio  Aldobrandini, 
having  procured  for  him  from  the  pope  the 
honor  of  a  coronation  in  the  Capitol.  The 
ceremony  was,  however,  postponed  until  the 
spring.  During  the  winter,  his  health  rapidly 
fkiled,  and  conscious  that  his  death  was  ap- 
proaching, he  ordered  himself  to  be  carried  to 
the  monastery  of  Saint  Onofrio,  where  he  died 
April  25th,  1595,  the  day  which  had  been  fixed 
for  his  coronation. 

To  high  attributes  of  genius  Tasso  united  a 
passionate  love  of  learning,  and  an  industry  in 
its  acquisition  which  made  him  one  of  the  pro- 
fbundest  scholars  in  an  erudite  age.'  His  works 
were  wrought  out  with  the  most  conscientious 
care,  and  with  consummate  art.  He  had  bril- 
liant powers  of  invention,  and  a  strength  of 
imagination  unsuvpassed ;  he  possessed  at  the 
same  time  a  love  of  order  and  a  keen  sense  of 
just  proportion,  which  led  him  to  a  nice  arrange- 
w2 


570 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


meot  of  the  parts  and  a  thorough  elaboratioc  of 
his  designs,  and  rarely  permitted  his  exuberant 
genius  to  transcend  the  bounds  of  good  taste. 
His  writings  are  so  numerous,  that  we  find  it  dif- 
ficult to  conceive  how  he  could  have  produced 
them  all  in  so  short  and  troubled  a  life.  They 
embrace  every  species  of  verse  and  many  kinds 
of  prose,  —  epic,  lyric,  and  dramatic  poetry,  let- 
ters, essays,  and  critical  discourses.  His  great 
work,  **La  Oerusalemme  Liberata,"  though 
criticised  with  unsparing  severity  on  its  firat  ap- 
pearance, and  since  then  by  some  of  the  ablest 
French  writers, — particularly  by  Boileau,— 
has  become  one  of  the  most  popular  epics  in 
modern  literature,  and  may  be  placed  very 
nearly,  if  not  quite,  at  the  head  of  all  the  epics 
that  have  been  written  since  the  days  of  Virgil. 
His  principal  works  have  passed  through  innu- 
merable editions,  and  have  been  transferred  into 
most  of  the  languages  of  Europe.  The  **  Oe- 
rusalemme Liberata "  has  been  translated  into 
English  at  least  eight  times.  Of  these  transla- 
tions,  the  most  in  repute  is  that  of  Fairfax. 

FEOM  AMINTA. 
THS  OOLDKN  AOK. 

O  LovxLT  age  of  gold  ! 
Not  that  the  rivers  rolled 
With  milk,  or  that  the  woods  wept  honeydew ; 
Not  that  the  ready  ground 
Produced  without  a  wound, 
Or  the  mild  serpent  had  no  tooth  that  slew ; 
Not  that  a  cloudless  blue 
For  ever  was  in  sight. 
Or  that  the  heaven,  which  bums 
And  now  is  cold  by  turns. 
Looked  out  in  glad  and  everlasting  light ; 
No,  nor  that  even  the  insolent  ships  from  far 
Brought  war  to  no  new  lands,  nor  riches  worse 
than  war : 

But  solely  that  that  vain 
And  breath-invented  pain. 
That  idol  of  mistake,  that  worshipped  cheat, 
That  Honor,  —  since  so  called 
By  vulgar  minds  appalled, — 
Played  not  the  tyrant  with  our  nature  yet. 
It  had  not  come  to  fret 
The  sweet  and  happy  fold 
Of  gentle  human-kind  ; 
Nor  did  its  hard  law  bind 
Souls  nursed  in  freedom ;  but  that  law  of  gold. 
That  glad  and  golden  law,  all  free,  all  fitted. 
Which   Nature's    own    hand  wrote,  —  What 
pleases  is  permitted. 

Then  among  streams  and  flowers 

The  little  winged  powers 

Went  singing  carols  without  torch  or  bow ; 

The  nymphs  and  shepherds  sat 

Mingling  with  innocent  chat 

Sports  and  low  whispers ;  and  with  whispers  low, 

Kisses  that  would  not  go. 

The  maiden,  budding  o*er, 


Kept  not  her  bloom  uneyed. 
Which  now  a  veil  must  hide. 
Nor  the  crisp  apples  which  her  bosom  bore  i 
And  oftentimes,  in  river  or  in  lake, 
The  lover  and  his  love  their  merry  bath  would 
take. 

'T  was  thou,  thou,  Honor,  first 

That  didst  deny  our  thirst 

Its  drink,  and  on  the  fount  thy  covering  eet ; 

Thou  bad*st  kind  eyes  withdraw 

Into  constrained  awe. 

And  keep  the  secret  fbr  their  tears  to  wet ; 

Thou  gather*dst  in  a  net 

The  tresses  from  the  air. 

And  mad*st  the  sports  and  plays 

Turn  all  to  sullen  ways. 

And  putt'st  on  speech  a  rein,  in  steps  a  care. 

Thy  work  it  is,  —  thou  shade,  that  wilt  not 

move,  — 
That  what  was  once  the  gift  u  now  the  theft 

of  Love. 

dur  sorrows  and  our  pains, 
These  are  thy  noble  gains. 
But,  O,  thou  Loxe*B  and  Nature's  maaterer. 
Thou  conqueror  of  the  crowned, 
What  dost  thou  on  this  ground. 
Too  small  a  circle  for  thy  mighty  sphere  ? 
Go,  and  make  slumber  dear 
To  the  renowned  and  high ; 
We  here,  a  lowly  race. 
Can  live  without  thy  grace. 
After  the  use  of  mild  antiqnity. 
Go,  let  us  love ;  since  years 
No  truce  allow,  and  life  soon  disappears ; 
Go,  let  us  love ;  the  daylight  dies,  is  bora ; 
But  unto  us  the  light 

Dies  once  fbr  all ;  and  sleep  brings  on  etemml 
night.  

FROM  LA  OBRTOALEMMK  || 

ARRIVAL   OF  THE  CRUSADERS  AT  JERUSALEM. 

The  purple  morning  left  her  crimson  bed. 
And  donned  her  robes  of  pure  vermilion  hae  ; 

Her  amber  locks  she  crowned  with  rosea  red. 
In  Eden's  flowery  gardens  gathered  new ; 

When  through  the  camp  a  murmur  shrill  was 
spread: 
«<Arm!  arm!"  tfaeyeried;  ^Anal  ama!" 
the  trumpets' blew : 

Their  merry  noise  prevents  the  joyfhl  blast ; 

So  hum  small  bees,  before  their  swarms  they  caet. 

Their  captain  rules  their  coorage,  guides  their 
heat, 
Their  fbrwvdness  he  stayed  with  gentle  rein ; 
And  yet  more  easy,  haply,  were  the  feat. 

To  stop  the  current  near  Charybdis*  main. 
Or  calm  the  blustering  winds  on  mountains  great. 
Than  fierce  desires  of  warlike  hearts  restrain ; 
He  rules  them  yet,  and  ranks  them  io  their 

hsste. 
For  well   he   knows  disordered  speed   makes 
waste. 


TORQUATO  TASSO. 


571 


Feathered  their  thoughts,  their  Ibet  ia  wings 
were  digbt ; 

Swiftly  they  marched,  yet  were  not  tired 
thereby ; 
For  willing  minds  make  heaviest  burdens  light : 

But  when  the  gliding  sun  was  mounted  high, 
Jerusalem,  behold,  appeared  in  sight ; 

Jerusalem  they  view,  they  see,  they  spy ; 
Jerusalem  with  merry  noise  they  greet. 
With  joyful  shouts,  and  aoclaniations  sweet 

As  when  a  troop  of  jolly  sailors  row. 
Some  new-ibund  land  and  ooantry  to  descry. 

Through  dangerous  seas  and  under  stars  nnknow, 
Tbnll  to  the  Pithless  waves  and  trothless 
iky; 

If  onee  the  wished  shore  begin  to  show, 
They  all  salute  it  with  a  joyfiil  cry, 

And  each  to  other  show  the  land  in  haste. 

Forgetting  quite  their  pains  and  perils  past. 

To  that  delight  which  their  first  sight  did  breed, 
That  pleased  so  the  seeret  of  their  thought, 

A  deep  repentance  did  forthwith  succeed. 
That  reverend  fear  and   trembling  with  it 
brought. 

Scantly  they  durst  their  feeble  eyes  dispread 
Upon  that  town,  where  Christ  was  sold  and 
bought, 

Where  for  our  sins  he,  fimltless,  suffered  pain. 

There  where  he  died,  and  where  he  lived  again. 

Soft  words,  low  speech,  deep  sobs,  sweet  sighs, 
salt  tears 
Rose  from  their  breasts,  with  joy  and  pleasure 
mixed ; 
For  thus  fares  he  the  Lord  aright  that  fbars ; 

Fear  on  devotion,  joy  on  fiiith  is  fixed : 
Such  noise  their  passions  make,  as  when  one 
hears 
The  hoarse  sea-waves  roar  hollow  rocks  be- 
twixt; 
Or  as  the  wind  in  holts  and  shady  greaves 
A  murmur  makes,  among  the  boughs  and  leaves. 


Their  naked  feet  trod  on  the  dusty  way. 

Following  the  ensample  of  their  zealous  guide ; 
Their  scarfs,  their  crests,  their  plumes,  and  feath- 
ers gay 
They  quickly  dollbd,  and  willing  laid  aside ; 
Their  molten  hearts  their  wonted  pride  allay. 
Along  their  watery  cheeks  warm  tears  down 
slide. 
And  then  such  seoret  speech  as  this  they  used. 
While  to  himself  each  one  himself  accused  :  — 

**  Flower  of  goodness,  root  of  lasting  bliss. 
Thou  well  of  life,  whose  streams  were  purple 
blood, 

That  flowed  here  to  cleanse  the  foul  amiss 
Of  sinful  man,  behold  this  brinish  flood. 

That  from  my  melting  heart  distilled  is ! 

Receive  in  gree  these  tears,  O  Lord  so  good ! 

For  never  wretch  with  sin  so  overgone 

Had  fitter  time  or  greater  cause  to  moan.'* 


This  while  the  wary  watchman  looked  over. 
From  top  of  8ion*s  towers,  the  hills  and  dales. 

And  saw  the  dust  the  fields  and  pastures  cover. 
As  when  thick  mists  arise  fi'om  moory  vales : 

At  last  the  sun-bright  shields  he  'gan  discover. 
And  glistering  helms,  for  violence  none  that 
&ils; 

The  metal  shone  like  lightning  bright  in  skies. 

And  man  and  horse  amid  the  dust  descries. 

Then  loud  he  cries,  *^  O,  what  a  dust  ariseth ! 

O,  how  it  shines  with  shields  and  targets  clear ! 
Up !  up !  to  arms !  for  valiant  heart  despisetb 

The  threatened  storm  of  death,  and  danger 


Behold  your  foes ! "  Then  further  thus  deviseth : 
**  Haste !  haste !  for  vain  delay  increaseth  fear : 
These  horrid  clouds  of  dust,  that  yonder  fly. 
Tour  coming  foes  do  hide,  and  hide  the  sky.'* 

The  tender  children,  and  the  fathers  old. 
The  aged  matrons,  and  the  virgin  chaste. 

That  durst  not  shake  the  spear,  nor  target  hold. 
Themselves  devoutly  in  their  temples  placed ; 

The  rest,  of  members  strong  and  courage  bold. 
On  hardy  breasts  their  harness  donned  in  haste ; 

Some  to  the  walls,  some  to  the  gates  them  dight; 

Their  king  meanwhile  directs  them  all  aright. 


BRMIMIA'8  rLIOHT. 

Erminia*8  Steed  this  while  his  mistress  bore    - 
Through  forests  thick  among  the  shady  treen. 

Her  foeble  hand  the  bridle-reins  forlore. 
Half  in  a  swoon  she  was  for  foar  I  ween ; 

But  her  fleet  courser  spared  ne'er  the  more 
To  bear  her  through  the  desert  woods  unseen 

Of  her  strong  foes,  Sint  chased  her  through  the 
plain. 

And  still  pursued,  but  still  pursued  in  vain. 

Like  as  the  weary  hounds  at  last  retire. 

Windless,  displeased,  from  the  fruitless  chase. 

When  the  sly  beast,  tapised  in  bush  and  brier. 
No  art  nor  pains  can  rouse  out  of  his  place ; 

The  Christian  knights,  so  foil  of  shame  and  ire. 
Returned  back,  with  faint  and  weary  pace : 

Yet  still  the  foarful  dame  fled  swift  as  wind, 

Nor  ever  staid  nor  ever  looked  behind. 

Through  thick  and  thin,  all  night,  all  day,  she 
drived, 

Withouten  comfort,  company,  or  guide ; 
Her  plaints  and  tears  with  every  thought  revived. 

She  heard  and  saw  her  griefs,  but  naught  be- 
side ; 
But  when  the  sun  his  burning  chariot  dived 

In  Thetis'  wave,  and  weary  team  untied, 
On  Jordan's  sandy  banks  her  course  she  stayed 
At  last ;  there  down  she  light,  and  down  she  laid. 

Her  tears  her  drink,  her  food  her  sorrowings. 
This  was  her  diet  that  unhappy  night : 

But  sleep,  that  sweet  repose  and  quiet  brings 
To  ease  the  griefi  of  discontented  wight. 


572 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


Spread  forth  his  tender,  soft,  and  nimble  wings, 

In  hifl  dull  arms  folding  the  virgin  bright ; 
And  Love,  his  mother,  and  the  Graces  kept 
Strong  watch  and  ward,  while  thisfiur  lady  slept. 

The  birds  awaked  her  with  their  morning  song. 
Their  warbling  music  pierced  her  tender  ear ; 
The   murmuring  brooks  and  whistling  winds 
among 
The  rattling  boughs  and  leaves^their  parts  did 
bear; 
Her  eyes  unclosed  beheld  the  groves  along, 
Of  swains  and  shepherd  grooms  that  dwellings 
were ; 
And  that  sweet  noise,  birds,  winds,  and  waters 

sent, 
Provoked  again  the  virgin  to  lament 

Her  plaints  were  interrupted  with  a  sound 
That  seemed  from  thickest  bushes  to  proceed ; 

Some  jolly  shepherd  sung  a  lusty  round. 
And  to  his  voice  had  tuned  his  oaten  reed  ; 

Thither  she  went ;  an  old  man  there  she  found. 
At  whose  right  hand  his  little  flock  did  feed. 

Sat  making  baskets,  his  three  sons  among. 

That  learned  their  father's  art,  and  learned  his 
song. 

Beholding  one  in  shining  arms  appear. 

The  seely  man  and  his  were  sore  dismayed ; 

But  sweet  Erminia  comforted  their  fbar. 
Her  vental  up,  her  visage  open  laid : 

(*  Tou  happy  folk,  of  Heaven  beloved  dear, 
Work  on,"  quoth  she,  **upon  your  harmless 
trade; 

These  dreadful  arms  I  bear  no  warfare  bring 

To  your  sweet  toil,  nor  those  sweet  tunes  you 
sing. 

"  But,  father,  since  this  land,  these  towns  and 
towers. 

Destroyed  are  with  sword,  with  fire,  and  spoil, 
How  may  it  be,  unhurt  that  you  and  yours 

In  safety  thus  apply  your  harmless  toil  ?  '* 
'*  My  son,"  quoth  he,  **  this  poor  estate  of  ours 

Is  ever  safe  from  storm  of  warlike  broil ; 
This  wilderness  doth  us  in  safety  keep ; 
No  thundering  drum,  no  trumpet,  breaks  our 
sleep. 

**  Haply  just  Heaven's  defence  and  shield  of  right 
Doth  love  the  innocence  of  simple  swains ; 

The  thunderbolts  on  highest  mountains  light. 
And  seld  or  never  strike  the  lower  plains : 

So  kings  have  cause  to  fear  Bellona*s  might, 
Not  they  whose  sweat  and  toil  their  dinner 
gains; 

Nor  ever  greedy  soldier  was  enticed 

By  poverty,  neglected  and  despised. 

«*  O  Poverty !  chief  of  the  heavenly  brood ! 

Dearer  to  me  than  wealth  or  kingly  crown ! 
No  wish  for  honor,  thirst  of  others*  good. 

Can  move  my  heart,  contented  with  mine 
own : 


We  quench  our  thirst  with  water  of  this  flood, 
Nor  fear  we  poison  should  therein  be  thrown; 
These  little  flocks  of  sheep  and  tender  goats 
Give  milk  for  food,  and  wool  to  make  us  coats. 

«  We  little  wish,  we  need  but  little  wealth. 
From  cold  and  hunger  us  to  clothe  and  feed ; 

These  are  my  sons,  their  care  preserves  from 
stealth 
Their  father's  flocks,  nor  servants  more  I  need : 

Amid  these  groves  I  walk  ofl  for  my  health. 
And  to  the  fishes,  birds,  and  beasts  give  heed, 

How  they  are  fed  in  forest,  spring,  and  lake, 

And  their  contentment  for  ensample  take. 

^  Time  was  (for  each  one  hath  his  doting  time, — 
These  silver  locks  were  golden  tresses  then) 

That  country  lifo  I  hated  as  a  crime. 

And  from  the  forest's  sweet  contentment  ran ; 

To  Memphis'  stately  palace  would  I  climb. 
And  there  became  the  mighty  caliph's  man. 

And  though  I  but  a  simple  gardener  were, 

Tet  could  I  mark  abuses,  see  and  hear. 

**  Enticed  on  with  hope  of  fbtnre  gain, 

I  suffered  long  what  did  my  soul  displease ; 

But  when  my  youth  was  spent,  my  hope  was 
vain; 
I  folt  my  native  strength  at  last  decrease  ; 

I  'gan  my  loss  of  lusty  years  complain. 

And  wished  I  had  enjoyed  the  country's  peace; 

I  bade  the  court  farewell,  and  with  content 

My  later  age  here  have  I  quiet  spent." 

While  thus  he  spake,  Erminia,  hushed  and  still. 
His  wise  discourses  heard  with  great  atten- 
tion; 
His  speechea  grave  those  idle  fancies  kill. 
Which  in  her  troubled  soul  bred  such  dissen- 
sion.' 
After  much  thought  reformed  was  her  will, 
Within  those  woods  to  dwell  was  her  inten- 
tion. 
Till  fortune  should  occasion  new  afford 
To  turn  her  home  to  her  desired  lord. 

She  said,  therefore,  —  ^<  O  shepherd  fortnnate ! 

That  troubles  some  didst  whilom  feel  and 
prove. 
Yet  livest  now  in  this  contented  state. 

Let  my  mishap  thy  thoughts  to  pity  move, 
To  entertain  me  as  a  willing  mate 

In  shepherd's  life,  which  I  admire  and  love ; 
Within  these  pleasant  groves  perchance  my  heart 
Of' her  discomforts  may  unload  some  part. 

*'  If  gold  or  wealth,  of  most  esteemed  dear. 
If  jewels  rich  thou  diddest  hold  in  prize. 

Such  store  thereof,  such  plenty,  have  I  here, 
As  to  a  greedy  mind  might  well  suffice." 

With  that  down  trickled  many  a  silver  tear. 
Two  crystal  streams  fell  from   her  watery 
eyes; 

Part  of  her  sad  misfortunes  then  she  told« 

And  wept,  and  with  her  wept  that  shepherd  old, 


'■} 


TOR^UATO  TASSO. 


673 


With  speecboB  kind  ho  'gan  the  Ywpn  dear 
Towarda  hia  cottage  gently  home  to  guide ; 

HJ4  aged  wife  there  m^  her  homely  cheer. 
Yet  welcomed  her,  and  placed  her  by  her  aide. 

The  princeaa  donned  a  poor  paatora'a  gear, 
A  kerchief  coarae  upon  her  bead  ahe  tied ; 

But  jet  her  geaturea  and  her  looka,  I  gueaa. 

Were  auch  aa  ill  beaeemed  a  ahepherdeaa. 

Not  thoae  rude  garmenta  coold  obacure  and  hide 
The  heavenly  beaaty  of  her  angel'a  ftce. 

Nor  waa  her  princely  ofipring  damnified 
Or  anght  diaparaged  by  thoae  labora  baae. 

Her  little  flocka  to  paatnre  would  ahe  guide. 
And  milk  her  goata,  and  in  their  fblda  them 
place ; 

Both  cheeae  and  butter  could  ahe  make,  and 
frame 

Henelf  to  pleaae  the  ahepherd  and  hia  dame. 

But  oft,  when  underneath  the  greenwood  ahade 
Her  flocka  lay  hid  from  Pboabua'  acorching 
raya. 
Unto  her  knight  ahe  aonga  and  aonneta  made, 
And  them  engraved  in  bark  of  beech  and 
baya; 
She  told  bow  Cupid  did  her  firat  invade. 
How  qonquered  her,  and  enda  with  Tancred*a 
praiae: 
And  when  her  paanon'a  writ  ahe  over  read. 
Again  ahe  mourned,  again  aalt  teara  ahe  abed. 

'<  Ton  happy  treea,  fbrever  keep,'*  quoth  ahe, 
**  Thia  woful  atory  in  your  tender  rind ; 

Another  day  under  your  ahade,  maybe, 
Will  come  to  reat  again  aome  lover  kind. 

Who,  if  theae  tropbiea  of  my  grieft  he  aee. 
Shall  feel  dear  pity  pierce  hia  gentle  mind.*' 

With  that  ahe  aighed,  and  said,  **  Too  late  I  prove 

There  ia  no  truth  in  Fortune,  truat  in  Love. 


<«  Yet  may  it  be,  if  gracioua  Heavena  attend 
The  eameat  auit  of  a  diatreiaed  wight, 

At  my  entreat  they  will  vouchaafe  to  aend 
To  theae  huge  deaerta  that  unthankfUl  knight ; 

That,  when  to  earth  the  man  his  eyee  aball  bend, 
And  aee  my  grave,  my  tomb,  and  aahea  light. 

My  wofhl  death  hia  atubborn  heart  may  move 

With  teara  and  aorrowa  to  reward  my  love. 

**  So,  though  my  life  hath  moat  unhappy  been. 
At  leaat  yet  ahall  my  apirit  dead  be  bleat ; 

My  ashea  cold  ahall,  buried  on  thia  green, 
JBnjoy  that  good  thia  body  ne'er  poaaeaaed." 

Thus  she  complained  to  the  aenaeleas  treen ; 
Flooda  in  her  eyea,  and  firea  were  in  her  breaat ; 

Bat  he  for  whom  theae  atreama  of  teara  ahe 
shed 

Wandered  far  oiT,  alaa !  aa  chance  him  led. 

He  Ibllowed  on  the  feotatepa  he  had  traced. 
Till  in  high  wooda  and  foreata  old  he  came, 

IVhere  bnahea,  thoma,  and  treea  ao  thick  were 
placed. 
And  ao  obacure  the  ahadowa  of  the  aaroe, 


That  aoon  he  loat  the  track  wherein  he  paced ; 
Tet  went  he  on,  which  way  he  could  not  aim ; 
But  atill  attentive  waa  hia  longing  ear. 
If  noiae  of  horw  or  notae  of  arma  he  hear. 

If  with  the  breathing  of  the  gentle  wind 
An  aapen-leaf  but  shaked  on  the  tree. 

If  bird  or  beaat  etirred  in  the  buahea  blind. 
Thither  he  apurred,  thither  he  rode  to  aee. 

Out  of  the  wood,  by  Cynthia'a  favor  kind. 
At  laat  with  travail  great  and  paina  got  he, 

And  following  on  a  little  path,  he  heard 

A  rumbling  aound,  and  baated  thitherward. 

It  waa  a  fountain  from  the  living  atone, 

"  That  poured  down  clear  atreama  in  noble  atore, 

Whoae  conduit  pipea,  united  all  in  one. 

Throughout  a  rocky  channel  ghaatly  roar. 
Here  Tancred  atayed,  and  called,  yet  anawered 
none, 

Save  babbling  echo  from  the  crooked  ahore ; 
And  there  the  weary  knight  at  laat  eapiea 
The  apringing  daylight  red  and  white  ariae. 

He  aighed  sore,  and  guiltleaa  Heaven  'gap  blame. 
That  wished  success  to  his  desires  denied, 

And  sharp  revenge  protested  for  the  same, 
If  aught  but  good  hia  miatreaa  fiur  betide. 

Then  wiabed  he  to  return  the  way  he  came, 
Although  he  wist  not  by  what  path  to  ride ; 

And  time  drew  near  when  he  again  muat  fight 

With  proud  Argantes,  that  vainglorioua  knight. 


CANZONE. 
TO  TBS  PRINCESSES  OF  rBKRARA. 

Fair  daughtera  ofRenh !  my  song 

Is  not  of  pride  and  ire. 

Fraternal  discord,  hate,  and  wrong, 

Burning  in  life  and  death  ao  strong. 

From  rule's  accuraed  desire. 

That  even  the  flamea  divided  long 

Upon  their  fbneral  pyre :  * 

But  you  I  aing,  of  royal  birth, 

Nuraed  on  one  breast  like  them ; 

Two  flowera,  both  lovely,  blooming  forth 

From  the  same  parent  stem,  — 

Cherished  by.  heaven,  beloved  by  earth,  — 

Of  each  a  treaaured  gem ! 

To  you  I  speak,  in  whom  we  see 

With  wondrous  concord  blend 

Sense,  worth,  fame,  beauty,  modesty,— 

Imploring  you  to  lend 

Compassion  to  the  misery 

And  sufferings  of  your  firiend. 

The  memory  of  years  gone  by, 

O,  let  me  in  your  hearta  renew,  — 

The  acenes,  the  thoughta  o'er  which  I  sigh. 

The  happy  days  I  spent  with  you ! 

And  what,  I  ask,  and  where  am  I,  — > 


1  Etoodes  and  PolynlcM,  who  fell  bj  each  oiheea  hands, 
and  whose  aahaa  an  aid  lo  have  separated  od  the  fhneiml 
pHa. 


674 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


And  what  I  was,  and  why  seciuded,  — 
Whom  did  I  trust,  and  who  deluded  ? 

Daughters  of  heroes  and  of  kings. 

Allow  me  to  recall 

These  and  a  thousand  other  things,— 

Sad,  sweet,  and  mournful  all ! 

From    me   few    words,   more    tears,   grief 

wrings,  — 
Tears  burning  as  they  fall. 
For  royal  halls  and  festire  bowers, 
Where,  nobly  serring,  I 
Shared  and  beguiled  your  private  hours, 
Studies,  and  sports,  I  sigh ; 
And  lyre,  and  trump,  and  wreathed  flowers ; 
Nay  more,  for  freedom,  health,  applause, 
And  even  humanity's  lost  laws  ! 

Why  am  I  chased  fh>m  human  kind  ? 
What  Circe  in  the  lair 
Of  brutes  thus  keeps  me  spell-confined .' 
Nests  have  the  birds  of  air. 
The  very  beasts  in  caverns  find 
Shelter  and  rest,  and  share 
At  least  kind  Nature's  gifts  and  laws ; 
For  each  his  food  and  water  draws 
From  wood  and  fountain,  where. 
Wholesome,  and  pure,  and  safe,  it  was 
Furnished  by  Heaven's  own  care ;    ' 
And  all  is  bright  and  blest,  because 
Freedom  and  health  are  there  ! 

I  merit  punishment,  I  own  > 

I  erred,  I  must  confess  it ;  yet 

The  fault  was  in  the  tongue  alone,— 

The  heart  is  true.     Forgive  !  forget !  -» 

I  beg  for  mercy,  and  my  woes 

May  claim  with  pity  to  be  heard ; 

If  to  my  prayers  your  ears  you  close. 

Where  can  I  hope  for  one  kind  word, 

In  my  extremity  of  ill  ? 

And  if  the  pang  of  hope  deferred 

Arise  from  discord  in  your  will. 

For  roe  must  be  revived  again 

The  fate  of  Metius,  and  the  pain.* 

I  pray  you,  then,  renew  for  me 

The  charm  that  made  you  doubly  fair ; 

In  sweet  and  virtuous  harmony 

Urging  resistlessly  my  prayer 

With  him,  for  whose  loved  sake,  I  swear, 

I  more  lament  my  fault  than  pains. 

Strange  and  unheard-of  as  they  are. 


SONNETS. 

If  Love  his  captive  bind  with  ties  so  dear, 
How  sweet  to  be  in  amorous  tangles  caught ! 
If  such  the  food  to  snare  my  fiwedom  brought. 
How  sweet  the  baited  hook  that  lured  me  near ! 
How  tempting  sweet  the  limed  twigs  appear ! 
The  chilling  ioe  that  warmth  like  mine  has 
wrought ! 

s  Melius  wu  torn  uuDdar  by  wild  hones. 


Sweet,  too,  each  painfiil  unimparted  thought ! 
The  moan  how  sweet  that  others  loathe  to  hear ! 
Nor  less  delight  the  wounds  that  inward  smart, 
The  tears  that  my  sad  eyes  with  moisture  slain. 
And  constant  wail  of  blow  that  deadly  smote. 
If  this  be  life, — I  would  expose  my  heart 
To  countless  wounds,  and  bliss  from  each  shoaU 

gain; 
If  death,  —  to  death  I  would  my  days  devote. 


Tht  unripe  yduth  seemed  like  the  purple  rose 
That  to  the  warm  ray  opens  not  its  breast. 
But,  hiding  still  within  its  mossy  vest. 
Dares  not  its  virgin  beauties  to  disclose  ; 
Or  like  Aurora,  when  the  heaven  first  g^ows,— 
For  likeness  from  above  will  suit  thee  best,  — 
When  she  with  gold  kindles  each  mountain  crest, 
And  o'er  the  plain  her  pearly  mantle  throws. 
No  loss  firom  time  thy  riper  age  re<:eives. 
Nor  can  young  beauty  decke^  with  art's  display 
Rival  the  native  graces  of  thy  form  : 
Thus  lovelier  is  the  flower  whoee  full-blown 

leaves 
Ferfhme  the  air,  and  more  than  orient  ray 
The  sun's  meridian  glories  blaze  and  warm. 


I  s»  the  anchored  bark  with  streamers  gay. 
The  beckoning  pilot,  and  unrufi9ed  tide, 
The  south  and  stormy  north  their  fury  hide. 
And  only  zephyrs  on  the  waters  play : 
But  winds  and  waves  and  skies  alike  betray ; 
Others  who  to  their  flattery  dared  confide. 
And  late  when  stars  were  bright  sailed  forth  in 

pride. 
Now  breathe  no  more,  or  wander  in  dismay. 
I  see  the  trophies  which  the  billows  heap. 
Torn  sails,  and  wreck,  and  gravelese  bones  that 

throng 
The  whitening  beach,  and  spirits  hovering  round: 
Still,  if  for  woman's  sake  this  cruel  deep 
I  must  essay,  —  not  shoals  and  roclu  among. 
But  'mid  the  Sirens,  may  my  bones  be  found ! 


Thrxx  high-born  dames  it  was  my  lot  to  see. 
Not  all  alike  in  beauty,  yet  so  fair. 
And  so  akin  in  act,  and  look,  and  air. 
That  Nature  seemed  to  say,  ^  Sisters  are  we !  ** 
I  praised  them  all, — but  one  of  all  the  three 
So  charmed  me,  that  I  loved  her,  and  became 
Her  bard,  and  sung  my  passion,  and  her  name. 
Till  to  the  stars  they  soared  past  rivalry. 
Her  only  I  adored,  — >  and  if  my  gaze 
Was  turned  elsewhere,  it  was  but  to  admire 
Of  her  high  beauty  some  far-scattered  rays, 
And  vrorship  her  in  idols,  >— fond  desire. 
False  incense  hid ;  —  yet  I  repent  my  praise, 
As  rank  idolatry  'gainst  Love's  true  fire. 


While  of  the  age  in  which  the  heart  but  ill 
Defends  itself^  —  and  in  thy  native  land. 


TORQUATO  TASSO. 


675 


Love  and  thine  eyes  unable  to  withstand, — 
They  won  me,  and,  though  distant,  dazxle  atill. 
Hither  I  came,  intent  my  mind  to  fill 
With  wisdom,  study-gathered  from  on  high  ; 
Bat  loathed  to  part,  so  that  to  stay  or  fly 
Kept  aad  still  keep  sore  struggle  in  my  will. 
And  DOW,  all  careless  of  the  heat  and  cold, 
With  ceaseless  vigils,  Laura,  night  and  day, 
That  thou  a  worthier  lover  may'st  behold. 
For  thee  to  fame  I  strive  to  win  my  way : 
Then  love  me  still,  and  let  me  be  consoled 
With  hope  until  I  meet  thine  eyes*  bright  ray. 


Till  Laura*  comes,  —  who  now,  alas!    else- 
where 
Breathes,  amid  fields  and  forests  hard  of  heart, — 
Berefl  of  joy  I  stray  from  crowds  apart 
In  this  dark  vale,  'mid  grief  and  ire's  foul  air. 
Where  there  is  nothing  left  of  bright  or  fair. 
Since  Love  has  gone  a  rustic  to  the  plough. 
Or  feeds  his  flocks,— or  in  the  summer  now 
Handles  the  rake,  now  plies  the  scythe  with  care. 
Happy  the  mead  and  valley,  hill  and  wood, 
Where  man  and  beast,  and  almost  tree  and 

stone. 
Seem  by  her  look  with  sense  and  joy  endued ! 
What  is  not  changed  on  which  her  eyes  e'er 

shone  ? 
The  country  courteous  grows,  the  city  rude. 
Even  from  her  presence  or  her  loss  alone. 


TO  HI8  L1.DT,  THB  8P0USB  OF  ANOTHBR. 

Shs,  who,  a  maiden,  taught  me,  Love,  thy  woes. 
To-morrow  may  become  a  new-made  bride. 
Like,  if  I  err  not,  a  fresh-gathered  rose. 
Opening  her  bosom  to  the  sun  with  pride  : 
But  him,  for  whom  thus  flushed  with  joy  it 

blows. 
Whene'er  I  see,  my  blood  will  scarcely  glide; 
If  jealousy  my  ice-bound  heart  should  close. 
Will  any  ray  of  pity  thaw  iu  tide  ? 
Thou  only  know'st.     And  now,  alas !  I  baste 
Where  I  must  mark  that  snowy  neck  and  breast 
By  envied  fingers  played  with  and  embraced : 
How  shall  I  live,  or  where  find  peace  or  rest, 
If  one  kind  look  on  me  she  will  not  waste 
To  hint  not  vain  my  sighs,  nor  all  unblest  ? 


TO    THE  DUCHESS  OF  FBRRARA,  WHO  AFPBARKD 
MASKED   AT   A   f£tB. 

'T  WAS  night,  and  underneath  her  starry  Test 
The  prattling  Loves  were  hidden,  and  their  arts 
Practised  so  cunningly  upon  our  hearts. 
That  never  felt  they  sweeter  scorn  and  jest : 
Thousands  of  amorous  thefis  their  skill  attest, — 
All  kindly  hidden  by  the  gloom  from  day ; 
A  thousand  visions  in  each  trembling  ray 
Flitted  around,  in  bright,  fidse  splendor  dressed. 

1  In  this  sonnet  the  mder  will  obsenre  that  there  is  a 
play  upon  the  name  Laura;— L*  aura  signifying,  in  Ital* 


The  clear,  pure  moon  rolled  on  her  starry  way 
Without  a  cloud  to  dim  her  silver  light ; 
And  high-bom  beauty  made  our  revels  gay. 
Reflecting  back  on  heaven  b^ams  as  bright,— 
Which  even  with  the  dawn  fled  not  away. 
When  chased  the  sun  such  lovely  ghosts  from 
night. 


ON  TWO  BEAUTIFUL  LADIES,  ONE  OAT   AND 
ONE  SAD. 

I  SAW  two  ladies  once,— .illustrious,  rare;  — 
One  a  sad  sun  ;  her  beauties  at  mid-day 
In  clouds  concealed ;— the  other,  bright  and  gay. 
Gladdened,  Aurora-like,  earth,  sea,  and  aif. 
One  hid  her  light,  lest  men  should  call  her  fair. 
And  of  her  praises  no  reflected  ray 
Suffered  to  cross  her  own  celestial  way ;  — 
To  charm  and  to  be  charmed,  the  other's  care. 
Tet  this  her  loveliness  veiled  not  so  well. 
But  forth  it  broke ;  —  nor  could  the  other  show 
All  hers,  which  wearied  mirrors  did  not  tell. 
Nor  of  this  one  could  I  be  silent,  though 
Bidden  in  ire ; — nor  that  one's  triumphs  swell; 
Since  my  tired  verse,  o'ertasked,  refused  to  flow. 


TO  THE  COUNTESS  OF  8CANDIA. 

Sweet  pouting  lip !  whose  color  mocks  the  rose. 
Rich,  ripe,  and  teeming  with  the  dew  of  bliss, — 
The  flower  of  Lqye's  fbrbldden  fruit,  which 

grows 
Insidiously  to  tempt  us  with  a  kiss. 
Lovers,  take  heed !  shun  the  deceiver's  art ; 
Mark  between  leaf  and  leaf  the  dangerous  snare. 
Where  serpent-like  he  lurks  to  sting  the  heart ; 
His  fell  intent  I  see,  and  cry,  **  Beware  ! " 
In  other  days  his  victim,  well  I  know 
The  wiles  that  cost  me  many  a  pang  and  sigh. 
Fond,  thoughtless  youths !  take  warning  from 

my  woe ; 
Apples  of  Tantalus,— those  buds  on  high. 
From  the  parched  lips  they  eourt,  retiring  go ; 
Love's  flames  and  poison  only  do  not  fly. 


TO  AN   ungrateful  FRIEND. 

Fortune's  worst  shafts  could  ne'er  have  reached 

ne  more. 
Nor  Envy's  poisoned  fkngs.     By  both  assailed. 
In  innocence  of  soul  completely  mailed, 
I  scorned  the  hate  whose  power  to  wound  was 

-o'er; 
When  thou— whom  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I 

wore. 
And  as  my  rook  of  refuge  ofUn  sought  — 
Turned  on  myself  the  very  arms  I  wrought ; 
And  Heaven  beheld,  and  suffered  what  I  bore  ! 
O  holy  Faith !  O  Love !  how  all  thy  laws 
Are  mocked  and  scorned! — I  throw  my  shield 

away. 
Conquered  by  fitmd.  —  Go,  seek  thy  feat's  ap- 
plause. 


576 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


Traitor!    yet  still  half  mourned,  —  with  fond 

delay.  — 
The  hand,  not  blow,  is  of  my  tears  the  cause, 
And  more  thy  guilt  than  my  own  pain  I  weigh ! 


TO  LAMBKKTO,   AGAINST  A  CALUMNT. 

Falsi  is  the  tale  by  enrious  Rumor  spread,  — 
False  are  the  hearts  wherein  it  sprung  and  grew, 
And  fiilse  the  tongues  that  first  its  poison  shed, 
And  others  to  believe  their  malice  drew. 
But  that  the  Furies  lent  it  gall  is  true,  — 
And  true  it  is  that  Megara  supplies 
Its  thousand  slanders,  heaping  old  on  new, 
And  grieving  still  she  cannot  add  more  lies : 
O,  were  they  ever  to  be  reached  by  steel, 
Shorn  from  her  bust,  on  earth  should  writhe 

and  trail 
Her  slimy  snake-like  folds,  —  thus  taught  to 

feel! 
But  thou,  Lamberto,  the  detested  tale 
Wilt  banish  from  men's  minds  with  friendly 

zeal. 
And  Falsehood's  overthrow  fair  Truth  shall 

hail! 


HI  C0MPARB8  HIMSKLF  TO  ULT88E8. 

Wakderikg  Ulysses  on  the  storm-vexed  shore 
Lay  amid  wrecks,  upon  the  sand  scarce  dry, 
Nalced  and  sad  ;  hunger  and  thirst  he  bore, 
And  hopeless  gazed  upon  the  sea  and  sky; 
When  there  appeared — so  willed  the  Fates  on 

high  — 
A  royal  dame  to  terminate  his  woe : 
**  Sweet  fVuits,"  she  said,  **  sun-tinged  with  every 

dye, 
My    ihther*i    garden    boksts,  —  wouldst    taste 

them?  Go!" 
For  me,  alas !  though  shivering  in  the  blast 
I  perish,  —  a  more  cruel  shipwreck  mine,  — 
Who  from  the  beach,  where  famishing  I  *m  cast, 
Will  point  to  royal  rooft,  for  which  I  pine. 
If  't  is  not  thoUf — moved  by  my  prayers  at 

last?  — 
What  shall  I  call  thee?— Goddess!  by  each 

sign. 

TO  ALPH0M80,  DUKB  Or  PERRAKA. 

A4  thy  loved  name  my  voice  grows  load  and 

clear. 
Fluent  my  tongne  as  thou  art  wise  and  strong, 
And  soaring  far  above  the  clouds  my  song ; 
But  soon  it  droops,  languid  and  faint  to  hear ; 
And  if  thou  conqnerest  not  my  fate,  I  fear. 
Invincible  Alphonso,  Fate  ere  long 
Will  conquer  me, —  freezing  in  death  my  tongue 
And  closing  eyes,  now  opened  with  a  tear. 
Nor  dying  merely  grieves  me,  let  me  own. 
But  to  die  thus,  —  with  &ith  of  dubious  sound, 
And  buried  name,  to  future  times  unknown. 
In  tomb  or  pyramid,  of  brass  or  stone. 
For  this,  no  consolation  could  be  found ; 
My  monument  I  sought  in  verse  alone. 


A  HELL  of  torment  is  this  life  of  mine ; 
My  sighs  are  as  the  Furies  breathing  flame; 
Desires  around  my  heart  like  serpento  twine, 
A  bold,  fierce  throng  no  skill  or  art  may  tame. 
As  the  lost  race  to  whom  hope  never  came. 
So  am  I  now, — for  me  all  hope  is  o'er; 
My  tears   are  Styx,  and   my  complaints  and 

shame 
The  fires  of  Fhlegethon  but  stir  the  mors. 
My  voice  is  that  of  Cerberus,  whose  bark 
Fills  the  abyss,  and  echoes  frightfully 
Over  the  stream,  dull  as  my  mind,  and.dark: 
In  this  alone  less  hard  my  fate  may  be, 
That  there  poor  ghosts  are  of  foul  fiends  the 

mark, 
While  here  an  earthly  goddess  tortures  me. 


TO  THE  DUKB  ALPHONSO. 

Mt  gracious  lord  !  if  you,  indeed,  complain 
Of  the  rude  license  of  my  angry  tongue, 
Not  from  my  heart,  believe   me,  sprang  the 

wrong,  — 
It  honors  you,  and  feels  itself  the  pain : 
Nor  should  a  few  rash,  daring  words,  and  vain, 
Weigh  against  praises,  well  matured  and  long, 
By  love  and  study  woven  into  song. 
Which  neither  ire  nor  avarice  can  stain. 
Why  tedious  sufiering,  then,  for  transient  crime, 
And  brief  rewards  for  ever-during  feme  ? 
Such  was  not  royal  guerdon  in  old  time ! 
Tet  my  -right  reasoning  is  perhaps  to  blame : 
Honor    you    gave,   not  borrowed,   from  my 

rhyme,  — 
Which  to  your  merit's  grandeur  never  came ! 


TO  THE  DUKE  ALPHONSO,  ASKING  TO  BB 
LIBERATED. 

A  Hsw  Izion  upon  Fortune's  wheel. 
Whether  I  sink  profound  or  rise  sublime, 
One  never-ceasing  martyrdom  I  feel. 
The  same  in  woe,  though  changing  all  the  time. 
I  wept  above,  where  sunbeams  sport  and  climb 
The  vines,  and  through  their  foUage  sighs  the 

breeze ; 
I  burned  and  froze,  languished  and  prayed  in 

rhyme ; 
Nor  could  your  ire,  nor  my  own  grief  appease : 
Now  in  my  prison,  deep  and  dim,  have  grown 
My  torments  greater  still  and  keener  &r, 
As  if  all  sharpened  on  the  dungeon-stone. 
Magnanimous  Alphonso !  burst  the  bar. 
Changing  my  fate,  and  not  my  cell  alone ; 
And  let  my  fortune  wheel  me  where  yon  are ! 


TO  THE  PRINCESSES  OP  PBRRARA. 

StsTBRS  of  great  Alphonso !  to  the  west 
Three  times  have  sped  the  coursers  of  the  sua, 
Sinc^  sick  and  outraged  I  became  a  jest. 
And  sighed  o'er  all  that  cruel  Fate  has  done : 
Wretched  and  vile  whatever  meets  my  eye 


TORQUATO  TASSO.  — CHIABRERA. 


577 


Without  me,  wheresoever  I  g&ze  around ; 

Within,  indeed,  my  former  virtues  lie, 

Thoagh  ebame  and  torment 's  the  reward  thej 

We  ibund. 
Ay !  in  my  soul  are  tmth  and  honor  still,— 
Such  ts,  if  iMen,  the  world  were  proud  to  own ; 
And  your  sweet  images  my  bosom  fill : 
Bat  lovely  idols  ne'er  content  alone 
True  hearts;  and  mine,  though  mocked  and 

leomed  at  will. 
Is  still  your  temple,  altar,  shrine,  and  throne. 


TO  THI  MOST  ILLUSTRIOUS  AND  8BRENS  LORD 
DUKB. 

I  swoRx,  my  lord !  but  my  unworthy  oath 
Was  a  base  sacrilege  which  cannot  bind, 
Since  God  alone  directs  and  governs,  both, 
The  greatest  of  his  works,  the  human  mind. 
Reason  I  hold  from  Him.  Who  would  not  loathe 
Such  gift,  a  pledge  in  Power's  vile  hands  to  find  f 
Do  not  forget,  my  lord,  that  even  the  sway 
Of  sovereign  kings  has  bounds  at  which  it  ends; 
Past  them  they  rule  not,  nor  should  we  obey. 
He,  who  to  any  mortal  being  benda, 


One  step  beyond,  sins  'gainst  the  light  of  day. 
Thus,  then,  my  soul  her  servile  shackles  rends ! 
And  my  sound  mind  shall   henceforth   none 

obey 
But  Him  whose  reign  o'er  kings  and  worlds 

extends. 


TO  8CIPI0  eOMZAGA. 

Sure,  Pityi  Scipio,  on  earth  has  fled 

From  royal  breasts  to  seek  abode  in  heaven  ; 

For  if  she  were  not  banished,  scorned,  or  dead. 

Would  not  some  ear  to  my  complaints  be  given? 

Is  noble  faith  at  pleasure  to  be  riven. 

Though  freely  pledged  that  I  had  naught  to 

dread. 
And  I  by  endless  outrage  to  be  driven 
To  worse  than  death,— the  death-like  life  I  've 

led.' 
For  this  is  of  the  quick  a  grave  ;  and  here 
Am  I,  a  living,  breathing  corpse,  interred, 
To  go  not  forth  till  prisoned  in  my  bier. 
O  earth !  O  heaven !  if  love  and  truth  are  heard, 
Or  honor,  fame,  and  virtue  worth  a  tear. 
Let  not  my  prayers  be  fruitless  or  deferred ! 


FOURTH  PERIOD.-FROM  1600  TO  1844. 


OABRIELLO  CHUBRERA. 

Gabribllo  Chiabbbra,  called  by  Tirabos- 

chi,  the  ^  honor  of  his  country,"  wfts  bom  at 

Savona,  June  8th,  1552.     At  the  age  of  nine 

years,  be  was  sent  to  Rome,  and  educated  under 

the  eye  of  his  father's  brother.     He  completed 

his  studies  under  the  Jesuits  of  the  Roman 

College,  in  his  twentieth  year.     The  friendship 

he  formed  here  with  Moretus,  Paulus  Manutius, 

Speroni,  and  other  learned  men,  encouraged 

him   to  prosecute  further  his  literary  studies. 

Afler  the  death  of  his  uncle,  he  entered  the 

service  of  Cardinal  Comaro,  as  Chamberlain ; 

bift  a  quarrel  he  had  with  &  Roman  gentleman 

compelled  him  to  leave  Rome  and  return  to  his 

own  country,  where  he  quietly  occupied  himself 

with   his  studies,  and  especially  with  Italian 

poetry.     At  the  age  of  fifty,  he  married  Lelia 

Pavese.     He  dvad,  full  of  years  and   honors, 

October  14th,  1637. 

The  poetical  genius  of  Chiabrera  was  not 
sarly  developed.  He  was  an  excellent  Greek 
icholar,  and  especially  admired  Pindar,  whom 
le  strove  to  imitate.  He  thus  created  a  new 
itjrie  in  Italian  poetry,  and  gained  for  himself 
he  name  of  the  luUan  Pindar.  He  says  of 
limsel^  that  «•  he  followed  the  example  of  his 
73 


countryman,  Christopher  Columbus;  that  he 
determined  to  discover  a  n^w  world,  or  drown." 
He  was  a  voluminous  author,  there  being  scarce- 
ly any  species  of  poetry  which  he  did  not  at- 
tempt. But  he  owes  his  celebrity  chiefly  to  his 
canzoni.  His  larger  works  are,  the  '*  lulia  Li- 
berata,"  "  Firenze,"  "  Oothiade,"  or  the  Wars 
of  the  Goths,  «<  Amadeide,"  and  «*Ruggiero." 
His  **  Opere "  appeared  at  Venice,  in  six  vol- 
umes, 1768;  and  in  ^re  volumes,  1782.  Sin- 
gle works  have  been  many  times  republished. 


TO  HIS  msnrsBss^  lipsl 

SwBXT,  thomlesa  rose. 

Surpassing  those 
With  leaves  at  morning's  beam  dividing ! 

By  Love's  command. 

Thy  leaves  expand 
To  show  the  treasure  they  were  hiding. 

O,  tell  me,  flower. 

When  hour  by  hour 
I  doting  gaze  upon  thy  beauty. 

Why  thou  the  while 

Dost  only  smile 
On  one  whose  purest  love  is  duty ! 


578 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


Doeg  pity  give, 

That  I  may  live, 
That  smile,  to  show  my  anguiah  over? 

Or,  cruel  coy, 

la  it  but  joy 
To  §ee  thy  poor  expiring  lover  ? 

Whatever  it  be, 

Or  cruelty. 
Or  pity  to  the  humblest,  vilest ; 

Tet  can  I  well 

Thy  praises  tell, 
If  while  I  sing  them  thou  but  smilest 

When  waters  pass 

Through  springing  grass, 
With  murmuring  song  their  way  begaillng ; 

And  flowerets  rear 

Their  blossoms  near,  — 
Then  do  we  say  that  Earth  is  smiling. 

When  in  the  wave 

The  Zephyrs  lave 
Their  dancing  feet  with  ceaseless  motion. 

And  sands  are  gay 

With  glittering  spray, — 
Then  do  we  talk  of  smiling  Ocean. 

When  we  behold 

A  vein  of  gold 
Overspread  the  sky  at  morn  and  even, 

And  Phoebus'  light 

Is  broad  and  bright,  — 
Then  do  we  say  't  is  smiling  Heaven. 

Though  Sea  and  Earth 

May  smile  in  mirth. 
And  joyous  Heaven  may  return  it ; 

Tet  Earth  and  Sea 

Smile  not  like  thee. 
And  Heaven  itself  has  yet  to  learn  it. 


EPITAPHSL 
I. 
W»p  not,  beloved  friends  !  nor  let  the  air 
For  me  with  sighs  be  troubled.     Not  from  life 
Have  I  been  taken  ;  this  is  genuine  life. 
And  this  alone,  —  the  life  which  now  I  live 
In  peace  eternal ;  where  desire  and  joy 
Together  move  in  fellowship  without  end.  — 
Francesco  Cenl  after  death  enjoined 
That  thus  his  tomb  should  speak  for  him.   And 

surely 
Small  cause  there  is  for  that  fond  wish  of  ours 
Long  to  continue  in  this  world,— a  world 
That  keeps  not  faith,  nor  yet  can  point  a  hope 
To  good,  whereof  itself  is  destitute. 


PxsBAPs  some  needfhl  service  of  the  state 
Drew  Titos  from  the  depth  of  studious  bowers. 
And  doomed  him  to  contend  in  Pithless  courts, 


Where    gold  determines    between    right  and 

wrong. 
Tet  did  at  length  his  loyalty  of  heart. 
And  his  pure  native  genius,  lead  him  back 
To  wait  upon  the  bright  and  gracious  Muses, 
Whom  he  had  early  loved.     And  not  in  vain 
Such  course  he  held.   Bologna's  learned  schools 
Were  gladdened  by  the  sage's  voice,  and  hung 
With  fondness  on  those  sweet  Nestorian  strains. 
There  pleasure  crowned  his  days ;  and  all  his 

thoughts 
A  roseate  fragrance  breathed.    O  human  tile. 
That  never  art  secure  from  dolorous  change ! 
Behold,  a  high  injunction  suddenly 
To  Arno's  side  hath  brought  him,  and  he  charmed 
A  Tuscan  audience  :  but  fbll  soon  was  called 
To  the  perpetual  silence  of  the  grave. 
Mourn,  Italy,  the  loss  of  him  who  stood 
A  champion  stead&st  and  invincible. 
To  quell  the  rage  of  literary  war ! 


O  THOU  who  movest  onward  with  a  mind 
Intent  upon  thy  way,  pause,  though  in  haste ! 
'T  will  be  no  fruitless  moment.     I  was  bom 
Within  Savona's  walls,  of  gentle  blood. 
On  Tiber's  banks  my  youth  was  dedicate 
To  sacred  studies ;  and  the  Roman  Shepherd 
Gave  to  my  charge  Urbino's  numerous  flock. 
Well  did  I  watch,  much  labored,  nor  had  power 
To  escape  from  many  and  strange  indignities ; 
Was  smitten  by  the  great  ones  of  the  world. 
But  did  not  fall ;  for  Virtue  braves  all  shocks. 
Upon  herself  resting  immovably. 
Me  did  a  kindlier  fortune  then  invite 
To  serve  the  glorious  Henry,  king  of  France, 
And  in  his  hands  I  saw  a  high  reward 
Stretched  out  fbr  my  acceptance:   bat  Death 

^  came. 
Now,  reader,  learn   from  this   my  fiite,  how 

false. 
How  treacherous  to  her  promise,  is  the  world. 
And  trust  in  God,  —  to  whose  eternal  doom 
Must  bend  the  sceptred  potentates  of  earth. 


Tbxrx  never  breathed  a  man,  who,  when  his  life 
Was  closing,  might  not  of  that  tifh  relate 
Toils  long  and  hard.    The  warrior  will  report 
Of  wounds,  and  bright  swords  flashing  in  tie 

field, 
And  blast  of  trumpets.    He  who  hath  been 

doomed 
To  bow  his  forehead  in  the  courts  of  kings 
Will  tell  of  fraud  and  never-ceasing  hate. 
Envy  and  heart-inquietude,  derived 
From  intricate  cabals  of  treacherous  firtends. 
I,  who  on  shipboard  lived  from  earliest  youth, 
Couid  represent  the  countenance  horrible 
Of  the  vexed  waters,  and  the  indignant  rage 
Of  Auater  and  Bootes.     Fifly  years 
Over  the  well  steered  galleys  did  I  rule. 
From  huge  Pelonis  to  Uie  Atlantic  Pillars, 


CHIABRERA. 


679 


Aisei  DO  mountain  to  mine  eyM  unknown ; 
And  the  broad  gulft  I  traTeraed  oft — and — oft. 
Of  eyery  cloud  which  in  the  heavens  might  atir 
I  knew  the  force ;  and  hence  the  rough  aea's  pride 
Ayailed  not  to  my  yessera  overthrow. 
What  noble  pomp,  and  frequent,  have  not  I 
On  regal  decka  beheld !  yet  in  the  end 
I  learned  that  one  poor  moment  can  suffice 
To  equalize  the  lofty  and  the  low. 
We  Mil  the  aea  of  life,  — a  calm  one  finds. 
And  one  a  tempest, — and,  the  Toyage  o*er. 
Death  is  the  quiet  haven  <^  ua  all. 
If  more  of  my  condition  ye  would  know, 
SaTona  was  my  birth-place,  and  I  aprang    * 
Of  noble  parents  :  seventy  years  and  three 
Lived  I, — then  yielded  to  a  slow  disease. 


Trui  18  it  that  Ambroaio  Salinero, 

With  an  untoward  fate,  was  long  involved 

In  odious  litigation ;  and  ftill  long. 

Fate  harder  still !  bad  he  to  endure  assaults 

Of  racking  malady.     And  true  it  u 

That  not  the  leas  a  fi«nk,  courageous  heart 

And  buoyant  spirit  triumphed  over  pain ; 

And  be  was  strong  to  follow  in  the  steps 

Of  the  fUr  Muses.     Not  a  covert  path 

Leads  to  the  dear  Parnassian  foreat'a  ahade. 

That  might  from  him  be  hidden ;  not  a  track 

Mounts  to  pellucid  Hippocrene,  but  he 

Had  traced  its  windings.     This  Savona  knowa, 

Tat  no  sepulchral  honors  to  her  son 

She  paid ;  for  in  our  age  the  heart  ia  ruled 

Only  by  gold.     And  now  a  aimple  stone, 

Inscribed  with  this  memorial,  here  is  raised 

By  his  bereft,  bis  lonely,  Chiabrara. 

Think  not,  O  passenger  who  read*st  the  lines) 

That  an  exceeding  love  hath  dazzled  me  : 

No, — he  was  one  whose  memory  ought  to  spread 

Where'er  Permeasus  bears  an  honored  name. 

And  live  as  long  as  its  pure  stream  shall  flow. 


Dkstihxi)  to  war  from  very  infancy 
Was  I,  Roberto  Dati,  and  I  took 
In  MalU  the  white  symbol  of  the  Cross. 
Nor  in  life's  vigorous  season  did  I  shun 
Hazard  or  toil ;  among  the  sands  was  seen 
Of  Libya,  and  not  seldom,  on  the  banks 
Of  wide  Hungarian  Danube,  *t  was  my  lot 
To  hear  the  sanguinary  trumpet  sounded. 
So  lived  I,  and  repined  not  at  such  fate : 
This  only  grieves  me,  for  it  seems  a  wrong. 
That  stripped  of  arms  I  to  my  end  am  brought 
On  the  soft  down  of  my  paternal  home. 
Yet  haply  Amo  shall  be  spared  all  cause 
To  bluah  for  me.     Thou,  loiter  not  nor  halt 
In  thy  appointed  way,  and  bear  in  mind 
Mo^^  fleeting  and  how  frail  u  human  life ! 


O  TisO-wmn  of  all  that  springs  from  gentle  blood. 
And  all  that  generous  nurture  breeds,  to  make 


Youth  amiable !  O  friend  so  true  of  soul 
To  fidr  Aglaia !  by  what  envy  moved, 
Leiius,  has  Death  cut  short  thy  brilliant  day 
In  its  sweet  opening  ?  and  what  dire  mishap 
Has  from  Savona  torn  her  best  delight  ? 
For  thee  she  mourns,  nor  e'er  will  cease  to 

mourn ; 
And,  should  the  outpourings  of  her  eyes  suffice 

not 
For  her  heart's  grief,  she  will  entreat  Sebeto 
Not  to  withhold  his  bounteous  aid, — Sebeto, 
Who  saw  thee  on  hu  margin  yield  to  death. 
In  the  chaste  arms  of  thy  beloved  lof  e ! 
What  profit  riches  ?  what  does  youth  avail  ? 
Dust  are  our  hopes ! — I,  weeping  bitterly. 
Penned  these  sad  lines,  nor  can  forbear  to  pray 
That  every  gentle  spirit  hither  led 
May  read  them  not  without  some  bitter  tears. 


Not  without  heavy  grief  of  heart  did  he 

On  whom  the  duty  fell  (for  at  that  time 

The  father  sojourned  in  a  distant  land) 

Deposit  in  the  hollow  of  thu  tomb 

A  brother's  child,  most  tenderly  beloved ! 

Francesco  was  the  name  the  youth  had  borne, — 

Pozzobonnelli  his  illustrious  house ; 

And  when  beneath  this  stone  the  corse  was  laid. 

The  eyes  of  all  Savona  streamed  with  tears. 

Alas  !  the  twentieth  April  of  his  life 

Had  scarcely  flowered :  and  at  this  early  time, 

By  genuine  virtue  he  inspired  a  hope 

That  greatly  cheered  his  country  ;  to  his  kin 

He  promised  comfort;  and  the  flattering  thoughts 

His  friends  had  in  their  fondness  entertained 

He  suff*ered  not  to  languish  or  decay. 

Now  is  there  not  good  reason  to  break  forth 

Into  a  passionate  lament  ?     O  soul ! 

Short  while  a  pilgrim  in  our  nether  world, 

Do  thou  enjoy  the  calm  empyreal  air ; 

And  round  this  earthly  tomb  let  roses  rise, — 

An  everlasting  spring !  —  in  memory 

Of  that  delightful  flragrance  which  was  once 

From  thy  mild  manners  quietly  exalted. 


Pause,  courteous  spirit !  —  Baibi  supplicates. 
That  thou,  with  no  reluctant  voice,  fbr  him 
Here  laid  in  mortal  darkness,  wouldst  prefer 
A  prayer  to  the  Redeemer  of  the  world. 
This  to  the  dead  by  sacred  right  belongs; 
All  else  is  nothing.     Did  occasion  suit 
To  tell  his  worth,  the  marble  of  this  tomb 
Would  ill  suffice :  for  Plato's  lore  sublime. 
And  all  the  wisdom  of  the  Stagyrite, 
Enriched  and  beautified  bis  studious  mind ; 
With  Archimedes,  also,  he  conversed. 
As  with  a  chosen  friend ;  nor  did  he  leave 
Those  laureate  wreaths  ungathered  which  the 

Nymphs 
Twine  near  their  loved  Permeasus.     Finally, 
Himself  above  each  lower  thought  uplifting. 
His  ears  be  closed  to  listen  to  the  songs 


580 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


Which  8ion*a  lungs  did  cooBecrate  of  old; 
And  his  Permeaaus  found  on  Lebanon. 
A  bleaaed  man !  who  of  protracted  days 
Made  not,  aa  thooaanda  do,  a  vulgar  sleep ; 
But  truly  did  be  lire  his  life.     Urbino, 
Take  pride  in  him ! — O  passenger,  fiirewell ! 


ALESSANDRO  TASSONI. 

Alkssardro  Tassovi  was  bom  at  Modena, 
of  an  ancient  and  noble  family,  September  28th, 
1565.  Bereaved  of  his  parenta  in  hia  child- 
hood, and  auffering  from  a  feeble  constitution, 
he  devoted  himaelf,  nevertheleaa,  to  the  atudy 
of  Greek  and  Latin  under  the  direction  of  Laz- 
zaro  Labadini,  a  celebrated  teacher  at  that  time 
in  Modena.  About  the  year  1585,  he  went  to 
Bologna  to  atudy  the  eeverer  aciencea,  and  af> 
terwarda  to  Ferrara,  where  he  attended  chiefly 
to  juriaprudence.  About  the  year  1597,  h« 
entered  the  aervice  of  Cardinal  Aacanio  Colon- 
na,  in  Rome,  whom  he  accompanied  to  Spain 
in  1600.  During  the  cardinal'a  atay  in  Spain, 
Taaaoni  was  twice  despatched  to  Italy  by  him 
on  important  business ;  and  on  one  of  these 
journeys,  he  wrote  his  famous  <*  Considerazioni 
sopra  il  Petrarca.*'  While  in  Rome,  he  was 
elected  a  member  of  the  Academy  of  Humor- 
ists. For  several  years  ailer  the  death  of  Car- 
dinal Colonna,  which  happened  in  1608,  Taseo- 
ni  was  without  a  patron  ',  and  being  destitute  of 
the  means  of  an  independent  livelihood,  he 
entered  the  service  of  the  duke  of  Savoy  in 
1613.  He  left  this  service  in  1623,  and  devoted 
the  three  following  years  to  the  tranquil  pur- 
suit of  literature.  In  1626,  Cardinal  Ludovi- 
sio,  a  nephew  of  Gregory  the  FiAeenth,  took 
him  into  his  service,  and  assigned  him  an  annu- 
al stipend  of  four  hundred  Roman  scudi,  with 
lodgings  in  the  palace.  Afler  the  death  of  the 
cardinal,  in  1632,  Taaaoni  was  made  a  Coun- 
cillor by  his  native  sovereign,  Duke  Francis 
the  First,  with  an  honorable  allowance,  and  a 
residence  at  court.  He  died  three  years  after, 
in  1635. 

Tassoni  wrote  aeveral  worka  in  proae.  The 
**  Conaiderationa  on  Petrarch,"  above  mentioned, 
gave  rise  to  a  vehement  literary  controversy. 
Hia  **  Penaieri  Diverai,"  a  part  of  which,  entitled 
**  Quesiti,*'  was  published  in  1608,  and  again, 
enlarged,  in  1612,  is  a  work  marked  by  ingenu- 
ity, wit,  and  elegance.  But  his  fame  rests  upon 
the  poem  entitled  **•  Secchia  Rapita,'*  or  the  Rape 
of  the  Bucket ;  an  heroi-comic  poem,  which 
describes,  in  twelve  burlesque  cantos,  the  efforts 
of  the  Bolognese  to  recover  a  bucket,  which, 
in  a  war  of  the  thirteenth  century,  the  Moden- 
ese,  having  entered  Bologna,  carried  off  as  a 
trophy  to  Modena,  where  it  is  preserved  down 
to  the  present  day.  The  life  of  Tassoni  has 
been  written  in  English  by  J.  C.  Walker,  Lon- 
don,  1815.  The  <>  Secchia  Rapita  "  was  trans- 
lated by  Ozell,  London,  1710. 


FROM  LA  SEOCaiA  RAPITA. 
THE  ATTACK  ON  HODBNA. 

Now  had  the  sun  the  heavenly  Ram  forsook, 
Darting  through  wintry  clouds  hia  radiant  look; 
The  fields  with  stars,  the  aky  with  flowers, 

aeemed  dressed ; 
The  winda  lay  aleeping  on  the  aea*8  calm  breast; 
Soft  Zephyr  only,  breathing  o'er  the  meads, 
Kiaaed  the  young  graaa,  and  waved  the  tender 

reeda; 
The  nightingalea  were  heard  at  peep  of  day. 
And  aaaea  ainging  amoroua  roundelay  : 
When  the  new  aeaaon*a  warmth,  which  cheen 

the  earth. 
And  movea  the  cricket-kind  to  wonted  mirth. 
The  Bolonoia  to  miechief  did  excite. 
And,  like  a  gathering  atorm,  prepared  their  apite. 
Under  two  chiefi  they  ruaheid  in  aeparate  buidi, 
Armed,  to  lay  waste  Panaro*a  fruitful  lands : 
Fearless,  like  wading  boys,  they  passed  the 

stream. 
Add  broke  with  horrid  rout  Modenia*s  morning 

dream. 

Modenia  in  a  spacious  opening  sits ; 

No  hostile  foot  the  south  or  west  admits ; 

Nature  those  points  has  guarded  with  a  line, — 

The  freezing  back  of  woody  Apennine : 

That  Apennine  which  shoves  so  high  his  head 

To  view  the  sun  descending  to  hia  bed. 

It  seems  as  if  upon  his  snowy  face 

The  heavenly  orbs  had  chose  a  reating-plaoe. 

The  eastern  bounder  fiimed  Panaro  lavea. 

Noted  for  flowery  banka  and  limpid  wavea ; 

Bolonia  oppoaite ;  and  on  the  left 

The  Btream  where  Phaeton  fell  thunder-clefl ; 

Nor'ward,  meandering  Secchia  takes  a  range, 

Unconstant  to  ita  bed,  and  fond  of  change : 

Swallowing  ita  banka,  and  atrewing  fruitleaB 

aand. 
The  teeming  flelda  become  a  barren  atrand. 
The  Modenoia  no  watchful  aentriea  kept. 
But,  fearless,  like  the  ancient  Spartans  slept ; 
Nor  walls,  nor  ramparts  did  the  town  inclose : 
The  ditch,  filled  up,  was  free  for  friends  or  foes. 

No  more  let  Tagus  or  the  Mafiae  recite 
The  celebrated  Cursio's  feats  in  fight ! 
Justly  Panaro  may  in  Gerard  pride  ! 
Oerard  did  more  than  Cursio  ever  lied : 
The  sun  ne*er  saw  so  many  on  their  backs. 
The  first  he  slew  was  Cuthbert,  prince  of  quacks : 
Cuthbert  for  others,  not  himself,  was  born ; 
None  drew  a  tooth  like  him,  or  cut  a  com ; 
He  powder,  washballs,  paaaatempoa  made : 
Better  had  Cuthbert  far  ha'  kept  hia  trade  ! 
Next  him,  Phil  Littigo,  deprived  of  day, 
A  fat,  fkcetioua  pettifogger,  lay : 
Aa  Phil  had  many  othera,  during  life, 
So  now  the  Devil  drew  Phil  into  a  atriie  : 
Yet  honeat  Phil  hia  calling  ne'er  belied ; 
For,  aa  he  lived  by  quarrel,  ao  he  died. 
Viano  next  he  down  the  body  cleft ; 
Then  Doctor  Hirco*s  face  he  noseless  lefl : 


TASSONI. 


581 


As  for  this  doctor's  nose,  some  authors  write, 
He  loBt  it  not  in  sword,  bat  scabbard  fight. 
Left-handed  Crispaline  he  then  unsouls, 
Renowned  for  making  perching-sticks  fbr  owls. 
Bartlet,  tore  wounded  next,  renounced  the  light ; 
The  well  ftd  firiar,  in  his  own  despite, 
Fell  headlong  to  the  waves  :  fiintastic  death ! 
That  what  his  lips  abhorred  ■  should  stop  his 

breath ! 
Two  fools  in  masks  against  Oerardo  join, 
A  horaeblock  heave  and  hit  him  on  the  groin  : 
One  dexterous  blow  despatched  this  loving  pair ; 
Thrice  sprung  their  headless  bodies  up  in  air  ; 
As  if  some  engine  had  the  sword  controlled. 
At  once  they  fell,  and  o*er  each  other  rolled. 
Torrents  of  crimson  hue  ran  pouring  down. 
And  swelled  Panaro*s  banks  with  streams  un- 
known : 
So  Trojan  gore  o*erflowed  flir  Xanthus'  strand, 
Tapped  by  the  son  of  Thetis'  wrathful  hand  ; 
So,  near  the  Theban  walls,  with  hostile  blood, 
Hippomedon  distained  Asopus'  flood. 
Glutted  with  lists  of  dead,  the  Muse  grows  sick. 
Nor  can  on  all  bestow  the  immortal  prick. 
Mine  host  o'  th'  Scritchowl,  fiuned  fbr  musca- 
dine. 
Drew  human  blood  as  freely  as  his  wine. 
Hat  he  had  none,  and  helmet  he  despised, 
In  a  huge  highway  periwig  disguised ; 
Him  Bruno  met :  Bruno,  whose  fertile  thought 
Tour  long,  small  sausage  '  to  perfection  brought. 
Fortune  awhile  stood  neuter  to  the  strife  ; 
The  Thrummy^conce  rebates  the  Chopping- 

knife  : 
At  length  mine  host,  unperiwigged  i*  th*  fray. 
At  once  lost  both  his  skull-cap  and  the  day. 


THE  BUCKET  OF  BOLOGNA. 

MxAHWHiLB  the  Potta,  where  the  battle  droops, 
Sends  fresh  detachments  of  his  foremost  troops. 
Himself  was  mounted  on  a  female  mule, 
Which,  though  a  magistrate,  he  scarce  could 

rule : 
She  bit,  and  winched,  and  such  excursions  made. 
As  if  her  legs  a  game  at  draughts  had  played ; 
At  length,  not  minding  whether  wrong  or  right, 
Full  speed  she  run  amidst  the  thick  o'  th*  fight. 
About  this  time  La  Grace  received  a  wound, 
Andy  much  against  his  will,  went  off  the  ground. 

When  the  most  ancient  race  of  Boii  saw 
One  captain  prisoner  made,  and  one  withdraw ; 
They,  who  before  had  made  a  bold  retreat, 
Renounce  their  hands,  and  solely  trust  their  feet. 
Forwards  the  Potta  urges  with  his  spear. 
And  like  some  devil  flashes  in  their  rear. 
Such  quantities  of  blood  the  brook  distained, 
It  many  days  both  warm  and  red  remained ; 
That  brook  which  heretofore  had  scarce  a  name, 
Baptized  in  blood,  R  Tepido  became. 

1  Water. 

s  At  Modena  an  made  this  sort  of  sausages,  at  Bobgaa 
the  abort  and  thick.    Qtn  bmt  dittingwUt  bene  doeet. 


Such  crowds  went  reeking  to  the  Elysian  shore, 

Charon  complained  there  was  no  room  for  more. 

All  the  day  long,  and  all  the  following  night. 

The  poor  Bolonians  prosecute  their  flight. 

Three  hundred  horse,  Manfredi  at  their  head. 

Fill  every  road  and  river  with  their  dead : 

So  close  the  warlike  youth  oppressed  their  heels, 

Returning  day  the  city  walls  reveals. 

The  gate  Saint  Felix,  opening  soon,  admits, 

In  one  confusion,  foreigners  and  cits ; 

So  thick  they  crowd,  the  watch  no  difference 

knew ;  ' 

In  went  the  conquered  and  the  conquerors  too. 
Far  as  an  arrow's  flight,  and  quick  as  thought, 
Manfredi's  men  within  the  town  were  got : 
Manfred,  who  ne'er  lift  any  thing  to  chance, 
Halts  at  the  gate,  nor  further  would  advance  ; 
By  drums  and  trumpets  sounding  from  tne  walls. 
The  endangered  troops  he  suddenly  recalls. 

Radaldo,  Spinamont,  Griffani  flerce. 
And  other  names  too  obstinate  fbr  verse. 
Fainting  with  heat,  and  harassed  with  the  chase. 
Espied  a  welt  belonging  to  the  place  : 
They  thanked  the  gods  with  lifted  hands  and 

eyes; 
Then  hastily  despatched  to  nether  skies 
The  bone  of  discord,  apple  of  the  war, — 
A  bran  new  bucket,  made  of  fatal  fir. 
Low  was  the  water,  and  the  well  profound ; 
The  pulley,  dry  and  broke,  went  hobbling  round ; 
The  unlucky  hemp,  knotting,  increased  delay. 
And  all  their  hopes  hung  dangling  in  midway. 
Some  with  still  sighs  the  bucket's  absence  mourn. 
Others,  impatient,  curse  its  slow  return ; 
At  length  it  weeping  comes,  as  if  it  knew 
The  sanguinary  work  that  was  to  ensue. 
Greedy  they  ail  advance  to  seize  their  prey  : 
Radaldo's  happy  lips  first  pulled  away. 
Scarce  had  he  drunk,  when,  lo !  a  numerous  ring 
Of  adverse  swords  surround  the  ravished  spring  : 
Rushing  from  every  alley  through  the  town, 
«  ^ill !  kill !  "  was  all  the  cry,  and  <«  Knock  'em 

down  ! " 
The  Potta-men  alarmed,  with  active  feet 
Regain  their  steeds,  and  leap  into  their  seat : 
Sipa,  not  liking  much  their  threatening  face, 
Began  to  keep  aloof,  and  slack  their  pace. 
The  bucket  chanced  to  be  at  Griffon's  nose : 
His  tip  thus  spoiled,  away  the  water  throws ; 
Cots  the  retaining  cord,  and  then  applied 
The  vehicle  to  shield  his  near-hand  side ; 
His  off-hand  grasps  a  sword,  and,  thus  prepared, 
Defies  the  world,  and  stands  upon  his  guard : 
Nimbly  the  men  of  Potta  intervene. 
And  firom  the  foe  their  brave  companion  screen. 

Clear  of  this  scrape,  Manfredi's  squadrons  join. 
And  treading  back  their  steps  repass  the  Rhine.  ^ 
Their  captain,  who  no  worthier  spoils  could 

show 
Than  this  same  bucket  conquered  fh>m  the  foe, 

3  There  is  a  little  rirer  near  Bologna,  called  the  Rliine. 
Parvique  Bonania  Rherd,  —  Silivs  Italicvs. 


582 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


Caused  it  in  form  of  trophy  to  adTance 
Beibre  the  troops,  sublime  upon  a  lance : 
To  think  how  he  in  open  day  had  scoured 
Bolonia,  and  their  virgin-spring  deflowered ; 
To  think  how  he  had  ravished  from  the  place 
An  everlasting  pledge  of  their  disgrace ; 
Elate  and  glorying  in  his  slit-deal  prize, 
Not  victory  seemed  so  noble  in  his  eyes. 
Straight  firom  Samogia*s  plains  he  sends  express 
To  Modena  the  news  of  his  success ; 
And  straight  the  town  resolves  in  form  to  meet 
The  conquering  army,  and  their  general ''greet 


OIAMBATTISTA  MARINI. 

GiAHBATTisTA  Mariiti,  or  Marivo,  kuown 
as  the  creator  of  a  school  of  Italian  poets,  who 
have  been  called,  from  him,-  the  Marinisti,  was 
born  at  Naples,  in  1569.  His  father,  a  learned 
lawyer,  intended  him  for  the  same  career;  on 
which  Tiraboschi  remarks,  that  it  would  have 
been  well  for  Italian  poetry  had  it  so  foUen 
out.  But  Marini,  instead  of  following  the  in- 
structions of  the  masters  under  whom  he  had 
been  placed,  occupied  himself  constantly  with 
the  study  of  the  poets.  His  father,  indignant 
at  such  persevering  resistance  to  his  desires, 
turned  him  out  of  his  house  ;  but  the  duke  of 
Borino,  the  prince  of  Conca,  and  the  marquis 
of  Villa,  who  admired  his  talents,  gave  him  a 
refuge  for  the  next  three  years,  at  the  end  of 
which  time  a  youthful  indiscretion  led  to  his 
arrest,  and  on  obtaining  his  liberty  he  went  to 
Rome.  He  there  received  the  patronage  of  the 
Cardinal  Pietro  Aldobrandini,  whom  he  accom- 
panied to  Ravenna  and  Turin.  In  this  latter 
city  he  became  notorious  by  the  violent  literary 
controversies  in  which  he  was  entangled.  He 
obtained  such  favor  with  the  prince,  that  he 
was  made  a  knight  of  the  order  of  Saint  Mau- 
rice and  Saint  Lazarus.  This  favor,  however, 
was  interrupted  by  the  intrigues  of  his  rivals 
and  enemies.  In  1615,  Marini  went  to  France, 
on  the  invitation  of  Queen  Margaret.  When 
he  arrived,  his  patroness  was  dead,  but  he  was 
well  received  by  Maria  de*  Medici,  who  set- 
tled on  him  a  pension  of  fifteen  hundred  scudi, 
afterwards  raised  to  two  thousand.  He  remain- 
ed in  France  until  1622,  when,  being  invited 
by  the  Cardinal  Ludovisio,  he  returned  to 
Rome,  where  he  was  chosen  President  of  the 
Academy  of  Humorists.  On  the  death  of  Pope 
Gregory  the  Fifteenth,  he  went  back  to  Naples, 
where  he  was  received  in  a  friendly  manner  by 
the  viceroy,  the  duke  of  Alba.  He  died  there, 
March  25th,  1625. 

Marini  was  a  poet  folicitously  endowed  by 
nature ;  but  his  genius  was  perverted  by  his 
ambition  to  surpass  all  other  poets.  He  had 
wit,  fiincy,  subtilty,  and  vivacity ;  but  his  pas- 
sion to  say  what  was  new  and  striking  led 
him  into  forced  expressions,  far-fetched  figures,- 
and  various  affectations  of  style,  on  which  he 


relied  for  bis  efi*ect.  He  was  much  applauded 
in  his  day,  and  found  many  imitators,  whoae 
influence  was  injurious  to  the  language  and 
literature  of  Italy.  Tiraboschi  denounces  him 
as  the  "  most  pestilent  corrupter  of  good  taste 
in  Italy."  Some  of  his  sonnets,  however,  have 
been  greatly  praised,  and  ranked  among  the 
best  in  the  language.  Besides  the  fault  of  af- 
foctation,  Marihi's  writings  are,  in  places,  deep- 
ly stained  with  licentiousness.  His  principal 
works  are  the  «*  Adone,"  first  published  at  Pane, 
in  1623,  and  a  narrative  poem  on  the  slaughter 
of  the  Innocents.  Besides  these,  he  wrote  a 
large  number  of  miscellaneous  pieces. 

FADING  BEAimr. 
BxAUTT  —  a  beam,  nay,  flame, 
Of  the  great  lamp  of  light — 
Shines  for  a  while  with  fiime. 
But  presently  makes  night : 
Like  Winter's  8hor^lived  bright. 
Or  Summer's  sudden  gleams ; 
As  much  more  dear,  so  much  less  lasting 
beams. 

Winged  Love  away  doth  fly. 
And  with  him  Time  doth  bear ; 

And  both  Uke  suddenly 

The  sweet,  the  fiiir,  the  dear : 
To  shining  day  and  clear 

Succeeds  the  obscure  night ; 

And  sorrow  is  the  heir  of  sweet  delight. 

With  what,  then,  dost  thou  swell, 

O  youth  of  new-bom  day  > 
Wherein  doth  thy  pride  dwell, 

O  Beauty,  made  of  clay  ? 

Not  with  so  swift  a  way 
The  headlong  current  flies. 
As  do  the  lively  rays  of  two  fair  eyes. 

That  which  on  Flora's  breast. 

All  fresh  and  flourishing, 
Aurora  newly  dressed 

Saw  in  her  dawning  spring ; 

Quite  dry  and  languishing, 
Deprived  of  honor  quite. 
Day-closing  Hesperus  beholds  at  night 

Fair  is  the  lily  ;  fair 

The  rose,  of  flowers  the  eye  ! 
Both  wither  in  the  air. 

Their  beauteous  colors  die  : 

And  so  at  length  shall  lie. 
Deprived  of  former  grace, 
The  lilies  of  thy  breasts,  the  rosea  of  thy 
face. 

Do  not  thyself  betray 

With  shadows ;  with  ^y  years, 
O  Beauty  (traitors  gay ! ) 

This  melting  lifo,  too,  wears, — 

Appearing,  disappears ; 
And  with  thy  flying  days. 
Ends  all  thy  good  of  price,  thy  fair  of  praise. 


MARINI REDI. 


683 


Trust  notf  vain  creditor, 

Thy  oft  deceived  view 
Id  thy  ftlse  oouneellor, 

That  never  tella  thee  trae  : 

Thy  form  and  flattered  hae, 
Which  shall  so  soon  transpass. 
Are  hr  more  ftnil  than  is  thy  looking-glass. 

Enjoy  thy  April  now. 

Whilst  it  doth  fVeely  shine  : 
This  lightning  flash  and  show, 

With  that  clear  spirit  of  thine, 

Will  suddenly  decline ; 
And  those  fiur  murdering  eyes 
Shall  be  Love's  tomb,  where  now  his  cra- 
dle lies. 

Old  trembling  age  will  come. 
With  wrinkled  cheeks  and  stains, 

With  motion  troublesome, 
With  void  and  bloodless  veins ; 
That  lively  visage  wanes. 

And,  made  deformed  and  old, 

Hates  sight  of  glass  it  loved  so  to  behold. 

Thy  gold  and  scarlet  shall 

Pale  silver-color  be ; 
Thy  row  of  pearls  shall  fall 

Like  withered  leaves  from  tree ; 

And  thou  shalt  shortly  see 
Thy  fiice  and  hair  to  grow 
All  ploughed  with  furrows,  over-swollen 
with  snow. 


What,  then,  will  it  avail, 
O  youth  advised  ill, 

In  lap  of  beauty  firail 
To  nurse  a  wayward  will. 
Like  snake  in  sun-warm  hill  ? 

Pluck,  pluck  betime  thy  flower, 

That  springs  and  parches  in  the  selfsame 
hour. 


FRANCESCO  REDI. 

Francxsco  Rxdi  was  a  native  of  Arezzo, 
where  he  was  bom  February  18th,  1626.  Hu 
family  vras  noble.  He  studied  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  Pisa,  where  he  took  his  degrees  in  phi- 
losophy and  medicine.  The  proofs  be  soon  gave 
of  genius  attracted  the  attention  of  those  great 
patrons  of  the  sciences,  the  Grand  Duke  Fer- 
dinand the  Second,  and  Prince  Leopold.  By 
the  former,  and  afterwards  by  Cosmo  the  Third, 
he  was  appointed  principal  physician,  a  place 
he  held  until  his  death.  Towards  the  end  of 
hie  life,  be  retired  to  Pisa  for  the  benefit  of  the 
air.  He  was  found  dead  in  his  bed,  on  the 
morning  of  March  1st,  1694. 

Redi  was  especially  distinguished  by  the  ex- 
tent and  variety  of  his  attainments  and  discov- 
eries in  the  natural  sciences,  his  writings  upon 
vvhich  acquired  great  celebrity.  Besides  being 
a  member  of  numerous  scientific  societies,  he 


belonged  to  the  Delia  Cruscan  Academy,  and 
rendered  valuable  contributions  to  the  edition 
of  their  Dictionary,  published  in  1691.  As  a 
poet,  he  is  distinguished  by  grace  and  elegance. 
His  most  fiunous  piece  is  the  dithyrambic  enti- 
tled <*  Baooo  in  Toscana  ** ;  a  poem,  in  its  kind, 
scarcely  equalled  by  any  thing  in  Italian  litera^ 
ture.  It  has  been  well  translated  by  Leigh 
Hunt  Should  it  be  found  too  Bacchanalian 
for  the  taste  of  the  present  age,  let  the  reader 
remember  that  Redi  himself  was  one  of  the 
most  temperate  men  of  his  day,  and  never  drank 
wine  without  diluting  it 


FROM  BACCHUS  IN  TUSCANY. 

BACCHUS'S    OPINION    OF    WINB,    AND    OTHER 
BSYBEAOVS. 

Givx  me,  give  me  Buriano, 
Trebbiano,  Colombano, — 
Give  me  bumpers,  rich  and  clear ! 
'T  is  the  true  old  Anrum  Potabile, 
Gilding  liib  when  it  wears  shabbily : 
Helen's  old  Nepenthe  't  is, 
That  in  the  drinking 
Swallowed  thinking, 
And  was  the  receipt  for  bliss. 
Thence  it  is,  that  ever  and  aye. 
When  he  doth  philosophize, 
Good  old  glorious  Rucellai 
Hath  it  for  light  unto  his  eyes ; 
He  lifteth  it,  and  by  the  shine 
Well  discerneth  things  divine : 
Atoms  with  their  airy  justles. 
And  all  manner  of  corpuscles ; 
And,  as  through  a  crystal  skylight, 
How  morning  difiereth  from  evening  twilight ; 
And  further  telleth  us  the  reason  why  go 
Some  stars  with  such  a  lazy  light,  and  some 
with  a  vertigo. 

O,  how  widely  wandereth  he, 

Who  in  search  of  verity 

Keeps  aloof  from  glorious  wine  ! 

Lo,  the  knowledge  it  bringeth  to  me ! 

For  Barbarossa,  this  wine  so  bright, 

With  its  rich  red  look  and  its  strawberry  light, 

So  inviteth  me,  • 

So  delighteth  me, 

I  should  infiillibly  quench  my  inside  with  it, 

Had  not  Hippocrates 

And  old  Andromachus 

Strictly  forbidden  it 

And  loudly  chidden  it, 

So  many  stomachs  have  sickened  and  died  with  it. 

Yet,  discordant  as  it  is, 

Two  good  biggins  will  not  come  amiss ; 

Because  I  know,  while  I  *m  drinking  them  down, 

What  is  the  finish  and  what  is  the  crown. 

A  cup  of  good  Corsican 

Does  it  at  once ; 

Or  a  glass  of  old  Spanish 

Is  neat  for  the  nonce : 

Quackish  resources  are  things  for  a  dunce. 


1 


684 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


Talk  of  Chocolate ! 

Talk  of  Tea ! 

Medicines,  made  —  ye  gods !  —  aa  they  are. 

Are  no  medicines  made  for  me. 

I  would  sooner  take  to  poison 

Than  a  single  cap  set  eyes  oo 

Of  that  bitter  and  guilty  stuff  ye 

Talk  of  by  the  name  of  Coffee. 

Let  the  Arabs  and  the  Turks 

Count  it  'mongst  their  cruel  works : 

Foe  of  mankind,  black  and  turbid, 

Let  the  throats  of  slaves  absorb  it 

Down  in  Tartarus, 

Down  in  Erebus, 

T  was  the  detestable  Fifty  invented  it; 

The  Furies  then  took  it 

To  grind  and  to  cook  it, 

And  to  Proserpina  all  three  presented  it. 

If  the  Mussulman  in  Asia 

Doats  on  a  beverage  so  unseemly, 

I  differ  with  the  man  extremely. 


There  's  a  squalid  thing,  called  Beer : 

The  man  whose  lips  that  thing  comes  near 

Swiftly  dies ;  or  falling  foolish. 

Grows,  at  fbrty,  old  and  owlish. 

She  that  in  the  ground  would  hide  her. 

Let  her  take  to  English  Cider : 

He  who  'd  have  his  death  come  quicker. 

Any  other  Northern  liquor. 

Those  Norwegians  and  those  Laps 

Have  extraordinary  taps : 

Those  Laps  especially  have  strange  fancies ; 

To  see  them  drink, 

I  verily  think, 

Would  make  me  lose  my  senses. 

But  a  truce  to  such  vile  subjects, 

With  their  impious,  shocking  objects. 

Let  me  purify  my  mouth 

In  a  holy  cup  o'  th'  South; 

In  a  golden  pitcher  let  me 

Head  and  ears  for  comfort  get  me. 

And  drink  of  the  wine  of  the  vine  benign 

That  sparkles  warm  in  Sansovine. 


lOB  NECB88ART  TO  WINB. 

Tou  know  Lamporecchio,  the  castle  renowned 
For  the  gardener  so  dumb,  whose  works  did 

abound ; 
There  's  a  topaz  they  make  there  ;  pray,  let  it 

go  round. 
Serve,  serve  me  a  dozen, 
But  let  it  be  ft-ozen  ; 
Let  it  be  frozen  and  finished  with  ice. 
And  see  that  the  ice  be  as  virginly  nice 
As  the  coldest  that  whistles  from  wintery  skies. 
Coolers  and  cellarets,  crystal  with  snows. 
Should  always  hold  bottles  in  ready  repose. 
Snow  is  good  liquor's  fifth  element ; 
No  compound  without  it  can  give  (ontent : 
For  weak  is  the  brain,  and  I  hereby  scout  it, 
That  thinks  in  hot  weather  to  drink  without  it 


Bring  me  heaps  firom  the  Shady  Valley :  ^ 

Bring  me  heaps 

Of  all  that  sleeps 

On  every  village  hill  and  alley. 

Hold  there,  you  satyrs. 

Your  beard-ahaking  chatters. 

And  bring  me  ice  duly,  and  bring  it  me  doubly, 

Out  of  the  grotto  of  Monte  di  Boboli. 

With  axes  and  pickaxes. 

Hammers  and  rammers. 

Thump  it  and  hit  it  me. 

Crack  it  and  crash  it  me. 

Hew  it  and  split  it  me, 

Pound  it  and  smash  it  me, 

Till  the  whole  mass  (for  I  'm  dead-dry,  I  think) 

Turns  to  a  cold,  fit  to  freshen  my  drink. 

If  with  hot  wine  we  insack  us, 

Say  our  name  *8  not  Bacchus. 

If  we  taste  the  weight  of  a  button. 

Say  we  're  a  glutton. 

He  who,  when  he  first  wrote  verses, 

Had  the  Graces  by  his  side, 

Then  i^t  rhymers'  evil  courses 

Shook  his  thunders  fiu-  and  wide 

(For  his  great  heart  rose  and  burned, 

Till  his  words  to  thunder  turned). 

He,  I  say,  Menzini,'  he 

The  marvellous  and  the  masterly. 

Whom  the  leaves  of  Phosbus  crown. 

Admirable  Anacreon,  — 

He  shall  give  me,  if  I  do  it, 

Gall  of  the  satiric  poet, 

Gall  from  out  his  blackest  well. 

Shuddering,  unescapable. 

But  if  still,  as  I  ought  to  do, 

I  love  any  wine  iced  through  and  througb. 

If  I  will  have  it  (and  none  beside) 

SuperultrafVostified, 

He  that  reigns  in  Pindua  then. 

Visible  Phosbus  among  men, 

Filicaia,  shalt  exalt 

Me  above  the  starry  vault ; 

While  the  other  swans  divine, 

Who  swim  with  their  proud  hearts  in  wine. 

And  make  their  laurel  groves  resound 

With  the  names  of  the  laurel-crowned. 

All  ahall  sing,  till  our  goblets  ring, 

^  Long  live  Bacchus,  our  glorious  king !  ** 

Evo^ !  let  them  roar  away ! 

Evo^! 

Evo^! 

Evod  !  let  the  lords  of  wit 

Rise  and  echo,  where  they  sit, 

Where  they  sit  enthroned  each. 

Arbiters  of  sovereign  speech. 

Under  the  great  Tuscan  dame 

Who  sifis  the  flour  and  gives  it  ftune  :  * 


X  Vallombrofla.  Tho  convent  thsM  Is  ■•  old  as  the  tims 
of  Arlosto,  who  celebratos  the  monki  for  their  hoopitalitj. 

s  The  poeU,  whose  names  here  foUow,  nan  contenpo- 
mrieo  sad  Hrfendi  of  Redl. 

9  The  Delia  GkuMsaAeadBmy,  profcsiBa  slAen  oTweiraa. 
Hence  their  naow,  fieoai  the  ivofd  erMtea  (bnn),  smI  their 
device  of  flour  and  a  mllL 


REDI. 


585 


Let  the  about  by  Segni  be 
Registered  immortally, 
And  deipatcbed  by  a  courier 
i  MonsUur  VMh6  JUgnierA 


BACCBUS  GROWS  MTTSICilL  IN  RI8  0UP8. 

The  ruby  dew  that  stills 

Upon  VaIdarDo*a  bills 

Toacbes  the  sense  with  odor  so  divine, 

That  not  the  violet, 

With  lips  with  morning  wet. 

Utters  such  sweetness  from  her  little  shrine. 

When  I  drink  of  it,  I  rise 

Far  o'er  the  hill  that  makes  poets  wise, 

And  in  my  Toice  and  in  my  song 

Grow  BO  sweet  and  grow  so  strong, 

I  challenge  Phosbus  with  his  Delphic  eyes. 

Giye  me,  then,  from  a  golden  measure. 

The  ruby  that  is  my  treasure,  my  treasure ; 

And  like  to  the  lark  that  goes  maddening  above, 

I  '11  sing  songs  of  love : 

Songs  will  I  sing  more  moving  and  fine 

Than  the  bubbling  and  quaffing  of  Gersole  wine. 

Then  the  rote  shall  go  round. 

And  the  cymbals  kiss. 

And  I  '11  praise  Ariadne, 

My  beauty,  my  bliss ; 

I  '11  sing  of  her  tresses, 

I  '11  sing  of  her  kisses : 

Now,  now  it  increases, 

The  fervor  increases, 

The  fervor,  the  boiling  and  venomous  bliss. 

The  grim  god  of  war  and  the  arrowy  boy 

Double-gallant  roe  with  desperate  joy : 

Love,  love,  and  a  fight ! 

I  must  make  me  a  knight ; 

I  must  make  me  thy  knight  of  the  bath,  ^r 

friend, 
A  knight  of  the  bathing  that  knows  no  end. 


GOOD  WINE  ▲  OENTLXMAN. 

O  BOTS,  this  Tuscan  land  divine 

Hath  such  a  natural  talent  for  wine. 

We  '11  fall,  we  'II  fall 

On  the  barrels  and  all ; 

We  '11  fall  on  the  must,  we  '11  fall  on  the  presses. 

We  '11  make  the  boards  groan  with  our  grievous 

caresses ; 
No  measure,  I  say ;  no  order,  but  riot ; 
No  waiting  nor  cheating ;  we  '11  drink  like  a 

Sciot: 
Drink,  drink,  and  drink  when  you  've  done ; 
Pledge  it  and  frisk  it,  every  one ; 
Cbirp  it  and  challenge  it,  swallow  it  down : 
He  tbat  's  afraid  is  a  thief  and  a  clown. 
Oood  wine  's  a  gentleman ; 
He  speedeth  digestion  all  he  can ; 
No  headache  hath  he,  no  headache,  I  say, 
For  thoee  who  talked  with  him  yesterday. 


4  Ragnler  DennaraU,  Secretary  of  the  Franeb  Academy, 
hlmnlf  a  writer  of  Italian  reraea. 
74 


If  Signer  Bellini,  besides  his  apes, 
Would  anatomize  vines,  and  anatomize  grapes. 
He  'd  see  that  the  heart  that  makes  good  wine 
Is  made  to  do  good,  and  very  benign. 


THE  PRAISE  OF  CHIANTI  WINE,  AND  DEMOVNCB- 
HENT  OF  WATER. 

True  son  of  the  earth  is  Chianti  wine, 

Bom  on  the  ground  of  a  gypsy  vine ; 

Bom  on  the  ground  for  sturdy  souls. 

And  not  the  lank  race  of  one  of  your  poles  : 

I  should,  like  to  see  a  snake 

Get  up  in  August  out  of  a  brake. 

And  fitsten  with  all  his  teeth  and  caustic 

Upon  that  sordid  villain  of  a  rustic. 

Who,  to  load  my  Chianti's  haunches 

With  a  parcel  of  feeble  bunches, 

Went  and  tied  her  to  one  of  these  poles,  — 

Sapless  sticks  without  any  souls  ! 

Like  a  king, 

In  his  conqueriUjg, 

Chianti  wine  with  his  red  flag  goes 

Down  to  my  heart,  and  down  to  my  toes : 

He  makes  no  noise,  he  beats  no  drums ; 

Tet  pain  and  trouble  fly  as  he  comes. 

And  yet  a  good  bottle  of  Carmignan, 

He  of  the  two  is  the  merrier  man ; 

He  brings  from  heaven  such  a  rain  of  joy, 

I  envy  not  Jove  his  cups,  old  boy. 

Drink,  Ariadne  !  the  grapery 

Was  the  warmest  and  brownest  in  Tuscany : 

Drink,  and  whatever  they  have  to  say. 

Still  to  the  Naiads  answer,  Nay ! 

For  mighty  folly  it  were,  and  a  sin. 

To  drink  Carmignano  with  water  in. 

He  who  drinks  water, 

I  wish  to  observe, 

Gets  nothing  fh>m  me ; 

He  may  eat  it  and  starve. 

Whether  it 's  well,  or  whether  it  *s  fountain. 

Or  whether  it  comes  foaming  white  from  the 

mountain, 
I  cannot  admire  it. 
Nor  ever  desire  it ; 

'T  isa  fi)ol,  and  a  madman,  and  impudent  wretch. 
Who  now  will  live  in  a  nasty  ditch. 
And  then,  grown  proud  and  full  of  his  whims. 
Comes  playing  the  devil  and  cursing  his  brims. 
And  swells  and  tumbles,  and  bothers  his  margins, 
And  ruins  the  flowers,  although  they  be  virgins. 
Moles  and  piers,  were  it  not  fi>r  him. 
Would  last  for  ever. 
If  they  're  built  clever ; 

But  no,  —  it 's  all  one  with  him, — sink  or  swim. 
Let  the  people  yclept  Mameluke 
Praise  the  Nile  without  any  rebuke ; 
Let  the  Spaniards  praise  the  Tagus ; 
I  cannot  like  either,  even  for  negus. 

Away  with  all  water, . 
Wherever  I  come ; 


586 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


I  forbid  it  ye,  gentlemen, 

All  and  some ; 

Lemonade  water, 

Jeasaroine  water. 

Our  tavern  knows  none  of  *em  : 

Water  's  a  hum. 

Jessamine  makes  a  pretty  crown ; 

But  as  a  drink,  *t  will  never  go  down. 

All  your  hydromels  and  flips 

Come  not  near  these  prudent  lips. 

All  your  sippings  and  sherbets. 

And  a  thousand  such  pretty  sweets, 

Let  your  mincing  ladies  take  'em, 

And  fops  whose  little  fingers  ache  'em. 

Wine !  Wine  !  is  your  only  drink  ; 

Grief  never  dares  to  look  at  the  brink ;. 

Six  times  a  year  to  be  mad  with  wine, 

I  hold  it  no  shame,  but  a  very  good  sign. 

A   TUNE  ON   THK   WATER. 

O,  WHAT  a  thing 

'T  is  ibr  you  and  for  me. 

On  an  evening  in  spring. 

To  sail  in  the  sea ! 

The  little  fresh  airs 

Spread  their  silver  wings, 

And  o'er  the  blue  pavement 

Dance  love-makings : 

To  the  tune  of  the  waters,  and  tremulous  glee. 

They  strike  up  a  dance  to  people  at  sea. 

MONTSPULCIANO   INAUGURATED. 

A  SMALL  glass,  and  thirsty  I  Be  sure  never  ask  it : 
Man  might  as  well  serve  up  soup  in  a  basket. 
This  my  broad,  and  this  my  high 
Bacchanalian  butlery 
Lodgeth  not,  nor  doth  admit 
Glasses  made  with  little  wit ; 
Little  bits  of  would-be  bottles 
Run  to  seed  in  strangled  throttles : 
Such  things  are  for  invalids. 
Sipping  dogs  that  keep  their  beds. 
As  for  shallow  cups  like  plates. 
Break  them  upon  shallower  pates. 
Such  glassicles, 
And  vesicles. 

And  bits  of  things  like  icicles. 
Are  toys  and  curiosities 
For  babies  and  their  gaping  eyes ; 
Things  which  ladies  put  in  caskets, 
Or  beside  'em  in  work-baskets : 
I  do  n't  mean  those  who  keep  their  coaches; 
But  those  who  make  grand  foot  approaches. 
With  flowered  gowns,  and  fine  huge  broachea. 
'T  is  in  a  magnum's  world  alone 
The  Graces  have  room  to  sport  and  be  known. 
Fill,  fill,  let  us  all  have  our  will ! 
But  with  whatf  with  what,  hoys,  shall  we  fill  ? 
Sweet  Ariadne,  —  no,  not  that  one,  —  ah,  no ! 
Fill  me  the  manna  of  Montepulciano : 
Fill  me  a  magnum,  and  reach  it  me.     Gods ! 
How  it  slides  to  my  heart  by  the  sweetest  of 
roads! 


O,  how  it  kisses  me,  tickles  me,  bites  me ! 
O,  how  my  eyes  loosen  sweetly  in  tears ! 
I  'm  ravished  !  I  'm  rapt !  Heaven  finds  dm  ad- 
missible ! 
Lost  in  an  ecstasy !  blinded !  invisible  ! 

Hearken,  all  earth ! 

We,  Bacchus,  in  the  might  of  our  great  mirth. 
To  all  who  reverence  us,  and  are  right  think- 
ers;— 
Hear,  all  ye  drinkers  ! 
Give  ear,  and  give  faith,  to  our  edict  divine :  — 

MOHTEPULCIANO  's  THE  KiNO  OF  ALL  WiMK. 

At  these  glad  sounds. 

The  Nymphs,  in  giddy  rounds. 

Shaking  their  ivy  diadems  and  grapes. 

Echoed  the  triumph  in  a  thousand  shapes. 

The  Satyrs  would  have  joined  them  ;  but,  alas  ! 

They  could  n't ;  for  they  lay  about  the  graaa. 

As  drunk  as  apes. 


VINCENZO  DA   FILICAJA. 

This  excellent  poet  and  estimable  man  was 
bom  at  Florence,  in  1642.  He  commenced  his 
studies  in  the  public  schools  of  his  native  city,  and 
continued  them  at  the  University  of  Pisa,  where 
he  gave  proof  of  rare  abilities,  insatiable  eager- 
ness for  learning,  and  ardent  piety.  On  his  re- 
turn to  Florence,  he  was  chosen  a  member  of 
the  Delia  Cruscan  Academy.  At  the  age  of 
thirty-one,  he  married  Anna  Capponi.  After 
the  death  of  his  father,  he  retired  to  the  coun- 
try, where  he  lived  in  tranquillity,  dividing  hia 
time  between  the  study  of  poetry,  the  education 
of  his  children,  and  the  duties  of  religion.  He 
wrote  a  great  number  of  Latin  and  Italian  po- 
ems ;  but  his  modesty  was  so  great  that*  he 
hardly  ventured  to  show  them  to  a  iew  friends, 
who,  however,  made  the  secret  known.  The 
beautiful  canzoni,  six  in  number,  which  he 
wrote  on  the  deliverance  of  Vienna  from  the 
Turks  by  John  Sobieski,  king  of  Poland,  and 
the  duke  of  Lorraine,  excited  universal  admira- 
tion, and  established  his  fame  as  the  first  poet  of 
his  age.  Queen  Christina,  of  Sweden,  was  so 
charmed  with  them,  that  she  sent  him  a  letter 
of  congratulation  ;  and  when,  afVerwarda,  he 
wrote  a  magnificent  canzone  in  her  praise,  she 
loaded  him  with  honors,  enrolled  him  among 
the  members  of  the  Academy  she  had  estab- 
lished at  Rome,  and  charged  herself  with  the 
support  of  his  two  sons,  on  condition  only  that 
the  benefaction  should  not  be  disclosed  to  the 
public,  because  she  was  ashamed  to  have  it 
known  that  she  had  done  so  little  for  so  great  a 
man.  The  grand  duke  of  Tuscany  also  gave 
him  the  rank  of  Senator,  and  then  made  him 
Governor  of  Vol  terra  and  Pisa.  In  these  and 
other  offices  with  which  he  was  honored,  he 
performed  his  duties  with  such  fidelity,  that  he 
secured  at  once  the  eateem  of  the  prince  and 


FILICAJA, 


587 


the  afTection  of  the  people.  Thus,  enjoying  the 
love  both  of  the  great  and  the  humble,  he  lived 
to  the  age  of  sixty-five.  He  died  at  Florence, 
September  24th,  1707. 

As  a  poet,  he  was  one  of  the  most  strenuous 
opponents  of  the  bad  taste  which  had  begun  to 
pervert  the  writings  of  his  countrymen.  His 
style  is  lively,  energetic,  and  elevated.  He  ex- 
celled particularly  in  the  canzone  and  the  son- 
net  At  the  time  of  his  death,  he  was  engaged 
upon  a  revised  edition  of  his  works,  which  was 
afterwards  published  by  his  son,  under  the  title 
of  **  Poesie  Toecane  di  Vincenzo  da  Filicaja.'* 
Another  edition  appeared  in  1720,  and  a  third 
in  1762,  which  has  been  followed  by  several 
other  editions. 


CANZONE. 
THE  8IB0E  OF  VIENNA. 

How  long,  O  Lord,  shall  vengeance  sleep, 
And  impious  pride  defy  thy  rod  f 
How  long  thy  faithful  servants  weep, 
I       Scourged  by  the  fierce  barbaric  host.' 
'       Where,  where,  of  thine  almighty  arm,  O  God, 
Where  is  the  ancient  boast  f 
While  Tartar  brands  are  drawn  to  steep 
Thy  fairest  plains  in  Christian  gore, 
Why  slumbers  thy  devouring  wrath, 
Nor  sweeps  the'  offender  from  thy  path  ? 
And  wilt  thou  hear  thy  sons  deplore 
Thy  temples  rifled,  shrines  no  more. 
Nor  burst  their  galling  chains  asunder, 
And  arm  thee  with  avenging  thunder? 

See  the  black  cloud  on  Austria  lower, 

Big  with  terror,  death,  and  woe ! 

Behold  the  wild  barbarians  pour 

In  rushing  torrents  o'er  the  land ! 
•Lo !  host  on  host,  the  infidel  foe 

Sweep  along  the  Danube's  strand, 

And   darkly  serried  spears  the  light  of  day 

o'erpower ! 
There  the  innumerable  swords, 
The  banners  of  the  East  unite  ; 
All  Asia  girds  her  loins  for  fight : 
The  Don's  barbaric  lords, 
Sarmatia's  haughty  hordes, 
Warriors  from  Thrace,  and  many  a  swarthy 

file 
Banded  on  Syria's  plains,  or  by  the  Nile. 

Mark  the  tide  of  blood  that  flows 

Within  Vienna's  proud  imperial  walb ! 

Beneath  a  thousand  deadly  blows, 

Disnriayed,  enfeebled,  sunk,  subdued, 

Austria's  queen  of  cities  falls  : 

Vain  are  her  lofty  ramparts  to  elude 

The  fatal  triumph  of  her  foes ; 

Lk>  !   her  earth-fast  battlements 

QuiTer  and  shake ;  hark  to  the  thrilling  tfry 

Of  war,  that  reods  the  sky. 

The  groans  of  death,  the  wild  laments, 

The  Bobsof  trembling  innocents. 


Of  wildered  matrons,  pressing  to  their  breast 
All  which  they  feared  for  most  and  loved 
the  best ! 

Thine  everlasting  hand 

Exalt,  O  Lord,  that  impious  men  may  learn 

How  frail  their  armor  to  withstand 

Thy  power,  the  power  of  Ood  supreme  ! 

Let  thy  consuming  vengeance  burn 

The  guilty  nations  with  its  beam  ! 

Bind  them  in  slavery's  iron  band  ; 

Or,  as  the  scattered  dust  in  summer  flies. 

Chased  by  the  raging  blast  of  heaven. 

Before  thee  be  the  Thracians  driven ! 

Let  trophied  columns  by  the  Danube  rise. 

And  bear  the  inscription  to  the  skies  : 

*<  Warring  against  the  Christian  Jove  in  vain. 

Here  was  the  Ottoman  Typhosus  slain  !  " 

If  Destiny  decree. 

If  Fate's  eternal  leaves  declare, 

That  Germany  shall  bend  the  knee 

Before  a  Turkish  despot's  nod. 

And  Italy  the  Moslem  yoke  shall  bear, 

I  bow  in  meek  humility. 

And  kiss  the  holy  rod. 

Conquer,  if  such  thy  will,  — 

Conquer  the  Scythian,  while  he  drains 

The  noblest  blood  from  Europe's  veins, 

And  Havoc  drinks  her  fill : 

We  yield  thee  trembling  homage  still ; 

We  rest  in  thy  command  secure  ; 

For  thou  alone  art  just,  and  wise,  and  pure. 

But  shall  I  live  to  see  the  day. 

When  Tartar  ploughs  Germanic  soil  divide. 

And  Arab  herdsmen  fearless  stray 

And  watch  their  flocks  along  the  Rhine, 

Where  princely  cities  now  o'erlook  hu  tide  ? 

The  Danube's  towers  no  longer  shine. 

For  hostile  flame  has  given  them  to  decay  : 

Shall  devastation  wider  spread  ? 

Where  the  proud  ramparts  of  Vienna  swell. 

Shall  solitary  Echo  dwell. 

And  human  footsteps  cease  to  tread  ? 

O  God,  avert  the  omen  dread ! 

If  Heaven  the  sentence  did  record, 

O,  let  thy  mercy  blot  the  fatal  word  ! 

Hark  to  the  votive  hymn  resounding 
Through  the  temple's  cloistered  aisles ! 
See,  the  sacred  shrine  surrounding. 
Perfumed  clouds  of  incense  rise  ! 
The  pontiff  opes  the  stately  piles 
Where  many  a  buried  treasure  lies  ; 
With  libera]  hand,  rich,  full,  abounding, 
He  pours  abroad  the  gold  of  Rome. 
He  summons  every  Christian  king 
Against  the  Moelemim  to  bring 
Their  forces  leagued  for  Christendom : 
The  brave  Teutonic  nations  come. 
And  warlike  Poles  like  thunderbolts  descend. 
Moved  by  his  voice  their  brethren  to  defend. 

He  stands  upon  the  Esquillne, 
And  Itfttf  to  heaveD  his  holy  arm, 


588 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


Like  MofleB,  clothed  in  power  divine, 

While  faith  and  hope  bis  etrengtb  sustain. 

Merciful  God,  has  prayer  no  charm 

Thy  rage  to  soothe,  thy  love  to  gain  ? 

The  pious  king  of  Judah's  line 

Beneath  thine  anger  lowly  bended, 

And  thou  didst  give  him  added  years ; 

The  Assyrian  Nineveh  shed  tears 

Of  humbled  pride,  when  death  impended, 

And  thus  the  fatal  curse  forefended : 

And  wilt  thou  turn  away  thy  face. 

When  Heaven's  vicegerent  seeks  thy  grace  ? 

Sacred  fury  fires  my  breast. 

And  fills  my  laboring  soul. 

Ye,  who  hold  the  lance  in  rest. 

And  gird  you  for  the  holy  wars, 

On,  on,  like  ocean  waves  to  conqoest  roll, 

Christ  and  the  Cross  your  leading  star ! 

Already  he  proclaims  your  prowess  blest : 

Sound  the  loud  trump  of  victory. 

Rush  to  the  combat,  soldiers  of  the  Cross ! 

High  let  your  banners  triumphantly  toss ; 

For  the  heathen  shall  perish,  and  songs  of  the 

free 
Ring  through  the  heavens  in  jubilee ! 
Why  delay  ye  ?     Buckle  on  the  sword  and 

targe, 
And  charge,  victorious  champions,  eharge  ! 

SONNETS. 

TO  ITALY. 
Italia,  O  Italia !   hapless  thou. 
Who  didst  the  fatal  gift  of  beauty  gain, 
A  dowry  fraught  with  never-ending  pain,  •— 
A  seal  of  sorrow  stamped  upon  thy  brow  : 
O,  were  thy  bravery  more,  or  less  thy  charms ! 
Then  should  thy  foes,  they  whom  thy  loveliness 
Now  lures  afar  to  conquer  and  possess, 
Adore  thy  beauty  less,  or  dread  thine  arms  \^ 
No  longer  then  should  hostile  torrents  pour 
Adown  the  Alps ;  and  Gallic  troops  be  laved 
In  the  red  waters  of  the  Po  no  more ; 
lior  longer  then,  by  foreign  courage  saved. 
Barbarian  succour  should  thy  sons  implore,  — 
Vanqubhed  or  victors,  still  by  Goths  enslaved. 

ON  THE   EARTHQUAXX  OF  8ICILT. 

Thou  buried  city,  o'er  thy  site  I  muse !  — 
What !  does  no  monumental  stone  remain. 
To  say,  "Here  yawned  the  earthquake-riven 

plain,  ' 

Here  stood  Catania,  and  here  Syracuse  "  ? 
Along  thy  sad  and  solitary  sand, 
I  seek  thee  in  thyself,  yet  find  instead 
Naught  but  the  dreadful  stillness  of  the  dead. 
Startled  and  horror-struck,  I  wondering  stand, 
And  cry :  O,  terrible,  tremendous  course 
Of  God's  decrees !  I  see  it,  and  I  feel  it  here : 
Shall  I  not  comprehend  and  dread  its  force  ? 
Rise,  ye  lost  cities,  let  your  ruins  rear 
Their  massy  forms  on  high,  portentous  corse. 
That  trembling  ages  may  behold  and  fear ! 


I  SAW  a  mighty  river,  wild  and  vast, 

Whose  rapid  waves  were  moments,  which  did 

glide 
So  swifUy  onward  in  their  silent  tide, 
That,  ere  their  flight  was  heeded,  they  were 

past; 
A  river,  that  to  death's  dark  shores  doth  ftst 
Conduct  all  living  with  resistless  force. 
And,  though  unfelt,  pursues  its  noiseless  coarse. 
To  quench  all  fires  in  Lethe's  stream  at  last. 
Its  current  with  creation's  birth  was  bom ; 
And  with  the  heavens  commenced  its  march 

sublime 
In  days  and  months,  still  hurrying  on  nntired.  — 
Marking  its  flight,  I  inwardly  did  mourn. 
And  of  my  musing  thoughts  in  doubt  inquired 
T^he  river's   name:    my  thoughts  responded. 

Time. 


BENEDETTO  MENZINI. 

Bbvbdxtto  Msirziiri  was  bom  of  humble 
parents  in  Florence,  March  29th,  1646.  Not- 
withstanding his  poverty,  he  studied  in  the  pub- 
lic schools,  and  made  such  progress  that  his 
abilities  attracted  the  attention  of  the  Marquis 
Gianvincenzo  Salviati,  who  took  him  into  hie 
house.  When  still  very  young,  he  was  appoint- 
ed Professor  of  Eloquence  in  Florence  and  Pra- 
to,  and  greatly  distinguished  himself.  Being 
disappointed  in  his  hope  of  obtaining  a  chair  in 
the  University  of  Pisa,  he  went  to  Rome  in 
1685,  where  the  queen  of  Sweden  took  him 
into  her  service,  and  enrolled  him  in  her  Acad-  I 
eroy.  For  some  years,  he  occupied  himself  i 
quietly  with  his  studies,  and  during  this  period 
wrote  the  greater  part  of  his  poems.  But  af^er  i 
the  death  of  his  protectress,  he  found  himself 
again  without  resources,  and  was  obliged  to 
support  himself  by  writing  for  pay.  In  1691, 
Cardinal  Ragotzchi  invited  Menzini  to  accoon- 
pany  him  to  Poland  as  his  secretary ;  but  being 
unwilling  to  leave  Italy,  he  finally  obtained, 
through  the  friendly  offices  of  Cardinal  Gian- 
francesco  Albani,  afterwards  Pope  Clement  the 
Eleventh,  the  patronage  of  Pope  Innocent  the 
Twelfth.     He  died  September  7th,  1708. 

Menzini  attempted  various  kinds  of  poetry. 
He  wrote  sonnets,  canzoni,  elegies,  hymns,  sat- 
ires, and  a  ^<  Poetica  "  in  Una  rtma.  Though 
inferior  to  Chiabrera  and  Filicaja  in  lyric  poe- 
try, hu  style  is  lively  and  elegant.  His  works, 
Italian  and  Latin,  were  published  at  Florence, 
in  four  volumes,  in  1731. 


CUPID'S  REVENGR 


LisTCv,  ladies,  listen  ! 

Listen,  while  I  say 
How  Cupid  was  in  prison 

And  peril,  t'  other  day  : 


MENZINI GUIDI. 


589 


All  ye  wbajeer  aad  scoff  him, 
Will  joy  to  hear  it  of  him. 

Some  damsels  prond,'  delighted| 
Had  caught  him,  uoespied ; 

And,  by  their  strength  united, 
His  bands  behind  him  tied : 

His  wings  of  down  and  leather 

They  twisted  both  together. 

His  bitter  grief,  I  *m  learflil. 
Can  neyer  be  expressed. 

Nor  how  his  blue  eyes  tearful 
Rained  down  his  ivory  breast : 

To  naught  can  I  resemble 

What  I  to  think  of  tremble. 

These  fair  but  foul  murdresses 
*Then  stripped  his  beamy  wings, 

And  cropped  his  golden  tresses 
That  flowed  in  wanton  rings : 

He  could  not  choose  but  languish. 

While  writhing  in  such  anguish. 

They  to  an  oak-tree  took  him. 
Its  sinewy  arms  that  spread. 

And  there  they  all  forsook  him, 
To  hang  till  he  was  dead  : 

Ah,  was  not  this  inhuman  ? 

Yet  still  't  was  done  by  woman ! 

This  life  were  mere  vexation. 
Had  Love  indeed  been  slain, 

The  soul  of  our  creation ! 
The  antidote  of  pain  ! 

Air,  sea,  earth,  sans  his  presence, 

Would  lose  their  chiefest  pleasance. 

But  his  immortal  mother 
His  suffering  chanced  to  see ; 

First  this  band,  then  the  other. 
She  cut,  and  set  him  free. 

He  vengeance  vowed,  and  kept  it ; 

And  thousands  since  have  wept  it. 

For,  being  no  fbrgiver, 

With  gold  and  leaden  darts 

He  filled  his  rattling  quiver, 

And  pierced  with  gold  the  hearts 

Of  lovers  young,  who  never 

Could  hope,  yet  loved  for  ever. 

With  leaden  shaft,  not  forceless, 
'Gainst  happy  lovers'  state 

He  aimed  with  hand  remorseless. 
And  turned  their  love  to  hate  : 

Tbeir  love,  long  cherished,  blasting 

With  hatred  everlasting. 

Ye  fiur  ones,  who  so  often 

At  Cupid's  power  have  laughed. 

Your  scornful  pride  now  soften. 
Beware  his  vengeful  shaft ! 

His  quiver  bright  and  burnished 

With  love  or  hate  is  furnished. 


ALESSANDRO   GUIDI. 

Alsssandbo  Guidi  was  bom  in  Pavia,  in 
1650.  He  studied  at  Parma,  where  he.  enjoyed 
the  protection  of  Duke  Ranuccio  the  Second, 
and  where,  at  the  age  of  thirty-one,  he  published 
some  of  his  lyrical  poems,  and  a  drama  entitled 
<*Amalasunta  in  Italia."  These  works  were 
in  the  prevalent  style  of  the  age.  Soon  after 
this  be  went  to  Rome,  and  attracting  the  fiivor- 
able  notice  of  Queen  Christina,  entered  her 
service,  and  in  1685,  took  up  his  abode  in 
Rome,  with  the  consent  of  Ranuccio.  Here 
he  connected  himself  with  several  distinguished 
poets,  and  resolved,  in  conjunction  with  them, 
to  effect  a  revolution  in  the  popular  taste.  He 
gave  himself  up  ardently  to  the  study  of  Pindar, 
the  qualities  of  whose  style  he  endeavoured  to 
tranafhse  into  bis  own.  By  command  of  the 
queen,  he  composed  his  "  Endymion,"  a  pas- 
toral drama,  in  which  Christina  inserted  some 
of  her  own  verses.  He  made  an  unsuccessful 
attempt  in  tragedy,  taking  for  his  subject  the 
fortunes  of  Sophonisba.  After  this  he  began  a 
translation  of  the  Psalms,  but  was  interrupted 
by  a  mission  which  was  intrusted  to  him  by 
Pavia,  his  native  place,  to  the  court  of  Eugenio, 
the  governor  of  Lombardy,  in  which  he  was  so 
successful  that  he  was  rewarded  by  being  raised 
to  the  ranks  of  nobility.  On  his  return  to 
Rome,  he  set  about  the  completion  of  a  trans- 
lation he  had  some  time  before  begun  of  the 
homilies  of  Clement  the  Eleventh.  When  this 
was  printed,  he  set  out  for  Castel  Gandolfo, 
where  the  pope  was  then  staying,  to  present  his 
Holiness  a  copy ;  but  as  he  was  reading ,  the 
book  on  the  way,  he  found  it  full  of  errors ; 
and  bis  vexation  was  so  excessive,  that  he  fell 
ill,  on  his  arrival  at  Frascati,  and  died  there  of 
apoplexy,  June  12th,  1712. 

The  poems  of  Guidi  are  fiill  of  spirit  and 
enthusiasm.  Tiraboschi  says,  *«  He  is  one  of 
the  few  who  have  happily  succeeded  in  trans- 
fusing the  inspiration  and  the. fire  of  Pindar  into 
Italian  poetry." 

CANZONL 

rORTTJNS.     • 

A  LADT,  like  to  Juno  in  her  state. 

Upon  the  air  her  golden  tresses  streaming. 

And  with  celestial  eyes  of  azure  beaming. 

Entered  whilere  my  gate. 

Like  a  barbaric  queen 

On  the  Euphrates'  shore. 

In  purple  and  fine  linen  was  she  palled  ; 

Nor  flower  nor  laurel  green. 

Her  tresses  for  their  garland  wore 

The  splendor  of  the  Indian  emerald. 

But  through  the  rigid  pride  and  pomp  unbending 

Of  beauty  and  of  haughtiness. 

Sparkled  a  flattery  sweet  and  condescending ; 

And,  from  her  inmost  bosom  sent. 

Came  accents  of  most  wondrous  gentleness. 


590                                                 ITALIAN 

POETRY. 

Officious  and  inteDt 

And  not  Mnrcellus'  fiercer  battle-tone ; 

To  thrall  my  soal  in  aoft  imprigonment 

And  I  on  the  Tarpeian  did  deliver 

Afric  a  captive,  and  through  me  Nile  flowed 

And,  «<  Place,"  she  aaid,  <«  thy  hand  within  my 

Under  the  laws  of  the  great  Latin  river, 

hair, 

And  of  his  bow  and  quiver 

And  all  around  thou  'It  see 

The  Parthian  reared  a  trophy  high  and  bro«d ; 

Delightful  Chances  fair 

The  Dacian's  fierce  inroad 

On  golden  feet  come  dancing  unto  thee. 

Against  the  gates  of  iron  broke ; 

Me  Jove*s  daughter  shalt  thou  own, 

Taurus  and  Caucasus  endured  my  yoke : 

That  with  my  sister  Fate 

Then  my  vassal  and  my  slave 

Sits  by  his  side  in  state 

On  the  eternal  throne. 

And  when  I  had  o'ercome 

Great  Neptune  to  my  will  the  ocean  gives : 

All  earth  beneath  my  feet,  I  gave 

In  Tain,  in  well  appointed  strength  secure, 

The   vanquished   world  in   one   great   gift    to 

The  Indian  and  the  Briton  strives 

Rome. 

The  assaulting  billows  to  endure ; 
Unless  their  flying  sails  I  guide 

**  I  know  that  in  thine  high  imagination 

Where  over  the  smooth  tide 

Other  daughters  of  great  Jove 

On  my  sweet  spirit's  wings  I  ride. 

Have  taken  their  imperial  station, 

I  banish  to  their  bound 

And  queen-like  thy  submissive  passions  ino^e : 

The  storms  of  dismal  sound, 

From  them  thou   hop'st  a  high  and    godlike   | 

And  o'er  them  take  my  stand  with  foot  serene ; 

fate; 

The  JEolian  caverns  under 

From  them  thy  haughty  verse  presages 

The  wings  of  the  rude  winds  I  chain, 

An  everlasting  sway  o'er  distant  ages. 

And  with  my  hand  I  burst  asunder 

And  with  their  glorious  rages 

The  fiery  chariot-wheels  of  the  hurricane : 

Thy  mind  intoxicate 

And  in  its  fount  the  horrid,  restless  fire 

Deems  't  is  in  triumphal  motion 

I  quench,  ere  it  aspire 

On  courser  fleet  or  winged  bark 

To  heaven  to  color  the  red  eomet's  train. 

Over  earth  and  over  ocean. 

While  in  shepherd  hamlet  dark 

«« This  is  the  hand  that  forged  on  Ganges'  shore 

Thou  liv'st,  with  want  within,  and  raiment  ooane 

The  Indian's  empire  ;  by  Orontes  set 

without. 

The  royal  tiar  the  Assyrian  wore  ; 

And  none  upon  thy  state  hath  thrown 

Hung  jewels  on  the  brow  of  Babylon ; 

Gentle  regard  ;  I,  I  alone, 

By  Tigris  wreathed  the  Persian's  coronet. 

To  new  and  lofty  venture  call  thee  oat : 

And  at  the   Macedonian's  foot  bowed  every 

Then  follow,  thus  besought ; 

throne. 

Waste  not  thy  soul  in  thought ; 

It  was  my  lavish  gift. 

Brooks  nor  sloth  nor  lingering 

The  triumph  and  the  song 

The  great  moment  on  the  wing." 

Around  the  youth  of  Pel  la  loud  uplift, 

When  he  through  Asia  swept  along. 

"A  blissfiil  lady,  and  immortal,  bom 

A  torrent  swifl  and  strong ; 

From  the  eternal  mind  of  Deity," 

With  me,  with  me  the  conqueror  ran 

I  answered  bold  and  free. 

To  where  the  sun  his  golden  course  began ; 

<<  My  soul  hath  in  her  queenly  care : 

And  the  high  monarch  lefl  on  earth 

She  mine  imagination  doth  upbear. 

A  faith  unquestioned  of  his  heavenly  birth ; 

And  steeps  it  in  the  light  of  her  rich  mom. 

By  valor  mingled  with  the  gods  above. 

That  overshades  and  sicklies  all  thy  shining. 

And  made  a  glory  of  himself  to  his  great  fiither 

And  though  my  lowly  hair 

Jove. 

Presume  not  to  bright  crowns  of  thy  eDtwin. 

<*  My  royal  spirits  ofl 

Yet  in  my  mind  I  bear 

Their  solemn  mystic  round 

Gifts  nobler  and  more  rare 

On  Rome's  great  birthday  wound ; 

Than  the  kingdoms  thou  canst  lavish. 

And  I  the  haughty  eagles  sprung  aloft, 

Gifts  thou  canst  nor  give  nor  ravish. 

Unto  the  star  of  Mars  upborne, 

And  though  my  spirit  may  not  eomprebend 

Till,  poising  on  their  plumy  sails, 

Thy  Chances  bright  and  fair. 

They  'gan  their  native  vales 

Yet  neither  doth  her  sight  oflend 

And  Sabine  palms  to  scorn  ; 

The  aspect  pale  of  miserable  Care. 

And  I  on  the  Seven  Hills  to  sway 

Horror  to  her  is  not 

That  senate-house  of  kings  convened. 

Of  this  coarse  raiment  and  this  humble  cot : 

On  roe,  their  guide  and  stay, 

She  with  the  golden  Muses  doth  abide ; 

Ever  the  Roman  counsels  leaned. 

And,  O,  the  darling  children  of  thy  pride 

In  danger's  lofty  way: 

Shall  then  be  truly  glorified. 

I  guerdoned  the  wise  delay 

When  they  may  merit  to  be  wrapt  around 

Of  Fabius  with  the  laurel  crown, 

With  my  Poesy's  eternal  sound  !  " 

II 

GUIDI. 


591 


She  kindled  at  my  words,  and  flamed,  aa  when 

A  cruel  star  hath  wide  diapread 

Its  locks  of  bloody  red ; 

She  burst  in  wrathful  menace  then : 

"Me  fears  the  Dacian,  me  the  band 

Of  wandering  Seythiana  fbars. 

Me  the  rough  mothera  of  barbaric  kinga^ 

In  woe  and  dread  amid  the  ringa 

Of  their  encircling  apeara 

The  purple  tyrants  stand ; 

And  a  shepherd  here  forlorn 

Treats  my  proffered  boons  with  acorn, 

And  fears  he  not  my  wrath  ? 

And  knows  he  not  my  works  of  acath ; 

Nor  bow  with  angry  foot  I  went, 

Of  every  province  in  the  Orient 

Branding  the  bosom  with  deep  tracks  of  death  ? 

From  three  empresses  I  rent 

The  tresses  and  imperial  wreath, 

And  bared  them  to  the  pitileaa  element 

Well  I  remember,  when,  his  armed  grasp 

From   Afric  stretched,  rash  Xerxes  took   his 

stand 
Upon  the  formidable  bridge,  to  clasp 
And  manacle  sad  Europe's  trembling  hand : 
In  the  great  day  of  battle  there  was  I, 
Busy  with  myriads  of  the  Persian  slaughter, 
The  Salaminian  Sea's  fiiir  face  to  dye. 
That  yet  admires  its  dark  and  bloody  water : 
Full  vengeance  wreaked  I  for  the  affront 
Done  Neptune  at  the  fettered  Hellespont. 
To  the  Nile  then  did  I  go. 
The  fatal  collar  wound 

The  fair  neck  of  the  Egyptian  queen  around ; 
And  I  the  merciless  poison  made  to  flow 
Into  her  breast  of  snow. 
Ere  that,  within  the  mined  cave, 
I  forced  dark  Afric's  valor  stoop 
Confounded,  and  its  dauntless  spirit  droop, 
When  to  the  Carthaginian  brave. 
With  mine  own  hand,  the  hemlock  draught  I 

gave. 
And  Rome  through  me  the  ravenous  flame 
In  the  heart  of  her  great  rival,  Carthage,  cast. 
That  went  through  Lybia  wandering,  a  scorned 

shade. 
Till,  sunk  to  equal  ahame. 
Her  mighty  enemy  at  last 
A  shape  of  mockery  was  made ; 
Then  miserably  pleased. 

Her  fierce  and  ancient  vengeance  she  appeased, 
And  even  drew  a  sigh 
Over  the  ruins  vast 
Of  the  deep-hated  Latin  majesty. 
I  will  not  call  to  mind  the  horrid  aword. 
Upon  the  Memphian  shore, 
Steeped  treasonously  in  great  Pompey's  gore ; 
Vor  that  for  rigid  Cato's  death  abhorred ; 
Sot  that  which  in  the  hand  of  Brutus  wore 
rhe  first  deep  coloring  of  a  CsBsar's  blood. 
Hot  will  I  honor  thee  with  my  high  mood 
>r  wrath,  that  kingdoma  doth  exterminate ; 
o  capable  art  thou  of  my  great  hate, 
Ls  my  great  glories.     Therefore  shall  be  thine 
>f  my  reTcnge  a  slighter  sign  ; 


Yet  will  I  make  its  fearful  sound 

Hoarse  and  slow  rebound. 

Till  seem  the  gentle  pipings  low 

To  equal  the  fierce  trumpet's  brazen  glow." 

Then  sprang  she  on  her  flight, 

Furious;  and,  at  her  call. 

Upon  my  cottage  did  the  storms  alight, 

Did  hurricanes  and  thunders  fall. 

But  I,  with  brow  serene. 

Beheld  the  angry  hail. 

And  lightning  flashing  pale, 

Devour  the  promise  green 

Of  mj  poor  native  vale. 


TO   THE   TIBER. 

Tiber  !  my  early  dream, 
My  boyhood's  vision  of  thy  classic  stream. 
Had  taught  my  mind  to  think 
That  over  sanda  of  gold 
Thy  limpid  watera  rolled, 
And  ever-verdant  laurels  grew  upon  thy  brink. 

But  in  far  other  guiae  ^ 

The  rade  reality  hath  met  mine  eyes  : 
Here,  seated  on  thy  bank. 
All  deaolate  and  drear 
Thy  margin  doth. appear, 
With  creeping  weeds,  and  shrubs,  and  vegeta- 
tion rank. 

Fondly  I  fancied  thine 
The  wave  pellucid,  and  the  Naiad's  shrine. 
In  crystal^ot  below ; 

But  thy  tempestuous  course 
Runs  turbulent  and  hoarse. 
And,  swelling  with  wild  i^rath,  thy  wintry  wa- 
ters flow. 

Upon  thy  bosom  dark, 
Peril  awaita  the  light,  confiding  bark, 
In  eddying  vortex  swamped ; 
Foul,  treacherous,  and  deep. 
Thy  winding  waters  sweep. 
Enveloping  their  prey  in  dismal  ruin  prompt. 

Fkst  in  thy  bed  is  sunk 
The  mountain  pine-tree's  broken  trunk. 
Aimed  at  the  galley's  keel ; 

And  well  thy  wave  can  wafl 
Upon  that  broken  shaft 
The  barge,  whose  shattered  wreck  thy  bosom 
will  conceal. 

The  dog-atar's  sultry  power, 
The  summer  heat,  the  noontide's  fervid  hour, 
That  fires  the  mantling  blood. 

Yon  cautions  swain  can't  urge 
To  tempt  thy  dangerous  surge, 
Or  cool  his  limbs  within  thy  dark,  insidious 
flood. 

I  've  marked  thee  in  thy  pride. 
When  struggle  fierce  thy  disemboguing  tide 
With  Ocean's  monarch  held ; 


592 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


]^ut  quickly  overcome 
By  Neptune's  masterdom, 
Back  thou  hast  fled  as  oft,  ingloriously  repelled. 

Often  athwart  the  fields 
A  giant's  strength  thy  flood  redundant  wields, 
Bursting  above  its  brims, — 

Strength  that  no  dike  can  check  : 
Dire  is  the  harvest-wreck  ! 
Buoyant,  with  lofty  horns,  the  affrighted  bullock 
swims. 

But  still  thy  proudest  boast, 
Tiber,  and  what  brings  honor  to  thee  most 
Is,  that  thy  waters  roll 

Fast  by  the  eternal  home 
Of  Glory's  daughter,  Rome  ; 
And  that  thy  billows  bathe  the  sacred  Capitol. 

Famed  is  thy  stream  for  her, 
CloBlia,  thy  current's  virgin  conqueror;. 
And  him  who  stemmed  the  march 
Of  Tuscany's  proud  host, 
When,  firm  at  honor's  post. 
He  waved  his  blood-stained  blade  above  the 
broken  arch. 

Of  Romulus  the  sons 
To  torrid  Africans,  to  frozen  Huns, 
Have  taught  thy  name,  O  flood  I 
And  to^hat  utmost  verge 
Where  radiantly  emerge 
Apollo's  car  of  flame  and  golden-footed  stud. 

For  BO  much  glory  lent. 
Ever  destructive  of  some  monument, 
Thou  makest  foul  return ; 

Insulting  with  thy  wave    ' 

Each  Roman  hero's  grave. 

And  Scipio's  dust  that  fills  yon  consecrated  urn ! 


CORNELIO  BENTIVOGLIO. 

CoRNBLio  Bkittivoolio  was  born  at  Ferrara, 
in  1668.  He  distinguished  himself  early  by 
his  taste  in  the  fine  arts,  and  by  his  literary 
acquirements.  Clement  the  Eleventh  appointed 
him  Secretary  to  the  Apostolical  Chamber.  In 
1712,  he  was  sent  as  Nuncio  to  Parts.  In  1719, 
he  received  a  cardinal's  hat.  He  died  at  Rome, 
in  1732. 

Cardinal  Bentivoglio  amused  his  leisure  with 
poetry.  He  wrote  sonnets,  and  translated  the 
*<Thebai8"  of  Statins  into  Italian. 


SONNET. 

The  sainted  spirit,  which  from  bliss  on  high 
Descends  like  dayspring  to  my  fiivored  sight, 
Shines  in  such  noontide  radiance  of  the  sky. 
Scarce  ^o  I  know  that  form  intensely  bright ! 
But   with  the  sweetness  of  her  well  known 

smile,  — 
That  smile  of  peace !  — she  bids  my  doubts  de- 
part. 


And  takes  my  hand,  and  softly  speaka  the  while. 
And  heaven's  full  glory  pictures  to  my  heart. 
Beams  of  that  heaven  in  her  my  eyes  behold. 
And  now,  e'en  now,  in  thought  my  wings  an- 

fold 
To  soar  with  her  and  mingle  with  the  blest : 
But,  ah  !  so  swift  her  buoyant  pinion  flies. 
That  I,  in  vain  aspiring  to  the  skies. 
Fall  to  my  native  sphere,  by  earthly  bondF'  de- 
pressed. 


GIOVANNI  COTTA. 

GiovAVvi  CoTTA  was  bom  at  Verona,  in 
1668.  His  fkmily  was  in  humble  circumstance 
He  distinguished  himself  in  letters  and  poetry, 
and  made  considerable  progress  in  the  naatbe- 
matics.  His  poems  are  few  in  number,  bat 
they  have  enjoyed  considerable  reputation.  He 
died  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-eight. 


SONNET. 

*' There  is  no  God,"  the  fool  in  secret  said : 
«*  There  is  no  God  that  rules  or  earth  or  sky.'* 
Tear  off*  the  band  that  folds  the  wretch's  head. 
That  God  may  burst  upon  his  ftithless  eye  ! 
Is  there  no  God  P  —  the  stars  in  myriads  spread. 
If  he  look  up,  the  blasphemy  deny ; 
Whilst  his  own  features,  in  the  mirror  read. 
Reflect  the  image  of  Divinity. 
Is  there  no  God  ?  —  the  stream  that  silver  flows. 
The  air  he  breathes,  the  ground  he  treads^  the 

trees. 
The  flowers,  the  grass,  the  sands,  each  wind 

that  blows. 
All  speak  of  God ;  throughout  one  voice  agrees, 
And  eloquent  his  dread  existence  shows : 
Blind  to  thyself,  ah,  see  him,  fool,  in  these ! 


GIOVANNI  BARTOLOMMEO  CASARBGI. 

This  poet  was  bom  at  Genoa,  in  1676.  From 
his  earliest  youth,  he  devoted  himself  to  iJie 
study  of  belles-lettres.  ^  At  the  age  of  twenty- 
three,  he  went  to  Ronne,  where  the  eleganee 
of  his  poetical  productions  made  him  known, 
and  he  was  admitted  into  the  Arcadian  Acade- 
my. In  1716,  he  went  to  Siena,  and  thence 
to  Florence,  where  he  appears  to  have  estab* 
lished  himsel£  He  became  a  member  of  tiie 
Florentine  and  Delia  Croscan  Academies.  He 
seems  to  have  been  a  person  of  pure  char- 
acter and  agreeable  conversation,  and  to  have 
enjoyed  the  friendship  of  the  principal  literary 
men  of  his  time.  He  died  at  Florence,  in  1755. 

The  principal  works  of  Casaregi  sue,  an 
Italian  translation  of  Sannazzaro's  poem,  '*  De 
Partu  Virginia,"  **  Sonetti  e  Canzoni,"  and  a 
translation  of  the  Proverbs  of  Solomon. 


CASARE6I.-.MBTASTASIO. 


593 


SONNBT. 

Oft  the  dull  joyi  that  maddening  crowds  en- 

cliain 
I  fly,  and,  seated  in  some  lonely  place, 
Traverse  in  thought  the  wide-extended  space, 
Where  ancient  monarchs  held  successiYe  reign. 
I  range  o'er  Persia  and  Assyria's  plain, 
And  of  their  mighty  cities  find  no  trace  ; 
And  when  toward  Greece  and  Rome  I  turn  my 

face, 
What  scanty  relics  of  their  power  remain  ! 
Arise,  proud  Asia's  lords,  avenge  the  wrong  ! 
Up,  Philip's  ton  !  great  Csasars,  where  are  ye, 
To  whom  the  trophies  of  the  world  Kelong  ? 
Dust  are  they  all !     If  such  their  destiny, 
Who  founded  thrones,  and  heroes  ranked  among, 
Say,  Spoiler  Time,  what  ruin  threatens  me  ? 


PIETRO  METASTASIS 

PiETRo  Mbtastasio,  whoso  original  name 
W8S  Trapassi,  was  born  at  Assisi,  in  1698.    His 
parents  were  poor,  but  respectable.    His  talents 
for  poetry  were  early  displayed,  and   gained 
him  the  ftvor  of  Gravina,  who  took  him  under 
I  his  protection,  superintended  his  education,  and, 
I  dying  in  1717,  made  him  his  heir.     M etastasio, 
being  now  placed  in  easy  circumstances,  re- 
nounced the  study  of  the  law,  which  he  had 
undertaken  in  compliance  with  the  wishes  of 
his  patron,  and  occupied  himself  with  poetry 
and  the  pleasureii  of  society.     Some  time  after- 
wards he  removed  to  Naples,  and  resumed  the 
study  of  the  law  for  a  short  period ',  but  the 
brilliant  success  of  a  dramatic  poem,  publish- 
ed by  him  anonymously,  on  the  celebration  of 
the  birthday  of  the  Empress  Elizabeth  Chris- 
tina, and  the  persuasions  of  the  singer  Mari- 
anne Bulgarelli,  who  had  detected  the  author- 
ship of  the  piece,  at  length  fixed  his  determina- 
tion to  give  himself  wholly  to  poetry.  In  1724, 
be  produced  his  **Didone  Abbandonata."  Soon 
after  this,  be  accompanied  Marianna  to  Rome, 
where  he  remained  until  1739.     In  this  inter- 
rai  he  composed  several  of  his  dramas,  and  his 
«putation  had  so  much  increased,  that  Charles 
he   Sixth   invited  him  to  Vienna,  made  him 
*oet  Laureate,  and  settled  on  him  a  pension  of 
bur  thousand  guilders.     In  1730,  he  took  up 
is  residence  at  the  imperial  court,  where  he 
ma   received  with  every  mark  of  admiration 
nd  regard.     His  life  now  was  prosperous,  and, 
a  the  whole,  happy)  his  affluent  genius  and 
neat  industry  secured  him  the  highest  public 
ptimation ;    and   the  long  series  of  dramatic 
MUM,  ^vhich  were  brought  ont  with  the  great- 
t    ma^ificence,'  and  which  snrrounded  the 
»urt  of  Vienna  with  the  glories  of  literature, 
aced    him  in  a  poeition  beyond  the  reach  of 
ralry.      He  enjoyed  the  uninterrupted  ikvor 
Charles  the  Sixth,  Maria  Theresa,  and  Joseph 
3  Seconal.     He  died  April  13th,  1782. 

75 


Metastasio  may  be  said  to  have  created  the 
modern  Italian  opera.  The  purity,  sweetness, 
grace,  and  harmony  of  his  style  have  made 
him  a  classic  in  Italian  poetry,  though  his  pres- 
ent reputation  is  da  ftnm  according  with  the 
wonderful  success  he  enjoyed  in  his  lifetime. 
His  works  were  published  at  Venice,  in  sixteen 
volumes,  in  1781.  His^Opere  Postume  "  ap- 
peared at  Vienna,  in  three  volumes,  in  1795. 
Seteral  of  his  pieces  have  been  translated  into 
English.  An  edition  containing  eighteen  plays, 
translated  by  John  Hoole,  appeared  in  London, 
in  1767.  Other  translations  have  been  made 
by  Oliyari  and  Beloe. 


FROM  THE  DRAMA  OF  TITU& 

TITUS,  PVBLnrS,  ANNinS,  AND  8EXTU8. 

[The  scene  represents  a  place  before  the  temple  of  Jupiter 
Stator,  celebrated  for  the  meeting  of  the  Senate:  behind 
is  a  view  of  pan  of  the  Roman  Forum,  decorated  with 
arches,  obelisks,  and  trophies.*  on  the  side  is  a  distant 
proepea  of  the  Palatine  Hill,  and  a  great  part  of  the  Sa- 
cred Way :  a  front  view  of  the  Capitol,  which  is  ascended 
by  a  magnificent  flight  of  steps. 

Pubiiua  and  tlie  Roman  Senators ;  the  depnties  of  tlie  sub- 
ject provinces  attending  to  present  their  annual  tribute 
to  the  Senate.  While  the  ensuing  Chorus  is  sung,  Titus 
descends  from  the  Capitol,  pieceded  by  the  Lictors,  fol- 
lowed b>  the  Pneton,  and  surrounded  bj  a  numerous 
crowd  of  people.] 

OBoavs. 
O  GVABDiAN  gods !  in  whom  we  trust 

To  watch  the  Roman  fate  ; 
Preserve  in  Titus,  brave  and  just, 

The  glory  of  the  state ! 
For  ever  round  our  Caesar's  brows 

The  sacred  faurel  bloom  ; 
In  him,  for  whom  we  breathe  our  vows, 

Preserve  the  weal  of  Rome  ! 
Long  may  your  glorious  gift  remain 

Our  happy  times  to  adorn  : 
So  shall  our  age  the  enyy  gain 

Of  ages  yet  unborn  ! 

PUBUUS. 

This  day  the  Senate  style  thee,  mighty  Cssar, 
The  father  of  thy  country ;  never  yet 
More  just  in  their  decree. 


Thou  art  not  only 

Thy  country's  father,  but  her  guardian  god : 

And  since  thy  virtues  have  already  soared 

Beyond  mortality,  receive  the  homage 

We  pay  to  Heaven !    The  Senate  have  decreed 

To  build  a  stately  temple,  wher;  thy  name 

Shall  stand  enrolled  among  the  powers  divine. 

And  Tiber  worship  at  the  fane  of  Titus. 

PUSUUS. 

These  treasures,  gathered  from  the  annual  tribute 
Of  subject  provinces,  we  dedicate 
To  effect  this  pious  work :  disdain  not,  Titus, 
This  public  token  of  our  grateful  homage. 
XX  a 


694 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


RomaDB  !  beliere  that  every  wish  of  Titus 

Is  centred  in  your  love ;  but  let  not,  therefore, 

Tour  love,  forgetful  of  its  proper  bounds, 

Reflect  disgrace  on  Titus,  or  yourselves. 

Is  there  a  name  more  dear,  more  tender  to  me. 

Than  father  of  my  people  ?     Tet  even  this 

I  rather  seek  to  merit  than  obtain. 

My  soul  would  imitate  the  mighty  gods 

By  virtuous  deeds,  but  shudders  at  the  thought 

Of  impious  emulation.     He  who  dares 

To  rank  himself  their  equal  forfeits  all 

His  future  title  to  their  guardian  care. 

O,  fatal  folly,  when  presumptuous  pride 

Forgets  the  weakness  of  mortality  ! 

Tet  think  not  I  refuse  your  proffered  treasures : 

Their  use  alone  be  changed.     Then  hear  my 

purpose. 
Vesuvius,  raging  with  unwonted  fury. 
Pours  from  her  gaping  jaws  a  lake  of  fire. 
Shakes  the  firm  earth,  and  spreads  destruction 

round 
The  subject  fields  and  cities^  tremblirig  fly 
The  pale  inhabitants,  while  all  who  'scape 
The  flaming  ruin  mea^e  want  pursues. 
Behold  an  object  claims  our  thoughts !  dispense 
These  treasures  to  relieve  your  suffering  breth- 
ren; 
Thus,  Romans,  thus  your  temple  build  for  Titus. 

▲MNIUS. 

O,  truly  great ! 

PUBUtntL 

How  poor  were  all  rewards. 
How  poor  were  praise,  to  such   transcendent 
virtue ! 

OHORtrS. 

O  guardian  gods !  in  whom  we  trust, 

To  watch  the  Roman  fate  ; 
Preserve  in  Titus,  brave  and  just, 

The  glory  of  the  state ! 

TZTUS. 

Enough,  —  enough  !  —  Sextus,  my  friend,  draw 

near; 
Depart  not,  Annius ;  all  besides,  retire. 

AHNxus  (aside  to  Sextus). 
Now,  Sextus,  plead  my  cause. 


And  could  you.  Sir, 

Resign  your  beauteous  queen  ? 


Alas,  my  Sextus ! 

That    moment,  sure,   was    dreadful, — yet    I 

thought  

No  more,  —  't  is  past ;  the  struggle  's  o'er  !  she 

's  gone ! 
Thanks  to  the  gods,  I  've  gained  the  painful 

conquest ! 
'T  is  just  I  now  complete  the  task  begun  ; 
The  greater  part  is  done ;  the  less  remains. 


To  take  from  Rome 

The  least  suspicion  *  that  the  hand  of  Titos 

Shall  e'er  be  joined  in  marriage  to  the  queen. 


For  this  the  queen's  departure  may  sufliee. 


What  more  remains,  my  lord  ? 


No,  Sextus ;  once  before,  she  left  our  city. 
And  yet  returned ;  twice  have  we  met,  —  the 

third 
May  prove  a  fatal  meeting ;  while  my  bed 
Receives  no  other  partner,  all  who  know 
My  soul's  affection  may  with  dhow  of  reaeon 
Declare  the  place  reserved  for  Berenice. 
Too  deeply  Rome  abhors  the  name  of  queen. 
But  wishes  on  the  imperial  seat  to  view 
A  daughter  of  her  own ;  —  let  Titus,  then. 
Fulfil  the  wish  of  Rome.     Since  love  in  vain 
Formed  my  first  choice,  let  friendship  fix   the 

second. 
Sextus,  to  thee  shall  Csesar's  blood  unite  ; 
This  day  thy  sister  is  my  bride 

8BXTU8. 

Servilia  ? 

VITUS. 

Servilia. 

▲NNius  (aside). 
Wretched  Annius ! 


O  ye  gods ! 
Annius  is  lost ! 


Thou  bear'st  not ;  speak,  my  firiend,  — 
What  means  this  silence  ? 

SaZTUB. 

Can  I  speak,  my  lord  ? 

Thy  goodness  overwhelms  my  grateful  mind,- 

Fain  would  I 

ANNIUS  (aside). 
Sextus  suffers  for  his  friend  ! 


Declare  thyself  with  fireedom, — every  wish 
Shall  find  a  grant. 

saxTus  (aside). 
Be  just,  my  soul,  to  Annius  ! 

ANNIUS  (aside). 
Annius,  be  firm ! 

SKCTUS. 

0  Titus! 

ANNIUS. 

Mighty  CsBsar !  / 

1  know  the  heart  of  Sextus  :  from  our  infancy, 
A  mutual  tenderness  has  grown  between  na. 

I  read  his  thoughts ;  with  modest  eetimationr 
He  rates  his  worth,  as  disproportioned  far 
To  such  alliance,  nor  reflects  that  Csasar 
Ennobles  whom  )ie  favors.     Sacred  Sir  ! 
Pursue  your  purpose.     Can  a  bride  be  found 
More  worthy  of  the  empire  or  yourself? 
Beauty  and  virtue  in  Servilia  meet ; 


M  ETA  ST  A  SI  O GOLDONI. 


695 


She  seemed,  whene'er  I  Tiewed  her,  born  to 

reign; 
Atfd  what  I  oft  presaged  your  choice  confirms. 

SBXTUfl  (aside). 
Is  this  the  Toice  of  Annius  ?    Do  I  dream  ? 


'T  is  well :  thou,  Annius,  with  despatchfbl  care. 
Convey  the  tidings  to  her.     Come,  my  Sextus, 
Cast  every  vain  and  cautious  doubt  aside ; 
Thou  shalt  with  me  so  &r  partake  of  greatness, 
I  will  exalt  thee  to  such  height  of  honor, 
That  little  of  the  distance  shall  remain 
At  which  the  gods  hare  placed  thee  now  firom 
Titus. 

8KXTU8. 

Forbear,  my  lord !  O,  moderate  this  goodness  ! 
Lest  Sextus,  poor  and  bankrupt  in  his  thanks, 
Appear  ungrateful  for  the  gifU  of  Cesar. 


What  wouldst  thou  leave  me,  firiend,  if  thou 

deni*8t  me 
The  glorious  privilege  of  doing  good  ? 

This  fruit  the  monarch  boasts  alone. 
The  only  firuit  that  glads  a  throne : 
All,  all  besides  is  toil  and  pain. 
Where  slavery  drags  the  galling  chain. 

Shall  I  my  only  joy  forego  ? 

No  more  my  kind  protection  show 

To  those  by  fortune's  frown  pursued  ? 
No  more  exalt  each  virtuous  friend. 
No  more  a  bounteous  hand  extend. 

To  enrich  the  worthy  and  the  good  ? 

▲mnvs  (alone). 
Shall  I  repent  ?  —  O,  no  !  —  I  've  acted  well. 
As  suits  a  generous  lover ;  had  I  now 
Deprived  her  of  the  throne,  to  imure  her  mine, 
I  might  have  loved  myself,  but  not  Servilia. 
Lay  by,  my  heart,  thy  wonted  tenderness ! 
She  who  was  late  thy  mistress  is  become 
Thy  sovereign ;  let  thy  passion,  then,  be  changed 
To  distant  homage !  —  But,  behold,  she  's  here ! 
O  Heaven  !  methinkis  she  ne'er  before  appeared 
So  beauteous  in  my  eyes ! 


▲NNIU8  AND   8BRYILIA. 
SIEVILIA. 

Mr  h£6  I  my  love  ! 

AXniTTS. 

Cease,  cease,  Servilia ;  for  't  is  criminal 
To  call  me  still  by  those  endearing  names. 

SBBVIUA. 

And  wherefore? 

▲mnvs. 
Cassar  has  elected  thee  — 
D,  torture  !  —  for  the  partner  of  his  bed. 
Fie  bade  me  bring,  myself, — I  cannot  bear  it !  — 

The  tidings  to  thee O,  my  breaking  heart ! 

\.Dd  I — I  have  been  once 1  cannot  speak ! 

Smpreaa,  farewell ! 


smviUA. 
What  can  this  mean  ?  —  Yet  stay, — 
ServHia  CsBsar's  wife .:»— Ah  !  why  ? 


Because 

Beauty  and  virtue  never  can  be  found 

Moie  worthy  of  the  throne.  —  My  life!  —  O 

Heaven  ! 
What  would  I  dare  to  say  ?  —  Permit  me,  em-  ' 

press, 
Permit  me  to  retire. 


And  wilt  thou  leave  me 
In  this  conffasion  ?     Speak, — relate  at  full 
By  what  strange  means,  —  declare  each  circum- 
stance  

▲NNI1T8. 

I  'm  lost,  unless  I  go.  —  My  heart's  best  treasure ! 

My  tongue  its  wonted  theme  pursues. 
Accustomed  on  thy  name  to  dwell ; 

Then  let  my  former  love  excuse 
What  from  my  lips  unwary  fell. 

I  hoped  that  reason  would  suffice 

To  calm  the  emotions  love  might  raise : 

But,  ah  !  unguarded,  fond  surprise 
Each  secret  I  would  hide  betrays. 

SBitvxLiA  (alone). 
Shall  I  be  wife  to  Caesar  ?  in  one  moment 
Shake  off  my  former  chains  ?  consign  to  oblivion 
Such  wondrous  &ith?  —  Ah,  no!  from  me  the 

throne 
Can  never  merit  such  a  sacrifice  ! 
Fear  it  not,  Annius,  —  it  shall  never  be  ! 

Thee  long  I  've  loved,  and  still  I  '11  love ; 
Thou  wert  the  first,  and  thou  shalt  prove 

The  last  dear  object  of  my  flame  : 
The  love  which  first  our  breast  inspires, 
When  free  from  guilt,  such  strength  acquires. 

It  lasts  till  death  consumes  our  frame. 


CARLO   GOLDONI. 

Carlo  Goldori,  the  greatest  writer  of  com- 
edy in  the  Italian  language,  was  born  at  Ven- 
ice, in  1707.  He  showed  an  early  predilection 
for  the  drama ;  but  his  father,  though  delighted 
with  the  manifestations  of  genius  given  by  the 
boy,  wished  him  to  study  his  own  profession, 
that  of  medicine.  This  did  not  agree  with  the 
young  poet's  inclination,  and  he  soon  gained 
permission  to  study  the  law  at  Venice.  He 
went  afterward  to  the  University  of  Pavia;  but 
having  been  detected  in  writing  a  satire  upon 
some  of  the  most  respectable  families  there,  he 
was  expelled  from  the  University.  At  the  age 
of  twenty-two,  he  received  an  appointment  in 
Feltre,  where  he  amused  his  leisure  by  appear- 
ing in  private  theatricals  at  the  governor's  pal- 
ace.    He  settled  afterwards  in  the  practice  of 


696 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


the  law  at  Venice,  where  he  had  considerable 
Bucceaa.  He  was  soon  forced,  however,  by  an 
intrigue  in  which  he  involved  himself^  to  leave 
Venice.  He  took  with  him  to  Milan  an  opera 
he  had  written,  entitled  **  Amalasonta,'*  by 
which  he  bad  hoped  to  make  his  fortune.  Being 
disappointed  in  the  reception  he  met  with,  he 
composed  the  musical  interlude  of  ^  The  Vene- 
tian Gondolier,"  which  was  successful.  He 
was  driven  from  place  to  place  by  the  Italian 
wars  in  1733,  and,  finally,  meeting  a  troop  of 
comedians  in  Verona,  he  returned  with  them  to 
Venice,  where  he  brought  out  his  tragedies  of 
"Belisarius"  and  «  Rosamund."  In  1736,  he 
married  the  daughter  of  a  notary  in  Genoa,  and, 
establishing  himself  in  Venice,  began  to  culti- 
vate comedy,  on  which  his  fame  is  chiefly  fbund- 
ed.  In  1741,  he  was  obliged  to  leave  Venice, 
and  seek  the  means  of  subsistence  elsewhere. 
For  some  time  he  was  director  of  the  theatre  at 
Rimini.  He  then  went  to  Florence  and  Siena, 
where  he  was  well  received.  At  Pisa  he  re- 
turned to  the  law,  in  which  for  a  time  he  had 
an  extensive  business.  He  then  accompanied  a 
troop  of  players  to  Mantua,  and  again  returned 
to  Venice  after  an  absence  of  five  years.  In 
1758,  he  was  invited  to  Parma,  where  he  wrote 
some  operas  that  were  set  to  music.  In  1761, 
he  went  to  Paris,  where  his  pieces  were  re- 
ceived with  great  applause,  and  he  procured  the 
appointment  of  reader  and  Italian  teacher  to  the 
daughters  of  Louis  the  Fifteenth.  Three  years 
after,  he  received  a  pension  of  three  thousand 
six  hundred  livres,  which  was  discontinued  at 
the  breaking  out  of  the  Revolution  ;  it  was  re- 
stored, however,  by  a  decree  of  the  Convention, 
January  7th,  1793.  But  Goldoni,  being  now 
in  his  eighty-sixth  year,  died  the  next  day. 
His  widow  received  the  arrears  of  his  pension, 
and  a  pension  for  herself. 

Goldoni's  writings  are  distinguished  for  fer- 
tility of  invention  and  excellent  delineation  of 
chaiacter.  As  a  reformer  of  the  Italian  theatre, 
by  resisting  the  predominant  taste  for  masques 
and  extemporary  pieces,  and  substituting  for 
them  the  regular  comedy,  his  merits  are  very 
great.  A  complete  edition  of  his  works  was 
published  at  Lucca,  in  1809,  in  twenty-six  vol- 
umes. Several  of  his  pieces  have  been  translat- 
ed into  most  of  the  languages  of  £uropa 

CECILIA'S  DREAM. 

I  ORKAMKD  that  in  a  garden  I  reposed, 
Beside  a  fount  fed  by  a  mountain  stream 
Precipitous ;  where  the  waves'  murmuring  flow 
And  music  of  sweet  birds  my  heart  entranced 
'Twixt  joy  and  grief.     Then  to  the  air,  me- 

thought. 
And  to  the  woods,  I  uttered  my  oomplaint ; 
Reproached  my  cold  heart  with  its  long  disdain. 
And  called  on  Heaven  to  sway  my  lover's  heart 
To  reconcilement,  and  to  soothe  mine  own 
To  kindness,  —  when  amid  the  laurel  bowera,^ 
O,  blissful  chance ! -^sudden  my  love  appeared 


And  fell  before  my  feet.     **  Foigive,"  be  eriad, 
**  The  transport  of  mine  anger,  in  the  boor 
Thou  bad'st  me  wait  upon  the  midnight  air ;  • 
And,  for  the  future,  cheerfully  I  'II  brave 
The  scorching  sunbeams  or  the  evening  dews. 
Or  linger  the  lone  night  beneath  these  walls ;  — 
Thy  day  be  mine,  or  clouded  or  serene. 
Ah !  then,  relent,  and  let  my  heart  have  reel !  *' 
At  these  sweet  words,  how  shall  I  tell  my  joy  ? 
I  called  him  to  my  side.     He  rose,  approached. 
And  trembling  seized  the  hand  I  profiered  him, 
A  pledge  of  reconciled  love ;  and,  ah  ! 
So  fervent  kissed  it,  that  my  very  heart 
Leaped  in  my  bosom ;  then  fiiU  many  a  sigh 
He  breathed,  with  sweet  regards  and  fond  < 


CARLO   GOZZI. 

CouKT  Carlo  Gozzi  was  bom  at  Venice, 
about  1718.  He  showed  very  early  a  poetical 
spirit,  and  acquired  a  command  of  the  Tuscan 
style.  The  condition  of  his  family  made  it 
necessary  for  him  to  enter  the  military  service 
in  his  sixteenth  year.  Three  years  after,  he 
returned  to  Venice  and  resumed  his  studies. 
He  was  hostile  to  the  taste  created  by  Chiari's 
bombastic  dramas,  and  defended  the  cammedi^ 
dell*  arte  and  the  harlequin  Sacchi  against  the 
attacks  of  Goldoni.  He  drew  the  materials  of 
his  own  dramatic  compositions  firom  the  fkiry 
tales,  by  which  he  produced  great  popular  ef- 
fects. His  pieces  are  rather  sketches  than 
complete  artistic  productions.  About  the  year 
1771,  be  deserted  his  original  career,  and  began 
to  translate  from  the  French,  and  other  lan- 
guages, in  order  to  adapt  tragic  parts  for  the 
actress  Signora  Ricci,  who  had  acquired  great 
influence  over^him.  He  died  about  the  year 
1800.  An  edition  of  his  works  was  published 
in  eight  volumes,  in  1772 ;  to  which  he  added  a 
ninth,  in  1799. 

FROM  TURANDOT. 

[A  mareh.  Tniflkldin,  tha  chief  of  ths  amracbs,  adtauLea, 
his  ac^mlur  on  hto  thoiikler,  foOowod  1^  blacto,  and  b/ 
wveral  female  alaree  beeling  drami.  After  them  Adelma 
Bad  Zelima,  the  former  in  Tutar  coetume,  both  veiled. 
Zelima  bean  a  traj  with  rarioue  aealed  papen.  TniflU- 
dia  and  the  eunuchs  proetraie  themaelree  before  the  em- 
peror as  they  paas,  and  then  rise  up ;  the  female  alaree 

.  kneel  with  their  hands  on  their  foreheads.  At  length 
appears  Tunmdot,  veiled,  in  rich  Chinese  coetame,  witk 
a  haughtj  and  majestic  air.  The  counciUoca  and  doctors 
throw  tbemaelvea  down  before  her,  with  their  feces  u> 
the  earth.  Altoum  riase;  the  prinoeea  makee  an  obei- 
sance to  him  with  her  hand  on  her  brow,  and  then  seats 
heraelf  upon  her  throne.  Zelima  and  Adiolma  take  their 
{dacee  on  each  side  of  her,  the  latter  nearest  to  the  spec- 
tators. TraflUdin  takes  ths  tiay  ftom  Zelima,  and  dis- 
tributes with  comic  eeremonj  the  faUlsu  uaoog  tha  doer 
ton,  then  retirae  with  the  same  obeisance  as  beforS,  and 
the  march  ceases.] 


TomAMPOT  (after  a  long  psase). 
Whbmb  is  this  new  adventurer,  who  thus, 
Despite  the  sad  experience  of  the  past, 


OOZZI. 


697 


Wooid  fUDly  strWe  to  solve  my  deep  enigmu, 
And  oomei  to  swell  the  catalogue  of  death  ? 

AunvM  (pointing  to  Qdaf,  wko  ntandi^  m  if  ■track  wHh 

wtoniibmonti  in  the  centn  of  Um  dlTan). 
Tbera,  diogbter^  -*  there  he  staDds,  and  worthy^ 

too. 
To  be  the  buaband  of  thy  choice,  without 
TbiB  frightful  test,  which  clouds  the  land  with 

roourniog. 
And  fills  with  sharpest  pangs  thy  fioher's  breast 

nnunoT  (liter  gaxing  at  him  for  aome  time— aeide  to 

Zeilma). 
0  Heaven !  what  feeling  's  this,  my  Zelima  ? 


What  is  the  matter,  Princess  ? 


Never  yet 

Did  mortal  enter  this  diran,  whose  presence 

Could  move  my  soul  to  pity,  until  now. 


Three  aimple  riddles,  then,  and  pride  farewell ! 


Presomptaous  girl,  dost  thou  fbrget  my  honor  ? 

ADWUU  (who  haa  In  the  mean  time  been  regarding  the 

prince  with  astonishment  —aside). 
Is  this  a  dream  ?     Great  Gk)d,  what  do  I  see  ? 
*T  is  he,  the  youth  whom  at  my  father's  court 
I  knew  but  as  a  slave.     He  was  a  prince, 
A  monarch's  son.     My  heart  foreboded  it 
Love's  deep  presentiments  are  ever  sure. 

TUaANDOT. 

Still  there  is  time,  O  Prince ;  abandon  yet 

This  wild  attempt,— turn  from  this  hall  for  ever. 

Heaven  knows,  those  tongues  belie  me  that  ac- 
cuse 
My  heart  of  harshness  or  of  cruelty. 
I  am  not  cruel,  I  would  only  live 
In  freedom,  —  would  not  be  another's  slsve ; 
That  right,  which  even  the  meanest  of  man- 
kind 
rnherits  from  his  mother's  womb,  would  I, 
The  daughter  of  an  emperor,  maintain. 
[  see,  throughout  the  East,  unhappy  woman 
degraded,  bent  beneath  a  slavish  yoke  ', 

will  avenge  my  sex's  injuries 
>n  haughty  man,  whose  sole  advantage  o'er  us 
ilea,  like  the  brute's,  in  strength.  Tes,  nature's 

self 
[ath  armed  me  with  the  weapons  of  invention 
nd  eubtilty,  and  skill  to  guard  my  fl«edom. 
f  man    I  '11  hear  no  more.     I  hate  him, — 

bate 
ta  pride  and  his  presumption.    Every  treasure 
a   grampm  with  greedy  hand;   whate'er,  fbr- 

aooth, 
m  fancy  longs  for,  he  must  straight  possess. 

why  did  Heaven  endow  me  with  these  grac«|S, 
leae  gifta  of  mind,  if  noblest  natures  still 
e  doomed  on  earth  to  he  the  mark  at  which 


Each  savage  hunter  aims,  while  meaner  things 

Lie  tranquil  in  their  insignificance  ? 

Shall  beauty  be  the  prize  of  one  ?     No,  rather 

Free  as  the  universal  sun  in  heaven. 

Which  lightens  all,  which  gladdens  every  eye. 

But  is  the  slave  and  property  of  none. 


Such  lofly  thought,  such  nobleness  of  soul. 
Enshrined  in  such  a  godlike  form  !  O,  who 
Shall  censure  the  fond  youth  who  gladly  sets 
His  life  upon  a  cast  for  such  a  prize  ? 
The  merchant,  for  a  little  gain,  will  venture 
His  ships  and  crews  upon  the  stormy  sea ; 
The  hero  hunts  the  shadow  of  renown 
Across  the  gory  field  of  death ;  and  shall 
Beauty  alone  be  without  peril  won,  — 
Beauty,  the  best,  the  brightest  good  of  all  ? 
Princess,  I  chaige  thee  not  with  cruelty ; 
But  blame  not  thou,  in  tnm,  the  youth's  pre- 
sumption,— 
O,  hate  him  not^that  with  enamoured  soul 
He  strives  for  that  which  is  invaluable  ! 
Thyself  hast  fixed  the  treasure's  price ;  the  lists 
Are  open  to  the  worthiest     I  am 
A  prince, — I  have  a  life  to  hazard  for  thee, — 
No  happy  one,  but 't  is  my  all,  —  and  had  I 
A  thousand  lives,  I  'd  sacrifice  them  all. 


(aside  to  l^nuidot). 
O  Princess,  dost  thou  hear  ?  For  Heaven's  sake. 
Three  simple  riddles, — he  deserves  it  of  thee. 


(aside). 

What  nobleness !  what  loving  dignity  ! 
O,  that  he  might^be  mine, —  that  I  had  known 

him 
To  be  a  prince,  when  at  my  father's  court 
I  dwelt  of  yore  in  freedom  and  in  joy ! 
How  love  flames  up  at  once  within  my  heart, 
Now  that  I  know  his  lineage  equals  mine ! 
Courage,  my  heart !  I  must  possess  him  still. 

[ToTurandot. 
Princess,  thou  art  confhaed,  —  thon  'rt  silent 

Think, 
Think  of  thy  glory ;  honor  is  at  stake. 

mAKDOT  (aside). 

And  none  till  now  had  moved  me  to  compas- 
sion.— 

Hush,  Turandot !  —  thou  must  suppress  thy 
foelings. 

Presumptuous  youth,  so  be  it,  then,  —  prepare ! 

AXffOOV. 

Prince,  is  thy  purpose  fixed  ? 


Fixed  as  the  pole. 

Or  death,  or  Turandot 

AL10UM. 

Then  read  aloud 

The  fatal  edict ;  hear  it,  Prince,  and  tremble. 
flWtaglla  takes  the  Book  of  the  Law  oot  of  his  bosom, 
lays  it  on  his  breast,  then  on  his  forehead,  and  de- 
Urvn  It  to  FSatakML 


598 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


PAHTALON  (receires  the  book,  prostntM  himself,  then  lieee, 
and  reads  aloud). 
The  hand  of  Turandot  to  all  ia  free, 
But  first  three  riddles  must  the  saitor  read; 
Who  solves  them  not  must  on  the  scaffold 
bleed, 
And  his  head  planted  o'er  the  gate  shalt  be ; 
Solves  he  the  riddles,  then  the  bride  is  won : 
So  runs  the  law, -^  we  swear  it  by  the  Sun. 

ALTOUM  (raising  hiB  right  hand,  and  laying  It  npon  the 
book). 

0  bloody  law,  sad  source  of  grief  to  me, 

1  swear  by  Fo  that  thou  fulfilled  shalt  be ! 
[Turtaglla  pnts  the  book  again  in  his  bosom.    A  long 


nrRAKnoT  (rising,  and  in  a  declamatory  tone). 
The  tree  within  whose  shadow 

Men  blossom  and  decay. 
Coeval  with  creation, 

Tet  still  in  green  array ;  — 
One  side  for  ever  turneth 

Its  branches  to  the  sun. 
But  coal-black  is  the  other, 

And  seeks  the  light  to  shun. 
New  circles  still  surround  it. 

So  oAen  as  it  blows ; 
The  age  of  all  around  it. 

It  tells  us  as  it  grows ; 
And  names  are  lightly  graven 

Upon  its  verdant  rind. 
Which,  when  its  bark  grows  shrivelled, 

Man  seeks  in  vain  to  find. 
Then  tell  me,  Prince,  —  this  tree, 
What  may  its  likeness  be  ? 

[Sits  down. 

OALAP  (after  considering  for  a  time,  with  his  ejes  raised, 

makes  his  obeisance  to  the  princess). 
Too  happy,  Princess,  would  thy  slave  be,  if 
No  riddles  more  obscure  than  this  await  him. 
The  ancient  tree  that  still  renews  its  verdure  ; 
On  which  men  blossom  and  decay ;  whose  leaves 
On  one  side  seek,  on  the  other  flee  the  sun ; 
On  whose  green  rind  so  many  names  are  graven, 
Which  only  last  so  long  as  it  is  green,  — 
That  tree  is  Time,  with  all  its  nights  and  days. 

PAirrALOM  (JojftiUy). 
Tartaglia,  he  has  hit  it ! 

TABTAOLIA. 

To  a  hair ! 

DOCToms  (bnaking  open  the  soiled  packet). 
Optime,  optime^  opHme! — Time,  Time,  Time, 
It  is  Time. 

[Music. 

ALTOUM  (Joyfhllj). 

The  favor  of  the  gods  go  with  thee,  son, 
And  help  thee  also  through  the  other  riddles  ! 


O  Heaven, 


him! 


ASU.XA  (aside). 
Heaven  assist  him  not ! 
Let  it  not  be,  that  she,  the  cruel  one. 
Should  gain  him,  and  the  loving-hearted  lose. 


TUSAMDOT  (In  anger). 
And  shall  he  conquer?  shall  my  pride  be  hum- 
bled > 
No,  by  the  gods !  —  Thou  Beir>contented  fool, 

[TbCalaf: 
Joy  not  so  early.     Listen  and  interpret. 

[Rises  again  and  d^.Iaims  as  befora. 
Know'st  thou  the  picture  softly  rounded 
That  lights  itself  with  inward  gleam. 
Whose  hues  are  every  moment  changing, 

Tet  ever  fair  and  perfect  seem  ; 
Within  the  narrowest  panel  painted. 
Set  in  the  narrowest  frame  alone, 
Tet  all  the  glorious  scenes  around  us 

Are  only  through  that  picture  shown  ? 
Or  know'st  thou  that  serenest  crystal 

Whose  brightness  shames  the  diamond's 
blaze. 
That  shines  so  clear,- yet  never  scorches. 

That  draws  a  world  within  its  rays  ; 
The  blue  of  heaven  its  bright  reflection 

Within  its  magic  mirror  leaves, 
And  yet  the  light  that  sparkles  from  it 
Seems  lovelier  oft  than  it  receives  ? 

OALAV  (bending  bw  to  the  princess,  after  a  short  cooaid- 

eration). 
Chide  not,  exalted  beauty,  that  thy  servant 
Thus  dares  again  to  hazard  a  solution. 
This  tender  picture,  which,  with  smallest  frame 
Encompassed,  mirrors  even  immensity  ;       • 
The  crystal  in  which  heaven   and  earth  are 

painted, 
Tet  renders  back  things  lovelier  even  than  they; 
It  is  the  Ete,  the  world's  receptacle,  — 
JTdne  eye,  when  it  looks  lovingly  on  me. 

PAMTALON  (springing  up  joTfnlly). 
Tartaglia,  by  my  soul,  he  hath  hit  the  mark. 
Even  in  the  centre ! 

TARTAOUA. 

As  I  live,  't  is  true ! 

DOCTORS  (opening  the  packet). 
OpHme,  opHme^  optinte!  —  the  Eye,  the  Eye,  it 
is  the  Eye. 

[Masjc. 

ALTOUM. 

What  nnezpected  fortune  !  Gracious  gods. 
Let  him  but  reach  the  mark  once  more  ! 


O,  that  it  were  the  last ! 

ADBLMA. 

Woe  's  me,  he  conquers !  he  is  lost  to  me ! 

[ToTnraadot. 
Princess,  thy  glory  is  departed.     Canst  tboa 
Submit  to  this  ?  shall  all  thy  fbrmer  triumphs 
Be  tarnished  in  a  moment  ? 

TO&AHDOT  (rising  in  ths  highast  ladlgnsidoo). 
Sooner  shall 

Earth  crumble  into  ruin  !     No  !     I  tell  thee. 
Presumptuous  youth,  I  do  but  bate  thee  more. 
The  more  thou  hop*st  to  conquer — to  possess  me. 
Wait  not  my  last  enigma.     Fly  at  once. 
Leave  this  divan  for  ever.     Save  thyself. 


60ZZI PARINI. 


699 


It  ig  thy  hate  alone,  adored  Princesa, 
That  could  appall  or  agitate  my  heart ; 
Let  my  unhappy  head  sink  in  the  duat, 
If  it  unworthy  be  to  touch  thy  boaom. 

▲LTOUM. 

0,  yield,  belored  son,  and  tempt  no  farther 

The  gods,  who  twice  have  favored  thee  !    Now 
safe, 

Nay,  crowned  with  honor,  thou  canst  leave  the 
field. 

Two  conquests  naught  avail  thee,  if  the  third. 

The  all-decisive,  be  not  won.     The  nearer 

The  summit,  still  the  heavier  is  the  fall. 

And  thon, — O,  be  content  with  this,  my  daugh- 
ter ! 

Desist,  and  try  him  with  no  more  enigmas. 

He  hath  done  what  never  prince  before  him  did. 

Give  him  thy  hand,  then, —  he  is  worthy  of  it, — 

And  end  the  trial. 

[Zelima  makes  imploring,  and  Addma  meoaclng  ges- 
tores  to  TurandoU 

TraUfDOT. 

End  the  trial,  say'st  thou  ? 

Give  him  my  hand  f  No,  never.  Three  enigmas 

The  law  hath  said.  The  law  shall  take  its  course. 


Let  the  law  take  its  course.     My  life  is  placed 
In  the  gods*  hands.     Death,  then,  or  Turandot 

nraAHnoT. 
Death  be  it,  then,  —  death.    Dost  thou  hear  me, 
Prince  ? 

[Rising  and  proceeding  to  declaim  as  before. 
What  is  the  weapon,  prized  by  few. 
Which  in  a  monarch's  hand  we  riew ; 
.Whose  nature,  like  the  murderous  blade, 
To  trample  and  to  wound  seems  made, 
,Yet  bloodless  are  the  wounds  it  makes  > 
To  all  it  gives,  from  none  it  takes ; 
It  makes  the  stubborn  earth  our  own, 
It  gives  to  life  its  tranquil  tone ; 
Though  mightiest  empires  it  hath  grounded, 
Though  oldest  cities  it  hath  founded. 
The  flame  of  war  it  never  lit. 
And  happy  they  who  hold  by  it  ? 
Say,  Prince,  what  may  that  weapon  be. 
Or  else  farewell  to  life  and  me. 

P^lth  these  lan^  words  she  tears  off  hel*  relL 
'  Look  here,  and,  if  thou  canst,  preserve  thy  senses. 
Die,  or  unfold  the  riddle  ! 

OALAF  (conflwed,  and  holding  his  band  before  his  eyes). 
O  dazzling  light  of  heaven  !  O  blinding  beauty ! 

▲LTOUM. 

O  God  !  he  grows  confu8ed,~his  senses  wander; 
Compooe  thyself,  my  son,  collect  thy  thoughts. 


How  my  heart  beata  ! 

▲naucA  (aside). 
Mioe  art  thon  yet,  beloved,  — 
I  '11  aave  thee  yet.  Love  will  find  out  the  way. 


WAMTALon  (to  CUaf ). 
O,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  let  not  his  senses 
Take  leave  of  him!     Courage,  look  up,  my 

prince !  — 
O,  woe  is  me !  I  fear  me  all  is  over ! 

TARTAOUA  (with  uiock  gtavitj  to  hlmselO. 
Would  dignity  permit,  we  'd  fly  in  person 
To  fetch  him  vinegar. 

TinuKDOT  (looking  with  a  steady  eovntanance  on  the 

prince,  who  stiU  stands  ImmoraUe). 
Unfortunate ! 
Thou  wouldst  provoke  thy  ruin^  —  take  it,  then  ! 

OALAV  (who  has  recovered  his  composare,  turns  with  a 

calm  smile  and  obeisance  to  Turandot). 
It  was  thy.  beauty  only,  heavenly  Princess, 
That  with  its  blinding  and  o'erpowering  beam 
Burst  on  me  so,  and  for  a  moment  took 
My  senses  prisoners.     I  am  not  vanquished. 
That  iron  weapon,  prized  of  few,  yet  gracing 
The  hand  of  China's  emperor  itself^ 
On  the  first  day  of  each  returning  year ; 
That  weapon,  which,  more  harmlesa  than  the 

sword. 
To  industry  the  stubborn  earth  subjected  ;  — 
Who,  from  the  wildest  wastes  of  Tartftry, 
Where  only  hunters  roam  and  shepherds  pas- 
ture, 
Could  enter  here,  and  view  this  blooming  land, 
The  green  and  golden  fields  that  wave  around  us. 
Its  many  hundred  many-peopled  towns 
Blest  in  the  calm  protection  of  the  law. 
Nor  reverence  that  goodliest  instrument. 
That  gave  these  blessings  birth,  —  the  gentle 
Plough  ? 

pAirrALOR. 
O,  God  be  praised  at  last !  Let  me  embrace  thee ; 
I  scarcely  can  contain  myself  for  joy. 

TABTAOLIA. 

God  bless  his  Majesty,  the  emperor !     All 
Is  over  j  sorrow  has  an  end  at  last 

DOGTOBs  (brsaklng  open  the  packet).  ' 
The  Plough,  the  Plough,  it  is  the  Plough  ! 

[All  the  Instnimenta  Join  in  a  lood  crash.    Turandot 
sinks  upon  bar  throne  in  a  swoon. 


GIUSEPPE  PARINI. 

GiuSBPPB  pARiiri  was  bom  at  Busisio,  a  Mi- 
lanese village,  in  1729.  He  studied  at  Milan, 
and  devoted  himself  to  theology  in  compliance 
with  his  father's  desires.  He  early  made  some 
poetical  attempts,  and,  in  1752,  published  a 
collection  of  his  pieces,  which  occasioned  his 
being  admitted  into  the  Academy  of  the  Arca- 
dians at  Rome.  Being  appointed  preceptor  in 
the  Borromeo  and  Serbelloni  families,  he  was 
placed  more  at  his  ease,  and  had  more  leisure 
for  his  studies.     He  died  in  1799. 

The  principal  work  of  Parini  is  the  dramatic 


600 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


satira  entitled  *<I]  Gionio,"  or  The  Day,  in 
which  he  attempt!  a  delineation  of  the  manners 
of  the  great.  It  is  divided  into  *«  II  Mattino,*' 
or  Morning,  **  II  Mezzogiorno,"  or  Noon,  "II 
Veepero,'*  or  Evening,  and  '*  La  Notte,"  or 
Night.  This  poem  gave  him  a  great  reputation, 
and  procured  him  a  professorship  of  belles-let- 
tres in  the  Palatine  School  in  Milan.  He  was 
a  writer  of  profound  feeling,  delicate  taste,  and 
correct  judgment  Hb  language  is  simple,  well 
chosen,  and  beautiful.  His  works  were  pub- 
lished by  Reina,  in  six  volumes,  at  Milan, 
1801-4. 


FROM  IL  GIORNO. 

Already  do  the  gentle  valets  hear« 
Thy  tinkling  summons,  and  with  zealous  speed 
Haste  to  unclose  the  barriers  that  exclude 
The  gairish  day,  —  yet  soft  and  warily. 
Lest  the  rude  sun  perchance  offend  thy  sight 
Now  raise  thee  gently,  and  recline  upon 
The  obsequious  pillow  that  doth  woo  thy  weight; 
Thine  hand's  forefinger  lightly,  lightly  pass 
O'er  thine  half-opened  eyes,  and  chase  from 

thence 
The  cursed  Cimmerian  that  durst  yet  remain ; 
And  bearing  still  in  mind  thy  delicate  lips, 
Indulge  thee  in  a  graceful  yawn  betimes. 
In  that  luxurious  act  if  once  beheld 
By  the  rude  captain,  who  the  battling  ranks 
Stentorian-like  commands,  what  shame  would 

.  seize 
On  the  ear*rending,  boisterous  son  of  Mars  ! 
Such  as  of  old  pipe-playing  Pallas  felt, 
When  her  swollen  cheek  and  lip  the  fount  be- 
trayed. 

But  now,  behold,  thy  natty  page  appears. 
Anxious  to  learn  what  beverage  thou  wouldst 

sip. 
If  that  thy  stomach  need  the  sweet  ferment, 
Restorative  of  heat,  and  to  the  powers 
Digestive  so  propitious,  —  choose,  I  pray, 
The  tawny  chocolate,  on  thee  bestowed 
By  the  black  Carib  of  the  plumed  crown. 
Or  should  the  hypochondria  vex  my  lord. 
Or  round  his  tapering  Umbs  the  encroaching 

eesh 
Unwelcome  gather,  let  his  lip  prefer 
The  roasted  berry's  juice,  that  Mocha  sends, — 
Mocha,  that  of  a  thousand  ships  is  proud. 
'T  was  fiite  decreed  that  from  the  ancient  world 
Adventurers  should  sail,  and  o'er  the  main, 
'Gainst  storm  and  doubt,  and  famine  and  despair, 
Should  have  achieved  discovery  and  conquest; — 
'T  was  fate  ordained  that  Ck>rt6s  should  despise 
The  blood  of  sable  man,  and  through  it  wade, 
O'ertuming  kingdoms  and  their  generous  kings. 
That  worlds,  till  then  unknown,  their  fruits  and 

flowers 
Should  cater  to  thy  palate,  gem  of  heroes ! 
But  Heaven  forefond,  that,  at  this  very  hour 
To  coffee  and  to  breakfast  dedicate. 
Some  menial  indiscreet  should  chance  admit 


The  tailor,  —  who,  alas !  is  not  contented 
To  have  with  thee  divided  his  rich  stuflb. 
And  now  with  infinite  politeness  comes. 
Handing  his  bill.     Ahim^  !  unlucky ! 
The  wholesome  liquor  turns  to  gall  and  spleen. 
And  doth  at  home,  abroad,  at  play  or  park. 
Disorganize  thy  bowels  for  the  day. 

But  let  no  portal  e'er  be  closed  on  him 
Who  sways  thy  toes,  professor  of  the  dance. 
He  at  his  entrance  stands  firm  on  the  threshold ; 
Up  mount  his  shoulders,  and  down  sinks  his 

neck. 
Like  to  a  tortoise,  while  with  graceful  bow 
His  lip  salutes  his  hat's  extremity. 
Nor  less  be  thy  .divine  access  denied 
To  the  sweet  modulator  of  thy  voice. 
Or  him  for  whom  the  harmonious  string  vibrates. 
Waked  into  music  by  his  skilful  bow. 
But,  above  all,  let  him  not  fail  to  join 
The  chosen  synod  of  my  lord's  levee. 
Professor  of  the  idiom  exquisite : 
He,  who  firom  Seine,  the  mother  of  the  Graces, 
Comes  generous,  laden  with  celestial  soilbds. 
To  grace  the  lips  of  nauseous  Italy. 
Lo !  at  his  bidding,  our  Italian  words. 
Dismembered,  yield  the  place  unto  their  foe; 
And  at  his  harmony  ineffable, 
Lo !  in  thy  patriot  bosom  rises  strong 
Hate  and  disgust  of  that  ignoble  tongue. 
Which  in  Valchiusa  to  the  echoes  told 
The  lament  and  the  praise  of  hopeless  love. 
Ah !  wretched  bard,  who  knew  not  yet  to  mix 
The  Gallic  graces  with  thy  rude  discourse ; 
That  so  to  delicate  spirits  thou  might'st  be 
Not  grating  as  thou  art,  and  barbarous  ! 

Fast  with  this  pleasant  choir  flits  on  the  mora, 
Unvexed  by  tedium  or  vacuity,         '    . 
While  'twixt  the  light  sips  of  the  fragrant  cop 
Is  pleasantly  discussed, — What  name  shall  bear. 
Next  season,  the  theatric  palm  away  ? 
And  is  it  true  that  Frine  has  returned,  — 
She  that  has  sent  a  thousand  dull  Milords^ 
Naked  and  gulled,  unto  the  banks  of  Thamae  ? 
Or  comes  the  dancer,  gay  Narcissus,  back 
(Terror  of  gentle  husbands),  to  bestow 
Fresh  trouble  to  their  hearts,  and  honors  to  their 
heads? 


LUIGI  VITTORIO  SAVIOLI. 

LviGi  ViTTomo  Savioli,  a  politician  as  well 
as  poet,  was  born  at  Bologna,  in  1720.  Although 
he  manifested  an  early  passion  for  poetry,  he 
involved  himself  in  the  opposition  of  the  aris- 
tocracy to  the  reforms  of  Cardinal  Buoncam- 
pagni,  and  was  one  of  the  number  of  disgraced 
senators  under  the  papal  government  He  be- 
came, however,  more  docile  under  the  Cispadaa 
republic,  and  was  sent  as  a  deputy  to  Parts  to 
treat  with  the  Directory.  He  was  afterwards 
made  Professor  of  Diplomacy  in  the  University 
of  Bologna.     He  died  September  let,  1804. 


SAVIOLL  — ALFIERI. 


601 


The  poems  of  SsTioli  were  published  io  his 
path,  under  the  title  of  *'  Aroori.'*  Thej  had 
an  immense  sacoess,  and  placed  him  among  the 
first  Anacreontio  writers  of  the  age.  His  style 
is  gay  and  elegant.  He  also  wrote  a  translation 
of  Tacitus,  and  began  a  historical  work  enti- 
tled **  Annali  Bologneai,"  which  was  interrapt- 
ed  by  his  death. 


TO  SOUTUBE. 

A  WAT  with  fabled  names  that  shine 

In  modern  knightly  story ; 
I  tune  my  lyre  to  sing  the  deeds 

Of  nobler  ancient  glory. 

Old  Sparta,  sternly  yirtuous,  made . 

The  pure  and  spotless  maiden 
To  join  the  wrestler*s  ring,  by  naught 

But  nature's  vesture  laden. 

No  crimson  hues  along  the  cheek 

Arose  to  mar  her  beauty ; 
Why  feel  dishonest  shame,  if  true 

To  hono.r  add  to  duty  ? 

Nor  word,  nor  look,  betrays  the  fire 

Which  in  the  bosom  gathers 
Of  LacedflBmon*s  youths,  who  sit 

Beside  their  warlike  fkthers. 

But  Beauty  yielded  not  the  palm 

To  gold  or  false  derices ; 
^Arm  in  your  country's  cause !  *'  they  cried ; 

And  Hope  each  heart  entices. 

How  boldly  fought  the  Spartan  host. 
When  Love  the  victor  cherished, 

And  tears  of  secret  grief  were  shed 
O'er  the  brave  men  who  perished ! 

O,  wherefore  have  ye  fled,  ye  days 

Pure,  holy,  ever  glorious  ; 
While  avarice,  luxury,  and  fraud 

Now  reign  o'er  all  victorious .' 

Then  haste  away,  O  dearest  one. 
To  scenes  where  peace  abideth  ; 

Far  from  the  haunts  of  haughty  men, 
The  day  in  calmness  glideth. 

Itn !   there,  'mid  lovely  verdant  slopes^ 
On  high  the  mountain  towers ; 

Penelope,  in  all  her  pride, 
Dwelt  in  less  regal  bowers. 

The  cypress  there,  ptle  Hecate's  tree, 

Its  sacred  leaves  uncloses  ; 
And,  o'er  each  rocky  dell,  the  fir 

Dark  shade  to  shade  opposes. 

There,  too,  the  tree,  which,  as  it  sighed 

Above  the  lonely  fountain, 
The  Berecynthian  goddess  loved 

To  hear  on  Phrygia's  mountain. 
76 


Erst  a  lone  grot,  with  native  marks 
Of  rudeness  on  it  clinging, 

Was  opened  by  the  living  stream, 
Fresh  from  the  soil  upspringing. 

'T  was  found  by  Art,  who  emulous 
With  Nature  joined  her  treasure ; 

And  Thetis  drew  fh>m  all  her  stores 
To  deck  the  abode  of  pleasure. 

In  tranquil  grace,  beside  the  cave. 
Its  guardian  Naiad,  standing, 

Pours  from  her  mossy  shell  a  fount 
To  silvery  streams  expanding. 


VITTORIO  ALFIERI. 

This  remarkable  man,  whoae  diversified  life 
presents  an  eminent  example  of  the  power  of 
resolution  in  overcoming  difficulties,  belonged 
to  a  rich  and  noble  fiunily  of  Asti,  in  Piedmont. 
He  was  bom  January  17th,  1749.  He  lost  his 
fttber  before  he  was  a  year  old.  In  1758,  he 
was  sent,  by  the  advice  of  his  uncle,  the  Cava- 
lier Pellegrino  Alfiero,  to  a  school  in  Turin, 
where  his  education  was  miserably  neglected 
by  thoae  to  whose  care  he  was  intrusted,  and, 
after  several  years  wasted  in  idleness  and  fri- 
volity, he  left  the  academy  nearly  as  ignorant  as 
he  had  entered  it  In  1766,  he  joined  a  pro- 
vincial regiment ;  but  finding  the  duties,  though 
few  and  unimportant,  uncongenial  to  his  taste, 
and  being  irreconcilably  averse  to  military  sub- 
ordination, he  at  length,  and  afler  some  opposi- 
tion, obtained  the  king's  permission  to  travel. 
He  set  out  on  his  journey  in  October,  1766, 
and,  having  visited  the  principal  cities  of  Italy, 
extended  his  travels  to  France,  England,  and 
Holland.  On  his  return,  two  years  afterwards, 
he  attempted,  firom  mere  weariness,  to  amuse 
himself  by  reading ;  but  his  ignorance  was  so 
great,  and  his  mind  was  so  undisciplined,  that 
he  was  able  to  turn  this  resource  to  very  little 
account.  His  knowledge  of  the  Italian  was  so 
slight,  that  he  could  not  appreciate  the  works  of 
Dante,  Petrarch,  and  Tasso;  but  he  gained 
some  acquaintance  with  the  writings  of  Rous- 
seau, Voltaire,  and  Helvetius,  and  read  with 
great  interest  the  **  Lives  "  of  Plutarch. 

Having  now  come  into  possession  of  his  for- 
tune, he  commenced  his  travels  anew  in  1769, 
and  visited  Austria,  Prussia,  Denmark,  Sweden, 
Russia,  and,  again  passing  through  Germany 
and  Holland,  crossed  over  to  England.  Of  his 
mode  of  life  in  England  he  has  lefl  in  his  Me- 
moirs a  minute  and  not  unamusing  account, 
which  presenta,  however,  not  only  a  striking  pic- 
ture of  his  own  frivolous  pursuito,  but  of  the  cor- 
rupt manners  of  the  higher  classes  of  English 
society  at  that  time.  The  public  exposure  of  an 
intrigue  caused  him  to  leave  England,  and  he 
went  by  way  of  Brussels  to  Paris.  From  Paris, 
afler  a  short  stay,  he  passed  into  Spain  and  Por- 


608 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


tugal.  Id  Lisbon,  he  became  acquainted  with 
the  Abate  Tommaao  di  Caluso,  a  person  of  at- 
tractiTe  manners  and  elegant  tastes,  in  whose 
society  he  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  time,  pre- 
ferring his  conversation  to  all  the  amusements 
which  the  capital  afforded.  '*lt  was  on  one  of 
those  most  dulcet  evenings,"  says  Alfieri,  in  his 
Memoirs,  **  that  I  felt  in  my  inmost  heart  and 
soul  a  true  Phoebean  impulse  of  enthusiastic 
ravishment  for  the  art  of  poetry ;  it  was,  how- 
ever, only  a  brief  flame,  which  was  immediately 
extinguished,  and  slept  under  the  ashes  many 
a  long  year  afterwards.  The  kind  and  worthy. 
Abate  was  reading  to  me  that  magnificent  ode  to 
Fortune,  by  Guidi ;  a  poet,  of  whom  I  had  not 
even  heard  the  name  until  that  day.  Some 
stanzas  of  that  canzone,  and  especially  the  very 
beautiful  one  on  Pompey,  transpof'ted  me  to  an 
indescribable  degree;  so  that  the  good  Abate 
persuaded  himself,  and  told  me,  that  I  was  born 
to  make  verses,  and  that  by  studying  I  should 
succeed  in  making  very  good  ones.  But  when 
that  momentary  excitement  had  passed  away, 
finding  all  the  powers  of  my  mind  so  rusted, 
I  did  not  believe  the  thihg  would  ever  be  pos- 
sible, and  thought  no  more  about  it." 

After  his  return  to  his  native  place,  in  1 772, 
retiring  firom  the  military  service  with  some  dif- 
ficulty, he  made  various  efforts  to  supply  the  de- 
ficiencies of  his  education.  The  success  which 
a  few  slight  satirical  compositions  had  among  a 
circle  of  friends,  who  were  accustomed  to  as- 
semble at  his  house,  awakened  the  desire  and 
the  hope  of  one  day  producing  something  that 
should  deserve  to  live.  His  first  dramatic  attempt 
was  the  **  Cleopatra,"  which  was  performed  at 
Turin  in  1775.  From  this  time,  he  determined, 
with  a  resolution  never  to  be  shaken,  to  make 
himself  a  tragic  poet.  Aware  of  his  deficiencies, 
he  spared  no  pains  to  make  them  good.  He 
set  about  acquiring  the  Tuscan  and  the  Latin 
languages ;  for,  though  an  Italian,  he  knew  only 
the  barbarous  dialect  of  his  native  province; 
and  though  a  Master  of  Arts,  educated  in  the 
Academy  and  University  of  Turin,  where  **  the 
Italian  was  a  contraband,"  be  was  not  sufficient- 
ly master  of  the  Latin  to  understand  the  tritest 
quotations.  He  studied  the  Latin  with  a  teach- 
er, and  went  to  Florence  to  acquire  the  Tuscan, 
in  1776.  After  a  brief  residence,  he  went  back 
to  Turin  ;  but  returning  once  more  to  Florence, 
he  became  acquainted  with  the  beautiful  count- 
ess of  Albany,  the  wife  of  the  Pretender,  Charles 
Stuart,  to  whom  he  became  deeply  attached. 
The  description  of  this  lady,  and  of  her  influ- 
ence over  his  character,  fbrms  the  most  beautiful 
part  of  Alfien*s  Memoirs.  The  countess  lived 
unhappily  with  her  husband,  but  there  appears 
to  have  been  nothing  to  censure  in  her  rela- 
tions, at  this  time,  with  Alfieri.  She  obtained 
the  pope's  permission  to  retire  to  a  convent  in 
Florence,  and  afterwards  entered  one  in  Rome. 
Her  husband  lived  until  1788. 

Alfieri  had  determined  to  remain  permanent- 
ly in  Florence,  and  to  labor  uninterruptedly  at 


his  self-imposed  literary  tasks.  But  the  feudal 
tenure  of  an  estate  subjected  him  to  certain  ob- 
ligations  which  were  irksome  and  odious  to  hb 
impatient  spirit.  Among  the  rest,  it  was  pro- 
hibited iyy  law  to  the  vamls  of  the  sovereign 
of  Piedmont  to  leave  bis  States  withoat  special 
permission  in  writing ;  another  law  forbade  the 
printing  of  books  in  any  other  States,  under  a 
heavy  penalty.  These  restrictions  urere  so  in- 
tolerable to  Alfieri,  that  he  made  an  arrange- 
ment with  his  sister's  husband,  by  which  he 
transferred  the  estate  to  him,  on  the  condition 
of  receiving  an  annual  payment  of  about  lialf 
his  present  income. 

The  departure  of  the  countess  of  Albany  to 
Rome  interrupted  his  studies  in  Florence,  and 
he  followed  her  thither,  determining  to  estab- 
lish himself  there.  During  this  residence,  he 
composed  several  of  his  tragedies.  The  ^*  An- 
tigone "  was  performed  in  1782,  by  amateurs, 
in  a  private  theatre,  and  received  much  ap- 
plause. In  1783,  he  submitted  four  tragedies 
to  the  ordeal  of  the  press.  In  the  same  year, 
he  left  Rome,  on  account  of  the  scandal  which 
his  frequent  visits  to  the  countess  created,  and 
went  first  to  Siena,  without  well  knowing  what 
further  course  his  journey  would  take.  In  Siena 
he  remained  about  three  weeks,  with  a  friend 
named  Gori ;  and  then  set  out  for  Venice,  by 
way  of  Florence  and  Bologna.  While  in  Ven> 
ice,  he  heard  of  the  peace  concluded  between 
England  and  America,  and  wrote  the  fifth  ode 
of  his  **  America  Libera."  From  Venice  he 
went  to  Padua,  **  and  this  time,"  he  says  in  his 
Memoirs,  <*  I  did  not,  as  I  had  done  twice  be- 
fore, omit  to  visit  the  house  and  tomb  of  oar 
sovereign  master  of  love,  in  Arqua."  In  Padua 
he  became  acquainted  with  Cesarotti,  the  trans- 
lator of  Ossian.  From  Padua,  he  returned  to 
Bologna,  passing  through  Ferrara,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  performing  another  poetic  pilgrimage, 
that  of  visiting  the  tomb  and  examining  the 
manuscripts  of  Ariosto.  He  then  went  to  Milan 
and  Turin ;  then  returned  to  Milan,  where 
he  saw  much  of  Parini ;  thence  to  Florence, 
^< where,"  he  says,  "the  wiseacres  gave  me 
distinctly  to  understand,  that,  if  my  manuscripts 
had  been  corrected  by  them  before  printing,  I 
should  have  written  well." 

Returning  to  Siena,  he  published  six  more  of 
his  tragedies,  and  then  determined  to  vi«t 
France  and  England, —  the  latter  country  for 
the  purpose  of  buying  horses.  Immediately 
on  his  arrival  in  London,  he  set  about  thie 
business,  and  soon  had  purchased  fourteen,  to 
gratify  a  whimsical  desire  of  owning  as  many 
horses  as  he  had  written  tragedies.  He  left 
London  in  April,  1784,  **  with  this  numerous 
caravan,"  and  returned  to  Siena,  by  way  of 
Calais,  Paris,  Lyons,  and  Turin.  The  account 
he  gives  of  the  troubles  and  vexations  he  en- 
dured in  conducting  these  animals  through  the 
country  reminds  one  of  poor  Mr.  Pickwick*s 
horror  at  the  thought  of  being  followed  about 
all  day  by  a  » dreadful  horse."     He  plumed 


ALFIERI. 


603 


hinuelf  not  a  little  upon  gettiDg  them  lafely 
over  the  Alpe,  and,  cpmpaiing  this  exploit  to 
HaoDibars  celebrated  paeaage,  sajs  that  it  coat 
him  as  much  wine  lor  the  gnidea^  aaaiatanta,  and 
jockeys,  aa  it  cost  that  commander  vinegar  to 
transport  bis  Blavea  and  elephanta.  He  found  his 
health  much  benefited,  though  '*  the  horses  bad 
rapidly  carried  him  back  to  the  primitive  ass." 
Remaining  a  short  time  in  Turin,  he  was 
present  at  tf  representation  of**  Virginia.*'    The 
ooantess  of  Albany  had  now  left  Rome,  and 
taken  up  her  residence  in  Alsatia,  and  he  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  to  visit  her.    During 
the  few  months  which  he  passed  with  her,  he 
wrote  the  three  tragedies,  **  Agis,'*  *'  Sophonis- 
ba,"  and  "Mirra."    The  news,  which  he  re- 
ceived at  this  time,  of  the  death  of  his  friend 
Gori,  in  Siena,  to  whom  he  was  warmly  at- 
tached, overwhelmed  him  with  sorrow.      He 
returned  to  Siena,  and  then  removed  to  Pisa, 
where  be  wrote,  among  other  things,  the  **  Pan- 
egyric  on  Trajan."  The  countess,  having  visited 
Paris  in  the  mean  time,  and  being  unwilling  to 
return  to  Rome,  determined  to  make  her  resi- 
dence in  France.     She  went  into  Alsatia  in 
August,  1785,  and  was  there  rejoined  by  Alfieri, 
who  wrote,  at  this  time,  the  tragedies  of  the  First 
and  the  Second  Brutus'.     After  a  few  months, 
the  countess  returned  to  Paris,  and  Alfieri  re- 
mained solitary  at  his  villa;   but  in  August, 
1786,  she  came  back,  and  they  were  never  sep- 
arated more.     In  December  of  the  same  year, 
they  went  together  to  Paris,  where  they  remain- 
ed only  six  or  seven  months.     About  the  same 
time,  he  made  an  arrangement  with  Didot  for 
the  publication  of  his  collected  tragedies.     In 
the  summer  of  1787,  he  received  a  visit,  at  his 
villa  near  Colmar,  from   his  friend  the  Abate 
CaluBO ;  but  bis  pleasure  in  the  society  of  this 
amiable  man  was  interrupted  by  a  long  and  se- 
vere illness,  which  nearly  proved  fatal.    At  the 
close  of  the  year  they  went  again  to  Paris,  and 
finding  it  convenient  to  remain  for  the  purpose 
of  superintending  the  press,  Alfieri  took  a  house. 
He   continued  his  literary  occupations  until 
1791,  when,  in  company  with  the  countess,  he 
made  his  fourth  journey  to  England.     Though 
they  admired  the  freedom,  industry,  and  energy 
of  the  people,  they  were  displeased  with  the 
manner  of  living  among  the   upper  classes; 
•  ** always  at  table;  sitting  up  till  two  or  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning;  a  life  wholly  opposed 
to  letters,  to  genius,  to  health."     Alfieri   was 
besides  tormented  by  a  **  flying  gout,  which  is 
truly-  indigenous  in  that  blessed  island."     His 
pecuniary  affairs  were  also  somewhat  embar- 
rassed  by  the  disturbances  in  France.     They 
accordingly  returned,  by  way  of  Holland,  to 
Paris,  after  having  made,  in  August,  a  short 
toar,  in  the  course  of  which  they  visited  Bath, 
Bristol,  and  Oxford. 

He  found  it,  however,  impossible  to  continue 
his  literary  labors  amidst  the  bloody  scenes  of 
the  Revolution.  With  some  difficulty,  he  ob- 
tained jpassporta  for  himself  and  the  ooantess. 


and  fled  fVom  Paris  on  the  18th  of  August,  179d. 
Their  property  was  seized  and  confiscated,  and 
they  were  immediately  proscribed  as  emigrants. 
On  the  third  of  November,  they  arrived  in  Flor- 
ence. Overjoyed  at  having  escaped  from  **  that 
self-styled  republic,  bom  in  terror  and  in  blood," 
and  having  reached  in  safety  "the  beautifbl 
country  where  sounds  the  »i,"  Alfieri  resumed 
his  occupations,  and  by  degrees  collected  an- 
other library  to  replace  that  of  which  he  had 
been  plundered  in  Paris.  He  remained  in  or 
near  Florence,  the  rest  of  his  life.  At  the  age 
of  forty-six,  he  determined  to  learn  the  Greek 
language,  and  such  was  the  strength  of  his  reso- 
lution, that  he  mastered  it  sufficiently  to  read 
Homer  and  the  Tragedians.  His  exhausting 
labors,  the  anxieties  caused  by  the  political  state 
of  Italy,  and  by  the  victorious  arms  of  the  French, 
whom  he  abhorred,  together  with  the  bad  effects 
of  an  injurious  system  of  meagre  living,  began 
to  undermine  his  health.  Notwithstanding  the 
urgent  remonstrances  of  his  fi-iends,  he  persisted 
in  his  course,  until  the  8th  of  October,  1803, 
when  he  died,  at  the  age  of  fifty-five. 

The  following  summary  of  Alfieri's  character 
is  taken  from  Mr.  Mariotti's  "  Italy." 

**  When  we  think  of  Alfieri,  we  must  bring 
ourselves  back  to  his  age ;  we  must  for  a  mo- 
ment enter  into  his  classical  views.  Alfieri 
was  in  Italy  the  last  of  classics;  and  happy  was 
it  for  that  school,  that  it  could,  at  its  close, 
shed  so  dazzling  a  light  as  to  shroud  its  down- 
fall in  his  glory,  and  trouble,  for  a  long  while, 
with  jealous  anxiety,  the  triumph  of  its  hyper- 
borean rival, — the  Romantic  school. 

"  When  we  number  the  greatest  tragedian  of 
Italy  among  the  classics,  we  consider  him  only 
in  regard  to  the  form  and  style  of  his  dramas, 
not  to  the  spirit  that  dictated  them.  Properiy 
speaking,  he  belonged  to  no  school,  and  found- 
ed none.  He  stands  by  himself,  the  man  of  all 
ages,  the  man  of  no  age.  Whatever  might  be 
the  shape  which  his, education,  or  the  antique 
cast  of  his  genius,  led  him  to  prefer  in  his  pro- 
ductions, no  poet  ever  contributed  more  power- 
fully to  the  reformation  of  the  character  of  his 
countrymen.  For  that  object,  he  only  needed 
to  throw  before  them  the  model  of  his  own 
character.  It  mattered  little,  whether  it  was 
drawn  with  the  pencil,  or  carved  with  the  chis- 
el ;  whether  it  was  wrapped  up  in  the  Roman 
gown  of  Brutus,  or  in  the  Florentine  cassock 
of  Raimondo  de  Pazzi. 

'*  Alfieri's  character  was  an  anomaly  in  his  , 
age.  Notwithstanding  some  symptoms  of  bold- 
ness and  energy  of  mind  shown  by  some  of  his 
contemporaries,  or  his  immediate  predecessors, 
such  as  Giannone  or  Parini,  still  the  regenera- 
tion of  the  Italian  character  was  yet  merely 
intellectual  and  individual ;  and  Alfieri  was 
born  out  of  that  class  which  was  the  last  to 
feM  its  redeeming  influence.  He  belonged  to 
a  nobility  used  to  make  day  of  night,  and  night 
of  day ;  ta  divide  their  hours  between  the 
prince's  antechamber  and  the  boudoir  of  the 


604 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


reigning  beauty ;  to  waste  their  energies  in  a 
life  of  insolence,  idleness,  and  unlawful  excite- 
ment. 


«*  Penetrated  with  the  utter  impossibility  of 
distinguishing  himself  by  immediate  action  in 
that  age,  Alfieri,  like  many  other  noblemen  of 
his  country,  was  forced  to  throw  himself  on  the 
last  resources  of  literature. 

<*  But  he  had  lofty  ideas  of  its  duties  and  in- 
fluence ;  he  bad  exalted  notions  of  the  dignity 
of  man,  —  an  ardent,  though  a  vague  and  ex- 
aggerated, love  of  liberty,  and  of  the  manly  vir- 
tues which  it  is  wont  to  foster.  He  felt,  that, 
of  all  branches  of  literature,  the  theatre  had 
the  most  immediate  effect  on  the  illiterate  mass 
of  the  people.  He  invaded  the  stage.  He 
drove  from  it  Metastasio  and  his  effeminate 
heroes.  He  substituted  dramatic  for  melodic 
poetry ;  manly  passions  for  enervate  affections ; 
ideas  for  sounds.  He  wished  to  effect  upon 
his  .contemporaries  that  revolution  which  his 
own  soul  had  undergone ;  he  wished  to  rouse 
them,  to  wake  them  from  their  long  lethargy 
of  servitude,  to  see  them  thinking,  willing, 
striving,  resisting. 

**  To  a  man  that  wrote,  actuated  by  such  feel- 
ings, the  mere  form  was  nothing.  It  was  only 
at  the  age  of  twenty-nine,  that,  tormented  by 
that  disease  of  noble  minds,  fame,  and  ground- 
ing his  hopes  on  what  he  calls  his  *  determined, 
obstinate,  iron  will,'  he  formed  the  resolution 
to  be  a  tragic  poet ;  and  began  his  poetical  ca- 
reer by  resuming  his  long-abandoned  studies 
from  the  very  elements  of  grammar. 

**  He  had  no  dramatic  models  before  him  but 
Comeille  and  Racine,  to  which  he  added  a  very 
imperfect  knowledge  of  the  ancient  classics. 
For  Shakspeare  he,  indeed,  evinced  an  indefin- 
able admiration.  He  felt  overawed  by  the  ex- 
traordinary powers,  but  was  deterred  and  dis- 
tracted by  the  eccentric  flights,  of  that  sovereign 
fancy.  The  day  of  Shakspeare  had  not  yet 
dawned.  The  great  crisis  of  Romanticism  was 
not  mature ;  nor  was  it  in  Alfieri's  power  to 
foresee  it. 


'^Alfieri's  poetry  was  sculpture.  His  trage- 
dies are  only  a  group  of  four  or  Are  statues ; 
his  characters  are  figures  of  marble,  incorrupti- 
ble, everlasting ;  but  not  flesh,  nothing  like  flrah, 
having  nothing  of  its  freshness  and  hue. 

^(  He  describes  no  scene.  Those  statues  stand 
by  themselves,  isolated  on  their  pedestals,  on  a 
vacant  ideal  stage,  without  background,  without 
contrast  of  landscape  or  scenery ;  all  wrapped 
in  their  heroic  mantles ;  all  moving,  breathing 
statues  perhaps,  still  nothing  but  statues. 

*^  Wherever  be  the  scene,  whoever  the  hero, 
it  is  always  the  poet  that  speaks ;  it  is  always 
his  noble,  indomitable  soul,  reproduced  under 
various  shapes ;  it  is  always  one  and  the  same 
object,  pursued  un^er  different  points  of  view, 
but  to  which  every  other  view  is  subservient ; 
the  struggle  between   the  oppressor  and  the 


oppressed.  The  genii  of  good  and  evil  have 
waged  an  eternal  war  in  his  scenes.  Philip, 
Creon,  Gomes,  Appius,  and  Cosmo  de*  Medici, 
can  equally  answer  his  purposes  as  the  agents 
of  crime.  Don  Carlos,  Antigone,  Perez,  Icilius, 
and  Don  Garzia,  are  indifferently  chosen  to 
stand  forth  as  the  champions  of  virtue." 

The  tragedies  of  Alfieri  have  been  translased 
by  Charles  Lloyd,  in  three  volumes,  LondoD, 
1815. 

The  tragedy  of  «( The  First  Brutus,**  Iroin 
which  the  following  extract  is  taken,  was  dedi- 
cated to  Washington  in  the  following  terms. 

ttTO  THX  MOST  ILLUSTRIOUS  AND  FREE  ClTIZXlf, 
GXRERAL  WASHINOTOS. 

"  Tex  name  of  the  deliverer  of  America  alone 
can  stand  on  the  title-page  of  the  tragedy  of  the 
deliverer  of  Rome. 

«*  To  you,  excellent  and  most  rare  citizen,  I 
therefore  dedicate  this ;  without  first  hinting  at 
even  a  part  of  the  so  many  praises  due  to  your- 
self, which  I  now  deem  all  comprehended  in 
the  sole  mention  of  your  name.  Nor  can  this 
my  slight  allusion  appear  to  you  contaminated 
by  adulation ;  since,  not  knowing  you  by  per- 
son, and  living  disjoined  from  you  by  the  im- 
mense ocean,  we  have  but  too  emphatically 
nothing  in  common  between  us  but  the  love  of 
glory.  Happy  are  you,  who  have  been  able  to 
build  your  glory  on  the  sublime  and  eternal 
basis  of  love  to  your  country,  demonstrated  by 
actions.  I,  though  not  bom  firee,  yet  having 
abandoned  in  time  my  Zares,  and  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  I  might  be  able  to  write  loftily 
of  liberty,  I  hope  by  this  means  at  least  to  have 
proved  what  might  have  been  my  love  for  my 
country,  if  I  had  indeed  fortunately  belonged 
to  one  that  deserved  the  name.  In  this  single 
respect,  I  do  not  think  myself  wholly  unworthy 
to  mingle  my  name  with  yours. 

"VlTTORIO   AlFIXRI. 

"Paxis,  3i0t  Docember,  1788." 


FROM  TBE  FIRST  BRUTOS. 

BRUTUS   AND   COLLATINUS. 

OOLLATIMDS. 

Ah  !  where,  -—  ah  !  where,  O  Brutus,  wouldst 

thou  thus 
Drag  me  by  force  .'     Quickly  restore  to  me 
This  sword  of  mine,  which  with  beloved  blood 
Is  reeking  yet    In  my  own  breast 


Ah  !  first 

This  sword,  now  sacred,  in  the  breast  of  others 

Shall  be  immerged,  I  swear  to  thee.  Meanwhile 

*T  is  indispensable  that  in  this  Forum 

Thy  boundless  sorrow,  and  my  just  revenge. 

Burst  unreservedly  before  the  eyes 

Of  universal  Rome. 

OOUAmiVB. 

Ah,  no  !  I  will 

Withdraw  myself  from  every  hnmaa  eye. 

..  ■-         .1  .  ■  1 1  .1 


ALFIERI. 


605 


To  mj  nnparalleled  calamity 

All  ramediM  are  Tain  :  the  sword,  this  sword, 

Alone  cao  pat  an  end  to  mj  distress. 


0  Collatinns,  a  complete  revenge 
Would  surely  be  some  solace ',  and  I  swear 
To  thee,  that  that  revenge  thoa  shalt  obtain.  — 
0,  of  a  chaste  and  innocent  Roman  lady 
Thou  sacred  blood,  to-day  shalt  thou  cement 
The  edifice  of  Roman  liberty ! 

ooLULmnxs. 
Ah !  could  my  heart  indulge  a  hope  like  this,  — 
The  hope,  ere  death,  of  universal  vengeance ! 

BUUTUS. 

Hope  ?  be  assured  of  it     At  length,  behold. 
The  morn  is  dawning  of  the  wished-ior  day : 
To-day  mj  lofty,  long-projected  plan 
At  length  may  gain  a  substance  and  a  form. 
Thou,  from  a  wronged,  unhappy  spouse,  may'st 

now 
Become  the  avenging  citizen  :  e*en  thou 
Shalt  bless  that  innocent  blood :  and  then  if  thou 
Wilt  give  thy  own,  it  will  not  be  in  vain 
For  a  true  country  shed,  —  a  country,  yes. 
Which  Brutus  will  to-day  create  with  thee, 
Or  die  with  thee  in  such  an  enterprise. 

OOLLATHrUS. 

0,  what  a  sacred  name  dost  thou  pronounce ! 

1,  for  a  genuine  country's  sake  alone. 
Could  now  survive  my  immolated  wife. 


Ah  !  then  resolve  to  live ;  cooperate 

With  me  in  this  attempt.     A  god  inspires  me; 

A  god  infuses  ardor  in  my  breast, 
I   Who  thus  exhorts  me :  '*  It  belongs  to  thee, 
I   O  Collatinus,  and  to  thee,  O  Brutus, 

To  give  both  life  and  liberty  to  Rome." 

OOLLATUfUS. 

Worthy  of  Brutus  is  thy  lofty  hope : 

I  should  be  vile,  if  I  defeated  it. 

Or  from  the  impious  Tarquins  wholly  rescued, 

Our  country  shall  from  us  new  life  obtain. 

Or  we  —  but  first  avenged — with  her  will  &11. 


Wbether  enslaved  or  free,  we  now  shall  fall 
Ulastrioiis  and  revenged.  My  horrible  oath 
Perhaps  thou  hast  not  well*  heard ;  the  oath  I 

uttered. 
When  from  Locretia*s  palpitating  heart 
The  dagger  I  dislodged  which  still  I  grasp. 
Deaf  from  thy  mighty  grief,  thou,  in  thy  house. 
Scarce  heardest  it ;  here  once  more  wilt  thou 

bear  it, 
By  my  own  lips,  upon  the  inanimate  corse 
>f  thy  unhappy  immolated  wife, 
knd  in  the  presence  of  assembled  Rome, 
if  ore  strenuously,  more  solemnly  renewed. 
Already,  with  the  rising  sun,  the  Forum 
Vith  apprehensive  citizens  is  filled ; 


Already,  by  Valerius'  means,  the  cry 

Is  to  the  multitude  promulgated 

Of  the  impious  catastrophe  ;  the  effect 

Will  be  far  stronger  on  their  heated  hearts, 

When  they  behold  the  chaste  and  beauteous  lady 

With  her  own  hands  destroyed.  In  their  disdain. 

As  much  as  in  my  owp,  shall  I  confide. 

But,  more  than  every  man,  thou  shouldst  be 

present : 
Thine  eyes  from  the  distracting  spectacle 
Thou  may'st  avert :  to  thy  affliction  this 
May  be  allowed;  yet  here  shouldst  thou  re- 
main; 
E'en  more  than  my  impassionetf  words,  thy  mute 
And  boundless  grief  is  fitted  to  excite 
The  oppressed  spectators  to  indignant  pity. 

OOUJLTUIUB. 

0  Brutus  !  the  divinity  which  speaks 
In  thee  to  lofty  and  ferocious  rage 

Hath  changed  my  grief  already.  The  last  words 
Of  the  magnanimous  Lucretia  seem. 
In  a  more  awful  and  impressive  sound, 
To  echo  in  my  ears,  and  smite  my  heart 
Can  I  be  less  inflexible  to  avenge. 
Than  she  to  inflict,  her  voluntary  death  ? 
In  the  infamous  Tarquinii's  blood  alone 
Can  I  wash  out  the  stigma  of  the  name 
Common  to  me  and  them ! 

Baunxs. 
Ah  !  I,  too,  spring 

From  their  impure  and  arbitrary  blood  : 
But  Rome  shail  be  convinced  that  I  'm  her  son, 
Not  of  the  Tarquins'  sister ;  and  as  hr 
As  blood  not  Roman  desecrates  my  veins, 

1  swear  to  change  it  all  by  shedding  it 
For  my  beloved  country.  —  But,  behold. 
The  multitude  increases ;  hitberward 
Numbers  advance ;  now  it  is  time  to  speak. 


BRUTUS,  C0LLAT1NU8,   AND  PEOPLE. 


Romans,  to  me,  —  to  me,  O  Romans,  come ! 
Great  things  have  I  to  impart  to  you. 

Fiona. 

0  Brutus ! 

Can  that,  indeed,  which  we  have  heard,  be  true  ? 

BaUTVS. 

Behold  !  this  is  the  dagger,  —  reeking  yet, 
Tet  warm,  with  the  innocent  blood-drops  of  a 

chaste 
And  Roman  lady,  slain  by  her  own  hands. 
Behold  her  husband  !  he  is  mute ;  yet  weeps 
And  shudders.     Tet  he  lives,  but  lives  alone 
For  vengeance,  till  he  sees  by  your  hands  torn, 
The  heart  torn  piece-meal  of  that  impious  Sex- 

tius. 
That  sacrilegious  ravisher  and  tyrant. 
And  I  live  yet ;  but  only  till  the  day. 
When,  wholly  disencumbered  of  the  Tarquins, 

1  see  Rome  free  once  more. 

tt2 


606 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


0  most  unparalleled, 
Calamitoas  catastrophe ! 

BRUTVa. 

1  see 

That  all  of  you  upon  the  unhappy  spouse 
Have  fixed  your  motionless  and  speaking  eyes, 
Swimming  with  tears,  and  by  amazement  glazed. 
Tes,  Romans,  look  at  him  ;  ah,  see  in  him, 
Te  brothers,  fathers,  and  ye  husbands,  see 
Tour  infamy  reflected  !     Thus  reduced. 
Death  on  himself  he  cannot  now  inflict ;     v 
Nor  can  he  life  endure,  if  unavenged.  — 
But  vain,  inopportune,  desist  from  tears. 
And  from  astonishment.  —  Romans,  towards  me. 
Turn  towards  me,  Romans,  your  ferocious  looks : 
Perhaps  from  my  eyes,  ardent  with  liberty, 
Te  may  collect  some  animating  spark 
Which  may  inflame  you  with  its  fostering  heat. 
I  Junius  Brutus  am,  —  whom  long  ye  deemed, 
Since  I  so  feigned  myself,  bereft  of  reason  ; 
And  such  I  feigned  myself,  since,  doomed  to  live 
The  slave  of  tyrants,  I  indulged  a  hope 
One  day  to  rescue,  by  a  shock  of  vengeance, 
Myself  and  Rome  from  their  ferocious  claws. 
At  length,  the  day,  predestined  by  the  gods, 
The  hour,  for  my  exalted  scheme  is  come. 
From  this  time  fbrth  't  is  in  your  power  to  rise 
From  slaves  (for  such  ye  were)  to  men.     I  ask 
Alone  to  die  for  you  ;  so  that  I  die 
Tlie  first  free  man  and  citizen  in  Rome. 

paopLo. 

What  have  we  heard  .^  What  majesty,  what 
force. 

Breathe  in  his  words !  But  we,  alas !  are  pow- 
erless : 

Can  we  confront  armed  and  ferocious  tyrants? 

BSUTUS. 

Te  powerless, — ye  ?     What  is  it  that  you  say  ? 
What !  do  ye,  then,  so  little  know  yourselves  ? 
The  breast  of  each  already  was  inflamed 
With  just  and  inextinguishable  hate 
Against  the  impious  Tarquins :  now,  e'en  now, 
Ye  shall  behold  before  your  eyes  displayed 
The  last,  most  execrable,  fatal  proof 
Of  their  flagitious,  arbitrary  power. 
To-day  to  your  exalted  rage,  the  rage 
Of  Collatinus,  and  my  own,  shall  be 
A  guide,  an  impulse,  a  pervading  spirit. 
Te  have  resolved  on  liberty ;  and  ye 
Deem  yourselves  powerless  ?     And  do  you  es- 
teem 
The  tyrants  armed  ?  What  force  have  they,  — 

what  arms  ? 
The  arms,  the  force  of  Romans?  Who  is  there, 
The  Roman  who,  that  would  not  sooner  die. 
Than  here,  or  in  the  camp,  for  Rome's  oppres- 
sors 
Equip  himself  with  arms? — By  my  advice, 
Lucretius  with  his  daughter's  blood  aspersed, 
Hath  to  the  camp  repaired ;  this  very  moment, 
By  the  brave  men  besieging  hostile  Ardea 
Hath  he  been  heard :  and  certainly, 


In  hearing  him,  and  seeing  him,  those  men 
Have  turned  their  anna  against  their  guilty  ty- 
rants. 
Or,  swift  in  our  defence,  abandoning 
Their  impious  banners,  hitherward  they  fly. 
The  honor  of  the  earliest  enterprise 
Against  the  tyrants,  citizens,  would  ye 
Consent  indeed  to  yield  to  other  men  ? 


O,  with  what  just  and  lofty  hardihood 

Dost  thou  inflame  our  breasts  !  —  What  cao  we 

fear. 
If  all  have  the  same  will  ? 

OOfAATUniS. 

Tour  noble  rage. 

Tour  generous  indignation,  thoroughly 
Recall  me  back  to  life.  Nothing  can  I 
Express  —  to  you,  —  for  tean  —  forbid  —  my 

utterance ;  — 
But  let  my  sword  be  my  interpreter : 
I  first  unsheathe  it;  and  to  earth  I  cast. 
Irrevocably  cast,  the  useless  scabbard. 
O  sword,  I  swear  to  plunge  thee  in  my  breast. 
Or  in  the  breast  of  kings !  —  O  husbandis,  fathers. 
Be  ye  the  first  to  follow  me !  —  But,  ah ! 
What  spectacle  is  this  ? 

[In  ths  farther  part  of  the  stage  the  bodjr  of  Lucrsiia 
Is  introduced,  foUowad  bj  a  great  multitiida. 

PBOPLB. 

Atrocious  sight ! 

Behold  the  murdered  lady  in  the  Forum ! 


Tea,  Romans,  ^j.  —  if  ye  have  power  do  it  — 

Fix  on  that  immolated  form  your  eyea. 

That  mute,  fiiir  form,  that  horrible,  generous 

wound, 
That  pure  and  sacred  blood,  ah  !  all  exclaim, 
(( To-day  resolve  on  liberty,  or  ye 
Are  doomed  to  death !     Naught  else  remains !  " 


All,  all,-. 

Tes,  free  we  all  of  \ 


I  will  be,  or  dead ! 


Then  listen  now  to  Brutus.  —  The  same  dagger 

Which  from  her  dying  side  he  lately  drew. 

Above  that  innocent,  illustrious  lady 

Brutus  now  lifts ;  and  to  all  Rome  he  sweara 

That  which  first  on  her  very  dying  form 

He  swore  already.— While  I  wear  a  sword. 

While  vital  air  I  breathe,  in  Rome  hencelbrth 

No  Tarquin  e'er  shall  put  his  foot ;  I  swear  it : 

Nor  the  abominable  name  of  king. 

Nor  the  authority,  shall  any  man 

Erer  again  possess.  —  May  the  just  gods 

Annihilate  him  here,  if  Brutus  is  not 

Lofty  and  true  of  heart !  —  Further  I  swear. 

Many  as  are  the  inhabitants  of  Rome, 

To  make  them  equal,  free,  and  citizens ; 

Myself  a  citizen,  and  nothing  more  : 

The  laws  alone  shall  have  authority. 

And  I  will  be  the  first  to  yield  them  hcpmage. 


MONTI. 


607 


The  lawf,  the  laws  alone  i    We  with  one  voice 
To  thine  oar  oaths  unite.     And  be  a  fate 
Worn  than  the  &te  of  CollatiDoa  oura^ 
If  we  are  ever  peijured ! 

BauTua. 
These,  these  are 

True  Roman  accents.     Tyranny  and  tyrants, 
At  your  accordant  hearty  will  alone, 
All,  all  have  vanished.  Nothing  now  is  needful, 
Except  'gainst  them  to  close  the  city  gates ; 
Since  Fate,  to  us  propitious,  had  already 
Sequestered  them  from  Rome. 


But  you,  meanwhile, 

Will  be  to  us  at  once  consuls  and  fathers ; 
Tou  to  as  wisdom,  we  our  arms  to  you, 
Our  swords,  our  hearts,  will  lend. 

BEUTVS. 

In  your  august 

And  sacred  presence,  on  each  lofly  cause. 
We  always  will  deliberate  ;  there  cannot 
From  the  collected  people's  majesty 
Be  any  thing  concealed.     But  it  is  just 
That  the  patricians  and  the  senate  bear 
A  part  in  every  thing.     At  the  new  tidings, 
They  are  not  all  assembled  here :  enough 
(Alas!  too  much  so)  the  iron  rod  of  power 
Has  smitten  them  with  terror :  now  yourselves 
To  the  sublime  contention  of  great  deeds 
Shall  summon  them.   Here,  then,  we  will  unite. 
Patricians  and  plebeians ;  and  by  us 
Freedom  a  stable  basis  shall  receive. 

PBOPLB. 

From  this  day  forth,  we  shall  begin  to  live. 


VINCENZO  MONTI. 

This  poet,  one  of  the  most  famous  among 
the  modern  Italians,  was  bom  near  Fusigna- 
no,  a  town  of  Romagna,  February  19th,  1754. 
His  earliest  years  were  passed  under  the  in- 
itruction  of  his  parents,  who  belonged  to  the 
slass  of  small  landholders.  He  was  then  put 
JO  school  in  Faenza,  where  he  learned  the  Lat* 
n  language.  He  was  destined  by  his  father 
o  the  labors  of  agriculture;  but  showing  an 
n vincible  repugnance  to  occupations  of  this 
ort,  be  was  sent  to  the  University  of  Ferrara, 
o  study  the  law  or  medicine.  He  attempted 
D  vain  to  interest  himself  in  professional 
tudies,  and  then  gave  hhnself  wholly  up  to 
iteratare  and  poetry.  His  talents  attracted  the 
ttention  of  Cardinal  Borghese,  the  legate  at 
'errara,  who  took  him  to  Rome,  with  the  elder 
lontt'a  consent  Young  Monti  soon  became 
nown  for  his  poetical  talent,  was  elected  a 
lember  of  the  Arcadia,  and  received  the  ap- 
^intment  of  secretary  to  Luigi  Braschi,  the 
>pe'8  nephew.  While  in  this  situation,  he  con- 


tinned  his  studies,  and,  eager  to  emulate  Alfieri, 
produced  his  tragedies  of  «' Aristodemo "  and 
<•  Galeotto  Manfredi."  About  this  time,  he  mar- 
ried Theresa  Pichler,  daughter  of  the  celebrat- 
ed artist.  The  murder  of  the  Fxench  minister, 
Basseville,  at  Rome,  gave  occasion  to  his  poem 
entitled  «« Bassevilliana,"  the  style  of  which  is 
modelled  on  that  of  Dante.  This  work  gained 
him  at  once  a  high  reputation  as  a  poet.  In 
1797,  notwithstanding  the  Anti-gallic  tone  of 
his  previous  writings,  he  went  to  Florence  with 
General  Marmont,  who  had  been  sent  with  let- 
ters from  Bonaparte  to  Rome,  and  became  Sec- 
retary of  the  Directory  of  the  Cisalpine  Repub- 
lic. Suwarrow's  invasion  of  Italy,  in  1799, 
compelled  Monti  to  take  refuge  in  France. 
He  was  reduced,  for  a  time,  to  the  most  misera- 
ble state  of  destitution ;  but  the  victories  of 
Napoleon,  after  his  return  from  Egypt,  revived 
hb  hopes.  He  returned  to  Italy  after  the  bat- 
tle of  Marengo,  and  received  a  professorship 
in  the  University  of  Pavia,  which  he  held 
three  years,  when  he  was  invited  to  Milan, 
and  appointed  by  Napoleon  Assessor  of  the 
Ministry  of  the  Interior,  Court  Poet,  Knight 
of  the  Iron  Crown,  member  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor,  and  Historiographer  of  the  king- 
dom. He  thereupon  wrote  the  first  six  cantos 
of  the  **Bardo  della  Selva  Nera,"  which  ap- 
peared in  1806.  In  1805,  when  Napoleon  was 
crowned  king  of  Italy,  he  celebrated  the  event 
in  a  poem  of  great  merit,  entitled  *^  II  Benefi- 
cio."  On  occasion  of  the  battle  of  Jena,  he 
wrote  the  triumphal  ode,  called  "  Spada  di 
Federico,"  of  which  ten  editions  were  sold  in 
fL^TB  months.  He  celebrated  the  occupation  of 
Spain  by  the  French,  in  the  *<  Palingenesi." 
He  also  wrote  the  **  Jerogamia,"  and  the  "Api 
Panacridi."  Having  joined  Joseph  Bonaparte 
at  Naples,  he  published  the  seventh  canto  of 
the  "  Bardo."  Soon  after  this,  he  undertook 
to  translate  the  '•*•  Satires  "  of  Juvenal,  and  the 
"  Iliad"  of  Homer.  In  executing  the  latter  task, 
as  he  was  ignorant  of  the  Greek,  he  was  oblig- 
ed to  avail  himself  of  the  existing  literal  trans- 
lations, and  of  the  able  assistance  which  Mus- 
toxidi,  a  Greek  fl'iend,  disinterestedly  rendered 
him.  These  works  added  much  to  his  repu- 
tation. On  the  downfall  of  Napoleon,  Monti 
lost  his  employmenta;  but  having  written,  at 
the  request  of  the  city  of  Milan,  in  1815,  a 
poem  in  honor  of  the  Emperor  Francis,  he  was 
allowed  an  income  sufficient  to  enable  him 
to  pursue  his  studies.  In  conjunction  with  his 
accomplished  son-in-law.  Count  Giulio  Perti- 
cari,  he  engaged  in  a  warm  controversy  with 
the  Della  Cruscans,  on  the  question  between 
the  Tuscan  and  the  Italian.  He  also  published 
a  new  edition  of  the  "  Convito "  of  Dante. 
Returning  to  poetical  composition,  he  wrote  an 
idyl  on  the  Nuptials  of  Cadmus.  His  poetic 
labors  were  interrupted  in  April,  1826,  by  a 
sudden  stroke  of  apoplexy ;  but  he  lingered  on 
until  1838,  and  died  in  October  of  that  year, 
at  the  age  of  seventy-four. 


608 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


or  all  Monti's  writings,  th«  <<  BaflsevilliaDa  " 
enjoys  th«  greatest  and  widest  reputation.  As 
remarked  abore,  it  is  founded  on  the  murder  of 
the  French  minister,  BaaseTille,  whose  soul, 
the  author  supposea,  is  condemned  to  wander 
over  the  French  provinces,  and  behold  the  des- 
olation produced  bj  the  Revolution,  the  death 
of  Louis  the  Sixteenth  in  Paris,  and  the  armies 
of  the  Holy  Alliance  marching  toward  France 
to  restore  the  Bourbons.  The  poem  is  divided 
into  four  cantos  of  three  hundred  lines  each, 
and,  like  its  model,  the  **  Divina  Commedia," 
written  in  Urta  rima.  It  was  translated  into 
English  by  the  Rev.  Henry  Boyd,  London, 
1806. 

FROM  THE  BASSEYnXIANA. 
THE  soul's  doom. 

Hell    had   been  vanquished   in,  the  battle 
fought ; 
The  spirit  of  the  abyss  in  sullen  mood 
Withdrew,  his  frightful  talons  clutching  naught; 

He  roared  like  lion  famishing  for  food ; 
The  Eternal  he  blasphemed,  and,  as  he  fled. 
Loud  hissed  around  his  brow  the  snaky  brood. 

Then  timidly  each  opening  pinion  spread 
The  soul  of  Basseville,  on  new  life  to  look, 
Released  from  members  with  his  heart's  blood 
red. 

Then  on  the  mortal  prison,  just  forsook. 
The  soul  turned  sudden  back  to  gaze  awhile, 
And,  still  mistrustful,  still  in  terror  shook. 

But  the  blessed  angel,  with  a  heavenly  smile. 
Cheering  the  soul  it  had  been  his  to  win 
In  dreadful  battle  waged  'gainst  demon  vile. 

Said,  "  Welcome,  happy  spirit,  to  thy  kin  ! 
Welcome  unto  that  company,  fair  and  brave. 
To  whom  in  heaven  remitted  is  each  sin ! 

**  Fear  not ;  thou  art  not  doomed  to  sip  the 
wave 
Of  black  Avernus,  which  who  tastes,  resigned 
All  hope  of  change,  becomes  the  demon's  slave. 

"  But  Heaven's  high  justice,  nor  in  mercy 
blind. 
Nor  in  severity  scrupulous  to  gauge 
Each  blot,  each  wrinkle,  of  the  human  mind, 

"  Has  written  on  the  adamantine  page 
That  thou  no  joys  of  paradise  may'st  know, 
Till  punished  be  of  France  the  guilty  rage. 

**  Meanwhile,  the  wounds,  the  immensity  of 
woe. 
That  thou  hast  helped  to  work,  thou,  penitent, 
Contemplating  with  tears,  o'er  earth  must  go : 

(^  Thy  sentence,  that  thine  eyes  be  ceaseless 
bent 
Upon  flagitious  France,  of  whose  oflTence 
The  stench  pollutes  the  very  firmament." 


THE   soul's   arrival   IN   PARIS. 

WoNDBRiiTG,  the  spirit  seea  that  from  the  eyes 
Of  his  angelic  leader  tears  have  gushed. 
Whilst  o'er  the  city  streets  dread  silence  lies. 


Huahed  is  the  sacred  chime  of  bells,  and 
hushed 
The  works  of  day,*— hushed  every  various  soond 
Of  creaking  saw,  of  metal  hammer-cmahed. 

There  fears  and  whisperings  alooe  are  Ibond, 
Questionings,  looks  mistrustful,  discontent. 
Dark  melancholy  that  the  heart  must  wound. 

Deep  accents  of  afiections  strangely  blent : 
Accents  of  mothers,  who,  foreboding  ill. 
Clasp  to  their  bosoms  each  loved  innocent ; 

Accents  of  wives,  who,  even  on  the  door's  sill. 
Strive  their  impetuous  husbands  to  detain  ; 
With  tears  and  fond  entreaties  urging  still. 

But  nuptial  love  and  tenderness  in  vain 
May  strive ;  too  strong  the  powers  of  hell,  I 

ween; 
They  free  tbe  consort  whom  fond  arms  enchaio. 

For  now,  in  dance  ferocious  and  obscene^ 
Are  flitting  busily  from  door  to  door 
A  phantom  band  of  heart-appalling  mien. 

Phantoms  of  ancient  Druids,  steeped  in  gore. 
Are  these,  who,  still  nefariously  athirst 
For  blood  of  wretched  victims,  as  of  yore. 

To  Paris  throng  to  revel  on  the  worst 
Of  all  the  crimes  whose  magnitude  has  fed 
The  pride  of  their  posterity  accursed. 

With  human  life  their  garments  are  dyed  red. 
And,  blood  and  rottenness  from  every  hair 
Dripping,  a  loathsome  shower  around  them  shed. 

Some  firebrands,  others  scourges,  toss  i*  th* 
air. 
Twisted  of  every  kind  of  coiling  snake ; 
Some  sacrificial  knives,  some  poison  bear. 

Firebrands  and  serpents  they  o'er  mortals 
shake ; 
And  as  the  blow  alights  on  brow,  neck,  side. 
Boils  in  each  vein  the  blood,  fierce  passions 
wake. 

Then  from  their  houses,  like  a  billowy  tide. 
Men  rush  enfrenzied,  and,  from  every  breaatt 
Banished,  shrinks  Pity  weeping,  terrified. 

Now  the  earth  quivers,  trampled  and  oppressed 
By  wheels,  by  feet  of  horses  and  of  men  ; 
The  air  in  hollow  moans  speaks  its  unrest ; 

Like   distant  thunder's  roar,  scarce  within 
ken. 
Like  the  hoarse  mnrmurs  of  the  midnight  snige. 
Like  north  wind  rushing  firom  its  ftr-oflf  den. 

Through  the  dark  crowds  that  round  tlie 
scaffold  flock. 
The  monarch  see  with  look  and  gait  appear 
That  might  to  soft  compassion  melt  a  rock  ; 
Melt  rocks,  ttom  hardest  flint  draw  pitj*s 
tear, — 
But  not  firom  Gallic  tigers :  to  what  late. 
Monsters,  have  ye  brought  him  who  loved  j-oa 
dear ! 


THE  PASSION  Cff  CRBIST. 

SAn   thought,  that  firom   the   lorn  funereal 
mount. 
Whereon  a  victim  god  thou  didst  behold. 
Once  more  returnest,  with  thy  downcast  front. 


MONTI. 


eo9 


Weeping  vain  tears ! — O,  whither  dost  thou 
hold 
Thy  wayward  coarse,  and,  'midst  yon  moumfUl 

plain, 
What  scene  of  grief  and  terror  dost  anfbld  ? 

Lo!  the  vast  hills  their  laboring  fires  unchain. 
Whilst  from  afiur  the  ocean's  thunders  roar ; 
Lo !  the  dark  heavens  above  lament  in  rain 

The  mortal  sin ;  and,  from  her  inmost  core. 
Earth,  tremulous  and  uncertain,  rocks  with  fear. 
Lest  the  abyss  her  ancient  deluge  pour. 

Ah  me !  —  revealed  within  my  soul  I  hear 
Prophetic  throbs,  the  signs  of  wrath  divine. 
Tumultuous  as  though  Nature's  end  were  near. 

I  see  the  paths  of  impious  Palestine ; 
I  see  old  Jordan,  as  each  shore  he  laves. 
Turbid  and  slow,  towards  the  sea  decline. 
Here  passed  the  ark  o'  th'  covenant,  and 
waves 
Rolled  backward  reverent,  and  their  secrets 

bared. 
Leaving  their  gulft  and  their  profoundest  caves. 
Here  folded  all  the  flock,  whose  faith  repaired 
To  Him,  that  Shepherd  whom  the  all-hoping 

one 
'Midst  woods  and  rocks  to  the  deaf  world  de- 
clared. 
Him,  afler  labors  long,  the  glorious  Son, 
The  Lord  of  Nazareth,  joined,  and,  quickly 

known. 
Closed  what  his  great  precursor  had  begun. 
Then  sudden  through  the  serene  air  there 
I  shone 

A  lamp,  and,  lo !  **  This  is  my  Son  beloved !  " 
From  the  bright  cloud  a  voice  was  beard  to  own. 

River  divine  !  which  then  electric  moved 
From  out  thine  inmost  bowers  to  kiss  those  feet. 
Blessing  thy  waters  with  that  sight  approved : 

Tell  me,  where  did  thy  waves  divided  meet. 
Enamoured, — and,  ah  !  where  upon  thy  shore 
Were  masked  the  footsteps  of  my  Jesus  sweet? 
Tell  me,  where  now  the  rose  and  lilies  boar. 
Which,  wberesoe'er  the  immortal  footsteps  trod. 
Sprang  fragrant  from  thy  dewy  emerald  floor? 
Alas  !  thou  meanest  loud,  thy  willows  nod. 
Thy  gulft  in  hollow  murmurs  seem  to  say. 
That  all  thy  joy  to  grief  is  changed  by  God. 

Such  wert  thou  not,  O  Jordan,  when  the  sway 
Of  David's  line,  along  thy  listening  flood, 
Portentoas  signs  from  heaven  confirmed  each 
day. 
Then  didst  thou  see  how  fierce  the  savage 
brood 
Of  haoghty  Midian  and  proud  Moab's  line. 
Conquered  and  captive,  on  thy  bridges  stood. 

Then  Siou's  warriors,  listed  round  her  shrine, 
Gazed  from  their  towers  of  strength,  and  viewed 

afar 
The  scattered  hosts  of  the  lost  Philistine ; 
Whilst,  terror  of  each  giant  conqueror, 
Eioared  Jndah's  lion,  leaping  in  his  pride. 
Midst  the  wild  pomp  of  their  barbaric  war. 

But  Salem's  glory  faded,  as  the  tide 
>f  waves  that  ebb  and  flow,  and  naught  remains 
lave  a  acomed  word  for  scoffers  to  deride. 

77 


The  splendor  of  Mount  Carmel  treads  her 
plains. 
The  Saviour  of  lost  Israel  now  appears. 
And  faithless  Sion  all  his  love  disdains. 

The  Proud  One  would  not  that  her  prophet's 
tears 
Should  be  remembered,  nor  the  voice  inspired. 
Which,  wailing  for  her  wrong,  late  filled  her 
ears; 

When,  with  prophetic  inspiration  fired. 
The  cloud  that  forms  the  future's  dark  disguise 
Fled,  and  unveiled  the  Lamb  of  God  desired. 

Daughter  of  fi>ul  iniquity  !  the  guise 
Of  impious  Babylon  did  thy  garment  make. 
And  on  the  light  of  truth  sealed  up  thine  eyes. 

But  he,  that  God,  dishonored  for  thy  sake. 
Soon  shalt  thou,  in  omnipotent  disdain, 
Behold  him  vengeance  for  his  Son  awake. 

Under  his  feet  the  heavens  and  starry  train 
Tremble  and  roll ;  the  howling  whirlwinds  fly. 
Calling  each  tempest-winged  hurricane. 

Chanting  its  thunder-psalm  throughout  the 
sky; 
And,  filled  with  arrows  of  consuming  fire. 
His  quiver  he  hath  slung  upon  his  thigh. 

As  smoke  before  the  storm's  uogoverned  ire. 
The  mountains  melt  before  his  dread  approach. 
The  rapid  eye  marks  not  the  avenging  Sire ; 

Whilst,  burning  to  remove  the  foul  reproach. 
Now  from  Ausonia's  strand  the  troop  departs 
On  the  inviolate  temple  to  encroach. 

Cedron  afor  the  murmur  hears,  and  starts ; 
But,  lifting  not  to  heaven  his  trembling  font. 
Through  Siloa's  slender  brook  confounded  darts. 

Now,  scorning  to  attire  with  splendor  wont 
Thy  plains,  the  sun  eclipses,  and  the  brand 
Gk>d  from  the  sheath  draws  on  thine  impious 
firont. 

I  see  his  lightnings  flash  upon  the  band 
Of  armies  round  thy  synagogue  impure, 
Thine  altars  blazing  as  the  fires  expand ! 

I  see  where  War,  and  Death,  and  Fear,  secure 
'Midst  the  hoarse  clang  of  each  terrific  sound. 
Gigantic  stalk  through  falling  towers  obscure  ! 

Like  deer,  when  sharp  the  springing  tigers 
bound 
Upon  tbeir  timid  troop,  thy  virgin  trains 
And  sires  unwarlike  every  fane  surround. 

With  glaring  eyeballs  and  distended  veins. 
Forth  Desperation  flies  firom  throng  to  throng. 
And  Aran  tic  life  at  his  own  hand  disdains. 

Disorder  follows  fast,  and  shrieks  prolong 
The  hideous  tumult.     Then  the  city  falls. 
Avenging  horribly  her  prophet's  wrong. 

Amidst  the  carnage,  on  the  toppling  walls. 
Howls  and  exults  and  leaps  wild  Cruelty; 
And  priest  and  youth  and  age  alike  appalls. 

With  naked  swords,  and  through  a  blood-red 
.     sea. 
Flowing  around  the  mountains  of  the  dead. 
Victorious  rides  the  insulting  enemy. 

The  flames,  the  buildings,  temple,  soon  o'er- 
spread 
With  divine  fury,  and  the  heavens  despised 
Smile  on  the  horror  which  their  tempest  bred. 


610 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


Thus  with  foul  bcofd,  dishonored  and  dis- 
guised, 
The  conquering  Latin  eagles  bore  enchained 
Jerusalem's  dislojal  ark  chastised ; 

And  she   now   lies  with  frightful  ibotstepe 
stained, 
Buried  *midst  thorns  and  sand,  and  the  hot  sun 
Scares  the  fierce  dragon  where  her  Judge  once 
reigned. 
Thus  when  from  heaven  the  &tal  bolt  hath 
done 
Sad  desolation  in  some  glorious  wood. 
Striking  the  boughs  which  upwards  highest  run ; 
Though   scorched   and   burnt,   still   o'er  its 
neighbourhood 
Majestic  towers  aloft  the  giant  oak. 
As  poised  by  its  own  ponderous  weight  it  stood. 
Waiting  the  thunder  of  a  second  stroke. 


IPPOLITO  PINDEMONTE. 

Ippolito  Pirdbmohtb  was  the  descendant 
of  a  noble  familj  in  Verona.  He  was  born  in 
that  citj,  November  13th,  1753.  He  was  early 
imbued  with  the  love  of  literature,  and  was 
sent  to  complete  his  studies  at  the  Collegio  de' 
Nobili  in  Modena.  His  first  attempt  in  poe. 
try  was  a  translation  of  Racine's  "  B^r6nice," 
which  gained  him  great  reputation.  At  the 
age  of  twenty-four,  he  made  the  tour  of  Italy, 
and  extended  his  travels  to  Malta  and  the 
East;  and,  in  1788,  set  out  on  a  journey 
through  the  North  of  Europe,  England,  and 
France.  In  the  last  named  country  he  passed 
the  greater  part  of  1789,  living  on  intimate 
terms  with  Alfieri.  Having  completed  his 
travels,  he  returned  to  Verona.  At  this  pe- 
riod, he  wrote  a  great  portion  of  his  **  Poesie 
Campestri,"  finished  the  tragedy  of  "  Armtnio," 
and  began  several  other  works.  In  1807,  he 
took  up  his  abode  in  Venice,  and  became  a 
member  of  the  Italian  Institute.  His  life  was 
wholly  occupied  with  the  quiet  pursuits  of  lit- 
erature. Among  his  best  works  are  the  lyric 
poems  and  epistles,  which  display  profound 
thought  and  warm  feelings,  and  exhibit  traces 
of  the  influence  of  English  literature,  with 
which  he  was  very  familiar.  He  died  in  Vero- 
na, November  13th,  1828.  His  works  are  pub- 
lished in  the  Milan  edition  of  the  *<Classici 
Italian! " ;  and  his  **  Poesie  Campestri "  and  lyric 
poems,  in  the  "  Parnaso  degl'  Italiani  Viventi  " 
24  vob.,  Pisa,  1798-1802,  12mo. 


FROM  THE  TRAOEDT  OF  ARMINIO. 

LAMENT  OF  THE  AGED   BARDS. 
0R0BU8. 

In  us  the  martial  flame  is  Aiding ; 

Feeble  our  arms,  our  steps  are  slow ; 
'Midst  blood  and  death,  our  brethren  aiding, 

No  longer  is  it  ours  to  go. 


Alas !  how  swift  has  flown 

That  brightly  happy  age. 

When  with  my  voice  alone 

I  woke  the  battle's  rage ! 

I,  who  reclined  in  shady  mead. 

Can  now  but  sing  the  hero's  deed. 

Then  did  this  good  right  hand 

Oft  lay  the  harp  aside. 
To  grasp  the  deadly  bran^,; 
This  hand,  which  can  but  glide 
Now  languidly,  with  failing  skill. 
O'er  chords  scarce  answering  to  my  will. 

Like  the  swelling  wrath  of  a  mountain  river. 
That  bounds,  in   the  pride  of  its  conacioos 
power. 
So  fiercely  from  height  to  height. 
That  to  dust  the  thundering  waters  shiver. 
Then  aloft  rebound  in  a  silvery  shower. 
Was  my  rushing  in  youth  to  the  fight. 

But  now,  little  heeding 

Mine  earlier  force. 
My  foot  is  receding. 

And  years  in  their  course 
Scatter  snows  o'er  my  head. 

Though  now  broadly  sweeping. 
The  Rhine  thus  shall  wane, 

And  through  swamps  feebly  creeping. 
Scarce  lingeringly  gain 
Of  old  Ocean  the  bed. 

SBCOND  BABD. 

Life's  latter  days  are  desolate  and  drear ; 
Man,  wretched  man,  in  early  youth  must  die. 
Or  see  the  tomb  inclose  all  he  holds  dear. 

This  world  is  but  a  vale  of  misery. 
Where  the  poor  wanderer  scarcely  hopes  to  gain 
One  smile  for  many  tears  of  agony. 

He  sees  death  all  around  extend  his  reign  : 
Here  droops  a  brother,  sickening  day  by  daj ; 
There  fades  a  consort ;  there  a  child  lies  slain. 

A  grave  at  every  step  yawns  in  my  way. 
And  mine  incautious  foot  tramples  on  bones 
Of  fKends  and  kindred,  hastening  to  decay. 

And  kinsmen  turn  to  foes !    O  hearts,  than 
stones 
More  hard !  throw,  throw  those  murderous  spears 

aside, 
Whoee  slightest  blows  call  forth  your  country's 
groans ! 

But,  if  this  brothers'  battle  must  be  tried. 
May  fi^edom's  cause  with  victory  be  crowned ! 
Or  underground  these  hoary  locks  abide. 

Ere  I  in  fetters  see  my  country  bound ! 

THBD  BABD. 

What  deeds  of  high  emprise 

Did  my  youth's  comrades  share  ! 
Feats  of  such  lofty  guise 
In  later  days  are  rare. 
Ah,  those  were  gallant  battles  !  those 
Were  fierce  encounters,  deadly  blows  ! 


PINDEMONTE. 


611 


Strong  armi  and  hearts  of  flame 

These  rival  chieft  displa}: ; 
But  the  Cheruscan  name 
Declines  from  day  to  daj ; 
And  vainly  should  we  hope  to  view 
The  ion  his  Other's  fame  renew. 

Bat  even  the  bravest  man. 

Though  high  *midst  heroes  placed, 
Would  scarce  outlast  his  span 
Of  life,  by  bard  ungraced ; 
Nor  would  the  stranger's  earnest  eye 
Ask  where  the  honored  ashes  lie. 


The  dazzling  sun  at  eve, 

When  sinking  in  the  sea, 
No  lasting  track  can  leave 
Of  radiance  on  the  lea : 
Such  were  the  proudest  hero's  frUe, 
Prolonged  not  verse  his  glory's  date. 

OBOBUB. 

In  us  the  martial  flame  is  fading ; 

Feeble  our  arms,  our  steps  are  slow ; 
'Midst  blood  and  death,  our  brethren  «iding. 

No  longer  is  it  ours  to  go. 


LAMENT  ON   THC  DEATH  OF  BALDUR. 
OHOBVS. 

Cold,  dark,  and  lowly  is  the  bed. 
On  which,  unhappy  youth,  thy  head 

Must  now  for  ever  rest ! 
But  on  the  bard's  immortal  lay 
Shall,  even  to  time's  remotest  day, 

Thy  glory  live  impressed. 

FIRST  BAED. 

Not  the  bird,  whose  melodious  voice 
Erst  bade  thee  rejoice, 

As  he  hailed  the  first  blushes  of  mom ; 
Nor  the  sun  shooting  golden  rays, 
Whose  refulgent  blaze 

Hut,  palace,  and  grove  adorn ; 

Nor  the  trumpet's  loud  call  to  the  fight. 
At  whose  sound  with  delight 

The  heart  of  the  warrior  glows ; 
Nor  the  tenderest  maiden's  address. 
Nor  her  timid  caress, 

Evermore  shall  disturb  thy  repose. 

For  hers,  thy  sad  mother's  grief. 
What  hope  of  relief? 

Tet  deeper  her  anguish  must  prove, 
If,  bewildered  by  sorrow,  her  ear 
Deem  an  instant  to  hear 

Thj  footsteps,  O  son  of  her  love  ! 

At  the  social  board  with  a  sigh 
She  sits,  for  her  eye 

Beholds  not  the  face  of  her  child  ', 
Though  conscious  her  search  must  be  vain. 
She  seeks  thee  with  pain, 

Through  thickets  entangled  and  wild. 


No  tempest'-c  terrible  power 
Thisv  plant  scarce  in  flower 

Broke  down  with  resistless  force ; 
He  fell  like  the  stars,  that,  on  high 
As  they  traverse  the  sky, 

Spontaneously  shoot  from  their  course. 

CBOEUS. 

Cold,  dark,  and  lowly  is  the  bed. 
On  which,  unhappy  youth,  thy  head 

Must  now  for  ever  rest ! 
But  on  the  bard's  immortal  lay 
Shall,  even  to  time's  remotest  day, 

Thy  glory  live  impressed. 

SBOOHD  BABD. 

By  untimely  doom. 

To  great  Odin's  hall 
Is  a  spirit  come  : 
Where,  in  that  large  space, 

'Mid  the  heroes  all. 
Is  the  stranger's  place  ? 


A  thousand  damsels,  clad  in  spotless  white. 
With  crowns  of  flowers  upon  their  tresses  fliir. 

With  naked  arms,  and  scarfi  of  azure  bright 
Around  their  loins,  to  every  hero  there. 

In  skulls  of  foes  subdued  in  earthly  fight, 
Minister  draughts  abundant,  rich,  and  rare. 

Thus  for  that  fehosen  company  combine 

Love,  glory,  vengeance,  with  the  joys  of  wine. 

BOUBTH  BABD. 

Thy  playmates  of  an  earlier  year, 
With  thee,  who  by  our  river's  side 

First  bent  the  bow,  or  hurled  the  spear, 
Or  with  light  foot  in  swiftness  vied. 

Now  wander  with  dejected  eye. 

Call  upon  Baldur's  name,  and  sigh. 

Let  not  the  story  of  our  woe 

To  hostile  strangers  be  conveyed  : 

Too  much  it  will  rejoice  the  foe 
To  hear  that  he,  an  empty  shade. 

Is  idly  flitting  on  the  gale, 

In  arms  who  turned  their  warriors  pale. 

Upon  the  field  of  martial  fame 

Too  short,  alas !  has  been  thy  race  : 

Tet  still,  in  characters  of  flame, 
Lives  of  that  brief  career  the  trace. 

Even  upon  thy  mother's  knee. 

Thy  soul  from  childishness  was  free.' 

Thus  the  strong  eagle's  callow  brood, 
With  tender  talons  yet  untried. 

With  beaks  yet  never  dipped  in  blood. 
Display  their  nature's  inborn  pride. 

By  gazing  with  undazzled  eye 

Upon  the  sun  in  noonday  sky. 


Cold,  dark,  and  lowly  is  the  bed, 
On  which,  unhappy  youth,  thy  head 
Must  now  for  ever  rest ! 


612 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


But  on  the  bard's  immorta]  lay 
Shall,  even  to  time's  remotest  daj, 
Thy  glory  live  impressed. 


NICCOLO  UGO  FOSCOLO. 

This  distinguished  poet  and  scholar,  some  of 
whose  works  are  written  in  English,  and  form 
a  valuable  part  of  English  critical  literature, 
was  born  in  Zante,  of  a  family  which  originated 
from  Venice.  The  date  of  his  birth  is  variously 
stated,  as  having  occurred  in  1775,  '76,  '77,  or 
'78.  After  his  father's  death,  his  mother  re- 
moved to  Venice,  and  there  Foscolo  acquired 
the  elementary  branches  of  education.  He 
studied  afterwards  at  the  University  of  Padua, 
under  Cesarotti. 

In  1797,  he  commenced  his  career  as  a  poet 
with  the  tragedy  of  **  Tieste,"  in  which  he 
imitated  the  simplicity  of  Alfieri  and  the  Greeks. 
This  work,  though  of  no  great  merit,  was  re- 
ceived at  the  time,  on  account  of  the  political 
allusions  it  was  supposed  to  contain,  and  the 
youth  of  the  author,  with  unbounded  enthusi- 
asm. The  attention  of  the  government  being 
attracted  to  him  by  these  circumstances,  he  found 
it  prudent  to  leave  Venice,  and  retired  to  Flor- 
ence. He  then  went  to  Milan,  the  capital  of  the 
so  called  Cisalpine  Republic,  where  he  took  an 
earnest  and  active  part  in  the  political  agitations 
of  the  times.  Here  he  fell  in  love  with  a 
young  Roman  lady  of  uncommon  beauty,  and 
described  his  passion  in  a  work  entitled  *<  Let- 
tere  di  due  Amanti,"  which  was  the  basis  of 
the  later  and  more  celebrated  production,  the 
*'  Ultime  Lettere  di  Jacopo  Ortis."  He  joined 
the  Lombard  legion,  accompanied  the  govern- 
ment of  the  Cisalpine  Republic  when  they 
retreated  to  Genoa,  and  endured  with  the  rest 
all  the  hardships  of  the  nine  months'  siege  of 
that  city,  during  which,  however,  he  composed 
several  of  his  poems.  On  the  surrender  of  the 
city,  in  June,  1800,  Foscolo  went  with  the 
other  members  of  the  republic  to  Antibes.  He 
remained  there  but  a  short  time.  Napoleon's 
return  from  Egypt  changed  the  face  of  Italian 
affairs,  and  Foscolo  was  restored  to  Milan,  and 
about  this  time  wrote  the  **  Letters  of  Jacopo 
Ortis,"  which  produced  a  great  sensation  among 
his  countrymen.  In  1802,  he  composed  an  ora- 
tion addressed  to  Bonaparte,  remarkable  chiefly 
for  the  pomp  and  pedantry  of  its  style.  When 
Napoleon  formed  the » camp  at  Boulogne  with 
the  purpose  of  invading  England,  the  division 
of  the  Italian  army  to  which  Foscolo  belonged 
constituted  a  portion  of  the  assembled  forces. 
He  held  the  rank  of  captain  in  the  staflT  of  Gen- 
eral Tulli^,  and  was  stationed  with  his  division 
at  Saint  Omer,  where  he  began  the  study  of 
the  English  language. 

In  1805,  he  returned  to  Italy,  and  for  some 
time  resided  in  Brescia,  where  he  wrote  '<  Dei 
Sepolcri   Carme,"   the   most    admired   of   his 


poems,  and  a  translation  of  a  part  of  the  *^  Il- 
iad." In  1808,  he  was  appointed  Professor  of 
Eloquence  in  Pavia ;  but  the  professorship  being 
abolished  a  year  afterwards,  he  retired  to  the 
Borgo  di  Vico,  on  Lake  Como,  and  resumed  bis 
poetical  occupations.  Here  he  became  intimately 
acquainted  with  the  family  of  an  accomplishi^ 
nobleman.  Count  Giovio,  whose  society  helped 
to  dissipate  the  gloom  and  melancholy  which  at 
times  overshadowed  him.  The  lively  dangbter 
of  the  count  wittily  called  Foscolo  *'  a  sentiment- 
al thunderbolt."  While  residing  at  the  Borgo 
di  Vico,  he  wrote  the  tragedy  of"  Ajai,"  which 
was  brought  out  at  Milan,  but  proved  an  entire 
failure.  He  went  afterwards  to  Florence,  where 
he  was  well  received,  and  wrote  the  tragedy 
of  "La  Ricciarda,"  —  also  unsuccessfhl,  —  and 
about  the  same  time  published  his  "  Hymn  to 
the  Graces." 

Soon  after  the  overthrow  of  Napoleon,  and 
the  transfer  of  Lombardy  to  Austria,  he  left  his 
home,  went  to  Switzerland,  and  lived  two  years 
in  ZOrich.  In  1815,  he  went  to  England, 
and  was  hospitably  received  by  the  leading  lib- 
erals, and  by  the  most  eminent  literary  men  in 
London.  Here  he  wrote  many  articles  in  the 
principal  journals,  and  took  part  in  the  famous 
discussion  about  the  Digamma ;  firom  which  cir- 
cumstance, he  gave  to  the  cottage  he  aflerwards 
built  and  occupied  in  Regent's  Park  the  name  of 
Digamma  Cottage.  He  also  delivered  a  coarse 
of  lectures  on  Italian  literature,  which  brought 
him  in  a  thousand  pounds.  But  his  imprudences 
and  extravagance  soon  involved  him  in  great 
pecuniary  embarrassments,  which  harassed  him 
during  the  rest  of  his  life.  His  *'  Essays  on 
Petrarch,"  an  admirable  work,  was  published  in 
London  in  1821,  and  his  "Discorso  sul  Teste 
di  Dante,"  a  valuable  piece  of  criticism,  ap- 
peared in  1826.  He  died,  September  lOth, 
1827,  in  a  cottage  he  had  taken  at  Tnmbam 
Green,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  London. 


TO  LUIGIA  PALLAVICINI. 

As  when  forth  beams  from  ocean's  caves 
The  star  to  Love's  own  mother  dear ; 
Her  dew-bespangled  tresses  waves, 

Scattering  the  night-shades  dun  and  drear, 
And  far  illumes  her  heavenly  way 
With  light  poured  from  the  eternal  founts  of  day : 

So  Beauty  from  the  curtained  couch. 

Her  charms  divine,  and  features  rare. 
More  lovely  with  the  shadowing  touch 
Of  sorrow  that  yet  lingers  there. 
Revives,  —  and  radiant  glads  our  eyes. 
Still,  sweetest  soother  of  man's  woe-bom  sighs. 

Soon,  like  the  roses  on  thy  cheek. 
The  buds  of  joy  again  unfold,  — 
Those  large  dark  eyes,  so  wild,  yet  meek, — 
Bewitching  smiles  and  looks  untold,  — 
With  all  those  wiles  that  wake  again 
Each  mother's  fears,  and  lover's  keener  pain. 


FOSCOLO.— MANZONI. 


613 


The  Hoan  that  lata  hung  o'er  thee,  tad,  — 

The  miniftara  of  aighi  and  pain,  — 
Bring  thee  fteih  channs,  with  aplendor  olad, 
'Mid  Eaatern  atate  and  jewelled  train ; 
Od  bracelets,  gems,  and  rings  out  shine 
The  sculptured  gods,  in  godlike  Greek  design. 

Cbarmt  of  more  sovereign  power  yon  share, — 

Tbe  tragic  fiction's  stirring  theme ; 
In  whose  rich  chorus,  seen  most  fair. 
Thou,  goddess,  art  the  youth's  fond  dream, 
Who,  gazing,  checks  the  magic  dance, 
To  drink  soft  pain  and  rapture  from  thy  glance. 

Or  when  tboo  wak'at  the  soul  of  song 

That  slumbers  in  thy  harpstrings  wild. 
Or  with  heayen's  witcheries  sweep'st  along 
Tbe  aisles  of  holier  music  mild. 
Or  gladd'at  the  dance  with  rapturous  tone,  — 
'T  is  still  thy  voice,  in  murmured  sighs  we  own. 

If  peril  here  for  lovers  be. 

What  when  thou  weav'st  the  airy  danoe, 
Yielding  thy  form  of  symmetry 
To  grace, —  while  beams  thy  sunny  glance 
Through  thy  loose  veil ;  —  and,  O,  thy  neck  and 

hair 
Shine  Ibrth  in  loveliness  and  beauty  rare ! 

See !  from  her  graceful  headdress  slow 

Escape  those  tresses  fragrant,  bright,— 
Ambrosia]  locks,  that  lovely  flow 
From  'neath  their  rosy  garland  light. 
Whose  flowers  were  April's  early  token 
Of  joy  and  health  and  dreams  of  bliss  unbroken. 

Handmaids  of  pleasure  and  of  love,  — 

Thus  woo  you,  fluttering  near, 
The  envied  Hours,  where'er  you  move : 
And  let  the  Graces  here 
Frown  on  him  who  beauty's  balm 
And  life's  swifl  flight  recalls,  and  death's  deep 
calm. 

Mortal  goddess,  guide  and  queen 
Of  the  ocean's  virgin  train,  — 
On  Farrhasian  mount  was  seen 
Chaste  Artemis,  o'er  the  plain. 
The  fbreat's  terror,  chasing  far 
Her  prey  with  sounding  bow,  in  sylvan  war. 

Old  Fame  hath  given  her  birth  divine ', 
Olympian  offspring,  goddess  fair, — 
Hers  the  fount,  and  sacred  shrine, 
Elysian  ;  hers  the  mountain  air, 
Chasing  the  wild  deer  of  the  wood, 
With  fkte-winged  dart,  o'er  hill  and  vale  and 
flood. 


And  altars  to  that  goddess  rose, — 

Bellona,  onoe  the  Amazon ; 
Hers  the  JSgis ;  round  her  brows 
Palms  wreathed  by  vocal  Helicon  : 
Her  Qor^gon  terrors  now  she  rears. 
To  shake  the  British  shores,  and  meanire  hos- 
tile spears. 


And  she,  whose  image  now  thy  hands 

With  sacred  myrtle-boughs  adorn, 
Devoted,  lovely,  seems  to  stand 
Benignant  as  the  rosy  morn  : 
But  'midst  thy  household  deities  dost  thou. 
Sole  priestess,  stand  arrayed  with  beauty  on  thy 
brow! 

She,  the  queen  of  Cyprus'  isle. 

And  sweet  Cythera,  where  the  spring 
For  ever  odorous  reigns,  —  where  smile 
Those  wood-crowned  isles,  whose  bold  sides 
fling 
The  Ionian  waves  and  east  winds  back. 
Which  urge  the  white  sails  on  their  fkr-bome 
track. 

First  cradled  was  I  in  that  sea. 

Whence  the  bright  spirit  earthless  flew 
Of  Phaon's  girl ;  —  the  night-wind  free. 
Oft  as  it  stirs  those  waters  blue. 
Most  gently  murmurs  to  the  lonely  shore, 
With  plaintive  voice  which  woful  lovers'  spirits 
pour. 

I  hear,  I  feel  the  sacred  air,  — 

My  native  air  of  love  and  fire,  — 
And  wake  the  JEolian  chords  to  share 
Their  music  with  that  deep-toned  lyre 
Ausonian,  till  their  vows  to  thee. 
Beauty  divine,  Love's  votaries  long  decree  ! 


ALESSANDRO  MANZONI. 

Alessandro  MANZoni,  distinguished  as  a 
lyrist,  tragic  poet,  and  novelist,  was  born  at 
Milan,  in  1784.  He  belongs  to  a  noble  family, 
and  his  mother  was  the  daughter  of  the  cele- 
brated Maiquis  Beccaria.  When  very  young, 
he  showed  his  poetical  talent  in  the  ^'Versi 
Scioiti "  on  the  death  of  his  foster-father,  Im- 
bonati.  In  1810,  appeared  his  '<Inni  Sacri," 
in  which  he  created  a  new  species  of  Italian 
lyric  poetry.  His  tragedies  have  placed  him 
at  the  head  of  the  living  Italian  dramatists. 
His  tragedy,  «<  II  Conte  di  Carmagnola,"  writ- 
ten  in  eleven-syllable  iambics,  published  in 
1820,  made  a  great  sensation,  not  only  in  Italy, 
but  in  Germany  and  England.  This  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  "Adelchi,"  which  appeared  in 
1823.  In  both  of  these  pieces  he  has  thrown 
off  the  restrainto  of  the  French  school,  and  used 
the  chorus  with  great  lyrical  effect.  His  ode 
on  the  death  of  Napoleon,  entitled  <*  II  Cinque 
Maggio,"  is  the  best  known  of  his  miscellane- 
ous  pieces.  It  has  been  several  times  translated 
into  English.  His  excellent  novel, '« I  Promesai 
Sposi,"  appeared  at  Milan  in  1827.  It  has  been 
translated  into  most  of  the  languages  of  Europe, 
and  holds  the  highest  rank  among  the  Italian 
romances.  Theological  subjects  have  of  late 
withdrawn  Manzooi  from  poetry. 


6t4 


ITALIAN  POETRY. 


IL  ONQUE  MAGGIO. 

Hx  was.  —  As  motionless  as  laj, 
First  mingled  with  the  dead, 
The  relics  of  the  senseless  clay, 
Whence  Buch  a  soul  bad  fled, — 
The  Earth  astounded  holds  her  breath. 
Struck  with  the  tidings  of  his  death  : 

She  pauses  the  last  hour  to  see 
Of  the  dread  Man  of  Destiny  ; 
Nor  knows  she  when  another  tread, ' 
Like  that  of  the  once  mighty  dead. 
Shall  such  a  footprintjeave  impressed 
As  his,  in  blood,  upon  her  breast. 

I  saw  him  blazing  on  his  throne, 
Tet  hailed  him  not :  by  restless  fate 
Hurled  from  the  giddy  summit  down ; 
Resume  again  his  lofty  state : 
Saw  him  at  last  for  ever  fall, 
Still  mute  amid  the  shouts  of  all: 

Free  from  base  flattery,  when  he  rose; 
From  baser  outrage,  when  he  fell  : 
Now  his  career  has  reached  its  close, 
My  Toice  is  raised,  the  truth  to  tell. 
And  o*er  his  exiled  urn  will  try 
To  pour  a  strain  that  shall  not  die. 

From  Alps  to  Pyramids  were  thrown 
His  bolts,  from  Scylla  to  the  Don, 
From  Manzanares  to  the  Rhine, 
From  sea  to  sea,  unerring  hurled ; 
And  ere  the  flash  had  ceased  to  shine. 
Burst  on  their  aim,  —  and  shook  the  world. 

Was  this  true  glory  ?  —  The  high  doom 
Must  be  pronounced  by  times  to  come : 
For  us,  we  bow  before  His  throne. 
Who  willed,  in  gifting  mortal  clay 
With  such  a  spirit,  to  display 
A  grander  impress  of  his  own. 

His  was  the  stormy,  fierce  delight 
To  dare  adventure's  boldest  scheme ; 
The  soul  of  fire,  that  burned  for  might. 
And  could  of  naught  but  empire  dream; 
And  his  the  indomitable  will 
That  dream  of  empire  to  fulfil. 
And  to  a  greatness  to  attain 
'T  were  madness  to  have  hoped  to  gain  : 
All  these  were  his ;  nor  these  alone ;  — 
Flight,  victory,  exile,  and  the  throne ;  — 
Twice  in  the  dust  by  thousands  trod. 
Twice  on  the  altar  as  a  god. 

Two  ages  stood  in  arms  arrayed. 
Contending  which  should  victor  be  : 
He  spake  :  —  his  mandate  they  obeyed. 
And  bowed  to  hear  their  destiny. 
He  stepped  between  them,  to  assume 
The  mastery,  and  pronounce  their  doom  > 

Then  vanished,  and  inactive  wore 
Life's  remnant  out  on  that  lone  shore. 
What  envy  did  his  palmy  state, 
What  pity  his  reverses  move, 
Object  of  unrelenting  hate, 
And  unextinguishable  love! 


As  beat  innumerable  waves 
O'er  the  last  floating  plank  that  i 
One  sailor  from  the  wreck,  whose  eye 
Intently  gazes  o'er  the  main, 
Far  in  the  distance  to  descry 
Some  speck  of  hope,  —  but  all  in  vain ; 
Did  countless  waves  of  memory  roll 
Incessant,  thronging  on  his  soul : 
Recording,  for  a  future  age, 
The  tale  of  his  renown, 
How  often  on  the  immortal  page 
His  hand  sank  weary  down  ! 

Oft  on  some  sea-beat  cliflT  alone 
He  stood,  —  the  lingering  daylight  gone. 
And  pensive  evening  come  at  last,  — 
With  folded  arms,  and  eyes  declined  ; 
While,  O,  what  visions  on  his  mind 
Came  rushing  —  of  the  past ! 

The  rampart  stormed, — the  tented  field, — 
His  eagles  glittering  far  and  wide,  — 
His  columns  never  taught  to  yield,  — 
His  cavalry's  resistless  tide. 
Watching  each  motion  of  his  band. 
Swift  to  obey  the  swift  command. 

Such  thoughts,  perchance,  last  filled  his  breast. 

And  his  departing  soul  oppressed, 

To  tempt  it  to  despair ; 

Till  from  on  high  a  hand  of  might 

In  mercy  came  to  guide  its  flight 

Up  to  a  purer  air,  — 

Leading  it,  o'er  hope's  path  of  flowers. 
To  the  celestial  plains. 
Where  greater  happiness  is  ours 
Than  even  fancy  feigns. 
And  where  earth's  fleeting  glories  &de 
Into  the  shadow  of  a  shade. 

Immortal,  bright,  beneficent. 
Faith,  used  to  victories,  on  thy  roll 
Write  this  with  joy ;  for  never  bent 
Beneath  death's  hand  a  haughtier  soul ; 
Thou  from  the  worn  and  pallid  clay 
Chase  every  bitter  word  away. 
That  would  insult  the  dead : 
His  holy  crucifix,  whose  breath 
Has  power  to  raise  and  to  depress. 
Send  consolation  and  distress. 
Lay  by  him  on  that  lowly  bed 
And  hallowed  it  in  death. 


CHORUS  FROM  THE  OONTE  DI  CARMAONOUL 

Huix  !  from  the  right  bursts  forth  a  trompet's 
sound; 

A  loud,  shrill  trumpet  from  the  left  replies : 
On  every  side  hoarse  echoes  from  the  ground 

To  the  quick  tramp  of  steeds  and  warriors 
rise. 
Hollow  and  deep, — and  banners  all  around 

Meet  hostile  banners  waving  to  the  skies : 
Here  steel-clad  bands  in  marshalled  order  shine. 
And  there  a  host  confronts  their  glittering  line. 


MANZONI. 


615 


Lo !  half  the  6eld  already  from  the  sight 

Hath  vanished,  hid  from  closing  groaps  of  foes ; 
Sworda  crossing  swords  flash  lightning  o*er  the 

And  the  strife  deepens,  and  the  life-blood 
flows! 
0,  who  are  these  ?   What  stranger  in  his  might 

Cornea  bursting  on  the  lovely  land's  repose  ? 
What  patriot  hearts  have  nobly  vowed  to  save 
Their  native  soil,  or  make  its  dust  their  grave  ? 

One  race,  alas !  these  foes,  one  kindred  race. 
Were  born  and  reared  the  same  fair  scenes 
among ! 
The  stranger  calls  them  brothers, — and  each 
face 
That  brotherhood   reveals;  —  one  common 
tongae 
Dwells  on  their  lips ;  —  the  earth  on  which  we 
trace 
Their  heart's  blood  is  the  soil  from  whence 
they  sprung. 
One  mother  gave  them  birth, — this  chosen  land. 
Circled  with  Alps  and  seas  by  Nature's  guar- 
dian band. 

O,  grief  and  horror  \  who  the  first  could  dare 
Against  a  brother's  breast  a  sword  to  wield  ? 

What  cause  unhallowed  and  accursed,  declare, 
Hath  bathed  with  carnage  this  ignoble  field  ? 

Think'st  thou  they  know  P^  They  but  inflict 
and  share 
Misery  and  death,  the  motive  unrevealed^ 

Sold  to  a  leader,  sold  himself  to  die. 

With  him  they  strive,  they  fall,  — and  ask  not 
why. 


But  are  there  none  who  love  them  ?  Have  they 
none, 
No  wives,  no  mothers,  who  might  rush  be- 
tween. 
Add  win  with  tears  the  husband  and  the  son 
Back  to  his  home  from  this  polluted  scene  ? 
And  they,  whose  hearts,  when  life's  bright  day 
is  done. 
Unfold  to  thoughts  more  solemn  and  serene, 
Thoughts  of  the  tomb,— why  cannot  they  assuage 
The  storms  of  passion  with  the  voice  of  age  ? 

Ask  not !  —  The  peasant  at  his  cabin  door 
Sits  calmly  pointing  to  the  distant  cloud 

Which  skirts  the  horizon,  menacing  to  pour 
Destruction   down  o'er  fields  he  hath   not 
ploughed : 

Thus,  where  no  echo  of  the  battle's  roar 
Is  heard  afiur,  even  thus  the  reckless  crowd 

In  tranqail  safety  number  o'er  the  slain. 

Or  tell  of  cities  burning  on  the  plain. 

There  may'st  thou  mark  the  boy,  with  earnest 
gaze 
Fixed  on  his  mother's  lips,  intent  to  know 
By  names  of  insult  those  whom  future  days 
Shall  see  him  meet  in  arms,  their  deadliest 
foe. 


There  proudly  many  a  glittering  dame  displays 
Bracelet  and  zone,  with  radiant  gems  that  glow. 
By  lovers,  husbands,  home  in  triumph  borne, 
From  the  sad  brides  of  fiillen  warriors  torn. 

Woe  to  the  victors  and  the  vanquished,  woe ! 

The  earth  is  heaped,  is  loaded  with  the  slain ; 
Loud  and  more  loud  the  cries  of  fury  grow  ; 

A  sea  of  blood  is  swelling  o'er  the  plain. 
But  from  the  embattled  front  already,  lo  ! 

A  band  recedes,  —  it  flies,  —  all  hope  is  vain ; 
And  vernal  hearts,  despairing  of  the  strife. 
Wake  to  the  love,  the  clinging  love  of  life. 

As  the  light  grain  disperses  in  the  air. 

Borne  by  the  winnowing  of  the  gales  around. 

Thus  fly  the  vanquished,  in  their  wild  despair. 
Chased,  severed,  scattered,  o'er  the   ample 
ground. 

But  mightier  bands,  that  lay  in  ambush  there. 
Burst  on  their  flight,  —  and  hark !  the  deep- 
ening sound 

Of  fierce  pursuit !  — still  nearer  and  more  near, 

The  rush  of  war-steeds  trampling  in  the  rear  ! 

The  day  is  won  !  —  they  fiill,  —  disarmed  they 
yield. 

Low  at  the  conqueror's  feet  all  suppliant  ly- 
ing! 
'Midst  shouts  of  victory  pealing  o'er  the  field. 

Ah !  who  may  hear  the  murmurs  of  the  dying.' 
Haste !  let  the  tale  of  triumph  be  revealed  ! 

E'en  now  the  courier  to  his  steed  is  flying ; 
He  spurs,— he  speeds,— with  tidings  of  the  day 
To  rouse  up  cities  in  bis  lightning  way. 

Why  pour  ye  fbrth  from  your  deserted  homes, 
O  eager  multitudes,  around  him  pressing, — 
Each  hurrying  where   his  breathless  courser 
foams, 
Each  tongue,  each  eye  infatuate  hope  confess- 
ing? 
Know  ye  not  whence  the  ill-omened  herald 
comes. 
And  dare  ye  dream  he  comes  with  words  of 
blessing.' — 
Brothers,  by  brothers  slain.  He  low  and  cold  !  — 
Be  ye  content !  the  glorious  tale  is  told. 

I  hear  the  voice  of  joy,  the  exulting  cry ! 
They  deck  the  shrine,  they  swell  the  choral 
strains ; 
E'en  now  the  homicides  assail  the  sky 

With  paBsns,  which  indignant  Heaven  dis* 
dains !  — 
Bat  from  the  soaring  Alps  the  stranger's  eye- 
Looks  watchful  down  on  our  ensanguined 
plains, 
And,  with  the  cruel  rapture  of  a  foe. 
Numbers  the  mighty  stretched  in  death  below. 

Haste !  from  your  lines  again,  ye  brave  and  true ! 

Haste,  haste, — your  triumphs  and  your  joys 

suspending ! 

The  invader  comes !  your  banners  raise  anew  ! 

Rush  to  the  strife,  your  country's  call  attending ! 


616 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


Victora,  why  pause  ye?     Are  ye   weak  and 
few?— 
Ay !  such  he  deemed  you  -,  and  for  this  de- 
scending. 
He  waits  you  on  the  field  ye  know  too  well, — 
The  same  red  war-field  where  your  brethren 
fell. 

O  thou  devoted  land,  that  canst  not  rear 

In  peace  thy  ofispring !  thou,  the  lost  and  won, 

The  fair  and  fatal  soil,  that  dost  appear 
Too  narrow  still  for  each  contending  son  ! 

Receive  the  stranger  in  his  fierce  career, 

Parting  thy  spoils !  thy  chastening  has  begun  ! 

And,  wresting  from  thy  kings  the  guardian  sword, 

Foes,  whom  thou  ne'er  hadst  wronged,  sit  proud- 
ly at  thy  board ! 

Are  these  infatuate  too?  —  O,  who  hath  known 

A  people  e'er  by  guilt's  vain  triumph  blessed  ? 

The  wronged,  the  vanquished,  suffer  not  alone ; 

Brief  is  the  joy  that  swells  the  oppressor's 

breast. 

What  though  not  yet  his  day  of  pride  be  flown. 

Though  yet  Heaven's  vengeance  spare  his 

haughty  crest  ? 

Well  hath  it  marked  him, — and  decreed  the 

hour. 
When  his  last  sigh  shall  own  the  terror  of  its 
power. 

Are  we  not  creatures  of  one  hand  divine. 
Formed  in   one  mould,  to  one  redemption 
born, — 
Kindred  alike,  where'er  our  skies  may  shine. 

Where'er  our  sight  first  drank  the  vital  morn  ? 

Brothers,  —  one  bond  around  our  souls  should 

twine ; 

And  woe  to  him  by  whom  that  bond  is  torn, 

Who  mounts  by  trampling  broken   hearts  to 

earth. 
Who  bows  down  spirits  of  immortal  birth ! 


GIOVANNI  BATTISTA   NICCOLINI. 

This  poet  of  liberalism  in  Italy  was  born 
near  Pisa,  December  31st,  1786.  He  belongs 
to  a  noble  Florentine  fiimily,  and  b  a  descend- 
ant of  Filicaja,  by  the  mother's  side.  He  stud- 
ied  first  in  Florence,  and  afterwards  at  the  Uni- 
versity  of  Pisa,  where  he  took  his  degree  in 
jurisprudence,  and  then  devoted  himself  to  the 
study  of  classical  literature.  He  was  then  ap- 
pointed Professor  of  History  and  Mythology  in 
the  Academy  of  the  Fine  Arts  at  Florence,  and 
wrote  several  valuable  discourses  on  the  sub- 
jects of  his  professorship.  But  though-  his  prose 
works  are  written  in  an  elegant  and  vigorous 
style,  his  inclination  led  him  decidedly  to  dra- 
matic poetry.  His  first  tragedy,  **  Polyzena," 
was  crowned  with  the  prize  of  the  Delia  Cms- 
can  Academy,  in  1810.  This  was  fi>llowed  by 
the  "  Ino  e  Themisto,"  "  Medea,"  «*  Mathilde,'* 


and  « Antonio  Foscarini."  This  last  tragedy, 
taken  from  a  well  known  passage  in  Venetian 
history,  was  received  with  great  enthusiasm,  and 
established  Niccolini's  reputation.  His  '* Gio- 
vanni da  Procida  "  was  performed  at  Florence 
in  1830;  **Ludovico  il  Moro"  appeared  in 
1834;  and  ««Rosmuada"  in  1839.  His  works, 
in  three  volumes,  containing  the  tragedies,  the 
written  lyrical  poems,  and  prose  essays,  were 
published  in  Florence,  in  1831. 


FROM  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  NABUCCO. 

MABUOGO. 

Hbrce,  trembling  slaves !  I  do  not  pardon  yoo. 
But  scorn  to  punish. 

[Thsi 


Murder  me  thou  may'st, 
But  not  debase. 

HABUOOO. 

Thou  hop'st  soch  glorious  death 

In  vain.  -^  I  with  thy  blood  pollute  my  sword  ? 

ARSAOBS. 

'T  were  for  thine  arm  a  novel  enterprise. 

As  yet  thou  hast  but  shed  the  blood  of  slaves. 

MABVCOO. 

And  what  art  thou,  Assyrian  ? 


I  deserve 

A  different,  kingless  country. 

HABUOOO. 

So !     A  rebel ! 


Such  were  I,  'midst  thy  slaves  a  jocund  flatterer 
Thou  hadst  beheld  me,  bending  low  my  head 
Before  the  worshipped  throne  $  and  in  thy  power  . 
I  thus  might  share.  Thou  with  their  fears  didst 

bargain, 
That  made  thee  king,  and  that  maintain  tbee 

tyrant 

MABUCOO. 

Bethink  thee,  if  this  sword,  on  which  the  fate 
Of  Asia' hangs,  strike  not  rebellious  slaves. 
Thousands  of  weapons  wait  upon  my  word. 

ABSAOBS. 

Then  why  delay*st  thou?  Call  them. — I  be. 

lieved  thee 

Worthy  to  hear  the  truth.  Do  thou  chastise 
So  gross  an  error. 

NABUOOO. 

He  who  on  this  earth 

No  equal  knows  may  tolerate  thy  boldness. 

Say  on. 


Wert  thou  a  vulgar  tyrant,  hung  not 

Assyria's  fate  on  thee,  Arsaces  then 

Could  slay  or  scorn  thee.     I,  who  in  thy  ranks 


NICCOLINI.—PELLICO. 


617 


Have  ibught,  have  seen  thee  general  and  loldier, 
And  on  the  battle-ifield  a  god  in  arma 
Admired,  upon  the  throne  abhor  thea. 

VABUOOO. 

Of  liberty  what  talk'at  thoa  to  the  king  ? 

In  me  our  coontry  dwells ;  then  speak  of  me. 


To  thee  I  ipeak,  Nabucco ;  to  thy  Ibrtnne 
Others  have  spoken.     Asia's  ills  thou  seest,  -— 
Not  thine.    The  sea  of  blood  deluging  earth 
Touches  thj  throne ;  it  totters ;  dost  not  feel  it? 
For  us  I  ask  not  pity ;  on  thyself, 
Nabocoo,  have  compassion. 

VABUCOO. 

Did  I  prise 

My  power  above  my  fiime,  I  were  at  pMce, 

And  you  in  chains. 


The  founder  thon  wouldst  be 
Of  a  new  empire,  and  a  high  emprise 
This  seems  to  thy  ferocious  pride.  Thou  'rt  great, 
If  thou  succeed;  if  in  the  attempt  thou  /all, 
I  Audacious.    Well  I  know  that  splendid  ruins 
To  man  yield  glory,  but  not  genuine  fame. 

MABUOCO. 

I  upon  victory  would  found  mine  empire, 
Not  owe  it  to  the  charity  of  kings. 
Assyria,  conquered,  boasts  not  as  her  monarch 
Nabucco.     On  this  head  my  crown  must  blaze 
With  all  the  terrors  of  its  former  brightness, 
Or  there  be  crushed.      Wherefore  chiMe  not 

Assyria 
Her  king  amongst  the  un warlike  Magi  ?  Then, 
When  to  this  hand,  trained  but  to  wield  the 

sword,     , 
The  sceptre  she  committed,  she  pronounced 
Her  preference  of  glory  to  repose, 
[s  glory  ever  bloodless  ?     Would  ye  now 
fletnm  to  your  effeminate  studies,  ply 
The  distaff,  break  our  arms .'    Who  my  reyerses 
^fOuId  not  support  never  deserved  my  fortune. 

f  I  ana  vanquished,  to  un warlike  leaden, 
*o  venal  satraps,  Asia  must  be  slave. 
Vhom.  seest  thou  on  the  throne  worthy  a  throne? 
^here  is  the  crown  on  which  I  have  not  tram- 
pled? 

AISAOBS. 

9  me  doet  thou  recall  the  arts  of  kings, 
nd  ▼ileness  ?    To  Arsaces  such  a  crime 
>jaltj  seems,  that  scarce  could  he  in  thee 
Tgive  it,  did  thy  virtue  match  thy  valor. 
It  is  't  the  sole  reward  of  so  much  blood, 
lat  we  may  choose  our  tyrant,  and  our  sons 
bom  to  a  new  yoke  ? 


'  reign  attests 
at  ye  were  free. 


iireat  lot  of  slaves! 
78 


Slavery,  to  him  who  has  lived  free,  is  shame. 

3at  why  my  wounds  reopen  ?     I  address  not 

The  citizen,  't  is  to  the  king  I  speak. 

To  thee  Assyria  has  given  her  crimes. 

Her  valor,  virtue,  rights,  and  fortune.     Rich 

Art  thou  through  ancient  ills,  rich  in  her  wealth. 

The  harvest  of  the  past,  the  future's  hopes. 

Are  placed  in  thee 

The  urn  of  fate  God  to  thy  powerful  hand 
Committed,  and  forsook  the  earth.     But  was  *t 
Guerdon  or  punishment?  Heavens!  Dar'stthou 

stake 
The  world's  last  hope  on  doubtfiil  battle  ?  now, 
When  in  the  tired  Assyrian  courage  flags, 
And  fair  pretexts  are  wanting,  other  sons 
Demand  of  mothers,  wrapt  in  mourning  weeds. 
With  tear-dimmed  eyes  ?     For  what  should  we 

now  battle  ? 
Cold  are  our  altars  or  o*erthrown,  the  gods 
Uncertain  ;  slain  or  prisoners  our  sons ; 
Not  e'en  their  graves  are  given  to  our  affliction ; 
The  Scythian  snows  conceal  our  brave  Assyri- 

ans; 
And  our  ancestral  monuments  are  buried 
Beneath  the  ruins  of  our  temples.     Say, 
What  should  the  Assyrian  now  defond  ? 

MABUCOO. 

His  crimes ! 

I  with  my  dazzling  glory  fill  the  throne, 

Hiding  the  blood  with  which  by  you  't  was 

stained. 
'T  will  redden  if  I  foil,  and  for  revenge 
Call  on  your  murdered  sovereign's  servile  heir, 
Ay,  and  obtain  it.     But,  with  minds  unstable. 
Ye  look  for  pardon  of  past  crimes,  of  new  ones 
For  recompense. 


Nor  foar  nor  hope  are  mine. 

His  sword  secures  Arsaces  from  all  kings. 


SILVIO  PELLICO. 

Silvio  Pxllico,  known  to  all  the  world  by 
the  beautifol  history  of  his  imprisonment  in  the 
Spielberg,  was  bom  in  1789,  at  Saluzzo,  in 
Piedmont.  Encouraged  by  his  father,  who  had 
gained  reputation  by  his  lyrical  compositions, 
be  wrote  verses  in  early  youth.  At  the  age 
of  sixteen,  he  went  to  Lyons,  where  his  sister 
had  married.  Foscolo's  poem,  **I  Sepolcri," 
reawakened  his  love  of  country  to  such  a  de- 
gree, that  he  returned  forthwith  to  Italy.  He 
lived  at  Milan,  in  the  family  of  Count  Luigi 
Porro  Lambertenghi,  whose  children  he  in- 
structed. His  tragedies  of  «*Laodicea"  and 
**  Francesca  da  Rimini "  gave  him  an  honora- 
ble rank  among  the  Italian  poets.  The  asso- 
ciations which  he  enjoyed  with  the  scholars 
and  writers  who  were  aiming  at  the  regenera- 
tion of  Italy  led  to  the  establishment  of  the 
joamal  entitled  "II  Conciliatore,"  in  which 
u2 


618 


ITALIAN   POETRY. 


Pellico's  *'  Eufemio  di  Messina"  was  first  print- 
ed, as'  well  as  Manzoni's  *'  Conte  di  Carmagno- 
la.*'  The  liberal  tone  of  these  productions  was 
offensive  to  the  government,  and  Pellico,  with 
others,  was  arrested  on  the  Idth  of  October, 
1820.  After  severe  investigations  and  long  pro- 
tracted delays,  Pellico  was  finally  condemned 
to  imprisonment  in  the  Spielberg,  as  a  com- 
mutation of  the  punishment  of  death,  to  which 
the  judges  had  sentenced  him.  The  details  of 
bis  sufferings,  while  undergoing  this  barbarous 
infliction,  often  years'  duration,  are  universally 
known.  He  was  released  in  1830,  and  per- 
mitted to  return  to  Turin.  His  works  were 
published  in  Padua,  in  two  volumes,  1831,  and 
at  Leipsic,  in  one  volume,  1834.  Three  new 
tragedies  appeared  at  Turin,  in  1832.  They 
are  entitled,  **  Gismondo  da  Mendrisio,"  *«  Le- 
oniero  da  Dertona,"  and  *'  Erodiade."  A  very 
correct  and  elegant  translation  of  "Le  Mie 
Prigioni  "  —  as  he  entitled  the  history  of  his 
imprisonments  —  was  published  at  Cambridge, 
in  1836. 


CANZONE,  WRITTEN  IN  PRISON. 

The  love  of  song  what  can  impart 
To  the  lone  captive's  sinking  heart  ? 
Thou  Sun  !  thou  fount  divine 
Of  light !  the  gift  is  thine ! 

O,  how,  beyond  the  gloom 

That  wraps  my  living  tomb, 

Through  forest,  garden,  mead,  and  grove, 

All  nature  drinks  the  ray 

Of  glorious  day, — 

Inebriate  with  love ! 

The  jocund  torrents  flow 

To  distant  worlds  that  owe 

Their  life  to  thee ! 

And  if  a  slender  ray 

Chance  through  my  bars  to  stray,- 

And  pierce  to  me. 

My  cell,  no  more  a  tomb. 

Smiles  in  its  caverned  gloom,^— 

As  nature  to  the  free ! 

If  scarce  thy  bounty  yields 
To  these  ungenial  fields 
The  gift  divine, 
O,  shed  thy  blessings  here, 
Now  while  in'  dungeon  drear 
Italians  pine ! 

Thy  splendors  faintly  known, 
Sclavonia  may  not  own 
For  thee  the  love 
Our  hearts  must  move. 
Who  from  our  cradle  learn 
To  adore  thee,  and  to  yearn 
With  passionate  desire 
(Our  nature's  fondest  prayer. 
Needful  as  vital  air) 
To  see  thee,  or  expire. 


Beneath  my  native,  distant  sky. 
The  captive's  sire  and  mother  sigh  ; 
O,  never  there  may  darkling  cloud 
With  veil  of  circling  horror  shroud 
The  rising  day ; 

But  thy  warm  beams,  still  glowing  bright. 
Enchant  their  hearts  with  joyous  light. 
And  charm  their  grief  away ! 


TOMMASO  86RICCI. 

ToMMASo  SoRicci  has  been  called  the  first 
of  modern  improvvisatores.  Among  his  extem- 
porary productions,  ^  La  Morte  di  Carlo  I."  and 
*<  L'  Ettore  "  were  taken  down  by  short-hand 
writers,  and  published  in  Florence,  in  1825. 
"La  Morte  di  Carlo  I."  was  improvvisated  at 
Paris,  in  the  presence  of  the  principal  men  of 
letters  in  that  capital. 

In  one  of  the  notes  to  the  fourth  canto  of 
«  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,"  Lord  Byron  re- 
lates the  following  anecdote.  **  In  the  autumn 
of  1816,  a  celebrated  improwisatore  exhibited 
his  talents  at  the  opera-house  of  Milan.  The 
reading  of  the  theses  handed  in  for  the  subjects 
of  his  poetry  was  received  by  a  very  numerous 
audience,  fbr  the  most  part,  in  silence,  or  with 
laughter;  but  when  the  assistant,  anfolding 
one  of  the  papers,  exclaimed,  *■  The  apotheosis 
of  Victor  Al fieri,'  the  whole  theatre  burat  into 
a  shout,  and  the  applause  was  continued  fi>r 
some  moments.  The  lot  did  not  fall  on  Alfieri ; 
and  the  Signor  Sgricci  had  to  pour  forth  his 
extemporary  commonplaces  on  the  bombaid- 
ment  of  Algiers — The  choice,  indeed,"  the  poet 
goes  on  to  remark,  **  is  not  left  to  accident  quite 
so  much  as  might  be  thought,  from  a  first  view 
of  the  ceremony;  and  the  police  not  only  takes 
care  to  look  at  the  papers  beforehand,  but,  in 
case  of  any  prudential  afterthought,  steps  in  to 
correct  the  blindness  of  chance.  The  proposal 
for  deifying  Alfieri  was  received  with  immedi- 
ate enthusiasm,  the  rather  because  it  was  con- 
jectured there  would  be  no  opportunity  of  car- 
rying it  into  effect." 


FROM  LA  MORTE  DI  CARLO  L 


Mt  queen,  behold,  the  day  of  triumph  ripens ! 
Behold  the  moment  of  our  victory  ! 
The  faithful  bands  of  Douglas  fill  the  city ; 
Impetuously  rushing  on  the  palace. 
Soon  from  death's  satellites  they  '11  snatch  the 
king. 


My  gentle  fnend,  the  throbbings  of  my  heart 
Spedc  other  language.     Into  thy  true  bieaat, 
O,  let  me  pour  the  terror  that  subdues  me  ! 
I  dare  not  tell  my  husband.     'T  were  too  cruel 
To  add  imaginary  pains  to  his. 
So  many  and  so  real.     Iron  souls 


SGRICCI MISCELLANEOUS. 


619 


Have  they  who  joy  to  aohanoe  the  aiBicted's 

sorrows; 
Tet  of  this  hidden  tortar*  I,  perforoe, 
Mast  ease  my  heart. 


Speak  on,  my  qaeen.     No  bliM 

Has  earth  for  me  like  temperuig  thy  tean, 

Bj  mingling  them  with  miae. 

HBVBIBTTA. 

Hither  returning, 

Weary  and  panting  with  the  tedioui  way, 

And  quite  subdued  by  tenderneas  and  pity, 

Which,  as  I  met  my  conaort,  woke  within  me, 

Almost  resistlesely  mine  eyelids  dosed. 

Tet  doubtfully,  and  scarcely  closed  they  were, 

Cre  shaken  were  the  curtains  of  my  bed,  — 

Shaken  and  opened.    Then  me  seemed,  —  me 

seemed. 
Or  't  was  so,  —  that  before  me  present  atood 
A  royal  dame,  of  countenance  majestic 
As  melancholy.     Brow,  and  eyes,  and  hair 
That  hung  dishevelled,  shone  resplendently 
In  mystic  light.     Hast  thou  observed  the  moon 
With  a  circum6uous  white  crown  in  heaven .' 
Such  she  appeared.     She  looked  on  me,  and 

smiled 
A  smile  of  anguish.     So,  'twixt  clouds  and  rain, 
Glimmers  a  pallid  sunbeam.     Then  my  hand 
She  took,  to  her  unmoving  gelid  breast 
Pressing  it ;  and  my  heart  throbbed  at  the  touch 
With  deathly  palpitation.     Thus  she  spoke  : 
**  Lady,  perchance  in  early  youth  thine  eye 


Has  tearfully  on  my  sad  image  dwelt. 
Placed  in  the  palace  of  thine  ancestors. 
Once  Scotland's  <iueen  was  I,  and  of  the  fiiir 
Was  fairest  deemed  by  an  admiring  world. 
The  thought,  the  sigh,  of  every  royal  heart. 
Of  each  exalted  soul,  I  was.     I  saw 
Flashing  upon  my  brow  three  kingdoms*  crowns, 
And  gloried  in  %  and  my  presumptuous  folly 
In  youthfulness  bewildered  me.     From  God 
I  turned  away,  wandering  deliriously 
In  worldly  paths.     Thus  long  from  precipice 
To  precipice  I  strayed,  —  {ost  my  heart's  peace. 
Mine  own  eateem,  —  and  all,  —  all,  save  that 

virtue. 
Which,  buried  in  the  inmost  heart,  awaits 
Fit  place  and  season  o'er  the  conquered  senses 
Her  empire  to  recover.     In  my  heart 
She  spoke,  misfortune  her  interpreter.  — 
Me  this  abhorrent  land  received.     A  dungeon, 

For  twenty  winters,  was  my  palace.  Then  " 

She  said ;  and  pausing,  grasped  with  both  her 

handa 
Her  beauteous  head,  from  off  her  beauteous  neck 
Lifted,  and  placed  it  in  my  hands. 

O,  horror ! 


Soul-stricken  by  the  terrors  of  the  vision, 
I  started  from  my  pillow,  and  mine  eyes 
Bent  on  my  husband's  picture.    To  the  neck 
It  was  illumined  by  the  sun's  glad  beam  : 
The  head  was  wrapt  in  shadow,  and  appeared 
As  from  the  shoulders  it  were  separated. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  IN  THE  ITALIAN  DIALECTS. 


CALABRIAN. 

POPULAR  SONG. 
I  SAW  a  tigress  in  a  woodland  dell. 

And  at  my  grief  the  monster's  fbry  slept ; 

Where  drop  by  drop  my  tears  of  anguish  fell, 

The  marble  rude  was  softened  as  I  wept ;  — 

Bat  thou,  that  art  a  creature  young  and  pretty. 

Dost  laugh  at  griefi  which  move  even  stones 

to  pity. 

NEAPOLPTAN. 

CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 
Whsit  Christ  was  bora  in  Bethlehem, 
'T  was  night,  but  seemed  the  noon  of  day ; 
The  stars,  whose  light 
"Was  pure  and  bright. 
Shone  with  unwavering  ray ; 
But  one,  one  glorious  star 
Guided  the  Eastern  Magi  from  afar. 


Then  peace  was  spread  throughout  the  land ; 

The  lion  fed  beside  the  tender  lamb ; 

And  with  the  kid, 

To  pasture  led. 

The  spotted  leopard  fed  ; 

In  peace  the  calf  and  bear, 

The  wolf  and  lamb,  reposed  together  there. 

As  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night. 

An  angel,  brighter  than  the  sun's  own  light, 

Appeared  in  air. 

And  gently  said, 

*^  Fear  not,  —  be  not  afraid,  — 

For,  lo  !  beneath  your  eyes. 

Earth  has  become  a  smiling  paradise." 


SOLDIER'S  SONO. 

(^  Who  knocks,  —  who  knocks  at  my  door,  — 
Who  knocks,  and  who  can  it  be  ?  " 

^*Thy  own  true  loTer,  betrothed  for  ever; 
So  open  the  door  to  me." 


620 


ITALIAN   POETRT. 


*<  Mj  mother  is  not  at  home, 

So  I  cannot  open  to  thee." 
**  Whj  make  me  wait  ao  long  at  the  gate  ? 

For  mercy's  sake  open  to  me." 

^  Thoa  canst  not  come  in  so  late  ; 

From  the  window  I  '11  listen  to  thee." 
*'  Mj  cloak  is  old,  and  the  wind  blows  cold ; 

So  open  the  door  to  me." 


SONG. 
Ohk  morning,  on  the  seashore  as  I  strayed. 

My  heart  dropped  in  the  sand  beside  the  sea ; 
I  asked  of  yonder  mariners,  who  said 

They  saw  it  in  thy  bosom,  —  worn  by  thee. 
And  I  am  come  to  seek  that  heart  of  mine, 

For  I  have  none,  and  thou,  alas !  hast  two  ; 

If  this  be  so,  dost  know  what  thou  shalt  do  ? — 
Still  keep  my  heart,  and  give  me,  give  me  thine. 


FLORENTINE. 

FROM  THE  TANCIA  OF  MICHEL  ANOELO. 

Ip  I  am  fair,  't  is  for  myself  alone; 

I  do  not  wish  to  have  a  sweetheart  near  me. 
Nor  would  I  call  another's  heart  my  own, 

Nor  have  a  gallant  lover  to  revere  me. 
For,  surely,  I  will  plight  my  faith  to  none. 

Though  many  an  amorous  cit  would  jump  to 
hear  me ; 
For  I  have  heard  that  lovers  prove  deceivers. 
When  once  they  find  that  maidens  are  believers. 

Tet  should  I  find  one  that  in  truth  could  please 
me. 

One  whom  I  thought  my  charms  had  power 
to  move, 
Why,  then,  I  do  confess,  the  whim  might  seize  me 

To  taste  for  once  the  porringer  of  love. 
Alas !  there  is  one  pair  of  eyes  that  tease  me  ; 

And  then  that  mouth !— he  seems  a  star  above. 
He  is  so  good,  so  gentle,  and  so  kind, 
And  so  unlike  the  sullen,  clownish  hind. 

What  love  may  be  indeed  I  cannot  tell. 
Nor  if  I  e'er  have  known  his  cunning  arts; 

But  true  it  is,  there  's  one  I  like  so  well. 

That,  when  he  looks  at  me,  my  bosom  starts. 

And  if  we  meet,  my  heart  begins  to  swell ; 
And  the  green  fields  around,  when  he  departs. 

Seem  like  a  nest  from  which  the  bird  has  flown : 

Can  this  be  love  ?  —  say,  ye  who  love  have 
known ! 


MILANESE. 

FROM  THE  FUGGinVA  OF  TOMBIASO  GROSSI. 

'T  WAS  silence  all,  when  on  the  distant  plain 
Heart-rending  groans  were  heard ;  in  tears  I  ran 

And  found  a  hungry  dog  among  the  slain. 
Lapping  the  life-blood  of  a  dying  man. 


Upon  the  groaning  victim,  who  in  vain 

Struggled  to  throw  the  bnrden  oflf,  a  wan 
And  ghastly  corpse  was  lying,  and  its  blood 
Over  the  fiuse  of  the  expiring  flowed. 

The  corpse,  that  on  the  dying  soldier  lay. 
Was  smeared  with  blood,  and  headless ;  and 
beneath, — 
JesQ  Maria  !  —  does  my  reason  stray  ?  — 

That  dress! — that  color! — in  Uie  grasp  of 
death 
Lay  my  true  love !  —  I  wildly  pushed  away 
The  hair  from  his  pale  forehead, — gasped  for 
breath, 
And  like  a  stone  fell  prostrate  on  his  breast. 
Kissed  his  cold  form,  and  to  my  bosom  pressed. 

His  heart  still  beat ;  and  kneeling  by  his  side, 

I  tore  away  the  garment  that  he  wore  ; 
Upon  his  breast  a  ghastly  wound,  and  wide. 
Cut  to  the  bone,  streamed  with  his  clotted 
gore. 
Then  slowly  he  unclosed  his  eyes,  and  sighed, — 
Gazed  steadily,  and   knew  my  face    on<» 
more,  — 
And,  with  a  smile  upon  his  pale  lips,  tried 
To  press  my  hand  against   his   heart,  —  and 
died. 

His  heart  no  longer  beat,  —  his  breath  had  fled. 

I  strove  to  rise,  —  but,  reeling,  fell  again. 
And  rolled  upon  a  grim  dissevered  head ; 

With  feeble  strength  I  sought,  nor  sought  in 
vain. 
To  gaze  upon  the  features  of  the  dead ; 

Though  foul  with  dust,  and  many  a  crimson 
stain, 
I  recognized  the  face,  —  it  was  my  brother !  — 
Jesu  Maria,  help !  —  help,  Virgin  Mother !  — 


GENOESE. 
SONO. 

BT  CICALA  CABBRO. 

Whbhbvbr  a  firesh,  mild,  and  pleasant  breeze. 

In  spring,  the  loveliest  season  of  the  year. 
Soft-moving  through  the  green  and  leafy  trees. 
And  filling  the  whole  heart  with  love,  I  hear  ; 
To  her  my  thoughts  are  given. 
Who  less  of  earth  than  heaven 
Possesses,  when  the  soft  wind  dallying  plays 
Amid  her  flowing  hair,  in  many  a  tangled  i 


And  sometimes,  when  I  hear  the  wild-birds 
sing,— 
The  nightingale  slow  warbling  in  the  grove. 
Till  far  around  the  shadowy  woodlands  ring. 
All  vocal  with  the  melody  of  love ; 
Then  the  soft,  winning  tone 
Of  that  ungrateflil  one 
Resounds  within  my  heart, — each  gentle  woid 
More  sad  than  the  complaint  of  the  forsaken 
bird. 


SPANISH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


Much  oDcertainty  rests  upon  the  question, 
What  was  the  primitiTe  laogaage  of  Spain  ? 
Some  maintain  that  it  was  the  Chaldean  ;  oth- 
ers, the  Greek ;  others,  the  Teutonic ;  others,  the 
Basque,  or  Ungua  Vaacongada;  and  others^  the 
ancient  Latin.*  From  all  that  has  been  written 
upon  the  subject,  however,  it  appears  pretty 
evident,  that  various  languages,  and  not  one 
alone,  were  spoken  in  the  Spanish  peninsula 
before  the  Roman  conquesUt  Among  these, 
doubtless,  was  the  Vascongada.t 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  languages 
spoken  in  Spain  before  the  Roman  conquest, 
there  is  abundant  proof  to  show,  that,  after  that 
event,  the  Latin  became  the  general  language 
of  the  country.!  Nor  is  it  wonderful,  that, 
during  the  six  centuries  of  the  Roman  sway, — 
from  the  year  216  before  Christ,  when  the  first 
Roman  army  entered  Spain,  till  the  year  416 


*  Alorbtb.  Del  Origan  I  Principio  de  la  Leogua  Gas- 
UUana  (Roma,  1606,  4to.).    Lib.  II.,  Cap.  z. 

t  Aldrbts.  Lib.  n.,Cap.  X.— Matamb  i  Siscah.  Orige- 
nes  de  la  Lengua  Espaiiola  (2  rola.,  Madrid,  1737,  16mo.). 
Tom.  I.,  Sect.  14,  et  seq. 

X  The  Ungua  Visoa,  Vizeaina,  Vaaeuenee,  Vaacongada^ 
or  J?iMcara,  as  It  Is  IndUftrently  called,  or,  In  other  words, 
the  Basque  language,  has,  we  belioTe,  undisputed  claims  lo 
the  title  of  a  primitive  tongue,— so  frr,  at  least,  as  the  ori* 
gin  of  languages  can  be  traced  back.  There  seems  to  be 
no  affinity  between  it  and  any  dialect  either  of  the  Gothic 
or  Celtic  stem.  This  opinion  is  confirmed  by  an  "  Essay 
on  the  Antiquity  of  the  Irish  Language,"  by  Mr.  Valian- 
cy, in  which  tlie  Basque  and  Irish  hnguages  are  coUated. 
—  GbUectanea  de  Rebus  Hlbemicis,  YoL  II.,  pp.  232,  et 
leq.  — Still  iartber  confirmation  is  given  by  the  ample 
rocabularies  in  a  small  tract  by  Cfoldmann,  comparing 
together  the  Basque,  the  CImbric,  and  the  GaBUc  — 
3.  A.  F.  GoLDMANN,  De  Linguis  Yasconum,  Belgarum,  st 
>ltanim  (Gottingn,  1807,  4to.).  —Joan  Bautista  de  Erro, 
t  Spanish  writer  of  the  present  century,  maintains  that 
he  Basque  language  is  a  perfect  idiom,  and  consequently 
oald  not  hare  been  inrented  by  man,  but  must  have  been 
aspired  by  the  Creator.  According  to  his  theory,  it  was 
•roaght  to  Spain  by  the  first  emigrants  from  the  plain  of 
ibinar.  — See  the  Alphabet  of  the  Primitive  Language  of 
'pain.  An  extract  from  the  works  of  Juan  Bautista  de 
:rro.  Translated  by  Gso.  W.  EaviifO  (Boston,  1829,  8ro.). 
"art  11.,  Chap.  2.;  PartL,  Chap,  a  — It  would,  howerer, 
B  foreigpn  to  oar  purpose  to  enter  into  sny  discussion  upon 
Mse  points. 

The  Basque  Is  stlU  a  Uring  language.  It  Is  spoken  In 
le  prorlnces  of  Na?arre,  Guipnacoa,  Akra,  and  Biscay, 
•nerally  called  the  Provineiaa  Vaacongadaa.  It  is  also 
token  in  the  cantons  of  Libour,  Souls,  and  Basse-Na- 
km,  in  the  South  of  France.  Of  course  it  is  not  uniform 
iixNighout  these  prorlnces,  but  is  dlrersified  by  numerous 
elects. 

♦  Au>BBn.  Lib.  t  Cbp.  3rir.,  xr.,  zx.  — Matavs  i 
•CAB.     Tom.  L,  Sect.  34,  and  the  authors  theis  cited. 


after  Christ,  at  which  time  the  first  Gothic 
army  crossed  the  Pyrenees, — the  Latin  lan- 
guage should  have  swept  away  nearly  every 
vestige  of  more  ancient  tongues.  We  say  near- 
ly,—  for  the  Basque  still  maintains  its  dominion 
in  the  more  solitary  and  mountainous  prov- 
inces of  the  North ;  and  even  as  late  as  the 
eighth  century,  when  the  Romance  had  already 
ezhihited  its  first  forms,  some  wrecks  of  the 
ancient  languages  of  the  Peninsula  seem  to 
have  been  preserved.*  When  the  Northern 
nations  overran  the  South  of  Europe,  Spain 
suflTered  the  fate  of  the  other  Roman  colonies. 
The  conquerors  became  in  turn  the  conquered. 
Their  language,  like  their  empire,  was  dismem- 
bered. The  Goths,  the  Suevi,  the  Alani,  and 
the  Vandals  possessed  the  soil,  from  the  Tomb 
of  the  Scipios  to  the  Pillars  of  Hercules  ;  and 
during  their  dominion  of  three  centuries,  the 
Latin  language  lost  in  a  great  degree  its  original 
character,  and^became  the  Romance. 

Such,  in  few  words,  was  the  origin  of  the 
Spanish  Romance,  a  branch  of  the  Roman  Rus- 
tic,  which  took  the  place  of  the  Latin  through- 
out the  South  and  West  of  Europe.  The  name 
of  Roman  or  Romance  is  not  an  arbitrary  one, 
but  indicates  its  origin  from  the  Latin.  It  is 
used  by  some  of  the  earliest  writers  in  the 
Spanish  language,  when  speaking  of  the  tongue 
in  which  they  wrote.  Thus,  Gonzalo  de  Ber- 
ceo  says,  — 

"Quiero  (er  una  prosa  en  roman  paladlno, 
En  qual  suels  el  pueblo  ftbUr  A  su  vecino."  f 

As  early  as  the  commencement  of  the  eighth 
century,  three  different  dialects  of  the  Romance 
were  spoken  in  Spain.  In  the  eastern  provin- 
ces of  Catalonia,  Aragon,  and  Valencia,  the 
Lemosin  prevailed,  —  a  form  or  dialect  of  the 
Provencal  or  langue  d*Oc  of  France;  —  in  the 
centre,  that  is,  in  the  provinces  of  Castile  and 
Leon,  and  thence  southward,  the  Castilian, 
firom  which  the  modern  Spanish  originated  ;  — 
and  in  Galicia,  and  the  provinces  bordering  on 
the  Atlantic,  the  Gallego,  from  which  sprang 
the  Portuguese.     Then  came  from  the  South 

*  The  historian  Luitprand,  ss  cited  by  Raynouard, 
Tom.  I.,  ziij.,  speaking  of  the  year  728,  says,  **  At  that 
time  time  were  in  Spain  ten  languages,  as  under  Augustus 
snd  Tiberius :  1.  The  ancient  Spanish ;  2.  The  Oantabrian ; 
8.  The  Greek;  4.  The  Latin ;  6.  The  Arabic ;  6.  The  Chal- 
dean; 7.  The  Hebrew;  a  The Oeltiberian;  9.  The  Valen- 
eian;  and  10.  The  Catalan." 

The  expression,  "as  under  Augustus  and  Tiberius,"  ren- 
ders this  passage  obscure.  The  Yalenclan  and  the  Catalan 
were  the  Romance. 

t  Tida  de  Saoto  Domingo  de  Sllos,  w.  6,  6. 


622 


SPANISH   LANGUAGE  AND   POETRY. 


another  wave  of  the  fluctuating  tide  of  empire, 

—  the  invasion  of  the  Moon,  —  who  extended 
their  power  over  all  Spain,  with  the  exception 
of  Leon,  the  mountains  of  Asturias,  and  some 
strongholds  in  Aragon  and  Catalonia. 

The  Moorish  dominion  of  nearlj  seven  cen- 
turies left  its  traces  in  the  language  of  Spain, 
as  well  as  its  ruins  and  alcazars.  *'  And  thia 
name,  alhogiLes"  says  Don  Quixote,  in  one  of 
bis  conversations  with  his  squire,  "  is  Moorish, 
as  are  all  those  in  our  native  Castilian  tongue, 
which  begin  with  oZ;  as,  for  example,  almohazay 
almorzar^  alhombra,  alguaeil,  dUvuzema^  almo' 
een^  alcancia^  and  the  like ;  —  but  there  are 
only  three  Moorish  words  in  the  language  with- 
out the  prefix  oZ,  which  end  in  ^,  and  these  are 
borcegui,  zaquixami,  and  maravedi ;  the  words 
alheli  and  aJfaqui  are  known  as  Arabic,  both 
by  their  commencement  in  al  and  their  termina- 
tion in  i."*  The  nature  of  most  of  the  Arabic 
words  preserved  in  the  Spanish  language  would 
be  a  proof,  were  proof  wanting,  of  the  intimate 
relations  which  existed  between  the  Moors  in 
Spain  and  their  Christian  subjects,  or  Mozdra- 
bes,  as  they  were  denominated.  Such  are  the 
words,  according  to  Weston,  ataud,  a  coffin, 
fVom  the  Arabic  atud; — azal^a^  now  obsolete, 
a  towel,  from  azulet^  wiping;  —  bdlota^  an 
acorn,  from  beUut; — barcegui,  a  buskin,  from 
borzeghi; — taza,  a  cup,  from  tas;  —  Usted,  Sir, 

—  not,  as  generally  supposed,  contracted  from 
Vuestra  Merced  (Tour  Grace),  but  derived  from 
the  Arabic  usted,  master ;  zumbar^  to  buzz,  from 
zumbour,  a  bee,  SlcA 

At  the  present  day,  the  three  dialects  of  the 
Spanish  Romance  thus  divide  the  country: 
1.  The  Castilian  is  spoken  in  Old  and  New 
Castile,  Leon,  Aragon,  part  of  Navarre,  La 
Mancha,  and  Andalusia ;  —  2.  The  Lemosin 
prevails  in  Catalonia,  Valencia,  and  the  Bale- 
aric  Islands;  —  3.  The  Gal  lego  still  maintains 
its  solitary  province  in  the  northwestern  corner 
of  the  Peninsula. 

I.  The  Castilian.  The  Castilian  is  the 
court  language  of  Spain,  and  the  depository  of 
all  her  classic  literature.  Its  golden  age  was 
the  sixteenth  century.  Then  the  hands  of  Gar- 
cilaso,  Herrera,  Cervantes,  and  Lope  de  Vega 
stamped  it  with  the  image  and  superscription 
of  immortality,  so  far  as  the  changing  forms  of 
language  are  capable  of  receiving  such  an  im- 
press. By  them  it  was  carried  to  its  highest 
state  of  perfection ;  and  though,  since  their  dsy, 
some  words  have  become  obsolete,  and  forms 
of  orthography  have  changed,  yet  he  who  would 
read  the  noble  Castilian  tongue  in  all  its  beauty 
and  sonorous  majesty  must  go  back  to  the  writ- 
ers of  the  sixteenth'  century. 

The  striking  characteristics  of  the  Castilian 
language*are  its  musical  terminations,  the  high- . 
sounding  march  of  its  periods,  the  great  copi- 

*  Don  Quixote.    Pftrt  H.,jCap.  67. 
t  Remains  of  Arabic  in  the  Spanish  and  Portugueee  Lan- 
guages.   By  SraPHSN  WssToif . 


ousness  of  its  vocabulary,  and  its  richness  in 
popular  proverbs  and  vulgar  phrases,  or  dieha- 
rachos.  The  first  of  these  are  amply  proved  by 
all  the  classic  writers  of  the  language;  —  lor 
the  rest,  the  reader  is  referred  to  Sancho  Panza, 
and  to  the  "Cuento  de  Cuentos"  of  Quevedo. 

The  Castilian  is  spoken  in  its  greatest  purity 
in  the  province  of  Old  Castile.  Most  of  the 
other  provinces  of  the  realm  have  something 
peculiar  in  their  language  or  pronunciation,  by 
which  they  are  easily  distinguished.  In  Anda- 
lusia, for  instance,  the  cs,  ct  are  pronounced 
se,  si,  and  the  z  has  invariably  the  sound  of  s. 
An  Jindalux  eerrado,  or  genuine  Andalaaian, 
aspirates  the  mute  h  at  the  beginning  of  words ; 
so  much  so  that  it  has  passed  into  a  proverb, 
and  they  say,  "  El  que  no  diga  jacha,  jomo,  y 
jiguera  (faacha,  homo,  y  higuera)  no  es  de  wu 
tierra." 

Setting  aside  these  provincialisms,  which  are 
hardly  sufficient  to  constitute  a  new  dialect,  the 
Castilian  may  be  said  to  have  but  one  subordi- 
nate dialect.  This  is  the  diaUdo  de  las  Gitanos^ 
or  Gypsy  dialect,  a  kind  of  slang,  which  bears 
the  same  resemblance  to  the  Castilian  as  the 
flash  language  of  London  does  to  the  English. 
In  this  slang,  or,  as  the  Spaniards  call  it,  eald^ 
the  word  dguila  (eagle)  signifies  an  astute  rob- 
ber;—  buyes  (oxen)  are  cards; — ermitano  de 
canUno  (hermit  of  the  highway),  a  bandit ;  — 
finUmsterre  (ends  of  the  earth),  a  gallows;  — 
hormigas  (ants),  dice;  —  larUemas  (lanterns), 
eyes;  &c.  Quevedo  and  other  Spanish  wits 
have  amused  themselves  by  writing  songs  in 
this  dialect,  in  imitation  of  the  old  Spanish 
ballads.  These  have  been  collected  and  pub- 
lished in  a  volume.* 

II.  The  Lkmosin.  The  Lemosin,  or  Un- 
gua  Iiemosina,i  was  originally  the  same  as  the 
langue  dOc,  or  language  of  the  Troubadours 
of  the  South  of  France,  though  doubtless  many 
local  peculiarities  distinguished  the  language  as 
spoken  on  the  northern  and  the  southern  slope 
of  the  Pyrenees.  The  fkct,  that  this  dialect 
prevailed  so  extensively  in  the  eastern  provinces 
of  Spain,  must  be  attributed  to  geographical  sit- 
uation and  political  causes.  From  their  very 
situation,  there  must  have  been  free  and  con- 
stant intercourse,  both  by  sea  and  land,  between 
the  South  of  France,  and  the  northeastern  cor- 
ner of  Spain.  Early  in  the  twelfth  century 
(1113),  the  kingdoms  of  Provence  and  Barcelona 
were  united  under  one  crown  ;  and  before  the 
middle  of  the  same  century  (1137),  the  king- 
dom  of  Aragon  was  joined  with  them.     In. the 


*  Romances  de  Qermania  de  varios  Autorea,  ooo  el  Vo- 
eabalarlo  etc,  para  Declarsclon  de  ans  Tftnainoe  j  Leogna. 
Oompueoto  por  JvAir  Hidaum,  etc    Madrid,  1779,  8n>. 

tiAtercora, lengaa  maestra  de  las  de  Espsfia,  es  la 

Lamoaina,  7  mas  general  que  todaa; por  ser  la  que  ■• 

hablava  en  Proenza,  j  toda  la  Oulyana,  y  la  Fraacia  QiO- 
ca,  y  la  que  agora  ae  haUa  en  el  principado  de  Gbtalima, 
reyao  de  Valeacia,  Islaa  de  Mallorca,  BUoorca,  etc.  —  Ea- 
ooLAiro.  HisLde  Valencia,  cited  by  Rayaouard.  TVan.!., 
p.  13. 


SPANISH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


623 


beginning  of  the  thirteeoth  century  (1320- 
1238),  Majorca,  Minorca,  and  Valencia  passed 
under  the  same  government.  These  political 
changes  could  not  have  been  without  their  e^ 
ftct  upon  the  language.  The  court  of  Provence 
introduced  into  Spain  the  ftscinating  poetry  of 
the  Troubadours.  Kings  and  princes  became 
its  admirers  and  imitators.  Among  these  were 
Alfonso  the  Second,  king  of  Aragon,  and  his 
son  Peter  the  Second,  who  died  fighting  for  the 
Albigenset,  many  of  whom  —  and  amongst 
them  a  great  multitude  of  Troubadours — took 
refuge  at  bis  court.  During  the  next  century, 
the  same  patronage  was  afforded  by  the  court  of 
Aragoo,  under  Peter  the  Third,  and  his  son, 
James  the  First,  who  is  spoken  of  as  a  great 
admirer  of  the  poesia  Cataiana^  and  himself 
no  mean  poet.  It  will  be  readily  understood 
why  circumstances  of  this  kind  should  have 
established  and  perpetuated  the  language  of  the 
Troubadours  in  Spain. 

The  lengua  Ltmosina  exhibits  itself  in  Spain 
under  the  form  of  three  separate  dialects.*  These 
are,  1.  The  Catalan ;  2.  The  Valencian ;  and, 
3.  The  Majorcan,  or  dialect  of  the  Jslas  Bale- 
area.  Of  these  we  shall  present  examples,  in 
the  order  in  which  we  have  named  them. 

1.  The  Catalan,  This  dialect,  which  is  now 
confined  to  the  province  of  Catalonia,  formerly 
extended  also  through  the  neighbojiring  prov- 
ince of  Aragon,  though  at  the  present  day  the 
language  of  that  province  is  the  Castilian,  with 
some  slight  traces  of  the  elder  dialect. 

2.  The  Valencian.     This  dialect  seems  for- 
merly to  have  been  identically  the  same  as  the 
Catalan ;  and  even  at  the  present  day,  so  slight 
is  the  difference  between  them,  that  the  inhabit- 
ants of  the  two  provinces  understand  each  oth- 
er with  perfoct  facility.     In  the  **  Notes  al  Canto 
de  Turia,**  in  the  **  Diana  Enamorada'*  of  Gas- 
par  Gil   Polo,  we  find  the  following  passage, 
which  bears  upon  this  point :    "  As  Maestro 
Rodriguez  has  well  observed,  in  his  Bibl.  Va- 
lent.^  pp.  26,  27,  under  the  name  of  Catalanee 
are  included  both  Catalonians  and  Valencians, 
for  both  spake  the  same  language  from  the  com- 
mencement of  the  conquest,  and  for  more  than 
two  hundred  years  afterwards ;  and  even  at  the 
present  day  the  two  languages  cannot  be  dis- 
tinguished from  each  other,  save  in  some  par- 
ticular  forms  and  idioms ;  and  this  is  the  reason 
whj  many  authors  have  been  confounded  to- 
gether, and  some  who  were  in  reality  ValcQ- 
;lans  have  been  considered  as  natives  of  Cata- 
onia."  t 

3.  The  Majorcan.  This  is  the  name  gen- 
irally  given  to  the  dialect  spoken  in  the  three 
slanda  of  Majorca,  Minorca,  and  Iviza.  Even 
his  patois  is  not  uniform  in  these  three  islands, 
ut  has  acme  local  peculiarities.  Dr.  Ramis  y 
Lamia,  speaking  of  this  dialect,  says :  **  It  is  evi- 


*  Mataks  X  SiscAK.    Tom- 1.,  p.  98. 

t  La  Diana  Enamorada.    Notas  al  Canto  de  Torla.   Adl- 

OD  vii.,  p.  490. 


dent,  that,  although  our  language  is  derived  from 
the  ancient  Lemosin,  which  is  spoken  alike  by 
Catalonians,  Valencians,  and  Majorcans,  this 
does  not  excuse  us  from  the  necessity  of  having 
some  elementary  reading-book  in  our  own  pecu- 
liar dialect ;  since  there  is  a  difference  between 
it  and  that  spoken  by  them,  both  in  the  pronun- 
ciation and  the  orthography.'*  * 

III.  The  Galiciah.  The  name  of  this  dia- 
lect  —  Gallego  or  lingoa  Oallega — sufficient- 
ly indicates  ita  native  province.  Originally, 
however,  it  was  not  confined,  as  now,  to  the 
northwestern  corner  of  Spain,  but  extended 
southward  along  the  Atlantic  seacoast  through 
what  is  now  the  kingdom  of  Portugal,  t  From 
the  old  Galician  Romance  the  Portuguese  lan- 
guage had  its  origin.  The  Galician  dialect  is 
now  confined  to  a  single  province,  and  even 
there  limited  to  the  n peasantry  and  common 
people ;  —  among  the  educated  classes  the  Cas- 
tilian is  spoken.  A  strong  resemblance  appears 
to  exist  between  the  Gallego  and  the  Catalan. 
'<The  bishop  of  Orense,"  says  Raynouard,t 
**  having  been  requested  to  examine  the  vulgar 
dialect  of  Galicia,  and  to  ascertain  whether  it 
bore  any  resemblance  to  the  Catalan,  answered, 
that  the  common  people,  by  whom  alone  the 
vulgar  idiom  of  Galicia  is  spoken,  employ  not 
only  nouns  and  verbs,  and  other  parts  of  speech, 
identically  the  same  as  those  of  the  Catalan, 
but  even  entire  phrases."  This  dialect  has  been 
very  little  employed  in  literature.  Alfonso  the 
Tenth,  however,  composed  in  it  a  book  of*'  Can- 
ticas ;  "  §  and  Camoens  two  or  three  aonnelB.  || 
Some  other  writers  are  mentioned  in  the  letter 
of  the  Marques  de  Santillana.  ** 

The  history  of  Spanish  poetry  may  be  divid- 
ed into  three  periods.  I.  From  1150  to  1500. 
II.  From  1500  to  1700.  III.  From  1700  to 
the  present  time. 

I.  From  1150  to  1500.  The  earliest  literary 
production  of  the  Spanish  tongue,  which  has 
reached  our  day,  is  the  «<Poema  del  Cid.'Mt 
The  name  of  its  author  is  unknown,  and  its 
date  is  not  very  definitely  fixed.  It  is  supposed 
to  have  been  written  about  the  middle  of  the 
twelfth  century,  and  consequently  about  fifty 
years  after  the  death  of  the  hero  whose  name 
and  achievements  it  celebrates.  It  is  the  only 
literary  monument  of  the  twelfth  century  in 
Spain  now  remaining,  and  exhibits  the  Castilian 
language  in  its  rudest  state,  uncouth  in  structure, 
harsh  in  termination,  antl  unpolished  by  the  uses 
of  song  and  literary  composition,,  but  is  full  of 


*  Principis  de  la  Lectara  Meoorqulna.  Per  un  Maho- 
nte.    Mah6,'l804. 

t  ALDKBTa    Lib.  n.  Cap.  3. 

t  TomeVL    Discoara  PrAlim.,  p.  96. 

f  Samohss.    Tom.  I.  p.  150. 

II  Obras  do  OaAXDB  Luis  oa  CAMftas.  Tom.  IIL  pp. 
148,  149. 

**  Sanohbs.    Tom.  I.  p.  68. 

ft  It  is  published  in  the  liratvolameof  Sahcbbz.  Oolec- 
cion  de  Poeaias  Outellanaa  anteriores  al  SIglo  XV.  4  toIb. 
Madrid,  1779-90.    8vo. 


624 


SPANISH   LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


simple  beauty  and  antique  Castiliaa  dignity ; 
and  is,  moreover,  remarkable  as  being  the  earli- 
est epic  in  any  modern  language. 

Two  poets  of  very  modest  pretensions  to 
immortality  meet  us  upon  the  .threshold  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  —  Gonzalo  de  Berceo,  and 
Juan  Lorenzo  Segura  de  Astorga.  The  former 
sang  the  lives  of  saints,  the  mysteries  of  the 
faith,  and  the  miracles  of  the  Virgin,  in  some- 
thing more  than  thirteen  thousand  unmusical 
alexandrines ;  *  and  the  latter  immortalized  Al- 
exander the  Great  in  a  historic  poem  of  about 
ten  thousand,  hardly  less  unpolished.t  Their 
language,  though  less  inharmonious  and  un- 
couth than  that  of  the  **Poema  del  Cid,"  is 
still  rude  and  barbarous,  —  though,  perhaps,  we 
ought  not  to  use  this  word  without  some  quali- 
fication. **  In  truth,"  says  Sanchez,  the  mod- 
em editor  of  these  ancient  poets,  **  we  ought 
not  to  call  the  style  of  our  old  Castilian  poets 
either .  barbarous  or  unpolished,  since  it  was 
not  so,  when  compared  with  the  most  polish- 
ed style  and  language  of  the  times  in  which 
they  lived,  though  it  may  appear  so  now  in 
comparison  with  our  own.  If  Don  Gonzalo 
de  Berceo  should  visit  the  world  again,  pre- 
serving still  the  language  of  his  own  age,  and 
should  read  the  best  of  our  modem  writings, 
he  would  doubtless  think  our  style  and  language 
rude  and  barbarous  in  comparison  with  his  own, 
and. would  probably  lament  that  the  noble  Span- 
ish tongue  should  have  so  far  degenerated  from 
its  original  character." 

About  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century, 
lived  and  reigned  Alfonso  the  Tenth,  king  of 
Castile  and  Leon.  From  his  knowledge  in  the 
abstruse  sciences,  particularly  chemistry  and 
astrology,  he  was  surnamed  the  Wise.  **  He  it 
was,"  says  Qiiintana,  "  who  raised  his  native 
language  to  its  due  honors,  when  he  gave  com- 
mand that  the  public^  instruments,  which  until 
his  day  had  been  written  in  Latin,  should 
thenceforth  be  engrossed  in  Spanish."  His 
writings  are  various,  both  in  verse  and  prose. 
In  the  Castilian  language,  he  either  himself 
compiled,  or  caused  to  be  compiled  under  his 
direction,  the  earliest  code  of  the  Spanish  Cor- 
tes, giving  the  work  the  well  known  title  of 
«  Las  Siete  Partidas." 

In  the  first  half  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
flourished  Don  Juan  Manuel,  the  grandsorf  of 
Saint  Ferdinand,  and  nephew  of  Alfonso  the 
Tenth.  He  was  one  of  the  most  celebrated 
men  of  his  age,  both  as  a  warrior  and  an  author. 
His  most  remarkable  work,  **  El  Conde  Luca- 
nor,"  is  a  collection  of  fables  and  tales,  in 
prose,  inculcating  various  moral  and  political 
maxims.  It  exhibits  the  Castilian  language  un- 
der its  most  favorable  aspect,  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  fourteenth  century. 

Contemporaneously  with  Juan  Manuel  flour- 
ished Juan  Ruiz,  Arcipreste  de  Hita,  a  poet  of  a 


lively  imagination,  great  satirieal  acutenesa,  and 
a  poetic  talent  of  a  superior  order.* 

To  the  latter  half  of  the  fourteenth  century 
is  generally  assigned  the  great  mass  of  the  an- 
cient historic,  romantic,  and  Moorish  ballads  of 
Spain }  not  that  they  were  all  written  at  so  late 
a  period,  but  because  the  language  in  which 
they  now  exist  indicates  no  higher  antiquity. 
These  ancient  ballads  are,  for  the  most  part, 
anonymous.  Lope  de  Vega  calls  them  "  Iliads 
without  a  Homer."  As  we  have  had  occaaioo 
to  remark  elsewhere,  t  they  hold  a  prominent 
place  in  the  literary  history  of  Spain.  Their 
number  is  truly  astonishing,  and  may  well  startle 
the  most  enthusiastic  lover  of  popular  song. 
The  *'  Romancero  General "  t  contains  upwards 
of  a  thousand;  and  though  upon  many  of  these 
may  justly  be  bestowed  the  encomium  which 
honest  Izaak  Walton  pronounces  upon  the  old 
English  ballad  of  «»The  Passionate  Shepherd,*' 
— «  old-fashioned  poetry,  but  choicely  good,'* 
—  yet,  as  a  whole,  they  are,  perhaps,  more  re* 
markable  for  their  number  than  for  their  beao- 
ty.  Every  great  historic  event,  every  marvel- 
lous tradition,  has  its  popular  ballad.  Don  Rod- 
erick, Bernardo  del  Carpio,  and  the  Cid  Cam- 
peador  are  not  more  the  heroes  of  ancient  chron- 
icle than  of  ancient  song;  and  the  imaginary 
champions  of  Christendom,  the  Twelve  Peers  of 
Charlemagne,  have  found  a  historian  in  the 
wandering  ballad-singer  no  less  authentic  than 
the  good  Archbishop  Turpin. 

Most  of  these  ancient  ballads  had  their  origin 
during  the  dominion  of  the  Moors  in  Spain. 
Many  of  them,  doubtless,  are  nearly  as  old  aa 
the  events  they  celebrate ;  though  in  their  pres- 
ent form  the  greater  part  belong  to  the  Ibor- 
teen^h  century.  The  language  in  which  they 
are  now  preserved  indicates  no  higher  antiqui- 
ty ;  but  who  shall  say  how  long  they  had  been 
handed  down  by  tradition,  ere  they  were  taken 
from  the  lips  of  the  wandering  minstrel,  and 
recorded  in  a  more  permanent  form  f 

The  seven  centuries  of  the  Moorish  sove- 
reignty in  Spain  are  the  heroic  ages  of  her  bis- 
tory  and  her  poetry.  What  the  warrior  achieved 
with  his  sword  the  minstrel  published  in  his 
song.  The  character  of  those  ages  is  seen  in 
the  character  of  their  literature.  History  casu 
its  shadow  far  into  the  land  of  song ;  indeed, 
the  most  prominent  characteristic  of  the  ancient 
Spanish  ballads  is  their  vrarljke  spirit;  they 
s^dow  forth  the  majestic  lineaments  of  the 
warlike  ages ;  and  through  every  line  breathes 
a  high  and  peculiar  tone  of  chivalrous  feeling. 
It  is  not  the  piping  sound  of  peace,  but  a  blast, 
a  loud,  long  blast,  from  the  war-hora,  -^ 
"  A  trump  with  a  stem  braatb. 
Which  fa  cleped  tha  trump  of  death.'' 

And  with  this  mingles  the  voice  of  lamentation. 


*  PubUahed  in  Sahchu,  YoL  H 
t  Ibid.,  VoL  m. 


*  PabUahed  in  Samcbxb,  VoL  IV. 
t  Outra  Mar,  YoL  U,  p.  4. 

I  Homancero  General,  en  qua  ae  eontiens  todos  Vm  Bo- 
mancea  que  andan  impreaoa.    Madrid,  1601    4to. 


SPANISH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


625 


the  requiem  fur  the  slain,  with  a  melancholy 

sweetness:— :- 

Rio  Verde,  Rio  Yeide  I 
Many  a  corpse  ia  bathed  in  thee, 

Both  of  Moora  and  eke  of  Christiana, 
Slain  with  sworda  moat  cruelly. 

And  thy  pore  and  crystal  waters 
Dappled  are  with  crimson  gore  ; 

For  between  the  Moors  and  Christiana 
Long  has  been  the  fight,  and  sore. 

Dalces  and  counts  fell  bleeding  near  thee, 
Lords  of  high  renown  were  slain. 

Perished  many  a  brare  hidalgo 
Of  the  noblemen  of  Spain. 

Another  prominent  characteristic  of  these  an- 
cient ballads  is  their  energetic  and  beantiiiil 
simplicity.    A  great  historic  event  is  described 
in  the  fewest  possible  words  :  there  is  no  orna- 
ment,  no  artifice.     The  poet's  intention  was  to 
narrate,  not  to  embellish.     It  is  truly  wonder- 
ful to  observe  what  force,  and  beauty,  and  dra- 
matic power  are  given  to  the  old  romances  by 
this  single  circumstance.     When  Bernardo  de! 
Carpio  leads  ibrth  his  valiant  Leonese  against 
the  hosts  of  Charlemagne,  he  animates  their 
courage  by  alluding  to  their  battles  with  the 
Moors,  and  exclaims,  **  Shall  the   lions   that 
have  bathed  their  paws  in  Libyan  gore  now 
crouch  before  the  Frank?"     When  he  enters 
the  palace  of  the  treacherous  Alfonso,  to  up- 
braid him  for  a  broken  promise,  and  the  king 
orders  him  to  be  arrested  for  contumely,  he 
lays  his  hand  upon  his  sword  and  cries,  **  Let 
no  one  stir !    I  am  Bernardo ;  and  my  sword  is 
not  subject  even  to  kings !  '*     When  the  Count 
Alarcos  prepares  to  put  to  death  his  own  wife 
at  the  king's  command,  she  submits  patiently  to 
her  fiite,  asks  time  to  say  a  prayer,  and  then 
exclaims,  '*  Now  bring  me  my  infant  boy,  that 
I  may  give  him  suck,  as  my  last  fkrewell !  '*   Is 
there  in  all  the  writings  of  Homer  an  incident 
more  touching,  or  more  true  to  nature  ? 

The  ancient  Spanish  ballads  naturally  divide 
themselves  into  three  classes,  —  the  Historic, 
the  Romantic,  and  the  Moorish.  It  must  be 
confessed,  however,  that  the  line  of  demarca- 
tion between  these  three  classes  is  not  well  de- 
fined ',  for  many  of  the  Moorish  ballads  are  his- 
toric, and  many  others  occupy  a  kind  of  de- 
batable ground  between  the  historic  and  the 
romantic. 

The  historic  ballads  are  those  which  recount 
the  noble  deeds  of  the  early  heroes  of  Spain : 
>f  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  the  Cid,  Martin  Pelaez, 
Grarcia  Perez  de  Vargas,  Alonso  de  Aguilar, 
ind  many  others  whose  names  stand  conspicu- 
ous in  Spanish  history.  Indeed,  these  ballads 
nay  themselves  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  his- 
oric  documents;  they  are  portraits  of  long- 
le parted  ages,  and  if  at  times  their  features  are 
xaggerated  and  colored  with  too  bold  a  con- 
rast  of  light  and  shade,  yet  the  free  and  spirited 
3uche8  of  a  master's  hand  are  recognized  in  all. 
"^bey  are  instinct,  too,  with  the  spirit  of  Castil- 
79 


ian  pride,  with  the  high  and  dauntless  spirit  of 
liberty  that  burned  so  bright  of  old  in  the  heart 
of  the  brave  hidalgo. 

The  same  gallant  spirit  breathes  through  all 
the  historic  ballads ;  but,  perhaps,  most  fervent^ 
ly  in  those  which  relate  to  Bernardo  del  Carpio. 
How  spirit-stirring  are  all  the  speeches  which 
the  ballad-writers  have  put  into  the  mouth  of 
this  valiant  hero !  <*  Ours  is  the  blood  of  the 
Goth,"  says  he  to  King  Alfonso ;  *«  sweet  to  us 
is  liberty,  and  bondage  odious!  "  *<The  king 
may  give  his  castles  to  the  Frank,  but  not  his 
vassals ;  for  kings  themselves  hold  no  dominion 
over  the  free  will !  "  He  and  his  followers  would 
rather  die  freemen  than  live  slaves  !  If  these 
are  the  common  watchwords  of  liberty  at  the 
present  day,  they  were  no  less  so  among  the 
high-bom  and  high-souled  Spaniards  of  the 
eighth  century. 

The  .next  class  of  the  ancient  Spanish  bal- 
lads is  the  romantic,  including  those  which  re- 
late to  the  Twelve  Peers  of  Charlemagne  and 
other  imaginary  heroes  of  the  days  of  chivalry. 
There  is  an  exaggeration  in  the  prowess  of  these 
heroes  of  romance,  which  is  in  accordance  with 
the  warmth  of  a  Spanish  imsgi nation  ;  and  the 
ballads  which  celebrate  their  achievements  still 
go  from  mouth  to  mouth  among  the  peasantry  of 
Spain,  and  are  hawked  about  the  streets  by  the 
blind  balladmonger. 

Among  the  romantic  ballads,  those  of  the 
Twelve  Peers  stand  preeminent;  not  so  much 
for  their  poetic  merit  as  for  the  fame  of  their 
heroes.  In  them  are  sung  the  valiant  knights, 
whose  history  is  written  more  at  large  in  the 
prose  romances  of  chivalry,  —  Orlando,  and 
Oliver,  and  Montesinos,  and  Durandarte,  and 
the  Marques  de  Mantua,  and  the  other  paladins, 
que  en  una  mesa  eomian  pan.  These  ballads 
are  of  different  length  and  various  degrees  of 
merit.  Of  some  a  few  lines  only  remain ;  they 
are  evidently  fragments  of  larger  works :  while 
others,  on  the  contrary,  aspire  to  the  length  and 
dignity  of  epic  poems;  —  witness  the  ballads  of 
the  Conde  de  Irlos  and  the  Marques  de  Mantua, 
each  of  which  consists  of  nearly  a  thousand  long 
and  sonorous  hexameters. 

Among  these  ballads  of  the  Twelve  Peers 
there  are  many  of  great  beauty ;  others  possess 
little  merit,  and  are  wanting  in  vigor  and  con- 
ciseness. From  the  structure  of  the  versifica- 
tion, I  should  rank  them  among  the  oldest  of 
the  Spanish  ballads.  They  are  all  monorhyth- 
mic,  with  full  consonant  rhymes. 

To  the  romantic  ballads  belong  also  a  great 
number  which  recount  the  deeds  of  less  celebrat- 
ed heroes ;  but  among  them  all,  none  is  so  cu- 
rious as  that  of  Virgil.  Like  the  old  French 
romance-writers  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  early 
Spanish  poets  introduce  the  Mantuan  bard  as 
a  knight  of  chivalry.  The  ballad  informs  us 
that  a  certain  king  kept  him  imprisoned  seven 
years,  for  what  old  Brantdme  would  call  outre- 
euydanee  with  a  certain  Dona  Isabel.  But 
being  at  mass  on  Sunday,  the  recollection  of 
3a 


626 


SPANISH    LANGUAGE   AND   POETRY. 


Virgi]  comes  suddenly  into  his  mind,  when  he 
ought  to  be  attending  to  the  priest ;  and  turning 
to  his  knights,  he  asks  them  what  has  become 
of  Virgil.  One  of  them  replies,  "Your  High- 
ness has  him  imprisoned  in  jour  dungeons  " ; 
to  which  the  king  makes  answer  with  the  great- 
est coolness,  by  telling  them  that  the  dinner  is 
waiting,  and  that  after  they  have  dined  they 
will  pay  Virgil  a  visit  in  his  prison.  Then  up 
and  spake  the  queen  like  a  true  heroine :  quoth 
she,  **  I  will  not  dine  without  him  '* ;  and 
straightway  they  all  repair  to  the  prison,  where 
they  find  the  incarcerated  knight  engaged  in 
the  pleasant  pastime  of  combing  his  hair  and 
arranging  his  beard.  He  tells  the  king  very 
coolly,  that  on  that  very  day  he  has  been  a 
prisoner  seven  years.  To  this  the  king  replies, 
«*  Hush,  hush,  Virgil ;  it  takes  three  more  to 
make  ten."  **  Sire,"  says  Virgil,  with  the 
same  philosophical  composure,  **  if  your  High, 
ness  so  ordains,  I  will  pass  my  whole  life 
here."  '*  As  a  reward  for  your  patience,  you 
shall  dine  with  me  to-dsy,'*  says  the  king. 
"  My  coat  is  torn,"  says  Virgil ;  **  I  am  not  in 
trim  to  make  a  leg."  But  this  difficulty  is  re- 
moved by  the  promise  of  a  new  suit  from  the 
king;  and  they  go  to  dinner.  Virgil  delights 
both  knights  and  damsels,  but  most  of  all  Dona 
Isabel.  The  archbishop  is  called  in  ;  they  are 
married  forthwith ;  and  the  ballad  closes  like  a 
scene  in  some  old  play :  **  he  takes  her  by  the 
hand,  and  leads  her  to  the  garden." 

The  third  class  of  the  ancient  Spanish  ballads 
is  the  Moorish.  Here  we  enter  a  new  world, 
more  gorgeous  and  more  dazzling  than  that  of 
Gothic  chronicle  and  tradition.  The  stem  spir- 
its of  Bernardo,  the  Cid,  and  Mudarra  have 
passed  away ;  the  mail-clad  forms  of  Guarinos, 
Orlando,  and  Durandarte  are  not  here;  the 
scene  is  changed :  it  is  the  bridal  of  Andalla ; 
the  bull-fight  of  Gaaul.  The  sunshine  of  An- 
dalusia glances  upon  the  marble  halls  of  Gra- 
nada, and  green  are  the  banks  of  the  Xenil  and 
the  Darro.  A  band  of  Moorish  knights  gayly 
arrayed  in  gambesons  of  crimson  silk,  with 
scarfs  of  blue  and  jewelled  tahalies,  sweep  like 
the  wind  through  the  square  of  Vivarambla. 
They  ride  to  the  Tournament  of  Reeds ;  the 
Moorish  maiden  leans  from  the  balcony ;  bright 
eyes  glisten  from  many  a  lattice ;  and  the  vic- 
torious knight  receives  the  prize  of  valor  from 
the  hand  of  her  whose  beauty  is  like  the  star-lit 
night :  these  are  the  Xarifas,  the  Celindas,  and 
Lindarazas, — the  Andallas,  Gazules,  and  Aben- 
zaydes  of  Moorish  song. 

Then  comes  the  sound  of  the  silver  clarion, 
and  the  roll  of  the  Moorish  atabal,  down  from  the 
snowy  pass  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  and  across  the 
gardens  of  the  Vega.  Alhama  has  fallen !  Woe 
is  roe,  Alhama  !  The  Christian  is  at  the  gates 
of  Granada;  the  banner  of  the  cross  floats 
from  the  towers  of  the  Alhambra  !  And  these, 
too,  are  themes  for  the  minstrel,  —  themes  sung 
alike  by  Moor  and  Spaniard. 

Among  the  Moorish  ballads  are  included  not 


only  those  which  were  originally  composed  in 
Arabic,  but  all  which  relate  to  the  mannera, 
customs,  and  history  of  the  Moors  in  Spain.  In 
most  of  them  the  influence  of  an  Oriental  tasle 
is  clearly  visible;  their  spirit  is  more  refined 
and  effeminate  than  that  of  the  historic  and 
romantic  ballads,  in  which  no  trace  of  such  an 
influence  is  perceptible.  The  spirit  of  the  Cid 
is  stem,  unbending,  steel-clad ;  his  hand  grasps 
his  sword  Tizona;  his  heel  wounds  the  flank 
of  his  steed  Babieca  :  — 

"  La  mano  aprieta  i  Tiaona, 

Y  el  takm  fiero  k  Babieca." 
But  the  spirit  of  Arbolan  the  Moor,  tboagh  reso- 
lute in  camps,  is  effeminate  in  court ;  he   is  a 
diamond  among  scymitars,  yet  graceful  in  the 
dance :  — 

"  Diamante  entrB  los  alfimgae, 

Gracioao  en  bajlar  las  xambras." 

Such  are  the  ancient  ballads  of  Spain  ;  poems 
which,  like  the  Gothic  cathedrals  of  the  Mid- 
die  Ages,  have  outlived  the  names  of  their  build- 
era.  They  are  the  handiwork  of  wandering, 
homeless  minstrels,  who  for  their  daily  bread 
thus  ** built  the  lofty  rhyme";  and  whoee 
.names,  like  their  dust  and  ashes,  have  long, 
long  been  wrapped  in  a  shroud.  ■*  These  poets," 
says  an  anonymous  writer,  **  have  left  behind 
them  no  trace  to  which  the  imagination  can 
attach  itself;  they  have  'died  and  made  no 
sign.'  We  pass  from  the  infancy  of  Spanish 
poetry  to  the  age  of  Charles  through  a  long 
vista  of  monuments  without  inscriptions,  as  the 
traveller  approaches  the  noise  and  bustle  of 
modem  Rome  through  the  lines  of  silent  and 
unknown  tombs  that  border  the  Appian  Way."  * 

The  fifteenth  century  was  an  age  of  allego- 
ries, moral  sentences,  quaint  conceits,  mytho- 
logical rhapsodies,  and  false,  pedantic  refine, 
ments  in  Castilian  song.  Nearly  all  the  Cas- 
tilian  poetry  of  this  century  is  contained  in  the 
**Cancionero  General,"  a  collection  published 
at  the  commencement  of  the  sixteenth  century ; 
containing,  besides  the  poems  of  many  anony- 
mous writers,  those  of  one  hundred  and  thirty- 
six  authors  whose  names  are  given.t 

*  Edinburf  h  Rariew,  YoL  XXXDL,  p.  432. 

The  following;  are  the  best  collections  of  the  old  Spanish 
ballade. 

Pbdro  db  Florbs.  Romaneero  OeneraL  Madrid :  1614. 
4to. 

Dbppiho.  Sammlung  der  beaten  alten  SpanischeD  Hie- 
tortachen  RUte^und-Mauriacben  Romanxen.  Altenbaif  nod 
Leipzig:  1817.   lamo. 

EaooBAB.    Romaneero  del  Qd.    Madrid:  1818.  ISmo. 

ORiHif.  Sllra  de  Romances  Yiejoe.  YIenna :  1815.  12ino. 

DuRAN.  Romaneero  de  Romances  Moriacos.  Madrid : 
1828.  8to. 

DoRAN.  Romaneero  de  Romances  Gafaallereaeos,  Ac 
Madrid:  1829.    8vo. 

OcHOA.  Tesoro  de  los  Romanceros  j  CancioDaros  £•• 
panoles.    Paris:  1838.  8ro. 

t  Oancionero  General  de  mucKos  j  dlvMsos  Antorea. 
This  work  was  flret  published  at  Yalencia,  In  1511.  The 
beat  edition  is  that  of  Antwerp,  1673. 

See  also  BShl  db  Fabbr.  Floresu  de  Rlmas  Antlgoas 
Gaatellanas.    3 vols.    Hamburg:  1821-25.    8to. 


SPANISH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


627 


The  mo«t  distinguished  among  these  are,  the 
Marques  de  Santillana,  the  earliest  writer  of 
sonnets  in  Spanish ;  Juan  de  Mena,  author  of 
"EI  Laberinto,*'  an  imitation  of  Dante's  *< In- 
ferno " ;  Jorge  Manrique,  author  of  the  cele- 
brated " Copies"  on  Uie  death  of  his  father; 
and  Rodrigo  de  Cota,  the  most  noted  of  the 
early  Spanish  dramatists. 

Several  of  the  poets  of  this  period  wrote  in 
the  Lemosin  or  Catalonian  dialect.     The  most 
known  among  these  Spanish  Troubadours  are, 
in  the  twelfth  century,  Alfonso  the  Second,  and 
his  son,  Peter  the  Third;  —  in  the  thirteenth, 
Mossen  Jordi  de  San  Jordi,  and  Mossen  Febrer; 
—  in  the  fourteenth,  the  Infante  Don  Pedro,  and 
Juan  Martorel ;  —  and  in  the  fifteenth,  the  Mar- 
ques de  Villena,  Ausiaa  March,  and  Jaume  Roig. 
To  this  period  belongs  the  origin   of  the 
Spanish  drama.   About  the  year  1414,  Enrique, 
Marques  de  Villena,  wrote  a  camedia  alegd- 
riea,  which  was  perfbrmed  at  the  court  of  Ara- 
gon,  and  in  which  the  chief  characters  were 
Justice,  Truth,  Peace,  and  Clemency.     This  is 
the  earliest  dramatic  production  of  Spain.  Sixty 
years  later,  between  1470  and  1480,  flourished 
Rodrigo  de  Cota,  the  supposed  author  of  the 
satirical   dialogue  of  *<  Mingo  Revnlgo,"  and 
**  Love  and  the  Old  Mfja"  a  dialogue  in  a  style 
which  at  a  later  period  prevailed  in  England,  as 
in  the  **  Propre  Newe  Interlude  of  the  Worlde 
and  the  Chylde."     The  Old  Man,  having  re- 
nounced pleasure,  and  betaken  himself  to  soli- 
tude and  meditations  becoming  his  age,  is  found 
out  in  his  retreat  by  Love,  who  entices  him 
back  to  the  world  again,  and  then  upbraids  him 
for  his  wantonness  with  such  taunts  aa  these :  — 
Old  Man  mournful  among  old  men, 
Who  with  loTa  thyself  tormont«at, 
See  bow  all  thy  joints  projecting 
Look  like  beads  of  a  rosary  I 
And  thy  nails  so  lank  and  long, 
And  thy  feet  so  full  of  corns, 
And  thy  flesh  consumed  and  wasted, 
And  thy  shanks  so  lean  and  shrunken, 
Even  as  the  legs  of  horses. 

Rodrigo  de  Cota  is  also  generally  looked  upon 
aa  the  author  of  the  first  act  of  the  tragi-comedy 
in   prose  entitled,  **  Celestina,  or  the  Tragical 
Comedy  of  Calisto  and  Melibosa,*'  of  which 
the  other  twenty  acts  were  added  by  Fernando 
Rojaa.     The  plot  of  this  singular  drama  is  the 
seduction   of  a   noble   lady  t<of  most  serene 
blood,  sublimated  in  prosperity  " ;  and  the  ca- 
tastrophe, her  death  by  suicide.     It  was  very 
popular  in  its  day ;  and  Cihpar  Barth,  a  German 
philologist,  who  translated  it  into  Latin,  calls 
it  ^* Liber  pUnU  divinus"     Mayans  i  Siscar  re- 
marks :   ^*  No  book  has  been  written  in  Castil- 
ian,   in   which  the  language  is  more   natural, 
more  appropriate,  and  more  elegant " ;  and  Cer- 
Fantes  says  of  it, — 

"Celestina, 
A  book  that  I  should  deem  divins, 
If  it  concealed  the  human  oiora." 
Next  in  order  of  time  comes  Juan  de  la  En- 
si  na,  who  belongs  in  part  to  this  period  and  in 


part  to  the  following.  He  is  the  author  of  thir- 
teen dramatic  eclogues,  which  were  performed 
at  the  courts  of  various  princes  on  Christmas 
eve  and  during  Carnival.  They  are  simply 
dialogues  in  verse,  and  display  no  dramatic  art. 
Each  closes  with  a  villancico,  of  which  the  fol- 
lowing is  a  fair  specimen. 

Let  us  drive  our  flock  a-field, 

HuiTlallii 
Ding,  ding,  ding,  dong,  &r  away ! 
The  fokUng-Ume  is  past  and  gone. 
We  may  no  longer  jesting  lie. 
For  the  Seren  Goats  are  out  in  the  sky  ; 
The  middle  of  night  is  past  and  gone, 
And,  see  I  there  comeih  the  rosy  dawn. 

HurriaU4 1 
Ding,  ding,  ding,  dong,  fiur  away ! 

In  these  eclogues  Spanish  shepherds  are  repre- 
sented sitting  round  a  fire,  playing  for  chestnuts 
and  figs,  talking  of  village  matters,  —  such  as 
the  death  of  the  sacristan,  —  and  swearing  by 
the  saints  and  the  evangelists ;  when  suddenly 
an  angel  appears  announcing  the  Saviour's  birth, 
and  off  they  start  for  Bethlehem,  as  if  it  were 
the  next  village.* 

II.  From  1500  to  1700.  At  the  commence- 
ment of  this  period,  Juan  Boscan  de  Almogaver, 
and  his  friend  Oarcilaso  de  la  Vega,  surnamed 
the  Prince  of  Castilian  Poets,  produced  a  revo- 
lution in  Spanish  poetry,  by  introducing  into  it 
the  Italian  style  and  measures.  This  was  not 
effected  without  violent  opposition.  *' Those 
who  were  sufficiently  satisfied  with  the  old  ver- 
sification," says  Mr.  Wiffen,  in  his  *<  Essay  on 
Spanish  Poetry,"  t  <*  instantly  rose  in  clamor 
against  the  innovation,  and  treated  its  favorers 
as  guilty  of  treason  against  poetry  and  their  coun- 
try. At  the  head  of  these,  Cristoval  de  Castillejo, 
in  the  satires  which  he  wrote  against  the  Petrar- 
qtUstas  (for  so  he  called  them),  compared  this 
novelty  to  that  which  Luther  was  then  introduc- 
ing in  religion  ;  and  making  Boscan  and  Gar- 
ci lasso  appear  in  the  other  world  before  the  tri- 
bunal of  Juan  de  Mena,  Jorge  Manrique,  and 
other  Troubadours  of  earlier  time,  he  puts  into 
their  mouth  the  judgment  and  condemnation  of 
the  new  metres.  To  this  end,  he  supposes  that 
Boscan  repeats  a  sonnet,  and  Garcilasso  an  oc- 
tave, before  their  judges,  and  presently  adds  :  — 

'Juan  de  Mena,  when  he  through 
Had  heard  the  polished  stansa  new. 
Looked  most  amused,  and  smiled  aa  though 
He  knew  this  secret  long  ago ; 
Then  said :  "  I  now  have  beard  rehearse 
This  endecasyllabic  verse ; 

*  On  the  history  of  the  Spanish  drama,  see :  — 

Casujio  Pblucbk.  Tratado  Hi8t6rico  sobrs  el  Orlgen 
y  Progresos  de  la  Comedia  y  del  Histrionismo  en  Eipiioa. 
Madrid:  1801    ]2mo. 

VicxMTB  DB  ul  Hubrta.  ThoatTO  Hespanol.  16  vols. 
Bfsdrid:  1786.    8vo. 

BShl  ds  Fabbb.  Teatro  Espanol  antsrior  &  Lops  de 
Yega.    Hamburgo:  1832.    8vo. 

MoRATUf.  Origenea  del  Teatro  EspanoL  In  the  first 
volume  of  his  works.    4  vols.    Madrid:  1830.    8vo. 

t  Works  of  Oarcitosso  de  la  Vega.  Translated  into  Eng- 
lish Verse,  by  J.  H.  Wirrm,   London :  1823.    8?o. 


688 


SPANISH   LANGUAGE  AND    POETRT. 


Yet  can  I  Me  no  rauoa  wliy 

It  tbouid  be  called  a  norelty, 

When  I,  long  laid  upon  the  shelf, 

Oft  uaed  the  rery  aame  myaelf." 
'Don  Jorge  aald:  "Idonotaea 

The  moet  remote  neeeaeitj 

To  dreae  up  what  we  wiah  to  mj 

In  such  a  roundabout  fine  way ; 

Our  language,  erery  body  knowe, 

Loree  a  clear  bcerlty  ;  but  thoee 

Strange  stanas  ehow,  in  ha  detplto, 

Prolixity  obecure  as  night." 
'  Cartagena  then  raised  his  head 

From  laughing  inwardly,  and  said : 

*'  As  practical  for  sweet  amours, 

Tlieee  self-opiniooed  Troabadouni, 

With  force  of  their  new-frngled  flama, 

Will  not,  ft  strikes  me,  gain  the  game. 

Wondrously  pitiful  this  meaaurs 

Is  In  ray  eyes,  a  foe  to  pleasure, 

Dull  to  repeat  as  Luther's  creed, 

But  most  insufferable  to  read !  '*  "* 
But  opposition  was  of  little  avail.  The  Prince 
of  Castiliao  Poets  remained  master  of  the  field; 
and  thus  was  ushered  in  the  Siglc  de  Oro^  the 
Golden  Age  of  Spanish  Song. 

To  this  period  belong  the  illustrious  names  of 
Gaspar  Gil  Polo,  and  Jorge  Montemayor,  the 
writers  of  the  delicious  pastoral  of  the  **  Diana  "; 
Fernando  de  Herrera,  surnamed  the  Divine; 
Fray  Luis  de  Leon,  the  meek  enthusiast, 
breathing  his  sublime  and  sacred  odes  from  the 
cloister  and  the  prison ;  Alonso  de  Ercilla,  the 
greatest  of  the  Spanish  epic  poets ;  Cervantes, 
whose  name  is  its  own  best  interpreter ;  Luis 
de  Gdngora,  the  founder  of  the  CuUoristas  and 
Canceptistas ;  Lope  de  Vega,  called  by  his  con- 
temporaries the  Monster ;  and  the  Argensolas, 
and  Quevedo,  and  Villegas,  and  Calderon  de  la 
Barca.  With  the  splendor  of  such  names  this 
period  begins  and  advances,  till  its  light  gradu- 
ally fades  away  into  the  twilight  of  the  poetic 
Selvas,  —  those  dim  and  unexplored  forests  of 
song,  through  which  vast  rivers  of  rhymed 
prose  flow  onward  in  majestic  progress  toward 
the  sea  of  oblivion. 

During  this  period,  the  Spanish  drama  made 
rapid  advances,  and  finally  rose  to  its  greatest 
perfection.  Juan  de  la  Enzina  was  succeeded 
by  Gil  Vicente,  who,  though  a  Portuguese,  wrote 
many  of  his  pieces  in  Spanish.  His  autos  are 
sacred  eclogues  of  the  same  general  charac- 
ter as  Enzina's,  but  written  in  a  more  lively, 
flowing  style,  and  with  more  melodious  rhymes. 
They  are  full,  however,  of  the  same  anachro- 
nisms. Before  Christ's  birth,  the  shepherds 
speak  of  friars,  hermits,  breviaries,  calendars, 
and  papal  bulls,  and  cross  themselves  as  they 
lie  down  to  sleep.  In  one  of  his  pieces,  **  Auto 
Pastoral  del  Nacimiento,"  as  the  shepherds  are 
sleeping,  the  angels  sing.  Gil  wakes  and  tells 
Bras  he  hears  the  music  of  angels.  Braa  f  ug- 
gests  it  may  be  crickets.  Gil  says  no;  and 
sends  the  other  shepherds  to  the  village  to  get 
presents  for  the  child,  enumerating  **  the  pipe 
of  Juan  Javato,  the  guiur  of  little  Paul,  all  the 
flageolets  in  town,  and  a  whistle  for  the  baby." 
Contemporary  with  Gil   Vicente  flourished 


Bartolom^  de  Torres  Naharro,  authpr  of  eight 
comedies.  He  made  more  attempts  at  plot  and 
intrigue  than  his  predecessors,  but  shows  little 
skill  in  their  management.  He  has  neither 
richness  of  style,  nor  dramatic  power  of  any 
kind ;  he  is  rude  and  commonplace ;  and  yet 
can  claim  the  honor  of  being  the  first  to  brid^ 
upon  the  stage,  in  its  simplest  form,  the  co- 
media  de  capa  y  sspoiia,  —  the  comedy  of  cloak 
and  sword,  as  the  Spanish  love-comedies  are 
called.  His  plays  have  all  an  intrdito  or  pro- 
logue, and  an  argumetUOf  in  which  the  atorj 
is  told. 

We  come  at  length  to  Lope  de  Rneda,  a 
comic  writer  worthy  the  name.  The  dates  of 
his  birth  and  death  are  unknown.  He  flourish- 
ed, however,  between  1544  and  1S60.  He 
was  a  gold-beater  by  trade,  but,  like  MoUdre, 
feeling  too  strong  an  inclination  for  the  stage  to 
follow  any  other  course  of  life,  he  formed  a 
strolling  company,  and  wrote  and  performed 
his  own  plays.  In  this  way  he  paased  through 
all  the  chief  cities  of  Spain,  and  was  received 
in  all  with  great  applause.  He  died  in  Cordo- 
va, and  was  buried  in  the  principal  nave  of  the 
cathedral,  between  the  two  choirs.  Such  an 
honor,  paid  to  a  comedian,  shows  in  what 
estimation  he  was  held.  A  century  later,  in 
France,  the  dying  Molidre  could  not  find  a 
priest  to  confess  him  ! 

Lope  de  Rueda  left  behind  him  four  come- 
dies, ten  pmsotf  and  two  eoLofttios  in  proae. 
He  wrote  also  coloquios  in  verse,  which  were 
esteemed  his  best  productions.  Only  one  of 
these  has  remained,  as  if  to  give  the  lie  to  this 
opinion.*  His  comedies  are,  **  Comedia  Eufe- 
mia,"  ^  Comedia  Armelina,'*  «*  Comedia  de  loa 
Enganos,"  and  <«  Comedia  de  Medora."  The 
best  of  these,  beyond  comparison,  is  **  Eufemia  " ; 
in  which  the  style  often  rises  into  the  region  dT 
genteel  comedy.  The  others  are  properly  farces. 
The  best  of  the  pasos  is  the  "Acei  tunas  '* ;  in 
which  a  dispute  rises  between  a  peasant  and  his 
wife,  as  to  the  price  at  which  they  shall  aell 
the  fruit  of  some  olive-trees  which  are  not  yet 
planted  \ 

The  charm  of  Rueda*s  pieces  consists  in 
their  flowing,  natural  dialogue ;  their  merry-go- 
mad  humor;  their  quirks  and  quibbles;  their 
Dogberry  mispronunciations ;  and  the  waggish 
turns,  which  constantly  call  up  the  low  scenes 
of  Shakspeare  and  MoIi6re.  The  secret  of 
Rueda*s  success  is,  that  he  was  himself  an  actor, 
and  one  of  the  people.  He  walks  like  one 
who  is  sure  of  himself  He  knows  the  town, 
and  the  street  you  are  in  ;  and  leads  you  on, 
whistling,  and  laughing,  and  cracking  his  joke 
on  every  clown,  and  kissing  his  hand  to  every 
chambermaid. 

His  characters  are  mostly  from  low  life. 
Clowns  and  servants  figure  largely  He  was 
the  first  to  introduce  on  the  stage  the  iKUadnm 
or  matasiete^  the   boastful,  bullying   coward; 

*  Prendas  de  Amor.    See  Moiatin,  L,  630. 


SPANISH  LANGUAGE  AND  PO£TRT. 


629 


the  peraonage  so  well  painted  by  Pierce  Penni- 
less in  his  *<  Supplication  to  the  Devil."  ««Tha8 
walkes  hee  ap  and  downe  in  his  majestic,  tak- 
ing a  yard  of  ground  at  every  step,  and  stampes 
on  the  earthe  so  terrible,  as  if  he  ment  to 
knocke  up  a  spirite,  when  (foule  drunken  bez- 
zle),  if  an  Englishman  set  his  little  finger  to 
him,  he  falls  like  a  hog's  trough  that  is  set  on 
one  end  " ; —  a  passage,  which  not  only  describes 
the  braggadocio  spirit,  but  illustrates  it  The 
character  of  Villejo,  in  the  ^  Eufemia/'  is  in 
this  vein,  and  is  well  executed.  SigQenza,  in 
the  **  Rufian  Cobarde,"  is  another  instance. 

A  portrait  of  Rueda  remains;  a  dark,  fine 
countenance,  with  large  eyes,  and  a  beard.  His 
dress  is  a  round  hat,  and  a  jerkin,  like  a  mule- 
teer's. In  1558,  this  man  was  performing  in  Ma- 
drid. Among  the  audience  was  a  schoolboy  of 
eleven  years,  named  Miguel  de  Cervantes,  who 
has  left  a  description  of  the  scene,  and  speaks 
of  the  chief  actor  as  **  the  great  Lope  de  Rue- 
da."     He  says:  — 

**In  the  times  of  this  celebrated  Spaniard 
[Lope  de  Rueda],  the  whole  apparatus  of  a  co- 
median was  carried  in  a  bag ;  and  consisted  of 
four  white  sheep-skin  jackets  ornamented  with 
gilt  morocco,  four  beards  and  wigs,  and  four 
shepherd's  crooks,  more  or  less.  The  comedies 
were  mere  colloquies,  in  the  form  of  eclogues, 
between  two  or  three  shepherds  and  some 
shepherdess  or  other.  These  they  garnished 
and  eked  out  with  two  or  three  interludes,  now 
of  a  negress,  now  of  a  pander,  or  a  simpleton,  or 
a  Biacayan ;  —  for  all  these  four  parts,  and  many 
more,  this  same  Lope  performed  most  excel- 
lently well,  and  the  most  true  to  nature  one 
can  possibly  imagine.  At  that  time  there  was 
no  scenery;  no  combats  of  Moors  and  Chris- 
tians, either  on  foot  or  on  horseback.  There 
was  no  figure  which  came  out,  or  seemed  to 
come  out,  from  the  centre  of  the  earth,  through 
a  trap-door  in  the  stage,  —  which  was  composed 
of  four  benches  in  a  hollow  square,  with  four 
or  six  boards  placed  upon  them,  so  that  it  was 
raised  up  four  palms  firom  the  floor;  nor  did 
there  descend  from  heaven  any  clouds  with 
angels  or  ghosts.  The  decoration  of  the  stage 
was  an  old  blanket  drawn  across  the  room  by 
two  cords,  forming  what  is  called  the  vestuario 
(dressing-room) ;  and  behind  this  blanket  were 
the  musicians  singing,  without  guitar,  some  an- 
cient ballad."  * 

Early  in  his  literary  career,  Cervantes  became 
a  dramatic  writer.  Speaking  of  his  own  plays, 
he  remarks :  **  I  composed,  at  this  time," —  about 
the  age  of  forty,  —  **  as  many  as  twenty  or  thir- 
ty comedies ;  all  of  which  were  represented 
without  being  saluted  with  cucumbers  or  any 
other  missile ;  they  ran  their  race  without 
hisses,  cat-calls,  or  uproar."  He  goes  on  to 
say :  *<  I  then  found  other  matters  to  occupy  me, 
and  laid  the  drama  and  the  pen  aside ;  and  then 
entered  that  Miracle  of  Nature,  the  great  Lope 

*  Pr61ogD  de  laa  ConiMlias. 


de  Vega."  In  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  Cer- 
vantes again  turned  his  attention  to  the  drama, 
but  found  no  theatrical  manager  to  purchase  his 
plays ;  so  he  **  locked  them  up  in  a  chest,  and 
consecrated  and  condemned  them  to  perpetual  si- 
lence." They  were,  however,  published  in  1615, 
the  year  before  his  death.  The  most  celebrated 
of  these  plays  is  the  tragedy  of  <*  Numancia."  Its 
subject  is  the  siege  of  that  city  by  Scipio.  The 
inhabitanto  will  not  yield.  They  choose  rather 
to  die  by  each  other's  hands,  or  to  perish  by 
hunger.  In  the  last  jomadas,  the  various  scenes 
in  the  city  of  famine  are  described  with  much 
power.  A  great  fire  is  kindled  in  the  centre  of 
the  city,  and  the  inhabitants  throw  into  it  all 
their  jewels  and  valuable  forniture.  The  wo- 
men and  children  are  put  to  the  sword.  Friend 
fights  with  friend,  and  men  throw  themselves 
into  the  flames,  till  the  city  becomes  a  city  of 
the  dead.  When,  at  length,  Scipio  enters,  tlie 
only  living  being  found  within  the  walls  is  a 
boy,  who  has  ascended  to  the  summit  of  a  tow- 
er, from  which  he  precipitates  himself,  rather 
than  be  taken  prisoner.  This  closing  scene  is 
fine.  Indeed,  the  whole  play  is  dignified  and 
elevated  in  its  character,  and  full  of  situations 
of  power  and  pathos. 

In  the  course  of  the  piece,  some  allegorical 
characters  are  introduced.  For  example,  **  En- 
ter a  damsel  crowned  with  towers,  and  bearing 
a  castle  in  her  hand,  who  represents  Spain." 
And  again,  "  Enter  the  River  Duero,  and  other 
boys  (otros  mnchackos)^  dressed  as  rivers,  like 
him,  which  represent  three  brooks  that  empty 
into  the  Duero."  In  like  manner  War,  Dis- 
ease, and  Famine  are  introduced,  in  appropriate 
costume.  Likewise  a  dead  body  is  conjured 
from  the  grave,  and  speaks.  Some  of  the  stage- 
directions  are  curious ;  as,  for  example,  **  Here 
let  a  noise  be  made  under  the  stage  with  a 
barrel  full  of  stones,  and  have  a  rocket  let  off." 

In  addition  to  these  distinguished  names, 
some  thirty  more  of  less  note  swell  the  list  of 
dramatists  of  the  sixteenth  century.  There 
was,  moreover,  a  host  of  anonymous  writers  for 
the  stage ;  and  the  two  schools  of  Classic  and 
Romantic  arose;  the  former  imitating  the  an- 
cients, the  latter  remaining  n&tional  and  popu- 
lar. 

The  seventeenth  century  was  the  great  dra- 
matic age  in  Spain,  as  in  France  and  England.* 
In  the   year  1632,  there  were   in  the  single 

*  lUcing  the  middle  of  this  centurj  (1650)  as  a  central 
point,  a  circle  described  with  a  radius  of  fifty  yean  embra- 
ces or  intersects  the  lives  of  all  the  greatest  dramatists  of 
England,  France,  and  Spain.  In  England,  Shalcspeare, 
Beaumont,  Fletcher,  Hey  wood,  Ben  Jonson,  Massinger, 
Otway,  Dryden,  *c.  In  France,  ComeiUe,  Racine,  and 
Moli^re.  In  Spain,  Cervantes,  Lope  de  Vega,  Calderon, 
Soils,  Moreto,  Guillen  de  Castro,  Francisco  de  Rojas,  ^c. 
Beaumont,  Shakspeare,  and  Cervantes:  died  in  the  same 
year;  and,  it  has  been  said,  Slialcspearr  and  Cervantes  on 
the  same  day,  April  23d,  which  was  Shalcspeare's  birth- 
day ;  but  the  diflference  of  the  Spanish  and  English  calen- 
dars—the New  Style  and  the  Old — malces  the  day  really 
dlflisrent,  though  nominally  the  same. 
3a* 


SPANISH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


province  of  Castile  seventy-eix  writers  for  the 
stage.*  Among  thena  Lope  de  Vega  and  Cal- 
deron  stand  preeminent.  Lope  was  the  most 
rapid  and  voluminous  of  writers.  In  the  pro- 
logue to  the  "Pelegrino,"  written  in  the  year 
1604,  he  gives  a  list  of  three  hundred  and  forty- 
three  plays,  of  which  he  was  the  author ;  and 
five  years  afterwards,  in  his  **Arte  de  hacer 
Comedias,"  he  claims  the  authorship  of  four 
hundred  and  eighty-three  :  — 

"None  than  myielf  more  barbaioua  or  more  wrong, 
Who,  hurried  by  the  vulgar  taste  along, 
Dare  give  my  precepta  in  despite  of  rule  ; 
Whence  France  and  Italy  pronounce  me  fooL 
But  what  am  I  to  do,  —  who  now  of  plays, 
With  one  complete  within  these  seven  days, 
Four  hundred  eighty-three  in  all  hare  writ, 
And  all,  aare  six,  against  the  rules  of  wit  f"  f 

In  the  <*  Eclogue  to  Claudio,"  written  later 
in  life,  he  says :  — 

"The  number  of  my  &bles  tdd 

Would  seem  the  greatest  of  them  all ; 
For,  strange,  of  dramas  you  behold 
Full  fifteen  hundred  mine  I  call ; 
And  full  a  hundred  times,  within  a  day 
Passed  from  my  Muse  upon  the  stage  a  pby. 

"Then  spars,  indulgent  Claudio,  spare 
The  list  of  all  my  barbarous  plays ; 
For  this  with  (ruth  I  can  declare,  — 
And  though  't  is  truth,  it  is  not  praise,  — 
The  printed  part,  though  fiur  too  large,  is  less 
Than  that  which  yet  unprinted  waits  the  press."  t 

Montalvan,  one  of  Lope*s  warmest  eulogists, 
says  that  he  wrote  eighteen  hundred  comedies, 
and  four  hundred  autos^  or  religious  plays  ;  but 
Lope's  own  account  is  probably  more  correct. 
Less  than  six  hundred  now  remain. 

The  life  of  no  poet  was  ever  so  filled  with 
fame  as  that  of  Lope.  He  was  familiarly  spok- 
en of  as  "  The  Miracle  of  Nature."  Crowds 
gazed  at  him  in  the  street ;  children  followed 
with  shouts  of  delight ;  every  thing  that  was 
fiiir  assumed  his  name;  —  a  bright  day  was 
called  a  Lope  day ;  a  rare  diamond,  a  Lope  dia- 
mond ;  a  beautiful  woman,  a  Lope  woman.  And 
yet  he  complained  of  neglect,  and  his  querulous 
lamentations  mingled  with  the  last  sighs  of  Cer- 
vantes, who,  in  the  same  street,  dying  in  patient 
poverty,  exclaimed  :  «*  My  life  is-  drawing  to  a 
close ;  and  I  find,  by  the  daily  journal  of  my 
pulse,  that  it  will  have  finished  its  course  by 
next  Sunday  at  furthest ;  and  I  also  shall  then 
have  finished  my  career.'* 

Calderon  is  far  less  voluminous  than  Lope; 
and  yet  he  wrote  more  than  a  hundred  come- 
dies, and  nearly  as  many  farces  and  autos  so- 
crammtales.  Of  these  two  hundred  and  fifty- 
four  have  been   preserved.     As  a  dramatist, 

*  On  this  period  of  the  Spanish  drama,  see  articles  In 
the  "Quarterly  Review,"  VoL  XXV.,  and  the  "American 
Quarterly  Review,"  Vol.  IV. 

t  Some  Aecoont  of  the  Lives  and  Writings  of  Lope  Fellz 
de  Vega  Oarpio  and  Ouillen  de  Outro.  By  Hamir  Rich- 
AKD  Lord  Hollaitd.  (2  vols.  London :  1817.  8vo.)  VoL 
L,  p.  103. 

I  Ibid.,  pp.  104,  Itt). 


Calderon  has  less  force  than  Lope,  and  1«« 
simplicity  and  directness ;  but  his  imagination 
is  more  luxuriant,  bis  style  more  poetical,  and 
his  dramas  are  wrought  out  with  greater  care. 
In  the  former,  marks  of  inconsiderate  haste  are 
everywhere  visible ;  in  the  latter,  excessive 
carefulness  and  elaborate  pomp  of  diction  pre- 
vail. The  Grerman  critics  place  Calderon  at 
the  head  of  the  Spanish  dramatists.  Schlegel  * 
thus  contrasts  him  with  Lope  de  Vega  and 
Shakspeare. 

**Tbe  stage  is  entirely  a  creature  of  art,  and 
even  although  hasty  and  inaccurate  writing  may 
be  tolerated  in  plays,  unless  their  plan  be  clear- 
ly laid,  and  their  purpose  profoundly  considered, 
they  want  the  very  essence  of  dramatic  pieces ; 
unless  they  be  so  composed,  they  may,  indeed, 
amuse  us  with  a  view  of  the  fleeting  and  sui^ 
fiice  part  of  life,  and  of  the  perplexities  and 
passions,  but  they  can  have  none  of  that  deep 
sense  and  import,  without  which  the  concerns 
of  life,  whether  real  or  imitated,  are  not  wor- 
thy of  our  study.  These  lower  excellencies  of 
the  dramatic  art  are  possessed  in  great  abun- 
dance by  Lope  de  Vega,  and  many  others  of  the 
ordinary  Spanish  dramatists  ;  the  plays  of  these 
men  display  great  brilliancy  of  poetry  and  im- 
agination ;  but  when  we  compare  them  with 
the  profounder  pieces  of  the  same  or  of  some 
other  stages,  we  perceive  at  once  that  their 
beauties  are  only  of  a  secondary  class,  and  that 
they  afford  no  real  gratification  to  the   bi^her 

parts  of  our  intellect If  we  would  form  a 

proper  opinion  of  the  Spanish  drama,  we  most 
study  it  only  in  its  perfection,  in  Calderon, — 
the  last  and  greatest  of  all  the  Spanish  poets. 

**  Before  his  time,  affectation,  on .  the  one 
hand,  and  utter  carelessness,  on  the  other,  were 
predominant  in  the  Spanish  poetry;  what  is  sin- 
gular enough,  these  apparently  opposite  &uits 
were  often  to  be  found  in  the  same  piece.  The 
evil'  example  of  Lope  de  Vega  was  not  confined 
to  the  department  of  the  stage.  Elevated  by 
his  theatrical  success,  like  many  other  fluent 
poets,  he  had  the  vanity  to  suppose  that  he 
might  easily  shine  in  many  other  species  of 
writing,  for  which  he  possessed,  in  truth,  no 
sort  of  genius.  Not  contented  with  being  con- 
sidered as  the  first  dramatist  of  his  country, 
nothing  less  would  serve  him  but  to  compete 
with  Cervan.tes  in  romance,  and  with  Tasso 
and  Ariosto  in  the  chivalric  epic.  The  influ- 
ence of  his  careless  and  cormpt  mode  of  com- 
position was  thus  extended  beyond  the  theatre ; 
while  the  faults  from  which  he  was  most  free, 
those  of  excessive  artifice  and  affectation  in 
language  and  expression,  were  carried  to  the 
highest  pitch  by  6<Sngora  and  Quevedo.  Cal- 
deron survived  this  age  of  poetical  corruptions ; 
nay,  he  was  bom  in  it;  and  he  had  first  to  fiee 
the  poetry  of  his  country  from  the  chaos,  before 


*  Lectures  on  the  History  of  Llteimture,  Ancient  and 
Modem.  From  the  Oerman  of  FasDsaicK  Scolsbsl. 
(New  York:  1844.    12iiio.)    pp.  276-884. 


SPANISH  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


631 


he  could  ennoble  it  anew,  beautify  and  purify 
it  by  the  flames  of  love,  and  conduct  it  at  laat 
to  the  Qtmost  limit  of  its  perfection. 

*<The  chief  fault  of  Calderon  —  for  even  be 
11  not  without  them  —  is,  that  he,  in  other  re- 
spects the  best  of  all  romantic  dramatists,  car- 
ries us  too  quickly  to  the  great  dinouement  of 
which  I  have   spoken   above;   for  the   effect 
which  this  produces  on  us  would  have  been 
very  much  increased  by  our  being  kept  longer 
in  doubt,  had  he  more  frequently  characterized 
the  riddle  of  human  life  with  the  profundity  of 
Shakspeare,  —  had  he  been  less  sparing  in  af- 
fording us,  at  the  commencement,  glimpses  of 
that  light  which  should  be  preserved  and  concen- 
trated upon  the  conclusion  of  the  drama.   Shak- 
speare has  exactly  the  opposite  fault,  of  too  often 
placing  before  our  eyes,  in  all  its  mystery  and 
perplexity,  the  riddle  of  life,  like  a  skeptical  poet, 
without  giving  us  any  hint  of  the  solution.  Even 
when  he  does  bring  his  drama  to  a  last  and  a  prop- 
er denouement,  it  is  much  more  frequently  to  one 
of  utter  destruction,  after  the  manner  of  the  old 
tragedians,  or  at  least  to  one  of  an  intermediate 
and  half-satisfactory  nature,  than  to  that  ter- 
mination of  perfect  purification   which  is  pre- 
dominant in  Calderon.    In  the  deepest  recesses 
of  his  feeling  and  thought,  it  has  always  struck 
me  that  Shakspeare  is  far  more  an  ancient  —  I 
mean  an  ancient,  not  of  the  Greek,  but  of  the 
Northern  or  Scandinavian  cast — than  a  Chris- 
tian." 

Other  distinguished  dramatists  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  are,  Guillen  de  Castro,  author  of 
the  «Mocedades  del  Cid,"  from  which  Coi» 
neille  took  the  design  of  his  tragedy;  —  Mira 
de  Mescua,  author  of  the  **  Palacio  Confuse," 
on  which  Corneille  founded  his  **  Don  Sanche 
d' Arragon  '* ;— Tirso  de  Molina,  author  of  "  Don 
Gil  de  las  Calzas  Verdes,"  and  the  <«  Burlador 
de  Sevilla,"  the  progenitor  of  all  the  Don  Juans, 
from  Moli^re's  downward; — Augustin  Moreto, 
author  of  «<  El  Desden  con  el  Desden,"  from 
which  the  French  comedian  borrowed  the  hint 
of  his  "  Princesse  d'^lide  ";  —  Antonio  de  So- 
lie,  author  of  '<  £1  Amor  al  Uso,"  from  which 
came    Thomas    Comeille's    **  L'Amour   k  la 
Mode*';  —  and  Francisco  de  Roj as,  author  of 
<^  Donde    hay  Agravios  no   hay  Zelos,**  from 
which   Scarron  took  his  **  Jodelet,"  and  of  the 
beautiful   drama,  **Del   Rey  abajo  Ninguno," 
which  would  do  honor  to  the  genius  of  Lope 
or  Calderon.     The  Spanish  drama  has  been  a 
rich  quarry  for  the  poets  of  other  nations ;  and 
tnany  stately  palaces  of  song  have  been  built 
with   its  solid  materials,  as  Saint  Mark's  and 
>ther  Ronaan  palaces  with  the  massive  stones 
>f  the  Coliseum. 

III.  From  1700  to  the  present  time.  At  the 
^o^lnnencement  of  this  period,  Ignacio  de  Luzan 
ittampted  to  purify  the  literature  of  his  country 
rom  the  affectations  of  G6ngora  and  bis  ibl- 
owrera  by  introducing  the  French  school.  In 
rder  to  efiect  this  reformation  in  public  taste, 


he  wrote  his  «tPo6tica,"  or  Art  of  Poetry,  a 
work  in  four  books,  in  which  he  treats  succes- 
sively of  the  origin  and  progress  of  poetry,  its 
usefulness  and  delights,  the  drama,  and  the 
epic.  This  work  immediately  took  its  place  in 
Spanish  literature  as  the  irrefragable  code  of 
taste  and  the  last  appeal  of  critics,  a  position 
which  it  held  for  nearly  a  whole  century.  At 
the  present  day,  the  national  romantic  taste  be- 
gins again  to  prevail. 

Among  the  most  distinguished  names  of  this 
period  are  Ignacio  de  Luzan,  Jos6  de  Cadalso, 
Tomas  de  Triarte,  Juan  Melendez  Valdes,  Gas- 
par  Melchior  de  Jovellanos,  Nicaaio  de  Cien- 
fuegos,  Manuel  Jos6  Quintana,  Leandro  Fer- 
nandez de  Moratin,  Juan  Bautista  de  Arriaza, 
Francisco  Martinez  de  la  Rosa,  Angel  de  Saa- 
vedra,  Manuel  Breton  de  los  Herreros,  and 
Jos6  Zorilla.  Of  the  greater  part  of  these  more 
particular  notices  will  be  given  hereafter,  in 
connection  with  extracts  from  their  writings. 
Breton  de  los  Herreros  is  the  most  popular  of 
the  living  dramatists  of  Spain  ;  and  the  increas- 
ing fame  of  Zorilla  as  a  political  lyric  poet,  as 
well  as  a  dramatist,  has  already  reached  these 
distant  shores. 


For  a  farther  history  of  Spanish  poetry  the 
reader  is  referred  to  the  following  works:  — 
**  Histoire  Compar6e  des  Litt^ratures  Espagnole 
et  Fran^aise,"  par  Adolphe  de  Puibusque,  2 
▼ols.,  Paris,  1844,  8vo. ;  —  «  History  of  Span- 
ish and  Portuguese  Literature,"  by  Frederick 
Bonterwek;  translated  from  the  German  by 
Thomasina  Ross,  2  vols.,  London,  1823,  8vo. ; 

—  **  Historical  View  of  the  Literature  of  the 
South  of  Europe,"  by  J.  C.  L.  Simoode  de 
Sismondi;  translated  by  Thomas  Roscoe,  4 
vols.,  London,  1823,  8vo. ;  republished  in  New 
York,  1827,  2  vols.,  8vo. ;  —  «»Coleccion  de 
Poesias  Castellanas  anteriores  al  Siglo  XV.," 
by  Tomas  Antonio  Sanchez,  4  vols.,  Madrid, 
1779,  8vo.;  —  (^Espagne  Po^tique  :  Cboiz  de 
Poesies  Castillanes  depuis  Charles  Quint  jusqu' 
k  nos  jours,"  by  Juan  Maria  Maury,  2  vols.,  Par- 
is, 1826,  8vo.; — ''Floresta  de  Rimas  Antiguas 
Castellanas,"  by  Juan  Nicolas  Bohl  de  Faber, 
3  vols.,  Hamburg,  1821  -  25, 8vo. ;  —  "  Floresta 
de  Rimas  Modernas  Castellanas,"  by  Fernando 
Jo86  Wolf,  2  vols.,  Paris,  1837,  8vo.;  — "Bib- 
lioteca  Selecta  de  Literature  Espanola,"  4  vols., 
Bordeaux,  1819,  8vo. ;  —  "  Origenes  de  la  Poe- 
sia  Castellana,"  by  Luis  Jo86  Velasquez,  Mala- 
ga, 1754.  —  See  also  **  Bibliotheca  Hispana  Ve- 
tus,"  by  N.  Antonio,  2  vols.,  Madrid,  1787,  fol. ; 

—  "  Bibliotheca  Hispana  Nova,"  by  the  same, 
2  vols.,  Madrid,  1783,  fol.;  — "Biblioteca  An- 
tigua de  los  Escritores  Aragoneses,"  by  Don 
Felix  de  LaUssa  y  Ortin,  2  vols.,  Zaragoza, 
1796, 4to. ;  —  "  Biblioteca  Nueva  de  los  Escri- 
tores  Aragoneses,"  by  the  same,  5  vols.,  Pam- 
plona, 1798- 1801, 4to. ;  —  and  " Escritores  del 
Rey  no  de  Valencia,"  by  Vicente  Ximeno,  2 
vols^  Valencia,  1747-49,  fol. 


FIRST  PERIOD.-FROM  1160  TO  1600. 


FROM  THE   POEMA   DEL  CID. 

ARGUMENT. 

After  Tarious  Buccesses  of  inferior  impor- 
tance, the  Cid  undertakes  and  achieves  the  con- 
quest of  the  city  and  kingdom  of  Valencia, 
where  he  establishes  himself  in  a  species  of 
sovereign  authority.  In  the  mean  time  be  ob- 
tains the  favor  of  the  king;  this  fkvor,  however, 
is  aecompanied  by  a  request  on  the  part  of  the 
king  that  the  Cid  should  bestow  his  two  daugh. 
ters  in  marriage  upon  the  Infants  of  Carrion, 
whose  family  were  his  old  adversaries.  The 
Cid,  in  reply,  consents  to  place  his  daughters 
**  at  the  disposition  of  the  king."  The  wedding 
is  celebrated  at  Valencia  with  the  greatest  possi- 
ble  splendor,  and  the  two  young  counts  remain 
at  Valencia  with  their  father-in-law.  Their  situ- 
ation, however,  is  an  invidious  one.  Some  occa- 
sions arise  in  which  their  courage  appears  doubt- 
ful, and  the  prudence  and  authority  of  the  Cid 
are  found  insufficient  to  suppress  the  contemp- 
tuous mirth  of  his  military  court.  Accordingly, 
they  enter  into  the  resolution  of  leaving  Valen- 
cia ;  but,  determining  at  the  same  time  to  execute 
a  project  of  the  baaest  and  moat  unmanly  re- 
venge, they  request  of  the  Cid  to  be  allowed  to 
take  their  brides  with  them  upon  a  journey  to 
Carrion,  under  pretence  of  making  them  ac^ 
quainted  with  the  property  which  had  been  set- 
tled upon  them  at  their  marriage.  The  Cid  is 
aware  that  their  situation  is  an  uneasy  one ;  he 
readily  consents,  takes  leave  of  them  with  great 
cordiality,  loads  them  with  presents,  and  at 
their  departure  bestows  upon  them^the  two  cel- 
ebrated swords,  Colada  and  Tison.  *The  Infants 
pursue  their  journey  till  they  arrive  in  a  wilder- 
ness, where  they  dismiss  their  followers,  and, 
being  lefl  alone  with  their  brides,  proceed  to 
execute  their  scheme  of  vengeance,  by  stripping 
them  and  **  mangling  them  with  spurs  and 
thongs,"  till  they  leave  them  without  signs  of 
life ;  in  this  state  they  are  found  by  a  relation 
of  the  Cid's,  Felez  Munoz,  who,  suspecting 
some  evil  design,  had  followed  them  at  a  dis- 
tance. They  are  brought  back  to  Valencia.  The 
Cid  demands  justice.  The  king  assembles  the 
cortes  upon  the  occasion.  The  Cid,  being  called 
upon  to  state  his  grievances,  confines  himself  to 
the  claim  of  the  two  swords  which  he  had 
given  to  his  sons-in-law,  and  which  he  now 
demands  back,  since  they  have  forfeited  that 
character.  The  swords  are  restored  without 
hesitatiou,  and  the  Cid  immediately  bestows 
them  upon  two  of  his  champions.  He  then 
rises  again,  and,  upon  the  same  plea,  requires 


the  restitution  of  the  gif^  and  treasures  with 
which  he  had  honored  his  sons-in-law  at  part- 
ing. This  claim  is  resisted  by  his  opponents ; 
the  cortes,  however,  decide  in  favor  of  the  Cid ; 
and,  as  the  Infants  plead  their  immediate  ina- 
bility, it  is  determined  that  the  property  which 
they  have  with  them  shall  be  taken  at  an  ap- 
praisement. This  is  accordingly  done.  The 
Cid  then  rises  a  third  time,  and  demands  satis- 
faction for  the  insult  which  his  daughters  had 
suffered.  An  altercation  arises,  in  the  coarse  of 
which  the  Infants  of  Carrion  and  one  of  their 
partisans  are  challenged  by  three  champions  oq 
the  part  of  the  Cid. 

THE  CID  AND  THE  INFANTES  DE  CABRION. 

WiTHiH  a  little  space. 
There  was  many  a  noble  courser  brought  into 

the  place. 
Many  a  lusty  mule  with  palfreys  stout  and  sure, 
And  many  a  goodly  sword  with  all  its  furniture :    i 
The  Cid  received  them  all  at  an  appraisement  I 

made,  | 

Besides  two  hundred  marks  that  to  the  king 

were  paid. 
The  Infants  give  up  all  they  have,  their  goods 

are  at  an  end ; 
They  go  about  in  haste  to  their  kindred  and 

their  friend ; 
They  borrow  as  they  can,  bat  all  will  scarce 

suffice ; 
The  attendants  of  the  Cid  take  each  thing  at  a 

price  : 
But  as  soon  as  this  was  ended,  he  began  a  new 

device. 
"  Justice  and  mercy,  my  Lord  the  King,  I  be- 
seech you  of  your  grace ! 
I  have  yet  a  grievance  left  behind,  which  noth- 
ing can  efiface. 
Let  all  men  present  in  the  court  attend  and 

judge  the  case, 
Listen  to  what  these  counts  have  done,  and  pity 

my  disgrace. 
Dishonored  as  I  am,  I  cannot  be  so  base. 
But  here,  before  I  leave  them,  to  defy  them  to 

their  face. 
Say,  Infants,  how  had  I  deserved,  in  earnest  or 

in  jest, 
Or  on  whatever  plea  you  can  defend  it  best. 
That  you  should  rend  and  tear  the  heart-strings 

fVom  my  breast  ? 
I  gave  you  at  Valencia  my  daughters  in  yoor 

hand, 
I  gave  yoa  wealth  and  honors,  and  treasure  at 

command ; 


POEMA   DEL   CID. 


633 


•  Had  yoa  b^on  weary  of  them,  to  cover  yoar 
neglect, 
Too  might  have  left  them  with  me,  io  honor 

and  respect. 
Why  did  you  take  them  from  me,  doga  and 

traitors  as  you  were  ? 
In  the  forest  of  Corpea,  why  did  you  strip  them 

there  ? 
Why  did  you  mangle  them  with  whipa  ?  why 

did  yoQ  leave  them  bare 
To  the  Tulturea  and  the  wolves,  and  to  the 

wintry  air  ? 
The  court  will  hear  your  answer,  and  judge 

what  you  have  done  :     * 
I  say,  your  name  and  honor  henceforth  ie  loat 

and  gone." 
The  Count  Don  Garcia  was  the  first  to  ris^ : 
**  We  crave  your  favor,  my  Lord  the  King,  you 

are  always  just  and  wise. 
The  Cid  is  come  to  your  court  in  such  an  un- 
couth guise, 
He  has  left  his  beard  to  grow  and  tied  it  in  a 

braid, 
We  are  half  of  us  astonished,  the  other  half 

afraid. 
The  blood  of  the  counts  of  Carrion  ia  of  too 

high  a  line 
To  take  a  daughter  from  his  house,  though  it 

were  for  a  concubine  : 
A  concubine  or  a  Ionian  from  the  lineage  of  the 

Cid. 
They  could  have  done  no.  other  than  leave  them 

as  they  did. 
We  neither  care  for  what  he  says  nor  fear  what 

he  may  threat." 
With  that  the  noble  Cid  rose  up  from  his  seat : 
He  took  his  beard  in  his  hand :  **  If  this  beard 

is  fair  and  even, 
I  must  thank  the  Lord  above,  who  made  both 

earth  and  heaven. 
It  has  been  cherished  with  respect,  and  there- 
fore it  has  thriven ; 
It  never  suffered  an  affront  since  the  day  it  first 

was  worn : 
What  business.  Count,  have  you  to  speak  of  it 

with  scorn  ? 
It  never  yet  was  shaken,  nor  plucked  away,  nor 

torn, 
Bj  Christian  nor  by   Moor,  nor  by   man   of 

woman  bom, 
As  yours  was  once.  Sir  Count,  the  day  Cabra 

was  taken  : 
When  I  was  master  of  Cabra,  that  beard  of  yours 

was  shaken ; 
There  was  never  a  footboy  in  my  camp  but 

twitched  away  a  bit ; 
The  side  that  I  tore  off  grows  all  uneven  yet" 
Ferran  Gonzalez  started  upon  the  floor ; 
He  cried  with  a  loud  voice :  **  Cid,  let  us  hear 

no  more. 
Your  claim  for  goods  and  money  was  satisfied 

before. 
Lfet  not  a  fend  arise  betwixt  our  friends  and  you. 
We  are  the  counts  of  Carrion :  firom,  them  our 
birth  we  drew.* 
80 


Daughters  of  emperors  or  kings  were  a  match 

for  our  degree : 
We  hold  ourselves  too  good  for  a  baron's  like 

to  thee. 
If  we  abandoned,  as  yoa  say,  and  left  and  gave 

them  o*er. 
We  vouch  that  we  did  right,  and  prize  our- 
selves the  more." 
The  Cid  looked  at  Bermuez,  that  was  sitting  at 

his  foot : 
«« Speak  thou,  Peter  the  Dumb  !  what  ails  thee 

to  ait  mute  ? 
My^  daughters  and  thy  nieces  are  the  parties  in 

'  dispute: 
Stand  fbrth  and  make  reply,  if  you  would  do 

them  right 
If  I  should  rise  to  speak,  you  cannot  hope  to 

fight." 
Peter  Bermuez  rose ;  somewhat  he  had  to  say  : 
The  words  were  strangled  in  his  throat,  they 

^ould  not  find  their  way  ; 
Till  forth  they  came  at  once,  without  a  stop  or 

stay: 
"  Cid,  I  '11  tell  you  what,  this  always  is  your  way ; 
YoQ  have  always  served  me  thus :  whenever 

we  have  come 
To  meet  here  in  the  cortes,  you  call  me  Peter 

the  Dumb. 
I  cannot  help  my  nature :  I  never  talk  nor  rail ; 
But  when  a  thing  is  to  be  done,  you  know  I 

never  foil. 
Fernando,  you  have  lied,  you  have  lied  in  every 

word  : 
You  have  been  honored  by  the  Cid,  and  favored 

and  preferred. 
I  know  of  all  your  tricks,  and  can  tell  them  to 

your  face : 
Do  you  remember  in  Valencia  the  skirmish  and 

Che  chase? 
You  asked  leave  of  the  Cid  to  make  the  first 

attack :  • 

You  went  to  meet  a  Moor,  but  you  soon  came 

running  back. 
I  met  the  Moor  and  killed  him,  or  he  would 

have  killiod  you ;   * 
I  gave  you  up  his  arms,  and  all  that  was  my  due. 
Up  to  this  very  hour,  I  never  said  a  word  : 
You  praised  yourself  before  the  Cid,  and  I  stood 

by  and  beard 
How  you  had  killed  the  Moor,  and  done  a  val- 
iant act ;  * 
And  they  believed  you  all,  but  they  never  knew 

the  fact. 
You.  are  tall  enough  and  handsome,  but  cow- 
ardly and  weak. 
Thou  tongue  without  a  hand,  how  can  you  dare 

to  speak  ? 
There  's  the  story  of  the  lion  should  never  be 

forgot : 
Now  let  us  hear,  Fernando,  what  answer  have 

yoii  got  ? 
The  Cid  was  sleeping  in  his  chair,  with  all  his 

knights  around ', 
The  cry  went  forth  along  the  hall,   that  the 

lion  was  unbound. 


634 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


What  did  you  do,  Fernando  ?  like  a  coward  as 

you  were, 
Tou  slunk  behind  the  Cid,  and  crouched  be- 
neath his  chair. 
We  pressed  around  the  throne,  to  shield  our 

lord  from  harm, 
Till  the  good  Cid  awoke:    he  rose  without 

alarm ; 
He  went  to  meet  the  lion,  with  his  mantle  on 

his  arm : 
The  lion  was  abashed  the  noble  Cid  to  meet ; 
He  bowed  his  mane  to  the  earth,  his  muzzle  at 

his  feet. 
The  Cid  by  the  neck  and  mane  drew  him  to 

his  den. 
He  thrust  him  iir  at  the  hatch,  and  came  to  the 

hall  again : 
He  found  his  knights,  his  vassals,  aind  all  his 

valiant  men ; 
He  asked  for  his  sons-in-law ;  they  were  neither 

of  .them  there. 
I  defy  you  for  a  coward  and  a  traitor  as  you  are. 
For  the  daughters  of  the  Cid,  you  have  done 

them  great  unright : 
In  the  wrong  that  they  have  suffered,  you  stand 

dishonored  quite. 
Although  they  are  but  women,  and  each  of  you 

a  knight, 
I  hold  them  worthier  far ;  and  here  my  word  I 

plight, 
Before  the  King  Alfonso,  upon  this  plea  to  fight : 
If  it  be  God  his  will,  before  the  battle  part. 
Thou  shah  avow  jt  with  thy  mouth,  like  a  trai- 
tor as  thou  art." 
Uprose  Diego  Gonzalez  and  answered  as  he 

stood : 
"By  our  lineage  we  are  counts,  and  of  the 

purest  blood ; 
This  match   was  too  unequal,  it  never  could 

hold  good. 
Sor  the  daughters  of  tlie  Cid  we  acknowledge 

no  regret ; 
We  leave  them  to  lament  the  chastisement  they 

met; 
It  will  follow  them  through  life  for  a  scandal 

and  a  jest : 
I  stand  upon  this  plea  to  combat  with  the  best. 
That,  having  lefl  them  as  we  did,  our  honor  is 

increased.'* 
Uprose  Martin  Antolinez,  when  t)iego  ceased : 
"Peace,  thou  lying  mouth  !  thou' traitor  coward, 

peace ! 
The  story  of  the  lion  should  have  taught  you 

shame,  at  least : 
Tou  rushed  out  at  the  door,  and  ran  away  so 

hard, 
Tou  fell  into  the  cispool  that  was  open  in  the 

yard. 
We  dragged  you  forth,  in  all  men*s  sight,  drip- 
ping from  the  drain : 
For  shame,  never  wear  a  mantle  nor  a  knight- 
ly robe  again ! 
I  fight  upon  this  plea  without  more  ado  : 
The  daughters  of  the  Cid  are  worthier  far  than 

you. 


Before  the  combat,  part,  you  shall  avow  it  true, 

An^that  you  have  been  a  traitor,  and  a  coward 
too." 

Thus  was  ended  the  parley  and  challenge  be- 
twixt these  two. 

Asur  Gonzalez  was  entering  at  the  door, 

With  his  ermine  mantle  trailing  along  the  floor, 

With  his  sauntering  pace  and  his  hardy  look. 

Of  manners  or  of  courtesy  little  heed  he  took : 

He  was  flushed  and  hot  with  breakfast  and  with 
drink. 

".What  ho,  my  masters !  your  spirits  seem  to 
sink ! 

Have  we  no  news  stirring  from  the  Cid  Ruy 
Diaz  of  Bivar  ? 

Has  he  been  to  Riodovima  to  beaiege  the  wind- 
mills there  f 

Does  he  tax  the  millers  for  their  toll,  or  is  that 
practice  past? 

Will  he 'make  a  match  for  his  daughters,  another 
like  the  last  ?  " 

M uno  Gustioz  rose  and  made  reply : 

"  Traitor !  wilt  thou  never  cease  to  slander  and 
to  lie? 

Tou  breakflist  before  mass,  you  drink  before 
you  pray; 

There  is  no  honor  in  your  heart,  nor  truth  in 
what  you  say ; 

Tou  cheat  your  comrade  and  your  lord,  yoi^ 
flatter  to  betray  : 

Tour  hatred  I  despise,  your  friendship  I  defy. 

False  to  all  mankind,  and  most  to  God  on  high, 

I  shall  force  you  to  confess  that  what  I  say  is 
true." 

Thus  was  ended  the  parley  and  challenge  be- 
twixt these  two. 


ALFONSO  THE   SECOND,  KING  OF 
ARAGON. 

This  king  flourished  in  the  latter  half  of  the 
twelfth  century.  He  succeeded  to  the  crown  in 
1162.  His  court  was  frequented  by  the  Trou- 
badours, who  were  attracted  by  his  liberality 
and  love  of  poetry.  He  died  in  1196.  Of  his 
poetical  compositions  one  piece  only  has  been 
preserved.    He  wrote  in  the  Lemosin  dialect. 

SONG. 

Mahv  the  joys  my  heart  has  seen. 

From  varied  soqrces  flowing,  ^— 
From  gardens  gay  and  meadows  green. 

From  leaves  and  flowerets  blowing. 

And  spring  her  freshening  hours  bestowing. 
All  these  delight  the  bard :  but  here 
Their  power  to  sadden  or  ^o  cheer 
In  this  my  song  will  not  appear, 

Where  naught  but  love  is  glowing. 

And  though  I  would  not  dare  despii 

The  smiling  flowers,  the  herbage 
The  beau|eous  spring's  Unclouded  skies, 

And  all  the  birds'  sweet  singing 


ise  ■ 

kies,    M 


I 


ALFONSO  II.  — BERCEO. 


635 


Tet  my  heart's  brigbtest  joy  is  springing 
From  her,  the  fairest  of  the  ftur ; 
Beauty  and  wit  are  joined  .there, 
And  in  my  song  I  '11  honor  her, 

My  ready  tribute  bringing. 

When  I  remember  our  ilurewell. 

As  from  her  side  I  parted, 
Sorrow  and  joy  alternate  swell. 

To  think  how,  broken-hearted, 

While  from  her  eyelids  tear-drops  started, 
**  O,  soon,"  she  said,  **  my  loved  one,  here, 
O,  soon,  in  pity,  reappear  !  " 
Then  back  I  'II  fly,  for  none  so  dear 
As  her  from  whom  I  parted. 


GONZALO  DE  BERCEO. 

GoNZALo  Dx  Bergxo,  the  oldest  of  the  Gas- 
tilian  poets  whose  name  has  reached  us,  was 
born  in  1198.  He  was  a  monk  in  the  monastery 
'  of  Saint  Millan,  in  Calahorra,  and  wrote  poems 
on  sacred  subjects,  in  Castiiian  alexandrines. 
Nine  of  thes^  poems  have  been  preserved,  and 
are  published  in  Sanchez  (see  on^a,  p.  624). 
He  died  about  the  year  1268. 

FROM  THE  YIBA  DE  SAN  MILLAN. 

AiTD  when  the  kings  were  in  the  field,  their 

squadrons  in  array. 
With  lance  in  rest  they  onward  pressed  to  min- 

-gle  in  the  fray ; 
But  soon  upon  the  Christians  fell  a  terror  of 

their  foes,«k— 
These  were  a  numerous  army,  a  little  handful 

those. 

And  whilst  the  Christian  people  stood  in  this 
uncertainty, 

•Upward  toward  heaven  they  turned  their  eyes 
and  fixed  their  thoughts  on  high  ; 

And  there  two  persons  Uiey  beheld,  all  beauti- 
ful and  bright, — 

Even  than  the  pure  new-fallen  snow  their  gar- 
ments were  more  white. 

They  rode  upon  two  horses  more  white  than 

crystal  sheen. 
And  arms  they  bore  such  as  before  no  mortal 

man  had  seen  : 
The  one,  he  held  a  crosier,  a  pontiff's  mitre 

wore ; 
The  other  h^ld  a  crucifix,  ^  such  man  ne'er 

saw  before. 

Their  faces  were  angelical|  celestial  forms  had 
they,— 

And  downward  through  the  fields  of  air  they 
urged  their  rapid  way ; 

Thej  looked  upon  the  Moorish  host  with  fierce 
and  angry  look. 

And  in  their  hands,  with  dire  portent,  their  na- 
ked sabres  shook. 


The  Christian  host,  beholding  this,  straightway 

take  heart  again ; 
They  fall  upon  their  bended  knees,  all  resting 

on  the  plain. 
And  each  one  with  his  clenched  fist  to  smite 

his  breast  begins. 
And  promises  to  God  on  high  he  will  forsake 

his  sins. 

And  when  the  heavenly  knights  drew  near  unto  • 
the  battle-ground. 

They  dashed  among  the  Moors  and  dealt  uner- 
ring blows  around : 

Such  deadly  havoc  there  they  made  the  foremost 
ranks  along, 

A  panic  terror  spread  unto  the  hindmost  of  the 
throng. 

Together   with   these   two  good   knights,  the 

champions  of  the  sky. 
The  Christians  rallied  and  began  to  smite  full 

sore  and  high  : 
The  Moors  raised  up  their  voices,  and  by  the 

Koran  swore 
That  ia  their  lives  such  deadly  fray  they  ne'er 

had  seen  before. 

Down  went  the  misbelievers;   fast   sped   the 

bloody  fight; 
Some  ghastly  and  dismembered  lay,  and  some 

half-dead  with  fright : 
Full  sorely  they  repented  that  to  the  field  they 

came. 
For  they  saw  that  firoin  the  battle  they  should 

retreat  with  shame. 

Another  thing  befell  them, —  they  dreamed  not 

of  such  woes, — 
The  very  arrows  that  the  Moors  shot  from  their 

twanging  bows 
Turned  back  against  them  in  their  flight  and 

wounded  them  full  sore. 
And  every  blow  they  dealt  the  foe  was  paid  in 

drops  of  gore. 

Now  he  that  bore  the  crosier,  and  the  papal 
crown  had  on, 

Was  the  glorified  Apostle,  the  brother  of  Saint 
John ;  ' 

And  he  that  held  the  crucifix,  and  wore  the 
monkish  hood. 

Was  the  holy  San  Millan  of  Cogolla's  neigh- 
bourhood. 


FROM  THE  MILAGROfi  DE  NUESTEIA  SENORA. 
INTRODUCTION. 

I,  Go9ZALo  DS  BsRCBo,  in  the  gentle  summer- 
tide. 

Wending  upon  a  pilgrimage,  came  to  a  meadow's 
side : 

AH  green  was  it  and  beautiful,  with  flowers  far 
and  wide, — 

A  pleasant  spot,  I  ween,  wherein  the  traveller 
might  abide. 


636 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


Flowers  with  the  sweetest  odors  filled  all  the 

sunny  air, 
And  not  alone  refreshed  the  sense,  but  Utole  the 

mind  from  care ; 
On  every  side  a  fountain  gushed,  whose  waters 

pure  and  fair, 
Ice-cold  beneath  the  summer  sun,  but  warm  in 

winter  were. 

There  on  the  thick  and  shadowy  trees,  amid  the 

foliage  green, 
Were  the  fig  and  the  pomegranate,  the  pear  and 

apple,  seen ; 
And  other  fruits  of  various  kinds,  the  tufled 

leaves  between : 
None  were  unpleasant  to  the  taste,  and  none 

decayed,  I  ween. 

The  verdure  of  the  meadow  green,  the  odor 

of  the  flowers, 
The  gratefiil  shadows  of  the  trees,  tempered 

with  fragrant  showers. 
Refreshed  me  in  the  burning  heat  of  tl^e  sultry 

noontide  hours: 
O,  one  might  live  upon  the  balm  and  fragrance 

of  those  bowers ! 

Ne'er   had  I  found  on  earth  a  spot  that  had 

such  power  to  please. 
Such  shadows  from  the  summer  sun,  such  odors 

on  the  breeze : 
I  threw  my  mantle  on  the  ground,  that  I  might 

rest  at  ease. 
And  stretched  upon  the  greensward  lay  in  the 

shadow  of  the  trees. 

There  soft  reclining  in  the  shade,  all  cares  be- 
side me  flung, 

I  heard  the  soft  and  tnellow  notes  that  through 
the  woodland  rung: 

Ear  never  listened  to  a  strain,  from  instrument 
or  tongue, 

So  mellow  and  harmonious  as  the  songs  above 
me  sung. 


8AN   MIGUEL   DB   LA   TVMBA. 

San  Miguel  db  la  Tumba  is  a  convent  vast 
and  wide ; 

The  sea  encircles  it  around,  and  groans  on  ev- 
ery side  : 

It  is  a  wild 'and  dangerous  place,  and  many 
woes  betide 

The  monks  who  in  that  burial-plaoe  in  peni- 
tence abide. 

Within  those  dark  monastic  walls,  amid  the 

ocean  flood, 
Of  pious,  fasting  monks  there   dwelt  a  holy 

brotherhood ; 
To  the  Madonna's  glory  there  an  altar  high 

was.placed. 
And  a  rich  and  costly  image  the  sacred  altar 

graced. 


Exalted  high  upon  a  throne,  th^  VirgiB  Mother 

smiled. 
And,  as  the  custom  is,  shd  held  within  her  anna 

the  Child  : 
The  kings  and  wise  men  of  the  East  were 

kneeling  by  her  side : 
Attended  was  she  like  a  queen  whom  God  bad 

sanctified. 


Descending  low  before  her  fiice  a  screen  of 

feathers  hung,  — 
A  moacader^  or  fiin  for  flies,  't  b  called  in  vulgar 

tongue ; 
From  the  feathers  of  the  peacock's  wing  't  was 

feshioned  bright  and  fair. 
And  glistened  like  the  heaven  above  when  all 

its  stars  are  there. 

It  chanced,  that,  for  the  people's  sins,  fell  the 

lightning's  blasting  stroke :  • 
Forth  from  all  four  tfie  sacred  walls  the  flames 

consuming  broke: 
The  sacred  robes- were  all  consumed,  missal  and 

holy  book; 
And  hardly  with  their  lives  the  monks  their 

crumbling  walls  forsook. 

But  though  the  desolating  flame  raged  fearfully 

and  wild. 
It  did  not  reach  the  Virgin  Queen,  it  did  not 

reach  the  Child ; 
It  did  not  reach  the  feathery  acreen  before  her 

face  that  shone. 
Nor  injure  in  a  farthing's  worth  the  image  or 

the  throne. 

Tlie  image  it  did  not  consume^  it  did  not  bam 

the  screen ;  ^ 

Even  in  the  value  of  a  hair  they  were  not  hurt, 

I  ween  : 
Not  even  the  smoke  did  reach  them,  nor  injure 

more  the  shrine 
Than  the  bishop  bight  Don  Tello  has   been 

hurt  by  hand  of  mine. 

Continens  et  conterUum,  ^  all  was  in  ruins  laid ; 

A  heap  of  smouldering  embers  that  holy  pile 
was  made : 

But  where  the  sacred  image  sat,  a  fathom's 
*  length  around. 

The  raging  flame  dared  not  approach  the  con- 
secrated ground. 

It  was  a  wondrous  miracle  to  those  that  thither 

came, 
That  the  image  of  the  Virgin  was  sale  from 

smoke  and  flame, — 
That  brighter  than  the  brightest  star  appeared 

4he  feathery  screen, — 
And  seated  there  the  Child  still  fair,  and  fair 

the  Virgin  Queen. 

The  Virgin  Queen,  the  sanctified,  who  from 

an  earthly  flame 
Preserved  the  robes  that  pious  hands  had  hung 

around  her  frame. 


ALFONSO  X. 


637 


Thui  ftom  an  ever-burning  fire  her  ■errants 

shall  deliver, 
And  lead  them  to  that  high  abode  where  the 

good  are  blessed  for  ever. 


ALFONSO  THE  TENTH,  KING  OF 
CASTILE. 

Alfohso  trx  Txntb,  of  Castile,  was  bom  in 
1221.  He  was  sumamed  d  Sabio,  the  Wise,  or 
rather  the  Learned,  from  his  love  of  science.  He 
sacceeded  to  the  throne  in  1252.  He  was  con- 
sidered the  most  learned  prinoe  of  his  age,  and 
the  collection  of  laws  made  by  him,  called  **  Las 
Siete  Partidas,"  has  given  him  a  lasting  fame. 
He  aspired  to  become  emperor  of  Germany, 
and  his  claims  found  supporters  among  the  Ger- 
man princes ;  but  he  was  defeated  by  Rodolph 
of  Hapsbarg,  and  disavowed  by  the  pope.  He 
was  finally  deposed  by  his  son  Sancho,  in  1282, 
and  died  in  1284.  His  services  to  the  science, 
language,  and  literature  of  Spain  were  impor- 
tant. He  wrote  verses,  some  of  which  are  not 
deficient  in  harmony.  Among  his  other  literary 
services,  he  caused  the  Bible  to  be  translated 
into  Castilian,  and  a  chronicle  of  Spain  to  be 
written.^ 

FROM  THE  LIBRO  DEL  TB90R0. 

Famx  brought  thip  strange  intelligence  to  me, 
That  in  Egyptian  lands  there  lived  a  sage 
Who  read  the  secrets  of  the  coming  age. 

And  could  anticipate  futurity ; 

He  judged  the  stars,  and  all  their  aspects ;  be 
The  darksome  veil  of  hidden   things  with- 
drew, 
Of  unborn  days  the  mysteries  he  knew, 

And  saw  the  future,  as  the  past  we  see. 


An  eager  thirst  for  knowledge  moved  me  then ; 
My  pen,  my  tongue,  were  humbled;  in  that 

hour 
I  laid  my  crown  in  dust :  so  great  the  power 
Of  passionate  desire  o*er  mortal  men ! 
[  sent  my  earnest  prayers,  with  a  proud  train 
Of  messengers,  who  bore  him  generous  meas- 
ures 
Of  honors  and  of  lands,  and  golden  treas- 
ures, — 
Ind  all  in  holy  meekness:  't  was  in  vain! 

!*he  sage  repelled  me\  but  most  courteously : 
**>  Tou  are  a  mighty  monarch.  Sire ;  but  these, 
These  have  no  gift  to  charm,  no  power  to 
please-, — 

ilver  nor  gold,  —  however  bright  they  be. 

ire,  I  mrould  serve  you ;  but  what  profits  me 
That  wealth  which  more  abundantly  is  mine  ? 
Let  yoor  possessions  bless  you,  —  let  them 
shine, 

8  MaTs  prays,  in  all  prosperity.*' 


I  sent  the  stateliest  of  my  ships, — it  sought 
The  Alexandrian  port ;  the  wise  mi^n  passed 
Across  the  Middle  Sea,  and  came,  at  last. 

With  all  the  gentleness  of  friendliest  thought. 

I  studied  wisdom,  and  his  wisdom  taught 
Each  varied  movement  of  the  shifting  sphere : 
He  was  most  dear,  as  knowledge  should  be 
dear; — 

Love,  honor,  are  by  truth  and  wisdom  bought. 

He  made  the  magic  stone,  and  taught  me  too  : 
We  toiled  together  first ;  but  soon  alone 
I  formed  the  marvellous  gold-creating  stone, 

And  oft  did  I  my  lessening  wealth  renew. 

Varied  the  fi>rm  and  fabric,  and  not  few 

This  treasure's  elements, the  simplest; — best 
And  noblest,  here  ingenuously  confessed, 

I  shall  disclose,  in  this  my  verse,  to  you.  - 

And  what  a  list  of  nations  have  pursued 
This  treasure  !  Need  I  speak  of  the  Chaldee, 
Or  the  untired  sons  of  learned  Araby, 

All,  all  in  chase  of  this  most  envied  good,  — 

Egypt  and  Syria,  and  the  tribes  so  rude 

Of  the  Orient,  —  Saracens  and  Indians,  —  all 
Laboring  in  vain,  —  though  oft  the  echoes  fall 

Upon  the  West,  of  their  songs'  amplitude  ? 

If  what  is  passing  now  I  have  foretold 
In  honest  truth  and  calm  sincerity. 
So  will  r  tell  you  of  the  events  to  be 

Without  deception,  —  and  the  prize  I  hold 

Shall  be  in  literary  lore  enrolled  : 

Such  power,  such  empire,  never  can  be  won 
By  ignorance  or  listlessness ;  to  none 

But  to  the  learned  state  my  truths  be  told. 

So,  like  the  Theban  Sphinx,  will  I  propound 
My  mysteries,  and  in  riddles  truth  will  speak  : 
Deem  them  not  idle  words ;  for,  if  you  seek. 

Through  their  flense  darkness,  light  may  oft  be 
found. 

Muse,  meditate,  and  look  in  silence  round ; 
Hold  no  communion  of  vain  language ;  learn 
And  treasure  up  the  lore,  —  if  you  discern 

What  *s  here  in  hieroglyphic  letters  bound. 

My  soul  hath  spoken  and  foretold ;  I  bring 
The  voices  of  the  stars  to  chime  with  mine  : 
He,  who  shall  share  with  me  this  gift  divine. 

Shall  share  with  me  the  privilege  of  a  king. 

Mine  is  no  mean,  no  paltiy  offering  : 
Cupidity  itself  must  be  content 
With  such  a  portion  as  I  here  present,  — 

And  Midas'  wealth  to  ours  a  trifling  thing. 

So  when  our  work  in  this  our  sphere  was  done, 
Deucalion  towered,  sublimely  o'er  the  rest ; 
And  proudly  dominant  he  stood  confessed 

On  the  tenth  mountain; — thence  looked  kind- 
ly on 

The  Sovereign  Sire,  who  ofiered  him  a  crown. 
Or  empires  vast,  for  his  reward  ;  or  gold, 
From  his  vast  treasure,  for  his  heirs,  untold : 

So  bold  and  resolute  was  Deucalion. 
3b 


638 


SPANISH   POETRT. 


I  'II  give  you  honest  couDsel,  if  you  be 
My  kinsman  or  my  countryman  :  if  e*er 
This  gifl  be  yours,  its  treasures  all  confer 

On  him  who  shall  unveil  the  mystery ', 

Offer  him  all,  and  offer  cheerfully, 

And  offer  most  sincerely;  —  weak  and  small 
Is  your  best  offering,  though  you  offer  all : 

Tour  recompense  may  be  eternity. 


JUAN  LORENZO  DE  ASTORGA. 

This  poet  is  supposed  to  have  lived  in  the 
early  part,  or  about  the  middle,  of  the  thirteenth 
century.  He  appears  to  have  been  a  priest. 
The  poem  entitled  **  Poema  de  Alexandro  "  is 
attributed  to  him,  on  the  authority  of  the  lines 
at  the  close  of  it : 

"  Si  quUierdes  saber  quien  e8crdbi6  esto  ditado, 
Johan  Lorenzo  bon  cl^rigo  6  ondndo, 
Segura  d«  Astorga/'  &c. 


FROM  THE  POEMA  D£  ALEXANDRO. 

It  was  the  month  of  May,  in  the  bright  and 
glorious  spring, 

Whefta  the  birds  in  concert  sweet  on  the  bud- 
ding branches  sing ;  • 

When  the  meadows  and  the  plains  are  robed  in 
vesture  green. 

And  the  mateless  lady  sighs,  despairing,  o*er  the 
scene. 

A  gentle  tempting  time  for  loving  hearts  to 

meet; 
For  the  flowers  are, blossoming,  and  the  winds 

are  fresh  and  sweet ; 
And  gathered  in  a  ring,  the  maidens  wear  away, 
In  mirthful  talk  and  song,  the  blithe  and  sunny 

day. 

Soft  fall  the  gentle  dews,  an  unfelt  freshening 

rain. 
The  corn  puts  forth  the  hope  of  harvests  cich 

in  grain ;    . 
The  down -cheeked  stripling  now  is  wedded  to 

his  love, 
And  ladies,  lightly  clad,  in  bounding  dances 

move. 

For  love  o'er  young  and  old  now  holds  its 
mightiest  sway ; 

The  siesta's  hour  to  grace,  they  pluck  the  field- 
flowers  gay. 

While  each  to  other  tells  how'  l6ve  is  ever 
blest. 

But  the  tenderest  suit,  they  own,  b  the  happiest 
and  the  best 

The  day  is  long  and  bright,  the  fields  are  green 
once  more. 

The  birds  have  ceased  to  moult,  and  their  mourn- 
ing time  is  o'er; 


No  hornet  yet  appears,  with  sting  of  v0nom 

keen, 
But  the  youths  in  wrestling  strive,  half  naked, 

on  the  green. 

'T  was  then  that  Alexander,  of  Persia  conqner- 
ing  king. 

Moved  by  the  firagrant  call  of  that  delightful 
spring, 

Throughout  his  wide  domain  proclaimed  a  gener- 
al court. 

And  not  a  lord  o'  th'  land  but  thither  made 
resort 


MOSSEN  JORdI  de  SAN  JORdI. 

This  poet,  who  wrote  in  the  Lemosin  or  Cat- 
alonian  dialect,  probably  lived  at  the  beginning 
of  the  thirteenth  century.  Petrarch  is  suppoised 
to  have  borrowed  from  his  compositions.  An 
instance  is  cited  by  a  writer  in  the  **  Retrospec- 
tive Review,"  (Vol.  IV.  p.  46,  and  p.  47,  note,) 
in  which  the  imitation  is  very  obvious. 


SONG  OF  CONTRARIES. 

From  day  to  day,  I  learn  but  to  unlearn ; 
I  live  to  die ;  my  pleasure  is  my  woe  ; 

In  dreary  darkness  I  can  light  discern  ; 
I'hough  blind,  I  see;  and  all  but  knowledge 
know. 

I  nothing  grasp,  and  yet  the  world  embrace ; 
Though  bound  to  earth,  o'er  highest  heaven  I  fly ; 

With  what 's  behind  I  run  an  untired  race. 
And  break  from  that  which  holds  me  mightily. 

Evil  I  find,  when  hurrying  after  bliss ; 
Loveless,  I  love ;  and  doubt  of  all  I  see  ; 

All  seems  a  dream,  that  most  substantial  is ; 
I  hate  myself,  —  others  are  dear  to  me. 

Voiceless,  I  speak ;  I  hear,  of  hearing  void ; 
My  ay  is  no  ;  truth  becomes  falsehood  strange ; 

I  eat,  not  hungry ;  shift,  though  unannoyeid  ; 
Touch  without  hands ;  and  sense  to  folly  change. 

I  seek  to  soar,  and  then  the  deeper  fall ; 
When  most  I  seem  to  sink,  then  mount  I  still  ; 

Laughing,  I  weep ;  and  waking,  dreams  I  call ; 
And  when  most  cold,  hotter  than  fire  I  feel. 

Perplexed,  I  do  what  I  would  leave  undone ; 
Losing,  I  gain  ;  time  fleetest  slowliest  flows  ; 

Though  free  frodi  pain,  'neath  pain's  attacks  I 
groan ; 
To  craftiest  fox  the  gentlest  lambkin  grows. 

Sinking,  I  rise;  and  dressing,  I  undress; 
The  heaviest  weight  too  lightly  seems  to  Ikll ; 

I  swim,  -^  yet  rest  in  perfect  quietness ; 
And  sweetest  sugar  turns  to  bitterest  gall. 

The  day  is  night  to  me,  —  and  darknesa  day ; 
The  time  that 's  past  is  present  to  my  thought ; 

Strength  becomes  weakness ;  hard  ia  softest 
clay ; 
I  linger,  wanting  what  I  wanted  not 


{ 


SAN  JORDf JUAN   MANUEL. 


639 


I  stand  anmoved,  — yet  never,  never  stop ; 
And  what  I  seek  not,  that  beseta  me  wholly ; 

The  man  I  trust  not  is  my  firmest  prop ; 
The  low  is  high,  —  the  high  runs  ever  lowly. 

I  chase  what  I  can  never  hope  to  gain ; 
What 's  weak  aa  sand-rope  looks  like  firmest 
I  ground ; 

The  whirlpool  seems  a  fi>anta]n*s  surface 
plain, 
And  virtue  but  a  weak  and  empty  sound. 

My  songs  are  but  an  infiint's  uttering  slow  ; 
Disgusting  in  my  eyes  is  all  that 's  fair ; 

I  turn,  because  I  know  not  where  to  go ; 
I  'm  not  at  peace,  but  cannot  war  declare. 

And  thus  it  is,  and  such  is  my  dark  doom, 
And  so  the  world  and  so  all  nature  fleets. 

And  I  am  curtained  in  the  general  gloom  ; 
And  I  must  live,  —  deceived  by  these  deceits. 

TORN  ADA. 

Let  each  apply  what  may  to  each  belong. 
And  by  these  rules  contrarious  wisely  steer ', 

For  right   oft   flows   from  darkness-covered 
wrong. 
And  good  may  spring  from  seeming  evil  here. 


DON  JUAN  MANUEL. 

This  distinguished  prince  and  author  was 
born  in  1280.  He  served  Alfonso  the  Eleventh, 
who  appointed  him  governor  of  the  Moorish 
frontiers.  He  carried  on  the  war  against  the 
Moors  for  twenty  years,  and  gained  many  victo- 
ries.    He  died  in  1347. 

His  most  important  work  is  "  £1  Conde  Luca- 
nor,"  which  may  be  regarded  not  only  as  the 
finest  monument  of  Spanish  prose  in  the  four- 
teenth century,  but,  indeed,  as  the  first  success- 
ful essay  in  that  department  of  Spanish  litera- 
ture. It  is  a  work  of  moral  and  political  phi- 
losophy, illustrated  in  a  series  of  forty-nine 
moral  tales.  He  wrote,  besides,  a  "  Cn5nica  de 
Espatla,"  the  *«Libro  del  Caballero,"  the  «' Li- 
bre de  los  Sabioa,**  and  a  collection  of  poems. 
It  18  a  contested  point  whether  the  following 
ballad  belongs  to  this  poet  or  to  a  Portuguese 
writer  of  the  same  name. 

BALLAD.' 

Ai.1.  alone  the  knight  is  wandering. 

Crying  with  a  heavy  tone  ; 
Clad  in  dark  funereal  garments. 

Lined  with  serge,  he  walks  alone. 
To  the  dreary,  trackless  mountains 

He  retires  to  weep  and  mourn, — 
Barefoot,  lonely,  and  deserted. 

Swearing  never  to  return. 
Where  the  voice  of  lovely  woman 

Might  betray  him  to  forget 
Her^  whose  ever-blessed  memory 

Lfives  within  his  heart-shrine,  yet, — 


Her,  who,  promised  to  his  passion. 

Ere  he  had  possessed  her,  died  ! 
Now  he  seeks  some  desert  country, 

There  in  darkness,  to  abide. 
In  a  distant,  gloomy  mountain. 

Where  no  human  beings  dwell. 
There  he  built  a  house  of  sadness. 

Sadder  than  the  thoughts  can  tell. 
Of  a  yellow  wood  he  built  it. 

Of  a  wood  that  's  called  despair ;  ^ 
Black  the  stone  that  formed  the  dwelling. 

Black  the  blending  mortar  there. 
Roof  he  raised  of  gloomy  tilings 

O'er  the  beams  of  ebony ; 
Sheets  of  lead  he  made  his  flooring. 

Heavy  as  his  misery. 
Leaden  were  the  doors  he  sculptured,  — 

His  own  chisel  carved  the  door ;  * 
His  own  weary  fingers  scattered 

Faded  vine-leaves  on  the  floor. 
He  who  makes  his  home  with  sorrow 

Should  not  fly  to  joy's  relief: 
Here,  in  this  dark,  dolorous  mansion. 

Dwelt  he,  votary  of  grief. 
Discipline  is  his,  severer 

Than  the  mouths  of  stern  Paular ; 
And  his  bed  was  made  of  tendrils. 

And  bis  food  those  tendrils  are ; 
And  his  drink  is  tears  of  sorrow. 

Which  soon  turned  to  tears  again  : 
Once  a  day  he  ate, — once  only, — 

Sooner  to  be  freed  from  pain. 
Like  the  wood  the  walls  he  painted,-— 

Like  that  dark  and  yellow  wood; 
There  a  cloth  of  ^Ik  suspended. 

White  as  snow  in  solitude ; 
And  an  alabaster  altar 

Even  before  that  emblem  stood ', 
There  a  taper  of  bitumen 

O'er  the  altar  fiuntly  moved. 
And  the  image  of  his  lady, 

Qf  the  lady  that  he  Ibved, 
There  he  placed :  her  form  of  silver, 

And  her  cheeks  of  crystal  clear, 
Clad  in  robes,  of  silvery  damask. 

Such  as  richest  maidens  wear ; 
Next  a  snow-white  convent-garment. 

And  a  flounce  of  purest  white. 
Covered  o'er  with  moons,  whose  brightness 

Shed  a  chaste  and  gentle  light ; 
On  her  head  a  royal  coronet, 

Such  as  honored  monarchs  see, — 
T  was  adorned  wk"  chestnut-branches 

Gathered  from  the  chestnut-tree  : 
Mark !  beneath  that  word  mysterious 

Hidden  sense  m.  y  chance  to  be,  — 
Chestnut-branches  may  betoken. 

May  betoken  chastity.* 
Two-and-twenty  years  the  maiden 

Lived,— and  died  so  fiiir,  so  young : 
Tell  me  how  such  youth  and  beauty 

Should  in  fitting  words  be  sung ; 


>  Deaegpemr.     *  Ca$tafiatj  chestnuts,— ea«ta,  chaste. 


640 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


Tell  me  how  to  sing  his  sorrow, 

Who  thus  mourned  his  perished  maid:  — 
There  he  lived  in  woe  and  sileifce, 

With  her  image  end  her  shade. 
Pleasure^from  his  house  he  banished, 

While  he  welcomed  pain  and  woe : 
.  They  shall  dwell  with  him  for  ever, 

They  from  him  shall  never  go. 


JUAN  RUIZ  DE  HITA. 

JiTAN  Ruiz,  ardpreste^  or  arch-priest,  of  Hita, 
flourished  about  1343.  The  place  of  his  birth 
is  uncertain,  though  there  is  some  reason  to 
suppose  that  he  may  have  been  a  native  of  Al- 
caic. He  seems  to  have  travelled,  for  he  speaks 
of  having  been  at  the  court  of  Rome.  The 
Latin  poets  were  fiimiliar  to  him,  particularly 
Ovid,  whom  he  repeatedly  quotes.  He  died 
about  1^51.  He  is  remarkable  for  having  in- 
troduced a  variety  of  metres  into  Spanish  poe- 
try ;  and  his  works,  consisting  of  six  or  seven 
thousand  verses,  are  distinguished  for  invention 
and  wit,  and  abound  in  poetical  expression  and 
animated  figures. 

PRAISE  OF  LrrrLE  WOlttEN. 

I  WISH  to  make  my  sermon  brief,  —  to  shorten 
my  oration, — 

For  a  never-ending  sermon  is  my  utter  detesta- 
■     tion: 

I  like  short  women,  — suits  at  law  without  pro- 
crastination, — 

And  am  always  most  delighted  with  things  of 
short  duration. 

A  babbler  is  a  laughing-stock ;  he  's  a  ft>ol  who 's 

always  grinning ; 
But  little  women  love,  so  much,  one  falls  in 

love  with  sinning. 
There  are  women  who  are  very  tall,  and  yet 

not  worth  the  winning. 
And  in  the  change  of  short  for  long  repentance 

finds  beginning. 

To  praise  the  little  women  Love  besought  me 
in  my  rousing ; 

To  tell  their  noble  qualities  is  quite  beyond  re- 
fusing : 

So  I  Ml  praise  the  little  women,  and  you  Ml  find 
the  thing  amusing ;  - 

.They  are,  I  know,  as  cold  as  snow,  whilst  flames 
around  diffusing. 

They  're  cold  without,  whilst  warm  within  the 

flame  of  Love  is  raging ; 
They  're  gay  and  pleasant  in  the  street, —  soft, 

cheerful,  and  engaging ; 
They  're   thrifty  and  ^iscreet  at  home,  —  the 

cares  of  life  assuaging: 
All  this  and  more  j  —  try,  and  you  'U  find  how 

true  is  my  presaging. 


In  a  little  precious  stone,  what  splendor  meet* 
the  eyes ! 

In  a  little  lump  of  sugar  how  much  of  sweet- 
ness lies ! 

So  in  a  little  woman  love  grows  and.  multiplies : 

You  recollect  the  proverb  says, — 'Ji  word  wUo 
the 


A  pepper-corn  is  very  small,  but  seasons  every 

dinner  * 
More  than  all  other  condiments,  although  't  is 

sprinkled  thinner : 
Just  so  a  little  woman  is,  if  Love  will  let  yon 

win  her,  — 
There  's  not  a  joy  in  all  the  world  you  will  not 

find  within  her. 

And  as  within  the  little  rose  you  find  the  rich- 
est 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  dis- 
plays, 

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  thrillin|r  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. 

There 's  naught  can  be  compared  to  her,  tbrongh- 

•     out  the  wide  creation  ; 
She  is  a  paradise  on  earth, — oasi  greatest  coo- 

solation,  — 
So  cheerftil,  gay,  and  happy,  so  free  from  all 

vexation  : 
In  fine,  she  *s  better  in  the  proof  than  in  antici- 

pation. 

If  as  her  size  increases  are  woman's  charms 

decreased, 
Then  surely  it  is  good  to  be  from'  all  the  great 

released. 
Jfoto  of  tiDO  emls  choose  the  less,  —  said  a  wise 

man  of  the  East : 
By  consequence,   of  woman-kind   be  sui^   to 

choose  the  least. 


JUAN   RUIZ.  — SANTOB. 


641 


inrMN  TO  THE  VIRGIN. 

Thou  Flower  of  Flowers !  I  Ml  follow  thee, 
And  sing  th j  praise  unweariedlj  : 
Best  of  the  best !  O,  maj  I  ne'er 
From  thy  pure  service  flee ! 

Lady '.  to  thee  I  turn  my  eyes, 
Od  thee  my  trusting  hope  relies; 
O,  let  thy  spirit,  smiling  here, 
Chase  my  anxieties ! 

Most  Holy  Virgin  !  tired  and  &int, 
I  pour  my  melancholy  plaint ; 
Tet  lift  a  tremulous  thought  to  thee, 
Even  'midst  mortal  taint 

Thou  Ocean-Star  !  thou  Port  of  Joy ! 
From  pain,  and  sadness,  and  aonoy, 
O,  rescue  me !  O,  comfort  me. 
Bright  Lady  of  the  Sky  ! 

Thy  mercy  is  a  boundless  mine ; 
Freedom  from  care,  and  life  are  thine  : 
He  recks  not,  faints  not,  fears  not,  who 
Trusts  in  thy  power  divine. 

I  am  the  slave  of  woe  and  wrong. 
Despair  and  darkness  guide  my  song ; 
Do  thou  avail  me,  Virgin  !  thou 
Waft  my  weak  bark  along ! 


LOVB. 

LovK  to  the  slowest  subtilty  can  teach. 
And  to  the  dumb  give  fair  and  flowing  speech  ; 
It  makes  the  coward  daring,  and  the  dull 
And  idle  diligent  and  promptness-full. 

It  makes  youth  ever  youthful ;  takes  from  age 
The  heavy  burden  of  time's  pilgrimage; 
Gives  beauty  to  deformity;  is  seen 
To  value  what  is  valueless  and  mean. 

Enamoured  once,  however  vile  and  rude. 
Each  seems  to  each  all-wise,  all-fair,  all-good, 
Brightest  of  nature's  works,  and  loveliest : 
Desire,  ambition,  covet  not  the  rest 

Love  spreads  its  misty  veil  o'er  all,  and  when 
Dne  sun  is  fled,  another  dawns  again  ; 
But  valor  may  'gainst  adverse  fate  contend, 
is  the  hardest  fruit  is  ripened  in  the  end. 


RABBI   DON  SANTOB,  OR  SANTO. 

This  poet,  a  Jew  by  birth,  flourished  about 
360.  His  name  is  not  known,  bnt  he  seems 
>  have  received  the  title  of  Santo  by  way  of 
ODor;  *«  perhaps,"  says  Sanches,  **for  his 
loral  virtues  and  his  learning."  He  is  sup- 
osed  to  have  been  either  a  native  or  a  resident 
f  Carrion. 

81 


THE  DANCE  OF  DEATH. 

HxRX  begins  the  general  dance,  in  which  it 
is  shown  how  Death  gives  advice  to  all,  that 
they  should  take  due  account  of  the  brevity  of 
life,  and  not  to  value  it  more  highly  than  it  de. 
serves ;  and  this  he  orders  and  requires,  that 
they  see  and  hear  attentively  what  wise  preach- 
ers tell  them  and  warn  them  from  day  to  day, 
giving  them  good  and  wholesome  counsel  that 
they  labor  in  doing  good  works  to  obtain  pardon 
of  their  sins,  and  showing  them  by  experience ; 
who,  he  says,  calls  and  requires  from  all  classes, 
whether  they  come  willingly  or  unwillingly ; 
and  thus  beginfilng :  — 

Lo !  I  am  Death !    With  aim  as  sure  as  steady. 
All  beings  that  are  and  shall  be  I  draw  near 
me. 
I  call  thee,  —  !  require  thee,  man,  be  ready ! 
Why  build  upon  this  fragile  life?  —  Now 

hear  me ! 
Where  is  the  power  that  does  not  own  me, 
fear  me  ? 
Who  can  escape  me,  when  I  bend  my  bow  ? 
I  pull  the  string,  —  thou  liest  in  dust  below. 
Smitten  by  the  barb  my  ministering  angels 
bear  me. 


Come  to  the  dance  of  Death !    Come  hither, 
even 
The  last,  the  lowliest,  —  of  all  rank  and  sta- 
tion ! 
Who  will  not  come  shall  be  by  scourges  driv- 
en: 
I  hold  no  parley  with  disinclination. 
List  to  yon  friar  who  preaches  of  salvation. 
And  hie  ye  to  your  penitential  post ! 
For  who  delays,  —  who  lingers,  —  he  is  lost. 
And  handed  o'er  to  hopeless  reprobation. 


1   to  my   dance  —  my    mortal    dance — have 
brought 
Two  nymphs,  all  bright  in  beauty  and  in 
bloom. 
They  listened,  fear-struck,  to  my  songs,  me- 
thought ; 
And,  truly,  songs  like  mine  are  tinged  with 

gloom. 
But  neither  roseate  hues  nor  flowers'  perfbme 
Will  now  avail  them, — nor  the  thousand  charms 
Of  worldly  vanity ;  —  they  fill  ray  arms,  — 
They  are  my  brides,  —  their  bridal  bed  the 
tomb. 


And  since  't  is  certain,  then,  that  we  must  die, — 
No  hope,  no  chance,  no  prospect  of  redress, — 

Be  it  our  constant  aim  unswervingly 

To  tread  God's  narrow  path  of  holiness : 
For  he  is  first,  last,  midst.    O,  let  us  press 

Onwards !  and  when  Death's  monitory  glance 

Shall  summon  us  to  join  his  mortal  dance. 
Even  then  shall  hope  and  joy  our  footsteps 
bless. 

3b* 


642 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


BALLADS. 


I.— -HISTORICAL    BALLADS. 


LAMENTATION   OF  DON   RODERICK. 

e  

The  hosts  of  Don  Rodrigo  were  scattered  in 

dismay,— 
When  lost  was  the  eighth  battle,  nor  heart  nor 

hope  had  they  ^ 
He,  when  he  saw  that  field  wa8*lo8t,  and  all  his 

hope  was  flown, 
He  turned  him  from  his  flying  host,  and  took 

his  way  alone. 

His  horse  was  bleeding,  blind,  and  lame,  —  he 

could  no  farther  go ; 
Dismounted,  without  path   or   aim,  the   king 

stepped  to  and  fro : 
It  was  a  sight  of  pity  to  look  on  Roderick, 
For,  sore  athirst  and  hungry,  be  staggered,  fiiint 

aod  sick. 

All  stained  and  strewed  with  dust  and  blood, 
like  to  some  smouldering  brand 

Plucked  from  the  flame,  Rodrigo  showed :  —  his 
sword  was  in  his  hand. 

But  it  was  hacked  inlo  a  saw  of  dark  and  pur- 
ple tint  \ 

His  jewelled  mail  had  many  a  flaw,  hia  helmet 
many  a  dint 

He  climbed   unto  a  hill-top,   the  highest  he 

could  see ; 
Thence  all  about  of  that  wide  rout  his  last  long 

look  took  be : 
He   saw   his   royal   banners,  where   they  lay 

drenched  and  torn  ; 
He  heard  the  cry  of  victory,  the  Arab's  shout 

of  scorn. 

He  looked  for  the  brave  captains  that  led  the 

hosts  of  Spain, 
But  all  were  fled  except  the  dead,  —  and  who 

could  count  the  slain  ? 
Where'er  his  eye  could  wander,  all  bloody  was 

the  plain, 
And,  while  thus  be  said,  the  tears  he  shed  run 

down  his  cheeks  like  rain  :  — 

"Last  night  I  was  the  king  of  Spain, — to-day 

no  king  am  I ; 
Last  night  fiiir  castles  held  my  train,  —  to-night 

where  shall  I  lie  ? 
Last  night  a  hundred  pages  did  serve  me  on  the 

knee, — 
To-night  not  one  I  call  mine  own,  not  one 

pertains  to  me. 

"  O,  luckless,  luckless  was  the  hour,  and  cursed 

was  the  day, 
When  I  was  bom  to  have  the  power  of  this 

great  seigniory ! 


Unhappy  me,  that  I  should  see  the  sun  go  down 

to-night  1 
O  Death,  why  now  so  slow  art  thou  ?  why  fear- 

est  thou  to  smite  ?  " 


MARCH  OF  BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO. 

With  three  thousand  men  of  Leon,  from  the 
city  Bernard  goes, 

To  protect  the  soil  Hispanian  from  the  spear  of 
Frankish  foes, — 

From  the  city  which  is  planted  in  the  midat  be- 
tween the  seas. 

To  preserve  the  name  and  glory  of  old  Pelayo'a 
victories. 

The  peasant  hears  upon  his  field  the  trumpet  of 
the  knight,  — 

He  quits  his  team  for  spear  and  shield  and  gar-  ;| 
niture  of  might ; 

The  shepherd  hears  it  'mid  the  mist, — he  fltng- 
eth  down  his  crook. 

And  rushes  from  the  mountain  like  a  tempest- 
troubled  brook. 

The  youth  who  shows  a  maiden's  chin,  whose 
brows  have  ne'er  been  bound 

The  helmet's  heavy  ring  within,  gains  manhood 
from  the  sound ; 

The  hoary  sire  beside  the  fire  forgets  his  feeble- 
ness,    . 

Once  more  to  feel  the  cap  of  steel  a  warrior's 
ringlets  press. 

As  through  the  glen  his  spears  did  gleam,  these 
soldiers  from  the  hills. 

They  swelled  his  host,  as  mountain-stream  re- 
ceives the  roaring  rills ; 

They  round  his  banner  flocked,  in  ecom  of 
haughty  Charlemagne, 

And  thus  upon  their  swords  are  sworn  the  fiiitb- 
ful  sons  of  Spain :  — 

"Free  were  we  bom,"  't  is  thna   they  cry, 

<'  though  to  our  king  we  owe 
The  homage  and  the  fealty  behind  hia  crest  to 

By  God's  behest  our  aid  he  shares,  but  <}od  did 

ne'er  command 
That  we  should  leave  our  children  heirs  of  an 

enslaved  land. 

"  Our  breasts  are  not  so  timorous,  nor  are  oar 

arms  so  weak. 
Nor  are  our  veins  so  bloodless,  that  we  our  vow 

should  break. 


HISTORICAL   BALLADS. 


643 


To  sell  oar  freedom  for  the  fear  of  prince  or 

paladin ; 
At  least,  we  'U  sell  oar  birthright  dear,  —  no 

bloodless  prize  they  '11  win. 

<<  At  least,  King  Charles,  if  Ood  decrees  he  must 

be  lord  of  Spain, 
Shall  witness  that  the  Leonese  were  not  aroused 

in  vain ; 
He  shall  bear  witness  that  we  died  aa  lived  our 

sires  of  old,  — 
Nor  only  of  Numantium's  pride  shall  minstrel 

tales  be  told. 

*<  The  Lion  that  hath  bathed  his  paws  in  seas 

of  Lybian  gore. 
Shall  he  not  battle  for  the  laws  and  liberties  of 

yore? 
Anointed  cravens  may  give  gold  to  whom  it 

likes  them  well. 
But  steadfast    heart  and   spirit  bold   Alfonso 

ne'er  shall  sell." 


BAVIECA. 

Thk  king  looked  on  him  kindly,  as  on  a  yassal 
true; 

Then  to  the  king  Ruy  Diaz  spake,  after  rever- 
ence due : 

"  O  King,  the  thing  is  shamefbl,  that  any  man, 
beside 

The  liege  lord  of  Castile  himself,  should  Bavie- 
ca  ride : 

"  For  neither  Spain  nor  Araby  could  another 

charger  bring 
So  good  as  he ;  and,  certes,  the  bes|  befits  my 

king. 
But  that  you  may  behold  him,  and  know  him 

to  the  core, 
I  'II  make  him  go  as  he  was  wont  when  his 

nostrils  smelt  the  Moor." 

With  that,  the  Cid,  clad  as  he  was  in  mantle 

furred  and  wide. 
On  Bavieca  vaulting,  put  the  rowel  in  his  side ; 
And   up  and  down,  and  round  and  round,  so 

fierce  was  his  career, 
Streamed  like  a  pennon  on  the  wind  Ruy  Diaz' 

minivere. 

And  all  that  saw  them  praised  them, — they 

lauded  man  and  horse. 
As  matched  well,  and  rivalless  for  gallantry  and 

force ; 
Ne'er  had  they  looked  on  horseman  might  to 

this  knight  come  near. 
Nor  on  other  charger  worthy  of  such  a  cavalier. 

Thus  to  and  fro  a-rushing,  the  fierce  and  furi- 
ous steed. 

He  snapped  in  twain  his  hither  rein  :  —  ^*  God 
pity  now  the  Cid !  — 


God  pity  Diaz !  "  cried  the  lords;  —  but  when 
they  looked  again. 

They  saw  Ruy  Diaz  ruling  him  with,  the  frag- 
ment of  his  rein ; 

They  saw  him  proudly  ruling  with  gesture  firm 
and  calm. 

Like  a  true  lord  commanding, — and  obeyed  as 
by  a  lamb. 

And  so  he  led  him  foaming  and  panting  to  the 

king:  — 
But  *«No!"    said   Don   Alfonso,  *«it   were  a 

shameful  thing 
That  peerless  Bavieca  should  ever  be  bestrid 
By  any  mortal  but  Bivar ; —  mount,  mount  again, 

my  Cid!" 


THE  POUNDER. 

Thk  Christiana  have  beleagured  the  famous 
walls  of  Xeres : 

Among  them  are  Don  Alvar  and  Don  Diego 
Perez, 

And  many  other  gentlemen,  who,  day  succeed- 
ing day. 

Give  challenge  to  the  Saracen  and  all  his  chiv- 
alry. 

When  rages  the  hot  battle  before  the  gates  of 

Xeres, 
By  trace  of  gore  ye  may  explore  the  dauntless 

path  of  Perez : 
No  knight  like  Don  Diego, — no  sword  like  his 

is  found 
In  all  the  host,  to  hew  the  boast  of  paynims  to 

the  ground. 

It  fell,  one  day,  when  furiously  they  battled  on 

the  plain, 
Diego  shivered  both  his  lance  and  trusty  blade 

in  twain  : 
The  Moors  that  saw  it  shouted ;  for  esquire  none 

was  near. 
To  serve  Diego  at  his  need  with  falchion,  mace, 

or  spear. 

Loud,  loud  he  blew  his  bugle,  sore  troubled  was 

his  eye. 
But  by  God's  grace  before  his  face  there  stood 

a  tree  full  nigh, — 
An  olive-tree  with  branches  strong,  close  by 

the  wall  of  Xeres :  — 
"  Ton  goodly  bough  will  serve,  I  trow,"  quoth 

Don  Diego  Perez. 

A  gnarled  branch  he  soon  did  wrench  down 

from  that  olive  strong, 
Which  o'er  his  headpiece  brandishing,  he  spurs 

among  the  throng : 
God  wot,  full  many  a  pagan  must  in  his  saddle 

reel!  — 
What  leech  may  cure,  what  beadsman  shrive, 

if  once  that  weight  ye  feel  ? 


644 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


But  when  Don  Alvar  saw  him  thus  braiBing 

down  the  foe, 
Quoth  he,  **  I  've  seen  tome  flail-armed  man 

belabor  barley  so  ;  — 
Sure,  mortal  mould  did  ne*er  infold  such  mas* 

tery  of  power : 
Let 's  call  Diego  Peres  tbs  PouvDfeB,  firom  this 

hour." 


THE  DEATH  OF  DON  PEDRO. 


Hkhrt  and  King  Pedro,  clasping. 
Hold  in  straining  arms  each  other ', 

Tugging  hard,  and  closely  grasping. 

Brother  proTes  his  strength  with  brother. 

Harmless  pastime,  sport  fhitemal. 
Blends  not  thus  their  limbs  in  striib; 

Either  aims,  with  rage  infernal. 
Naked  dagger,  sharpened  knife. 

Close  Don  Henry  grapples  Pedro, 
Pedro  holds  Don  Henry  strait,  — 

Breathing,  this,  triumphant  fury, 
That,  despair  and  mortal  hate. 


Sole  spectator  of  the  straggle. 
Stands  Don  Henry's  page  afar, 

In  the  chase  who  bore  his  bugle. 
And  who  bore  his  sword  in  war. 

Down  they  go  in  deadly  wrestle, 
Down  upon  the  earth  they  go ; 

Fierce  King  Pedro  has  the  vantage, 
Stout  Don  Henry  falls  below. 

Marking  then  the  fatal  crisis. 
Up  the  page  of  Henry  ran. 

By  the  waist  he  caught  Don  Pedro, 
Aiding  thus  the  fallen  man. 

**^  King  to  place,  or  to  depose  him, 
Dwelleth  not  in  my  desire  ; 

But  the  duty  which  he  owes  him 
To  his  master  pays  the  squire." 

Now  Don  Henry  has  the  upmost. 
Now  King  Pedro  lies  beneath ; 

In  his  heart  his  brother's  poniard 
Instant  finds  its  bloody  sheath. 

Thus  with  mortal  gasp  and  quiver. 
While  the  blood  in  bubbles  welled. 

Fled  the  fiercest  soul  that  ever 
In  a  Christian  bosom  dwelled. 


II.— ROMANTIC  BALLADS. 


COUNT  ARNALDOS. 

Who  had  ever  such  adventure. 

Holy  priest,  or  virgin  nun. 
As  befell  the  Count  Arnaldos 

At  the  rising  of  the  sun  ? 

On  his  wrist  the  hawk  was  hooded. 
Forth  with  horn  and  hound  went  he. 

When  he  saw  a  stately  galley 
Sailing  on  the  silent  sea. 

Sail  of  satin,  mast  of  cedar, 

Burnished  poop  of  beaten  gold,  — 

Many  a  morn  you  '11  hood  your  iklcon. 
Ere  you  such  a  bark  behold. 

Sails  of  satin,  masts  of  cedar. 
Golden  poops  may  come  again ; 

But  mortal  ear  no  more  shall  listen 
To  yon  gray-haired  sailor's  strain. 

Heart  may  beat,  and  eye  may  glisten. 
Faith  is  strong,  and  Hope  is  free ; 

But  mortal  ear  no  more  shall  listen 
To  the  song  that  rales  the  sea. 

When  the  gray-haired  sailor  chanted. 
Every  wind  was  hushed  to  sleep, — 

Like  a  virgin's  bosom  panted 
All  the  wide  reposing  deep. 


Bright  IB  beanty  rose  the  starfish 
From  her  green  cave  down  below, 

Right  above  the  eagle  poised  him,  — 
Holy  music  chamed  them  so. 

uSutely  galley!  glorious  galley  ! 

God  hath  poured  his  grace  on  thee  ! 
Thou  alone  may'st  scora  the  perils 

Of  the  dread,  devouring  sea ! 

"  False  Almeria's  reefs  and  shallows, 
Black  Gibraltar's  giant  rocks, 

Sound  and  sandbank,  gulf  and  whirlpool. 
All, — my  glorious  galley  mocks  !  " 

it  For  the  sake  of  God,  our  Maker !  " — 
Couiit  Araaldos'  cry  was  strong,  — 

M  Old  man,  let  me  be  partaker 
In  the  secret  of  thy  song !  " 

*(  Count  Arnaldos  !  Count  Araaldos ! 

Hearts  I  read,  and  thoughts  I  know ; — 
Wouldst  thou  learn  the  ocean  secret. 

In  our  galley  thou  must  go." 


THE  ADMIRAL  GUARINOS. 

Tbs  day  of  Roncesvalles  was  a  dismal  day  fiw 

you. 
Ye  men  of  France !  fbr  there  the  lance  of  King 

Charles  was  broke  in  two : 


ROMANTIC  BALLADS. 


645 


Ye  well  maj  cune  that  rueful  field ',  for  meny  a 
Doble  peer, 

In  fray  or  fight,  the  duet  did  bite,  beneath  Ber- 
nardo's spear. 

There  captured  was  Guarinos,  Sling  Charles's 

admiral ; 
Seven  Moorish  kings  surrounded  him,  and  seized 

him  for  their  thrall : 
Seven  times,  when  all  the  ehaae  waa  o*er,  for 

Guarinos  lots  they  cast ; 
Seven  times  Marlotea  won  the  throw,  and  the 

knight  was  his  at  last. 

Much  joy  had  then  Marlotes,  and  his  captive 

much  did  prize ; 
Above  all  the  wealth  of  Araby,  he  waa  precious 

in  his  eyes. 
Within  his  tent  at  OTenii^  be  made  the  best  of 

cheer, 
And  thus,  the  banquet  done,  he  spake  unio  his 

prisoner  :•— 

('Now,  for  the  sake  of  Alia,  Lord  Admiral  Gaa- 
rinos, 

Be  thou  a  Moslem,  and  much  loye  shall  ever 
rest  between  us  : 

Two  daughters  hare  I  ;^-all  the  day  thy  hand- 
maid one  shall  be ; 

The  other — and  the  fkirer  far — by  night  shall 
cherish  thee. 

(*  The  one  shall  be  thy  waiting-maid,  thy  weary 

feet  to  lave. 
To  scatter  perfumes  on  thy  head,  and  fetch  thee 

garments  brave ; 
The  other — she  the  pretty — shall  deck  her 

bridal  bower. 
And  my  field  and  my  city  they  both  ahall  be 

her  dower. 


"If  more  thou  wishest,  more  I  *]1  give;  speak 

boldly  what  thy  thought  is." 
Thus  earnestly  and  kindly  to  Guarinos  said 

Marlotes. 
But  not  a  moment  did  he  take  to  ponder  or  to 

pause ; 
Thus  clear  and  quick  the  answer  of  the  Chria- 

tian  captain  was :  — 

*(  Now,  God  forbid,  Marlotes,  ^-  and  Mary,  his 

d.ear  Mother,  — 
That  I  should  leave  the  fidth  of  Christ  and  bind 

me  to  another ! 
Por  women,  —  I  've  one  wife  in  France,  and 

I  'II  wed  no  more  in  Spain  : 
[  change  not  faith,  I  break  not  vow,  for  courtesy 

or  gain." 

iVroth    waxed  King  Marlotes,  when  thus  he 

heard  him  say, 
Ind  all  for  ire  commanded  he  should  be  led 

nwray,— - 
Lway  unto  the  dungeon-keep,  beneath  its  vaults 

to  lie, 
Vith   fetters  bound  in  darkness  deep,  fiir  off 

from  sun  and  sky.       ^ 


With  iron  bands  they  bound  hia  hands :  that 
sore,  unworthy  plight 

Might  well  express  his  helplessness,  doomed 
never  more  to  fight. 

Again,  from  cincture  down  to  knee,  long  bolts 
of  iron  he  bore, 

Which  signified  the  knight  should  ride  on  char- 
ger never  more. 

Three  times  alone,  in  all  the  year,  it  is  the  cap- 
tive's doom 

To  see  God's  daylight  bright  and  clear,  instead 
of  dungeon-gloom ; 

Three  times  alone  they  bring  him  out,  like 
Samson  long  ago, 

Before  the  Moorish  rabble-rout  to  be  a  sport 
and  show. 

Ob  three  high  foasts  they  bring  him  forth,  a 

spectacle  to  be,  — 
The  fbast  of  Pasque,  and  the  great  day  of  the 

Nativity, 
And  on  that  mom,  more  solemn  yet,  when 

maidens  strip  the  bowers. 
And  gladden  mosque   and   minaret  with   the 

iLrstlings  of  the  flowers. 

Days  come  and  go  of  gloom  and  show :  seven 

years  are  come  and  gone  ; 
And  now  doth  foil  the  fisstival  of  the  holy  B^ 

tist  John ; 
Christian  and  Moslem  tilts  and  jousts,  to  give 

it  homage  due. 
And  rushes  on  the  paths  to  spread  they  force 

the  sulky  Jew. 

Marlotes,  in  his  joy  and  pride,  a  target  high 

doth  rear, — 
Below  the  Moorish  knights  must  ride  and  pierce 

it  with  the  spear ; 
But  *t  is  so  high  up  in  the  sky,  albeit  much  they 

strain. 
No  Moorish   lance  so  far  may  fly,  Marlotes' 

prize  to  gain. 

Wroth  waxed  King  Marlotes,  when  he  beheld 

them  fail ; 
The  whisker  trembled  on  his  lip,  —  his  cheek 

for  ire  was  pale ; 
And  heralds  proclamation  made,  with  trumpets, 

through  the  town,-^ 
*^  Nor  child  shall  suck,  nor  man  shall  eat,  till 

the  mark  be  tumbled  down." 

The  cry  of  proclamation,  and  the  trumpet's 
haughty  sound. 

Did  send  an  echo  to  the  vault  where  the  ad- 
miral was  bound  : 

**  Now  help  me,  God '. "  the  captive  cries ;  **  what 
means  this  din  so  loud  ? 

O  Queen  of  Heaven,  be  vengeance  given  on 
these  thy  haters  proud  ! 

•(  O,  is  it  that  some  pagan  gay  doth  Marlotes' 

daughter  wed. 
And  that  they  bear  my  scorned  fair  in  triumph 

to  his  bed  ? 


646 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


Or  IB  it  that  the  daj  is  come, —  one  of  the  hate- 
ful three, — 

When  they,  with  trumpet,  fife,  and  drum,  make 
heathen  gvne  of  me  ?  " 

These  words  the  jailer  chanced  to  hear,  and 
thus  to  him  he  said  : 

(( These  tabours.  Lord,  and  trumpets  clear,  con- 
duct no  bride  to  bed ; 

Nor  has  the  feast  come  round  again,  when  he 
that  has  the  right 

Commands  thee  forth,  thou  foe  of  Spain,  to  glad 
the  people's  sight ! 

'*  This  is  the  joyful  morning  of  John  the  Bap- 
tist's day. 

When  Moor  and  Christian  feasts  at  home,  each 
in  his  nation's  way } 

But  now  our  king  commands  that  none  his  ban- 
quet shall  begin. 

Until  some  knight,  by  strength  or  sleight,  the 
spearsman's  prize  do  win." 

Then  out  and  spake  Guarinos :  **  O,  soon  each 

man  should  feed. 
Were  I  but  mounted  once  again  on  my  own 

gallant  steed  ! 
O,  were  I  mounted  as  of  old,  and  harnessed 

cap-a-pie. 
Full  soon  Marlotes'  prize  I  'd  hold,  whatever  its 

price  may  be ! 

**  Give  me  my  horse,  mine  old  gray  horse,— so 

be  he  is  not  dead,  — 
All  gallantly  caparisoned,  with  plate  on  breast 

and  head ; 
And  give  the  lance  I  brought  fVom  France ;  and 

if  I  win  it  not. 
My  life  shall  be  the  forfeiture,  —  I  '11  yield  it 

on  the  spot." 

The  jailer  wondered  at  his  words  :  thus  to  the 

knight  said  he : 
"  Seven  weary  years  of  chains  and  gloom  have 

little  humbled  thee ; 
There  's  never  a  man  in  Spain,  I  trow,  the  like 

so  well  might  bear ; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  I  with  thy  vow  will  to  the 

king  repair." 

The  jailer  put  his  mantle  on,  and  came  unto 

the  king ; 
He  found  him  sitting  on  the  throne,  within  his 

listed  ring : 
Close  to  his  ear  he  planted  him,  and  the  story 

did  begin. 
How  bold  Guarinos  vaunted  him  the  spearman's 

prize  to  win : 

That,  were  be  monnted  but  once  more  on  his 

own  gallant  gray. 
And  armed  with  the  lance  he  bore  on  Ronces- 

valles'  day. 
What  never  Moorish  knight  could  pierce,  he 

would  pierce  it  at  a  blow. 
Or  give  with  joy  his  life-blood  fierce  at  Mar- 

lotes'  feet  to  flow. 


Much  marvelling,  then  said  the  king :  ^  Bring 

Sir  Guarinoe  forth. 
And  in  the  grange  go  seek  ye  for  his  gray  steed 

of  worth ; 
His  arms  are  rusty  on  the  wall ;  —  seven  years 

have  gone,  I  judge. 
Since  that  strong  horse  has  bent  his  force  to  be 

a  carrion  drudge. 

^^  Now  this  will  be  a  sight  indeed,  to  see  the 
enfeebled  lord 

Essay  to  mount  that  ragged  steed  and  draw 
that  rusty  sword ; 

And  for  the  vaunting  of  his  phrase  he  well  de- 
serves to  die : 

So,  jailer,  gird  his  harness  on,  and  bring  yoor 
champion  nigh." 

They  have  girded  on  his  shirt  of  mail,  his  cois- 

ses  well  they  've  clasped. 
And  they  've  barred  the  helm  on  his  visage  pale, 

and  his  hand  the  lance  hath  grasped ; 
And  they  have  caught  the  old  gray  horse,  the 

horse  he  loved  of  yore, 
And  he  stands  pawing  at  the  gate,  caparisoned 

once  more. 

When  the  knight  came  out,  the  Moors  did 
shout,  and  loudly  laughed  the  king. 

For  the  horse  he  pranced  and  capered  and  fu- 
riously did  fling : 

But  Guarinos  whispered  in  his  ear,  and  looked 
into  his  face ; 

Then  stood  the  old  charger  like  a  Iamb,  with  a 
calm  and  gentle  grace. 

O,  lightly  did  Guarinos  vault  into  the  saddle- 
tree. 

And,  slowly  riding  down,  made  halt  before  Mar- 
lotes'  knee : 

Again  the  heathen  laughed  aloud:  **A11  hail. 
Sir  Knight !  "  quoth  he ; 

<*  Now  do  thy  best,  thou  champion  proud  !  thy 
blood  I  look  to  see ! " 

With  that,  Guarinos,  lance  in  rest,  against  the 

scoffer  rode. 
Pierced  at  one  thrust  his  envious  breast,  and 

down  his  turban  trode. 
Now  ride,  now  ride,  Guarinos,  —  nor  lance  nor 

rowel  spare, — 
Slay,  slay,  and  gallop  for  thy  life :  the  land  of 

France  lies  there  ! 


COUNT  ALARCOS  AND  THE  INFANTA 
SOLISA. 

Alohs,  as  was  her  wont,  she  sat, — within  her 

bower  alone ; 
Alone  and  very  desolate,  Solisa  made  her  moan  : 
Lamenting  for  her  flower  of  life,  that  it  should 

pass  away. 
And  she  be  never  wooed  to  wife,  nor  see  a 

bridal  day. 


ROMANTIC   BALLADS. 


647 


Thus  said  the  sad  Infanta:  (*I  will  not  hide 

my  grief; 
I  '11  tell  my  father  of  my  wrong,  and  he  will 

yield  relief." 
The  king,  when  he.heheld  her  near,  ** Alas! 

my  child,"  said  he, 
*'  What  means  this  melancholy  cheer? — reveal 

thy  grief  to  me." 

**  Good  King,"  she  said,  *'my  mother  was  bur- 
ied long  ago ; 

She  led  me  to  thy  keeping ;  none  else  my  gnef 
shall  know: 

I  fain  would  have  a  husband,  —  't  is  time  that  I 
should  wed ; 

Forgive  the  words  I  utter,- —  with  mlckle  shame 
they  *re  said." 

T  was  thus  the  king  made  answer :  <'  This  fault 

is  none  of  mine,  — 
You  to  the  prince  of  Hungary  your  ear  would 

not  incline ; 
Yet  round  us  here  where  lives  your  peer, — 

nay,  name  him  if  you  can,  •— 
Except  the  Count  Alarcoa  ?  and  he  'a  a  married 

man." 

**  Ask  Count  Alarcos,  if  of  yore  his  word  he 
did  not  plight 

To  be  my  husband  evermore,  and  love  me  day 
and  night; 

If  he  has  bound  him  in  new  vows,  old  oaths  he 
cannot  break : 

Alas !  I  *ve  lost  a  loyal  spouse,  for  a  false  lov- 
er's sake." 

The  good  king,  sat  confounded  in  silence  for 
some  space ; 

At  length  he  made  his  answer,  with  very  trou- 
bled face : 

**  It  was  not  thus  your  mother  gave  counsel  you 
should  \lo ; 

You  *ve  done  much  wrong,  my  daughter ;  we  're 
shamed,  both  I  and  you. 

**  If  it  be  true  that  you  have  said,  our  honor  'a 

lost  and  gone  j 
And  while  the  countess  is  in  life,  remeed  for  us 

is  none : 
Though  justice  were  upon  our  side,  ill  talkers 

would  not  spare ;  — 
Speak,  daughter,  for  your  mother 's  dead,  whose 

counsel  eased  my  care." 

**  How  can  I  give  you  counsel  ?  —  but  little  wit 
have  I ; 

But,  certes,  Count  Alarcos  may  make  this  count- 
ess die  : 

Let  it  be  noised  that  sickness  cut  short  her  ten- 
der life. 

And  then  let  Count  Alarcoe  come  and  ask  me 
for  his  wife. 

What  passed  between  na  long  ago,  of  that  be 
nothing  said ; 

Thus  none  shall  our  dishonor  know,— -in  honor 
I  shall  wed." 


The  count  was  standing  with  his  friends, — thus 

in  the  midst  he  spake : 
**  What  fools  be  men !  —  what  boots  our  pain 

for  comely  woman's  sake  ? 
I  loved  a  fair  one  long  ago;  —  though  I  'm  a 

married  man. 
Sad  memory  I  can  pe'er  forego  how  life  and 

love  began." 

While  yet  the  count  was  speaking,  the  good 

king  came  full  near ; 
He  made  his  salutation  with  very  courteous 

cheer : 
»« Come  hither.  Count  Alarcos,  and  dine  with 

me  this  day. 
For  I  have  something  secret  I  in  your  ear  must 

say. 

The  king  came  from  the  chapel,  when  he  had 

heard  the  mass ; 
With  him  the  Count  Alarcos  did  to  his  chamber 

pass; 
Full  nobly  were  they  served  there  by  pages 

many  a  one ; 
When  all  were  gone,  and  they  alone,  't  was 

thus  the  king  begun :  — 

**  What  news  be  these,  Alarcos,  that  you  your 

word  did  plight 
To  be  a  husband  to  my  child  and  love  her  day 

and  night  ? 
If  more  between  you  there  did  pass,  yourself 

may  know  the  truth ; 
But  shamed  is  my  gray  head,  alas !  and  scorned 

Solisa's  youth. 

"  I  have  a  heavy  word  to  speak :  a  lady  fiiir 

doth  lie 
Within  my  daughter's  rightful  place,  and,  certes, 

she  must  die : 
Let  it  be  noised  that  sickness  cut  short  her 

tender  lifb ; 
Then  come  and  woo  my  daughter,  and  she  shall 

be  your  wifo. 
What  passed  between  you  long  ago,  of  that  be 

nothing  said ; 
Thus  none  shall  my  dishonor  know,  —  in  honor 

you  shall  wed." 

Thus  spake  the  Count  Alarcos:    "The  truth 

I  '11  not  deny,  — 
I  to  the  Infanta  gave  my  troth,  and  broke  it 

shamefully ; 
I  feared  my  king  would  ne'er  consent  to  give 

me  his  fair  daughter. 
But,  O,  spare  her  that  'a  innocent !  —  avoid  that 

sinful  slaughter ! " 

"She  dies!  she  dies!"  the  king  replies;  — 
"  from  thine  own  sin  it  springs, 

If  guiltless  blood  must  wash  the  blot  that  stains 
the  blood  of  kings ; 

Ere  morning  dawn  her  4ife  must  end,  and  thine 
must  be  the  deed,  — 

Else  thou  on  shameful  block  must  bend  :  there- 
of is  no  remeed." 


648 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


*«  Crood  King,  my.  hand  thou  may'st  command, 

else  treason  biota  my  name : 
I  '11  take  the  life  of  my  dear  wife. — God !  mine 

be  not  the  blame !  — i 
Alas !  that  young  and  sinless  heart  for  others' 

sin  should  bleed ! 
Good  King,  in  sorrow  I  depart."     "  May  God 

your  errand  speed !  ** 

In  sorrow  he  departed,  dejectedly  he  rode 

The  weary  journey  from  that  place  unto  bis 
own  abode : 

He  grieved  for  his  fair  countess,  —  dear  as  his 
life  was  she ; 

Sore  grieved  he  for  that  lady,  and  for  his  chil- 
dren three. 

The  one  was  yet  an  infant  upon  its  mother's 
breast, — 

For  though  it  had  three  nurses,  it  liked  her 
milk  the  best ; 

The  others  were  young  children,  that  had  but 
little  wit. 

Hanging  about  their  mother's  knee  while  nurs- 
ing she  did  sit. 

^*  Alas  !  "  he  said,  when  he  had  come  within  a 

little  space,  — 
**  How  shall  I  brook  the  cheerful  look  of  my 

kind  lady's  face  ? 
To  see  her  coming  forth  in  glee  to  meet  me  in 

my  hall, 
When  she  so  soon  a  corpse  must  be,—- and  I 

the  cause  of  all !  " 

Just  then  he  saw  her  at  the  door  with  dl  her 

babes  appear 
(The  little  page  had  run  before  to  tell  his  lord 

was  near) : 
**  Now  welcome  home,  my  lord,  my  life !  — 

Alas  !  you  droop  your  head  ! 
Tell,  Count  Alarcos,  tell  your  wifb,  what  makes 

your  eyes  so  red  ?  " 

«« I  '11  tell  you  a]l,_  I  '11  tell  you  all ;  it  is  not 

yet  the  hour ; 
We  '11  sup  together  in  the  hall, -^  I  '11  tell  you 

in  your  bower." 
The  lady  brought  forth  what  she  had,  and  down 

beside  him  sat ; 
He  sat  beside  her  pale  and  sad,  but  neither 

drank  nor  ate. 

The  children  to  his  side  were  led, —  he  loved 

to  have  them  so; 
Then  on  the  board  he  laid  his  head,  and  out 

his  tears  did  flow  : 
**  I  fain  would  sleep,  —  I  fain  would  sleep,"  the 

Count  Alarcos  said : 
Alas !  be  sure,  that  sleep  was  none  that  night 

within  their  bed. 

They  came  together  to  the  bower  where  they 

were  used  to  rest,  — 
None  with  them  but  the  little  babe  that  was 

upon  the  breast : 


The  count  had  barred  the  chamber-doors, — 
they  ne'er  were  barred  till  then : 

<*  Unhappy  lady,"  he  began, «« and  I  most  lost 
of  men ! " 

'*  Now  speak  not  so,  my  noble  lord,  my  hus- 
band, and  my  life ! 

Unhappy  never  can  she  be  that  is  Alarcos' 
wife." 

'*Alas!  unhappy  lady,  'tis  but  little  that  yon 
know; 

For  in  that  very  word  you  've  said  is  gathered 
all  your  woe. 

*^Long  since  I  loved  a  lady,  —  long  since  I 

oaths  did  plight 
To  be  that  lady's  husband,  to  love  her  day  and 

night; 
Herfiitheris  our  lord  the  king, — to  him  the 

thing  is  known ; 
And  now  that  I  the  news  should  bring !  she 

claims  me  for  her  own. 

<<  Alas !  my  love ! — alas  !  my  life  !  —  the  right 

is  on  their  side  ; 
Ere  I  had  seen  your  face,  sweet  wifb,  she  was 

betrothed  my  bride ; 
But,  O,  that  I  should  speak  the  word  !  —  since 

in  her  place  you  lie. 
It  b  the  bidding  of  our  lord  that  you  this  night 

must  die." 

'<  Are  these  the  wages  of  my  love,  so  lowly  and 

BO  leal  ? 
O,  kill  me  not,  thou  noble  Count,  when  at  thy 

foot  I  kneel ! 
But  send  me  to  my  father's  house,  where  once 

I  dwelt  in  glee  ; 
There  will  I  live  a  lone,  chaste  life,  and  rear 

my  children  three." 

(^  It  may  not  be,  —  mine  oath  is  strong,  —  ere 

dawn  of  day  you  die !  " 
^*  O,  well  't  is  seen  how  all  alone  open  the 

earth  am  I !  — 
My  father  is  an  old,  frail  man, — my  mother  *s 

in  her  grave,  — 
And  dead   is  stout  Don   Garci,  —  alas  !   my 

brother  brave ! 

^  'T  was  at  this  coward  king's  command  they 

slew  my  brother  dear, 
And  now  I  'm  helpless  in  the  land  :  it  is  not 

death  I  fear ; 
But  loth,  loth  am  I  to  depart,  and  leave  my 

children  so ;  •— 
Now  let  me  lay  them  to  my  heart,  and  kiss 

them  ere  I  go." 

«'  Kiss  him  that  lies  upon  thy  breast,  —  the  rest 

thou  may'st  not  see." 
<«I  ftin  would  say  an  096."     *<Then  say  it 

speedily." 
She  knelt  her  down  upon  her  knee :  «*  O  Lord, 

behold  my  case ! 
Judge  not  my  deeds,  but  look  on  me  in  pity  and 

great  grace !  " 


MOORISH   BALLADS. 


649 


.When  she  had  made  her  oriBon,  up  from  her 

koeea  she  rose :  — 
^  Be  kind,  Alarcos,  to  our  babes,  and  pray  fyr 

my  repose ; 
And  now  give  me  my  boy  oDce  more  upon  my 

breast  to  bold, 
That  he  may  drink  one  farewell  drink,  before 

mj  breast  be  cold.'* 

*^  Why  woald  you  waken  the  poor  child  f  you 

see  be  ia  asleep ; 
Prepare,  dear  wife, — there  is  no  time,  —  the 

dawn  begins  to  peep." 
"  Now  bear  me.  Count  Alarcos !  I  give  thee 

pardon  free, 
I  pardon  thee  for  the  love's  sake  wherewith 

I  've  loved  thee ;  — 

**  But  they  have  not  my  pardon,  the  king  and 

his  proud  daughter; 
The  curse  of  God  be  on  them,  for  this  unchfis- 

tian  slaughter ! 
I  charge  them  with  my  dying  breath,  ere  thirty 

days  be  gone. 
To  meet  me  in  the  realm  of  death,  and  at  €k>d*s 

awful  throne ! " 


He  drew  a  kerchief  round  her  neck,  he  drew  it 
tight  and  strong, 

Until  she  lay  quite  stiff  and  cold  her  chamber- 
floor  along ; 

He  laid  her  then  within  the  sheets,  and,  kneel- 
ing by  her  side. 

To  God  and  Mary  Mother  in  misery  he  cried. 

Then  called  he  for  his  esquires :  —  O,  deep  was 

their  dismay. 
When  they  into  the  chamber  came,  and  saw  her 

how  she  lay. 
Thus  died  she  in  her  innocence,  a  lady  void  of 

wrong; 
But   God  took   heed   of  their  offence,  —  his 

vengeance  stayed  not  long. 

Within  twelve  days,  in  pain  and  dole,  the  In- 
fanta passed  away ; 

The  cruel  king  gave  up  his  soul  upon  the  twen- 
tieth day  ; 

Alarcos  followed,  ere  the  moon  had  made  her 
round  complete  : 

Three  guilty  spirits  stood  right  soon  before 
God's  judgment>seat« 


IIL  — MOORISH    BALLADS. 


THE  LAMENTATION  FOR  CELIN. 

At  the  gate  of  old  Granada,  when  all  its  bolts 
are  barred, 

A.t  twilight,  at  the  Vega-gate,  there  is  a  tram- 
pling heard ; 

There  is  a  trampling  heard,  as  of  horses  tread* 
ing  slow, 

Lnd  a  weeping  voice  of  women,  and  a  heavy 
sound  of  woe !  — 

What  tower  is  fallen  ?  what  star  is  set  ?  what 
chief  come  these  bewailing  ?  " 

A  tower  is  fallen !  a  star  is  set!— -Alas!  alas 
for  Celin  ! " 

hree  times  they  knock,  three  times  they  cry^—* 

and  wide  the  doors  they  throw ; 
ejectedly  they  enter,  and  mournfully  they  go ; 
I  gloomy  lines  they  mustering  stand  beneath 

the  hollow  porch, 
ich  horseman  grasping  in  his  hand  a  black  and 

flaming  torch  ; 
et  is  each  eye  as  they  go  by,  and  all  aroand 

ia  wailing,  — 
r  all  have  heard  the  misery,  —  **Alas!  alas 

for  Celin ! " 

n  yesterday  a  Moor  did  s]ay,of  Bencerrage's 
blood,  —^ 

ivas  at  the  solemn  jousting, — around  the 
nobles  stood; 

i  nobles  of  the  land  were  by,  and  ladies 
bright  and  fair 

•ked  from  their  latticed  windows,  the  haugh- 
ty sight  to  share : 


Bat  now  the  nobles  all  lament,  —  the  ladies  are 

bewailing,  — 
For  he  was  Granada's  darling  knight,-— *<  Alas ! 

alas  for  Celin  !  " 

Before  him  ride  his  vassals,  in  order  two  by 

two. 
With  ashes  on  their  turbans  spread,  most  pitiful 

to  view ; 
Behind  him  his  four  sisters,  each  wrapped  in 

sable  veil. 
Between  the  tambour's  dismal  strokes  take  up 

their  doleful  tale ; 
When  stops  the  muffled  drum,  ye  hear  their 

brotherless  bewailing. 
And  all  the  people,  far  and  near,  cry,  —  **  Alas ! 

alas  for  Celin !  " 

O,  lovely  lies  he  on  the  bier,  above  the  purple 

pall. 
The  flower  of  all  Granada's  youth,  the  loveliest 

of  them  all ! 
His  dark,  dark  eyes  are  closed,  his  rosy  lip  is 

pale, 
The  crust  of  blood  lies  black  and  dim  upon  his 

burnished  mail ; 
And  evermore  the  hoarse  tambour  breaks  in 

npon  their  wailing,  — 
Its  sound  is  like  no  earthly  sound,  —  "Alas! 

alas  for  Celin  !  " 

The  Moorish  maid  at  the  lattice  stands,  —  the 

Moor  stands  at  his  door ; 
One  maid  is  wringing  of  her  hands,  and  one  is 

weeping  sore ; 

So 


650 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


Down  to  the  dust  men  bow  their  heads,  and 

ashes  black  they  strew 
Upon   their   broidered    garments,   of  crimson, 

green,  and  blue } 
Before  each  gate  the  bier  stands  still,  —  then 

bursts  the  loud  bewailing, 
From  door  and  lattice,  high  and  low, — "Alas! 

alas  for  Celin  !  " 

An  old,  old  woman  cometh  forth,  when  she 

hears  the  people  cry,  — 
Her  hair  is  white  as  silver,  like  horn  her  glazed 

eye; 
'T  was  she  that  nursed  him  at  her  breast,  — that 

nursed  him  long  ago  : 
She  knows  not  whom  they  all  lament,  but  soon 

she  well  shall  know  ! 
With  one  deep  shriek,  she  through  doth  break, 

when  her  ears  receive  their  wailing,  «— 
"  Let  me  kiss  my  Celin,  ere  I  die !  —  Alas !  alas 

for  Celin ! " 


THE   BULL-FIGHT  OF  6AZUL. 

Kino  Almahzor  of  Granada,  he  hath  bid  the 

trumpet  sound, 
-He  hath  summoned  all  the  Moorish  lords  from 

the  hills  and  plains  around ; 
From  Vega  and  Sierra,  from  Betis  and  Xenil, 
They  have  come  with  helm  and  cuirass  of  gold 

and  twisted  steel. 

'T  is  the  holy  Baptist's  feast  they  hold  in  roy- 
alty and  state. 

And  they  have  closed  the  spacious  lists,  beside 
the  Alhambra's  gate ; 

In  gowns  of  black  with  silver  laced,  within  the 
tented  ring. 

Eight  Moors  to  fight  the  bull  are  placed,  in 
presence  of  the  king. 

Eight  Moorish  lords,  of  valor  tried,  with  stalwart 

arm  and  true, 
The  onset  of  the  beasts  abide,  as  they  come 

rushing  through  : 
The  deeds  they  've  done,  the  spoils  they  've 

won,  fill  all  with  hope  and  trust ; 
Yet,  ere  high  in  heaven  appears  the  sun,  they 

all  have  bit  the  dust ! 

Then  sounds  the  trumpet  clearly,  then  clangs 
the  loud  tambour : 

Make  room,  make  room  for  Gazul !  —  throw 
wide,  throw  wide  the  door  ! — 

Blow,  blow  the  trumpet  clearer  still !  more  loud- 
ly strike  the  drum  !  — 

The  alcayde  of  Algava  to  fight  the  bull  doth 


And  first  before  the  king  he  passed,  with  rev- 
erence stooping  low ; 

And  next  he  bowed  him  to  the  queen,  and  the 
Infantas  all  a-row ; 


Then  to  his  lady's  grace  he  turned,  and  she  to 

him  did  throw 
A  scarf  fi-om  out  her  balcony  was  whiter  than 

the  snow. 

With  the  life-blood  of  the  slaughtered  lords  all 

slippery  is  the  sand. 
Yet  proudly  in  the  centre  hath  Gazul  ta*en  his 

stand ; 
And  ladies  look  with  heaving  breast,  and  lords 

with  anxious  eye  : 
But  firmly  he  extends  his  arm,  —  hia  look  b 

calm  and  high. 

Three  bulls  against  the  knight  are  loosed,  and 

two  come  roaring  on  : 
He  rises  high  in  stirrup,  forth  stretching   his 

rejon; 
Each  f(irious  beast  upon  the  breast  he  deals  him 

such  a  blow. 
He  blindly  totters  and  gives  back  acroes  the 

sand  to  go. 

'*Turn,  Gazul,  —  turn!"  the  people  cry:  the 

third  comes  up  behind  ; 
Low  to  the  sand  his  head  holds  he,  his  nostrils 

snuff  the  wind ;  — 
The  mountaineers  that  lead  the  steers  without 

stand  whispering  low, 
**  Now  thinks  this  proud  alcayde  to  stun  Har- 

pado  so  ?  " 

From  Guadiana  comes  he  not,  be  comes  not 

from  Xenil, 
From  Guadalarif  of  the  plain,  or  Barvee  of  the 

hill; 
But  where  from  out  the  forest  bnrst  Xarama*s 

waters  clear. 
Beneath  the  oak-trees  was  he  nursed, — this 

proud  and  stately  steer. 

Dark  is  his  hide  on  either  side,  but  the  blood 

within  doth  boil. 
And  the  dun  hide  glows,  as  if  on  fire,  aa  he 

paws  to  the  turmoil : 
His  eyes  are  jet,  and  they  are  set  in  crystal 

rings  of  snow ; 
But  now  they  stare  with  one  red  glare  of  bnsa 

upon  the  foe. 

Upon  the  forehead  of  the  bull  the  horns  stand 
close  and  near, — 

From  out  the  broad  and  wrinkled  skull  like 
daggers  they  appear ; 

Hia  neck  is  massy^  like  the  trunk  of  some  old, 
knotted  tree. 

Whereon  the  monster's  shsgged  mane,  like  bil- 
lows curled,  ye  see. 

His  legs  are  short,  his  hams  are  thick,  his  hooft 

are  black  as  night. 
Like  a  strong  flail  he  holds  his  tail  in  fierceness 

of  his  might ; 
Like  something  molten  out  of  iron,  or  hewn 

from  forth  the  rock, 
Harpado  of  Xarama  stands,  to  bide  the  alcayde's 

shock. 


MOORISH  BALLADS. 


651 


Now  stops  the  dram :  close,  close  they  come ; 

tbricd  meet,  and  thrice  give  back ; 
The  white  foam  of  Harpado  liei  on  the  cbarger'a 

breast  of  black,  — 
The  white  foam  of  the  charger  on  Harpado'a 

front  of  dun ;  ^ 
Ooce  more  advance  npon   his  lance, — once 

more,  thou  fearless  one ! 

Once  more,  once  more! — in  dust  and  gore  to 
ruin  must  thou  reel !  ^- 

In  vain,  in  vain  thou  tearest  the  sand  with  fu- 
rious heel ! — 

In  vain,  in  vain,  thou  noble  beast!  —  I  see,  I 
see  thee  stagger ! 

Now  keen  and  cold  thy  neck  must  hold  the 
stern  alcayde's  dagger ! 

They  have  slipped  a  noose  around  his  feet,  six 

hones  are  brought  in. 
And  away  they  drag  Harpado  with  a  loud  and 

joyful  din. 
Now  stoop  thee,  lady,  from  thy  stand,  and  the 

ring  of  price  bestow 
Upon  Oazul  of  Algava,  that  hath  laid  Harpado 

low! 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  ANDALLA. 

<*  Risk  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa!  lay  the.  golden  cush- 
ion down ; 
Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with 
all  the  town ! 

From  gay  guitar  and  violin  the  silver  notes  are 
flowing, 

And  the  lovely  lute  doth  speak  between  the 
trumpet's  lordly  blowing ; 

And  banners  bright  from  lattice  light  are  wav- 
ing everywhere. 

And  the  tall,  tall  plume  of  our  cousin's  bride- 
groom floats  proudly  in  the  air : 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa !  lay  the  golden  cushion 
down ; 

Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with 
all  the  town ! 

*  Arise,  arise,  Xarifa !  I  see  Andalla*8  face, — 
Ele  bends  him  to  the  people  with  a  calm  and 

princely  grace; 
Through   all  the  land  of  Xeres  and  banks  of 

Guadalquivir 
lode  forth  bridegroom  so  brave  as  he,  so  brave 

and  lovely,  never. 
Ton  tall  plume  waving  o'er  his  brow,  of  purple 

mixed  with  white, 
guess  't  was  wreathed  by  Zara,  whom  he  will 

'wed  to-night, 
.ise  ap,  rise  up,  Xarifa !  lay  the  golden  cushion 

dovirn; 
iae  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with 

all  the  town ! 


*(  What  aileth  thee,  Xarifa  ?  —  what  makes  thine 
eyta  look  down .' 

Why  stay  ye  from  the  window  far,  nor  gaze 
with  all  the  town  ? 

I  've  heard  you  say,  on  many  a  day, — and,  sure, 
you  said  the  truth,  — 

Andalla  rides  without  a  peer  among  all  Grana- 
da's youth. 

Without  a  peer  he  rideth,  —  and  yon  milk-white 
horse  doth  go. 

Beneath  his  stately  master,  with  a  stately  step 
and  slow : 

Then  rise,  O,  rise,  Xarifa,  lay  the  golden  cush- 
ion down ; 

Unseen  here  through  the  lattice,  you  may  gaze 
with  all  the  town  !  '* 

The  Zegri  lady  rose  not,  nor  laid  her  cushion 

down, 
Nor  came  she  to  the  window  to  gaze  with  all 

the  town ; 
But  though  her  eyes  dwelt  on  her  knee,  in  vain 

her  fingers  strove,  — 
And  though  her  needle  pressed  the  silk,  no 

flower  Xarifk  wove : 
One  bonny  rose-bud  she  had  traced,  before  the 

noise  drew  nigh ; 
That  bonny  bud  a  tear  effaced,  slow  drooping 

from  her  eye. 
^^  No,  no !  "  she  sighs,  —  ^*  bid  me  not  rise,  nor 

lay  my  cushion  down. 
To  gaze   upon  Andalla  with  all   the  gazing 

town ! " 

**  Why  rise  ye  not,  Xarifa,  nor  lay  your  cush- 
ion down  ? 
Why  gaze  ye  not,  Xarifa,  with  all  the  gazing 

town? 
Hear,  hear  the  trampet  how  it  swells,  and  how 

the  people  cry ! 
He  stops  at  Zara's  palace-gate  ;  —  why  sit  ye 

sUll,  — 0,why?" 
^  At  Zara's  gate  stops  Zara's  ma'te ;  in  him  shall^ 

I  discover 
The  dark-eyed  youth  pledged  me  his  truth  with 

tears,  and  was  my  lover  ? 
I  will  not  rise,  with  weary  eyes,  nor  lay  my 

cushion  down. 
To  gaze  on  false  Andalla  with  all  the  gazing 

town ! " 


WOE   IS  ME,   ALHAMA!* 

Thx  Moorish  king  rides  up  and  down 
Through  Granada's  royal  town  ; 
From  Elvira's  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 


*  Tba  elftct  of  tha  original  ballad—  which  existed  both 
In  Spanish  and  Arabic  — was  such,  that  it  was  forbidden  to 
be  sung  bj  the  Moors,  within  Granada,  on  pain  of  death. 


652 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


Letters  to  the  monarch  tell 
How  Alhama's  city  fell ; 
In  the  fire  the  scroll  he  threw, 
And  the  messenger  he  slew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

He  quits  his  mule,  and  mounts  his  horse, 
And  through  the  street  directs  his  course ; 
Through  the  street  of  Zacatin 
To  the  Alhambra  spurring  in. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

When  the  Alhambra  walU  he  gained, 
On  the  moment  he  ordained 
That  the  trumpet  straight  should  sound 
With  the  silver  clarion  round. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  when  the  hollow  drums  of  war 
Beat  the  loud  alarm  afar, 
That  the  Moors  of  town  and  plain 
Might  answer  to  the  martial  strain,  — 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

Then  the  Moors,  by  this  aware 
That  bloody  Mars  recalled  them  there, 
One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 
To  a  mighty  squadron  grew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

Out  then  spake  an  aged  Moor 
In  these  words  the  king  before  : 
«>  Wherefore  call  on  us,  O  King? 
What  may  mean  this  gathering  ?  " 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

**  Friends  !  ye  have,  alas !  to  know 
Of  a  most  disastrous  blow,  — 
That  the  Christians,  stern  and  bold, 
Have  obtained  Alhama's  hold.'* 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Out  then  spake  old  Alfaqui, 
With  his  beard  so  white  to  see  : 
"  Good  King,  thou  art  justly  served,  — 
Good  King,  this  thou  hast  deserved. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

**  By  thee  were  slain,  in  evil  hour. 
The  Abencerrage,  Granada's  flower ; 
And  strangers  were  received  by  thee. 
Of  Cdrdova  the  Chivalry. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  And  for  this,  O  King,  is  sent 
On  thee  a  double  chastisement : 
Thee  and  thine,  thy  crown  and  realm. 
One  last  wreck  shdl  overwhelm. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  He  who  holds  no  laws  in  awe. 
He  must  perish  by  the  law  ; 
And  Granada  roust  be  won. 
And  thyself  with  her  undone." 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 


Fire  flashed  from  out  the  old  Moor's  eyes ; 
The  monarch's  wrath  began  to  rise, 
Because  he  answered,  and  because 
He  spake  exceeding  well  of  laws. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  \ 

'<  There  is  no  law  to  say  such  things 
As  may  disgust  the  ear  of  kings  "  :  •— 
Thus,  snorting  with  his  choler,  said 
The  Moorish  king,  and  doomed  him  dead. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

Moor  Alfaqui  !  Moor  Alfaqui ! 
Though  thy  beard  so  hoary  be. 
The  king  hath  sent  to  have  thee  seized. 
For  Alhama's  loss  displeased ;  — 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  to  fix  thy  head  upon 
High  Alhambra's  loftiest  stone  : 
That  this  for  thee  should  be  the  law, 
And  others  tremble  when  they  saw. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

*^  Cavalier  !  and  man  of  worth  ! 
Let  these  words  of  mine  go  forth ; 
Let  the  Moorish  monarch  know. 
That  to  him  I  nothing  owe. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

**  But  on  my  soul  Alhama  weighs. 
And  on  my  inmost  spirit  preys ; 
And  if  the  king  his  land  hath  lost. 
Yet  others  may  have  lost  the  meet. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

**  Sires  have  lost  their  children,  —  wives. 
Their  lords,  —  and  valiant  men,  their  lives  ; 
One  what  best  his  love  might  claim 
Hath  lost,  —  another,  wealth  or  fiune. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  I 

«*  I  lost  a  damsel  in  that  hour. 
Of  all  the  land  the  loveliest  flower ; 
Doubloons  a  hundred  I  would  pay. 
And  think  her  ransom  cheap  that  day." 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  as  these  things  the  old  Moor  said. 
They  severed  from  the  trunk  his  head ; 
And  to  the  Alhambra's  wall  with  speed 
'T  was  carried,  as  the  king  decreed. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

And  men  and  infants  therein  weep 
Their  loss,  so  heavy  and  so  deep ; 
Granada's  ladies,  all  she  rears 
Within  her  walls,  burst  into  tears. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  from  the  windows  o'er  the  walls 
The  sable  web  of  mourning  falls ; 
The  king  weeps  as  a  woman  o'er 
His  loss,  —  for  it  is  much  and  sore. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 


JUAN  II— SANTILLANA. 


653 


POETS  OF  THE  CANCIONEROS. 


^^t0^^t^0^f^0^ 


JUAN  n.,  KING  OF  CASTILE. 

The  reign  of  this  king  extended  firom  1407 
to  1454.  Aa  a  monarch,  he  displayed  but  little 
energy;  yet  his  taste  for  letters  attracted  the 
most  distinguished  poets  to  his  court.  Juan  de 
Mena  was  his  chronicler ;  and  song-writing 
was  the  fashionable  pastime  of  his  courtiers. 


I  NEVER  KNEW  IT,  LOYB,  ULL  NOW. 

I  HK*KR  imagined,  Love,  that  thou 
Wert  such  a  mighty  one  ;  at  will, 

Thou  canst  both  fiuth  and  conscience  bow, 
And  thy  despotic  law  fulfil : 

I  never  knew  it.  Love,  till  now. 

I  thought  I  knew  thee  well,  —  I  thought 

That  I  thy  mazes  had  explored ; 
But  I  within  thy  nets  am  caught. 

And  now  I  own  thee  sovereign  lord. 
I  ne'er  imagined,  Love,  that  thou 

Wert  such  a  mighty  one ;  at  will. 
Thou  bidd'st  both  faith  and  conscience  bow, 

And  thy  despotic  law  fulfil : 
I  never  knew  it.  Love,  till  now. 


LOFE  DE  MENDOZA,  MARQUES  DE 
SANTILLANA. 

This  distinguished  nobleman  and  poet  was 
bom  in  1398.-  He  exercised  great  influence  in 
public  affairs,  and  united  with  the  business  of 
state  the  cultivation  of  poetry.  His  letter  on 
the  ancient  poets  of  Spain  is  highly  valued 
for  its  learning  and  sound  criticism.  He  was 
created  Marques  de  Santillana  aAer  the  battle 
of  Olmedo,  in  1445,  his  marquisate  being  the 
second  in  Castile.     He  died  in  1458. 


SONO. 

First  shall  the  singing  spheres  be  dumb, 

And  cease  their  rolling  motion, 
Alecto  pitiful  become. 

And  Pluto  move  devotion, 
Ere  to  thy  virtues,  printed  deep 

Within  my  heart,  I  prove 
Thoughtless,  or  leave  thine  eyes  to  weep. 

My  soul,  my  life,  my  love  ! 

Successful  Cssar  first  shall  cease 

To  fight  for  an  ovation, 
And  force  defenced  Priamidea 

To  sign  a  recantation. 


Ere,  my  sweet  idol,  thou  shalt  fiet, 

Neglect  in  me  to  trace,  — 
Ere  I  one  lineament  forget 

In  all  that  charming  ftce. 

Sinon  shall  guilelessly  behave, 

TbaTs  with  virtue,  Cupid 
Meekly,  Sardanapalus  brave, 

And  Solomon  grow  stupid. 
Ere,  gentle  creature,  from  my  mind 

Thine  image  flits  away. 
Whose  evermore  I  am,  resigned 

Thy  biddings  to  obey. 

Swart  Ethiopia  shall  grow  chill 

With  wintry  congelation. 
Cold  Scythia  hot,  and  Scylla  still 

Her  boiling  tide's  gyration. 
Ere  my  charmed  spirit  shall  have  power 

To  tear  itself  away. 
In  freedom,  but  for  one  short  hour. 

From  thy  celestial  sway. 

Lions  and  tigers  shall  make  peace 

With  lambs,  and  play  together. 
Sands  shall  be  counted,  and  deep  seas 

Grow  dry  in  rainy  weather. 
Ere  Fortune  shall  the  influence  have 

To  make  my  soul  resign 
Its  bliss,  and  call  itself  the  slave 

Of  any  charms  but  thine. 

For  thou  the  magnet  art,  and  I 

The  needle,  O  my  beauty  ! 
And  every  hour  thou  draw'at  me  nigh, 

In  voluntary  duty : 
Nor  is  this  wonderful ;  for  call 

The  proudest,  she  will  feel 
That  thou  the  mirror  art  of  all 

The  ladies  in  Castile. 


SERRANA. 

I  NX*xR  on  the  border 
Saw  girl  fair  as  Rosa, 

The  charming  milk-maiden 
Of  sweet  Finojosa. 

Once  making  a  journey 

To  Santa  Maria 
Of  Calataveno, 

From  weary  desire 
Of  sleep,  down  a  valley 

I  strayed,  where  young  Rosa 
I  saw,  the  milk-maiden 

Of  lone  Finojosa. 

In  a  pleasant  green  meadow, 
'Midst  roses  and  grasses. 

Her  herd  she  was  tending, 
With  other  fair  lasses ', 
3c* 


654 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


So  lovely  her  aspect, 

I  could  not  suppose  her 
A  simple  milk-maiden 

Of  rude  Finojosa. 

I  think  not  primroses 

Have  half  her  smile^s  sweetness, 
Or  mild,  modest  beauty ;  — 

I  speak  with  discreetness. 
O,  had  I  beforehand 

But  known  of  this  Rosa, 
The  handsome  milk-maiden 

Of  far  Finojosa,  — 

Her  very  great  beauty 

Had  not  so  subdued. 
Because  it  had  lefl  me 

To  do  as  I  would  ! 
I  have  said  more,  O  fair  one, 

By  learning  *t  was  Rosa, 
The  charming  milk-maiden 

Of  sweet  Finojosa. 


JUAN   D£   MENA. 

JuAir  PI  Mkna  was  bom  in  C<SrdoTa,  about 
1400,  and  belonged  to  a  distinguished  Amily. 
He  studied  at  Salamanca,  and  then  visited  Rome, 
where  he  became  acquainted  with  the  writings 
of  Dante.  On  his  return,  his  talents  recom- 
mended him  to  the  &Yor  of  King  Juan  H.  and 
the  Marques  de  Santillana.  His  greatest  work, 
»*  El  Laberinto,"  or  »*  Las  Trecientas  Coplas," 
is  an  allegorical  composition  in  imitation  of 
Dante.     Mena  died  in  1456,  at  Guadalazara. 


FROM  THE  LABERINTO. 
Bf AciAS   EL   ENAMORADO. 

Wx  in  this  radiant  circle  looked  so  long, 
That  we  found  out  Macias ;  in  a  bower 
Of  cypress  was  he  weeping  still  the  hour 

That  ended  his  dark  life  and  love  in  wrong. 

Nearer  I  drew,  for  sympathy  was  strong 

In  me,  when  I  perceived  he  was  from  Spain  ; 
And  there  I  heard  him  sing  the  saddest  strain 

That  ere  was  tuned  in  elegiac  song. 

*<  {^ove  crowned  me  with  his  myrtle  crown  ;  my 
name 
Will  be  pronounced  by  many  ;  but,  alas ! 
When  his  pangs  caused  me  bliss,  not  slighter 
was 
The   mournful   suffering  that  consumed   my 

frame. 
His  sweet  snares  conquer  the  lorn  mind  they 
tame. 
But  do  not  always  then  continue  sweet ; 
And  since  they  caused  me  ruin  so  complete. 
Turn,  lovers,  turn,  and  disesteem  his  flame. 


<^  Danger  so  passionate  be  glad  to  miss ; 

Learn  to  be  gay;   flee,  flee  from  sorrow's 

touch; 
Learn  to  disserve  him  you  have  served  so 
much ; 
Your  devoirs  pay  at  any  shrine  but  his : 
If  the  short  joy  that  in  his  service  is 

Were  but  proportioned  to  the  long,  long  pain, 
Neither  would  he  that  once  has  loved  com- 
plain. 
Nor  he  that  ne*er  has  loved  despair  of  bliss. 

*^  But  even  as  some  assassin  or  night-rover. 
Seeing  his  fellow  wound  upon  the  wheel. 
Awed  by  the  agony,  resolves  with  zeal 

His  life  to  amend  and  character  recover ; 

But  when  the  fearful  spectacle  is  over, 
Reacts  his  crimes  with  easy  unconcern : 
So  my  amours  on  my  despair  return. 

That  I  should  die,  as  I  have  lived,  a  lover !  " 


LORENZO  DAVAL08. 

He  whom  thou  view*st  there  in  the  round  of 
Mars, 
Who  toils  to  mount,  yet  treads  on  empty  air, — 
Whose  face  of  manly  beauty  's  seen  to  bear 

The  gashing  print  of  two  deforming  scars,  — 

Virtuous,  but  smiled  on  by  no  partial  stars,  — 
Is  young  Lorenzo,  loved  by  all ;  a  chief^ 
Who  waged  and  finished,  in  a  day  too  brief^ 

The  first  and  last  of  his  adventured  wars. 

He,  whom  his  sire*s  renown  had  ever  spurred 

To  worth,  the  Infante's  cherished  friend,  and 
pride 

Of  the  most  mournful  mother  that  e'er  sighed 
To  see  her  pleasant  offspring  first  interred !  — 
O  sharp,  remorseless  Fortune  !  at  thy  word, 

Two  precious  things  were  thrown  away  in 
vain,  — 

His  brave  existence,  and  her  tears  of  pain. 
By  the  keen  torment  of  the  sword  incurred. 

Well  spoke  the  mother  in  the  piteous  cries 
She  raised,  soon  as  she  saw,  with  many  a  tear. 
That  body  stretched  upon  the  gory  bier. 
Which  she  had  nursed   with  such  unsleeping 

eyes! 
With  cruel  clamors  she  upbraids  the  skies. 
Wounds  with  new  sorrows  her  weak  fhime, 

and  so 
Droops,— weary  soul !  —  that,  with  the  migh- 
ty  woe, 
She  fiints  and  falls  in  death's  serene  disguise. 

Then  her  fiiir  breast  with  little  ruth  or  dread 
To  beat,  her  flesh  with  cruel  nails  to  tear. 
Kiss  his  cold  lips,  and  in  her  mad  despair 

Curse  the  fierce  hand  that  smote  his  helmed  head. 

And  the  wild  battle  where  her  darling  bled. 
Is  all  she  does,  —  whilst,  quarrelsome  from 

grief 
And  busy  wrath,  she  wars  with  all  relief^ 

Till  scarce  the  living  differs  firom  the  dead. 


JUAN   DE  MENA.  — CARTAGENA.  — MANRIQUE. 


655 


Weeping,  she  murmura,  **It  had  been  more 
kind, 
0  crael  murderer  of  my  son,  to  kill 
Me,  and  leave  him,  who  was  not  in  his  will 
So  fierce  a  foe !  he  to  a  mother's  mind 
Was  much  more  precious,  —  and  who  slays,  to 
bind 
The  lesser  prey  ?  thou  never  shouldst  hare 

bared 
Thy  blade  on  him,  unless  thou  wert  prepared 
To  leave  me  sad  and  moaning  to  the  wind. 

"  Had  death  but  struck  me  first,  my  darling  boy 
With  these  his  pious  hands  mine  eyes  had 

closed, 
Ere  his  were  sealed,  and  I  had  well  reposed. 

Dying  but  once ;  whilst  now — alas,  the  annoy  ! — 

I  shall  die  often  ;  I,  whose  sole  employ 
Is  thus  to  bathe  his  wounds  with  tears  of  blood 
Unrecognized,  though  lavished  in  a  flood 

Of  fondness,  dead  to  every  future  joy  !  ** 


ALONSO    DE   CARTAGENA. 

This  poet  belongs  to  the  first  half  of  the 
fifteenth  century.  He  is  particularly  noted  for 
the  fire  and  passion  of  his  amatory  poetry, 
which  he  probably  wrote  in  his  youth.  The 
latter  portion  of  his  life  was  devoted  to  spiritual 
affairs,  and  he  died  Arohbbhop  of  Burgos,  in 
1456.  

PAIN  IN  PLEASURE. 

O,  LABOR  not,  impatient  will. 

With  anxious  thought  and  busy  care  ! 
Whatever  be  thy  doom,  —  whate'er 

Thy  power,  or  thy  perverseness, — still 
A  germ  of  sorrow  will  be  there. 

If  thou  wilt  think  of  moments  gone. 

Of  joys  as  exquisite  as  brief^ 
Know,  memory,  when  she  lingers  on 

Past  pleasure,  turns  it  all  to  grief. 
The  struggling  toil  for  bliss  is  vain. 

The  dreams  of  hope  are  vainer  yet. 

The  end  of  glory  is  regret. 
And  death  is  but  the  goal  of  pain. 

And  memory's  eye  with  tears  is  wet. 


NO,  THAT  CAN  NEVER  BE! 

Yes  !  I  must  leave, — O,  yes ! 
But  not  the  thoughts  of  thee ; 
For  that  can  never  be ! 

To  absence,  loneliness, 

'T  is  vain,  —  *t  is  vain  to  flee ; 
I  see  thee  not  the  less. 

When  memory's  shades  I  see ; 
And  how  can  I  repress 

The  rising  thoughts  of  thee  ? 

No,  that  can  never  be ! 


Tet  must  I  leave ;  —  the  grave 
Shall  be  a  home  for  me, 

Where  fettered  grief  shall  have 
A  portion  with  the  free. 

I  other  than  a  slave 
To  thy  strange  witchery 
Can  never,  never  be ! 


JORGE  MANRIQUE. 

Don  Jorgk  Manri^ux,  the  author  of  the 
following  poem,  flourished  in  the  latter  half  of 
the  fifteenth  century.  He  followed  the  profes- 
sion of  arms,  and  died  on  the  field  of  battle. 
Mariana,  in  his  ^*  History  of  Spain,'*  makes 
honorable  mention  of  him,  as  being  present  at 
the  siege  of  Ucl6s ;  and  speaks  of  him  as  "  a 
youth  of  estimable  qualities,  who  in  this  war 
gave  brilliant  proofi  of  his  valor.  He  died 
young ;  and  was  thus  cut  off  from  long  exer- 
cising his  great  virtues,  and  exhibiting  to  the 
world  the  light  of  his  genius,  which  was 
already  known  to  &me.''  He  was  mortally 
wounded  in  a  skirmish  near  Canavete,  in  the 
year  1479. 

The  name  of  Rodrigo  Manrique,  the  father 
of  the  poet,  Conde  de  Paredes  and  Maestre  de 
Santiago,  is  well  known  in  Spanish  history  and 
song.  He  died  in  1476;  according  to  Mariana, 
in  the  town  of  Ucl68;  but,  according  to  the 
poem  of  his  son,  in  Ocana.  It  was  his  death 
that  called  forth  the  poem  upon  which  rests  the 
literary  reputation  of  the  younger  Manrique. 
In  the  language  of  his  historian,  "  Don  Jorge 
Manrique,  in  an  elegant  ode,  f\ill  of  poetic 
beauties,  rich  embellishments  of  genius,  and 
high  moral  reflections,  mourned  the  death  of 
his  &ther  as  with  a  funeral  hymn."  This  praise 
is  not  exaggerated.  The  poem  is  a  model  in 
its  kind.  Its  conception  is  solemn  and  beauti- 
fbl ;  and  in  accordance  with  it  the  style  moves 
on,— calm,  dignified,  and  majestic. 


ODE  ON  Tl^  DEATH  OF  HIS  FATHER. 

O,  LKT  the  soul  her  slumbers  break  ! 
Let  thought  be  quickened,  and  awake ,  - 

Awake  to  see 
How  soon  this  life  is  past  and  gone. 
And  death  comes  softly  stealing  on,  — 

How  silently ! 

Swiftly  our  pleasures  glide  away  : 
Our  hearts  recall  the  distant  day 

With  many  sighs ; 
The  moments  that  are  speeding  fast 
We  heed  not;  but  the  past —  the  past- 

More  highly  prize. 

Onward  its  course  the  present  keeps, 
Onward  the  constant  current  sweeps. 
Till  life  is  done ; 


656 


SPANISH    POETRY. 


And  did  we  judge  oftJmQ  arigkt, 
The  piLst  and  future  in  their  Bight 
Would  be  Q9  oQ$. 

Let  DO  one  fondly  dfeatn  agnia 
TbaC  Hope  and  all  ber  ahadowj  train 

Will  not  decaj  ; 
Fleeting  as  were  the  dreams  of  old, 
Retnembered  like  a  tal&  that  'h  t^ld, 

Tliey  pass  awajr. 

Our  Lives  are  rivers,  gliding  free 
To  that  unf-itbonied,  boundless  sea, 

Tlie  silent  grave : 
Thither  all  earthly  pomp  and  boast 
Roll,  to  be  swallowed  up  and  lost 

In  one  dark  wave. 

Thither  the  mightj  torrents  straj. 
Thither  the  brook  pursues  itA  way, 

And  tinkling  rilL 
There  all  are  equaL     Side  by  aide, 
The  poor  man  and  the  0011  of  pride 

Lie  calm  and  atill. 

I  will  not  here  inroke  tho  throng 
Of  orators  and  sona  of  son  g. 

The  deathless  few  ; 
Fiction  entices  and  deceives, 
And  spnnkted  nVr  her  fragrant  leaves 

Lies  poisonous  dew. 

To  One  alone  my  thoughts  arise, — 

The  Eternal  Truth,  —  the  Good  and  Wise: 

To  Him  I  cry, 
Who  shared  on  earth  our  common  lotj 
But  the  world  comprehended  not 

His  deity. 

This  world  is  but  the  rugged  road 
Which  leads  us  to  the  bright  abode 

Of  peace  above ; 
So  let  us  choose  that  narrow  way 
Which  leads  no  traveller's  foot  astray 

From  realms  of  love. 

Our  cradle  is  the  starting-place  ; 
In  life  we  run  the  onward  race, 

And  reach  the  goal  ; 
When,  in  the  mansions  of  the  blest, 
Death  leaves  to  its  eternal  rest 

The  weary  souK 

Did  we  but  use  it  as  we  ought, 
This  world    would    school   each  wandering 
thought 

To  its  high  state. 
Faith  wings  the  soul  beyond  the  aky. 
Up  to  that  better  world  on  high 

For  which  we  wait* 

Tes,^ — 'the  glad  tnessenger  oflovej 
To  guide  us  to  our  home  above, 

The  Saviour  came ; 
Born  am  id  mortal  cares  and  fears. 
He  suffered  in  this  vole  of  tears 

A  death  of  shame. 


Behold  of  what  delusive  worth 
The  bubbles  we  pursue  on  earth, 

The  shapes  we  chase. 
Amid  a  world  of  treachery  ■ 
They  vaniith  ere  death  shuts  the  eye, 

And  leave  no  trace. 

Time   steals   thera  from  usi,  —  chances 

strange. 
Disastrous  accidents,  and  change, 

That  come  to  all : 
Even  in  the  most  eialted  state. 
Relentless  sweeps  the  stroke  of  fate ; 

The  strongest  falL 

Tell  me, —  the  charms  that  lovers  seek 
In  the  clear  eye  and  blushing  cheek, — - 

The  hues  that  play 
O'er  rosy  lip  and  brow  of  snow,^ 
When  hoary  age  approaches  slow. 

Ah,  where  ore  they  I 

The  cunning  skill,  the  curious  arta. 
The  glorious  strength  that  youth  imparts 

In  life's  first  stage,  ^- 
These  shall  become  a  heavy  weight. 
When  Time  swings  wide  bis  outward  g^te 

To  weary  age. 

The  noble  blood  of  Gothic  name, 
Heroes  emblazoned  high  to  fame, 

tn  long  array,  — 
How,  in  the  onward  course  of  time. 
The  landmarks  of  that  race  sublime 

Were  swept  away  I 

Borne,  the  degraded  slaves  of  lust, 
Prostrate  and  trampled  in  the  dust, 

Shall  rise  no  more  ; 
Others  by  guilt  and  crime  maintain 
The  scutcheon  that  without  a  slain 

Their  lathers  bore. 

Wealth  and  the  high  eatate  of  pride , 
With  what  untimely  speed  they  gUde, 

How  soon  depart  t 
Bid  not  the  shadowy  phantoms  stayi  — 
The  vassaJs  of  a  mistresa  ibey, 

Of  fickle  heart. 

These  gills  in  Fortune's  bands  are  found  ; 
Her  swift-reyolvjng  wheel  turns  round^ 

And  they  are  gone  ! 
No  rest  the  inconstant  goddess  knowa. 
But  changing,  and  without  repose. 

Still  hurries  on. 

Even  could  the  hand  of  avarice  save 
Its  gilded  bawbles,  till  the  gnfre 

Reclaimed  its  prey. 
Let  none  on  such  poor  hopes  rely ; 
Life,  like  an  empty  dream,  flits  by. 

And  where  are  they  ? 

Earthly  desires  and  dentinal  lu^t 
Are  paaaions  springing  from  the  dust,  — 
They  fade  and  die ; 


I 


MANRIQUE. 


657 


But,  in  the  life  beyond  the  tomb, 
They  seal  the  immortal  spirit's  doom 
Eternally ! 

-  The  pleasures  and  delights  which  mask 
fin  ireccherous'smiles  life's  serious  task, 

Whai  are  they  all, 
Bat  the  fleet  coursers  of  the  chase,  -^ 
And  death  an  ambush  in  the  race. 
Wherein  we  fall  ?  • 

No  foe,  no  dangerous  pass,  we  heed, 
Brook  no  delay,  —  but  onward  speed, 

With  loosened  rein ; 
And  when  the  fatal  snare  is  near. 
We  strive  to  check  our  mad  career. 

But  strive  in  vain. 

Could  we  new  charms  to  age  impart, 
And  fashion  with  a  'cunning  art 

The  human  face. 
As  we  can  clothe  the  soul  with  light, . 
And  make  the  glorious  spirit  bright 

With  heavenly  grace,  — 

How  busily,  each  passing  hour. 
Should  we  exert  that  magic  power  ! 

What  ardor  show 
To  deck  the  sensual  slave  of  sin, 
Tet  leave  the  freeberp  soul  within 

In  weeds  of  woe  ! 

Monarchs,  the  powerful  and  the  strong. 
Famous  in  history  and  in  song 

Of  olden  time, 
Saw,  by  the  stern  decrees  of  fate, 
Their  kingdoms  lost,  and  desolate 

Their  race  sublime. 

Who  is  the  champion  ?  who  the  strong  ? 
Pontiff  and  priest,  and  sceptred  throng  ? 
On  these  shall  fall 
•   As  heavily  the  hand  of  Death, 
As  when  it  stays  the  shepherd's  breath 
Beside  his  stall. 

I  speak  not  of  the  Trojan  name,  — 
Neither  its  glory  nor  its  shame 

Has  niet  our  eyes ; 
Nor  of  Rome's  great  and  glorious  dead,  — 
Though  we  have  heard  so  oft,  and  read, 

Their  histories. 

liittle  avails  it  now  to  know 
Of  ages  past  so  long  ago. 

Nor  how  they  rolled  ;  •'      • 

Our  theme  shall  be  of  yesterday, 
.  Which  to  oblivion  sweeps  away. 

Like  days  of  old. 

Where  is  the  king,  Don  Juan  ?  where 
£aeh  royal  prince  and  noble  heir 
Of  Aragon  ? 
^here  are  Uie  courtly  gallantries  ? 
The  deeds  of  love  and  high  emprise. 
In  battle  done? 


Tourney  and  joust,  that  charmed  the  eye. 
And  scarf^  and  gorgeoas  panoply. 

And  nodding  plume,  — 
What  were  they  but  a  pageant  scene  ? 
What,  but  the  garlands,  gay  and  green. 

That  deck  the  tomb  ? 

Where  are  the  high-born  dames,  and  where 
Their  gay  attire,  and  jewelled  hair. 

And  odors  sweet  ? 
Where  are 'the  gentle  knights,  that 'came 
To  kneel,  and  breathe  love's  ardent  flame, 

Low  at  their  feet  ? 

Where  is  the  song  of  Troubadour .' 
Where  are  the  lute  and  gay  tambou^ 

They  loved  of  yore  ? 
Where  is  the  mazy  dance  of  old,  — 
The  flowing  robes,  inwrought  with  gold, 

The  dancers  wore  ? 

And  he  who  next  the  sceptre  swayed, 
Henry,  whose  royal  <:qurt  displayed 

Such,  power  and  pride,  — 
O,  in  what  winning  smiles  arrayed, 
The  world  its  various  pleasures  laid 

His  throne  beside ! 

But,  O,  how  false  and  full  of  guile 
That  world,  which  wore  so  soft  a  smile 

But  to  betray  ! 
She,  that  had  been  his  friend  befqre. 
Now  from  the  &ted  monarch  tore 

Her  charms  away. 

The  countless  gifb,  -«-  the  stately  walls. 
The  royal  palaces,  and  halls 

All  filled  with  gold; 
Plate  with  armorial  bearings  wrought, 
Chambers  with  ample  treasures  fraught 

Of  wealth  untold ; 

The  noble  steeds,  and  harness  bright. 
And  gallant  lord,  and  stalwart  knight. 

In  rich  array ;  — 
Where  shall  we  seek  them  now  ?    Alas  ! 
Like  the  bright  dew-drops  on  the  grass. 

They  passed  away. 

His  brother,  too,  whose  factious  zeal 
Usurped  the  sceptre  of  jCastile, 

Unskilled  to  reign,  — 
What  a  gay,  brilliant  court  had  he. 
When  all  the  flower  of  chivalry 

Was  in  his  train  ! 

.But  he  was  mortal,  and  the  breath 
That  flamed  from  the  hot  forge  of  Death 

Blasted  his  years ; 
Judgment  of  God!  that  flame  by  thee. 
When  raging  fierce  and  fearfully. 

Was  quenched  in  tears  ! 

Spain's  haughty  Constable, — the  true 
And  gallant  Master, —  whom  we  knew 
Most  loved  of  all, — 


658 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


Breathe  not  a  whisper  of  his  pride  ; 
He  on  the  gloomy  scafToId  died,  — 
Ignoble  fall ! 

The  coantleas  treasures  of  his  care. 
His  hamlets  green  and  cities  fair, 

His  mighty  power, — 
What  were  they  all  but  grief  and  shame, 
Tears  and  a  broken  heart,  when  came 

The  parting  hour? 

His  other  brothers,  proud  and  high, — 
Masters,  who,  in  prosperity, 

Might  rival  kings,  — 
Who  made  the  bravest  and  the  best 
Thfrbondsmen  of  their  high  behest^ 

Their  underlings,  — 

What  was  their  prosperous  estate, 
When  high  exalted  and  elate 

With  power  and  pride  ? 
What,  but  a  transient  gleam  of  light,  ^ 
A  flame,  which,  glaring  at  its  height. 

Grew  dim  and  died  ? 

So  many  a  duke  of  royal  name. 
Marquis  and  count  of  spotless  &me. 

And  baron  brave, 
That  might  the  sword  of  empire  wield, — 
All  these,  O  Death,. hast  thou  concealed 

In  the  dark  grave  ! 

Their  deeds  of  mercy  and  of  arms. 
In  peaceful  days,  or  war's  alarms, 

When  thou  dost  show, 
O  Death,  thy  stern  and  angry  face. 
One  stroke  of  thy  all-powerful  mace 

Can  overthrow  ! 

Unnumbered  hosts,  that  threaten  nigh, — 
Pennon  and  standard  flaunting  high. 

And  flag  displayed,  — 
•  High  battlements  intrenched  around. 
Bastion,  and  moated  wall,  and  mound. 

And  palisade. 

And  coYered  trench,  secure  and  deep,  — 
All  these  cannot  one  victim  keep, 

O  Death,  from  thee. 
When  thou  dost  battle  in  thy  wrath. 
And  thy  strong  shaAs  pursue  their  path 

Unerringly  ! 

O  World !  so  few  the  years  we  live. 
Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 

Were  life  indeed ! 
Alas !  thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast. 
Our  happiest  hour  is  when,  at  last. 

The  90ul  is  free. 

Our  days  are  covered  o*er  with  grief, 
And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 

Veil  all  in  gloom  ; 
Left  desolate  of  real  good,- 
Within  this  cheerless  solitude 

No  pleasures  bloom 


Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears. 
And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears. 

Or  dark  despair ; 
Midway  so  many  toils  appear. 
That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 

Knows  most  of  care.  \     I 

Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a  groan^ 
By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone,  J 

And  Veary  hearts ', 
Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 
But  with  a  lingering  step  and  slow 

Its  form  departs. 

And  he,  the  good  man*s  shield  and  shade. 
To  whom  all  hearts  their  homage  paid. 

As  Virtue's  son,  — 
Roderick  Manrique,  —  he  whose  name 
Is  written  on  the  scroll  of  Fame, 

Spain's  champion } 

His  signal  deeds  and  prowess  high 
Demand  no  pompous  eulogy,  — 

Te  saw  his  deeds ! 
Why  should  their  praise  in  Terse  be  sung? 
The  name  that  dwells  on  erery  tongue 

No  minstrel  needs. 

To  friends  a  fnend ;  >-  how  kind  to  all 
The  vassals  of  this  ancient  hall 

And  feudal  fief! 
To  foes  how  stern  a  foe  was  he ! 
And  to  the  valiant  and  the  free 

How  brave  a  chief! 

What  prudence  with  the  old  and  wise ! 
What  grace  in  youthful  gayeties ! 

In  all  how  sage  ! 
Benignant  to  the  serf  and  slave. 
He  showed  the  base  and  falsely  brave 

A  lion's  rage. 

His  was  Octavian's  prosperous  star. 
The  rush  of  Caesar's  conquering  car 

At  battle's  call ; 
His,  Scipio's  virtue ;  his,  the  skill 
And  the  indomitable  will 

Of  Hannibal. 

His  was  a  Trajan's  goodness ;  his 
A  Titus*  noble  charities 

And  righteous  laws; 
The  arm  of  Hector,  and  the  might 
Of  Tully,  to  maintain  the  right 

In  truth's  just  cause ', 


The  clemency  of  Antonine ; 
Aurelius'  countenance  divine. 

Firm,  gentle,  still ; 
The  eloquence  of  Adrian  ; 
And  Theodosius'  love  to  man, 

And  generous. will; 

In  tented  field  and  bloody  firay, 

An  Alexander's  vigorous  sway 

And  stem  command ; 


1 


MANRriy>«TMOUS. 


661 


The  faith  of  Constantine ;  aj,  more,  — 
The  fervent  loye  Camillui  bore 
His  native  land. 

He  left  no  well  filled  treasorj, 
He  heaped  no  pile  of  riches  high, 

Nor  massive  plate ; 
He  fought  the  Moors,  —  and,  in  their  &11, 
City  and  tower  and  castled  waU 

Were  his  estate. 

Upon  the  hard-fought  battle-groand 
Brave  steeds  and  gallant  riders  found 

A  common  grave ; 
And  there  the  warrior's  hand  did  gain 
The  rents,  and  the  long  vaAal  train. 

That  conquest  gave. 

And  if,  of  old,  his  halls  displayed 
The  honored  and  exalted  grade 

His  worth  had  gained. 
So,  in  the  dark,  disastrous  honr^ 
Brothers  and  bondsmen  of  his  power 

His  hand  sustained. 

After  high  deeds,  not  left  untolj. 
In  the  stern  warfare  which  of  old 

'T  was  his  to  share, 
Such  noble  leagues  he  made,  that  more 
And  fairer  regions  than  before 

His  guerdon  were. 

These  are  the  records,  half  effaced. 
Which,  with  the  hand  of  youth,  he  traced 

On  history's  page  ; 
Bfit  with  fresh  victories  he  drew 
£ach  fading  character  anew 

In  his  old  age. 

By  his  unrivalled  skill,  by  great 
And  veteran  service  to  the  state, 

By  worth  adored. 
He  stood,  in  his  high  dignity. 
The  proudest  knight  of  chivalry, — 

Knight  of  the  Sword. 

He  found  his  cities  and  domains 
Beneath  a  tyrant's  galling  chains 

And  cruel  power ; 
But,  by  fierce  battle  and  blockade. 
Soon  bis  own  banner  was  displayed 

From  every  tower. 

By* the  tried  valor  of  his  hand 
His  monarch  and  his  native  land 

Were  nobly  served ;  — 
Let  Portugal  repeat  the  story. 
And  proud  Castile,  who  shared  the  glory 

His  arms  deserved. 


And  w^hen  so  oft,  for  weal  or  woe. 
His  life  upon  the  fatal  throw 

Had  been  cast  down,  — 
When  he  had  served,  with  patriot  zeal, 
Beneath  the  banner  of  Castile, 

His  sovereign's  crt>wn,  — 


And  done  such  deeds  of  valor  strong, 
That  neither  history  nor  song 

Can  count  them  all ; 
Then,  on  Ocana's  castled  rock. 
Death  at  his  portal  came  to  knock, 

With  sudden  call,  — 

Saying,  '*  €kK>d  Cavalier,  prepare 
To  leave  this  world  of  toil  and  care 

With  joyful  mien ; 
Let  thy  strong  heart  of  steel  this  day 
Put  on  its  armour  for  the  fray, — 

The  closing  scene. 

**  Since  thou  hast  been,  in  battle^trife. 
So  prodigal  of  health  and  life, 

For  earthly  fame. 
Let  virtue  nerve  thy  heart  again  ; 
Loud  on  the  last  stern  battle-plain 

They  call  thy  name. 

**  Think  not  the  struggle  that  draws  near 
Too  terrible  for  man,  nor  fear 

To  meet  the  foe ; 
Nor  let  thy  noble  spirit  grieve. 
Its  life  of  glorious  fiime  to  leave 

On  earth  below. 

**  A  life  of  honor  and  of  worth 
Has  no  eternity  on  earth, — 

'T  is  but  a  name ;    « 
And  yet  its  glory  far  exceeds 
That  base  and  sensual  life  which  leads 

To  want  and  shame. 

"  The  eternal  life,  beyond  the  sky. 
Wealth  cannot  purchase,  nor  the  high 

And  proud  estate ; 
The  soul  in  dalliance  laid,  —  the  spirit 
Corrupt  with  sin,  —  shall  not  inherit 

A  joy  so  great. 

*^  But  the  good  monk,  in  cloistered  cell. 
Shall  gain  it  by  his  book  and  bell, 

His  prayers  and  tears  ; 
And  the  brave  koight,  whose  arm  endures 
Fierce  battle,  and  against  the  Moors 

Hi^tandard  rears. 

**  And  thou,  brave  knight,  whose  hand  has 

poured 
The  life-blood  of  the  pagan  horde 

O'er  all  the  land. 
In  heaven  shah  thou  receive,  at  length, 
The  guerdon  of  thine  earthly  strength 

And  dauntless  hand. 

<*  Cheered  onward  by  this  promise  sure, 
Strong  in  the  fiuth  entire  and  pure 

"Thou  dost  profess. 
Depart,  —  thy  hope  is  certainty ;  — 
The  third  —  the  better  life  on  high 

Shalt  thou  possess." 

u  O  Death,  no  more,  no  more  delay ! 
My  spirit  longs  to  flee  away 
And  be  at  rest ;  — 


658 


^  -, 

BPA>«i^  POETRY- 


The  will  of  Heaven  mj  will  shall  be, — > 
I  bow  to  the  divine  decree. 
To  God'fl  behesU 

**  My  soul  ia  ready  to  depart,  — 

No  thouf^ht  rebiils,  —  \\\^  obedieDt  heart 

Brenthea  forth  no  8i|h  i 
The  wi§h  on  earth  to  linger  si  ill 
Were  YAin,  whan  *t  Is  God ^9  poTcr^ign  will 

That  we  shall  die, 

<*  O  thou,  that  Tor  onr  eina  didat  take 
A  humiin  form,  and  humbly  mak^ 

Thy  homo  on  eiirth ! 
Thou,  that  to  thy  divioity 
A  human  noture  didst  oily 

By  mortal  birth,  — 

"  And  in  thnt  form  did»l  iuffar  here 
Torment,  and  agony,  and  feur, 

So  patiently  ! 
By  thy  redeeming  gnice  alone, 
And  not  for  merits  of  my  own, 

O,  pardon  rae  !  " 

As  thus  the  dying  warrior  prayed,  * 
Without  one  gathering  miat  or  ibadd 

Upon  his  mind, — 
Encircled  by  his  family. 
Watched  by  affection's  gentle  eye, 

So  soft  and  kind, — 

His  soul  to  Him  who  gnre  it  rose. 
God  lend  it  to  its  long  repose. 

Its  glorious  rest ! 
And,  though  the  warrior^s  sun  hoe  set, 
Its  light  shall  linger  round  us  yet, 

Bright,  ra^disnt,  blest. 


RODRIGUKZ   DEL   PADRON, 

This  poeT|  the  dates  of  whofle  birih  and  death 
are  both  unknown^  was  one  of  the  writers  of 
the  T^ign  of  Juan  II.  The  place  of  his  nativity 
was  El  Padron,  in  Gahda,  from  which  he  is 
named.  He  wrote  amatory  poems  in  tlie  Cas- 
lilian,  —  leaving  his  native  idiom, ^he  Golician. 
The  tragical  death  of  bis  friend,  the  Galician 
poet,  MaciajF,  surnamed  d  Ertamorado^  who  was 
slain  by  a  jealous  husband  for  sending  too  maliy 
love- poems  to  hia  wife,  had  such  an  e^ect  upon 
him,  th;it  he  shut  himself  up  in  a  Dominican 
cloister,  w^here  he  became  a  monk,  and  remained 
until  his  death. 

PRAYEIFL 
FiBE  of  heaven'n  eternal  ray, 

Gentle  and  unftcorching  flame^ 
Strength  in  moments  of  dismay. 

Grief  *(i  red  reus  and  sorrow's  halm,  ^ 
Light  thy  servant  on  his  way  ! 

Teach  him  all  earth^s  passing  folly. 
All  its  dazzling  art. 
To  distrust ; 


And  let  thoughts  profound  and  holy 
Penetrate  his  heart, 
Low  in  dust  I 

Lead  him  to  the  renlnis  sublime. 
Where  thy  fooLat^pa  tread  1 
Teach  him,  Virgin,  so  to  dread 
Judgment's  soul-tormenting  clime. 
Thai  he  may  harrest  Ibr  the  belter  time  i 


JUAK  DE   LA   EPfZINA, 

JuAif  DE  tA  EnziiTA  was  bom  In  Salamanca, 
about  1468,  and  was  dietinguished  ss  a  poet 
and  musician.  He  went  to  Rome,  and  became 
Musical  Director  to  Pope  Leo  the  Tenth.  In 
1519,  he  visited  Jerusalem,  in  company  with 
the  Marques  de  Tartfa;  of  which  journey  he 
afterwards  published  a  poetics  1  accounts  He 
wrote  songs,  lyric  romances,  and  humorous 
pieces,  called  dhpar^es.  He  also  m^ote  sacred 
and  profane  eclogues  in  the  form  of  dialogues, 
which  were  dramatically  represented.  He  died 
at  Salamanca,  in  1534. 


DON»T  SHUT  TOUR  DOOR, 

Dopt't  shut  your  door, — don'l  shut  your  door : 
If  Love  ahould  come  and  call, 
'T  will  be  no  use  at  alh 

If  Luve  cotnmand,  yoti  'd  best  obey,  ^  « 

Resistance  wili  hut  hurt  you, — . 
And  make,  for  that  's  the  safest  way. 

Necessity  a  virtue.  _ 
So  don't  resist  his  gentle  sway. 

Nor  shut  your  door  if  he  should  call^^^ 

For  tliat  *B  no  use  at  alL 

I  Ve  seen  him  tame  the  wildest  beast. 

And  strengthen,  too,  the  weakest  t 
He  loves  him  most  who  plagues  him  least; 

His  favorites  are  the  meekest. 
The  privileged  guests  who  grace  his  (east 

Have  ne'er  opposed  his  gentle  call»  — 

For  ihal  's  no  use  at  all. 

He  loves  to  tumble  upside  down 

All  classes,  all  connections ; 
Of  those  who  fear  or  wear  a  crown 

He  mingles  the  affections. 
Till  all  by  Love  is  overthrown; 

And  moated  gate  or  castle^waU 

Will  be  no  use  at  all. 

He  is  a  strange  and  wayward  thing,  — 

Young,  blind,  nnd  full  of  malice ; 
He  makes  a  shepherd  of  a  king, 

A  cottage  of  a  palace. 
'T  Is  vain  to  murmur ;  and  to  filng 

Yr»ur  thoughts  away  in  grief  and  gall 

Will  be  no  use  at  nlL 


ENZINA.— ANONYMOUS.                                           661 

He  makes  the  coward  brare  ;  he  wakes 

Away,  away ! — begone  !   I  say ; 

1         The  sleepy  with  his  thunders ; 

For  mournful  thought 

Id  mirth  he  revels,  and  mistakes, 

Will  come  unsought. 

And  miracles,  and  wonders ; 

1      And  many  a  man  he  prisoner  makes, 

So  let  's  come  forth  from  misery's  cell. 

And  bolts  the  door : — yoa  cry  and  call ; 

And  bury  all  our  whims  and  woes ; 

But 't  is  no  use  at  all. 

Wherever  pleasure  flits  and  goes, 

O,  there  we  '11  be !  0,  there  we  '11  dwell ! 

'T  is  there  we  '11  dwell !  'T  is  wise  and  well ; 

"LET  US  EAT  AND  DRINK,  FOR  TOMORROW 

For  mou;tiful  thought 

WE  DIE." 

Will  come  unsought. 

CoMK,  let 's  enjoy  the  passing  hoor ; 

For  iDOumfal  thought 

Yes,  open  all  your  heart ;  be  glad,  — 

Will  come  unsought. 

Glad  as  a  linnet  on  the  tree ; 

Laugh,  laugh  away,  —  and  merrily 

Come,  let 's  enjoy  the  fleeting  day. 
And  banish  toil,  and  laugh  at  care ; 

Drive  every  dream  away  that  's  sad. 

Who  sadness  takes  for  joy  is  mad ; 

For  who  would  grief  and  sorrow  bear. 

And  mournful  thought 

When  he  can  throw  his  griefi  away  ? 

Will  come  unsought. 

ANONYMOUS  POEMS  FROM  THE  CANCIONEROS  AND  ROMANCEROS. 

WHAT  WILL  THEY  SAY   OF  YOU 

• 

And  that  flrom  heights  so  propd  and  lofty 

AND   ME.? 

Deeper  the  fall  is  wont  to  be.  — 

What  of  you  and  me,  my  lady. 

What  of  you  and  me,  my  lady. 

What  will  they  say  of  you  and  me  ? 

What  will  they  say  of  yeu  and  me  ? 

They  will  say  of  you,  my  gentle  lady. 

Your  heart  is  love  and  kindness*  throne, 

FOUNT  OF  FRESHNESS! 

And  it  becomes  you  to  confer  it 

On  him  who  gave  you  all  his  own  ; 

Fount  of  freshness !  fount  of  freshness  ! 

And  that  as  now,  both  firm  and  faithAil, 

Fount  of  freshness  and  of  love  ! 

So  will  you  ever,  ever  be.  — 

Where  the  little  birds  of* spring-time 

What  of  you  and  me,  my  lady,  ' 

Seek  for  comfort,  as  they  rove ; 

What  will  they  say  of  you  and  me  ? 

All  except  the  widowed  turtle,  — 

Widowed,  sorrowing  turtle-dove. 

They  will  say  of  me,  my  gentle  lady. 

/ 

That  I  for  you  all  else  forgot : 

•  There  the  nightingale  —  the  traitor  !  — « 

And  Heaven's  dark  vengeance  would*  have 

Lingered  on  his  giddy  way ; 

scathed  me,  — 

And  these  words  of  hidden  treachery 

Its  darkest  vengeance,— had  I  not. 

To  the  dove  I  heard  him  say : 

My  lore,  what  envy  will  pursue  us. 

"I  will  be  thy  servant,  lady ! 

Thus  linked  in  soAest  sympathy !  — 

I  will  ne'er  thy  love  betray." 

What  of  you  and  me,  my  lady. 

What  will  they  say  of  you  and  me  ? 

«<  Off!  false-hearted !  vile  deceiver  ! 

. 

Leave  me,  nor  insult  me  so  : 

They  will  say  of  you,  my  gentle  lady. 

Dwell  I,  then,  'midst  gaudy  flowerets  ? 

A  thousand  things,  in  praises  sweet, -^ 

Perch  I  on  the  verdant  bough  ? 

That  other  maideps  may  be  lovely. 

Even  the  waters  of  the  fountain 

But  none  so  lovely  and  discreet. 

Drink  I  dark  and  troubled  now. 

They  will  wreath  for  you  the  crown  of  beauty. 

Never  will  I  think  of  marriage,  — 

And  you  the  queen  of  love  shall  be.  — 

Never  break  the  widow-vow. 

What  of  you  and  me,  my  lady. 

m 

What  will  they  say  of  you  and  me  ? 

***  Had  I  children,  they  would  grieve  me. 

They  would  wean  me  from  my  woe : 

They  will  say  of  me,  my  gentle  lady. 

Leave  me,  false  one !  thoughtless  traitor ! 

That  I  have  found  a  prize  divine,-^ 

Base  one  !  vain  one  I  sad  one !  go ! 

A  prize  too  bright  for  toils  so  trifling. 

I  can  never,  never  love  thee,  — 

So  trifling  as  these  toils  of  mine ; 

I  will  never  wed  thee,  —  no !  " 
3d 

662 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


THE  TWO  STREAMLETS. 

Two  little  streams  o*er  plains  of  green 

Roll  gently  on,  —  the  flowers  between; 

But  each  to  each  defiance  hurls,  — 

All  their  artillery  are  pearls : 

They  foam,  they  rage,  they  shout, — and  then 

Sink  in  their  silent  beds  again  ; 

And  melodies  of  peace  are  heard 

From  many  a  gay  and  joyous  bird. 

I  saw  a  melancholy  rill 

Burst  meekly  fVom  a  clouded  hill : 

Another  rolled  behind,  —  in  speed 

An  eagle,  and  in  strength  a  steed  ; 

It  reached  the  vale,  and  overtook 

Its  rival  in  the  deepest  nook ; 

And  each  to  each  defiance  hurls,  — 

All  their  artillery  are  pearls : 

They  foam,  they  rage,  they  shout, — and  then 

Rest  in  their  silent  beds  a^in. 

And  if  two  little  streamlets  break 

The  law  of  love  for  passion's  sake, 

How,  then,  should  I  a  rival  see, 

Nor  be  inflamed  by  jealousy  ? 

For  is  not  Love  a  mightier  power 

Than  mountain  stream,  or  mountain  shower? 


SHE  COMES  TO  GATHER  FLOWERS. 

Put  on  your  brightest,  richest  dress. 

Wear  all  your  gems,  blest  vales  of  ours ! 

My  fair  one  comes  in  her  loveliness,  — 
She  comes  to  gather  flowers. 

Garland  me  wreaths,  thou  fertile  vale ! 

Woods  of  green,  your  coronets  bring  ! 
Pinks  of  red,  and  lilies  pale. 

Come  with  your  fragrant  oflTering ! 
Mingle  your  charms  of  hue  and  smell, 

Which    Flora  wakes   in    her    springtide 
hours! 
My  fair  one  comes  across  the  dell,  — 

She  comes  to  gather  flowers. 

Twilight  of  mom  !  firom  thy  misty  tower 

Scatter  the  trembling  pearls  around, 
Hang  up  thy  gems  on  fruits  and  flower, 

Bespangle  the  dewy  ground  ! 
Phcsbus  !  rest  on  thy  ruby  wheels,  — 

Look,  and  envy  this  world  of  ours  ! 
For  my  fair  one  now  descends  the  hills,— 

She  comes  to  gather  flowers. 

List !  for  the  breeze  on  wing  serene 

T|f rough  the  light  foliage  sails ; 
Hidden  amidst  the  forest  green 

Warble  the  nightingales. 
Hailing  the  glorious  birth  of  day 

With  music's  divinest  powers ! 
Hither  my  fair  one  bends  her  way,  — 

She  comes  to  gather  flowers. 


DEAR  MAID  OF  HAZEL  BROW! 

Dear  maid  of  hazel  brow  !    . 

O,  what  a  sight  to  see 
Thy  fingers  pull  the  bough 

Of  the  white  jasmine  tree  ! 

Delighted  I  look  on. 

And  watch  thy  sparkling  eye ; 
And  charmed,  yet  wobegone, 

I  sigh,  and  then  —  I  sigh. 
O,  I  '11  retire,  and  now 

I  '11  not  disquiet  thee  ! 
Dear  maid  of  hazel  brow. 

Do  as  thou  wilt  with  me. 
And  pluck  the  happy  bough 

Of  the  white  jasmine  tree  ! 

Amidst  the  flowers,  sweet  maid, 

I  saw  her  footsteps  trip, — 
And,  lo,  her  cheeks  arrayed 

In  crimson  from  h^r  lip  I 
Bright,  graceful  girl !  I  vow 

'T  would  be  heaven's  bliss  to  be. 
Dear  maid  of  hazel  brow. 

Crowned  with  a  wreath  by  thee, — 
A  wreath,  —  the  emerald  bough 

Of  the  white  jasmine  tree. 


EMBLEM. 

What  shall  the  land  produce,  that  thou 

Art  watering,  God,  so  carefully  ? 
**  Thorns  to  bind  around  my  brow  ; 

Flowers  to  form  a  wreath  for  thee." 
dtreams  from  such  a  hand  that  flow 

Soon  shall  form  a  garden  fair. 
(*Tes;  but  diflerent  wreaths  shall  grow 

From  the  plants  I  water  there." 
Tell  me  who,  my  God,  shall  wear, 

Wear  the  garlands  round  their  brow  ? 
**  I  the  wreath  of  thorns  shall  bear, 

And  the  flowery  garland  thou." 


WHO'LL  BUY  A  HEART? 

Poor  heart  of  mine  !  tormentiqg  heart ! 

Long  hast  thou  teazed  me,— thou  and  I 
May  just  as  well  agree  to  part. 

Who  'II  buy  a  heart.'  who  '11  buy.'  who  'U 
buy.' 

They  ofl^ered  three  testoons,  —  but,  no ! 
*  A  faithful  heart  is  cheap  at  more : 
'T  is  not  of  those  that  wandering  go, 

Like  mendicants,  from  door  to  door. 
Here  's  prompt  possession,  —  I  might  teli 

A  thousand  merits, — come  and  try ! 
I  have  a  heart,  —  a  heart  to  sell : 

Who  '11  buy  a  heart?  who  'II  buy?  who  '11 
buy? 


ANONYMOUS. 


How  oft  beneath  its  folds  lay  hid 
The  gnawing  yiper's  tooth  of  woe  !  — 
.  Will  DO  one  buy  ?  will  no  one  bid  ? 
'T  is  going  now, — yes,  it  must  go ! 
So  little  offered,  it  were  well 

To  keep  it  yet, — but  no,  not  I ! 
I  have  a  heart, — a  heart  to  sell : 
Who  '11  buy  a  heart  ?  who  '11  buy  ?  who  '11 
buy  ? 

I  would  't  were  gone !  for  I  confeas 

I  'm  tired,  and  longing  to  be  fireed. 
Gome,  bid,  fair  maiden  !  -^  more  or  leas ;  — 

So  good, — and  very  cheap  indeed. 
Ooce  more,  —  but  once ;  —  I  cyinnot  dwell 

So  long,  —  't  is  going,  —  going :  —  6e  ! 
No  offer? — I  *ve  a  heart  to  sell : 

Who  'II  buy  a  heart?  who  '11  buy  ?  who  '11 
buy.^ 


THE  MAIDEN  WAITING  HER  LOVER. 

Tx  treeg,  that  make  bo  sweet  a  shade, 

Bend  down  your  waving  heads,  when  he, 
The  youth  ye  honor,  through  your  glade. 

Comes  on  Loyo's  messages  to  me  ! 
Te  stars,  that  shine  o'er  heaven's'  blue  deep, 

And  all  its  arch  with  glory  fill, 
O,  wake  him,  wake  him  from  his  sleep. 

If  that  dear  youth  be  slumbering  still ! 

Lark,  that  hailest  the  mom  above,  — 

Nightingale,  singing  on  yonder  bough, -^ 
Hasten,  and  tell  my  lingering  love,  -^ 
Tell  him  how  long  I  've  waited  now ! 
Past  is  the  midnight's  shade  : 

Where  is  he  ?  —  where  ? 
Say,  can  some  other  maid 
His  favors  share  ? 


THE  THRUSH. 

Mother  of  mine !  yon  tuneful  thrash, 
That  fills  with  songs  the  happy  grove, — 

Tell  him  those  joyous  songs  to  hush ; 
For,. ah  !  my  nymph  has  ceased  to  love. 

Tell  him  to  sympathize, — for  this 
Is  music's  triumph,  music's  care ; 

Persuade  him  that  another's  bliss 
Makes  bitter  misery  bitterer. 

Then  bid  him  leave  the  emerald  bough, 
Seek  her  ab<xlej  —  and  warble  there ; 

And  if  young  Love  has  taught  him  how. 
Be  Love's  sweet-tongued  interpreter. 

He  thinks  his  notes  are  notes  of  joy,  — 
That  gladness  tunes  his  eager  breath : 

O,  tell  him,  mother  mine,  that  I 

Hear  in  his  songa  the  tones  of  death  ! 


If,  spite  of  all  those  prayers  of  thine, 
He  still  will  stay,  —  I  '11  pray  that  he 

May  one  day  feel  these  pangs  of  mine,  — 
And  I,  his  thoughtless  ecstasy. 

Then,  mother  mine,  persuade  the  thrash 
To  charm  no  more  the  verdant  grove,  — 

Bid  him  his  sweetest  music  hush  ; 

For,  ah  !  my  nymph  has  ceased  to  love. 


'T  IS  TIME  TO  RISE! 

Long  sleep  has  veiled  my  spirit's  eyes  : 
'T  is  time  to  rise  !  —  't  is  time  to  rise  !' 

O,  't  is  a  dull  and  heavy  sleep  ! 

As  if  death's  robe  had  wrapped  the  soul ; 
As  if  the  poisons,  vices  steep 

In  life's  deep-dregged  and  mingled  bowl. 
Had  chilled  the  blood,  and  dimmed  the  eyes : 

But,  lo  !  the  sun  towers  o'er  the  deep : 
'T  is  time  to  rise !  —  't  is  time  to  rise ! 

But  angels  sang  in  vain,  —  above 

Their  voices  blended :  **  Soul,  awake  ! 

Hark  to  yon  babe !  —  What  wondrous  love 
Bids  God  an  infant's  weakness  take  P  — 

Long  hast  thoa  slept,  —  that  infant's  cries 
Shall  the  dark  mist  of  night  remove : 

'T  is  time  to  rise !  —  't  is  time  to  rise  !  " 


SWEET  WERE  THE   HOURS. 

SwBKT  were  the  hours,  and  short  as  sweet. 
Which,  lady,  I  have  passed  with  thee ; 

But  those  were  dark  and  infinite 

Which  rolled  when  thou  wert  far  from  me ! 

For  Time,  as  has  been  ofl  expressed. 
Is  Fancy's  handmaid,  —  swift  or  brief: 

How'  short — how  short,  alas !  for  rest ! 
How  long — how  long,  alas !  for  grief! 

How  lightning-winged  do  pleasures  fly  ! 

And  Love's  sweet  pleasures  fleeter  yet,  — 
On  pinions  of  rapidity. 

That  leave  but  terror,  or  regret ! 

In  mouraful  strains  they  roll  along, 
'Midst  hopes  deceived  and  joys  berefl ; 

While  memory's  departed  throng 

Are  mourned,  my  joyless  memory's  left 

I  think  of  days,  when  moraing's  flame, 
Kindled  by  thee,  shone  fiiir  and  bright ; 

And  then  the  dazzling  noonday  came, 
And  then  —  the  solitude  of  night. 

'T  was  then,  upon  the- elms,  whose  fbet 
The  Betis  laves,  I  saw  thee  write, -^ 

O  raptured  hour !  — **  I  love  thee,  sweet ! " — 
And  my  heart  sparkled  at  the  sight 


664 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


THE  PRISONER'S   ROMANCE. 

Sib  gaoler  !  leave  the  spirit  free,  •— 
The  spirit  is  a  wanderer  still : 

O  gaoler  !  leave  the  spirit  free,  — 
And  chain  the  body,  if  you  will. 

My  eyes  between  the  ik-on  bars 

Still  throw  their  living  glances  round,- 

And  they  shall  be  as  Northern  Stars, 
By  which  the  friendly  port  is  found ; 

And  theirs  shall  be  a  tongue  to  be    • 
Heard  when  the  mortal  voice  is  still.  * 

O  gaoler !  leave  the  spirit  free,  — 

.  And  chain  the  body,  if  you  will. 

Tou  cannot,  cannot  chain  the  soul. 

Although  the  body  you  confine : 
The  spirit  bursts  through  all  control, 

•And  soon  is  free,  —  and  so  is  mine. 
Love  has  unbounded  mastery 

In  this  your  prison.     Tou  fulfil, 
Sir  gaoler.  Love's  supreme  decree : 

Love  is  the  lord  imperial  still. 
O  gaoler  !  leave  the  spirit  firee, — 

And  chain  the  body,  if  you  will. 


YIELD,  THOU   CASTLE! 

YiKLD,  thou  castle  !  yield !  — - 
I  march  me  to  the  field. 

Thy  walls  are  proud  and  high. 
My  thoughts  all  dwell  with  thee ; 

Now  yield  thee!  yield  thee!— > I 
Am  come  for  victory  ; 

I  march  me  to  the  ^eld. 

Thy  halls  are  fiiir  and  gay. 
And  there  resides  my  grief; 

Thy  bridge,  thy  covered  way, 
Prepare  for  my  relief; 

I  march  me  to  the  field. 

Thy  towers  sublimely  rise 
In  beauty's  brightest  glow ; 

There,  there,  my  comfort  lies, — 
O,  give  me  welcome  now  ! 

I  march  me  to  the  field. 


AMARYLLIS. 

She  sleeps ;  —  Amaryllis 
'Midst  fiowerets  is  laid ; 

And  roses  and  lilies 
Make  the  sweet  shade. 

The  maiden  is  sleeping. 

Where,  through  the  green  bills, 
Manzanares  is  creeping 

Along  with  his  rills. 


Wake  not  Amaryllis, 
Ye  winds  in  the  glade, 

Where  roses  and  lilies 
Make  the  sweet  shade  !• 

The  sun,  while  upsoaring, 

Yet  tarries  awhile,. 
The  bright  rays  adoring 

Which  stream  from  her  smile. 

The  wood-music  still  is,  — 
To  rouse  her  afraid,  — 

Where  roses  and  lilies 
Make  the  sweet  shade. 


SHARPLY  I  REPENT  OF  IT. 

Hi  who  loses  gentle  lady, 
For  a  want  of  ready  wit. 
Sharply  shall  repent  of  it. 

Once  I  lost  hef  in  a  garden. 

Gathering  every  flower  that  grows ; 

And  her  cheeks  were  red  with  blushes. 
Red  as  is  the  damask  rose  : 
All  Love's  burning  blushes  those. 

I  Was  dumb,  —  so  short  of  wit ; 

Sharply  I  repent  of  it. 

Once  I  lost  her  in  a  garden, 
(xently  talking  of  her  love ; 

I,  poor  inexperienced  shepherd, 
Did  not  answer,  —  did  not  move. 
If  I  disappointments  prove, 

I  may  thank  my  frozen  wit ; 

Sharply  I  repent  of  it. 


THE   SIESTA. 

Airs  !  that  wander  and  murmur  round. 
Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow,  — 

Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound. 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 

Lighten  and  lengthen  her- noonday  rest. 

Till  the  heat  of  the  noonday  sun  is  o'er : 
Sweet  be  her  slumbers,  —  though  in  my  breast 

The  pain  she  has  waked  may  slumber  no  more ! 
Breathing  soft  from  the  blue  profi>und. 

Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow, 
Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound. 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 

Airs !  that  over. the  bending  ^ughs. 

And  under  the  shadows  of  the  leaves. 
Murmur  soft,  like  my  timid  vows. 

Or  the  secret  sighs  my  bosom  heaves,  — 
Gently  sweeping  the  grassy  ground. 

Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow, 
Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound. 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 


ANONYMOUS. 


665 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  GALLEY. 

Yz  mariners  of  Spain, 
Bend  strongly  on  your  oars, 

And  bring  my  love  again,  — 
For  be  lies  among  tbe  Moors  ! 

Ye  galleys  fairly  built, 

Like  castles  on  the  sea, 
0,  great  will  be  your  guilt, 

If  ye  bring  him  not  to  me ! 

The  wind  is  blowing  strong,  — 
The  breeze  will  aid  your  oars ; 

O,  swiftly  6y  along,  — 
For  he  lies  among  the  Moors  ! 

The  sweet  breeze  of  the  sea 
Cools  every  cheek  but  mine ; 

Hot  is  its  breath  to  me. 
As  I  gaze  upon  the  brine. 

Lift  up,  lift  up  your  sail. 
And  bend  upon  your  oars; 

O,  lose  not  the  fair  gale,  — 
For  he  lies  among  the  Moors  ! 

It  is  a  narrow  strait,  — 
I  see  the  blue  hills  over ; 

Your  coming  I  'II  await. 

And  thank  you  for  my  lover. 

To  Mary  I  will  pray. 

While  ye  bend  upon  your  oars ; 
'T  will  be  a  blessed  day. 

If  ye  fetch  him  from  the  Moors ! 


THE  WANDERING  KNIGHT'S  SONG. 

Mr  ornaments  are  arms. 

My  pastime  is  in  war. 
My  bed  is  cold  upon  the  wold. 

My  lamp  yon  star. 

My  journeyings  are  long. 

My  slumbers  short  and  broken ; 

From  hill  to  hill  I  wander  still, 
Kissing  thy  token. 

I  ride  ftom  land  to  land, 

I  sail  from  sea  to  sea : 
Some  day  more  kind  I  fate  may  find. 

Some  night  kiss  thee ! 


SERENADE. 

Whili  my  lady  sleepeth. 

The  dark  blue  heaven  is  bright ', 
Soft  the  moonbeam  creepeth 

Round  her  bower  all  night. 
84 


Thou  gentle,  gentle  breeze ! 

While  my  lady  slumbers. 
Waft  lightly  through  the  trees 

Echoes  of  my  numbers. 
Her  dreaming  ear  to  please. 

Should  ye,  breathing  numbers, 

That  for  her  I  weave. 
Should  ye  break  her  slumbers, 

All  my  soul  would  grieve. 
Rise  on  the  gentle  breeze. 

And  gain  her  lattice*  height 
0*er  yon  poplar-trees,  — 

But  be  your  echoes  light 
As  hum  of  distant  bees. 

All  the  stars  are  glowing 

In  the  gorgeous  sky  ; 
In  the  stream  scarce  flowing 

Mimic  lustres  lie : 
Blow,  gentle,  gentle  breeze ! 

But  bring  no  cloud  to  hide 
Their  dear  resplendencies ; 

Nor  chase  from  Zara's  side 
Dreams  bright  and  pure  as  these. 


SONG. 

O  BROAD  and  limpid  river ! 

O  banks  so  fair  and  gay ! 
O  meadows,  verdant  ever  ! 

O  groves  in  green  array ! 
O,  if  in  field  or  plain 

My  love  should  hap  to  be, 
Ask  if  her  heart  retain 

A  thought  of  me! 

O  clear  and  crystal  dews. 

That  in  the  morning  ray. 
All  bright  with  silvery  hues, 

Make  field  and  forest  gay  ! 
O,  if  in  field  or  plain 

My  love  should  hap  to  be. 
Ask  if  her  heart  retain 

A  thought  of  me! 

O  woods,  that  to  the  breeze 

With  waving  branches  play  ! 
O  sands,  where  oft  at  ease 

Her  careless  footsteps  stray  ! 
O,  if  in  field  or  plain 

My  love  should  hap  to  be. 
Ask  if  her  heart  retain 

A  thought  of  me  ! 

O  warbling  birds,  that  still 

Salute  the  rising  day. 
And  plain  and  valley  fill 

With  your  enchanting  lay  ! 
O,  if  in  field  or  plain 

My  love  should  hap  to  be, 
Ask  if  her  heart  retain 

A  thought  of  me ! 
3d* 


666 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


SECOND  PERIOD.-CENTURIES  XVI.,  XVII. 


JUAN  BOSCAN  ALMOGAVER. 

This  poet  was  born  about  the  close  of  the 
fifteenth  centory,  at  Barcelona.  He  was  held 
in  high  estimation  at  the  court  of  Charles  the 
Fifth.  At  Granada  he  became  acquainted  with 
Andrea  Navagero,  the  Venetian  ambassador,  by 
whose  influence  he  was  induced  to  imitate  the 
Italian  poets.  He  was  appointed  preceptor  to 
the  duke  of  Alba,  but  passed  most  of  his  time 
in  literary  pursuits  at  Barcelona.  Among  other 
labors,  he  undertook  the  publication  of  the  works 
of  his  deceased  ft'iend,  Garcilaso  de  la  Vega;  he 
also  translated  from  the  Greek  and  Italian. 
The  date  of  his  death  is  uncertain ;  but  it  took 
place  before  1543. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GARCILASO. 

Till  me,  dear  Garcilaso,  —  thou 

Who  ever  aim'dst  at  Good, 
And,  in  the  spirit  of  thy  vow, 

So  swift  her  course  pursued. 
That  thy  few  steps  sufficed  to  place 
The  angel  in  thy  loved  embrace, 

Won  instant,  soon  as  wooed,-— 
Why  took'st  thou  not,  when  winged  to  flee 
From  this  dark  world,  Boscan  wiUi  thee  ? 

Why,  when  ascending  to  the  star 
Where  now  thou  sitt'st  enshrined, 

Left'st  thou  thy  weeping  friend  afar, 
Alas !  so  far  behind .' 

O,  I  do  think,  had  it  remained 

With  thee  to  alter  aught  ordained 
By  the  Eternal  Mind, 

Thou  wouldst  not  on  this, desert  spot 

Haye  left  thy  other  self  forgot ! 

For  if  through  life  thy  love  was  such, 

As  still  to  take  a  pride 
In  having  me  so  oft  and  much 

Close  to  thy  envied  side,  — 
I  cannot  doubt,  I  must  believe. 
Thou  wouldst  at  least  have  taken  leave 

Of  me ;  or,  if  denied. 
Have  come  back  afterwards,  nnblest 
Till  I,  too,  shared  thy  heavenly  rest 


FROia  HIS  EPISTLE  TO  MENDOZA. 

'T  IS  peace  that  makes  a  happy  life ; 
And  that  is  mine  through  my  sweet  wife: 
Beginning  of  my  soul,  and  end, 
I  've  gained  new  being  from  this  friend,  — 
She  fills  each  thought  and  each  desire. 
Up  to  the  height  I  would  aspire. 
This  bliss  is  never  found  by  ranging ; 
Regret  still  springi  from  saddest  changing ; 


Such  loves,  and  their  beguiling  pleasures. 
Are  falser  still  than  magic  treasures. 
Which  gleam  at  eve  with  golden  color. 
And  change  to  ashes  ere  the  morrow. 
But  now  each  good  that  I  possess. 
Rooted  in  truth  and  faithfulness, 
Imparts  delight  to  every  sense  ; 
For  erst  they  were  a  mere  pretence. 
And,  long  before  enjoyed  they  were, 
They  changed  their  smiles  to  grisly  care. 
Now  pleasures  please,  —  love  being  single ; 
Evils  with  its  delights  ne'er  mingl^. 


Before,  to  eat  I  scarce  was  able ; 
Some  harpy  hovered  o'er  my  table. 
Spoiling  each  dish  when  I  would  dine. 
And  mingling  gall  with  gladsome  wine. 
Now,  the  content,  that  foolish  I 
Still  missed  in  my  philosophy. 
My  wife  with  tender  smiles  bestows. 
And  makes  me  triumph  o'er  my  woes ; 
While  with  her  finger  she  effaces 
Of  my  past  folly  all  the  traces. 
And,  graving  pleasant  thoughts  instead. 
Bids  me  rejoice  that  I  am  wed. 


And  thus,  by  moderation  bounded, 
I  live  by  my  own  goods  surrounded: 
Among  my  friends,  my  table  spread 
With  viands  we  may  eat  nor  dread ; 
And  at  my  side  my  sweetest  wife,. 
Whose  gentleness  admits  no  strife,  — 
Except  of  jealousy  the  fear. 
Whose  soft  reproaches  more  endear ; 
Our  darling  children  round  us  gather,  — 
Children  who  will  make  me  grandfather. 
And  thus  we  pass  in  town  our  days. 
Till  the  confinement  something  weighs; 
Then  to  our  village  haunt  we  fly. 
Taking  some  pleasant  company, — 
While  those  we  love  not  never  come 
Anear  our  rustic,  leafy  home  : 
For  better  't  is  t'  philosophize. 
And  learn  a  lesson  truly  wise 
From  lowing  herd  and  bleating  flock. 
Than  from  some  men  of  vulgar  stock ; 
And  rustics,  as  they  hold  the  plough. 
May  ofUn  good  advice  bestow. 
Of  love,  too,  we  may  have  the  joy: 
For  Phcsbus  as  a  shepherd-boy 
Wandered  once  among  the  clover. 
Of  some  fair  shepherdess  the  lover ; 
And  Venus  wept,  in  rustic  bower, 
Adonis  turned  to  purple  flower ; 
And  Bacchus,  'midst  the  mountains  drear. 
Forgot  the  pangs  of  jealous  fear ; 
And  Nymphs  that  in  the  waters  play 
(T  is  thus  that  ancient  fiibles  say). 


1                                                                 BOSCAN.                                                           667 

And  Dryads  Mr  among  the  treei. 

If  my  sweet  wife  be  tired,  —  and  smile, 

Fain  the  sprightly  Faans  would  please. 

Inviting  us  to  rest  the  while. 

So  in  their  footsteps  follow  we, — 

Then  to  sup  we  take  our  seat, — 

My  wife  and  I,  —  as  fond  and  free ; 

Our  table  plentifiil  and  neat. 

Love  in  our  thoughts  and  in  our  talk. 

Our  viands  without  sauces  dressed ; 

Direct  we  slow  our  sauntering  walk 

Good  appetite  the  healthy  zest 

To  some  near  murmuring  rivulet, 

To  fruits  we  *ve  plucked  in  our  own  bowers, 

Where,  'neath  a  shady  beech,  we  sit, 

And  gayly  decked  with  odorous  flowers, 

Hand  clasped  in  hand,  and  side  by  side,  — 

And  rustic  dainties,  —  many  a  one. 

With  some  sweet  kisses,  too,  beside,  — 

When  this  is  o'er  and  supper  done. 

Contending  there,  in  combat  kind. 

The  evening  passes  swift  along, 

Which  best  can  love  with  constant  mind. 

In  converse  gay  and  sweetest  song ; 

Till  slumber,  stealing  to  the  eye. 

As  the  stream  flows  among  the  grass. 

Bids  us  to  our  couches  hie. 

Thus  life's  clear  stream  with  ns  does  pass  : 

We  take  no  count  of  day  nor  night, 

Thus  our  village  life  we  live. 

While,  ministering  to  our  delight, 

And  day  by  day  such  joys  receive ; 

Nightingales  all  sweetly  sing, 

Till,  to  change  the  homely  scene. 

And  loving  doves,  with  folded  wing, 

Lest  it  pall  while  too  serene, 

Above  our  heads  are  heard  to  coo ; 

To  the  gay  city  we  remove, 

And  fiir  's  the  ill-betiding  crow. 

Where  other  things  there  are  to  love ; 

We  do  not  think  of  cities  then, 

And  graced  by  novelty,  we  find 

Nor  envy  the  resorts  of  men ; 

The  city's  concourse  to  our  mind. 

Of  Italy  the  softer  pleasures,— 

While  our  new  coming  gives  a  joy. 

Of  Asia,  too,  the  golden  treasures, — 

Which  ever  staying  might  destroy. 

Ail  these  are  nothing  in  our  eyes ; 

We  spare  all  tedious  compliment ; 

The  while  a  book  beside  us  lies, 

Tet  courtesy  with  kind  intent. 

Which  tells  the  tales  of  olden  time. 

Which  savage  tongues  alone  abuse, 

Of  gods  and  men  the  bests  sublime, — 

Will  often  the  same  language  use. 

JEneas*  voyage  by  Virgil  told. 

Thus  in  content  we  thankful  live ; 

Or  song  divine  of  Homer  old. 

And  for  one  ill  for  which  we  grieve, 

Achilles'  wrath  and  all  his  glory, 

How  much  of  good  our  dear  home  blesses ! 

Or  wandering  Ulysses*  story, 

Mortals  must  ever  find  distresses ; 

Propertius  too,  who  well  indites, 

But  sorrow  loses  half  its  weight. 

And  the  soft  plaints  Catullus  writes ; 

And  every  moment  has  its  freight 

These  will  remind  me  of  past  grief. 

Of  joy,  which  our  dear  friends  impart. 

Till,  thinking  of  the  sweet  relief 

And  with  their  kindness  cheer  my  heart, 

My  wedded  state  confers  on  me. 

While,  never  weary  us  to  visit. 

My  by-gone  'scapes  I  careless  eye : 

They  seek  our  house  when  we  are  in  it : 

O,  what  are  all  those  struggles  past. 

If  we  are  out,  it  gives  them  pain, 

The  fiery  pangs  which  did  nol  last, 

And  on  the  morrow  come  again. 

Now  that  I  live  secure  for  aye. 

Noble  Dural  can  cure  our  sadness, 

In  my  dear  wife's  sweet  company  ? 

With  the  infection  of  his  gladness. 

I  have  no  reason  to  repine,  — 

Augustin,  too,  —  well  read  in  pages. 

My  joys  are  hers,  and  hers  are  mine ; 

Productions  of  the  ancient  sages. 

Our  tranquil  hearts  their  feelings  share, 

And  the  romances  of  our  Spain, -« 

And  all  our  pleasures  mutual  are. 

Will  give  us  back  our  smiles  again  ; 

Our  eyes  drink  in  the  shady  light 

While  he,  with  a.noble  gravity. 

Of  wood,  and  vale,  and  grassy  height ; 

Adorned  by  the  gentlest  suavity. 

We  hear  the  waters,  as  they  stray. 

Recounts  us  many  a  tale  or  fiible. 

And  from  the  mountains  wend  their  way. 

Which  well  to  te  1  he  is  most  able,  — 

Leaping  all  lightly  down  the  steep, 

Serious,  mingled  with  jokes  and  glee. 

Till  at  our  feet  they  murmuring  creep ; 

The  which  as  light  and  shade  agree. 

And,  fanning  us,  the  evening  breeze 

And  Monleon,  our  dearest  guest, 

Plays  gamesomely  among  the  trees ; 

Will  raise  our  mirth  by  many  a  jest; 

While  bleating  fiocks,  as  day  grows  cold. 

For  while  his  laughter  rings  again, 

Gladly  seek  their  sheltering  fold. 

Can  we  to  echo  it  refrain  ? 

And  when  the  sun  is  on  the  hill. 

And  other  merriment  is  ours. 

And  shadows  vast  the  valleys  fill, 

To  gild  with  joy  the  lightsome  hours. 

And  waning  day,  grown  near  its  close. 

But  all  too  trivial  would  it  look, 

Sends  tired  men  to  their  repose  ; 

Written  down  gravely  in  a  book : 

We  to  our  villa  sauntering  walk. 

And  it  is  time  to  say  adieu, 

And  of  the  things  we  see  we  talk. 

Though  more  I  have  to  write  to  you. 

Our  friends  come  out  in  gayest  cheer. 

Another  letter  this  shall  tell : 

To  welcome  us,  —  and  fain  would  hear 

So  now,  my  dearest  friend,  farewell ! 

668 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


DIEGO  HURTADO  DE  MENDOZA. 

DiKOo  HuRTADo  DE  Mendoza  wss  bom  at 
Granada,  about  1503.  Being  destined  to  the 
church,  he  received  a  literary  education,  and  at 
the  University  of  Salamanca  became  a  proficient 
in  the  Latin,  Greek,  Hebrew,  and  Arabic  lan- 
guages. Finding  the  ecclesiastical  profession 
ill-suited  to  his  taste,  Mendoza  became  a  sol- 
dier and  statesman,  and  enjoyed  the  favor  of 
Charles  the  Fiflh,  who  sent  him  ambassador  to 
Venice.  In  1545,  he  was  appointed  to  attend, 
as  Imperial  Plenipotentiary,  at  the  Council  of 
Trent;  and  in  1547,  was  made  Governor  and 
Captain-General  of  Siena.  He  held  this  sta- 
tion until  1554.  The  arbitrary  character  of  his 
administration  exposed  him  to  the  hatred  of  the 
Tuscan  Liberals,  and  several  attempts  were  made 
to  assassinate  him.  Notwithstanding  these 
troubles,  he  employed  himself  in  literary  labors, 
particularly  in  the  collection  of  Greek  and  Latin 
manuscripts.  After  the  abdication  of  Charles 
the  Fifth,  he  attached  himself  to  the  court  of 
Philip  the  Second.  He  was  imprisoned  for  hav- 
ing thrown  a  rival,  in  an  affair  of  gallantry,  from 
the  balcony  of  the  palace  into  the  street,  and 
was  afterwards  banished  to  Granada,  where  he 
wrote  his  celebrated  history  of  the  **  Guerra  de 
Granada."  After  a  retirement  of  several  years, 
he  reappeared  at  court  at  Valladolid,  but  died 
a  few  months  afterward,  in  the  year  1575. 

Mendoza  wrote  poetical  epistles,  in  imitation 
of  Horace,  cancianes^  redondillas^  quitUUlaSy 
villancicoSy  and  burletcas  or  satires.  Among 
his  most  celebrated  prose  works  is  the  comic 
romance  entitled  "  Vida  de  Lazarillo  de  Tor- 
mes,"  written  while  he  was  a  student.  This 
work  was  the  parent  of  the  gusto  fUaresco. 


FROM  HIS  EPISTTLE  TO  LUIS  DE  ZUNIOA. 

Another  world  I  seek,  a  resting-place, 
Sweet  times  and  seasons,  and  a  happy  home, 
Where  I  in  peace  may  close  my  mortal  race. 

There  shall  no  evil  passions  dare  presume 
To  enter,  turbulence,  nor  discontent : 
Love  to  my  honored  king  shall  there  find  room. 

And  if  to  me  his  clemency  be  sent. 
Giving  me  kindly  wherewithal  to  live, 
I  will  rejoice  ;  if  not,  will  rest  content. 

My  days  shall  pass  all  idly  fugitive. 
Careless  my  meals,  and  at  no  solemn  hour ; 
My  sleep  and  dreams  such  as  content  can  give. 

Then  will  I  tell,  how,  in  my  days  of  power, 
Into  the  East  Spain's  conquering  flag  I  led. 
All  undismayed  amid  the  fiery  shower; 

"While  young  and  old  around  me  throng  in 
dread. 
Fair  dames,  and  idle  monks,  a  coward  race. 
And  tremble  while  they  hear  of  foes  that  fled. 

And  haply  some  ambassador  may  grace 
My  humble  roof,  resting  upon  his  way : 
His  route  and  many  dangers  he  will  trace 


Upon  my  frugal  board,  and  much  will  say 
Of  many  valiant  deeds ;   but  he  '11  conceal 
His  secret  purpose  from  the  light  of  day ; 

To  mortal  none  that  object  he  '11  reveal : 
His  secret  mission  you  shall  never  find, 
Though  you  should  search  his  heart  with  point- 
ed steel. 

SONNET. 

Now,  by  the  Muses  won,  I  seize  my  lyre ; 
Now,  roused  by  valor's  stern  and  manly  call, 
I  grasp  my  flaming  sword,  in  storm  and  fire, 
To  plant  my  banner  on  some  hostile  wall ; 
Now  sink  my  wearied  limbs  to  silent  rest. 
And  now  I  wake  and  watch  the  lonely  night : 
But  thy  fair  form  is  on  my  heart  impressed. 
Through  every  change,  a  vision  of  delight. 
Where'er  the  glorious  planet  sheds  his  beams. 
Whatever  lands  his  golden  orb  illumes. 
Thy  memory  ever  haunts  my  blissful  dreams. 
And  a  delightful  Eden  round  me  blooms : 
Fresh  radiance  clothes  the  earth,  the  sea,  and 

skies. 
To  mark  the  day  that  gave  thee  to  mine  eyes. 


GARCILASO   DE   LA   VEGA. 

Gabcilaso  de  la  Vega  was  bom  at  Toledo, 
in  1500,  or,  according  to  others,  in  1503,  of  an 
ancient  and  noble  family.  His  love  of  litera- 
ture was  kindled  by  the  study  of  the  ancients. 
He  lived  long  in  Italy,  and  in  his  writings 
imitated  the  Italians,  like  his  friend  Boscan. 
He  travelled  in  Germany,  in  the  service  of 
the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth.  He  engaged 
early  in  the  career  of  arms,  and  his  bravery  at 
the  battle  of  Pavia  gained  him  the  cross  of 
Saint  Jago.  He  afterwards  served  in  the  ex- 
pedition against  Solyman,  and,  in  1535,  accom- 
panied the  forces  that  laid  siege  to  Tunis.  In 
the  following  year,  he  held  a  command  in  the 
imperialist  array  that  invaded  France ;  and  in 
an  attempt  to  take  a  tower,  garrisoned  by  Moors, 
near  Fr^jus,  received  a  wound,  of  which  he  died 
twenty  days  afterward,  at  Nice. 

The  gallant  and  noble  character  of  Garcilaso, 
crowned  by  a  fine  poetical  genius,  has  given 
occasion  to  compare  him  to  Lord  Surrey.  Hia 
works  are  eclogues,  epistles,  odes,  and  sonnets. 
His  eclogues,  of  which  the  first  is  considered  a 
masterpiece,  mark  an  epoch  in  Spanish  poetry, 
and  have  gained  him  the  title  of  the  Prince  of 
Castilian  Poets. 

FROM  THE  FIRST  ECLOOUE. 

SALICIO. 

Through  thee  the  silence  of  the  shaded  glen. 
Through  thee  the  horror  of  the  lonely  mountain, 
Pleased  me  no  less  than  the  resort  of  men ; 
The  breeze,  the  summer  wood,  and  lucid  foun- 
tain. 


GARCILASO   DE  LA   VEOA. 


669 


The  purple  rose,  white  lily  of  the  lake, 
W^re  sweet  for  thy  sweet  sake ; 
For  thee  the  fragrant  primroee,  dropped  with  dew, 
Was  wished  when  first  it  blew. 
0,  how  completely  was  I  in  all  this 
Myself  deceiving !  O,  the  different  part 
That  thou  wert  acting,  covering  with  a  kiss 
Of  seeming  love  the  traitor  in  thy  heart ! 
This  my  severe  misfortune,  long  ago. 
Did  the  soothsaying  raven,  sailing  by 
On  the  black  storm,  with  hoarse,  sinister  cry, 
Clearly  presage  !    In  gentleness  of  woe. 
Flow  forth,  my   tears !  —  't  is   meet   that  ye 
should  flow ! 

How  of^  when  slumbering  in  the  forest  brown, 
Deeming  it  Fancy's  mystical  deceit. 
Have  I  beheld  my  fate  in  dreams  foreshown  ! 
One  day,  methought  that  from  the  noontide  heat 
I  drove  my  flocks  to  drink  of  Tagus*  flood. 
And,  under  curtain  of  its  bordering  wood. 
Take  my  cool  siesta ;  but,  arrived,  the  stream, 
I  know  not  by  what  magic,  changed  its  track. 
And  in  new  channels,  by  an  unused  way. 
Rolled  its  warped  waters  back  ; 
Whilst  I,  scorched,  melting  with  the  heat  ex- 
treme, 
Went  ever  following,  in  their  flight  astray. 
The  wizard  waves  !     In  gentleness  of  woe. 
Flow   forth,   my  tears !  —  *t  -is  meet  that  ye 
should  flow  ! 


In  the  charmed  ear  of  what  beloved  youth 
Sounds  thy  sweet  voice?   on  whom  revolvest 

thou 
Thy  beautiful  blue  eyes  ?  on  whose  proved  truth 
Anchors  thy  broken  faith  ?  who  presses  now 
Thy  laughing  lip,  and   hopes   thy  heaven  of 

charms. 
Locked  in  the  embraces  of  thy  two  white  arms? 
Say  thou,  —  for  whom  hast  thou  so  rudely  left 
My  love  ?  or  stolen,  who  triumphs  in  the  theft  ? 
I  have  not  yet  a  bosom  so  untrue 
To  feeling,  nor  a  heart  of  stone,  to  view 
My  darling  ivy,  torn  from  me,  take  root 
Against  another  wall  or  prosperous  pine,  — 
To  see  my  virgin  vine 
Around  another  elm  in  marriage  hang 
Its  curling  tendrils  and  empurpled  fruit. 
Without  the  torture  of  a  jealous  pang, 
Even  to  the  loss  of  life !     In  gentle  woe. 
Flow    forth,  my   tears !  —  't  is   meet   that  ye 
should  flow ! 


Smooth-sliding  waters,  pure  and  crystalline  ! 
Trees,  that  reflect  your  image  in  their  breast ! 
jtreen    pastures,  full   of  fountains   and  fresh 

shades ! 
(irds,  that  here  scatter  your  sweet  serenades ! 
losses,  and  reverend  ivies  serpentine, 
'hat  ivreath  your  verdurous  arms  round  beech 

and  pine, 
nd,  climbing,  crown  their  crest ! 


Can  I  forget,  ere  grief  my  spirit  changed. 
With  what  delicious  ease  and  pure  content 
Your  peace  I  wooed,  your  solitudes  I  ranged, 
Enchanted  and  refreshed  where'er  I  went  ? 
How  many  blissful  noons  I  here  have  spent 
In  luxury  of  slumber,  couched  on  flowers. 
And  with  my  own  fond  fancies,  from  a  boy, 
Discoursed  away  the  hours, — 
Discovering  naught  in  your  delightful  bowers. 
But  golden  dreams,  and  memories  fraught  with 
joy! 

And  in  this  very  valley,  where  I  now 

Grow  sad,  and  droop,  and  languish,  have  I 

lain 
At  ease,  with  happy  heart  and  placid  brow  : 

0  pleasure  fragile,  fugitive,  and  vain  ! 
Here,  I  remember,  walking  once  at  noon, 

1  saw  Eliza  standing  at  my  side : 

O  cruel  fate  !     O  fine-spun  web,  too  soon 

By  Death's  sharp  scissors  clipped !  sweet,  suffer- 
ing bride. 

In  womanhood's  most  interesting  prime, 

Cut  off,  before  thy  time  ! 

How  much  more  suited  had  his  surly  stroke 

Been  to  the  strong  thread  of  my  weary  life  ! 

Stronger  than  steel  !  —  since,  in  the  parting 
strife 

From  thee,  it  has  not  broke. 

Where  are  the  eloquent,  mild  eyes  that  drew 
My  heart  where'er  they  wandered  ?  where  the 

hand. 
White,  delicate,  and  pure  as  melting  dew, — 
Filled  with  the  spoils,  that,  proud  of  thy  com- 
mand, 
My  feelings  paid  in  tribute  ?  the  bright  hair 
That  paled  the  shining  gold,  that  did  contemn 
The  glorious  opal  as  a  meaner  gem  ? 
The  bosom's  ivory  apples,  —  where,  ah,  where  ? 
Where    now    the    neck,   to    whiteness    over- 
wrought. 
That  like  a  column  with  genteelest  scorn 
Sustained  the  golden  dome  of  virtuous  thought  ? 
Oone  !  ah,  forever  gone 
To  the  chill,  desolate,  and  dreary  pall ! 
And  mine  the  grief,  —  the  wormwood  and  the 
gall! 

Who  would  have  said,  my  love,  when  late, 

through  this 
Romantic  valley,  we  from  bower  to  bower 
Went  gathering  violets  and  primroses. 
That  I  should  see  the  melancholy  hour 
So  soon  arrive  that  was  to  end  my  bliss. 
And  of  my  love  destroy  both  fruit  and  flower  ? 
Heaven  on  my  head  has  laid  a  heavy  hand ; 
Sentencing,  without  hope,  without  appeal, 
To  loneliness  and  everduring  tears 
The  joyless  remnant  of  my  future  years  : 
But  that  which  most  I  feel 
Is,  to  behold  myself  obliged  to  bear 
This  condemnation  to  a  life  of  care  ; 
Lone,  blind,  forsaken,  under  sorrow's  spell, 
A  gloomy  captive  in  a  gloomy  cell. 


670 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


Since  thou  has^left  us,  fulness,  rest,  and  peace 
Have  ftiled  the  ataireling   flocks;    the   field 

supplies 
To  the  toiled  hind  but  pitifiil  increase ; 
All  blepsings  change  to  ills  ;  the  clinging  weed 
Chokes  the  thin  corn,  and  in  its  stead  arise 
Pernicious  darnel  and  the  fruitless  reed. 
The  enamelled   earth,  that  from  her  verdant 

breast 
Lavished  spontaneously  ambrosial  flowers. 
The  very  sight  of  which  can  soothe  to  rest 
A  thousand  cares,  and  charm  our  sweetest  hours, 
That  late  indulgence  of  her  bounty  scorns. 
And  in  exchange  shoots  forth  but  tangled  bow* 

ers. 
But  brambles  rough  with  thorns ; 
Whilst,  with  the  tears  that  falling  steep  their 

root. 
My  swollen  eyes  increase  the  bitter  fruit 

As  at  the  set  of  sun  the  shades  extend, 
And,  when  its  circle  sinks,  that  dark  obscure 
Rises  to  shroud  the  world,  on  which  attend 
The  images  that  set  our  hair  on  end. 
Silence,  and  shapes  mysterious  as  the  grave ; 
Till  the  broad  sun  sheds  once  more  from  the 

wave 
His  lively  lustre,  beautiful  and  pure : 
Such  shapes  were  in  the  night,  and  such  ill 

gloom. 
At  thy  departure ;  still  tormenting  fear 
Haunts  and  must  haunt  me,  until  Death  shall 

doom 
The  80  much  wished-fbr  sun  to  reappear 
Of  thine  angelic  face,  my  soul  to  cheer. 
Resurgent  from  the  tomb. 

As  the  sad  nightingale,  in  some  green  wood 
Closely  embowered,  the  cruel  hind  arraigns 
Who  from  their  pleasant  nest  her  plumeless 

brood 
Has  stolen,  whilst  she  with  pains 
Winged   the  wide   forest   for  their  food,  and 

now. 
Fluttering  with  joy,  returns  to  the  loved  bough,— 
The  bough  where  naught  remains ; 
Dying  with  passion  and  desire,  she  flings 
A  thousand  concords  from  her  various  bill. 
Till  the  whole  melancholy  woodland  rings 
With  gurglings  sweet,  or  with  philippics  shrill ; 
Throughout  the  silent  night,  she  not  refrains 
Her  piercing  note  and  her  pathetic  cry. 
But  calls,  as  witness  to  her  wrongs  and  pains. 
The  listening  stars  and  the  responding  sky  : 

So  I  in  mournful  song  pour  fbrth  my  pain ; 
So  I  lament  —  lament,  alas !  in  vain  -— 
The  cruelty  of  Death  :  untaught  to  spare. 
The  ruthless  spoiler  ravished  from  my  breast 
Each  pledge  of  happiness  and  joy,  that  there 
Had  its  beloved  home  and  nuptial  nest. 
Swifl-seizing  Death  !  through  thy  despite  I  fill 
The  whole  world  with  my  passionate  lament, 
Importuning  the  skies  and  valleys  shrill 
My  tale  of  wrongs  to  echo  and  resent 


A  grief  so  vast  no  consolation  knows  ; 
Ne'er  can  the  agony  my  brain  forsake, 
Till  suflTering  consciousness  in  frenzy  close. 
Or  till  the  shattered  chords  of  being  break. 

Poor,  lost  Eliza  !  of  thy  locks  of  gold. 
One  treasured  ringlet  in  white  silk  I  keep 
For  ever  at  my  heart,  which  when  unrolled. 
Fresh  grief  and  pity  o*er  my  spirit  creep  ; 
And  my  insatiate  eyes,  for  hours  untold. 
O'er  the    dear  pledge  will,  like  an   infant's, 

weep: 
With  sighs  more  warm  than  fire  anon  I  dry 
The  tears  from  oflT  it,  number  one  by  one 
The  radiant  hairs,  and  with  a  love-knot  tie ; 
Mine  eyes,  this  duty  done. 
Give  over  weeping,  and  with  slight  relief 
I  taste  a  short  forgetfulness  of  grief. 

But  soon,  with  all  its  first-felt  horrors  fraught, 

That  gloomy  night  returns  upon  my  brain. 

Which  ever  wrings  my  spirit  with  the  thought 

Of  my  deep  loss  and  thine  unaided  pain : 

Even  now,  I  seem  to  see  thee  pale  recline 

In  thy  most  trying  crisis,  and  to  hear 

The  plaintive  murmurs  of  that  voice  divine. 

Whose  tones  might  touch  the  ear 

Of  blustering  winds,  and  silence  their  dispute ; 

That  gentle  voice  —  now  mute — 

Which  to  the  merciless  Lucina  prayed, 

In  utter  agony,  for  aid,  —  for  aid  ! 

Alas,  for  thine  appeal  !  Discourteous  power. 

Where  wert  thou  gone  in  that  momentous  hour? 

Or  wert  thou  in  the  gray  woods  hunting  deer  ? 
Or  with  thy  shepherd-boy  entranced  ?     Could 

aught 
Palliate  thy  rigorous  cruelty,  to  turn 
Away  thy  scornful,  cold,  indifferent  ear 
From  my  moist  prayers,  by  no  afiliction  moved, 
And  sentence  one  so  beauteous  and  beloved 
To  the  funereal  urn  P 
O,  not  to  mark  the  throes 
Thy  Nemoroso  suflfered,  whose  concern 
It  ever  was,  when  pale  the  morning  rose. 
To  drive  the  mountain  beasts  into  his  toils, 
And  on  thy  holy  altars  heap  the  spoils ; 
And  thou,  ungrateful,  smiling  with  delight, 
Could'st  leave  my  nymph  to  die  before  my  sight ! 

Divine  Eliza  !  since  the  sapphire  sky 

Thou  measurest  now  on  angel- wings,  and  feet 

Sandalled  with  immortality,  O,  why 

Of  me  forgetful  ?     Wherefore  not  entreat 

To  hurry  on  the  time  when  I  shall  see 

The  veil  of  mortal  being  rent  in  twain. 

And  smile  that  I  am  free  ? 

In  the  third  circle  of  that  happy  land. 

Shall  we  not  seek  together,  hand  in  hand. 

Another  lovelier  landscape,  a  new  plain. 

Other  romantic  streams  and  mountains  blue. 

Fresh  flowery  vales,  and  a  new  shady  shore. 

Where  I  may  rest,  and  ever  in  my  view 

Keep  thee,  without  the  terror  and  surprise 

Of  being  sundered  more  P 


6ARCILASO  DE   LA  VEGA. 


671 


FROM  THE  THIRD  ECL00X7K 

It  a  tweet  lolitude  beside  the  flood 

la  a  green  grove  of  willowe^  trunk-entwined 
With  ivies  climbing  to  the  top,  whose  hood 

Of  gloaay  leaves,  with  all  its  boughs  combined, 
So  interchains  and  canopies  the  wood. 

That  the  hot  sunbeams  can  no  access  find ; 
The  water  bathes  the  mead,  the  flowers  around 
It  glads,  and  charms  the  ear  with  its  sweet  sound. 

The  glaasy  river  here  so  smoothly  slid, 
With  pace  so  gentle,  on  its  winding  road, 

The  eye,  in  sweet  perplexity  misled, 
Coald  acarcely  tell  which  way  the  current 
flowed. 

Combing  her  locks  of  gold,  a  Nymph  her  head 
Raised  from  the  water  where  she  made  abode. 

And,  as  the  various  landscape  she  surveyed. 

Saw  this  green  meadow,  full  of  flowers  and 
shade. 

That  wood,  the  flowery  turf,  the  winds  that  wide 
Diffused  its  fragrance,  filled  her  with  delight ; 

Birds  of  all  hues  in  the  fresh  bowers  she  spied. 
Retired,  and  resting  firom  their  weary  flight. 

It  was  the  hour  when  hot  the  sunbeams  dried 
Earth's  spirit  up, — 'twas  noontide  still  as 
night ; 

Alone,  at  times,  as  of  o'erbrooding  bees. 

Mellifluous  murmurs  sounded  from  the  trees. 


Having  a  long  time  lingered  to  behold 
The  shady  place,  in  meditative  mood. 

She  waved  aside  her  flowing  locks  of  gold, 
Dived  to  the  bottom  of  the  crystal  flood. 

And,  when  to  her  sweet  sisters  she  had  told 
The  charming  coolness  of  this  vernal  wood. 

Prayed  and  advised  them  to  its  green  retreat 

To  take  their  tasks,  and  pass  the  hours  of  heat. 

She  had  not  long  to  sue; — the  lovely  three 
Took  up  their  work,  and,  looking  fbrth,  de- 
scried. 
Peopled  with  violets,  the  sequestered  lea, 
And   toward  it  hastened :   swimming,  they 
divide 
The  clear  glass,  wantoning  in  sportful  glee 
Tfaroogh  the  smooth  wave ;  till,  issuing  firom 
the  tide. 
Their  white  feet  dripping  to  the  sands  they  yield, 
led  touch  the  border  of  that  verdant  field. 

dressing  the  elastic  moss  with  graceful  tread, 
Thej  wrung  the  moisture  firom  their  shining 
hair, 
Vhich,  shaken  loose,  entirely  overspread 
Their  beauteous  shoulders  and  white  bosoms 
bare; 
*heDy  drawing  forth  rich  webs  whose  spangled 
thread 
Might  in  fine  beauty  with  themselves  com- 
pare, 
'hej  sought  the  shadiest  covert  of  the  grove, 
nd  sat  them  down,  conversing  as  they  wove. 


Their  woof  was  of  the  gold  which  Tagus  brings 
From  the  proud  mountains  in  his  fiow  di- 
vine. 

Well  sifted  from  the  sands  wherewith  it  springs. 
Of  all  admixture  purified  and  fine ; 

And  of  the  green  flax  fashioned  into  strings, 
Subtile  and  lithe  to  fbllow  and  combine 

With  the  bright  vein  of  gold,  by  force  of  fire 

Already  drawn  into  resplendent  wire. 

The  subtile  yarn  their  skill  before  had  stained 
With  dyes  pellucid  as  the  brightest  found    • 

On  the  smooth  shells  of  the  blue  sea,  ingrained 
By  sunbeams  in  their  warm  and  radiant  round : 

Each    Nymph,  for  skill   in   what  her   fingers 
feigned. 
Equalled  the   works  of  painters   most  re- 
nowned, -^ 

Apelles'  Venus,  or  the  famous  piece 

Wherein  Timanthes  veils  the  grief  of  Greece. 


With  these  &ir  scenes  and  classic  histories 
The  webs  of  the  four  sisters  were  inlaid. 

Which,  sweetly  flushed  with  variegated  dyes. 
In  clear  obscure  of  sunshine  and  of  shade, 

Each  figured  object  to  observant  eyes 
In  rich  relief  so  naturally  displayed. 

That,  like  the  birds  deceived  by  Zeuxis*  grapes. 

It  seemed  the  hand  might  grasp  their  swelling 
shapes. 

But  now  the  setting  sun  with  farewell  rays 
Played  on  the  purple  mountains  of  the  west. 

And  in  the  darkening  skies  gave  vacant  place 
For  Dian  to  display  her  silver  crest ; 

The  little  fishes  in  her  loving  fiu^e 

Leaped  up,  gay  lashing  with  their  tails  the 
breast 

Of  the  clear  stream,  when  from  their  tasks  the 
four 

Arose,  and  arm  in  arm  resought  the  shore. 

Each  in  the  tempered  wave  had  dipped  her  foot. 
And  toward  the  water  bowed  her  swanlike 
breast, 

Down  to  their  crystal  hermitage  to  shoot,  — 
When  suddenly  sweet  sounds  their  ears  ar- 
rest. 

Mellowed  by  distance,  of  the  pipe  or  flute. 
So  that  to  listen  they  perforce  were  pressed : 

To  the  mild  sounds  wherewith  the  valleys  ring 

Two  shepherd  jouths  alternate  ditties  sing. 

Piping  through  that  green  willow  wood  they 
roam 
Amidst  their  flocks,  which,  now  that  day  is 
spent. 
They  to  the  distant  folds  drive  slowly  home. 

Across  the  verdurous  meadows  dew-besprent. 

Whitening  the  dun  shades,  onward  as  they  come: 

Clear  and  more  clear  the  fingered  instrument 

Sounds  in  accord  with  the  melodious  voice, 

And  cheers  their  task,  and  makes  the  woods 

rejoice. 


672 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


ODE  TO  THE  FLOWER  OF  GNIDO.* 

Had  I  the  sweet-resounding  lyre 

Whose  voice  could  in  a  moment  chain 

The  howling  wind's  ungoverned  ire, 
And  movement  of  the  raging  main, 
On  savage  hills  the  leopard  rein, 

The  lion's  fiery  soul  entrance. 
And  lead  along  with  golden  tones 
The  fascinated  trees  and  stones 
In  voluntary  dance,  — 

Think  not,  think  not,  fair  Flower  of  Gnide, 
It  e'er  should  celebrate  the  scars, 

Dust  raised,  blood  shed,  or  laurels  dyed 
Beneath  the  gonfalon  of  Mars ; 
Or,  borne  sublime  on  festal  cars. 

The  chiefs  who  to  submission  sank 
The  rebel  German's  soul  of  soul. 
And  forged  the  chains  that  now  control 
The  frenzy  of  the  Frank. 

No,  no !  its  harmonies  should  ring 
In  vaunt  of  glories  all  thine  own, — 

A  discord  sometimes  from  the  string 

Struck  forth  to  make  thy  harshness  known ; 
The  fingered  chords  should  speak  alone 

Of  Beauty's  triumphs,  Love's  alarms. 
And  one  who,  made  -by  thy  disdain 
Pale  as  a  lily  clipped  in  twain, 
Bewails  thy  fatal  charms. 

Of  that  poor  captive,  too  contemned, 

I  speak,  —  his  doom  you  might  deplore^  — 

In  Venus'  galliot-shell  condemned 
To  strain  for  life  the  heavy  oar. 
Through  thee,  no  longer,  as  of  yore, 

He  tames  the  unmanageable  steed. 
With  curb  of  gold  his  pride  restrains. 
Or  with  pressed  spurs  and  ahaken  reins 
Torments  him  into  speed. 

Not  now  he  wields  for  thy  sweet  sake 
The  sword  in  his  accomplished  hand, 

Nor  grapples,  like  a  poisonous  snake, 
The  wrestler  on  the  yellow  sand. 
The  old  heroic  harp  his  hand 

Consults  not  now ;  it  can  but  kiss 
The  amorous  lute's  dissolving  strings. 
Which  murmur  forth  a  thousand  things 
Of  banishment  from  bliss. 

Through  thee,  my  dearest  friend  and  best 
Grows  harsh,  importunate,  and  grave ; 

Myself  have  been  his  port  of  rest 

From  shipwreck  on  the  yawning  wave  ; 
Yet  now  so  high  his  passions  rave 

Above  lost  reason's  conquered  laws. 
That  not  the  traveller,  ere  he  slays 
The  asp,  its  sting,  as  he  my  face, 
So  dreads  or  so  abhors. 

In  snows  on  rocks,  sweet  Flower  of  Gnide, 
Thou  wert  not  cradled,  wert  not  born  ; 

*  This  ode  waa  addromed  to  a  lady  residing  in  that  quar- 
ter of  Naplea  called  11  Seggio  de  Gnido  ;  and  on  this  ac- 
count the  poet  atylee  her  "  The  Flower  of  Gnldo.»» 


She  who  has  not  a  fault  beside 

Should  ne'er  be  signalized  for  scorn  ; 
Else,  tremble  at  the  fate  forlorn 

Of  AnazArete,  who  spurned 

The  weeping  Iphis  from  her  gate,  — 
Who,  scoffing  long,  relenting  late, 
Was  to  a  statue  turned. 

Whilst  yet  soft  pity  she  repelled. 

Whilst  yet  she  steeled  her  heart  in  pride. 
From  her  friezed  window  she  beheld. 

Aghast,  the  lifeless  suicide : 

Around  his  lily  neck  was  tied 
What  freed  his  spirit  from  her  chains. 

And  purchased  with  a  few  abort  sighs 

For  her  immortal  agonies. 
Imperishable  pains.  ^ 

Then  first  she  felt  her  bosom  bleed 
With  love  and  pity  ;  vain  distress  ! 

O,  what  deep  rigors  must  succeed 
This  first,  sole  touch  of  tenderness  ! 
Her  eyes  grow  glazed  and  motionless. 

Nailed  on  his  wavering  corse ',  each  booe. 
Hardening  in  growth,  invades  her  flesh. 
Which,  late  so  rosy,  warm,  and  fresh. 
Now  stagnates  into  stone. 

From  limb  to  limb  the  frosts  aspire, 

Her  vitals  curdle  with  the  cold  ; 
The  blood  forgets  its  crimson  fire. 

The  veins  that  e'er  its  motion  rolled  ; 

Till  now  the  virgin's  glorious  mould 
Was  wholly  into  marble  changed, 

On  which  the  Salaminians  gazed. 

Less  at  the  prodigy  amazed. 
Than  of  the  crime  avenged. 

Then  tempt  not  thou  Fate's  angry  arms 
By  cruel  frown  or  icy  taunt ; 

But  let  thy  perfect  deeds  and  charms 
To  poets'  harps,  Divinest,  grant 
Themes  worthy  their  immortal  vaunt : 

Else  must  our  weeping  strings  presume 
To  celebrate  in  strains  of  woe 
The  justice  of  some  signal  blow 
That  strikes  thee  to  the  tomb. 


SONNETS. 
As  the  fond  mother,  when  her  suffering  child 
Asks  some  sweet  object  of  desire  with  tears. 
Grants  it,  although  her  fond  affection  fears 
'T  will  double  all  its  sufferings ;  reconciled 
To  more  appalling  evils  by  the  mild 
Influence  of  present  pity,  shuts  her  ears 
To  prudence ;  for  an  hour's  repose,  prepares 
Long  sorrow,  grievous  pain  :  I,  lost  and  wild. 
Thus  feed  my  foolish  and  infected  thought 
That  asks  for  dangerous  aliment;  in  vain 
I  would  withhold  it;  clamorous,  again 
It  comes,  and  weeps,  and  I  'm  subdued,  —  and 

naught 
Can  o'er  that  childish  will  a  victory  gain : 
So  have  despair    and    gloom   their  triumphs 

wrought ! 


H£RR£RA. 


673 


Lad7,  thy  face  is  written  in  my  soul ; 

And  whensoe'er  I  wish  to  chant  thy  praise, 

00  that  illumined  manuscript  I  gaze : 

Thou  the  sweet  scribe  art,  I  but  read  the  scroll. 
In  this  dear  study  all  my  days  shall  roll ; 
And  though  this  book  can  ne'er  the  half  receive 
Of  what  in  thee  is  charming,  I  believe 
In  that  I  see  not,  and  thus  see  the  whole 
With  foith's  clear  eye.  I  but  received  my  breath 
To  love  thee,  my  ill  genius  shaped  the  rest ; 
T  is  now  that  soul's  mechanic  act  to  love  thee : 

1  love  thee,  owe  thee  more  than  I  confessed ; 

I  gained  life  by  thee,  cruel  though  I  prove  thee ', 
la  thee  I  live,  through  thee  I  bleed  to  death. 


FERNANDO  DE  HERRERA. 

Fkhxando  dx  Hkrrera,  sumamed  the  Di- 
vine, was  born  at  Seville,  about  1510.  Little 
is  known  of  the  circumstances  of  his  life.  He 
appears  to  have  been  an  ecclesiastic,  but  of 
what  rank  is  not  recorded.  He  is  spoken  of  as 
an  excellent  scholar  in  Latin,  and  as  having  a 
moderate  knowledge  of  Greek.  He  read  the 
best  authors  in  the  modern  languages,  and  stud- 
ied profoundly  the  Castilian,  oC  which  he  be- 
came a  distinguished  master.  He  probably  died 
not  long  after  1590. 

Herrera  was  a  vigorous  and  elegant  prose- 
writer  as  well  as  poet.  Many  of  his  works, 
however,  are  lost.  His  best  productions  are 
lyrical.  The  ode  on  the  battle  of  Lepanto,  and 
that  on  the  death  of  Sebastian  of  Portugal,  are 
of  remarkable  excellence.  He  is  praised  by 
Cervantes,  who  says,  **  The  ivy  of  his  fame  will 
cling  to  the  walls  of  immortality." 


ODE  ON  THE  BATTLE  OF  LEPANTO. 

Tbs  tyrants  of  the  world  from  helPs  abysm 
Summoned  the  demons  of  revenge  and  pride, 
The  countless  hosts  in  whom  they  did  eon- 
fide, — 
And  gathering  round  the  flag  of  despotism 

The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide, — 
All  who  had  bound  men's  souls  within   their 
den, — 
Tore  down  the  loftiest  cedar  of  the  height, 
The  tree  sublime ;  and,  drunk  with  anger  then. 
Threatened  in  ghastly  bands  our  fbw  astonished 
men. 

The  little  ones,  confounded,  trembled  then 
At  their  appalling  fury;  and  their  brow 

Against  the  Lord  of  Hosts  these  impious  men 
Uplifting,  sought,  with  Heaven-insulting  vow, 
The  triumph  of  thy  people's  overthrow,— 

Their  armed  hands  extending,  and  their  crest 
Moving  omnipotent,  because  that  thou 

Wert  as  a  tower  of  refuge,  to  invest 

AH  whom  man's  quenchless  hope  had  prompted 
to  resist. 


Thus  said  those  insolent  and  scornful  ones : 
**  Knows  not  this  earth  the  vengeance  of  our 
wrath. 

The  strength  of  our  illustrious  fathers'  thrones  ? 
Or  did  the  Roman  power  avail  ?  or  hath 
Rebellious  Greece,  in  her  triumphant  path, 

Scattered  the  seeds  of  freedom  on  your  land .' 
Italia !  Austria !  who  shall  save  you  both  ? 

Is  it  your  Ood  ?  —  Ha,  ha !     Shall  he  withstand 

The  glory  of  our  might,  our  conquering  right- 
hand? 

"  Our  Rome,  now  tamed  and  humbled,  into  tears 

And  psalms  converts  her  songs  of  freedom's 
rights; 
And  for  her  sad  and  conquered  children  (ears 

The  carnage  of  more  Cannie's  fatal  fights. 

Now  Asia  with  her  discord  disunites ; 
Spain  threatens  with  her  horrors  to  assail 

All  who  still  harbour  Moorish  proselytes ; 
Each  nation's  throne  a  traitor  crew  doth  veil : 
And,  though  in  concord  joined,  what  could  their 
might  avail  ? 

**  Earth's  haughtiest  nations  tremble  and  obey, 
And  to  our  yoke  their  necks  in  peace  incline. 
And  peace,  for  their  salvation,  of  us  pray,  — 
Cry,  *  Peace  ! '  but  tliat  means  death,  when 

monarchs  sign. 
Vain   is  their  hope !   their  lights  obscurely 
shine !  — 
Their   valiant    gone,  —  their  virgins    in   our 
powers,  —    • 
Their  glory  to  our  sceptres  they  resign  : 
From  Nile  to  Euphrates  and  Tiber's  towers, 
Whate'er  the  all-seeing  sun  looks  down  on,  — 
all  is  ours." 

Thou,  Lord  '.  who  wilt  not  suffer  that  thy  glory 
They  should  usurp  who  in  their  might  put 
trust. 
Hearing  the  vanntings  of  these  anarchs  hoary, 
These  holy  ones  beheld,  whose  horrid  lust 
Of  triumph  did  thy  sacred  altars  crust 
With  blood ;  nor  wouldst  thou  longer  that  the 
base 
Should  be  permitted  to  oppress  thy  just, 
Then,  mocking,  cry  to  Heaven,^"  Within  what 

place 
Abides  the  Ood  of  these  ?  where  hideth  he  his 
face?" 

For  the  due  glory  of  thy  righteous  name, 
For  the  just  vengeance  of  thy  race  oppressed. 

For  the  deep  woes  the  wretched  loud  proclaim. 
In  pieces  hast  thou  dashed  the  dragon's  crest. 
And  clipped  the  wings  of  the  destroying  pest: 

Back  to  his  cave  he  draws  his  poisonous  fold. 
And  trembling  hisses ;  then  in  torpid  breast 

Buries  his  fear :  for  thou,  to  Babel  sold 

Captive,  no  more  on  earth  thy  Zion  wilt  behold. 

Portentous  Egypt,  now  with  discord  riven. 
The  avenging  fire  and  hostile  spear  affright ; 

And  the  smoke,  mounting  to  the  light  of  heaven, 
O'erclouds  her  cities  in  its  pall  of  night : 
3a 


674 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


In  tears  and  solitude  she  mourns  the  sight. 
But  thou,  O  GrsBcia  !  the  fierce  tyrant's  stay, 

The  glory  of  her  excellence  and  might, 
Dost  thou  lament,  old  Ocean  Queen,  thy  prey, — 
Nor  fearing  God,  dost  seek  thine  own  regen- 
erate day  ? 

Wherefore,  ingrate,  didst  thoa  adorn  thy  daugh- 
ters 

In  foul  adultery  with  an  impious  race  ? 
Why  thus  confederate  in  the  unholy  slaughters 

Of  those  whose  burning  hope  is  thy  disgrace  ? 

With  mournful  heart,  yet  hypocritic  face, 
Follow  the  lifb  abhorred  of  that  vile  crew  ? 

God's  sharpened  sword  thy  beauty  shall  efface, 
Falling  in  vengeance  on  thy  neck.     O,  who. 
Thou  lost  one,  his  right  hand  in  mercy  shall 
subdue  ? 

But  thou,  O  pride  of  ocean  !  lofty  Tyre ! 

Who  in  thy  ships  so  high  and  glorious  stood, 
O'ershadowtng  earth's  limits,  and  whose  ire 
With  trembling  filled  this  orb's  vast  multi- 
tude ; 
How  have  ye  ended,  fierce  and  haughty  brood  ? 
What  power  hath  marked  your  sins  and  slav- 
eries foul. 
Tour  neck  unto  this  cruel  yoke  subdued  ? 
God,  to  avenge  us,  clouds  thy  sunlike  soul. 
And  causes  on  thy  wise  this  blinding  storm   to 
roll. 

Howl,  ships  of  Tarsus,  howl !  for,  lo  !  destroyed 

Lies  your  high  hope.    Oppressors  of  the  free ! 
Lost  is  your  strength,  —  your  glory  is  defied. 

Thou  tyrant-shielder,  who  shall  pity  thee  ? 

And  thou,  O  Asia !  who  didst  bow  the  knee 
To  Baal,  in  vice  immerged,  who  shall  atone 

For  thine  idolatries  ?  for  God  doth  see 
Thine  ancient  crimes,  whose  silent  prayers  have 

flown 
For  vengeance  unto  Heaven  before  his  judg- 
ment-throne. 

Those  who  behold  thy  mighty  arms  when  shat- 
tered. 
And  Ocean  flowing  naked  of  thy  pines. 
Over  his  weary  waves  triumphant  scattered 
So   long,  but  now  wreck-strewn,  in  awful 

signs. 
Shall  say,  beholding  thy  deserted  shrines, — 
(«Who   'gainst   the  fearful   One   hath   daring 
striven  f 
The  Lord  of  our  Salvation  their  designs 
O'ertumed,  and,  for  the  glory  of  his  heaven, 
To  man's  devoted  race  this  victory  hath  given.*' 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DON  SEBASTIAN. 

With  sorrowing  voice  begin  the  strain, 
With  fearful  breath  and  sounds  of  woe,  — 
Sad  prelude  to  the  mournful  lay 
For  Lusitania's  fallen  sway, 
Spumed  by  the  ftuthless  foe ! 


And  let  the  tale  of  horror  sound 
From  Libyan  Atlas  and  the  burning  plain 
E'en  to  the  Red  Sea's  distant  bound ; 
And  where,  beyond  that  foaming  tide. 
The  vanquished  Eaat,  with  blushing  pride. 
And  all  her  nations  fierce  and  brave, 
Have  seen  the  Chrbtian  banners  wave. 

O  Libya !   through  thy  deserts  wide. 

With  many  a  steed,  and  chariot  boldly  driven, 

Thou   saw'st  Sebastian's   warriors  sweep   the 

shore: 
On  rushed  they,  fierce  in  martial  power, 
Nor  raised  their  thoughts  to  Heaven  ; 
Self-confident,  and  flushed  with  pride,  — 
Their  boastful  hearts  on  plunder  bent,  — 
Triumphant  o'er  the  hostile  land. 
In  gorgeous  trim  the  stifi'-necked  people  went. 
But  the  Lord  opened  his  upholding  hand. 
And  left  them ;  down  the  abyss,  with  strange 

uproar, 
Horseman  and  horse  amain,  and  crashing  char- 
iots, pour. 

Loaded  with  wrath  and  terror  came 

The  day,  the  cruel  day, 

Which  gave  the  widowed  realm  to  shame. 

To  solitude,  and  deep  dismay. 

Dark  lowered  the  heavens ;  in  garb  of  woe. 

The  sun,  astonished,  ceased  to  glow. 

Jehovah  visited  the  guilty  land. 

And  passed  in  anger,  with  his  red  right-hand 

Humbling  her  pride :  he  made  the  force 

Of  weak  barbarians  steady  in  its  course ; 

He  made  their  bosoms  firm  and  bold. 

And  bade  them  spurn  at  banefbl  gold, 

Their   ruthless  way  through   yielding   legioDs 

mow, 
Fulfil  his  vengeful  word,  and  trample  on  the  foe. 

O'er  thy  fair  limbs,  so  long  by  valor  saved. 

Sad  Lusitania,  child  of  woe ! 

O'er  all  that  rich  and  gallant  show, 

With  impious  hate  the -heathen's  fearless  arm 

His  flaming  falchion  waved : 

His  fury  marred  thine  ancient  fame. 

And  scattered  o'er  thy  squadrons  wild  alarm. 

Fell  slaughter,  and  eternal  shame. 

A  tide  of  blood  o'erflowed  the  plain ; 

Like  mountains  stood  the  heaps  of  slain : 

Alike,  on  that  ill-fiited  day, 

War's  headlong  torrent  swept  away 

The  trembling  voice  of  fear,  the  coward  breath. 

And  the  high  soul  of  valor,  proud  in  death. 

Are  those  the  warriors  once  renowned ; 
For  deeds  of  glory  justly  crowned; 
Whose  thunder  shook  the  world. 
Whene'er  their  banners  were  unfurled ; 
Who  many  a  barbarous  tribe  subdued. 
And  many  an  empire  stretching  wide  and  &r; 
Who  sacked  each  state  that  proudly  stood ; 
Whose  anxiB  laid  waste  in  savage  war 
What  realms  lie  circled  by  the  Indian  tide  ?  — 
Where  now  their  ancient  pride  ? 


HERRERA. 


675 


Where  is  that  courage,  once  in  fight  lecure  ? 

How  in  one  moment  ia  the  boaat 

Of  that  heroio  valor  loat ! 

Without  the  holy  ritea  of  lepaltore. 

Far  from  their  homea  and  native  land, 

Fallen,  O,  Allen  on  the  desert  sand ! 

Once  were  they  like  the  cedar  &ir 

Of  mighty  Lebanon,  whose  glorious  head 

With  leayea  and  bougha  immeasurably  spread. 

The  rains  of  heaven  bade  it  grow 

Stately  and  loftiest  on  the  mountain's  brow ; 

And  still  its  branches  rose  to  view 

In  form  and  beauty  ever  new. 

High  nestled  on  its  head  the  fowls  of  air, 

And  many  a  forest  beast 

Beneath  its  ample  boughs  increased. 

And  man  found  shelter  in  its  goodly  shade. 

With  beauteous  limbs  unrivalled  did  it  rise. 

Lord  of  the  mountain,  towering  to  the  skies. 

Its  verdant  head  presumptuously  grew, 
Trusting  to  wondrous  bulk  alone. 
And  vain  of  its  excelling  height: 
But  from  the  root  its  trunk  the  Lord  o'erthrew. 
To  barbarous  despite 
And  foreign  hate  a  hopeless  prey. 
Now,  by  the  mountain  torrent  strown. 
Its  leafless  honors  naked  lie ; 
And  fiir  aloof  the  frighted  wanderers  fly, 
Whom  once  it  shielded  from  the  burning  day : 
In  the  sad  ruin  of  its  branches  bare 
Dwell  the  wild  forest  beasts  and  screaming  birds 
of  air. 

Thou,  hateful  Libya,  on  whose  arid  sand 

Proud  Lu8itania*s  glory  fell, 

And  all  her  boast  of  wide  command,  — 

Let  not  thine  heart  with  triumph  swell. 

Though  to  thy  timid  hand  by  angry  Heaven 

A  praiseless  victory  was  given  ! 

For  when  the  voice  of  grief  shall  call 

The  sons  of  Spain  to  venge  her  fall. 

Torn  by  the  lance,  thy  vitals  shall  repay 

The  fatal  outrage  of  that  bitter  day. 

And  Luco*s  flood,  impurpled  by  the  slain. 

Its  mournful  tribute  roll  affidghted  to  the  main. 


FROM  AN  CDS  TO  DON  JOHN  OF  AUSTRIA. 

Whzn  from  the  vaulted  sky, 

Struok  by  the  bolt  and  volleyed  fire  of  Jove, 

Enceladus,  who  proudly  strove  . 

To  rear  to  heaven  his  impious  head. 

Fell  headlong  upon  Etna's  rocky  bed ; 

And  she,  who  long  had  boldly  stood 

Against  the  powers  on  high. 

By  thoasand  deaths  undaunted,  unsubdued,  — 

Rebellious  Earth, —  her  fhry  spent. 

Before  the  sword  of  Mars  unwilling  bent : 

In  heaven's  pure  serene. 

To  hifi  bright  lyre,  whose  strings  melodious  rung, 

Unahorn  Apollo  sweetly  song. 


And  spread  the  joyous  numbers  round,  — 

His  youthful  brows  with  gold  and  laurel  bound. 

Listening  the  sweet,  immortal  strain 

Each  heavenly  power  was  seen  ; 

And  all  the  lucid  spheres,  night's  wakeful  train, 

That  swift  pursue  their  ceaseless  way, 

Forgot  their  course,  suspended  by  his  lay. 

Hushed  was  the  stormy  sea,  — 

At  the  sweet  sound  the  boisterous  wavea  were 

laid. 
The  noise  of  rushing  winds  was  stayed ; 
And  with  the  gentle  breath  of  pleasure 
The  Muses  sung,  according  with  his  measure. 
In  wildest  strains  of  rapture  lost. 
He  sung  the  victory. 

The  power  and  glory,  of  the  heavenly  host ; 
The  horrid  mien  and  warlike  mood. 
The  fatal  pride,  of  the  Titanian  brood  : 

Of  Pallas,^  Attic  maid. 

The  Oorgon  terrors  and  the  fiery  spear ; 

Of  him,  whose  voice  the  billows  fear. 

The  valor  proved  in  deadly  fight ; 

Of  Hercules  the  strength  and  vengeful  might. 

But  long  he  praised  thy  dauntless  heart. 

And  sweetest  prelude  made, 

Singing,  Bistonian  Mars,  thy  force  and  art ; 

Thine  arm  victorious,  which  o'erthrew 

The  fiercest  of  the  bold  Phlegrean  crew  ! 


ODE  TO  SLEEP. 

SwKKT  Sleep,  that  through  the  starry  path  of 

night. 
With  dewy  poppies  crowned,  pursu'st  thy  flight ! 
Stiller  of  human  woes, 

That  shedd'st  o'er  Nature's  breast  a  soft  repose  ! 
O,  to  these  distant  climates  of  the  West 
Thy  slowly  wandering  pinions  torn  ; 
And  with  thy  influence  blest 
Bathe  these  love-burdened  eyes,  that  ever  bum 
And  find  no  moment's  rest. 
While  my  unceasing  grief 
Refuses  all  relief! 

O,  hear  my  prayer  !  I  ask  it  by  thy  love. 
Whom  Juno  gave  thee  in  the  realms  above. 

Sweet  power,  that  dost  impart 

Gentle  oblivion  to  the  suflfering  heart. 

Beloved  Sleep,  thou  only  canst  bestow 

A  solace  for  my  woe ! 

Thrice  happy  be  the  hour 

My  weary  limbs  shall  feel  thy  sovereign  power! 

Why  to  these  eyes  alone  deny 

The  calm  thou  pour'st  on  Nature's  boundless 

reign  ? 
Why  let  thy  votary  all  neglected  die, 
Nor  yield  a  respite  to  a  lover's  pain  ? 
And  must  I  ask  thy  balmy  aid  in  vain  ? 
Hear,  gentle  power,  O,  hear  my  humble  prayer. 
And  let  my  soul  thy  heavenly  banquet  share ! 

In  this  extreme  of  grief,  I  own  thy  might : 
Descend,  and  shed  thy  healing  dew ; 


676 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


Deicend,  and  put  to  flight 

Theintrading  Dawn,  that  wi^h  hergairiih  light 

My  sorrows  would  renew  ! 

Thou  hear'st  my  sad  lament,  and  in  mj  ftoe 

My  many  griefs  may'st  trace : 

Turn,  then,  sweet  wapderer  of  the  night,  and 

spread 
Thy  wings  around  my  head  ! 
Haste,  for  the  unwelcome  Morn 
Is  now  on  her  return  ! 
Let  the  soft  rest  the  hours  of  night  denied 
Be  by  thy  lenient  hand  supplied  ! 

Fresh  from  my  summer  bowers, 
A  crown  of  soothing  flowers, 
Such  as  thou  Ioy*st,  the  fairest  and  the  best, 
I  oflTer  thee  ;  won  by  their  odors  sweet. 
The  enamoured  air  shall  greet 
Thy  advent :  O,  then,  let  thy  hand 
Express  their  essence  bland. 
And  o'er  my  eyelids  pour  delicious  rest ! 
Enchanting  power,  soft  as  the  breath  of  Spring 
Be  the  light  gale  that  steers  thy  dewy  wing  ! 
Come,  ere  the  sun  ascends  the  purple  east, — 
Come,  end  my  woes !  So,  crowned  with  heaven- 
ly charms. 
May  hit  Pasithea  take  thee  to  her  arms ! 


JUAN  FERNANDEZ  DE  HEREDIA. 

This  poet  belonged  to  Valencia.  He  flour- 
ished in  the  first  half  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
and  died  in  1549. 

PARTING. 

To  part,  to  lose  thee,  was  so  hard. 
So  sad,  that  all  besides  is  naught; 

The  pangs  of  death  itself,  compared 
With  this,  are  hardly  worth  a  thought 

There  is  a  wound  that  never  heals, — 

'T  is  folly  e'en  to  dream  of  healing ; 
Inquire  not  what  a  spirit  feels 

That  aye  has  lost  the  sense  of  feeling. 
*My  heart  is  callous  now,  and  bared 

To  every  pang  with  sorrow  fraught ; 
The  pangs  of  death  itself,  compared 

To  this,  are  scarcely  worth  a  thought 


BALTASAR  DEL  ALcAzAR. 

Baltasar  dxl  Alcazar  was  a  native  of 
Seville.  He  was  born  early  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  belonged  to  a  distinguished  flimily. 
He  was  well  esteemed  as  a  poet  in  his  age ;  but 
his  works,  consisting  of  epigrams  and  other  short 
pieces,  are  not  much  known.  Cervantes,  how. 
ever,  in  his  "  Canto  de  Caliope,"  speaks  of  him 
as  having  made  the  Guadalquivir,  upon  whose 
banks  he  resided,  equal  in  glory  to  the  Mincio, 
the  Amo,  and  the  Tiber  :  — 


*'  Paedes,  ftmoso  Betis,  dignameota 
Al  Mincio,  al  Arno,  al  Tibre  arentajarta, 
T  alzar  contento  la  aagrada  firente, 
T  en  nueroa  anchos  aenos  dilatarte, 
Pues  quiao  el  cielo,  que  tu  bien  coosieata, 
TU  gloria,  tal  honor,  tal  ikma  darta, 
Que  ta  la  adquiare  4  tos  riberas  bellaa 
Baltaaar  del  AlcAiar  que  eaU  eo  ellaa." 
He  is  also  spoken  of  by  his  contemporary, 

Francisco  Pacheco,  the  painter  of  Seville,  in  hia 

"ArtedelaPintura." 


Slxkp  is  no  servant  of  the  will,  — 

It  has  caprices  of  its  own  : 

When  most  pursued,  't  is  swiftly  gone ; 
When  courted  least,  it  lingers  still. 
With  its  vagaries  long  perplexed, 

I  turned  and  turned  my  restless  sconce. 

Till,  one  bright  night,  I  thought  at  once 
I  'd  master  it ;  —  so  hear  my  text ! 

When  sleep  will  tarry,  I  begin 

My  long  and  my  accustomed  prayer ; 

And  in  a  twinkling  sleep  is  there, 
Through  my  bed-curtains  peeping  in  : 
When  sleep  hangs  heavy  on  my  eyes, 

I  think  of  debts  I  fain  would  pay; 

And  then,  as  flies  night's  shade  from  day, 
Sleep  from  my  heavy  eyelids  flies. 

And  thus  controlled,  the  winged  one  benda 

E'en  his  fantastic  will  to  me ; 

And,  strange  yet  true,  both  I  and  he 
Are  friends,  —  the  very  best  of  fiiends  : 
We  are  a  happy,  wedded  pair, 

And  I  the  lord  and  he  the  dame ; 

Our  bed,  our  board,  our  hours  the  same ; 
And  we  're  united  everywhere. 

I  '11  tell  you  where  I  learned  to  school 

This  wayward  sleep :  —  a  whispered  word 
From  a  church-going  hag  I  heard,  — 

And  tried  it,  —  for  I  was  no  fool. 

So  from  that  very  hour  I  knew. 
That  having  ready  prayers  to  pray. 
And  having  many  debts  to  pay. 

Will  serve  for  sleep  and  waking  too. 


SANTA  TERESA   DE   AVILA. 

This  singular  person  was  bom  at  Avila,  in 
1515.  At  the  age  of  twelve,  accompanied  by 
one  of  her  brothers,  she  fled,  in  a  fit  of  entbu- 
aiasm,  firom  her  father's  house,  for  the  purpose  ' 
of  seeking  the  crown  of  martyrdom  among  tbe 
Moors.  They  were,  however,  brought  back, 
and  Teresa  took  the  religious  habit,  and  distin- 
guished herself  by  her  pious  zeal,  particularly 
in  reforming  the  monastery  of  Avila.  Notwith- 
standing her  religious  enthusiasm,  we  are  lold 
she  delighted  in  reading  romances,  and  even 
wrote  one  herself.    Her  death  took  place  in 

'I 


SANTA  TERESA— GIL  POLO.  — SILVESTRE. 


677 


1582.    Sbe  wu  canonized  bj  Paul  the  Fifth, 
in  1615. 

Teresa  wrote,  b^sidea  the  romance  mentioned 
above,  two  volumea  of  letters,  and  a  n\imber  of 
poemi.  Her  worka  are  marked  by  energy  of 
seotimeDt  and  grace  of  atyle. 


SONNET. 

T 18  not  thy  terrora.  Lord,  thy  dreadfbl  frown. 
Which  keep  my  atep  in  duty's  narrow  path ; 
T  is  not  the  awful  threateninga  of  thy  wrath,  — 
But  that  in  virtue's  sacred  smile  alone 
I  find  or  peace  or  happiness.     Thy  light, 
In  all  its  prodigality,  is  shed 
Upon  the  worthy  and  the  unworthy  head : 
And  thou  dost  wrap  in  misery's  stormy  night 
The  holy  as  the  thankless.     All  is  well ; 
Thy  wisdom  has  to  each  his  portion  given ;  — 
Why  should  our  hearts  by  selfishness  be  riven  ? 
'T  is  vain  to  murmur,  —  daring  to  rebel : 
Lord,  I  would  fear  thee,  though  I  feared  not  hell ; 
And  love  thee,  though  I  had  no  hopes  of  heaven ! 


CASPAR  GIL  POLO. 

This  distinguished  Spanish  writer  was  bom 
at  Valencia,  in  1517.  He  was  destined  to  the 
profession  of  the  law,  but  was  drawn  away  from 
it  by  his  strong  inclination  for  poetry.  His  most 
celebrated  work  is  the  "  Diana  Enamorada,"  a 
pastoral  romance,  designed  as  a  continuation  of 
the  ** Diana"  of  Montemayor,  and,  like  that 
work,  written  partly  in  prose  and  partly  in 
verse.  It  is  saved  from  burning,  in  the  scrutiny 
)f  Don  Quixote's  library  by  the  curate  and  the 
larber.  *^  *  Here  's  another  Diana,'  quoth  the 
Murber,  *  the  second  of  that  name,  by  Salman- 
ino  (of  Salamanca) ;  nay,  and  a  third,  too,  by 
3il  Polo.'  «Pray,'  said  the  curate,  *let  Sal- 
nantino  increase  the  number  of  the  criminals 
n  the  yard ;  but  as  for  that  by  Gil  Polo,  pre- 
erve  it  as  charily  as  if  Apollo  himself  had 
vrote  it.*  " 

FROM  THE  DIANA  ENAMORADA. 
LOYX  AND  HATS. 

Since  you  have  said  you  loved  me  not, 

I  hate  myaelf;  and  love  can  do 
"No  more  than  drive  from  heart  and  thought 
Whoever  ia  unloved  by  you. 

If  you  could  veil  your  radiant  brow, 

Or  I  could  look,  and  fail  to  love, 
I  should  not  live  while  dying  now. 

Or,  living,  not  thy  anger  move : 
But  now  let  fear  and  woe  be  brought. 

And  grief  and  care  their  wounds  renew; 
He  should  be  pierced  in  heart  and  thought. 

Who,  lady,  is  unloved  by  you. 


Buried  in  your  forgetfblness. 

And  mouldering  under  deatli's  dark  pall, 
And  hated  by  myself,  nor  less 

Hated  by  thee,  the  world,  and  all, — 
I  'II  wed  with  misery  now,  and  naught 

But  your  disdain  shall  meet  my  view. 
And  scathed  in  heart,  and  scathed  in  thought. 

Lady !  because  unloved  by  you. 


X     I  CANNOT  CXA8X  TO  LOVE. 

If  It  distress  thee  to  be  loved. 

Why,  —  as  I  cannot  cease  to  love  thee,  — 
Learn  thou  to  bear  the  thought  unmoved, 

Till  death  remove  me,  or  remove  thee. 

O,  let  me  give  the  feelings  vent. 

The  melancholy  thoughts  that  fill  me ! 
Or  send  thy  mandate ;  be  content 

To  wound  my  inner  heart,  and  kill  me : 
If  love,  whose  smile  would  fain  caress  thee. 

If  love  offend,  yet  why  reprove  ? 
I  cannot,  lady,  but  distress  thee. 

Because  I  cannot  cease  to  love. 

If  I  could  check  the  passion  glowing 

Within  my  bosom,  —  if  I  could. 
On  other  maids  my  love  bestowing. 

Give  thy  soul  peace,  sweet  girl,  I  would. 
But  no !  my  heart  cannot  address  thee 

In  aught  but  love ! — then  why  reprove? 
I  cannot,  lady,  bot  distress  thee. 

Because  I  cannot  cease  to  love. 


GREGORIO   SILVESTRE. 

Grxgorio  Silvestre  was  a  Portuguese  by 
nativity.  He  waa  the  son  of  the  physician  of 
the  king  of  Portugal,  and  was  born  at  Lisbon, 
in  1520.  He  lived,  however,  in  Spain,  and 
was  the  organist  of  a  church  in  Granada,  where 
he  died  in  1570.  His  <<  Obras  Po^ticas  "  were 
published  at  Lisbon,  in  1592,  and  republished 
at  Granada,  in  1599. 

TELL  ME,  LADYI  TELL  MEI— YESI 

Lady  !  if  thou  deem  me  true. 
That  I  love  thee,  now  confess : 
Tell  me,  lady !  tell  me  I  —  yes  ? 

Since  I  saw  thy  beauty,  naught 
But  that  beauty  fills  my  mind ; 

Every  passion,  every  thought. 
Is  in  love  of  thee  enshrined ; 
In  no  other  \hought  I  find 

Peace ;  ^  and  wilt  thou  love  me  less  ? 

Tell  me,  lady  !  tell  me !  ^yes  ? 

Wilt  thou  own  that  thou  alone 

Art  my  heaven,  my  hope,  my  bliss? 

Light,  without  thy  smile,  is  none,  -—> 
Day,  without  thee,  darkness  is : 

Dost  thou  own,  beloved  one, 
3i* 


678 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


Thou  mjr  path  can  cheer  and  bless  ? 
Tell  me,  lady !  tell  me !  — yes? 

Dost  thou  know,  the  radiant  sky, 
With  its  comets,  suns,  and  stus. 

All  in  glorious  course  on  high, 
Driving  their  illumined  cars,  — 

Dost  thou  know,  when  thou  art  nigh, 

They  are  dark  and  valueless? 

Tell  me,  lady  !  tell  me  !  ~  yes  ? 

Dost  thou  know  that  Grod  has  made 
Gardens,  fields,  and  banks,  and  bowers, 

Beats  of  sunshine,  and  of  shade, 

Decked   with   smiles,  and  gemmed  with 
flowers. 

Which  repose  and  peace  pervade  ? 

Thither,  lady,  let  us  press ! 

Tell  me,  lady !  tell  me !  —  yes? 

DnSS  SENT  A  KISS  TO  ME. 

Ikks  sent  a  kiss  to  me. 

While  we  danced  upon  the  green; 
Let  that  kiss  a  blessing  be. 

And  conceal  no  woes  unseen. 

How  I  dared  I  know  not  now ; 
While  we  danced,  I  gently  said. 
Smiling,  *<  Give  me,  lovely  maid. 

Give  me  one  sweet  kiss!  "  —  when,  lo  ! 

Gathering  blushes  robed  her  brow ; 
And,  with  love  and  fear  afraid. 

Thus  she  spoke,  —  (^  I  Ml  send  the  kiss 

In  a  calmer  day  of  bliss." 

Then  I  cried, — ^*  Dear  maid !  what  day 

Can  be  half  so  sweet  as  this  ? 
Throw  not  hopes  and  joys  away ; 

Send,  O,  send  the  promised  kiss ! 
Can  so  bright  a  gift  be  mine, 

Bought  without  a  pang  of  pain  ? 
'T  is  perchance  a  ray  divine, 

Darker  night  to  bring  again. 

(<  Could  I  dwell  on  such  a  thought, 

I  of  very  joy  should  die ; 
Naught  of  earth's  enjoyments,  naught. 

Could  be  like  that  ecstasy. 
I  will  pay  her  interest  meet, 

When  her  lips  shall  breathe  on  me; 
And  for  every  kiss  so  sweet. 

Give  her  many  more  than  three." 


JORGE  DE  MONTEMAYOR. 

Ths  family  name  of  this  poet  is  unknown ; 
he  took  that  of  the  small  town  of  Montemayor, 
or  Montemor,  near  Coimbra,  in  Portugal,  where 
he  was  born.  In  youth,  he  entered  upon  the 
military  career.  He  went  afterwards  to  Castile, 
and,  having  a  talent  for  music,  supported  him- 
self by  singing  in  the  chapel  of  Philip  the  Sec- 
ond.    He  accompanied  the  king  on  a  journey 


through  Italy,  Germany,  and  the  Netherlands, 
and  after  his  return  lived  in  Leon,  where  he 
wrote  the  celebrated  pastoral  of  ^  Diana  Ena- 
morada."  He  received  an  honorable  post  at  the 
court  of  Queen  Catharine.  He  is  suppoeed  to 
have  died  a  violent  death,  about  the  year  1561, 
or  1562. 

Besides  the  **  Diana,"  we  have  a  eameiamero^ 
or  collection  of  bis  poems. 

FROM  THE  DIANA  ENAMOEADA. 

Diana's  song. 

Bright  eyes !  that  now  the  tender  glance  no 

more 
Return  to  him  whose  mirrors  still  ye  shone. 
To  give  content,  O,  say,  what  sights  ye  see ! 
O  green  and  flowery  fields,  where  oft  alone 
Each  day  for  him,  my  gentle  swain,  I  wore 
The  sultry  hours  away,  lameifl  with  me ; 
For  here  he  first  decl9red  so  tenderly 
His  love !    I  heard  the  while. 
With  more  than  serpent  guile,  — 
Chiding  a  thousand  times  his  amorous  way. 
And  sorrowing  to  delay. 

In  tears  he  stood,  —  his  glance  methinks  I  see ! 
Or  is  it  but  fiintasy  ? 

Ah !  could  I  hear  him  now  his  passion  own ! 
O  streams  and  waving  woods,  whither  has  Sl- 

reno  flown  ? 

And  yonder  see  the  stream,  the  flowery  seat. 
The  verdant  vale,  the  cool,  umbrageous  wood. 
Where  oft  he  led  his  wandering  flock  to  feed,  — 
The  noisy,  babbling  fountain  where  he  stood. 
And,  'mid  green  bowers,  nid  from  the  noontide 

heat. 
Under  this  oak  his  tender  tale  would  plead  ! 
And  see  the  lawny  isle. 
Where  first  he  saw  me  smile. 
And  fondly  knelt !     O,  sweet,  delightful  honr, 
Had  not  misfortune's  power 
Those  days  serene  o'ercast  with  deepest  night ! 
O  tree  !  O  fountain  bright ! 
All,  all  are  here,  —  but  not  the  youth  I  moan. 
O  streams  and  waving  woods,  whither  has  Si- 

reno  flown  ? 

Here  in  my  hand  his  picture  I  admire,  — 

Pleased  with  the  charm,  methinks  't  is  he ;  al- 
though 

Deep  in  my  heart  his  features  brighter  glow. 

When  comes  the  hour  of  love  and  soft  desire. 

To  yonder  fountain  in  the  vale  I  go. 

My  languid  limbs  beneath  the  willows  throw. 

Sit  by  his  side, — O  Love,  how  blind  thy 
ways ! — 

Then  in  the  waters  gaze 

On  him,  and  on  myself,  once  more  revived. 

Like  when  with  me  he  lived. 

Awhile  thi^  fancy  will  my  cares  abstract. 

Then  utterly  distract. 

My  fond  heart  weeps  its  fbolishness  to  own. 

O  streams  and  waving  woods,  whither  has  8i- 
reno  flown  ? 


MONTEMATOR.  — CASTILLEJO. 


679 


'  Sometimes  I  chide,  yet  will  he  not  reply ; 
And  then  I  think  he  pays  me  scorn  for  scorn,  — 
For  oft  whilom  I  would  no  answer  deign. 
But  sorrowing  then,  I  say,  ^*  Behold,  't  is  I ! 
Sireno,  speak !     O,  leave  me  not  forlorn, 
Since  thou  art  here  !  "     Yet  still 
In  silence  will  he  keep  immovable 
Those  bright  and  sparkling  eyes. 
That  were  like  twins  o'  th'  skies. 
What  love !  what  folly  !  with  this  vain  pretence, 
To  ask  for  lifo  or  sense,  -— 
A  painted  shadow,  and  this  madness  own  ! 
O  streams  and  waving  woods,  whither  has  Si- 
reoo  flown  f 

Ne'er  with  my  flock  at  sunset  can  I  go 

Into  our  village,  nor  depart  at  morn. 

But  see  I  yonder,  with  unwilling  eyes, 

My  shepherd's  hamlet  laid  in  ruins  low. 

There  for  a  time,  in  dreams,  I  linger  yet. 

And  sheep  and  lambs  forget, — 

Till  shepherd-boys  break  out 

Into  a  sudden  shout, 

**Ho,^  shepherdess!   what!   are  yon  dreaming 
now.' 

While  yonder,  see,  your  cow 

Feeds  in  the  com ! "     My  eyes,  alas !  proclaim 

From  whom  proceeds  this  shame, 
That  my  starved  flock  forsake  me  here  alone. 
O  streams  and  waving  woods,  whither  has  Si- 
reno flown? 

Song!  go!  thou  know'st  well  whither;  — 

Nay,  haste,  return  thou  hither; 

For  it  may  be  thy  fote 

To  go  where  they  may  say  thou  art  importunate. 


SIRBNO'S  SOMO. 

<*SiRSiio  a  shepheard,  hauing  a  locke  of  his 
foire  nimph's  haire,  wrapt  about  with  greiene 
silke,  moumes  thus  in  a  loue-dittie." 

What  chang's  here,  O  haire,' 

I  see  since  I  saw  you  ? 
How  ill  fits  you  this  greene  to  weare. 

For  hope  the  colour  due  ? 
Indeede  I  well  did  hope. 

Though  hope  were  mixt  with  foare. 
No  other  shepheard  should  hane  scope 

Once  to  approach  this  heare. 

Ah  haire !   how  many  dayes. 

My  Dian  made  me  show. 
With  thousand  prettie  childish  playes. 

If  I  ware  you  or  no  P 
Alas,  how  oft  with  teares, 

(Oh  teares  of  guilefull  brest:) 
She  seemed  full  of  iealous  feares. 

Whereat  I  did  but  iest? 

Tell  roe,  O  haire  of  gold. 

If  I  then  faultie  be  ? 
That  hurt  those  killing  eyes  I  would. 

Since  they  did  warrant  me  ? 


Haue  you  not  seene  her  moode. 
What  streames  of  teares  she  spent : 

Till  that  I  sware  my  faith  so  stood. 
As  hen  words  had  it  henii 

Who  hath  such  beautie  seene. 

In  one  that  changeth  so  ? 
Or  where  one  loues  so  constant  beene. 

Who  euer  saw  such  woe .' 
Ah  haires,  you  are  not  grieu'd. 

To  come  from  whence  you  be  : 
Seeing  how  once  you  saw  I  liu'd. 

To  see  me  as  you  see. 

On  sandie  banke  of  late, 

I  saw  this  woman  sit : 
Where,  sooner  die  than  change  my  state^ 

She  with  her  finger  writ. 
Thus  my  beliefo  was  stay'd. 

Behold  Loue's  mighty  hand 
On  things,  were  by  a  woman  say'd, 

And  written  in  the  sand. 


CRISt6vAL   DE   CASTILLEJO. 

This  poet  was  born  at  Ciudad  Rodrigo,  in  the 
first  quarter  of  the  sixteenth  century.  He  went 
to  Vienna  in  the  service  of  Charles  the  Fifth, 
and  remained  there  as  secretary  of  Ferdinand 
the  First.  He  wrote  the  greater  part  of  his 
poems  during  his  residence  in  that  city.  He  was 
distinguished  as  the  opponent  of  the  new  style 
introduced  by  Boscan  and  Oarcilaso,  and  a  warm 
adherent  of  the  old  Spanish  national  manner. 
At  an  advanced  age,  he  became  a  Cistercian 
monk,  and  died  in  the  monastery  of  Val  de 
Iglesias,  near  Toledo,  in  1596. 


WOMEN. 

How  dreary  and  lone 

The  world  would  appear. 

If  women  were  none  ! 

'T  would  be  like  a  fair. 

With  neither  fun  nor  business  there. 

Without  their  smile, 

Lifo  would  be  tasteless,  vain,  and  vile ; 

A  chaos  of  perplexity ; 

A  body  without  a  soul  *t  would  be  ; 

A  roving  spirit,  borne 

Upon  the  winds  forlorn ; 

A  tree  without  or  flowers  or  fruit ; 

A  reason  with  no  resting-place ; 

A  castle  with  no  governor  to  it ; 

A  house  without  a  base. 

What  are  we,  what  our  race. 

How  good  for  nothing  and  base. 

Without  fiiir  woman  to  aid  us ! 

What  could  we  do,  where  should  we  go. 

How  should  we  wander  in  night  and  woe. 

But  for  woman  to  lead  us ! 


680 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


How  could  we  love,  if  woman  were  not : 
Love,  —  the  brightest  part  of  our  lot; 
Love,  —  the  only  cbarm  of  living ; 
Love,  —  the  only  gift  worth  giving  ? 
Who  would  take  charge  of  your  house, —  lay, 

who, — 
Kitchen,  and  dairy,  and  money-chest,  — 
Who  but  the  women,  who  guard  them  best,-— 
Guard,  and  adorn  them  too  ? 
Who  like  them  has  a  constant  smile. 
Full  of  peace,  of  meekness  full, 
When  life's  edge  is  blunt  and  dull. 
And  sorrow  and  sin,  in  frowning  file. 
Stand  by  the  path  in  which  we  go 
Down  to  the  grave  through  wasting  woe  ? 
All  that  is  good  is  theirs,  is  theirs,  — 
All  we  give,  and  all  we  get ; 
And  if  a  beam  of  glory  yet 
Over  the  gloomy  earth  appears, 
O,  't  is  theirs !  O,  't  is  theirs !  — 
They  are  the  guard,  the  soul,  the  seal 
Of  human  hope  and  human  weal ; 
They,  —  they,  —  none  but  they ; 
Woman, — sweet  woman ! — let  none  say  nay  ! 


LUIS  PONCE  DE  LEON. 

Foremost  among  the  sacred  poets  of  Spain 
stands  the  gentle  enthusiast,  Luis  Ponce  de 
Leon.  He  was  born  at  Granada,  in  the  year 
1527,  and  died  at  the  mature  age  of  sixty- 
three,  while  exercising  the  high  functions  of 
General  and  Provincial  Vicar  of  Salamanca. 
Though  descended  from  the  noble  family  of  the 
Ponces  de  Leon,  the  pleasures  and  honors  of 
the  great  world  seem  to  have  had  no  attractions 
for  him.  From  early  youth,  his  mind  was  wrapt 
up  in  the  study  of  poetry,  and  in  moral  and 
religious  contemplations.  At  the  early  age  of 
sixteen,  he  made  his  theological  profession  in 
the  order  of  St.  Augustine,  at  Salamanca,  and 
in  his  thirty-third  year  was  invested  with  the 
dignity  of  Doctor  of  Theology.  In  1561,  he 
was  appointed  Professor  in  the  University.  In 
the  retirement  of  the  cloister,  his  ardent  mind 
gave  itself  up  to  its  favorite  pursuits ;  and  his 
poetic  imagination  was  purified  and  exalted  by 
a  strong  moral  sense,  and  a  sincere  and  elevated 
piety.  His  devotional  poems,  which,  according 
to  his  own  testimony,  were  composed  in  his 
youth,  exhibit  the  amiable  enthusiasm  of  that 
age,  and  all  the  beauty  of  a  religious  mind,  ab- 
stracted from  the  world,  and  absorbed  in  its  own 
meditations  and  devotions.  He  seems,^  howev- 
er, to  have  been  at  no  period  of  his  life  a  bigot. 
Indeed,  he  was  himself  thrown  into  the  dun- 
geons of  the  Inquisition  for  having  translated 
into  the  vulgar  tongue  the  Song  of  Solomon,  at 
a  time  when  all  translations  of  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures were  strictly  prohibited.  There  he  re- 
mained for  nearly  five  years ;  but,  even  in  the 
darkness  of  his  dungeon,  enjoying  the  light  of 
his  own  pure  mind,  —  free,  though  imprisoned. 


—  injured,  yet  unrepining.  In  one  of  his  let- 
ters, he  says,  '*  Shut  out  not  only  from  the  con- 
versation and  society  of  men,  bat  from  their 
very  sight,  for  nearly  five  years  I  was  surrounded 
by  darkness  and  a  dungeon's  walls.  Then  I 
enjoyed  a  tranquillity  and  satisfaction  of  mind, 
which  I  often  look  for  in  vain,  now  that  I  am 
restored  to  the  light  of  day  and  to  the  grateful 
intercourse  of  friends."  On  being  released  from 
prison,  he  immediately  resumed  his  professor's 
chair,  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  com- 
menoed  his  lecture  to  a  crowded  auditory  with 
the  words,  "  We  were  saying,  yesterday " 

The  following  sketch  of  Ponce  de  Leon's 
character  is  from  the  ** Edinburgh  Review*' 
(Vol.  XL.,  pp.  467-469). 

**  While  he  stands  alone  among  his  country- 
men of  this  period  in.  the  character  of  his  inspi- 
ration, the  infiuence  of  the  spirit  of  the  age  is 
still  visible  in  the  absence  of  every  thing  that 
betrays  any  extensive  acquaintance  or  sympathy 
with  actual  life.  That  relief,  which  other  poets 
sought  in  the  scenery  of  an.  imaginary  Arcadist, 
Luis  Ponce  de  Leon,  bred  in  the  silence  and 
solitude  of  the  cloister,  found  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  divine  mysteries,  and  in  the  indul- 
gence of  those  rapturous  feelings  which  it  is  the 
tendency  of  Catholicism  to  create.  His  mind, 
naturally  gentle  and  composed,  avoided  the 
shock  of  polemical  warfare,  and  seems  to  have 
been  in  no  degree  tinctured  with  that  fanaticism 
which  characterizes  his  brethren.  Hence,  it 
was  to  the  delights,  rather  than  to  the  terrors 
of  religion,  that  he  turned  his  attention.  A  pro- 
found scholar,  and  deeply  versed  in  the  Grecian 
philosophy,  he  had  'unsphered  the  spirit  of 
Plato,'  and  embodied  in  his  poetry  the  lofty 
views  of  the  Greek  philosopher  with  regard  to 
the  original  derivation  of  the  soul  from  a  higher 
existence,  but  heightened  and  rendered  more 
distinct  and  more  deeply  interesting  by  the 
Christian  belief,  that  such  was  also  to  be  its 
final  destination.  Separated  from  a  world,  of 
which  he  knew  neither  the  evil  nor  the  good, 
his  thoughts  had  wandered  so  habitually '  beyond 
the  visible  diurnal  sphere,'  that  to  him  the  reali- 
ties of  life  had  become  as  visions,  the  ideal  world 
of  his  own  imagination  had  assumed  the  consis- 
tency of  reality.  His  whole  life  looks  like  a 
religious  reverie,  a  philosophic  dream,  which 
was  no  more  disturbed  by  trials  and  persecutions 
from  without  than  the  visions  of  the  sleeper  are 
influenced  by  the  external  world  by  which  be 
is  surrounded. 

>«The  character  of  Luis  de  Leon  is  distin- 
guished by  another  peculiarity.  It  might  natu- 
rally be  expected,  that,  with  this  tendency  to 
mysticism  in  his  ideas,  his  works  would  be 
tinctured  with  vagueness  and  obecurity  of  ex- 
pression. But  no  poet  ever  appears  to  have 
subjected  the  creations  of  an  enthusiastic  imagi- 
nation more  strictly  to  the  ordeal  of  a  severe 
and  critical  taste,  or  to  have  imparted  to  the 
language  of  rapture  so  deep  an  air  of  truth  and 
reality     While  he  had  thoroughly  imbued  him- 


PONCE   D£   LEON. 


681 


self  with  the  lofty  idealifloi  of  the  Platonic  phi- 
losophy, he  exhibits  in  his  style  all  the  clearness 
and  precision  of  Horace ;  and,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Testi  among  the  Italians,  is  certainly  the 
only  modern  who  has  caught  the  true  spirit  of 
the  Epicurean  poet.     In  the  sententious  gravity 
of  his  style  he  resembles  him  very  closely.    But 
the  moral  odes  of  Luis  de  Leon  <  have  a  spell 
beyond'  the  lyrics  of  Horace.     That  philoso- 
phy of  indolence  which  the  Roman  professed, 
which  looks  on  life  only  as  a  visionary  pageant, 
and  death  as  the  deeper  and  sounder  sleep  that 
succeeds  the  dream,  —  which  places  the  idea  of 
happiness  in  passive  existence,  and  parts  ^ith 
indifference  from  love  and  friendship,  from  lib- 
erty, from  life  itself,  whenever  it  costs  an  effort 
to  retain  them,  is  allied  to  a  principle  of  univer- 
sal mediocrity^  which  is  destructive  of  all  lofty 
views,  and,  when  minutely  examined,  is  even 
inconsistent  with  those  qualified  principles  of 
morality  which  it  nominally  professes  and  pre- 
scribes.   But  in  the  odes  of  Luis  de  Leon  we 
recognize  the  influence  of  a  more  animating  and 
ennobling  feeling.     He  looked  upon  the  world, 
'EflUllsongora 
Vids,  con  cuanto  tame,  y  cuanto  espen,' 
with  calmness,  but  not  with  apathy  or  selfish- 
ness.    The  shortness  of  life,  the  flight  of  time, 
the  fading  of  flowers,  the  silent  swiftness  of  the 
river,  the  decay  of  happiness,  the  mutability  of 
fortune, — the  ideas  and  images,  which,  to  the 
Epicurean  poet,  only  aflTord  inducements  to  de- 
vote the  present  hour  to  enjoyment,  are  those 
which  the  Spanish  moralist  holds  out  as  incite- 
ments  to   the  cultivation   of  that  enthusiasm 
which  alone  appeared  to  him  capable  of  fbUy 
exercising  the  powers  of  the  soul,  of  disengaging 
it  from  the  influence  of  worldly  feelings,  and 
elevating  it  to  that  heaven  from  which  it  bad 
ita  birth." 

NOCHE  SERENA. 

When  yonder  glorious  sky, 
Lighted  with  million  lamps,  I  contemplate ; 

And  turn  my  dazzled  eye 

To  this  vain  mortal  state, 
AH  dim  and  visiony,  mean  and  desolate : 

A  mingled  joy  and  grief 
Fills  all  my  soul  with  dark  solicitude;  — 

I  find  a  short  relief 

In  tears,  whose  torrents  rude 
Roll  down  my  cheeks ;  or  thoughts  which  thus 
intrude :  — 

Thou  so  sublime  abode ! 

Temple  of  light,  and  beauty's  fairest  shrine ! 
My  soul,  a  spark  of  Grod, 
Aspiring  to  thy  seats  divine, — 

iVbj,  why  is  it  condemned  in  this  dull  cell  to 
pine  ? 

Why  should  I  ask  in  vain 
''or  truth's  pure  lamp,  and  wander  here  alone, 

88 


Seeking,  through  toil  and  pain. 
Light  &om  the  Eternal  One,  — 
Following  a  shadow  still,  that  glimmers  and  is 
gone? 

Dreams  and  delusions  play 
With  man,  —  he  thinks  not  of  his  mortal  fate : 

Death  treads  his  silent  way ; 

The  earth  turna  round ;  and  then,  too  late, 
Man  finds  no  beam  is  left  of  all  his  fancied  state. 

Rise  from  your  sleep,  vain  men ! 
Look  round,  —  and  ask  if  spirits  bom  of  heaven, 

And  bound  to  heaven  again. 

Were  only  lent  or  given 
To  bei  in  this  mean  round  of  shades  and  follies 
driven. 

Turn  your  unclouded  eye 
Up  to  yon  bright,  to  yon  eternal  spheres ; 

And  spurn  the  vanity 

Of  time's  delusive  years. 
And  all  its  flattering  hopes,  and  all  its  frowning 
fears. 

What  is  the  ground  ye  tread. 

But  a  mere  point,  compared  with  that  vast  space. 
Around,  above  you  spread,  — 
Where,  in  the  Almighty's  face. 

The  present,  future,  past,  hold  an  eternal  place  f 

List  to  the  concert  pure 
Of  yon  harmonious,  countless  worlds  of  light! 

See',  in  his  orbit  sure. 

Each  takes  his  journey  bright. 
Led  by  an  unseen  band  through  the  vast  maze 
of  night ! 

See  how  the  pale  Moon  rolls 
Her  silvef  wheel ;  and,  scattering  beams  afiir 

On  Earth's  benighted  souls. 

See  Wisdom's  holy  star; 
Or,  in  his  fiery  course,  the  sanguine  orb  of  War ; 

Or  that  benignant  ray 
Which  Love  hath  called  its  own,  and  made  so 
fair; 

Or  that  serene  display 

Of  power  supernal  there. 
Where  Jupiter  conducts  his  chariot  through  the 


And,  circling  all  the  rest. 
See  Saturn,  father  of  the  golden  hours : 
While  round  him,  bright  and  blest, 
The  whole  empyreum  showers 
Its  glorious  streams  of  light  on  this  low  world 
of  ours ! 

But  who  to  these  can  turn. 
And  weigh  them  'gainst  a  weeping  world  like 
this, — 
Nor  feel  his  spirit  bum 
To  grasp  so  sweet  a  bliss, 
And  mourn  that  exile  hard  which  here  his  por- 
tion is  ? 


683 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


For  there,  and  there  alone, 
Are  peace,  and  joy,  and  never-dying  love,  — 

There,  on  a  splendid  throne, 

'Midst  all  those  fires  above, 
In  glories  and  delights  which  never  wane  nor 
move. 

O,  wondrous  blessedness. 
Whose  shadowy  effluence  hope  o'er  time  can 
fling! 

Day  that  shall  never  cease,  — 

No  night  there  threatening,  — ■ 
No  winter  there  to  chill  joy's  ever-during  spring. 

Ye  fields  of  changeless  green, 
Covered  with  living  streams  and  fadeless  flowers ! 

Thou  paradise  serene ! 

Eternal,  joyful  hours 
My  disembodied   soul   shall   welcome  in   thy 
bowers ! 


YIBOIN  BORNE  BY  ANGELS. 

Ladt,  thou  mountest  slowly 
0*er  the  bright  cloud,  while  music  sweetly  plays ! 
Blest  who  thy  mantle  holy 
With  outstretched  hand  may  seize. 
And  rise  with  thee  to  the  Infinite  of  Days  ! 

Around,  behind,  before  thee 
Bright  angels  wait,  that  watched  thee  from  thy 
birth: 
A  crown  of  stars  is  o'er  thee,  — 
The  pale  moon  of  the  earth,  — 
Thou,  supernatural  queen,  nearest  in  light  and 
worth ! 

Turn,  turn  thy  mildened  gaze, 
Sweet  bird  of  gentleness,  on  earth's  dark  vale! 

What  flowerets  it  displays 

Amidst  time's  twilight  pale. 
Where  many  a  son  of  Eve  in  toils  and  darkness 
strays ! 

O,  if  thy  vision  see 
The  wandering  spirits  of  this  earthly  sphere, — 

Virgin  !  to  thee,  to  thee, 

Thy  magnet  voice  will  bear 
Their  steps,  to  dwell   with  bliss  through  all 
eternity. 


THE  LIFE  OF  THE  BLESSED. 

Rkoion  of  life  and  light ! 

Land  of  the  good  whose  earthly  toils  are  o'er ! 
Nor  frost  nor  heat  may  blight 
Thy  vernal  beauty,  fertile  shore, 

Yielding  thy  blessed  fruits  for  evermore ! 

There,  without  crook  or  sling. 
Walks  the  Good  Shepherd ;  blossoms  white  and 
red 

Round  his  meek  temples  cling; 

And,  to  sweet  pastures  led. 
His  own  loved  flock  beneath  his  eye  is  fed. 


He  guides,  and  near  him  they 
Follow  delighted  ;  for  he  makes  them  go 

Where  dwells  eternal  May, 

And  heavenly  roses  blow. 
Deathless,  and  gathered  but  again  to  grow. 

He  leads  them  to  the  height 
Named  of  the  infinite  and  long-sought  Good, 

And  fountains  of  delight ; 

And  where  his  feet  have  stood. 
Springs  up,  along  the  way,  their  tender  food. 

And  when,  in  the  mid  skies. 
The  climbing  sun  has  reached  his  highest  bound, 

Reposing  as  he  liea. 

With  all  bis  flock  around, 
He  witches  the  still  air  with  numerous  sound. 

From  his  sweet  lute  flow  forth 
Immortal  harmonies,  of  power  to  still 

All  passions  born  of  earth, 

And  draw  the  ardent  will 
Its  destiny  of  goodness  to  fulfil. 

Might  but  a  little  part, 
A  wandering  breath,  of  that  high  melody 

Descend  into  my  heart, 

And  change  it  till  it  be 
Transformed  and  swallowed  up,  O  love !  in  thee : 

Ah !  then  my  soul  should  know. 
Beloved !  where  thou  liest  at  noon  of  day  ; 

And  from  this  place  of  woe 

Released,  should  take  its  way 
To  mingle  with  thy  flock,  and  never  stray. 


RETIREMENT. 

O,  BAPPT,  happy  he,  who  flies 

Far  from  the  noisy  world  away,  — 

Who,  with  the  worthy  and  the  wise, 
Hath  chosen  the  narrow  way, — 

The  silence  of  the  secret  road 

That  leads  the  soul  to  virtue  and  to  God  ! 

No  passions  in  his  breast  arise ; 

Calm  in  his  own  unaltered  state, 
He  smiles  superior,  as  he  eyes 

The  splendor  of  the  great ; 
And  his  undazzled  gaze  is  proof 
Against  the  glittering  hall  and  gilded  rooC 

He  heeds  not,  though  the  trump  of  fame 
Pour  forth  the  loudest  of  its  strains. 

To  spread  the  glory  of  his  name ; 
And  his  high  soul  disdains 

That  flattery's  voice  should  varnish  o'er 

The  deed  that  truth  or  virtue  would  abhor.   * 


Such  lot  be  mine :  what  boots  to  me 
The  cumbrous  pageantry  of  power; 

To  court  the  gaze  of  crowds,  and  be 
The  idol  of  the  hour; 

To  chase  an  empty  shape  of  air, 

That  leaves  me  weak  with  toil  and 
with  ciuef 


PONCE   DE   LEON.— VILLEGAS. 


683 


0  streamfl,  and  ahades,  and  hills  on  high, 
Unto  the  stillness  of  yoar  breast 

Mj  wounded  spirit  longs  to  fljr,  — 
To  fly,  and  he  at  rest ! 

Thaa  from  the  world's  tempestoons  sea, 

O  gentle  Nature,  do  I  turn  to  thee ! 

Be  mine  the  hoi  j  calm  of  night. 
Soft  sleep  and  dreams  sefenely  gay, 

The  freshness  of  the  morning  light. 
The  fulness  of  the  day ; 

Far  from  the  sternly  frowning  eye 

That  pride  and  riches  turn  on  poverty. 

The  warbling  birds  shall  bid  me  wake 
With  their  untutored  melodies ; 

No  fearful  dream  my  sleep  shall  break. 
No  wakeful  cares  arise. 

Like  the  sad  shapes  that  hover  still 

Round  him  that  hangs  upon  another's  will. 

Be  mine  my  hopes  to  Heaven  to  give, 
To  taste  the  bliss  that  Heaven  bestows. 

Alone  and  for  myself  to  live. 
And  'scape  the  many  woes 

That  human  hearts  are  doomed  to  bear,  — ^ 

The  pangs  of  love,  and  hate,  and  hope,  and 
fear. 

A  garden  by  the  mountain-side 
Is  mine,  whose  flowery  blossoming 

Shows,  even  in  spring's  luxuriant  pride. 
What  autumn's  suns  shall  bring : 

And  from  the  mountain's  lofty  crown 

A  clear  and  sparkling  rill  comes  trembling 
down; 

Then  pausing  in  its  downward  force 

The  venerable  trees  among, 
It  gurgles  on  its  winding  course ; 

And,  as  it  glides  along. 
Gives  freshness  to  the  day,  and  pranks 
With  ever  changing  flowers  its  mossy  banks. 

The  whisper  of  the  balmy  breeze 
Scatters  a  thousand  sweets  around. 

And  sweeps  in  music  through  the  trees. 
With  an  enchanting  sound. 

That  laps  the  soul  in  calm  delight. 

Where  crowns  and  kingdoms  are  forgotten 
quite. 

Theirs  let  the  dear-bought  treasure  be. 
Who  in  a  treacherous  bark  confide ; 

I  stand  aloof,  and  changeless  see 
The  changes  of  the  tide, 

Nor  iear'the  wail  of  those  that  weep. 

When  angry  winds  are  warring  with  the  deep : 

Day  turns  to  night ',  the  timbers  rend  ; 

More  fierce  the  ruthless  tempest  blows ; 
Confused  the  varying  cries  ascend. 

As  the  sad  merchant  throws 
His  hoards,  to  join  the  stores  that  lie 
In  the  deep  sea's  uncounted  treasury. 


Mine  be  the  peaceful  board  of  old. 
From  want  as  from  profusion  free : 

His  let  the  massy  cup  of  gold, 
And  glittering  bawbles  be. 

Who  builds  his  baseless  hope  of  gain 

Upon  a  brittle  bark  and  stormy  main. 

While  others,  thoughtless  of  the  pain 
Of  hope  delayed  and  long  suspense, 

Still  struggle  on  to  guard  or  gain 
A  sad  preeminence. 

May  I,  in  woody  covert  laid. 

Be  gayly  chanting  in  the  secret  shade,  — 

At  ease  within  the  shade  reclined. 
With  laurel  and  with  ivy  crowned, 

And  my  attentive  ear  inclined 
To  catch  the  heavenly  sound 

Of  harp  or  lyre,  when  o'er  the  strings 

Some  master-hand  its  practised  finger  flings. 


ANTONIO   DE  VILLEGAS. 

This  poet  was  a  native  of  Medina  del  Cam- 
po,  in  the  province  of  Valladolid.  He  flourish- 
ed about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
He  is  known  by  a  work  entitled  *^  Inventario  de 
Obras  en  Metro  Caste  llano,"  published  at  Me- 
dina del  Campo  in  1565,  and  again  in  1577. 


SLEEP  AND  DREAMS.' 

On  a  rock  where  the  moonlight  gleamed. 
The  maiden  slept,  and  the  maiden  dreamed. 

The  maiden  dreamed  ;  for  Love  had  crept 
Within  her  thoughtless  heart,  and  seemed 
To  picture  him  of  whom  she  dreamed. 

She  dreamed, — and  did  I  say  she  slept.' 
O,  no !  her  brain  with  visions  teemed : 

The  maiden  on  the   rocky  ground 

Sleeps  not,  if  Love's  wild  dreams  flit  round. 

Her  heart  's  perplexed  by  mystery. 
And  passing  shades,  and  misty  gleams; 
And  if  she  see  not  what  she  dreams. 

She  dreams  of  what  she  fain  would  see ; 

And  't  is  her  woe  estranged  to  be. 

While  on  the  rocky  mountain  laid. 

From  all  that  cheers  a  lovesick  maid. 

And  what  is  Love,  but  dreams  which  thought. 
Wild  thought,  carves  out  of  passion,  throwing 
Its  veil  aside,  while,  winged  and  growing. 

The  embryo  's  to  existence  brought,  — 

False  joys,  fierce  cares,  with  mysteries  fraught  ? 

As  who  by  day  of  hungeir  dies. 

Dreaming  of  feasts  at  midnight  lies. 


LOVE*S  EXTREMES. 

EvKRT  votary  of  Love 

Needs  must  pain  and  pleasure  prove : 


684 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


Loye's  delights  belong  to  those 

Who  have  felt  Love's  wants  and  woes. 

Love  still  bears  a  double  chain, 

All  his  prisoners  to  bind ; 
Living,  —  seek  they  death  in  vain ; 

D jing,  —  life  in  death  they  find. 

When  he  wounds  or  kills,  he  cures,  — 
When  he  heals,  he  seems  to  kill ;  — 

So  the  love-torn  heart  endures 
All  extremes  of  good  and  ill. 


PEDRO   DE   PADILLA. 

Pedro  de  Padilla  was  born  at  Linares, 
some  time  in  the  first  half  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. He  was  a  scholar  of  various  erudition, 
and  a  poet  highly  esteemed  by  his  contempo. 
raries.  He  was  familiar  with  the  Latin  and 
several  modern  languages.  When  somewhat 
advanced  in  life,  in  the  year  1585,  he  assumed 
the  religious  habit,  and  entered  a  monastery  at 
Madrid.  His  '^Tesoro  de  Varies  Poesias  "  ap- 
peered  at  Madrid  in  1575.  He  wrote,  besides, 
pastoral  and  sacred  eclogues,  and  various  theo- 
logical works  in  prose.  He  died  subsequently 
to  the  year  1595. 

THE  CHAINS  OF  LOVE. 

O,  BLEST  be  he,  —  O,  blest  be  he,  — 
Let  him  all  blessings  prove, — 

Who  made  the  chains,  the  shining  chains, 
The  holy  chains  of  Love  ! 

There  *8  many  a  maiden  bright  and  (air 

Upon  our  village  green ; 
But  what  bright  maiden  can  compare 

With  thee,  my  Geraldine  ? 
O,  blest  be  she  !  O,  blest  be  she ! 

Let  her  all  blessings  prove  !  — 
A  swain  there  lives  whose  every  thought 

Is  bound  by  her  control ; 
His  hearty  his  soul  are  hers ;  and  naught 

Can  sever  soul  from  soul : 
So  sure  the  chains,  the  shining  chains, 

The  holy  chains  of  Love ! 


THE  WANDERING  KNIORT. 

The  mountain  towers  with  haughty  brow, 

Its  paths  deserted  be ; 
The  streamlets  through  their  currents  flow. 

And  wash  the  mallows-tree. 

0  mother  mine  !  O  mother  nflne  ! 
That  youth  so  tall  and  fair. 

With  lips  that  smile,  and  eyes  that  shine, 
I  saw  him  wandering  there : 

1  saw  him  there  when  morning's  glovf 

Was  sparkling  on  the  tree,  — 


With  my  five  fingers,  from  below, 

I  beckoned,  *^  Come  to  me  !  '* 
The  streamlets  through  their  corrents  flow. 

And  wash  the  mallows-tree. 


FRANCISCO   DE   FIGUEROA. 

Vert  little  is  known  of  this  poet.  He  was 
a  native  of  Alcald  de  Henares,  and  followed  the 
military  career.  He  lived  about  the  middle  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  and  pnssed  the  greater 
part  of  his  life  in  Italy  and  Flanders.  Lope 
de  Vega  calls  him  *'  the  divine  Figueroa."  A 
few  hours  before  his  death,  he  ordered  all  bis 
poetical  works  to  be  burned ;  but  copies  of  some 
of  them  remained  in  the  hands  of  his  friends. 


SONNET  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  6ARCILAS0. 

0  BEAUTEOUS  scion  fVom  the  stateliest  tree 
That  e'er  in  fertile  mead  or  forest  grew. 
With  freshest  bloom  adorned  and  vigor  new. 
Glorious  in  form,  and  first  in  dignity ! 

The  same  fell  tempest,  which  by  Heaven's  decree 
Around  thy  parent  stock  resistless  blew. 
And  far  from  Tejo  fair  its  trunk  o'erthrew. 
In  foreign  clime  has  stripped  the  leaves  from 

thee : 
And  the  same  pitying  hand  has  from  the  spot 
Of  cheerless  ruin  raised  ye  to  rejoice. 
Where  fruit  immortal  decks  the  withered  stem. 

1  will  not,  like  the  vulgar,  mourn  your  lot ; 
But,  with  pure  incense  and  exulting  voice, 
Prabe  your  high  worth,  and  consecrate  your 

fame. 


ALONSO  DE  ERCILLA  Y  ZUNIGA. 

Alonso  de  Ercilla  t  ZuifiGA  was  born  at 
Madrid,  probably  in  1533.  His  father  was  a 
lawyer,  and  a  writer  of  sonie  note  in  his  age, 
and  was  called  *^  the  subtle  Spaniard."  '  Alonso 
was  the  youngest  of  three  sons.  In  early  youth, 
he  was  appointed  page  to  the  Infant  Don  Philip, 
and  received  his  education  at  the  palace.  At 
the  age  of  fourteen  years,  he  accompanied  the 
prince  on  a  tour  through  the  principal  cities  of 
the  Netherlands,  and  a  part  of  Germany  and 
of  Italy,  from  which  he  returned  in  1551. 
Two  years  afterwards,  he  attended  Philip  to 
England,  when  that  prince  was  married  to  the 
English  queen,'  Mary.  While  they  were  in 
London,  news  arrived,  that  the  Araucaniana,  an 
Indian  nation  in  South  America,  on  the  coast 
of  Chili,  had  revolted  against  the  Spanish 
power.  General  Alderete  was  despatched  to 
put  down  the  insurrection,  and  Ercilla,  then 
about  twenty-one  years  of  age,  lefl  the  service 
of  the  prince,  and  followed  the  commander  to 
that  remote  scene  of  military  adventure.     Al- 


ERGILLA  Y  ZUNIGA. 


685 


derete  died  before  reaebing  Arauco,  at  Taboga, 
and  Ercilla  went  alone  to  Lima,  the  capita!  of 
Peru.  The  expedition  waa  then  intraated  to  Don 
Garcias,  the  aon  of  the  yiceroj.     In  the  varioaa 
battles  with  the  aavagea,  Ercilla  distinguished 
himself  by  his  bravery.     In  the  midst  of  the 
hardships  of  war,  the  thought  occurred  to  him 
of  making  the  achieyementa  of  his  countrymen 
the  subject  of  an  epic  poem.  He  began  it  imme- 
diately, and  devoted  the  hours  of  the  night  to 
recording  the  deeda  of  the  day,  writing  some- 
times ou  amall  scraps  of  paper,  and  aometimea 
CD  pieces  of  parchment  or  leather.      In  thia 
manoier  were  written  the  first  fifteen  cantos  of 
the  poem,  to  which  he  gave  the  name  of  **  La 
Araucana."     After  the  war  waa  over,  Ercilla 
came  near  losing  his  life,  in  conaequence  of  a 
quarrel  with  a  young  Spanish  officer  in  a  tour- 
nament which  waa  held  at  the  city  of  La  Im- 
perial, to  celebrate  the  accession  of  Philip  the 
Second  to  the  throne  of  Spain.     A  riot  ensued, 
and  the  general,  auapecting  that  the  occasion 
was  seized  to  carry  into  execution  some  plot 
against  his  authority,  ordered  the  supposed  ring- 
leaders to  be   imprisoned,  and  afterwards  be- 
headed.   Ercilla  relates  in  the  poem,  that  he 
was  actually  taken  to  the  scaffold,  and  that  hia 
neck  waa  already  stretched  out  fi>r  the  axe, 
when  the  general,  having  been  convinced  that 
the   disturbance  waa   accidental,   revoked  the 
hasty  sentence.     The  poet,  however,  was  oblig- 
ed to  undergo  a  long  imprisonment.     Deeply 
disgusted  with  thia  harsh  treatment,  Ercilla  left 
Chili,  and  returned  to  Spain,  being  now  about 
twenty-nine  yeara  old.   •  After  a  short  stay  in 
Madrid,  he  set  out  again  upon  hia  travels,  and 
visited  France,  Italy,  Germany,  Bohemia,  and 
Hungary.     Returning  to  Spain,  he  married,  in 
1570,  Maria  de  Bazan,  a  noble  lady  of  Madrid, 
whose  mother  waa  attached  to  the  service  of 
the  Spanish  queen.     Thia  lady  ia  celebrated  in 
several  passages  of  his  poem.    Rudolph  Maxi- 
milian the  Second,  emperor  of  Germany,  gave 
him    the   office  of  Chamberlain ;   but  little  ia 
known   of  hia  connection  with   the  imperial 
court,  and  his  fortunes  seem  not  to  have  been 
at  all  improved  by  the  appointment.     In  1580, 
he  was  living  in  seclusion  and  poverty  at  Ma- 
drid. The  date  of  hia  death  is  uncertain,  the  last 
years  of  bis  life  haying  been  pasaed  in  want  and 
obscurity.     He  lived,  however,  beyond  1596. 

Ercilla  is  known  to  the  literary  world  by  the 
poem  of  the  *<Araucana."  The  first  part  of 
this  work,  having  been  written,  as  mentioned 
ibove,  during  the  war,  was  published  in  1577; 
ind  the  whole,  extending  to  thirty-seven  cantoa, 
ippeared  in  1590.  It  waa  dedicated  to  King 
Philip,  from  whom  the  author  experienced  cold- 
ies8  and  neglect.  Varioua  judgmenta  have 
leen  passed  upon  the  character  of  this  poem. 
Phe  curate,  in  the  scrutiny  of  Don  Quixote's 
ibrarj,  speaking  of  the  **  Araucana,*'  the  **  Au- 
triada'*  of  Juan  Rufb,  and  the  **  Monaerrat  *' 
»f  Viru^  teila  the  barber,  —  <*  Theae  are  the 
»e8t  heroic'  poems  we  have  in  Spaniah,  and 


may  vie  with  the  most  celebrated  in  Italy  ;  re- 
aerve  them,'*  says  he,  "  as  the  most  valuable 
performances  which  Spain  has  to  boaat  of  in 
poetry."  Voltaire,  in  hia  ^  Essay  on  Epic 
Poetry,"  compares  the  subject  of  the  second 
canto,  which  ia  a  quarrel  between  the  chiefii 
of  the  barbariana,  to  the  dispute  between  Aga- 
memnon  and  Achillea  in  the  **  Iliad,'*  and  places 
the  speech  of  the  aged  cacique  Colocolo,  who 
propoaes  to  decide  the  question  by  a  trial  of 
strength,  above  that  of  Neator,  in  the  firat  book 
of  the  *<  Iliad  *' ;  but  declares  that  the  rest  of  the 
work  18  beneath  the  least  of  the  poets,  and  that, 
as  a  whole,  it  ia  as  barbaroua  aa  the  nationa  of 
which  it  treata.  The  English  poet  Hayley 
draws  the  poetical  character  of  Ercilla  in  more 
fiivorable  colors :  -^ 

"  With  warmth  toon  t«mperata,  and  in  notes  mon  dear, 
That  with  Homeric  riclme«  fill  the  ear, 
The  brave  Erellla  ionnds,  with  potent  breath, 
Hie  epic  trumpet  in  the  fields  of  death : 
In  Bcenea  of  mng»  war,  when  Spain  unfiirled 
Her  bloody  banner  o'er  the  western  world. 
With  an  hie  eonntry's  Tinuea  in  hie  frame, 
Without  the  baee  alloy  that  stained  her  name. 
In  danger's  camp,  this  military  bard, 
Whom  Qynthia  eaw  on  hie  nocturnal  guard. 
Recorded  in  hie  bold  deecriptive  lay 
The  varioue  fortunes  of  the  finished  day; 
Seizing  tiM  pen,  while  night'e  calm  hours  affoid 
A  traneient  slumber  to  his  aatiate  sword. 
With  noble  Justice  his  warm  hand  beetowe 
The  meed  of  honor  on  his  ralianl  foes. 
Howe'er  precluded,  by  his  generous  aim. 
From  high  pretensions  to  inventive  fiune, 
His  strongly  colored  scenes  of  sanguine  strife. 
His  softer  picturae,  caught  from  Indian  life, 
Above  the  visionary  forms  of  art, 
Fire  the  awakened  mind,  and  melt  the  heart" 

Essay  on  Epic  Pobtst,  Eputle  Tfurdj  vv.  237-25a 

The  work,  from  its  very  design,  admitted  of 
but  little  poetic  invention ;  and  it  is  a  question 
whether  it  can.  properly  be  called  an  epic.  The 
author  has  adhered  strictly  to  historical  truth, 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  episodes  which  he 
introduced  into  the  latter  portions,  to  relieve  the 
monotony  of  the  narrative.  The  eventa  are 
related  chronologically.  The  poet  made  his- 
torical truth  so  great  a  point,  that  he  challenged 
any  one  to  detect  a  single  inaccuracy.  To  aev- 
eral  editions  of  the  "  Araucana  "  there  is  pre- 
fixed a  sort  of  certificate  by  Captain  Juan  Go- 
mez, who  had  reaided  twenty-aeven  years  in 
Peru,  to  the  effect  that  he  could  vouch  for  the 
historical  accuracy  of  the  poem.  The  atyle  of 
the  "  Araucana  **  ia  natural  and  simple.  The 
descriptive  portions  are  not  deficient  in  poetical 
coloring.  Several  of  the  speeches,  also,  par- 
ticularly that  of  Colocolo,  have  a  high  degree 
of  merit.  The  episodes  of  the  magician  Fiton 
and  hia  garden,  of  the  aavage  maiden  Olaura, 
whose  story  ia  told  in  the  style  of  a  Spanish 
romance,  and  of  the  death  of  Dido,  are  out  of 
keeping  with  the  hiatorical  accuracy  of  the  reat 
of  the  work,  and,  though  written  in  confi>rmity 
with  the  supposed  lawa  of  the  epic,  fitil  to  im- 
part to  it  a  poetical  character. 
3f 


666 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


FROM  THE  ARAUCANA. 
▲   BATTLE   WITH  •THE  ARAUCANIANS. 

Without  more  argument,  his  gallant  steed 
He  spurred,  and  o'er  the  border  led  the  way ; 

His  troops,  their  limbs  by  one  strong  effort  freed 
From  terror's  chill,  followed  in  close  array. 

Onward  they  press. —  The  opening  hills  recede, 
Spain's  chief  Araucan  fortress  to  display;  — 

Over  the  plain,  in  scattered  ruins,  lie 

Those  walls  that  seemed  destruction  to  defy ! 

Valdivia,  checking  his  impetuous  course, 
Cried,  **  Spaniards !  Constancy's  own  favorite 
race  ! 

Fallen  is  the  castle,  in  whose  massive  force 
My  hopes  had  found  their  dearest  resting- 
place; 

The  foe,  whose  treachery  of  this  chief  resource 
Has  robbed  us,  on  the  desolated  space 

Before  us  lies ;  more  wherefore  should  I  say  ? 

Battle  ftlone  to  safety  points  the  way !  " 

Danger  and  present  death's  convulsive  rage 
Breed  in  our  soldiers  strength  of  such  high 
strain. 

That  fear  begins  the  fury  to  assuage 
Of  Araucanian  bosoms ;  from  the  plain 

With  shame  they  fly,  nor  longer  battle  wage,  — 
Whilst  shouts  arise  of  **  Victory !    Spain! 
Spain  !  " 

When,  checking  Spanish  joy,  stem  Destiny 

By  wondrous  means  fulfils  her  fixed  decree  ! 

The  son  of  a  cacique,  whom  friendship's  bands 
Allied  to  Spain,  had  long  in  page's  post 

Attended  on  Valdivia,  at  his  hands 

Receiving  kindness ;  in  the  Spanish  host 

He  came Strong  passion  suddenly  expands 

His  heart,  beholding  troops,  his  country's  boast, 

Forsake  the  field.     With  voice  and  port  elate, 

Their  valor  thus  he  strives  to  animate :  — ^ 

"  Unhappy  nation,  whom  blind  terrors  guide  ! 

O,  whither  turn  ye  your  bewildered  breasts  ? 
How  many  centuries*  honor  and  just  pride 

Perish  upon  this  field  with  all  your  gests ! 
Forfeiting,  what  inviolate  abide, 

Laws,  customs,  rights,  your  ancestors*   be- 
quests, -^ 
From  free-born  men,  from  sovereigns  feared  by 

all, 
Te  into  vassalage  and  slavery  fall. 

"  Ancestors  and  posterity  ye  stain, 

Inflicting  on  the  generous  stock  a  wound 
Incurable,  an  everlasting  pain, 

A  shame  whose  perpetuity  knoWs  no  bound. 
Observe  your  adversaries'  prowess  wane  ; 
Mark  how  their  horses,  late  that  spurned  the 
ground. 
Now  drooping,  pant  for  breath,  whilst  bathed 

all  o'er 
Are  their  thick  heaving  flanks  with  sweat  and 
gore. 


**  On  memory  imprint  the  words  I  breathe, 
Howe'er  by  loathsome  terror  ye  *re  distraught; 

A  deathless  story  to  the  world  bequeath, — 
Enslaved  Arauco's  liberation  wrought ! 

Return  !  reject  not  victory's  offered  wreath. 
When  Fate  propitious  calls,  and  prompts  high 
thought ! 

Or  in  your  rapid  flight  an  instant  pause 

To  see  me  singly  perish  in  your  cause  \  " 

With  that  the  youth  a  strong  and  weighty  lance 
Against  Valdivia  brandishes  on  high  ; 

And,  yet  more  from  bewildering  terror's  trance 
To  rouse. Arauco,  rushes  furiously 

Upon  the  Spaniards'  conquering  advance : 
So  eagerly  the  heated  stag  will  fly 

To  plunge  his  body  in  the  coolest  stream. 

Attempering  thus  the  sun's  meridian  beam. 

One   Spaniard    his   first   stroke   pierces   right 
through  ; 
Then  at  another's  middle  rib  he  aims,  — 
And,  heavy  though  the  weapon,  aims  so  true. 
The  point  on   the  far  side   his  force   pro- 
claims. 
He  springs  at  all  with  fury  ever  new ; 
A  soldier's  thigh  with  such  fierce  blow  he 
maims, 
The  huge  spear  breaks, —  his  hand  still  graspe 

the  heft, 
Whilst  quivering  in  the  wound  one  half  is  lefl. 

The  fragment  cast  away,  he  from  the  ground 
Snatches  a  ponderous  and  dreadful  mace ; 

He   wounds,  he   slaughters,  strikes  down   all 
around, 
Suddenly  clearing  the  encumbered  space : 

In  him  alone  the  battle's  rage  is  found ; 

Turned  all  'gainst  him,  the  Spaniards  leave 
the  chase ; 

But  he  so  lightly  moves,  now  here,  now  there. 

That  in  his  stead  they  wound  the  empty  air. 

Of  whom  was  ever  such  stupendous  deed 
Or  heard,  or  read,  in  ancient  history, 

As  from  the  victor's  party  to  secede. 

Joining  the  vanquished  even  as  they  fly  ? 

Or  that  barbarian  boy,  at  utmost  need, 
By  his  unaided  valor's  energy, 

Should  from  the  Christian  army  rend  away 

A  victory,  guerdon  of  a  hard-fought  day  f 

A  8T0RM  AT  SEA. 

Now  bursts  with  sudden  violence  the  gale  : 

Earth  sudden  rocks  convulsively  and  fast ; 
Labors  our  ship,  caught  under  press  of  sail. 

And  menaces  to  break  her  solid  mast. 
The  pilot,  when  he  sees  the  storm  prevail. 
Springs  forward,  —  shouting  loud,  with  looks 
aghast, 
"  Slacken  the  ropes  there !     Slack  away  !  — 

Alack, 
The   gale   blows   heavily  !  —  Slack   quickly  ' 
Slack !  " 


ERCILLA   Y  ZUNIGA ESPINEL. 


687 


The  roaring  of  the  sea,  the  boisterous  wind, 
The  clttmor,  uproar,  vows  confused  and  rash, 

Untimely  night,  closing  in  darkness  blind 
Of  black  and  sultry  clouds,  the  lightning^s 
flash. 

The  thunder's  awfiil  rolling,  all  combined 
With  pilot's   shouts,  and  manj  a  frightful 
crash. 

Produced  a  sound,  a  harmony,  so  dire. 

It  seemed  the  world  itself  should  now  expire. 


Roars  the  tormented  sea,  open  the  skies, 
The  haughty  wind  groans  whilst  it  fiercer 
raves ; 
Sudden  the  waters  in  a  mountain  rise 

Above  the  clouds,  and  on  the  ship  that  braves 
Their  wrath   pour  thundering  down,  —  sub- 
merged she  lies, 
A  fearful  moment's  space,  beneath  the  waves : 
The  crew,  amidst  their  fears,  with  gasping  breath. 
Deemed  in  salt  water's  stead  they  swallowed 
death. 

But,  by  the  clemency  of  Providence,  — 
As,  rising  through  the  sea,  some  mighty  whale 

Masters  the  angry  surges'  violence. 
Spouts  them  in  showers  against  the  vexing 
gale, 

And  lifts  to  sight  his  back's  broad  eminence. 
Whilst    in   wide  circles   round   the   waters 
quail, — 

So  from  beneath  the  ocean  rose  once  more 

Out  vessel,  from  whose  sides  two  torrents  pour. 


Now,  JEoIus  —  by  chance  if  it  befell. 

Or  through  compassion  for  Castilian  woes  — 

Recalled  fierce  Boreas,  and,  lest  he  rebel. 
Would  safely  in  his  prison  cave  inclose. 

The  door  he  opened :  in  the  selfsame  cell 
Lay  Zephyr  unobserved,  who  instant  rose. 

Marked  his  advantage  as  the  bolts  withdrew. 

And  through  the  opening  portal  sudden  flew. 

Then  with  unlessening  rapidity. 

Seizing  on  lurid  cloud  and  fleecy  rack, 

He  bursts  on  the  already  troubled  sea, 

Spreads  o'er  the  midnight  gloom  a  shade  more 
black ; 

The  billows,  from  the  northern  blast  that  flee. 
Assaults  with  irresistible  attack. 

Whirls  them  in  boiling  eddies  from  their  course, 

\nd  angry  ocean  stirs  with  doubled  force. 


The  vesael,  beaten  by  the  sea  and  gale. 
Now  on  a  mountain-ridge  of  water  rides,  — 

iVith  keel  ei posed,  now  her  top-gallant  sail 
Dips  in  the  threatening  waves,  against  her 
sides, 

>v-er  ber  deck,  that  break.     Of  what  avail, 
The  beating  of  such  storm  whilst  she  abides, 

a  pilot's  skill  ?     Now  a  yet  fiercer  squall 

fair  opens  to  the  sea  her  strongest  wall. 


The  crew  and  passengers  wild  clamors  raise. 

Deeming  inevitable  ruin  near ; 
Upon  the  pilot  anxiously  all  gaze. 

Who  knows  not  what  to  order,  stunned  by  fear. 
Then,  'midst  the  terrors  that  all  bosoms  craze, 
Sound  opposite  commands :  —  •'  The  ship  to 
veer ! " 
Some  shout ; — some, "  Make  ibr  land ! "~  some, 

"Stand  to  sea!"  — 
Some,    "  Starboard  !  "  —  some,    •*  Port    the 
helm !  "  ~some,  "  Helm  a- lee ! " 

The  danger  grows ;  the  terror,  loud  uproar. 

And  wild  confusion  with  the  danger  grow ; 
All  rush  in  frenzy,  these  the  sails  to  lower. 
Those  seek  the  boat,  whilst  overboard  some 
throw 
Cask,  plank,  or  spar,  as  other  hope  were  o'er ; 
Here  rings  the  hammer's,  there  the  hatchet's 
blow ; 
Whilst  dash  the  surges  'gainst  a  neighbouring 

rock. 
Flinging  white  foam  to  heaven  from  every  shock. 


VICENTE  ESPINEL. 

Vicente  Espinel  was  born  at  Ronda,  a  city 
of  Granada,  in  1544.  Being  poor,  he  left  his 
native  place  early  to  seek  his  fortune.  He  en. 
tered  the  church,  and  afterwards  sought  prefer- 
ment at  court,  but  without  success.  He  became 
known  as  a  musician,  and  perfected  the  Span- 
ish guitar  by  adding  a  fifth  string.  He  died  in 
great  poverty  at  Madrid,  in  the  ninetieth  year 
of  his  age. 

Espinel  wrote  both  poetry  and  prose.  His 
poetical  pieces  belong  to  the  period  of  his  youth. 
They  consist  of  canoiones,  idyls,  and  f^legies ; 
and,  though  not  distinguished  by  originality, 
are  pleasing  and  melodious,  and  abound  in 
beautiful  images  and  descriptions.  • 


FAINT  HEART  NEVER  WON  FAIR  LADT. 

Hx  who  is  both  brave  and  bold 
Wins  the  lady  that  he  would ; 

But  the  courageless  and  cold 
Never  did,  and  never  could. 

Modesty,  in  women's  game. 
Is  a  wide  and  shielding  veil : 
They  are  tutored  to  conceal 

Passion's  fiercely  burning  flame. 

He  who  serves  them  brave  and  bold. 
He  alone  is  understood ; 

But  the  courageless  and  cold 

Ne'er  could  win,  and  never  should. 

If  you  love  a  lady  bright. 

Seek,  and  you  shall  find  a  way 
All  that  love  would  say  to  say, — 

If  you  watch  the  occasion  right 


688 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


Cupid's  ranks  are  brave  and  bold, 
Every  soldier  firm  and  good ', 

But  the  courageless  and  cold 

Ne'er  have  conquered,  —  never  could. 


MIGUEL  DE  CERVANTES  SAAVEDRA. 

Miguel  di  Ckrvantes  Saavxdra,  the  im- 
mortal author  of  "  Don  Quixote,'*  was  born  at 
Alcald  de  Henares,  in  October,  1547.  Of  his 
early  life  little  is  known,  except  that  he  mani- 
fested from  hi9  most  tender  years  a  love  of 
poetry  and  letters.  In  his  boyhood,  he  was  ac- 
customed to  attend  the  representations  of  the 
player,  Lope  de  Rueda.  At  a  suitable  age,  he 
entered  the  University  of  Salamanca,  where  he 
studied  two  years.  After  this,  he  returned  to 
Madrid,  and  stlidied  with  a  learned  theologian, 
Juan  Lopez  de  Hoyos,  Professor  of  Literature. 
His  love  of  poetry  was  encouraged  by  his  instruct- 
er,  and  among  his  first  productions  were  elegies, 
ballads,  sonnets,  and  a  pastoral,  called  *^FiIena." 
The  death  of  Isabella  of  Valois,  wife  of  Philip 
the  Second,  called  forth  a  multitude  of  elegiac 
tributes ;  and,  among  the  rest,  Lopez  de  Hoyos 
published  a  book  containing  several  poems  on 
the  occasion,  one  of  which  was  written  by  his 
*<  dear  and  beloved  pupil,"  Miguel  de  Cervantes. 
At  the  age  of  twenty-two,  he  left  Madrid,  and 
entered  the  service  of  the  Cardinal  Giulio  Aqua- 
viva,  at  Rome,  who  had  just  visited  Madrid  as 
the  pope's  nuncio,  and  is  supposed  to  have  be- 
come acquainted  with  Cervantes  there.  Before 
he  had  been  a  year  at  Rome,  he  enlisted  under 
the  command  of  Marco  Antonio  Colonna,  the 
leader  of  the  Christian  forces  in  the  Turkish 
war  which  broke  out  in  1570.  In  the  sangui- 
nary battle  of  Lepanto,  fought  between  the 
combined  Venetian,  Spanish,  and  Papal  fleets, 
and  the  Turks,  on  the  7th  of  October,  1571, 
Cervantes,  demanding  the  post  of  danger,  though 
suffering  from  an  intermittent  fever,  boarded, 
with  his  soldiers,  the  Captain  of  Alexandria, 
took  the  royal  standard  of  Egypt,  and  in  the 
conflict  received  three  arquebuse  wounds,  one 
of  which  shattered  his  leA  hand.  He  oflen  speaks 
of  this  mutilation  with  pride,  and  says  that  the 
glory  of  having  fought  at  Lepanto  was  cheaply 
purchased  by  the  wounds  .he  received  there. 

Cervantes  was  confined  to  the  hospital  more 
than  six  months.  He  served  in  the  unsuccess- 
ful campaign  of  the  following  year,  took  part  in 
the  assault  on  the  castle  of  Navarino,  and  in  the 
next  year,  after  the  peace  with  Selim  was  sign- 
ed, accompanied  the  Marques  de  Santa  Cruz  in 
his  descent  upon  Tunis.  In  June,  1575,  he 
obtained  leave  to  return  to  Spain,  after  an  ab- 
.  setiee  of  seven  years ;  but  the  galley  on  board 
which  he  had  embarked  was  captured,  on  the 
26th  of  September,  by  an  Algerine  squadron, 
commanded  by  the  Arnaout  Mami,  and  carried 
into  port,  .and  Cervantes  fell  to  the  share  of  the 
captain.     For  five  years  he  remained  in  slavery. 


The  details  of  his  captivity, — his  bold,  but  un- 
successful, attempts  to  escape, — the  unshaken 
firmness  with,  which,  rather  than  betray  bis 
companions,  he  braved  the  perils  of  death  by 
the  most  cruel  tortures,  so  often  inflicted  by  the 
Algerines  upon  their  prisoners,  —  the  patience 
with  which  he  bore  the  hardships  of  his  horri- 
ble bondage,  —  display  the  courage,  the  honor, 
and  the  magnanimity  of  Cervantes  in  the  most 
interesting  light.  'These  details  are  supposed 
to  be  contained  in  the  story  of  the  Captive  in 
**  Don  Quixote,"  and  in  his  play  of  '*  Life  in  Al- 
giers." He  was  at  length,  though  with  much 
difficulty,  ransomed  by  his  fViends  and  relations, 
and  returned  to  Spain  in  1581.  He  reentered 
the  military  service,  embarked  in  the  squadron 
of  Don  Pedro  Valdes,  destined  to  the  expedition 
against  the  Azores,  the  next  year  served  under 
the  Marques  de  Santa  Cruz  in  the  battle  which 
he  gained  over  the  French  fleet,  and  in  1583  was 
engaged  in  the  assault  and  taking  of  Teroeira. 

In  1584,  Cervantes  began  his  career  as  an 
author  with  the  pastoral  novel  of  '« Gralatea  " ; 
soon  after  the  publication  of  which,  he  married 
Dona  Catilina  de  Palacios  y  Salazar,  and  took 
up  his  abode  at  Esquivias,  the  residence  of  his 
wife.  He  now  began  to  write  for  the  stage,  the 
condition  of  which  he  endeavoured  to  improve. 
In  the  course  of  the  next  ten  years  he  had  fin- 
ished about  thirty  dramas.  In  1588,  he  received 
'the  appointment  of  Commissary  from  Antonio  de 
Guevara,  the  purveyor  at  Seville  to  the  Indian 
squadrons,  who  was  at  that  time  employed  in 
fitting  out  the  Invincible  Armada.  Cervantes 
removed  to  Seville,  and  remained  there  in  the  I 
discharge  of  his  official  duties  several  years. 
The  office  was  at  length  abolished,  and  he  be- 
came agent  to  various  corporations  and  wealthy 
individuals.  According  to  one  of  his  biogm- 
phers,  Viarddt,  he  wrote  most  of  his  tales  during 
this  residence  at  Seville.  He  seems  to  have 
lived  several  years  in  La  Mancha,  where  he  was 
thrown  into  prison.  At  this  time  he  began  the 
composition  of  ^  Don  Quixote."  In  1604,  he 
returned  to  court,  which  was  then  held  at  Valla- 
dolli^  and  the  next  year  published  the  first  part 
of  **  Don  Quixote,"  which  at  first  excited  little 
attention,  but  afterwards  acquired  a  sudden  popo- 
larity,  and  ran  through  four  editions  in  one  year. 
He  himself  says  of  it  (Part  II.,  c.  16),  «*  Thirty 
thousand  copies  of  my  History  have  been  print- 
ed, and  thirty  thousand  thousand  will  be,  unless 
God  forbids."  Of  the  circumstances  under 
which  it  was  written,  he  says,  in  the  Preface  : 
«*  Every  production  must  resemble  its  author ; 
and  my  barren  and  unpolished  understanding 
can  produce  nothing  but  what  is  very  dull,  very 
impertinent,  and  extravagant  beyond  imagina- 
tion. You  may  suppose  it  the  child  of  Disturb- 
ance, engendered  in  some  dismal  prison,  where 
Wretchedness  keeps  its  residence,  and  every 
dismal  sound  its  habitation.  Rest,  and  ease,  and 
a  convenient  place,  pleasant  fields  and  groves, 
murmuring  springs,  and  a  sweet  repose  of  mind, 
are  helps  that  raise  the  fancy,  and  impregnate 


CERVANTES. 


669 


even  the  most  barren  Muaee  with  conceptions 
that  fill  the  world  with  admiration  and  delight.** 
Montesqulea,  in  his  ''Lettres  Persanes,**  says, 
with  amusing  exaggeration,  **The  Spaniards 
have  bat  one  good  book,  -^  that  one  which  has 
made  all  the  others  ridiculous.*' 

Id  1605,  the  court  returned  to  Madrid.    Cer- 
vantes followed  it  thither,  and  is  supposed  to 
have  passed  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  that 
city.    In  1608,  he  brought  out  a  new  and  cor- 
rected edition  of  »*  Don  Quixote.**     In  1613,  he 
published  his  **  Novelas  Exemplares,**  or  Didac- 
tic Tales,  consisting  of  twelve  stories ;  and  the 
next  year,  his  ^^Viage  al   Pamaso,*'  and  the 
volume  of  "  Comedias  y  Entremeses.'*     About 
this  time,  a  writer,  under  the  .  pseudonym  of 
Alonso  Fernandez  de  Avellan^da,  published  a 
continuation  of  **  Don  Quixote,**  -^  a  shameless 
work,  which  so  excited  the  indignation  of  Cer- 
vantes, that  he  hastened  to  bring  out  the  Second 
Part,  on  which  he  had  been  some  time  engaged. 
This  appeared  in  1615,  and  is  the  last  of  his 
works  that  were  printed  in  his  lifetime.   The  ro- 
mance of  **  Persiles  and  Sigismunda**  was  fin- 
ished at  the  time  of  his  death.     Speaking  of  his 
illness,  in  the  Preface  to  that  work,  he  says:^— 
**  It  happened,  dear  reader,  that  as  two  friends 
and  I  were  returning  from  Esquivias,  —  a  place 
famous  on  many  accounts,  —  in  the  first  place, 
for  its  illustrious  fiimilies,  and,  secondly,  for  its 
excellent  wines,  —  being  arrived  near  Madrid, 
we  heard,  behind,  a  man  on  horseback,  who  was 
spurring  his  animal  to  its  speed,  and  appeared 
to  wish  to  get  up  to  us,  of  which  he  gave  proof 
soon  after,  calling  out  and  begging  us  to  stop ; 
on  which  we  reined  up,  and  saw  arrive  a  coun- 
try-bred student,  mounted  on  an  ass,  dressed  in 
gray,  with  gaiters  and  round  shoes,  a  sword  and 
scabbard,  and  a  smooth  ruff,  with  strings ;  true 
it  is  that  of  these  he  had  but  two,  so  that  his 
ruff  was  always  felling  on  one  side,  and  he  was 
at   great   trouble   to   put   it  right     When    he 
reached   us,  'he  said,  —  *  Without  doubt,  your 
Honors  are  seeking  some  ofiice  or  prebend  at 
court,  from  the  archbishop  of  Toledo  or  the 
"king,  neither  more  nor  less,  to  judge  by  the 
speed  you  make ;  for,  truly,  my  ass  has  been 
counted  the  winner  of  the  course  more  than 
once.*    One  of  my  companions  replied,  —  *■  The 
horse  of  Senor   Miguel  de  Cervantes   is   the 
cause,  —  he  steps  out  so  well.*     Scarcely  had 
the  student  heard  the  name  of  Cervantes  than 
he  threw  himself  off  his  ass,  so  that  his  bag 
and  portmanteau  fell  to  right  and  left,  —  for  he 
travelled  with  all  this  luggage,  —  and  rushing 
towards  me,  and  seizing  my  lefl  arm,  exclaimed, 
*  Tes,  yes !   this  is  the  able  hand,  the  famous 
being,  the  delightful  writer,  and,  finally,  the  joy 
of  the  Muses  !*     As  for  me,  hearing  him  accu- 
mulate   praises   so   rapidly,  I   thought   myself 
obliged  in  politeness  to  reply,  and,  taking  him 
round  the  neck  in  a  manner  which  caused  his 
ruff  to  fall  off  altogether,  I  said,  —  *  I  am,  in- 
deed, Cervantes,  Sir ;  but  I  am  not  the  joy  of  the 
Muaes,  nor  any  of  the  fine  things  you  say :  but 
87 


go  back  to  your  ass,  mount  again,  and  let  us 
converse,  for  the  short  distance  we  have  before 
us.*  The  good  student  did  as  I  desired;  we 
reined  in  a  little,  and  continued  our  journey  at 
a  more  moderate  pace.  Meanwhile,  my  illness 
was  mentioned,  and  the  good  student  soon  gave 
me  over,  saying, — *This  is  a  dropsy,  which  not 
all  the  water  of  the  ocean,  could  you  turn  it 
fi-esh  and  drink  it,  would  cure.  Senor  Cer- 
vantes, drink  moderately,  and  do  not  forget  to 
eat;  for  thus  you  will  be  cured,  without  the  aid 
of  other  medicine.*  *Many  others  have  told 
me  the  same  thing,*  I  replied ;  *  but  I  can  no 
more  leave  off  drinking  till  I  am  satisfied,  than 
if  I  were  born  for  this  end  only.  My  life  is 
drawing  to  its  close ;  and,  if  I  may  judge  by  the 
quickness  of  my  pulse,  it  will  cease  to  beat  by 
next  Sunday,  and  I  shall  cease  to  live.  You 
have  begun  your  acquaintance  with  me  in  an 
evil  hour,  since  I  have  not  time  lefl  to  show 
my  gratitude  for  the  kindness  you  have  dis- 
played.* At  this  moment  we  arrived  at  the 
bridge  of  Toledo,  by  which  I  entered  the  town, 
while  he  followed  the  road  of  the  bridge  of  Se- 
govia. What  after  that  happened  to  me  fame 
will  recount :  my  friends  will  publish  it,  and ,  I 
shall  be  desirous  to  hear.  I  embraced  him 
again ;  he  made  me  offers  of  service,  and,  spur- 
ring his  ass,  left  me  as  ill  as  he  was  well  dis- 
posed to  pursue  his  journey.  Nevertheless,  he 
gave  me  an  excellent  subject  for  pleasantry;  but 
all  times  are  not  alike.  Perhaps  the  hour  may 
come  when  I  can  join  again  this  broken  thread, 
and  shall  be  able  to  say  what  here  I  leave  out, 
and  which  I  ought  to  say.  Now,  fiirewell, 
pleasure !  ftirewell,  joy !  fkrewell,  my  many 
friends !  I  am  about  to  die ;  and  I  leave  you, 
desirous  of  meeting  you  soon  again,  happy,  in 
another  life.**  *  Cervantes  died  April  23d,  1616, 
at  the  age  of  sixty-nine. 

Viarddt,  in  his  excellent  memoir  of  Cervan- 
tes, translated  and  prefixed  to  Jarvis*s  '*Don 
Quixote  **  (London,  1842),  thus  sums  up  the 
events  of  his  life :  •— 

**  All  has  now  been  stated  that  could  be  col- 
lected of  this  illustrious  man,  one  of  those  who 
pay  by  suffering,  through  a  whole  life,  for  the 
tardy  honors  of  posthumous  fame.  Born  of  a 
family  honorable,  but  poor ;  receiving,  in  the 
first  instance,  a  liberal  education,  but  thrown 
into  domestic  servitude  by  calamity  ;  page,  valet- 
de-chambre,  and  afterwards  soldier ;  crippled  at 
the  battle  of  Lepanto ;  distinguished  at  the  cap- 
ture of  Tunis ;  taken  by  a  Barbery  corsair ;  cap- 
tive for  five  years  in  the  slave  d^pdts  of  Algiers ; 
ransomed  by  public  charity,  after  every  effort  to 
effect  his  liberation  by  industry  and  courage  had 
been  made  in  vain ;  again  a  soldier  in  Portugal 
and  the  Azores;  struck  with  a  woman  noble 
and  poor  like  himself;  recalled  one  moment  to 
letters  by  love,  and  exiled  from  them  the  next 
by  distress ;   recompensed  for  his  services  and 

*  Lives  of  the  most  EmineDt  Literary  and  Scientific  Men 
of  Italy,  Spain,  and  Portugal  (3  vols.,  London,  1837, 16mo.). 
VoL  ni.  pp.  172,  173. 

3p* 


/     - 


690 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


talents  by  the  magnificent  appointment  of  clerk 
to  a  victaalling-board ;  accused  of  malyeraation 
with  regard  to  the  pablic  money ;  thrown  into 
prison  by  the  king's  ministers;  released  after 
proving  his  innocence ;  subsequently  again  im- 
prisoned by  mutinous  peasants ;  become  a  poet 
by  profession,  and  a  general  agent ;  transacting, 
to  gain  a  liYelihood,  negotiations  by  commission, 
and  writing  dramas  for  the  theatre ',  discoYering, 
when  more  than  fifty  years  of  age,  the  true  bent 
of  his  genius;  ignorant  what  patron  he  could 
induce  to  accept  of  the  dedication  of  his  work ; 
finding  the  public  indifferent  to  a  book,  at  which 
they  condescended  to  laugh,  but  did  not  appre- 
ciate and  could  not  comprehend ;  finding,  also, 
jealous  rivals,  by  whom  he  was  ridiculed  and 
defamed;  pursued  by  want  even  to  old  age; 
forgotten  by  the  many,  unknown  to  all,  and 
dying  at  last  in  solitude  and  poverty ;  —  such, 
during  his  life  and  at  his  death,  was  Miguel  de 
Cervantes  Saavedra.  It  was  not  till  after  the 
lapse  of  two  centuries,  that  his  admirers  thought 
of  seeking  fi>r  his  cradle  and  his  tomb;  that 
they  adorned  with  a  medallion  in  marble  the 
last  house  in  which  he  lived ;  that  they  raised 
a  statue  to  his  memory  in  the  public  square; 
and  that,  effacing  the  cognomen  of  some  obscure 
but  more  fortunate  individual,  his  countrymen 
inscribed,  at  the  corner  of  a  little  street  in  Ma- 
drid, that  great  name,  the  celebrity  of  which  re- 
sounds through  the  civilized  world.*' 


FROM  THE  TRA6EDT  OF  NUMANCIA. 

MORAJfDBO. 

Wht  so  swiftly  art  thou  flying? 
Go  not,  Lira,  —  let  me  still 
Taste  what  may  my  spirit  fill 
With  glad  life,  even  while  I  'm  dying. 
Lira,  let  mine  eyes  awhile 
Gaze  upon  thy  loveliness ; 
Since  so  deep  is  my  distress. 
Thus  it  would  its  pangs  beguile. 
O  sweetest  Lyre,  that  soundest  so, 
For  ever  in  my  phantasy. 
With  such  delicious  harmony 
It  turns  to  glory  all  my  woe  ! 
What  now  ?     What  stand'st  thoa  mutely 
thinking  ? 
Thou  of  my  thought  the  only  treasure ! 

LISA. 

I  *m  thinking  how  thy  dream  of  pleasure, 
And  mine,  so  fast  away  is  sinking : 
It  will  not  fiiU  beneath  the  hand 
Of  him  who  wastes  our  native  land ; 
For  long,  or  e*er  the  war  be  o*er, 
My  hapless  life  will  be  no  more. 

MOHAHDKO. 

Joy  of  my  soul,  what  hast  thou  said  ? 


That  I  am  worn  with  hunger  so. 
That  quickly  will  the  o'erpowering  woe 
For  ever  break  my  vital  thread. 


What  bridal  rapture  dost  thou  dream 
From  one  at  such  a  sad  extreme  ? 
For,  trust  me,  ere  an  hour  be  past, 
I  fear  I  shall  have  breathed  my  last. 
My  brother  fainted  yesterday. 

By  wasting  hunger  overborne ; 

And  then  my  mother,  all  outworn 
By  hunger,  slowly  sunk  away. 
And  if  my  health  can  struggle  yet 

With  hunger's  cruel  power,  in  truth 

It  is  because  my  stronger  youth 
Its  wasting  force  hath  better  met. 
But  now  so  many  a  day  hath  passed. 

Since  aught  I  *ve  had  its  powers  to  strength- 
en. 

It  can  no  more  the  conflict  lengthen. 
But  it  must  fiunt  and  fiiil  at  last. 

MOEAMDRO. 

Lira,  dry  thy  weeping  eyes ; 

But,  ah !  let  mine,  my  love,  the  more 

Their  overflowing  rivers  pour. 
Wailing  thy  wretched  agonies. 
But  though  thou  still  art  held  in  strife 

With  hunger  thus  incessantly. 

Of  hunger  still  thou  shalt  not  die. 
So  long  as  I  retain  my  life. 
I  offer  here,  from  yon  high  wall. 

To  leap  o'er  ditch  and  battlement : 

Thy  death  one  instant  to  prevent, 
I  fear  not  on  mine  own  to  fall : 
The  bread  the  Roman  eateth  now 

I  'II  snatch  away,  and  bear  to  thee ; 

For,  O,  *t  is  worse  than  death  to  see. 
Lady,  thy  dreadful  state  of  woe  ! 

muL. 

Thou  speakest  like  a  lover :  —  still, 
Morandro,  surely,  *t  were  not  good 
That  I  should  find  a  joy  in  fbml 

For  which  thy  life-blood  thou  may'st  spill. 

But  little  will  that  succour  be, 

Whate'er  of  booty  thou  canst  make  ; 
While  thou  a  surer  way  dost  take 

To  lose  thyself^  than  win  for  me. 

Enjoy  thou  still  thy  youthful  prime, 
In  fresh  and  blooming  years  elate  : 
My  life  is  nothing  to  the  state,  — 

Thine,  every  thing  at  such  a  time. 

Its  noblest  bulwark  thou  canst  be 
Against  the  fierce  and  crafty  foe  : 
What  can  the  feeble  prowess  do 

Of  such  a  wretched  maid  as  me  ? 


MORAXDEO. 

Vainly  thou  laborest  for  my  stay ! 

Lira,  in  vain  thou  hold'st  me  still ! 

Thither,  like  some  glad  sign,  my  will 
Invites  and  hurries  me  away. 
But  thou  the  while  with  earnest  prayer 

Beseech  the  gods  to  send  me  home 

With  spoil,  that  may  delay  thy  doom 
Of  misery,  and  my  despair. 

LOLA. 

My  dearest  friend,  thou  shalt  not  go ! 
Morandro,  —  lo !  even  now  before 


.^ 


CERVANTES. 


693 


Mine  eyes,  ensanguined  with  thy  gore, 
I  see  the  falchion  of  the  foe. 
Seek  not  this  desperate  deed  of  war ! 

Joy  of  my  life,  Moraodro,  stay  ! 

If  peril  waits  thy  onward  way, 
Retom  will  be  more  periloos  far. 
Thy  rashness  could  I  but  repress, 

I  call  the  Heavens  to  witness  here 

That  for  the  loss  of  thee  I  fear,  — 
I  reck  not  of  mine  own  distress. 
But  if,  dear  friend,  it  still  must  be, 

Thou  still  wilt  run  thy  fatal  race, 

Take  as  a  pledge  this  fond  embrace. 
And  feel  that  I  am  still  with  thee. 

MOaAHDBO. 

Be  Heaven  thy  close  companion  still, 
Lira !  -^  Behold  Leoncio  near ! 


Without  the  dreadful  loss  I  fear, 
May*st  thou  thy  frantic  wish  fulfil  * 

[EdL 
LBoircio. 
A  fearful  offer  hast  thou  made,  Morandro,  -^ 
And  clearly  bast  thou  shown,  the  enamoured 

heart 
Knows  not  of  cowardice.    Though  of  thy  virtue 
And  most  rare  valor  there  might  well  be  hope, 
I  fear  the  unhappy  Fates  will  still  be  jealous. 
Attentively  I  heard  the  sad  extremity 
To  which  thy  Lira  said  she  was  reduced,  -^ 
Unworthy,  truly,  of  her  lofty  worth  !  — 
And  heard  thy  noble  promise  to  deliver  her 
From  her  overpowering  grief^  and  cast  thyself 
With  bold  assault  upon  the  Roman  aimy ; 
And  I,  good  firiend,  would  bear  thee  company. 
In  thy  so  noble  and  perilous  exploit, 
With  all  my  fbeble  powers  to  succour  thee. 

MOKAXDBO. 

O  my  soul's  half!  O  most  adventaroos  friend- 

ship, 
Still  undivided  even  in  toil  and  danger. 
As  in  most  glad  prosperity  !  —  Leoncio, 
Do  thou  enjoy  thy  precious  life, — remain 
Within  the  city,  —  for  I  will  not  be 
The  murderer  of  thy  green  and  tender  y^ars. 
Alone  I  *m  fixed  to  go, —  alone  I  hope 
Here  to  return,  with  spoil  well  merited 
By  my  inviolate  faith  and  love  sincere. 


Since  thou  hast  known,  Morandro,  all  my  wishes 
Blended  with  thine  in  good  or  evil  fortune. 
Thou  know'st  that  fear  of  death  will  ne'er  di- 
vide us,  — 
Nor  aught,  if  aught  there  be,  more  terrible. 
With  thee  I  'm  fixed  to  go, — and  home  with  thee 
Shall  I  return,  if  Heaven  hath  not  ordained 
That  I  remain  and  perish,  rescuing  thee. 

MOKAVDRO. 

O,  stay,  my  friend,  and  I  will  bless  the  hour ! 
For  should  I  lose  my  life  in  this  adventure 
Of  darkest  peril,  then  wilt  thou  be  able 


To  be  a  comfort  to  my  woful  mother,  ^ 

And  to  my  spouse,  so  fervently  beloved. 

LBONCXa 

In  truth,  my  friend,  thou  art  most  bountiful. 
To  think,  when  thou  art  dead,  of  my  remaining 
In  such  calm  quiet  and  tranquillity. 
That  I  should  fill  the  place  of  comforter 
To  thy  sad  mother  and  most  wretched  ynf6  ! 
Since  that  thy  death  most  surely  will  be  mine, 
I  *m  fixed  to  follow  thee  at  this  dark  time 
Of  doubt  and  peril,  —  thus  it  must  be,  friend ! 
Morandro,  speak  bo  word  of  my  remaining. 

MOaAMSBO. 

Then,  since  I  cannot  shake  thy  steadfast  purpoee 
Of  sallying  with  me, — at  the  dead  dark  night 
We  '11 1 


N 


POEMS  FROM  DON  QUIXOTB. 
CAROENIO'S  BONO. 

What  causes  all  my  grief  and  pain  ? 

Cruel  disdain. 
What  aggravates  my  misery  ? 

Accursed  jealousy. 
How  has  my  soul  its  patience  lost  ? 

By  tedious  absence  crossed. 
Alas !  no  balsam  can  be  found 
To  heal  the  grief  of  such  a  wound, 
When  absence,  jealousy,  and  scorn 
Have  left  me  hopeless  and  forlorn. 

What  in  my  breast  this  grief  could  move  ? 

Neglected  Love. 
What  doth  my  fond  desires  withstand .' 

Fate's  cruel  hand. 
And  what  confirms  my  misery  ? 

Heaven's  fixed  decree. 
Ah  me  !  my  boding  fears  portend 
This  strange  disease  my  lifi»  will  end  ; 
For  die  I  must,  when  three  such  fbes. 
Heaven,  Fate,  and  Love,  my  bliss  oppose. 

My  peace  of  mind  what  can  restore  ? 

Death's  welcome  hour. 
What  gains  Love's  joys  most  readily  i 

Fickle  inconstancy. 
Its  pains  what  medicine  can  assuage  ? 

Wild  frenzy's  rage. 
'T  is,  therefore,  little  wisdom,  sure. 
For  such  a  grief  to  seek  a  cure. 
As  knows  noJbetter  remedy 
Than  frenzy,  death,  inconstancy.         » 


Ir  woman  's  glass,  why  should  we  try 
Whether  she  can  be  broke,  or  no  ? 

Great  hazards  in  the  trial  lie, 
Because  perchance  she  may  be  so. 

Who  that  is  wise  such  brittle  ware 
Would  careless  dash  upon  the  floor. 

Which,  broken,  nothing  can  repair. 
Nor  solder  to  its  form  restore  ? 


690 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


In  thii  opinion  all  are  found, 

And  reanon  vouches  what  I  saj,-^ 

Wherever  Danaes  abound, 

There  golden  ehowera  will  make  their  way. 


In  the  dead  silence  of  the  peaceful  night, 
When  others*  cares  are  hushed  in  soft  repose, 
The  sad  account  of  my  neglected  woes 
To  conscious  Heaven  and  Chloris  I  recite. 
And  when  the  sun,  with  his  returning  light. 
Forth  from  the  east  his  radiant  journey  goes. 
With  accents  such  as  sorrow  only  knows, 
My  griefs  to  tell,  is  all  my  poor  delight. 
And  when  bright  Phoebus,  from  his  starry  throne, 
Sends  rays  direct  upon  the  parched  soil, 
Still  in  the  mournful  tale  I  persevere. 
Returning  night  renews  my  sorrow's  toil. 
And  though  from  morn  to  night  I  weep  and  moan. 
Nor  Heaven  nor  Chloris  my  complainings  hear. 


80N0. 

A  MARivXR  I  am  of  Love, 

And  in  his  seas  profound. 
Tossed  betwixt  doubts  and  fears,  I  rove, 

And  see  no  port  around. 

At  distance  I  behold  a  star. 
Whose  beams  my  senses  draw. 

Brighter  and  more  resplendent  far 
Than  Palinure  e*er  saw. 

Yet  still,  iincertain  of  my  way, 

I  stem  a  dangerous  tide. 
No  compass  but  that  doubtfiil  ray 

My  wearied  bark  to  guide. 

For  when  its  light  I  most  would  see, 

Benighted  most  I  sail : 
Like  clouds,  reserve  and  modesty 

Its  shrouded  lustre  veil. 

O  lovely  stor,  by  whose  bright  ray 

My  love  and  faith  I  try. 
If  thou  withdraw'st  thy  cheering  day, 

In  night  of  death  I  lie  ! 


LOPEZ  MALDONADO. 

This  poet  lived  in  the  latter  half  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  being  a  contemporary  of  Cer- 
vantes. "  '  Here  's  a  book  of  songs  by  Lopez 
Maldonado,*  cried  the  barber  (in  the  review  of 
Don  Quixote's  library).  <  He  's  also  my  par- 
ticular friend,*  said  the  curate ;  *  his  verses  are 
very  well  liked,  when  he  reads  them  himself; 
and  his  voice  is  so  excellent,  that  they  charm 
us,  whenever  he  sings  them.'  " 

A  collection  of  his  poems,  entitled  **  Cancio- 
nero,  6  Coleccion  de  Varies  Poesias,"  was  pab- 
lished  at  Madrid,  in  1586. 


80N0. 

Ah,  Love ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 

Enemy 
Of  all  that  mankind  may  not  rue  ! 

Most  untrue 
To  him  who  keeps  most  fiiith  with  thee ! 

Woe  is  me ! 
The  falcon  has  the  eyes  of  the  dove  ! 

Ah,  Love  ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love ! 

Thy  deceits 
Give  us  clearly  to  comprehend 

Whither  tend 
All  thy  pleasures,  all  thy  sweets  ! 

They  are  cheats,  — 
Thorns  below,  and  flowers  above ! 

Ah,  Love  ! 
Perjured,  fidae,  treacherous  Love  ! 


JUAN  DE  TIMONEDA. 

This  author  was  by  birth  a  Valencian,  and 
by  trade  a  printer.  He  flourished  daring  the 
latter  half  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and,  in  imi- 
tation of  his  friend.  Lope  de  Rueda,  was  a  writ- 
er  of  comedies.  His  principal  work  is  his 
«*  Patranuelo,"  or  Story-teller, — a  collection  of 
twenty  patrailas,  or  stories,  imitated  from  Boc- 
caccio and  others. 

NAY,  SHEPHERD  I  NAY  I 

**  Nat,  shepherd  !  nay !  —  thou  art  anwary ; 

Thy  flocks  are  wandering  far  away." 
«« Alas  !  I  know  it  well ;  —  *t  is  Mary 

Who  leads  my  troubled  thoughts  astray." 

**  Look,  shepherd  !  look,  how  ^  they  rove ! 

Why  so  forgetful  ?  —  call  them  yet." 
**  O,  he  who  is  forgot  by  Love 

Will  soon,  too  soon,  all  else  forget !  " 
«•  Come,  leave  those  thoughts  so  dark  and  dreary. 

And  with  your  browsing  flocks  be  gay." 
"  Ah,  no  !  't  is  vain,  't  is  vain,  —  for  Mary 

Leads  all  my  troubled  thoughts  astray." 

*«  'T  is  Love,  then,  shepherd  !     O,  depart. 

And  drive  away  the  cheating  boy  ! " 
^  Alas  !  he  's  seated  in  my  heart. 

And  rules  it  with  tumultuous  joy." 
**Nay,  shepherd  !  wake  thee,  dare  not  tarry, -^ 

For  thou  art  in  a  thorny  way.** 
*^  Ah,  no !  't  is  vain,  't  is  vain,  —  for  Mary 

Leads  all  my  troubled  thoughts  astray.*' 

**  Throw  off  this  yoke,  young  shepherd !  be 

Joyous  and  mirthsome  as  before.** 
*<  O,  what  are  mirth  and  joy  to  me .' 

They  on  my  woes  no  balm  can  pour.** 
t^Thott  didst  refuse  to  dance,— didst  tarry, 

When  laughing  maidens  were  at  play. " 
«<  I  know  I  did ;  —  alas !  't  is  Mary 

That  leads  my  troubled  thoughts  astray." 


TIMONEDA.  — LEDESMA.  — g6nGORA. 


693 


"  Then  tell  thy  loTe,  —  perchance  't  is  hid,  — 

And  send  a  iDissive  acribbled  o*er." 
"Alas!  my  friend,  I  did,  I  did, — 

Which,  ere  the  maid  had  read,  she  tore.*' 
*<  Then  hang  the  maid  !  —  the  foal  fiend  carry 

A  pestilence  through  all  her  flocks !  " 
**  0,  no !  forbear  !  —  nor  threaten  Mary 

With  sorrow's  frowns,  nor  misery's  shocks ! " 


ALONSO   D£  LEDESMA. 

This  elegant  poet  was  bom  at  Segovia,  about 
the  year  1551.  He  wrote  chiefly  on  sacred 
subjects.  His  **  Conceptos  Espirituales,*'  divid- 
ed into  three  parts,  were  published  respectively 
at  Madrid,  in  1600,  1606,  and  1616.  Among 
his  works  were  *'Juegos  de  Noche  Buena," 
and  '*£1  Monstro  Im&ginado."  He  died  in 
1622,  at  the  age  of  seventy-one. 


O  OBNTLE  Sleep  *  my  welcoming  breath 
Shall  hail  thee  'midst  our  mortal  strife, 
Who  art  the  very  thief  6f  life. 

The  very  portraiture  of  death ! 

'T  is  sweet  to  feel  thy  downy  wing 
Light  hovering  o'er  our  wonted  bed ; 
But  who  has  heard  thy  lightsome  tread. 

Thou  blind,  and  deaf,  and  silent  thing.' 

Thou  dost  a  secret  pathway  keep. 
Where  all  is  darkest  mystery. 
For  me,  to  sleep  is  but  to  die,^» 

For  thee,  thy  very  life  is  sleep. 


LUIS  DE  g6n60RA  Y  ARGOTE. 

This  poet,  flimous  for  having  introduced  into 
Spain  the  whimsical  and  euphuistic  manner, 
called  the  estilo  eulto,  or  cultivated  style,  was 
born  at  C6rdova,  July  11th,  1561.  At  the  age 
of  fifteen,  he  was  sent  to  the  University  of  Sa- 
lamanca ;  but,  instead  of  studying  the  law,  for 
which  he  was  destined,  occupied  himself  entire- 
ly with  literature  and  poetry.  After  a  short 
residence  at  the  University,  he  returned  to  his 
native  city.  He  wrote,  while  yet  a  youth, 
many  amatory  and  satirical  poems;  and  was 
well  known,  and  highly  esteemed,  as  a  man  of 
letters  and  a  poet,  in  C6rdova.  At  the  age  of 
fbrty-^ve,  he  entered  the  church,  having  been 
disappointed  in  his  hopes  of  official  employ- 
ments. Boon  after  this,  he  went  to  Madrid,  to 
improve  his  fortunes ;  but,  though  he  received 
nriany  promises  of  promotion,  and  was  held  in 
;reat  regard,  in  the  capital,  he  attained  no  high- 
er place  than  that  of  honorary  chaplain  to  the 
clng,  Philip  the  Third.  As  he  advanced  in 
ife,  he  changed  the  simple  elegance  of  his 
iarly  style  for  one  full  of  contortions,  fantastic 
urns,  enigmatic  expressions,  and  far-fetched 
JJusiona.     H6  was  followed  by  numerous  imi- 


tators, who  adhered  with  bigoted  zeal  to  these 
elaborate  absurdities.  He  has  been  called  the 
Marino  of  Spain.  GtSngora  was  suddenly  taken 
ill,  while  accompanying  the  king  to  Valencia. 
He  returned  to  Cdrdova,  during  an  interval  of 
convalescence,  and  died  May  24th,  1627. 

Lope  de  Vega  writes  as  follows  of  G6ngora 
and  his  system: — 

•(  I  have  known  this  gentleman  for  eight-and- 
twenty  years,  and  I  hold  him  to  be  possessed 
of  the  rarest  and  most  excellent  talent  of  any  in 
C6rdova ',  so  that  he  need  not  yield  even  to  Sen- 
eca  or  Jjucan,  who  were  natives  of  the  same 
town.  Pedro  Linan  de  Riaza,  his  contempora- 
ry at  Salamanca,  told  me  much  of  his  proficien- 
cy in  study,  so  that  1  cultivated  his  acquaint- 
ance, and  improved  it  by  the  intercourse  we 
had  when  I  visited  Andalusia;  and  it  always 
appeared  as  if  he  liked  and  esteemed  me  more 
than  my  poor  merits  deserve.  Many  other  dis- 
tinguished men  of  letters  at  that  time  competed 
with  him, — Herrera,  Vicente  Espinel,  the  two 
Argensolas,  and  others ;  among  whom  this  gen- 
tleman held  such  place,  that  Fame  said  the  same 
of  him  as  the  Delphic  oracle  did  of  Socrates. 

M  He  wrote  in  all  styles  with  elegance,  and 
In  gay  and  festive  compositions  his  wit  was  nt>t 
less  celebrated  than  Martial's,  while  it  was  far 
more  decent.  We  have  several  of  his  works 
composed  in  a  pure  style,  which  he  continued 
for  the  greater  part  of  his  life.  But,  not  con- 
tent with  having  reached  the  highest  step  of 
fame  in  sweetness  and  softness,  he  sought-^ I 
have  always  believed,  with  good  and  sincere  in- 
tentions, and  not  with  presumption,  as  his  ene- 
mies have  asserted  -—  to  enrich  the  airt,  and  even 
language,  with  such  ornaments  and  figures  as 
were  never  before  imagined  nor  seen.  In  my 
opinion,  he  fulfilled  his  aim,  if  this  was  his  in- 
tent; the  difficulty  rests  in  receiving  his  sys- 
tem :  and  so  many  obstacles  have  arisen,  that 
I  doubt  they  will  never  cease,  except  with 
their  cause ;  for  I  think  the  obscurity  and  am- 
biguity  of  his  expressions  must  be  disagreeable 
to  many.  By  some  he  is  said  to  have  raised 
this  new  style  into  a  peculiar  class  of  poetry ; 
and  they  are  not  mistaken :  for,  as  in  the  old 
manner  of  writing  it  took  a  life  to  become  a 
poet,  in  this  new  one  it  requires  but  a  day :  for, 
with  these  transpositions,  four  rules,  and  six 
Latin  words  or,  emphatic  phrases,  they  rise  so 
high,  that  they  do  not  know  —  &r  less  under- 
stand — themselves.  Lipsius  wrote  a  new  Latin, 
which  those  who  are  learned  in  such  tilings  say 
Cicero  and  Quintilian  laugh  at  in  the  other 
world ;  and  those  who  have  imitated  him  are  so 
wise,  that  they  lose  themselves.  And  I  know 
others  who  have  invented  a  language  and  style 
BO  different  fVom  Lipsius,  that  they  require  a 
new  dictionary.  And  thus  those  who  imitate 
this  gentleman  produce  monstrous  births,  —  and 
fiincy,  that,  by  imitating  his  style,  they  inherit 
his  genius.  Would  to  God  they  imitated  him 
in  that  part  which  is  worthy  of  adoption !  for 
every  one  must  be  aware  that  there  is  much 


694 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


that  is  deBeiring  of  admiration ;  while  the  rest 
ia  wrapt  in  the  darkness  of  such  ambigaity,  as  I 
have  found  the  cleverest  men  at  fault,  when 
they  tried  to  understand  it.  The  foundation  of 
this  edifice  is  transposition,  rendered  the  more 
harsh  by  the  disjoining  of  substantives  from  ad- 
jectives,  where  no  parenthesis  is  possible,  so 
that  even  to  pronounce  it  is  difficult:  tropes 
and  figures  are  the  ornaments,  —  so  little  to  the 
purpose,  that  it  is  as  if  a  woman,  when  painting 
herself,  instead  of  putting  the  rouge  on  her 
cheeks,  should  apply  it  to  her  nose,  forehead, 
and  ears.  Transpositions  may  be  allowed,  and 
there  are  common  examples ;  but  they  must  be 
appropriate.  Boscan,  Garcilaso,  and  Herrera 
use  them.  Look  at  the  elegance,  softness,  and 
beauty  of  the  divine  Herrera,  worthy  of  imita- 
tion and  admiration  !  fi>r  it  is  not  to  enrich  a 
language  to  reject  its  natural  idiom,  and  adopt 
instead  phrases  borrowed  fi'om  a  foreign  tongue ; 
but,  now,  they  write  in  the  style  of  the  curate 
who  asked  ji"  servant  for  the  *  anserine  reed,' 
telling  her  that '  the  Ethiopian  lieour  was  wantr 
ing  in  the  Cornelian  vase.'  These  people  do 
not  attend  to  clearness  or  dignity  of  style,  but 
to  the  novelty  of  these  exquisite  modes  of  ex- 
pression, in  which  there  is  neither  truth  nor 
propriety,  nor  enlargement  of  the  powers  of 
language  ;  but  an  odious  invention  that  renders 
it  barbarous,  imitated  from  one  who  might  have 
been  an  object  of  just  admiration  to  us  all."  * 

The  following  pieces- are  in  GKSngora's  earlier 
and  simpler  manner. 


THE  SONG  OF  CATHARINE  OF  ARAGON. 

0,  TAKX  a  lesson,  flowers,  firom  me. 
How  in  a  dawn  all  charms  decay,  — 

Less  than  my  shadow  doomed  to  be, 
Who  was  a  wonder  yesterday  ! 

1,  with  the  early  twilight  born. 
Found,  ere  the  evening  shades,  a  bier ; 

And  I  should  die  in  darkness  lorn. 
But  that  the  moon  is  shining  here : 
So  must  ye  die,  —  though  ye  appear 

So  fair,  —  and  night  your  curtain  be. 

O,  take  a  lesson,  flowers,  from  me ! 

My  fleeting  being  was  consoled, 
When  the  carnation  met  my  view ; 

One  hurrying  day  my  doom  has  told,  -— 
Heiiven  gave  that  lovely  flower  but  two : 

Ephemeral  monarch  of  the  wold,-^ 

I  clad  in  gloom,  —  in  scarlet  he. 

O,  take  a  lesson,  flowers,  from  me ! 

The  jasmine,  sweetest  flower  of  flowers, 
The  soonest  is  its  radiance  fled ; 

It  scarce  perfumes  as  many  hours 

As  there  are  star-beams  round  its  head : 
If  living  amber  fragrance  shed, 

*  Discurso  sobre  la  Nueva  Poeaia,  pot  Lope  de  V«gn.  — 
Lires  of  the  moat  Eminent  Literary  and  Scientific  Men  of 
Italy,  Spain,  and  Portugal.    VoL  UL,  pp.  218 -25a 


The  jasmine,  sure,  its  shrine  must  be. 
O,  take  a  lesson,  flowers,  from  me  \ 

The  bloody- warrior  fragrance  gives; 
It  towers  unblushing,  proud,  and  gay ; 

More  days  than  other  flowers  it  lives,  -— 
It  blooms  through  all  the  days  of  May  : 
I  'd  rather  like  a  shade  decay. 

Than  such  a  gaudy  being  be. 

O,  take  a  lesson,  flowers !  from  me. 


GOME,  WANDERING  SHEEP!  O,  COBffEl 

CoMX,  wandering  sheep  !  O,  come ! 

I  '11  bind  thee  to  my  breast, 
I  '11  bear  thee  to  thy  home. 

And  lay  thee  down  to  rest. 

I  saw  thee  stray  forlorn, 
And  heard  thee  faintly  cry, 

And  on  the  tree  of  scorn. 
For  the^,  I  deigned  to  die : 
What  greater  proof  could  I 

Give,  than  to  seek  the  tomb  f 

Come,  wandering  sheep !  O,  come  f 

I  shield  thee  from  alarms. 
And  wilt  thou  not  be  blest.' 

I  bear  thee  in  my  arms, — 
Thou  bear  me  in  thy  breast ! 
O,  this  is  love !  —  Come,  rest ! 

This  is  a  blissfbl  doom. 

Come,  wandering  sheep !  O,  come  ! 


NOT  AIL  SWEET  NIGHTINGALBS. 

Tbxt  are  not  all  sweet  nightingales. 
That  fill  with  songs  the  flowery  vales ; 
But  they  are  little  silver  bells, 
Touched  by  the  winds  in  the  smiling  dells,  — 
Magic  bells  of  gold  in  the  grove. 
Forming  a  choros  for  her  I' love. 

Think  not  the  Toices  in  the  air 

Are  from  the  winged  Sirens  fair. 
Playing  among  the  dewy  trees. 
Chanting  their  morning  mysteries : 

O,  if  yon  listen,  delighted  there. 

To  their  music  scattered  o'er  the  dales. 

They  are  not  all  sweet  nightingales. 

That  fill  with  songs  the  flowery  vales ! 

But  they  are  little  silver  bells, 

Touched  by  the  winds  in  the  smiling  detis, — 

Magic  bells  of  gold  in  the  grove. 

Forming  a  chorus  for  her  1  love. 

O,  't  was  a  lovely  song,  —  of  art 

To  charm, — of  nature  to  touch  the  heart! 

Sure  't  was  some  shepherd's  pipe,  which, 
played 

By  passion,  fills  the  Sorest  shade.  — > 
No !  't  is  music's  diviner  part 
Which  o'er  the  yielding  spirit  prevails. 
They  are  not  all  sweet  nightingales. 
That  fill  with  songs  the  flowery  vales; 


g6N00RA.^C0NTR£RAS OCANA. 


But  tbej  are  little  silTer  bella, 

Toocbed  by  the  winda  in  the  amiliog  della,-^ 

Magic  bella  of  gold  in  the  groTe, 

Forming  a  chorua  for  her  I  love. 

In  tbe  eye  of  loye,  which  all  thinga  aeea, 
Tbe  fragrance-breathing  jaamine-treea, 

And  tbe  golden  flowera,  and  the  aloping 
hill, 

And  the  ever  melancholy  rill, 
Are  full  of  holieat  aympathiea. 
And  tell  of  love  a  thousand  talea. 
They  are  not  all  sweet  nightingales. 
That  fill  with  songs  the  cheerfbl  vales ; 
But  they  are  little  silver  bells. 
Touched  by  the  winds  in  the  smiling  della,— - 
Bells  of  gold  in  the  secret  grove. 
Making  music  for  her  I  love. 


LET  ME  GO  WABM. 

Let  me  go  warm  and  merry  still ; 
And  let  the  world  laugh,  an*  it  will. 

Let  others  muse  on  earthly  things,  — 
The  lall  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  aa  a  gilded  pill : 
On  feastfl  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  apread  o*er  every  vale  and  hill, 
With  one  to  tell  a  merry  tale 
0*er  roaated  nuta  and  humming  ale, 
I  ait,  and  care  not  for  the  gale ;  — 

And  let  the  world  laugh,  an'  it  will. 

Let  merchanta  traverse  seaa  and  lands. 
For  silver  mines  and  golden  aanda; 

Whilst  I  beaide  some  shadowy  rill. 
Just  where  ita  buhl^ling  fountain  swells. 
Do  sit  aad  gather  stones  and  sheila. 
And  hear  the  tale  tbe  blackbird  tella;  — 

And  let  the  world  laugh,  an'  it  will. 

For  Hero's  sake  the  Grecian  lover 
The  stormy  Hellespont  swam  over : 

I  cross,  without  the  fisar  of  ill. 
The  wooden  bridge  that  slow  bestrides 
The  Madrigal's  enchanting  sides, 
Or  barefoot  wade  through  Tepes'  tides  ;  — 

And  let  the  world  laugh,  an'  it  will. 


But  since  the  Fates  ao  cruel  prove. 
That  Pyramus  ahould  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. 


HI£r6nIMO  D£   CONTRERAS. 

HixR^iviMo  DK  CoirTRSRAS  livod  in  the  last 
half  of  the  sixteenth  century.  He  belonged  to 
Saragossa. 


When  hearts  are  sad,  the  remedy 
That 's  sweetest  is,  to  sigh. 

No  torment  e'er  oppressed  the  heart. 
Which  was  not  softened  by  the  dew 

Of  melancholy  thought,  —  whose  smart 
Is  light  and  salutary  too : 
A  breathed  «<  Alas !  "  will  oft  renew 

A  broken  link  of  sympathy. 

O,  't  ia  most  sweet  to  aigh ! 

When  deepest  in  the  pensive  breast 
Some  sacred,  secret  sorrow  Hea, 

The  spirit  drags  it  from  its  rest 
By  the  strong  alchemy  of  sighs. 
And  tears,  their  natural  allies : 

There  's  magic  in  a  tearful  eye. 

O,  't  is  most  sweet  to  sigh  f 

But  when  the  wound  has  pierced  so  deep 
That  hope  can  neither  cure  nor  cheer, 

'T  were  better  fkr  in  death  to  sleep 
Than  to  live  on  despairing  here : 
But  if  he  will  live  on,  a  tear 

Or  sigh  some  comfort  may  supply. 

O,  't  is  most  sweet  to  sigh  ! 


There  are  insufferable  ' 

WhicH  must  be  suffered, —  man  must  bear 

Terrors,  and  terror-waking  throes. 

Which  language  dares  not,  nor  could  dare. 
To  compass.     Let  his  heart  beware : 

He  may  not  speak,  —  but  he  may  die. 

O,  't  is  most  sweet  to  sigh  ! 


FRANCISCO   DE   OCANA. 

This  poet  lived  about  the  end  of  the  six- 
teenth  century.  He  wrote  on  sacred  aubjects. 
The  Camaonero  containing  his  pieces  was  pub. 
lisbed  at  Alcald,  in  1608. 

OPEN  THE  DOOR! 

0  poKTxit,  ope  the  door  to  me ! 

1  'm  ahivering  in  the  cold  and  rain :  — 
Take  pity  on  the  strangers'  pain  ! 


696 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


I  and  this  poor  old  man  have  come 
Tired  wanderers  from  a  foreign  shore, 

And  here  we  stray  without  a  home. 
His  weariness  o'erwhelms  me  more 
Than  my  own  woe.     O,  ope  your  door 

To  shelter  us  from  cold  and  rain  !  — 

Take  pity  on  the  strangers'  pain ! 

The  night  is  dark,  and  dull,  and  cold  ; 

No  inn  is  open  on  the  road ; 
The  dreary  midnight  bell  hath  tolled. 

And  not  a  straggler  walks  abroad  : 
We  naught  but  solitude  behold, 
Pelted  by  driving  hail  and  rain  :  — 
Take  pity  on  the  strangers'  pain ! 

Be  kind,  be  generous,  friend !  thy  door 
Throw  open,  for  the  love  of  Heaven ! 

We  are  but  two,  —  but  two,  — no  more, — 
I,  and  my  poor  old  husband,  driven 

For  refuge  here ;  and  we  implore 

A  shelter.     Shall  we  ask  in  vain .'  — 

Take  pity  on  the  strangers'  pain  ! 

Here  give  us  welcome :  —  thou  wilt  be 
Rewarded  by  God's  grace,  which  can 

Shower  unexpected  joys ;  though  he 
May  be  an  old,  defenceless  man. 

Yet  God  has  recompense  for  thee ; 

Thou  roay'st  a  noble  guerdon  gain :  — 

Take  pity  on  the  strangers'  pain ! 

Let  us  not  tarry  longer,  —  ope  ! 

We  're  chilled  with  cold,  —  so  ope,  I  pray  ! 
Ope  to  the  wanderers  now,  and  hope 

They  well  thy  kindness  may  repay : 
Time  and  eternity  give  scope 
For  recompense.     The  wind  and  rain 
Beat  on :  —  relieve  the  strangers'  pain  ! 


LOPE   FELIX   DE   VEGA   CARPIO. 

This  wonderful  man,  who  has  been  some- 
times called  the  Prodigy  of  Nature,  the  Phcsniz 
of  Spain,  and  the  Potoei  of  Rhymes,  was  born 
November  25,  1562,  at  Madrid.  He  inherited 
from  his  father,  Felix  de  Vega,  an  inclination 
for  poetry.  His  biographers  assert,  that,  at  two 
years  old,  his  genius  was  shown  by  the  vivacity 
of  his  eyes;  that  he  knew  his  letters  before  he 
could  speak,  and  repeated  his  lessons  by  signs. 
He  is  said  to  have  composed  verses  when  he 
was  only  five  years  old,  and  before  he  knew 
how  to  write ;  and  before  the  age  of  twelve,  he 
had  produced  several  theatrical  pieces,  and  had 
become  a  master  of  grammar,  rhetoric,  and  Latin 
composition.  Such  are  the  marvels  of  his  boy- 
hood.  He  was  early  left  an  orphan.  At  the 
age  of  fourteen,  he  ran  away  from  school  with 
a  friend,  in  order  to  see  the  world.  They 
reached  Segovia  on  foot,  where  they  bought  a 
mule,  and  then  proceeded  to  Astorga.  Not 
being  quite  satisfied  with  the  specimens  of  the 


world  they  had  thus  far  seen,  they  made  op 
their  minds  to  go  back  again.  When  they  bad 
got  as  far  as  Segovia,  they  stopped  at  a  silver- 
smith's, one  to  sell  a  chain,  and  the  other  to 
get  change  for  a  doubloon.  The  silversmith 
was  suspicious,  and  called  in  a  judge,  who 
honestly  sent  them  back  to  Madrid. 

Lope  was  enabled  to  prosecute  his  studies  by 
the  kindness  of  the  grand  inquisitor,  Grerdnimo 
Manrique,  bishop  of  Avila,  whom  he  commem- 
orates in  one  of  his  earliest  productions,  entitled, 
**La  Pastoral  de  Jacinto."  At  the  age  of  sev- 
enteen or  eighteen.  Lope  entered  the  University 
of  Alcala  de  Henares,  where  he  remained  four 
years,  and  is  said  to  have  made  immense  pro- 
gress in  the  studies  of  the  place.  He  then  re- 
turned to  his  native  city,  and  immediately  en- 
tered the  service  of  the  duke  of  Alba,  at  whose 
request  he  wrote  the  **  Arcadia,"  a  work  com- 
posed in  the  pastoral  style  of  the  **  Diana  "  of 
Montemayor,  and  the  **  Galatea  "  of  Cervantes. 
In  this  work  he  is  supposed  by  some  to  have 
shadowed  forth  the  history  of  the  duke  of 
Alba*s  early  life.  The  duke  died  soon  after, 
and,  about  the  same  time.  Lope  married  Dona 
Isabella  de  Urbino;  but  his  domestic  felicity 
was  soon  interrupted  by  a  quarrel  with  a  gentle- 
man, which  ended  in  a  duel.  Lope  had  the 
misfbrtune  to  inflict  a  severe  wound  upon  his 
antagonist.  He  was  obliged  to  flee  from  Ma- 
drid, and  took  refuge  in  Valencia,  where  be 
passed  two  weary  years,  separated  from  bis 
wife.  At  the  end  of  this  period,  he  was  allowed 
to  return  to  Madrid ;  but  the  death  of  his  wife, 
which  happened  almost  immediately  thereupon, 
reduced  him  to  despair.  To  dissipate  his  sor- 
row, he  determined  to  become  a  soldier.  Philip 
the  Second  was  then  making  formidable  prepa- 
rations for  the  invasion  of  England,  and  Lope 
obtained  permission  to  accompany  the  duke  of 
Medina  Sidonia  in  the  Invincible  Armada. 
The  fiite  of  this  expedition  is  well  known. 
Lope  endured  every  possible  hardship,  but 
found  time  to  compose  a  poem,  in  twenty  can- 
tos, entitled,  ^^La  Hermosura  de  Angelica," 
being  a  continuation  of  the  adventures  of  An- 
gelica, from  the  point  where  Ariosto  had  left  her. 

In  1588,  Lope,  now  twenty-six  years  old,  re- 
turned to  Madrid,  and  again  devoted  himself  to 
poetry.  He  became  secretary  to  the  Marques 
de  Malpica,  and  afterwards  entered  the  service 
of  the  Conde  de  Lemos,  the  viceroy  of  Naples. 
About  this  time  he  married  again.  The  name 
of  his  second  wife  was  Dona  Juana  de  Guardio. 
He  had  the  misfbrtune  to  lose  her  also,  in  a  few 
years.  This  second  bereavement  induced  him 
to  take  the  vows  and  be  ordained  as  a  priest, 
and  he  entered  the  order  of  St.  Francis.  He 
was  soon  named  head  chaplain,  and  became  a 
familiar  of  the  Inquisition,  and  is  said  to  have 
taken  part  in  an  auUhda^fi^  when  a  Lutheran 
was  burned  alive.  In  1598,  he  gained  a  prize 
by  some  verses  written  for  the  canonization  of 
San  Isidro,  a  native  of  Madrid.  He  bad  al- 
ready become  famous  as  a  dramatic  poet     In- 


LOPE  DE  VEGA. 


de«d,  the  moat  brilliant  period  of  his  life  b«gan 
after  he  had  become  a  Franciscan.     Pope  Urban 
the  Eighth  made  him  Doctor  of  Theology,  and 
appointed  him  Fiscal  of  the  Apostolical  Cham- 
ber, Lope  having  dedicated  to  his  Holiness  the 
tragedy  of  "Mary  Staart*'     The  number  of 
works  he  produced  at  this  time  almost  surpasses 
belief,  and  the  popularity  he  acquired  was  unri- 
valled.   His  health  continued  good  until  within 
a  short  time  of  his  death,  which  took  place  An- 
goit  26, 1635. 
Lope  de  Vega  was,  perhaps,  the  most  prolific 
I  author  who  ever  lived.     He  poured  out,  with 
ioexhaoitible  provision,  works  in  every  depart- 
ment of  poetical  composition,  and  his  influence 
over  the  literary  taste  of  his  countrymen  was 
unbounded.     Persons  of  the  highest  distinction 
were  proud  to  number  themselvea  among  his 
worshippers.   His  friend  and  biographer,  Mont- 
alvan,  calls  him  **  the  portent  of  the   world ; 
the  glory  of  the  land ;  the  light  of  his  country; 
the  oracle  of  language;  the  centre  of  fame;  the 
object  of  envy ;    the  darling  of  fortune ;   the 
phoenix  of  ages ;    prince  of  poetry ;   Orpheus 
of  sciences ;  Apollo  of  the  Muses ;  Horace  of 
poets;  Virgil  of  epics;  Homer  of  heroics;  Pin- 
dar of  lyrics ;  the  Sophocles  of  tragedy,  and  the 
Terence  of  comedy ;  single  among  the  excel- 
lent, and  excellent  among  the  great;  great  in 
every  way  and  in  every  manner."     Whenever 
he  made  his  appearance  in  public,  he  was  re- 
ceived with  signal  marks  of  respect.     His  name 
became  a  proverbial  expression  for  whatever  was 
most  excellent.    A  brilliant  diamond  was  called 
a  Lope  diamond;  a  fine  day,  a  Lope  day;  a  beau- 
tiful woman,  a  Lope  woman;    and  when  he 
died,  his  splendid  obsequies  were  attended  by 
the  principal  grandees  and  nobles  of  the  Span- 
ish court,  the  windows  and  balconies  on   the 
streets  through  which  the  procession  passed  were 
densely  thronged  with  spectators,  and  a  woman 
in  the  crowd  was  heard  to  exclaim,  **  This  is  a 
Lope  funeral,"  not  knowing  that  it  was  the  fu- 
neral of  the  great  poet  himself. 

The  best  life  of  Lope  de  Vega  is  that  by  Lord 
Holland,  entitled,  **  Some  Account  of  the  Lives 
and  Writings  of  Lope  Felix  de  Vega  Carpio 
and  Guillen  de  Castro  "  (London,  1817, 2  vols.). 
His  miscellaneous  works  were  collected,  and 
published  with  the  title,  "Coleccion  de  las 
Obrna  Soeltas  de  D.  Frey  Lope  Felix  de  Car- 
no  "  (Madrid,  1776  -  79,  21  vols.,  8vo.).  Bo- 
lides these,  his  dramatic  works,  printed  at  Ma- 
Irid,  according  to  N.  Antonio,  who  gives  a  list 
»f  them,  filled  twenty-five  volumes,  and  amount- 
id  to  three  hundred.  These,  however,  are  but 
L  small  part  of  what  be  actually  produced;  for 
vben  he  died,  he  had  written  eighteen  hundred 
Iramaa  and  four  hundred  amios.  As  a  proof 
•f  his  extraordinary  ftoility  in  composition,  it 
i  said  that  more  than  one  hundred  of  these 
rere  each  written  in  a  single  day.  In  one  of 
lis  poems,  written  in  1609,  he  says  that  he  has 
Iready  written  four  hundred  and  eighty-three, 
"  And  all,  sare  aiz,  acalnst  the  rulaa  of  wit " ; 


and  in  one  of  his  eclogues,  he  declares, 

"The  printed  part,  though  far  too  large,  la  le« 
Than  that  which  yet  imprinted  waits  the  praM." 

It  is  difficult  to  find  a  complete  set  of  the  twen- 
ty-five volumes  of  plays.  Lord  Holland  gives  a 
list  of  *<  plays  still  extant,"  amounting  to  four 
hundred  and  ninety-seven. 


FROM  THB  ESriRELLA  DS  SEVILLA. 

THE  XING  AND  8AMCH0  ORTIZ. 

SAHcaa 
I  KISS  thy  Ihet 

xDie. 
Rise,  Sancho !  rise,  and  know 
I  wrong  thee  much  to  let  thee  stoop  so  low. 

SAMOBO. 

My  liege,  confounded  with  thy  grace  I  stand ; 
Unskilled  in  speech,  no  words  can  I  command 
To  tell  the  thanks  I  feel. 

XIHO. 

Why,  what  in  me 
To  daunt  thy  noble  spirit  canst  thou  see  ? 

sijfoao. 
Courage  and  majesty  that  strikes  with  awe; 
My  sovereign  lord ;  the  fountain  of  the  law ; 
In  fine,  Ood's  image,  which  I  come  to  obey. 
Never  so  honored  as  I  feel  to-day.. 


Much  I  applaud  thy  wisdom,  much  thy  zeal ; 
And  now,  to  try  thy  courage,  will  reveal 
That  which  you  covet  so  to  learn, —  the  cause 
That  thus  my  soldier  to  the  presence  draws. 
Much  it  imports  the  safety  of  my  reign 
A  man  should  die,  —  in  secret  should  be  slain ; 
This  must  some  friend  perform ;  search  Seville 

through. 
None  can  I  find  to  trust  so  fit  as  you. 


Guilty  he  needs  must  be. 


He  is. 


Then  why, 
My  sovereign  liege,  in  secret  should  he  die  ? 
If  public  law  demands  the  culprit's  head,    x 
In  public  let  the  culprit's  blood  be  sbed. 
Shall  Justice's  sword,  which  strikes  in  face  of 

day, 
Stoop  to  dark  deeds,  —  a  man  in  secret  slay.' 
The  world  will  think,  who  kills  by  means  un- 
known 
No  guilt  avenges,  but  implies  his  own. 
If  slight  his  fimlt,  I  dare  for  mercy  pray. 

Kiira. 
Sancho,  attend; — you  came  not  here  to-day 
An  advocate  to  plead  a  traitor's  cause. 
But  to  perform  my  will,  to  execute  my  laws, 
8o 


698 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


To  slay  a  man; — and  why  the  culprit  bleed 
Matters  not  thee,  it  is  thy  monarches  deed ; 
If  base,  thy  monarch  the  dishonor  bears. 
But  say,  —  to  draw  against  my  life  who  dares. 
Deserves  he  death  ? 


O,  yes !  a  thousand  times. 

smo. 
Then   strike  without  remorse:  these   are  the 
wretch's  crimes. 

SAHCHO. 

So  let  him  die ;  for  sentence  Ortiz  pleads : 
We^  he  my  brother,  by  this  arm  he  bleeds. 


Give  me  thy  hand. 


SAKOBO. 

With  that  my  heart  I  pledge. 


So,  while  he  heeds  not,  shall  thy  rapier's  edge 
Reach  his  proud  heart. 

SANOHa 

My  liege !  my  sovereign  lord ! 
Sancho  's  my  name,  I  wear  a  soldier's  sword. 
Would  you  with  treacherous  acts,  and  deeds  of 

shame. 
Taint  such  a  calling,  tarnish  such  a  name .' 
Shall  I,  —  shall  I,  to  shrink  from  open  strife. 
Like  some  base  coward,  point  the  assassin's 

knife.' 
No,  —  face  to  face  his  foe  must  Ortiz  meet, 
Or  in  the  crowded  mart,  or  public  street,  — 
Defy  and  combat  him  in  open  light. 
Curse  the  mean  wretch  who  slays,  but  does  not 

fight! 
Naught  can  excuse  the  vile  assassin's  blow ; 
Happy,  compared  with  him,  his  murdered  foe, — 
With  him  who,  living,  lives  but  to  proclaim, 
To  all  he  meets,  his  cowardice  and  shame. 


E'en  as  thou  wilt ;  but  in  this  paper  read. 
Signed  by  the  king,  the  warrant  of  the  deed. 

[SftDCho  roads  the  paper  aloud,  which  promisee  the  king's 
protection,  If  he  Is  brought  into  any  jeopardy  in  conse- 
quence of  killing  the  person  alluded  to,  and  Is  signed, 
Yo  a  Reyt  I  the  king. 


Act  as  you  may,  my  name  shall  set  you  free. 


Does,  then,  my  liege  so  meanly  deem  of  me  ? 
I  know  his  power,  which  can  the  earth  control, — 
Know  his  unshaken  faith,  and  steadfast  soul. 
Shall  seals,  shall  parchments,  then,  to  me  afford 
A  surer  warrant  than  my  sovereign's  word .' 
To  guard  my  actions,  as  to  guide  my  hand, 
I  ask  no  surety  but  my  king's  command. 
Perish  such  deeds !  (Tean  the  paper]  —  they  serve 

but  to  record 
Some  doubt,  some  question,  of  a  monarch's  word. 


What  need  of  bonds  ?  By  honor  bound  are  we ; 
I  to  avenge  thy  wrongs,  and  thou  to  rescue  me. 
One  price  I  ask, — the  maid  I  name  for  bride. 


Were  she  the  richest  and  the  best  allied 
In  Spain,  I  grant  her. 

BANOHO. 

So  throughoat  the  world. 
May  oceans  view  thy  conquering  flag  anfurled  t 

UNO. 

Nor  shall  thy  actions  pass  without  a  meed. 
This  note  informs  thee,  Ortiz,  who  must  bleed. 
But,  reading,  be  not  startled  at  a  name ; 
Great  is  his  prowess;  Seville  speaks  his  fame. 

■AMCBO. 

I  '11  put  that  prowess  to  the  proof  ere  long. 

xmo. 
None  know  but  I  that  you  avenge  my  wrong ; 
So  force  must  guide  your  arm,  but  prudence 
check  your  tongue.  [SzIl 


BUSTOS  TABERA  AND  SANCHO  OBTIZ. 


Ih  meeting  thus,  my  fortune  do  I  greet. 

SAivcHO  (aside). 
Alas !  I  curse  the  chance  that  makes  us  meet. 
Tou  come  to  make  a  friend,  a  brother,  blest,  — 
And  I,  to  plunge  a  dagger  in  thy  breast. 


Brother,  the  hour  of  long-sought  bliss  is  come: 

SAHOHO  (aside). 
My  hour  of  grief,  of  all  my  woes  the  doom  ! 

0  God !  did  man  e'er  bear  such  weight  of  ill  ? 
Him  whom  I  love  next  heaven  my  sword  moat 

kill: 
And  with  the  very  blow  that  stabs  my  friend. 
My  love  is  lost,  and  all  my  visions  end. 

BQ8T08. 

The  deeds  are  drawn ;  to  tell  the  news  I  came ; 
They  only  wait  for  Sancho  Ortiz'  name. 

SANCHO  (aloud). 
Once,  it  is  true,  by  fickle  fancy  led, 
Tabera's  sister  Ortiz  fain  would  wed ; 
But  now,  though  drawn  the  strict  agreements 
stand, 

1  soom  the  offer,  and  reject  her  hand. 

B178T08. 

Enow'st  thou  to  whom,  or  what  thou  speak 'st? 

SANCBO. 

I  know 
To  whom  I  speak,  and  therefore  speak  I  so. 


How,  knowing  me,  can  words  of  insult  dwell 
On  Ortiz'  tongue  ?  \ 

SAHCBO. 

Because  he  knows  thee  well. 


LOPE  DE   VEGA. 


699 


And  knows  he  aught  bat  generous  pride  of  blood, 
And  honor  such  as  prompts  the  brave  and  good  ? 
Virtue  and  genuine  honor  are  the  same : 
Pride,  uninspired  by  her,  usurps  the  name. 
But  yet,  though  slow  of  anger  to  a  friend, 
Thy  words  my  virtue  as  my  pride  offend. 

SAXOHO. 

Not  more  offended  can  thy  virtue  be, 
Than  I  so  long  to  talk  with  one  like  thee. 


Ib  't  come  to  this  ?  and  dost  thou  brand  my  fame 
With  aught  that  bears  not  honor*s  sacred  name  ? 
Prove,  then,  this  sword,  which  dares  thy  rage 

defy,— 
My  foe  a  villain,  and  his  charge  a  He. 

[Draw,  and  fight. 


What  can  the  swords  of  traitorous  villains  prove  ? 
Pardon  me,  sacred  friendship !  pardon,  love ! 
My  king  impels ;  I  madden  as  I  fight. 
And  frenzy  lends  my  arm  resistless  might. 


Enough,  nor  (farther  press  thy  blow,—  I  bleed,  — 
My  hour  is  come ! 

[BuftosfiOla. 

8AM0HO. 

Then  am  I  mad,  indeed ! 
Tes,  when  I  struck  thy  death,  my  sense  was 

gone; 
Restored,  I  from  thy  arm  implore  my  own. 
Sheathe  in  this  breast,  —  for  pity,  sheathe  thy 

sword. 
And  to  my  troubled  soul  an  instant  flight  afford. 


My  motives  Fate  denies  the  time  to  tell ;  ^- 

Wed  thou  my  sister,  Ortiz,  and fiirewell ! 

[Dies. 

SAHCBO. 

Come,  then,  destructive,  unrelenting  blade. 
Despatch  the  life  thy  work  has  wretched  made ! 
Come,  while  Tabera's  gore  is  reeking  yet. 
With  a  fresh  wound  to  close  the  bloody  debt ! 
[Enter  Parian  and  Pedn>|  Alcaldas  mayores. 

PBDKO. 

Wretch !  stay  that  weapon,  raised  thyself  to  kill ! 


'T  was  raised  against  a  life  yet  dearer  still. 

[Enur  Arias. 


What  '8  thia  disorder.' 

SANOHO. 

The  disorder  's  plain : 
I  'va  killed  a  brother,  like  another  Cain,  — 
Ruthless  and  fierce,  a  guiltless  Abel  slain. 
Hera,  here  he  lies, — survey  each  mangled  limb ; 
And  as  he  died  fbr  me,  so  let  me  die  for  him. 


Why,  what  is  this? 

SAirCBO. 

What  ia  it,  do  you  ask  ? 
'T  is  a  kept  promise,  an  accomplished  task ; 


'T  is  honor  in  a  fiery  trial  proved,  — 
Honor,  that  slew  the  man  he  dearly  loved. 
Yes,  tell  the  king,  that,  for  our  plighted  words. 
We.  sons  of  Seville  bear  them  on  our  swords ; 
Tell  him  for  them  we  do  our  stars  '  defy ; 
For  them  our  laws  expire,  our  brothers  die. 

PSDRO. 

He  's  killed  Tabera. 


Rash,  flagitious  deed ! 

SAMCHO. 

Then  seize  me, — bind  me,  —  let  his  murderer 

bleed ! 
Where  are  we  ?     Do  not  law  and  reason  say, 
Rufllans  shall  die,  and  blood  shall  blood  repay  ? 
But  marked  you  how   the  mighty  crime  was 

done? 
No  hate  was  here ;  't  was  love,  and  love  alone ; 
And  love,  that  did  the  crime,  shall  for  the  crime 

atone. 
Bustos  I  slew :  I  now  for  Bustoa  plead, 
And  beg  of  justice  —  that  his  murderer  bleed. 
Thy  friend  that  tribute  to  thy  memory  pays ! 


The  man  is  mad,  and  knows  not  what  he  says. 


Then  to  Triana's  tower  the  culprit  lead, — 
Lest,  at  the  noise  of  such  a  lawless  deed, 
Seville  should  rise,  and  some  new  tumult  breed. 

SAlfCBO. 

Tet  I  would  raise  my  brother  from  the  ground. 
Clasp  his  cold  limbs,  and  kiss  the  sacred  wound. 
And  wash  the   noble  blood   that  streams  his 

corpse  around. 
So  I  '11  his  Atlas  be ;  nor  would  repine. 
The  life  I  've  taken  to  redeem  with  mine. 

PSDBO. 

'T  is  madness,  this. 

SAMCHO. 

When  I  from  friendship  swerved, 
Against  my  pleasure  I  the  laws  observed ; 
That 's  a  king's  part,  —  in  that  I  'm  king  alone ; 
But  in  this  act,  alas !  I  am  not  one : 
The  riddle  's  easy,  when  the  clew  is  found ; 
But 't  is  not  mine  the  riddle  to  expound. 
'T  is  true  I  slew  him,  —  I  not  that  deny ; 
I  own  I  slew  him,  —  but  I  say  not  why : 
That  why  —  let  others,  if  they  like  it,  plead  ; 
Enough  for  me  that  I  confess  the  dead. 

[Exit  guarded. 

E8TRKLLA   AND  THEODORA. 


So  quick  my  toilet  was,  I  scarce  can  guess 
How  set  my  garments  and  how  looks  my  dress. 
Give  me  the  glass. 

VBSODOSA. 

All  glass  is  needless  here ; 
Look  on  thyself,  —  no  mirror  is  so  clear ; 


1  This,  In  tha  original,  ia  a  quibble  on  the  name  Ettrella, 
which  in  the  Spanish  algnlBes  a  ttar. 


700 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


Nor  can  in  mimic  fbmiB  reBeeted  liiine 
Such  matchlcM  charmt,  and  beauty  bright  ai 
thine.  (Hokb  th*  lookinf-glaM. 


Whence  can  tuch  crimson  colors  fire  my  cheek? 


Thy  joy,  and  yet  thy  modesty,  they  speak. 
Tes,  to  thy  face  contending  passions  rush, 
Thy  bliss  betraying  with  a  maiden  blush. 

B8TRKLLA. 

'T  is  true  he  comes ;    the  youth  my  heart  ap- 
proves 
Comes  fraught  with  joy,  and  led  by  smiling 

Loves. 
He  claims  my  hand ;  I  hear  his  soft  caress, 
See  his  soul's  bliss  come  beaming  from  his 
eye. 
O  partial  stars !  unlooked-for  happiness ! 
Can  it  be  true?  — is  this  my  destiny  f  * 

maosoKA. 
Hark !  some  one  rings !— but,  io !  with  envy  emit. 
One  mirror  into  thousand  mirrors  split ! 


Is 't  broken? 


Tes. 


And  sure  with  reason  too; 
Since  soon,  without  its  aid,  I  hope  to  view 
Another  self:  with  him  before  my  eyes, 
I  need  no  glass,  and  can  its  use  despise. 

(Eater  Ckriodo. 

GLABINDO. 

All,  lady,  all  is  merriment  and  cheer, 

And  the  plumed  hats  announce  the  wedding 

near. 
I  gave  the  letter,  and  received  a  ring. 


Take,  too,  this  diamond  for  the  news  you  bring. 

eLAHZnDO. 

Alas !  the  precious  gem  is  split  in  two !  — 
Is  it  for  grief? 

O,  no,  Clarindo !  no ! 
It  burst  for  joy,  —  the  very  gems  haye  caught 
My  heart's  content,  my  gayety  of  thought. 
Thrice  happy  day,  and  kind,  indulgent  sky ! 
Can  it  be  true  ?  —  is  this  my  destiny  ?  ' 


Hark !  steps  below 

And  now  the  noise  draws  near. 


My  joy  overcomes  me !  — 

[Enter  Alcaldes  with  the  deed  body  of  Bostos. 
Gracious  God !  what  *s  here  ? 

s  HeiB,  again,  the  word  Eatrella  la  uaed  for  ihe  aake  of  a 
pun.    I  have  been  obliged  to  rmuler  it  Ij  the  word  dmUny. 
9  See  note  S. 


Grief,  naught  but  grief,  was  made  for 
Life  is  itself  one  troubled  sea  of  woe. 
Lady,  Tabera  's  slain  i 


below: 


O  sad,  O  cruel  blow ! 


One  comfort,  still, —  in  chains  his  murderer  lies: 
To-morrow,  judged  by  law,  the  guilty  OrtiE  dies. 


Hence,  fiends !  I  '11  hear  no  more,  — your  tidings 

bear 
The  blasts  of  hell,  tb^  warrant  of  despair ! 
My  brother 's  slain  !  by  Sancbo's  arm  be  foil ! 
What !  are  there  tongues  the  dismal  tale  to  tell? 
Can  I,  too,  know  it,  and  the  blow  survive  ? 
O,  I  am  stone,  to  hear  that  sound  and  live  ! 
If  ever  pity  dwelt  in  human  breast,— 
Kill,  murder,  stab  me ! 


Well  may  she  rave. 


With  such  grief  oppressed, 


O  sentence  fivught  with  pain ! 
My  brother  dead  !  by  Sancho  Ortiz  slain  ! 

[Going. 
That  cruel  stroke  has  rent  three  hearts  in  one ; 
Then  leave  a  wretch  who  '•  hopeless  and  un- 
done. 


Ah  !  who  can  wonder  at  her  wild  despair  ?  — 
Follow  her  steps. 


Alas!  ill-fatedfair! 


GLAEOnK). 

Lady,  one  instant 


Would  you  have  me  stay 
For  him,  the  wretch,  that  did  my  brother  slajr  ? 
My  love,  my  hopes,  my  all  for  ever  gone,  — 
Perish  lifo,  too,  —  for  life  is  hateful  grown  ! 
Inhuman  stars !  unheard-of  misery ! 
Can  it  be  so?— is  this  my  destiny?^ 


SONNETS. 
TBB  GOOD  SHEPHERD. 

Shepherd,   that  with   thine   amorous  sylvan 

song 
Hast  broken  the  slumber  which  encompassed 

me,— 
That  mad'st  thy  crook  from  the  accursed  tree. 
On  which  thy  powerfiil  arms  were  stretched  so 

long ! 
Lead  me  to  mercy's  ever-flowing  fountains ; 
For  thou  my  shepherd,  guard,  and  guide  shalt 

be; 
I  will  obey  thy  voice,  and  wait  to  see 
Thy  feet  all  beautiful  upon  the  mountains. 

4SeenoCe9L 


L.  L.  AND  B.  L.  AROENSOLA. 


701 


Hear,  Shepherd !  -—  thou  who  for  thy  flock  art 

0,  wash  away  these  acarlet  eiaal  for  thou 
Rejoicest  at  the  contrite  aioner'a  tow. 
0,  wait!  —  to  thee  my  weary  aoul  ie  crying, — 
Wait  for  me  !— Tet  why  ask  it,  when  I  see, 
With  feet  nailed  to  the  croaii  thou  'rt  waiting 
still  for  me  f 


TO-MORROW. 

Lord,  what  am  I,  that,  with  uoceattng  care. 

Thou  didst  seek  aAer  me,  -*  that  thou  didst  wait, 

Wet  with  unhealthy  dews,  t>eibre  my  gate, 

And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter  there  ? 

0,  strange  deiasion,  that  I  did  not  greet 

Thy  blest  approach !  and,  O,  to  heaven  how  lost. 

If  my  ingratitude's  unkindly  fixMt 

Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  thy  feet ! 

How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 

M  Seal,  from  thy  casement  look,  and  thou  shalt 

see 
How  he  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee  !  " 
And,  O,  bow  often  to  that  yoice  of  sorrow, 
(«To«morrow  we  will  qien,"  I  replied ! 
And  when  the  morrow  came,  I  answered  still, 

"  To-morrow." 


OOtJNTRT  LIFEL 

I 

LxT  the  Tain  courtier  waste  his  days, 
Lured  by  the  charms  that  wealth  displays. 
The  couch  of  down,  the  board  of  costly -fare; 
Be  his  to  kiss  the  ungrateful  hand 
That  waves  the  sceptre  of  command. 
And  rear  full  many  a  palace  in  the  air : 
Whilst  I  enjoy,  all  unconfined. 
The  glowing  sun,  the  genial  wind, 
And  tranquil  hours,  to  rustic  toil  assigned ; 
And  prize  far  more,  in  peace  and  health, 
Contented  indigence,  than  joyless  wealth.* 
Not  mine  in  Fortune's  face  to  bend. 
At  Grandeur's  altar  to  attend, 
Reflect  his  smile,  and  tremble  at  his  frowo  ; 
Nor  mine  a  fond  aspiring  thought, 
A  wish,  a  sigh,  a  vision,  fraught 
With  Fame's  bright  phantom,  Qlory's  deathless 
crown! 
Nectareous  draughts  and  viands  pure 
Liuzariant  nature  will  insure ; 
These  the  clear  fount  and  fertile  field 
Still  to  the  wearied  shepherd  yield; 
And  when  repose  and  visions  reign. 
Then  we  are  equals  all,  the  monarch  and  the 
swain. 


LUPERCIO  LEONARDO  ARGENSOLA. 

This  poet,  and  his  brother  Bartolom6,  be- 
onged  to  a  noble  family,  which  originated  from 
iavenna.  Lupercio  was  bom  at  Barbastro,  in 
565.  He  studied  first  at  the  Univeraity  of 
iueaca,  and  afterwards  in  Salamanca.     Having 


completed  his  studies,  he  went  to  Madrid,  where 
he  became  chamberlain  to  the  archbishop  of 
Toledo,  and  secretary  to  Maria  of  Austria,  the 
widow  of  the  Emperor  Maximilian  the  Second. 
He  was  afterwards  appointed  by  the  court 
Historiographer  of  Aragon.  The  Count  de  Le- 
raos,  when  named  Viceroy  of  Naples,  took  Ar- 
gensola  with  him  in  the  capacity  of  Secretary 
of  State  and  of  War.  He  died  at  Naples,  in 
1613.  He  wrote  sonnets,  canciones,  and  sat- 
ires, which  were  published  after  his  death. 
While  in  Naples,  he  founded  the  Accademia 
degU  Oxiosiy  which  afterwards  l>ecame  famous. 


BIART  MAGDALEN. 

Blessxd,  yet  sinful  one,  and  broken-hearted ! 
The  crowd  are  pointing  at  the  thing  ibrlom, 
In  wonder  and  in  scorn  t 
Thou  weepest  days  of  innocence  departed ; 
Thou  weepest,  and  thy  tears  have  power  to 
move 
The  Lord  to  pity  and  love.  ' 

The  greatest  of  thy  follies  is  forgiven. 

Even  for  the  least  of  all  the  tears  that  shine 
On  that  pale  cheek  of  thine. 
Thou  didst  kneel  down  to  Him  who  came  from 
heaven, 
Evil  and  ignorant,  and  then  shalt  rise 
Holy,  and  pure,  and  wise. 

It  is  not  much  that  to  the  fragrant  blossom 
The  ragged  brier  should  change ;  the  bitter  fir 
Distil  Arabian  myrrh ; 
Nor  that,  upon  the  wintry  desert's  bosom. 
The  harvest  should  rise  plenteous,  and  the 
swain 
Bear  home  the  abundant  grain. 

But  come  and  see  the  bleak  and  barren  moun- 


Thick  to  their  tops  with  roses ;  come  and  see 
Leaves  on  the  dry,  dead  tree  : 
The  perished  plant,  set  out  by  living  fountains, 

Grows  fruitfiil,  and  its  beauteous  branches  rise 
For  ever  towards  the  skies. 


BARTOLOM]^  LEONARDO  ARGEN- 
SOLA. 

BabtolokA  Lkoitardo  Aroshsola  was  bom 
at  Barbastro,  in  1566.  On  the  completion  of 
his  studies,  he  became  almoner  of  the  Empress 
Maria,  and  then  accompanied  his  brother  Lu- 
percio to  Naples.  After  the  death  of  the  latter, 
Bartolom^  was  made  Historiographer  of  Aragon, 
and  returned  to  Saragossa  in  1616,  where  he 
wrote  a  historical  work  from  the  materials  which 
had  been  collected  by  his  brother.  He  was  ap- 
pointed canon  of  the  cathedral  in  Saragossa,  by 
Paul  the  Third.  He  died  in  1633. 
So* 


702 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


Saavedra  calls  bim  **tbe  glory  of  Aragon, 
and  oracle  of  Apollo;  whose  eloquence,  erudi- 
tion, and  gravity,  —  whose  pure  and  sublime 
spirit,  excellent  choice  of  words,  and  judgment 
in  the  arrangement  of  sentences,  will  be  for  ever 
admired  of  all,  and  imitated  by  few." 

The  poetical  works  of  the  two  Argensolas 
were  not  published  until  after  their  death. 


SONNET. 

"Parxitt  of  good1  since  all  thy  laws  are  just. 
Say,  why  permits  thy  judging  providence 
Oppression's  hand  to  bow  meek  innocence. 
And  gives  prevailing  strength  to  fraud  and  lust? 
Who  steels  with  stubborn  force  the  arm  unjust. 
That  proudly  wars  against  Omnipotence  ? 
Who  bids  thy  faithful  sons,  that  reverence 
Thine  holy  will,  be  humbled  in  the  dust  ? 
Amid  the  din  of  joy  fair  Virtue  sighs, 
While  the  fierce  conqueror  binds  his  impious  head 
With  laurel,  and  the  car  of  triumph  rolls." 
Thus  I ;— when  radiant  'fore  my  wondering  eyes 
A  heavenly  spirit  stood,  and  smiling  said : 
(*  Blind  moralist !  is  Baith  the  sphere  of  souls?  " 


JUAN   D£  RIBERA. 

This  poet  lived  about  the  end  of  the  sixteenth 
century.  His  "  Nueve  Romances  "  were  pub- 
lished in  1605. 

THE  GOOD  OLD  COUNT  IN  SADNESS   STRAITED. 

Thx  good  old  count  in  sadness  strayed 

Backwards,  forwards,  pensively ; 
He  bent  his  head,  —  he  said  hb  prayers 

Upon  his  beads  of  ebony; 
And  dark  and  gloomy  were  his  thoughts, 

And  all  his  words  of  misery : 
(*  O  daughter  fair,  to  woman  grown, 

Say,  who  shall  come  to  marry  thee? 
For  I  am  poor, —  though  thou  art  fair, 

No  dower  of  riches  thine  shall  be." 
**  Be  silent,  fiither  mine,  I  pray ; 

For  what  avails  a  dower  to  me  ? 
A  virtuous  child  is  more  than  wealth : 

O,  fear  not,  —  fbar  not  poverty ! 
There  are  whose  children  ban  their  bliss, 

Who  call  on  death  to  set  them  free, — 
And  they  defame  their  lineage, 

Which  shall  not  be  defamed  by  me ; 
For  if  no  husband  should  be  mine, 

I  '11  seek  a  convent's  purity." 


ROMANCE. 

<•  KviGHT,  that  comeat  from  afiur. 
Tarry  here,  and  here  recline ; 

Couch  thy  lance  upon  the  floor. 
Stop  that  weary  steed  of  thine : 


I  would  fain  inquire  of  thee 

News  of  wandering  husband  mine." 
**  Lady,  thou  must  first  describe 

Him,  thy  husband,  sign  by  sign." 
>*  Knight,  my  husband  's  young  and  fair,  — 

In  him  grace  and  beauty  shine ;  * 
At  the  tablets  dexterous  he. 

And  at  chess;  the  honored  line 
Of  a  marquis  on  his  sword. 

Well  engraved,  you  might  divine ; 
All  his  garments  of  brocade. 

Felted  crimson,  fair  and  fine ; 
At  his  lance's  point  he  bears 

Flag  from  Tagus*  banks,  where  shine 
Victories  that  he  won  of  old 

From  a  valiant  Gaul."     ^*  That  sign 
Tells  me,  lady,  he  is  dead : 

Murdered  is  that  lord  of  thine. 
In  Valencia  was  he  killed. 

Where  there  lived  a  Grenovine. 
Playing  at  the  tablets,  he 

'There  was  murdered.     At  his  shrine 
Many  a  noble  lady  wept. 

Many  a  knight  of  valiant  line : 
One  mourned  more  than  all  the  rest,  — 

Daughter  of  the  Genovine ; 
For  they  said,  and  that  was  true. 

She  was  his.     So,  lady  mine, 
Give  me  now  thy  heart,  I  pray. 

For  my  heart  is  only  thine." 
**  Nay,  Sir  Knight,  it  cannot  be ; 

Nay,  I  must  not  thus  incline : 
To  a  convent  first  I  '11  go. 

Vow  me  to  that  life  divine." 
*(  No,  that  cannot,  cannot  be ! 

Check  that  hasty  vow  of  thine; 
For  I  am  thy  husband  dear,  — 

Thou  the  unstained  wife  of  mine." 


FRANCISCO  DE  VELASCO. 

Francisco  dk  Vklasco  was  a  religious  poet, 
and  belonged  to  the  last  part  of  the  sixteenth, 
and  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth,  centory. 
His  **  Copies  del  Nacimiento,"  dec., were  print- 
ed at  Burgos,  in  1604. 


THE  WORLD  AND  ITS  PLOWER& 

Trust  not,  man,  earth's  flowers, — bat  keep 
Busy  watch ;  they  fade,  they  bow  : 

Watch,  I  say,  —  for  thou  may'st  weep 
O'er  the  things  thoa  smil'st  on  now. 

Man  !  thou  art  a  fbolish  child. 

Playing  with  a  flying  ball,  — 
Trifling  sports,  and  fkncies  wild : 

But  the  earth-worm  swallows  all. 
Wherefore  in  a  senseless  sleep. 

Careless  dreaming,  thoughtless  vow. 
Waste  existence.' — thou  wilt  weep 

0*er  the  days  thoa  smil'st  on  now. 


VELASCO.  — BONILLA HINOJOSA  T   CARBAJAL. 


703 


Earth,  that  passes  like  a  shade, 

Vain  as  lightest  shade  can  be ; 
Soon,  in  dust  and  darkness  laid, 

Crumbles  in  obscurity : 
Insects  of  destruction  creep 

O'er  its  ftirest,  greenest  bough. 
Watch,  I  saj,  or  thou  shalt  weep 

O'er  the  flowers  thou  smil'st  on  now. 

Watch,  I  say ;  the  dying  worm, 

That  lifts  up  its  voice  to  thee, 
Dreads  the  OYer-threatening  storm. 

Fain  in  sheltered  port  would  be. 
Laogb  not,  scorn  not,  tempt  not,— keep 

Smiling  folly  from  thy  brow ; 
Lest  in  misery  thou  shouldst  weep 

O'er  the  thoughts  thou  smil'st  on  now. 


I  TOLD  THEB  SOI 

I  TOLD  thee,  soul,  that  joy  and  woe 
Were  but  a  gust,  a  passing  dew : 

I  told  thee  so,  —  I  told  thee  so, — 
And,  O  my  soul,  the  tale  was  true  ! 

This  mortal  life, — a  fleeting  thing, — 

When  most  we  love  it,  swiftest  flies ; 

It  passes  like  a  shade  and  dies : 
And  while  it  flaps  its  busy  wing. 

It  scatters  every  mist  that  lies 
Round  human  hopes,  —  all  air  and  dew. 

I  told  thee  so, — I  told  thee  so, — 
And,  O  my  soul,  the  tale  was  true ! 

Like  the  dry  leaf  that  autumn's  breath 

Sweeps  from  the  tree,  the  mourning  tree,— > 

So  swiftly  and  so  certainly 
Our  days  are  blown  about  by  death : 

For  life  is  built  on  vanity ; 
Renewing  days  but  death  renew. 

I  told  thee  so,  —  I  told  thee  so,  — 
And,  O  my  soul,  the  tale  was  true ! 

O,  let  us  seize  on  what  is  stable. 
And  not  on  what  is  shifting !    All 
Rushes  down  life's  vast  waterfall, 

On  to  that  sea  interminable 

Which  has  no  shore.  Earth's  pleasures  pall; 

But  heaven  is  safe,  and  sacred  too'. 
I  told  thee  so,  —  I  told  thee  so,  -— 

And,  O  my  soul,  the  tale  was  true  ! 


ALONSO  DE   BONILLA. 

This  poet  was  a  native  of  Baeza,  in  Andala- 

Ha  lived  in  the  last  part  of  the  sixteenth, 

[  the  first  part  of  the  seventeenth,  century. 

poems  are  on  sacred  subjects.   His  "  Jardin 

Plores  Divinas  "  was  published  in  1617. 


LET  'S  HOLD  SWEET  CONVERSE. 

CT  's  bold  sweet  converse,  ere  we  part, 
eloTed  fair !  "     «*  'T  is  sweet  to  be 


With  thee,  the  husband  of  my  heart ! " 

"  I  '11  in  the  garden  wait  for  thee." 
«  When .'"     '<  At  the  sacred  vesper-bell." 
««That  is  the  hoar  in  which  I  dwell 
Within  the  souls  I  lore,  and  there 
Fill  the  pure  shrine  with  praise  and  prayer." 
M  Bat  if,  when  dawns  the  vesper  hoar, 

I  should  be  absent "     «« Nay,  my  soul ! 

Loee  not  the  holy,  hallowing  power 

Of  evening's  serene  control !  " 
**  I  '11  come ; — that  hour  shall  not  depart 
Without  thy  smile  who  hold'st  my  heart !  " 
^*I  '11  in  the  garden  wait  for  thee." 

"  When  ?"     "  At  the  sacred  vesper-bell." 
**  Tes,  come !  O,  come !  —  my  breast  shall  be 
A  garden  of  fkir  flowers  for  thee. 

Where  thou  the  fairest  flowers  shalt  cull." 
**  And  wilt  thou  give  a  flower  to  me  ?" 

**  Tes !  flowers  more  bright,  more  beautifUI, 
Than  ever  in  earth's  gardens  grew, 
If  thoo  wilt  trust  and  love  me  too." 

(*  Tes !  I  will  trust  and  love  thee  well ! " 
**  I  '11  in  the  garden  wait  for  thee." 

«« When  ?"    «« At  the  sacred  vesper-bell." 


ALVARO  DE  HINOJOSA  T  CARBAJAL. 

This  poet  was  a  native  of  Piacenza.  He 
lived  at  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, and  belonged  to  the  order  of  Saint  Bene- 
dict His  "  Vida  y  Milagros  de  Santa  Ines,  y 
otras  Obras  de  Poesia,"  was  published  at  Braga, 
in  1611. 

THE  VIRGIN  AND  HER  BABR 

ViRoiH,  that  like  Mom  appears. 
With  her  babe,  —  a  floweret  too. 
Sprinkled  with  the  sparkling  dew 

Of  his  pure  and  holy  tears. 

When  across  the  mountain's  height 

Lovely  Daybreak  flings  her  robe, 
And  with  smiles  of  love  and  light 

Decorates  the  awakening  globe ; 
Joy  and  gladness  fill  the  heaven. 

When  Night's  curtains  are  withdrawn : 
Virgin !  thou  those  smiles  hast  given,—- 

Thou,  earth's  brightest,  fairest  dawn  ! 

All  the  rainbow's  tints  are  spread 

Over  clouds,  and  fields,  and  bowers : 
Lo,  the  proud  carnation  red  ! 

Lo,  that  royal  king  of  flowers ! 
Fragrant  as  't  is  glorious,  —  sweet 

As  't  is  stately,  —  ever  true 
To  the  dawn  ;  —  an  emblem  meet 

Of  this  babe,  ^  a  floweret  too  ! 

Tes !  that  heavenly  floweret  f^H 
From  its  father's  breast,  —  concealed 

In  its  mother's  breast  to  dwell ; 
In  a  mortal  vestment  veiled, — 


7X)4 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


Heavenly  image,  —  earthly  mould,  — 
Beautiful  as  bright  to  view  : 

O,  what  charroa  its  leaves  uofbld, 
Drenched  with  suffering's  sparkling 

In  the  valley  see  it  sleep  !  — 

On  its  brow  the  death-sweats  lie ; 
O'er  its  wreck  the  tempests  sweep. 

And  the  herds  pass  careless  by. 
Know,  that,  though  its  datkened  orb 

Dimmed  in  earth's  low  valley  lies. 
Every  tear  earth's  clods  absorb 

In  a  dew  of  paradise. 


FRANCISCO  DE  BORJA  Y  ESQUI- 
LACHE. 

This  poet  was  a  native  of  Madrid,  and  was 
bom  about  the  year  1580.  He  bore  the  title 
of  Esquilache,  which  he  received  from  his  wife, 
who  was  heiress  of  the  principality  of  Es- 
quilache,  or  rather  Squillace,  in  the  kingdom 
of  Naples.  The  greater  part  of  his  life  was 
passed  in  the  discharge  of  high  official  duties; 
bat  he  found  time  to  cultivate  poetry,  to  which 
he  was  passionately  attached.  He  wrote  a 
heroic  poem,  entitled,  "Ndpoles  Recuperada 
por  el  Rey  Don  Alonso,"  which  was  published 
afker  his  death.  His  other  poetical  works, 
which  were  printed  at  Madrid,  under  the  title 
of  <*Las  Obras  en  Verso  de  Don  Francisco 
de  Borja,  Principe  de  Esquilache,"  are  better 
known;  and  some  of  them,  particularly  the 
eclogues,  are  of  distinguished  excellence.  He 
died  at  Madrid,  September  26,  1658. 


STLVIA'S  SMILR 

Whzit  bright  and  gay  the  waters  roll 

In  crystal  rivers  to  the  sea, 
'Midst  shining  pearls,  they  take,  my  soul. 

Their  sweetest,  loveliest  smile  from  thee ; 
And  when  their  dimpling  currents  flow, 
They  imitate  thy  laughing  brow. 

When  Morning  from  his  dusky  bed 
Awakes  with  cold  and  slumbering  eye. 

Ere  yet  he  wears  his  tints  of  red. 
He  looks  to  see  if  thou  art  nigh,  — 

To  offer  thee  a  diadem 

Of  every  ruby,  e^v^rj  g^m. 

When  Spring  leads  on  the  joyous  sun, 
He  brightens  on  thy  eyes,  and  takes 

A  nobler  lustre :  when  the  dun 
And  darksome  April  first  awakes, 

And  gives  his  better  smiles  to  May, 

He  keeps  for  thee  his  fairest  day. 

There  are  some  idle  bards  who  dream 
That  they  have  seen,  with  raptured  eyes. 

The  smiling  field,  the  dimpled  stream. 
And  (strange  deceit !)  the  laughing  skies : 


My  Sylvia !  field,  nor  stream,  nor  sky 
E'er  smiled,  but  when  thy  smile  was  nigh. 

Tyrants  there  are :  —  bat  when  they  slay. 
They  smile  not.     O,  my  Sylvia !  thou 

Art  far  more  cniel,  ftr,  than  they. 
The  Aurora,  on  the  mountain's  brow. 

When  it  destroys  the  dying  Night, 

Mourns  o'er  its  tomb  in  tears  of  light. 

But  thou  canst  smile,  and  yet  destroy ; 

And  oft  within  thy  eyes  I  see 
A  radiant  throne  of  love  and  joy. 

Which  is  —  but  cruel  mockery  : 
That  smile,  which  such  fair  dimples  wean, 
Is  for  my  thoughts  a  fount  of  tears. 


EPITAPH. 

Slumbzrivo  on  earth's  cold  breast,  serene  be- 
neath. 
Youth  (all  its  fire  and  glory  dim)  reposes : 
And  this  pale,  peacefbl  monument  discloses 

Lifo's  weakness,  and  the  omnipotence  of  Death ! 

Love  sits  with  tearfol  eye  upon  the  tomb. 
And  speeds  his  erring  shafts; — his  thoughtful 
care, 
In  memory  of  his  sorrow  and  his  gloom. 

Hath    raised  this   dear,  this  sad   memorial 
here. 

He  scarce  had  passed  life's  portals  on  the  wing 
Of  youthful  joy,  —  while  hope  expectant  hang 
Upon  his  talents  and  his  silver  tongue,  — 
Ere  Fate's  dark  mandate,  fierce  and  threatening. 
Tore  him  away,  —  and,  reckless,  with  him  tore 
All  that  had  taught  us  to  bear  woe  before. 


FRANCISCO  DE  QUEVEDO  Y  VILLE- 
OAS. 

Doir  Frahcisco  dz  Qusvkdo  belonged  to 
a  noble  family  attached  to  the  court  of  Spain. 
He  was  bom  at  Madrid,  in  September,  1580. 
He  studied  at  AlcaU  de  Henares,  comprehend- 
ing in  his  course  not  only  the  ancient  langua- 
ges, but  a  vride  range  of  the  sciences.  On  leav- 
ing the  University,  he  went  to  Italy,  where  he 
acquired  the  friendship  of  the  duke  of  Osona, 
the  viceroy  of  Naples,  who  employed  him  con- 
fidentially in  several  important  negotiadons. 
He  afterwards  travelled  in  France  and  Germany, 
and,  returning  to  Spain,  was  made  a  knight  of 
the  order  of  Santiago,  on  the  recommendation 
of  the  duke.  When  his  patron  foil  into  dis- 
grace, Quevedo,  as  his  confidential  liriend,  shar- 
ed his  downfall,  and  was  imprisoned  three 
years.  His  health  having  suffered  from  this 
imprisonment,  he  made  journeys  through  Spain, 
and  then  lived  in  retirement  at  Madrid.  The 
reputation  he  enjoyed  induced  Philip  the  Second 
to  offer  him  a  secretariship.    In  1634,  he  mar- 


QUEVEDO. 


706 


ried  DoHa  Esperanza  de  Aragon  y  la  Cabra, 
but  she  died  soon  after.  lo  1641,  he  was  im- 
prisoned on  suspicion  of  having  written  a  satire 
upon  the  government,  and  did  not  regain  his 
libertj  until  two  years  afterwards.  But  his 
health  being  broken  down  by  the  extraordinary 
cruelty  with  which  he  was  treated  in  prison, 
he  retired  to  his  estate  of  La  Torre,  and  again, 
in  a  short  time,  was  compelled  to  remove  to 
Villa  Nueva  de  los  Infantes,  where  he  died, 
September  8,  1645. 

His  writings  are  yarions,  both  in  prose  and 
poetry;  but  bis  fame  rests  chiefly   upon   his 
hnmorous  and  satirical  works,  the  principal  of 
which  are  «<Vida  del  Gran  TacaSo,"  "Cartas 
del  Cavallero  de  la  Tenaza,'*  and  his  six  "  Bue- 
nos," or  Visions.     His  poetical  works  were 
published  under  the  names  of  six  Muses.     The 
following  excellent  summary  of  his  character 
as'a  writer  is  from  Bouterwek.* 
'     **  A  man,  who,  like  Quevedo,  reaped  the  bit- 
terest fruits  from  political   justice,  cannot  be 
very  heavily  reproached  for  seizing  in  his  sat- 
ires every  opportunity  of  more  severely  chas- 
tising and  ridiculing  the  ministers  of  that  jus- 
I   tice,  than  any  other  enemies  of  truth  and  equi- 
'   ty.    But  Quevedo  was  not  a  mere  satirist.     He 
may,  without   hesitation,   be   pronounced   the 
most  ingenious  of  all  Spanish  writers,  next  to 
Cervantes ;  and  his  mind  was,  moreover,  en- 
dowed with  a  degree  of  practical  judgment, 
which  is  seldom  (bund  combined  with  that  ver- 
satility for  which  he  was  distinguished.     Gould 
Quevedo  have  ruled  the  taste  and  genius  of  his 
nation  and  his  age  in  the  same  degree  in  which 
that  taste  and  genius  influenced  him,  his  versa- 
tility, joined  to  his  talent  for  composing  verses 
with  no  less  rapidity  than  Lope  de  Vega,  might 
haye  rendered  him,  if  not  a  poet  of  the  first 
rank  in  the  loftier  region  of  art,  at  least  a  classic 
writer  of  almost  unrivalled  merit.      But  this 
scholar  and  man  of  the  world  was  too  early 
wedded   to  conventional  forms  of  every  kind. 
It  may,  indeed,  be  said,  that  he  was  steeped  in 
all  the  colors  of  his  age.     A  true  foeling  of  the 
independence  of  genius  never  animated   him, 
lofty  aa  his  spirit  in  other  respects  was.     His 
taste  imbibed  some  portion  of  all  the  conflicting 
tastes,  which,  at  that  period,  existed  in  Spain. 
His  style  never  acquired  originality,  and  his 
mind  was  only  half  cultivated. 

*<  Quevedo's  writings,  taken  altogether,  in 
verse  and  in  prose,  resemble  a  massy  ornament 
>f  jewelry,  in  which  the  setting  of  some  parts  is 
aquiaitely  skilful,  —  of  others,  extremely  rude ; 
ind  in  which  the  number  of  iaise  stones  and 
>f  gems  of  inestimable  value  are  nearly  equal. 
lis  most  numerous,  and  unquestionably  his 
»eat  productions,  are  those  of  the  sadrical  and 
onoic  kind.  Though  Quevedo  did  not  strike 
nto  a  totally  new  course,  yet,  by  a  union,  pe- 
uliar   to    himself,  of  sports  of  fimoy  with   the 

*  History  of  Spanish  and  Portuguaae  Literature,  by 
RBDBRicK  BocTBRWsic.  Translated  by  Tbomasima.  Ross 
\  vola.,  London,  1883,  8vo.).    VoL  I.,  pp.  464-467. 


maxims  of  reason  and  morality,  he  evidently 
enlarged  the  sphere  of  satirical  and  comic  poe- 
try in  Spanish  literature.  He  occasionally  ap- 
proached, though  he  never  equalled,  the  delica- 
cy and  correctness  of  Cervantes.  His  wit  is 
sufficiently  caustic  ;  but  it  is  accompanied  by  a 
coarseness  which  would  be  surprising,  consider- 
ing his  situation  in  life,  were  it  not  that  Que- 
vedo, as  an  author,  sought  to  indemnify  himself 
for  the  constraint,  to  which,  as  a  man  of  the 
world,  he  was  compelled  to  submit.  For  this 
reason,  perhaps,  he  bestowed  but  little  pains  on 
the  correction  of  his  satires.  His  .ideas  are 
striking;  and  are  thrown  together  sometimes 
with  absolute  carelessness,  sometimes  with  re- 
fined precision ;  but,  for  the  most  part,  in  a  dis- 
torted and  mannered  strain  of  language.  This 
mixed  character  of  cultivation  and  rudeness 
peculiarly  characterizes  his  satirical  and  comic 
works  in  verse,  in  'which,  as  he  himself  says, 
he  has  exhibited  <  truth  in  her  smock,  but  not 
quite  naked ' : 

<  Verdadas  dfr6  en  eamisa, 

Pdco  menoe  que  desnudaa.' 
He  appears  as  the  rival  of  Gongora  in  numer- 
ous comic  canciooes  and  romances  in  the  old 
national  style.  In  these  compositions  he  hu- 
morously parodied  the  extravagant  images  of 
the  Marinists,  and  the  afiected  singularity  of  the 
Gongorists.*' 

SONNETS. 

ROME. 

Akiost  these  scenes,  O  pilgrim,  seek'st  thou 

Rome  ^ 
Vain  is  thy  search ;  —  the  pomp  of  Rome  is  fled ; 
Her  silent  Aventine  is  glory's  tomb; 
Her  walls,  her  shrines,  but  relics  of  the  dead. 
That  hill,  where  Cessars  dwelt  in  other  days, 
Forsaken,  mourns,  where  once  it  towered  sub- 
lime; 
Each  mouldering  medal  now  far  less  displays 
The  triumphs  won  by  Latium,  than  by  Time. 
Tiber  alone  survives ;  —  the  passing  wave, 
That  bathed  her  towers,  now  murmurs  by  her 

grave. 
Wailing,  with  plaintive  sounds,  her  fiiUen  fanes. 
Rome  !  of  thine  ancient  grandeur  all  is  past. 
That  seemed  for  years  eternal  fi-amed  to  last;  — 
Naught  but  the  ware,  a  fogitive,  remains. 

RUTHLESS  TIME. 

ZzPHTR  returns,  and  sheds  with  liberal  hand 
Foliage  and  buds  around,  and  odorous  flowers ; 
Nurses  the  purple  rose  with  dewy  showers. 
Gilds  the  bright  sky,  and  clothes  the  verdant 

land: 
The  stream  flow!  clear,  by  temperate  breezes 

fiinned ; 
And  sweetly  sing  the  birds  in  shady  bowers,  — 
Cheerless  and  mute,  while  angry  winter  lowers,— 
Now  blithely  ringing  with  the  feathered  bend. 
Never,  O  ruthless  Time,  implored  in  vain. 
Beams  forth  thy  spring  to  my  unaltered  fote, 


706 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


Nor  decks  my  withered  hopes  with  bloom  again  ! 
Some  fondly  dread  the  changes  of  thy  state. 
Who  hold  the  treasure  which  they  strove  to 

gain: 
I  mourn  thy  steadfast,  unrelenting  bate. 


MY  FORTUNE. 

Si  If  ex,  then,  my  planet  has  looked  on 
With  such  a  dark  and  scowling  eye, 

My  fortune,  if  my  ink  were  gone, 
Might  lend  my  pen  as  black  a  dye. 

No  lucky  or  unlucky  turn 

Did  fortune  ever  seem  to  play, 
But,  ere  I  'd  time  to  laugh  or  mourn, 

'T  was  sure  to  turn  the  other  way. 

Ye  childless  great,  who  want  an  heir. 
Leave  all  your  vast  domains  to  me. 

And  Heaven  will  bless  you  with  o  fair, 
Alas !  and  numerous  progeny. 

They  bear  my  effigy  about 

The  village,  as  a  charm  of  power; 

If  clothed,  to  bring  the  sunshine  out,— 
If  naked,  to  call  down  the  shower. 

When  fViends  request  my  company. 
No  feasts  and  banquets  meet  my  eye ; 

To  holy  mass  they  carry  me. 

And  ask  me  alms,  and  bid  good-bye. 

Should  bravos  chance  to  lie  perdu^ 
To  break  some  happy  lover's  head, 

I  am  their  man,  while  he  in  view 
His  beauty  serenades  in  bed. 

A  loosened  tile  is  sure  to  fall 
In  contact  with  my  head  below. 

Just  as  I  doff  my  hat;  —  'mong  all 
The  crowd,  a  stone  still  lays  me  low. 

The  doctor's  remedies  alone 

Ne'er  reach  the  cause  for  which  they  're 
given. 
And  if  I  ask  my  friends  a  loan. 

They  wish  the  poet's  soul  in  heaven : 

So  far  from  granting  aught,  't  is  I 

Who  lend  my  patience  to  their  spleen. 

Mine  is  each  fool's  loquacity, 

Each  ancient  dame  will  be  my  queen. 

The  poor  man's  eye,  amidst  the  crowd. 
Still  turns  its  asking  looks  on  mine ; 

Jostled  by  all  the  rich  and  proud. 
No  path  is  clear,  whate'er  my  line. 

Where'er  I  go,  I  miss  my  way ; 

I  lose,  still  lose,  at  every  game ; 
No  friend  I  ever  had  would  suy. 

No  foe  but  still  remained  the  same. 

I  get  no  water  out  at  sea. 

Nothing  but  water  at  my  inn ; 
My  pleasures,  like  my  wine,  must  be 

Still  mixed  with  what  should  not  be  in. 


ESTEVAN  MANUEL  DE  VILLEGAS. 

This  most  agreeable  and  graceful  poet  was 
bom  at  Nazera,  in  1595.  The  ease  and  liveli- 
ness of  his  poetical  style  gave  him  the  name  of 
the  Anacreon  of  Spain.  His  family  was  noble. 
After  having  spent  his  boyish  years  at  Madrid, 
he  entered  the  University  of  Salamanca,  and 
studied  the  law.  But  his  taste  for  polite  litera- 
ture was  strong,  and  he  gave  much  of  his  time 
to  poetical  composition.  He  acquired  the  Latin 
and  Greek,  and  translated  from  AnacreoD  with 
exquisite  beauty.  On  his  father's  death,  be  re- 
turned to  Naxera,  and  lived  with  his  mother, 
dedicating  himself  to  letters  and  poetry.  In 
1626,  he  married,  and,  finding  bis  means  too 
straitened  for  the  support  of  his  increasing  fami. 
ly,  endeavoured  to  obtain  some  public  employ- 
ment. He  received  one  of  but  little  value,  and 
finally  retired  to  his  estate,  where  he  died  poor, 
in  1669. 

Villegas  was  one  of  the  best  lyric  poets  of 
Spain.  His  style  is  harmonious  and  finished. 
His  works  were  published  under  the  title  of 
"  Er6ticas  de  Don  Est6van  Manuel  de  Villegas.*' 
They  contain  odes,  and  imitations  of  Anacreon 
and  Horace;  translations  from  Anacreon  and 
Horace ;  elegies,  idyls,  sonnets,  epigrams ;  and 
a  series  of  poems,  called  **  Latinas,"  in  which 
he  attempted  to  reproduce  the  ancient  classical 
metres. 

ODE. 

'T  18  sweet,  in  the  green  spring. 
To  gaze  upon  the  wakening  fields  around ; 

Birds  in  the  thicket  sing, 
Winds  whisper,  waters  prattle  from  the  ground ; 

A  thousand  odors  rise. 
Breathed  up  frofd  blossoms  of  a  thonsan8  dyes. 

Shadowy,  and  close,  and  cool, 
The  pine  and  poplar  keep  their  quiet  nook ; 

For  ever  fresh  and  fUll, 
Shines,  at  their  feet,  the  thirst-inviting  brook ; 

And  the  soft  herbage  seems 
Spread  for  a  place  of  banquets  and  of  dreama. 

Thou,  who  alone  art  fair. 
And  whom  alone  I  love,  art  fkr  away : 

Unless  thy  smile  be  there. 
It  makes  me  sad  to  see  the  earth  so  gay ; 

I  i^re  not  if  the  train 
0(  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  zephyrs  go  again. 

THE  NIGHTIN6ALB. 

I  HAVZ  seen  a  nightingale. 
On  a  sprig  of  thyme,  bewail. 
Seeing  the  dear  nest,  which  was 
Hers  alone,  borne  off,  alas ! 
By  a  laborer.    I  heard. 
For  this  outrage,  the  poor  bird 
Say  a  thousand  mournful  things 
To  the  wind,  which,  on  ito  wings, 
From  her  to  the  guardian  sky. 
Bore  her  melancholy  cry. 


MANUEL  DE   VILLEGAS— RIOJA. 


707 


Bore  her  tender  team.     She  tpake 
At  if  her  fond  heart  would  break : 
One  while,  in  a  sad,  sweet  note. 
Gargled  from  her  straining  throat, 
She  enforced  her  piteous  tale, 
Mournful  prayer,  and  plaintive  wail ; 
One  while,  with  the  shrill  dispute 
Quite  outwearied,  she  was  mute ; 
Then  afresh  for  her  dear  brood 
Her  harmonious  shrieks  renewed. 
Now  she  winged  it  round  and  round ; 
Now  she  skimmed  along  the  ground; 
Now,  from  bough  to  bough,  in  haste, 
The  delighted  robber  chased. 
And,  alighting  in  his  path. 
Seemed  to  say,  'twixt  grief  and  wrath, 
"  Give  me  back,  fierce  rustic  rude,  — 
Give  me  back  my  pretty  brood  \  " 
And  I  saw  the  rustic  still 
Answered,  «<  Ukat  I  never  vnll!  " 

TO  THE  ZEPHYB. 

SwKET  neighbour  of  the  green,  leaf-shaking 
grove, 
Eternal  guest  of  April,  frolic  child 
Of  a  sad  sire,  life-breath  of  Mother  Love, 
I  Favonius,  zephyr  mild ! 

If  thou  hast  learned  like  me  to  love, — away ! 
Thou  who  hast  borne  the  murmurs  of  my  cry ! 
Hence !  —  no  demur !  —  and  to  my  Flora  say. 
Say  that «« I  die  ! 

«  Flora  once  knew  what  bitter  tears  I  shed ; 
Flora  once  wept  to  see  my  sorrows  flow ; 
Flora  once  loved  me ;  —  Ibut  I  dread,  I  dread 
,  Her  anger  now." 

So  may  the  gods,  so  may  the  calm  blue  sky. 

For  the  fair  time  that  thou,  in  gentle  mittb, 
Sport'st  in  the  air,  with  love  benign  deny 
Snows  to  the  earth ! 

So  never  may  the  gray  cloud's  cumbrous  sail. 

When  from  on  high  the  rosy  daybreak  springs, 
Beat  on  thy  shoulders,  nor  its  evil  hail 
Wound  thy  fine  wings ! 


FRANCISCO  DE  RIOJA. 

Francisco  dx  Rioja  was  bom  at  Seville, 
about  the  year  1600.  He  studied  the  lawj  but 
having  gained  the  favor  and  patronage  of  the 
sount-duke  de  Olivares,  the  prime  minister  of 
Philip  the  Fourth,  he  passed  rapidly  through  a 
lucceaston  of  offices,  until  he  became  Inquisitor- 
GS-eneral.  He  was  involved'  in  the  fkll  of  his 
>rotector.  According  to  Antonio,  he  was  re- 
itored,  a  few  years  before  his  death,  to  the  favor 
>f  Philip,  who  appointed  him  Royal  Librarian. 
3e  died  at  Madrid,  in  1659. 

Rioja  was  not  only  a  poet,  but  a  scholar  of 
'ariad  attainments.  He  wrote  works  on  theol- 
>g7  and  politics. 


EPISTLE  TO  FABIO. 

Fabio  !  the  courtier's  hopes  are  chains  that 

wind 
With  fatal  strength  around  the  ambitious  mind ; 
And  he  who  bieaks  or  files  them  not  away. 
Till  life  ebbs  from  him,  or  his  locks  turn  gray, 
Nof  feels,  methinks,  a  freeman's  generous  fires. 
Nor  wins  the  honor  that  his  soul  desires. 
Rather  than  fiill,  the  timid  may  remain 
In  base  suspense,  and  still  caress  the  chain ; 
But  noble  hearts  their  fate  will  sooner  face. 
And,  ere  they  stoop  to  bondage,  hail  disgrace. 
Such  storms  roar  round  us  with  the  earliest  sigh 
Heaved  from  our  cradles,  —  leave  them  to  pass 

by. 
Like  the  proud  Betis,  whose  impetuous  wave. 
Spread  from  the  mountains,  soon  forgets  to  rave. 
Not  he  who  gains,  bat  who  deserves  the  prize. 
Is  classed  with  heroes  by  the  great  and  wise ; 
But  there,  where  state  from  lattery  takes  the 

word. 
On  skilful  favorites  see  all  place  conferred ;  — 
Gold,  crime,  intrigue,  their  path  obliquely  wind 
Through  the  thick  crowd,  and  leave  the  good 

behind. 
Who  trusts  for  power  to  virtue  ?  virtue  still 
Yields  to  the  strong  supremacy  of  ill. 
Come,  then,  —  once  more  to  the  maternal  seat 
Of  ancient  Seville  guide  thy  weary  feet; 
This  clime,  these  skies,  shall  every  care  serene. 
And  make  thy  future  what  the  past  has  been ;  — 
Here,  where,  at  least,  if  dust  falls  on  us,  nigh 
Kind  lips  will  whisper,  "  Lightly  may  it  lie ! " 
Here,  where  my  friend  no  angry  look  shall  cast. 
Nor  rise  unsated  from  the  noon's  repast. 
Though  no  rare  peacock  on  my  board  be  seen. 
Nor  spicy  turtle  grace  the  gold  tureen. 
Come,  seek  soft  quiet,  as  at  dead  of  night 
The  ^gean  pilot  hails  his  watchtower's  light ; 
Then,  if  some  old  court-friend,  as  wit  requires. 
Smile  at  thy  modest  home  and  curbed  desires. 
Thou,  smiling  too,  shah  say,  **  I  live  possessed 
Of  all  I  sought  for,  and  despise  the  rest !  " 
Safe  in  her  simple  nest  of  moss  to  brood. 
And  talk  to  Echo  in  her  wildest  wood, 
More  charms  the  nightingale,  than,  caged,  to 

cheer 
With  flattering  songs  a  monarch's  curious  ear, 
Trellised  in  gold.  Cease,  then,  thine  anxious  care 
And  thirst  for  office,  — shun  the  insidious  snare ; 
The  idol  of  thy  daily  sacrifice 
Accepts  the  incense,  but  the  grant  denies. 
Smiling  in  secret  at  thy  dreams ;  but  bound 
Thy  restless  hopes  to  life's  restricted  round, 
And  thou  shalt  pine  no  more  from  day  to  day. 
Nor  fret  thy  manhood  unimproved  away. 
For  what  is  life  ?  at  best,  a  brief  delight ; 
A  sun  scarce  brightening,  ere  it  sets  in  night ; 
A  flower,  —  at  morning  fVesh,  at  noon  decayed ; 
A  still,  swift  river,  gliding  into  shade. 
Shall  it  be  said,  that,  with  true  peace  at  strife, 
I,  even  whilst  living,  lose  the  zest  of  life  ? 
Ask  of  the  past  its  fruits,  —  the  past  is  dumb ; 
And  have  I  surety  for  the  good  to  come  ? 


708 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


No !  seeing,  tbeo,  how  fast  our  jeara  consume, 
Ere  age  comes  on  and  tints  us  for  the  tomb, 
In  the  cakn  shade  let  sober  thoughts  supply 
Their  moral  charm,  and  teach  us  how  to  die. 
Passed  is  the  vernal  leaf,  the  summer  rose. 
Autumn's  sweet  grapes,  and  winter's  fleeoy 

snows; 
All  fades,  all  fleets,  whilst  we  still  live  at  ease 
On  idle  hopes  and  airy  reveries. 

With  me  't  is  o'er !  me  Reason  calls  away, 
And  warms  my  bosom  with  her  sacred  ray ; 
I  go,  my  friend,*— I  follow  where  she  calls, ^ 
I  leave  the  illusion  which  thy  soul  inthralls. 
Content  to  walk  with  those  who  nobly  claim 
To  live  at  ease,  and  die  without  a  name. 
The  Eastern  tyrant,  who  so  proudly  shines. 
And  hoards  in  towers  the  wealth  of  various  mines, 
Has  scarce  enough  for  crimes  that  quickly  pall ; 
Virtue  costs  less,  —  within  the  reach  of  all. 
Poor  is  the  man  that  roves  o'er  lands  and  seas 
In  chase  of  treasures  that  soon  cease  to  please ; 
Me  smaller  things  suffice,  —  a  simple  seat 
'Midst  my  loved  Lares  in  some  green  retreat, — 
A  book,  —  a  friend,  —  and  slumbers  that  declare 
A  tranquil  bliss  and  vacancy  from  care. 
In  dress  the  people's  choice  would  I  obey,*— 
In  manners  only  more  refined  than  they,*— 
Free  from  the  brilliant  hues,  the  glittering  lace. 
That  gives  the  stage-musician  all  his  grace. 
Modest  my  style  of  life,  —  nor  mean,  nor  high. 
To  fix  the  notice  of  the  passer-by ; 
And  if  no  myrrhine  cup  nor  porcelain  vase 
Shine  on  my  board  to  draw  the  guests'  applause, 
The  Etruscan  jug,  or  maple  bowl,  at  worst. 
Can  hold  the  wine  that  soothes  my  summer 

thirst. 
Not  that  in  writing  thus  I  would  pretend 
To  practise  all  the  good  I  recommend ;  — 
This  toauld  I  do,  and  Heaven  its  aid  supplies 
Still  to  press  on,  and  scorn  the  shows  of  vice. 
But  not  at  once  its  fruit  the  vine  receives ; 
First  spring  the  flowers,  the  tendrils,  and  the 

leaves ; 
Then  the  young  grape,  —  austere,  till  mellow- 
ing noons 
To  perfijct  nectar  turn  the  tinged  festoons : 
As  gradual  grows  each  habit  that  survives 
To  rule,  compose,  and  charm  our  little  lives. 
But  Heaven  forbid  I  e'er  should  ape  the  airs 
Of  the  grim  stoics  that  disturb  our  squares. 
Truth's  tragic  mountebanks,  content  to  live 
On  the  poor  praise  a  mob  consents  to  give : 
No  !  as  through  canes  and  reeds  the  breezes  roar, 
But  mildly  whisper  on  the  thymy  more, 
Sweet-breathing  as  they  pass,  —  Pride's  vacant 

throng 
Bluster  where  Virtue  meekly  steals  along. 
Thus  would  I  live  ;  and  silent  thus  may  Death 
Sound  the  mild  call  thatsteals  away  my  breath, — 
Not  with  the  thunder  that  salutes  the  great;  — 
No  burnished  metais  grace  my  lowly  gate ! 

'T  is  thus  I  seem  to  have  obtained,  in  sooth. 
The  very  essence  and  the  zest  of  truth. 


Smile  not,  my  friend,  nor  think  that  I  confide 
In  painted  words,  the  eloquence  of  pride,  — 
That  brooding  study  the  grave  strain  inspires. 
That  fancy  only  fills  me  with  her  fires. 
Is  Virtue's  less  than  Error's  force  ?  declare ; 
Her  smile  less  winning,  and  her  face  less  fair  ? 
And  I,  whilst  Anger  on  tbe  tented  plain. 
Pride  in  the  court,  and  Avarice  on  the  main. 
Each  hour  ftce  death,  ~  shall  I  not ^  tempt  tbe 

wings 
Of  nobler  motives,  fraught  with  brighter  things  P 

Tes  !  surely,  yes !  Thou,  too,  escape,  and  join 
Thy  thoughts,  thy  manners,  and  thy  life  with 

mine: 
Freed  from  thy  chains,  come,  follow,  and  acquire 
That  perfect  good  to  which  our  souls  aspire ; 
Ere  with  us  Wisdom  lose  her  tranquil  charms. 
And  Time,  late  cherished,  die  within  oar  arms. 


PEDRO  CALDERON  DE  LA  BARCA. 

ScARCZLV  less  a  prodigy  of  nature  than 
Lope  de  Vega  was  the  second  great  dramatist 
of  Spain,  Pedro  Calderon  de  la  Barca.  With 
Spanish  pomp  and  circumstance,  his  eulogist  and 
biographer,  Don  Juan  de  Vera  Tasis  y  Villar- 
roel,  says,  in  swelling  phrase,  —  **  Not  easily  can 
be  circumscribed  in  the  brief  sphere  of  my  lip 
he  who  so  generously  occupies  all  the  tongues  of 
fame ;  and  not  easily  can  be  limited  by  so  short 
an  epilogue  he  who  is  too  great  for  the  dilated 
space  of  centuries :  for  he  who  sets  a  limit  to 
tlie  light  rather  insults  than  flatters  its  clear- 
ness. Tet,  trusting  in  my  afl!ection,  which  shall 
supply  the.  capacity  of  its  theme,  I  hurry  my 
pen  fbrward  to  describe,  in  an  abbreviated  sigh, 
a  permanent  sob,  which  shall  be  raised  in  the 
vast  temple  of  memory,  by  all  who,  in  after 
times,  record  his  name." 

According  to  this  biographer,  Calderon  was  a 
most  remarkable  child ;  for,  **  even  before  be 
trod  the  pleasant  threshold  of -life,  it  seems  that 
with  sad  echoes  he  announced  that  glorious  noise 
which  he  was  to  make  in  the  distant  periods  of 
the  world :  for,  before  opening  the  oriental  gates, 
he  cried  in  the  maternal  bosom ;  and  thus  en- 
tered the  world  with  a  shade  of  sadness  he, 
who,  like  a  new  sun,  was  to  fill  it  with  im- 
mense joys.  Dorotea  Calderon  de  la  Barca, 
bis  sister,  a  most  exemplary  nun  in  the  royal 
convent  of  Santa  Clara  de  Toledo,  used  to  de- 
clare, that  she  had  heard  her  parents  say  many 
times,  that  three  times  he  had  cried  before  he 
was  born." 

To  descend  from  this  hyperbolical  style  of 
tbe  biographer  to  matters  of  fact.  Pedro  Cal* 
deron  de  la  Barca,  sprung  fit>m  an  ancient  and 
noble  family,  was  bom  at  Madrid,  tbe  first  day 
of  the  year  1601.  He  received  his  earliest 
instruction  in  the  Jesuits'  College,  and  at  the 
age  of  fourteen  entered  the  University  of  Sala- 


y 


CALDERON  D£  LA  BARCA. 


709 


maoct,  where  he  remaiDed  five  jean,  and  made 
great  progress  in  literature  and  the  sciences. 
He  left  the  University  at  the  age  of  nineteen. 
Soon  after  this,  he  heoame  known  as  a  poet,  and 
his  merits  were  acknowledged  by  persons  of 
distiDction.    Ten  years  of  his  life  were  spent  in 
the  military  service,  and  he  gained  mach  reputa- 
tion in  the  wars  of  Milan  and  the  Low  Countrieii. 
He  was  recalled  to  court  in  1637,  by  an  order 
of  his  sovereign,  Philip  the  Fourth,  a  monarch 
devoted  to  pleasure,  and  himself  the  author  of 
pieces  for  the  stage.     Lope  de  Vega  had  just 
died,  and  Calderon  succeeded  him  as  the  favor- 
ite of  the  theatre.     The  year  after  his  return  to 
the  court,  the  king  conferred  on  him  the  order 
of  Santiago.     When,  in  1640,  all  the  orders 
were  required  to  take  the  field  in  the  campaign 
to  Catalonia,  Calderon  served  under  the  colors 
of  the  countrduke  of  Olivares.     At  the  peace, 
he  returned  to  court,  and  received  from  the 
king  a  pension  of  thirty  crowns  a  month.     In 
1650,  he  was  required  to  superintend  the  fhe- 
tivities,  and  to   plan   the  splendid  triumphal 
arches,  with  which  the  Austrian  princess,  Maria 
Ana,  was  received,  on  her  marriage  with  the 
king.   In  the  mean  time,  he  wrote  indefiitigably 
for  the  stage.     In  1651,  he  left  the  military  or- 
der to  which  he  belonged,  was  ordained  a  priest, 
and,  in  1654,  was  made  chaplain  in  the  chapel 
de  los  Senores  Reyes  Nuevos,  at  Toledo ;  but 
the  king,  desirous  of  having  him  near  at  hand 
to  assist  at  the  royal  festivals,  gave  him  a  chap- 
laincy at  court,  and  recalled  him  to  Madrid. 
Other    preferments  were   from   time  to  time 
granted  him,  and  his  income  was  increased  by 
a  pension  taken  out  of  the  revenues  from  Sicily, 
and  by  the  growing  profits  of  his  labors.     He 
died  May  29,  1687,  at  the  advanced  age  of 
eij(hty-six. 

Calderon  is  second  only  to  Lope  de  Vega  in 
the  amount  of  his  works ;  and  not  second,  even 
to  him,  in  the  affluence  of  his  genius.  He  is 
said  to  have  written  one  hundred  and  twenty 
three-act  dramas ;  two  hundred  loos,  or  dra- 
matic prologues ;  a  hundred  sntremsMf,  or  in- 
terludes ;  and  a-  hundred  mUos  taerametUaUt^ 
or  sacramental  acts.  He  also  wrote  lyrical  and 
other  poems.  The  most  complete  edition  of  his 
works  is  that  of  1760,  in  seventeen  volumes, 
]uarto ;  containing  seventy-three  antes,  seventy- 
bur  loas^  and  one  hundred  and  seven  three-act 
Iramas. 

Calderon  is  a  great  fiivorite  with  the  able 
iritic,  Augustus  William  Schlegel.  The  fol- 
owing  is  part  of  the  brilliant,  but  too  highly 
olored,  portrait  which  he  has  drawn  in  his 
'  Lectures  on  Dramatic  Literature."  * 

"  His  mind  is  most  distinctly  expressed  in 
be  religious  subjects  which  he  handled.  He 
ainta  love  with  general  features  merely ;  he 
jeaks  her  technical  poetical  language.  Re- 
gion   is   his   peculiar  love,  the   heart  of  his 

*  A  Course  of  Lectures  on  Dramatic  Art  and  Literature, 
•-  AiTotrsTVs  WiLUAM  ScaLsasL.  Translated  bj  Joair 
^owL  CPhiladdptUa,  1833,  Sro.).    pp.  418,  419l 


heart.  For  religion  alone  he  excites  the  most 
oveqiowering  emotions,  which  penetrate  into 
the  inmost  recesses  of  the  soul.  It  would  rath- 
er appear  that  he  did  not  wish  to  enter  with  the 
same  fervor  into  worldly  events.  However 
turbid  they  may  be  in  themselves,  fW>m  the  re- 
ligious medium  through  which  he  views  them, 
they  appear  to  him  perfectly  bright.  This  for- 
tunate man  escaped  from  the  wild  labyrinths  of 
doubt  into  the  citadel  of  belief,  from  whence  he 
viewed  and  portrayed  the  storms  of  the  world 
with  undisturbed  tranquillity  of  soul ;  human 
life  was  to  him  no  longer  a  dark  riddle.  Even 
his  tears  reflect  the  image  of  heaven,  like  dew- 
drope  on  a  flower  in  the  sun.  His  poetry,  what- 
ever its  object  may  apparently  be,  is  an  inces- 
sant hymn  of  joy  on  the  majesty  of  the  creation : 
he  celebrates  the  productions  of  nature  and 
human  art  with  an  astonbhment  always  joyfbl 
and  always  new,  as  if  he  saw  them  for  the  first 
time  in  an  unworn  fbstal  splendor.  It  is  the 
first  waking  of  Adam,  coupled  with  an  eloquence 
and  skill  of  expression,  with  a  thorough  ac- 
quaintance with  the  most  mysterious  relations 
of  nature,  such  as  high  mental  cultivation  and 
mature  contemplation  can  alone  give.  When 
he  compares  thejnost  remote,  the  greatest  and 
the  smallest,  stars  and  flowers,  the  sense  of  all 
his  metaphors  is  the  mutual  attraction  of  created 
things  to  one  another,  on  account  of  their  com- 
mon origin ;  and  this  delightful  harmony  and 
unity  of  the  world  is  again  with  him  merely  a 
refulgence  of  the  eternal  love  which  embraces 
the  universe. 

<*  Calderon  still  flourished  at  a  time  when  a 
strong  inclination  began  to  manifest  itself  in  the 
other  countries  of  Europe  to  that  mannerism  of 
taste  in  the  arts,  and  those  prosaic  views  in  lite- 
rature, which  in  the  eighteenth  century  obtained 
such  universal  dominion.  He  is  consequently 
to'  be  considered  as  the  last  summit  of  the  ro- 
mantie  poetry.  All  its  magnificence  is  lavished 
in  his  works;  as,  in  fireworks,  the  most  gaudy 
colors,  the  most  dazzling  cascades  and  circles, 
are  usually' reserved  for  the  last  explosion." 

For  a  more  temperate  estimate  of  Calderon, 
see  **  Blackwood's  Magazine "  for  December, 
1839,  and  January,  1840. 

The  state  of  the  Spanish  theatre  in  the  time 
of  Lope  and  Calderon  is  well  described  by  a 
writer  in  the  **  American  Quarterly  Review  " 
(Vol.  IV.,  pp.  347,  348). 

**The  theatre  did  not  depend  in  Spain  so 
much  on  the  full-length  dramas,  as  it  did  in 
other  countries.  There  were,  besides  the  loas^ 
or  long  dramatic  prologues,  the  rnitremsats  be- 
tween the  acts ;  the  gaynetes^  or  fkrces,  at  the 
end ;  the  xiearat^  which  were  a  sort  of  old  bal- 
lads, sung  where  they  were  needed ;  and  lyrical 
dances,  or  dances  with  song,  like  the  xaroAcm- 
<ia#,  which  were  put  in  for  the  same  general 
purpose  of  increasing  the  zest  of  the  entertain- 
ment. They  were  all,  however,  in  one  tone 
and  spirit,  and  constitute  the  dramatic  literature 
of  the  public  popular  theatres  in  Spain  during 
3h 


710 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


the  Beventeenth  ceDtnry.  The  geouine  and 
excluBiTe  natiooalitj  of  this  literature  is  its  most 
promioent  characteristic.  It  was  a  more  popu- 
lar amusement,  it  belonged  more  to  all  classes 
of  the  nation,  than  any  theatre  since  the  Greek. 
Its  actors  were  almost  always  strolling  compa^ 
nies,  with  a  person  at  their  head,  called  El  Aur 
tor^  because,  from  the  time  of  Lope  de  Rueda, 
the  manager  oAen  wrote  the  pieces  he  caused 
to  be  represented ;  and  this  author^  as  he  was 
called,  when  he  came  to  a  place  where  he  in- 
tended to  act,  went  round  in  person  and  posted 
his  bills  announcing  the  entertainment.  When 
dramatic  representations  were  not  so  common 
as  they  afterwards  became,  such  occasions  were 
eagerly  seized,  and  pieces  performed  both  morn- 
ing and  afternoon.  Etcu  later,  when  they 
grew  common,  they  were  still  always  given  in 
the  day-time,  beginning,  in  the  winter,  at  two 
o'clock,  and  in  the  summer  at  three,  so  that 
every  body  might  return  home  unmolested  be- 
fore dark.  The  place  of  representation  was 
almost  uniformly  an  open  court-yard,*  at  one 
end  of  which  was  a  covered  and  sheltered  stage, 
and,  on  its  sides,  rows  of  seats,  as  in  an  amphi- 
theatre ;  but  the  best  places  were  the  rooms  and 
windows  of  the  houses  that  opened  into  the 
area ;  and  such  was  the  passion  for  scenic  repre- 
sentation, that  the  right  to  particular  seats  was 
often  preserved  and  transmitted,  as  an  inherits 
ance,  from  generation  to  generation.  When 
the  audience  was  collected,  the  atUhor  came 
forward,  and,  according  to  the  technical  phrase, 
threw  out  the  loa  {eM  la  loa)^  in  which  he, 
perhaps,  complimented  some  of  the  persons 
present,  or,  perhaps,  boasted  how  strong  his 
company  was,  and  how  many  new  plays  they 
had  ready  for  representation.  Then  followed  a 
dance,  or  a  ballad ;  afterwards,  the  first  act  of 
the  play,  with  its  entremes;  then  the  second, 
and  the  second  entremes  ;  and  finally,  the  last ; 
after  which  another  fiirce  was  given  (the  say- 
nete) ;  and  the  whole  concluded  with  dancing, 
which  was  often  interspersed  in  other  parts  of  the 
entertainment,  and  accompanied  with  singing. 
The  costume  of  the  actors  was  always  purely 
and  richly  Spanish,  though  they  might  repre- 
sent Greek  or  Roman  characters.  The  women 
sat  separate  from  the  men,  and  were  veiled; 
and  officers  of  justice  had  seats  on  the  stage  to 
preserve  order,  —  one  of  whom  was  once  so  de- 
luded by  the  representation  of  one  of  Calderon's 
most  extravagant  pieces,  that  he  interfered, 
sword  in  hand,  to  prevent  what  he  believed  an 
outrage,  and  drove  the  actors  from  the  boards. 
The  audiences,  when  Iiope  began  to  write, 
seem  to  have  been  very  quiet  and  orderly ;  but 
soon  after  1600,  they  began  to  decide  on  the 
merits  of  the  plays,  and  the  acting,  with  little 
ceremony ;  and  before  1615,  they  took  the 
character,  which,  in  Madrid  at  least,  they  main- 
tained to  the  end  of  the  century,  of  being  the 
most  violent  and  rude  audiences  in  Europe." 

*  The  two  tluatres  In  Madrid  an  atUI  csDed  oorrolea. 


FROM  EL  MAGIOO  FRODIOIOSO. 

SCENE  riRST. 

[Qyprfan  as  a  student ;  'Qarln  and  Moscon  as  poor  acbolara, 
with  books.] 

OTPRXAM. 

In  the  sweet  solitude  of  this  calm  place. 
This  intricate  wild  wilderness  of  trees 
And  flowers  and  undergrowth  of  odorous  plants. 
Leave  me ;  the  books  you  brought  out  of  the 

house 
To  me  are  ever  best  society. 
And  whilst  with  glorious  festival  and  song 
Antioch  now  celebrates  the  consecration 
Of  a  proud  temple  to  great  Jupiter, 
And  bears  his  image  in  loud  jubilee 
To  its  new  shrine,  I  would  consume  what  still 
Lives  of  the  dying  day  in  studious  thought. 
Far  from  the  throng  and  turmoil.     Tou,  my 

friends, 
Go  and  enjoy  the  festival ;  it  will 
Be  worth  the  lab# ; '  and  return  fi>r  me 
When  the  sun  seeks  its  grave  among  the  billows, 
Which  among  dim  gray  clouds  on  the  horizon 
Dance  like  white  plumes  upon  a  hearse ;  —  and 

here 
I  shall  expect  you. 


I  cannot  bring  my  mind. 

Great  as  my  haste  to  see  the  festival 

Certainly  is,  to  leave  you.  Sir,  without 

Just  saying  some  three  or  four  hundred  words. 

How  is  it  possible,  that,  on  a  day 

Of  such  festivity,  you  can  bring  your  mind 

To  come  forth  to  a  solitary  country 

With  three  or  four  old  books,  and  turn  your  back 

On  all  this  mirth  ? 


My  master  *s  in  the  right ; 
There  is  not  any  thing  more  tiresome 
Than  a  procession-day,  with  troops  of  men 
And  dances,  and  all  that. 

Moscoir. 
From  first  to  last, 

Clarin,  you  are  a  temporizing  flatterer ; 
Tou  praise  not  what  you  feel,  but  what  he  does ; — 
Toad-eater ! 

CLAMlf. 

Tou  lie  —  under  a  mistake,  — 
For  this  is  the  most  civil  sort  of  lie 
That  can  be  given  to  a  man*s  fece.     I  now 
Say  what  I  think. 

CTPaiAN. 

Enough,  you  foolish  fellows  ! 

Pufied  up  with  your  own  doting  ignorance, 

Tou  always  take  the  two  sides  of  one  question. 

Now  go,  and,  as  I  said,  return  ibr  me 

When  night  fells,  veiling  in  its  shadows  wide 

This  glorious  febric  of  the  universe. 


How  happens  it,  although  you  can  maintain 
The  folly  of  enjoying  festivals. 
That  yet  you  go  there .' 


CALDERON   DE  LA  BARCA. 


ni 


Nay,  the  consequence 

l8  clear ;  —  who  ever  did  what  he  adviees 

Others  to  do  ? 

MOSCOH. 

Would  that  my  feet  were  wings ! 
So  would  I  fly  to  Livia. 

[Exit 

OLAJlUf. 

To  speak  truth, 

Livia  is  she  who  has  surprised  my  heart ; 
But  be  is  more  than  half-way  there.  —  Soho ! 
Livia,  I  come  !  good  sport,  Livia  !  soho  ! 

[Erlt 

OTPUAIV. 

Now,  since  I  am  alone,  let  me  examine 

The  question  which  has  long  disturbed  my  mind 

With  doubt,  since  first  I  read  in  Plinius 

The  words  of  mystic  import  and  deep  sense 

In  which  he  defines  God.     My  intellect 

Can  find  no  God  with  whom  these  marks  and 

signs 
Fitly  agree.     It  is  a  hidden  truth, 
Which  I  must  fathom.  [Reads. 

[Enter  the  Derll,  as  a  fine  gaatleman. 

DAMOH. 

Search  even  as  thou  wilt. 

But  thou  shah  never  find  what  I  can  hide. 


OTPRlAir. 

What  noise  is  that  among  the  bonghe  ?     Who 

moves .'  • 

What  art  thou  ? 

D.BMOK. 

*T  is  a  foreign  gentleman. 

Even  from  this  morning,  I  have  lost  my  way 

In  this  wild  place ;  and  my  poor  horse,  at  last 

Quite  overcome,  has  stretched  himself  upon 

The  enamelled  tapestry  of  this  mossy  mountain, 

And  feeds  and  rests  at  the  same  time.     I  was 

Upon  my  way  to  Antioch,  upon  business 

Of  some  importance ;  but,  wrapt  up  in  cares, 

(Who  is  exempt  from  this  inheritance  ?) 

I  parted  from  my  company,  and  lost 

My  way,  and  lost  my  servants  and  my  comrades. 

OTPftXAN. 

'T  is  singular,  that,  even  within  the  sight 
Of  the  high  towers  of  Antioch,  you  could  lose 
Tour  way.     Of  all  the  avenues  and  green  paths 
Of  this  wild  wood,  there  is  not  one  but  leads. 
As  to  its  centre,  to  the  walls  of  Antioch ; 
Take  which  you  will,  you  cannot  miss  your  road. 

DiDIOH. 

And  such  is  ignorance !     Even  in  the  sight 
Of  knowledge,  it  can  draw  no  profit  from  it 
But  am  it  still  is  early,  and  as  I 
Have  no  acquaintances  in  Antioch, 
Being  a  stranger  there,  I  will  even  wait 
The  few  surviving  hours  of  the  day, 
[Jntil  the  night  shall  conquer  it.     I  see,' 
Both  by  your  dress  and  by  the  books  in  which 
Tou  find  delight  and  company,  that  you 
Ire  a  great  student ;  —  for  my  part,  I  feel 
Iffoch  sympathy  with  such  pursuits. 


Have  you 
Studied  much  ? 

njDfON. 

No, —  and  yet  I  know  enough 
Not  to  be  wholly«ignorant. 

OTPBIAN. 

Pray,  Sir, 

What  science  may  you  know  ? 

DJBBKON. 

Many. 

CTPRIAK. 

Alas! 

Much  pains  must  we  expend  on  one  alone. 
And  even  then  attain  it  not ;  —  but  you 
Have  the  presumption  to  assert  that  yon 
Know  many  without  study. 

DJBXON.  • 

And  with  truth ; 

For  in  the  country  whence  I  come,  sciences 

Require  no  learning,  —  they  are  known. 

CTPBXAW. 

O,  would 

I  were  of  that  bright  country  !  fer  in  this. 
The  more  we  study,  we  the  more  discover 
Our  ignorance. 

DiDfON. 

It  is  so  true,  that  I 

Had  so  much  arrogance  as  to  oppose 

The  chair  of  the  most  high  professorship. 

And  obtained  many  votes ;  and  though  I  lost. 

The  attempt  was  still  more  glorious  than  the 

failure 
Could  be  dishonorable  :  if  you  believe  not, 
Let  us  refer  it  to  dispute  respecting 
That  which  you  know  best;  and  although  I 
Know  not  th^  opinion  yon  maintain,  and  though 
It  be  the  true  one,  I  will  take  the  contrary. 


The  offer  gives  me  pleasure.     I  am  now 
Debating  with  myself  upon  a  passage 
Of  Plinius,  and  my  mind  is  racked  with  doubt 
To  understand  and  know  who  is  the  God 
Of  whom  he  speaks. 


It  is  a  passage,  if 

I  recollect  it  right,  couched  in  these  words  : 

"  God  is  one  supreme  goodness,  one  pure  es- 
sence. 

One  substance,  and  one  sense,  all  sight,  all 
hands.'* 

CTPBlAir. 

'T  is  true. 

SJBMON. 

What  difiSculty  find  you  here  ? 

CTPRIAir. 

I  do  not  recognize  among  the  Gods 
The  God  defined  by  Plinius :  if  he  must 
Be  supreme  goodness,  even  Jupiter 
Is  not  supremely  good ;  because  we  see 


712 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


Hie  deeds  are  evil,  and  his  attributes 
Tainted  with  mortal  weakness :  in  what  manner 
Can  supreme  goodness  be  consistent  with 
The  {Missions  of  humanity  ? 

DJBXOll. 

The  wisdom 

Of  the  old  world  masked  with  the  names  of  Gods 

The  attributes  of  Nature  and  of  Man  : 

A  sort  of  popular  philosophy. 

CTPaiAH. 

This  reply  will  not  satisfy  me ;  for 

Such  awe  is  due  to  the  high  name  of  God, 

That  ill  should  never  be  imputed.     Then, 

Examining  the  question  with  more  care, 

It  follows  that  the  Gods  should  always  will 

That  which  is  best,  were  they  supremely  good. 

How,  then,  does  one  will  one  thing,  —  on«, 

another  ?  • 

And  you  may  not  say  that  I  allege 
Poetical  or  philosophic  learning : 
Consider  the  ambiguous  responses 
Of  their  oracular  statues ;  from  two  shrines 
Two 'armies  shall  obtain  the  assurance  of 
One  victory.     Is  it  not  indisputable 
That  two  contending  wills  can  never  lead 
To  the  same  end  ?  and  being  opposite. 
If  one  be  good,  is  not  the  other  evil  ? 
Evil  in  God  is  inconceivable ; 
But  supreme  goodness  iails  among  the  Gods, 
Without  their  union. 


I  deny  your  major. 

These  responses  are  means  towards  some  end 
Unfathomed  by  our  intellectual  beam ; 
They  are  the  work  of  Providence ;  and  more 
The  battle's  loss  may  profit  those  who  lose. 
Than  Tictory  advantage  those  who  win. 


That  I  admit,  and  yet  that  God  should  not 
(Falsehood  is  incompatible  with  deity) 
Assure  the  victory ;  it  would  be  enough 
To  have  permitted  the  defeat :  if  God 
Be  all  sight,  —  God,  who  beheld  the  truth. 
Would  not  have  given  aaeuranee  of  ao  end 
Never  to  be  accomplished.     Thus,  although 
The  Deity  may,  according  to  his  attributes. 
Be  well  distinguished  into  persons,  yet, 
Even  in  the  minutest  circumstance, 
His  essence  must  be  one. 

D.BIIOH. 

To  attain  the  end. 

The  affections  of  the  actors  in  the  scene 

Must  have  been  thus  influenced  by  bis  voice. 

CTPSXJLN. 

But  for  a  purpose  thus  subordinate 

He  might  have  employed  genii,  good  or  evil,  - 

A  sort  of  spirits  called  so  by  the  learned, 

Who  roam  about  inspiring  good  or  evil. 

And  from  whose  influence  and  existence  we 

May  well  infer  our  immortality :  — 

Thus  God  might  easily,  without  descending 


To  a  gross  falsehood  in  bis  proper  person. 
Have  moved  the  affections  by  this  mediation 
To  the  just  point 

DiDfOH. 

These  trifling  contradictions 

Do  not  suflice  to  impugn.the  nnity 

Of  the  high  Gods;  in  Uiings  of  great  importanoe 

They  still  appear  unanimous :  consider 

That  glorious  &bric,  man,  —  his  workmanahip 

Is  stamped  with  one  conception. 


of  the 


Who  made  man 

Must   have,  methinka,  the  advantage 

others. 
If  they  are  equal,  might  they  not  have 
In  opposition  to  the  work ;  and  being 
All  hands,  according  to  our  author  here. 
Have  still  destroyed  even  as  the  other  made  ? 
If  equal  in  their  power,  and  only  unequal 
In  opportunity,  which  of  the  two 
Will  remain  conqueror  ? 


On  impossible 
And  false  hypothesis  there  can  be  built 
No  argument.  Say,  what  do  you  infer 
From  this  ? 

CTPRIAH. 

That  there  must  be  a  mighty  God 

Of  supreme  goodness  and  of  highest  grace. 

All  sight,  all  hands,  all  truth,  in&llible. 

Without  an  equal  and  without  a  rival ; 

The  cause  of  all  things,  and  the  effect  of  nothing ; 

One  power,  one  will,  one  substance,  and  one 

essence ; 
And  in  whateyer  persons,  one  or  two, 
His  attributes  may  be  distinguished,  one 
Sovereign  power,  one  solitary  essence. 
One  cause  of  all  cause.  [Tbey  riao. 

BJBIIOII. 

How  can  I  impugn 

So  clear  a  consequence  ? 

OTPBIAH. 

Do  you  regret 
My  victory  ? 

DJBXON. 

Who  but  regl^ts  a  check 

In  rivalry  of  wit  ?   I  could  reply 

And  urge  new  difficdties,  but  will  now 

Depart ;  for  I  hear  steps  of  men  approachin|^ 

And  it  is  time  that  I  should  now  pursue  " 

My  journey  to  the  city. 

OTPaXAK. 

Go  in  peace ! 


Remain  in  peace !  —  Since  thus  it  profits  bim 
To  study,  I  will  wrap  his  senses  up 
In  sweet  oblivion  of  all  thought,  but  of 
A  piece  of  excellent  beauty ;  and  as  I 
Have  power  given  me  to  vrage  enmity 
Against  Justine's  soul,  I  will  extract 
From  one  effect  two  vengeances.  [GxH. 


CALDERON  D£  LA  BARCA. 


713 


CTPKLUf. 

I  never 

Met  a  more  learned  person.     Let  me  now 
Revolve  this  doubt  again  with  careful  mind. 

[Heraado. 
[Entar  Lello  and  Ftoro. 

'  LBUD. 

Here  stop.    These  toppling  rocks  and  tangled 

boughs, 
Impenetrable  by  the  noonday  beam, 
Shall  be  sole  witnesses  of  what  we 

VLOBO. 

Draw! 

If  there  were  words,  here  is  the  place  for  deeds. 

LIUO. 

Thou  needest  not  instruct  me :  well  I  know 
That  in  the  field  the  silent  tongue  of  steel 
Speaks  thus.  [Tlioy  fight. 

CTPBIAN. 

Ha !  what  is  this  ?  Leiio,  Floro, 

Be  it  enough  that  Cyprian  stands  between  you, 

Although  unarmed. 

XJBUO. 

Whence  comest  thou,  to  stand 
Between  me  and  my  vengeance  ? 

ITLOBO. 

From  what  rocks 
And  desert  cells  ? 

[Enter  Moscon  and  Gbrln. 

MOBOOlf. 

Run,  run  !  for  where  we  left  my  master, 
We  hear  the  clash  of  swords. 


I  never 

Run  to  approach  things  of  this  sort,  but  only 

To  avoid  them.     Sir !  Cyprian !  Sir ! 

cmuAM. 
Be  silent,  fellows !  What !  two  fiiends,  who  are 
In  blood  and  fame  the  eyes  and  hope  of  Anti- 

och,  — 
One,  of  the  noble  men  of  the  Colatti, 
The  other,  son  of  the  governor,  —  adventure 
And  cast  away,  on  some  slight  cause,  no  doubt, 
Two  lives,  the  honor  of  their  country  ? 

LBUO. 

Cyprian, 

Although  my  high  respect  towards  your  person 
Holds  now  my  sword  suspended,  thou  canst  not 
Restore  it  to  the  slumber  of  its  scabbard. 
Thou  knowest  more  of  science  than  the  duel : 
For  when  two  men  of  honor  take  the  field. 
No  counsel  nor  respect  can  make  them  friends ; 
But  one  must  die  in  the  pursuit 

VLOBO. 

I  pray- 
That  you  depart  hence  with  your  people,  and 
Leave  us  to  finish  what  we  have  begun 
Without  advantage. 

CTPRXAlf. 

Though  you  may  imagine 
That  I  know  little  of  the  laws  of  duel. 
Which  vanity  and  valor  instituted, 
90 


You  are  in  error.     By  my  birth  I  am 
Held  no  less  than  yourselves  to  know  the  limits 
Of  honor  and  of  infamy,  nor  has  study 
Quenched  the  free  spirit  which  first  ordered 

them; 
And  thus  to  me,  as  one  well  experienced 
In  the  false  quicksands  of  the  sea  of  honor, 
Tou  may  refer  the  merits  of  the  case ; 
And  if  I  should  perceive  in  your  relation 
That  either  has  the  right  to  satisfaction 
From  the  other,  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor 
To  leave  you. 

LBUO. 

Under  this  condition,  then, 
I  will  relate  the  cause,  and  you  will  cede 
And  must  confess  the  impossibility 
Of  compromise ;  for  the  same  lady  is 
Beloved  by  Floro  and  myself 

WIOMO, 

It  seems 

Much  to  me  that  the  light  of  day  should  look 
Upon  that  idol  of  my  heart ;  —  but  he  — 
Leave  us  to  fight,  according  to  thy  word. 

CTPBIAH. 

Permit  one  question  further :  is  the  lady 
Impossible  to  hope,  or  not  ? 

XJBUO. 

She  is 

So  excellent,  that,  if  the  light  of  day 
Should  excite  Floro's  jealousy,  it  were 
Without  just  cause  ;  for  even  the  light  of  day 
Trembles  to  gaze  on  her. 

CTPRIAN. 

Would  you,  for  your 
Part,  marry  her  ? 

FLORO. 

Such  is  my  confidence. 

CTFBZAX. 

And  you  P 

LSUO. 

O,  would  that  I  could  lift  my  hope 

So  high  !  for,  though  she  is  extremely  poor. 

Her  virtue  is  her  dowry. 

CTPaXAN. 

And  if  you  both 

Would  marry  her,  is  it  not  weak  and  vain. 
Culpable  and  unworthy,  thus  beforehand 
To  slur  her  honor?   What  would  the  world  say. 
If  one  should  slay  the  other,  and  if  she 
Should  afterwards  espouse  the  murderer  ? 
[The  rivals  agree  to  refer  their  quarrel  to  Cyprian ;  who, 
in  conaeqaaDce,  vlaite  Juatlna,  and  becomes  enamoured  of 
her :  she  disdains  him,  and  he  retires  to  a  solitarj  sea- 


8CENE  SECOND. 
CTPRlAir. 

O  MEMORY !  permit  it  not 
That  the  tyrant  of  my  thought 
Be  another  soul  that  still 
Holds  dominion  o'er  the  will,  — 
3h* 


714 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


That  would  refuse,  but  can  no  more, 
To  bend,  to  tremble,  and  adore. 

Vain  idolatry  !  —  I  saw. 
And,  gazing,  became  blind  with  error ; 

Weak  ambition,  which  the  awe 
Of  her  presence  bound  to  terror ! 
So  beautiful  she  was,  —  and  I, 
Between  my  love  and  jealousy, 
Am  so  convulsed  with  hope  and  ftar, 
Unworthy  as  it  may  appear, — 
So  bitter  is  the  life  I  live. 
That,  hear  me.  Hell !  I  now  would  give 
To  thy  most  detested  spirit 
My  soul,  for  ever  to  inherit, 
To  suffer  punishment  and  pine. 
So  this  woman  may  be  mine. 
Hear*st  thou,  Hell  ?  dost  thou  reject  it.' 
My  soul  is  offered  ! 

DJBMOM  (unseen). 

I  accept  it. 
[Tempest,  wilh  thunder  and  lightoinf . 


What  is  this  ?  ye  heavens  for  eyer  pure, 
At  once  intensely  radiant  and  obscure ! 
Athwart  the  ethereal  halls 
The  lightning's  arrow  and  the  thunder-balls 
The  day  affright. 
As  from  the  horizon  round 
Burst  with  earthquake  sound 
In  mighty  torrents  the  electric  fountains :  — 
Clouds  quench  the  sun,  and  thunder-smoke 
Strangles  the  air,  and  fire  eclipses  heaven. 
Philosophy,  thou  canst  not  even 
Compel  their  causes  underneath  thy  yoke  : 
From  yonder  clouds,  even  to  the  wayes  below, 
The  fragments  of  a  single  ruin  choke 
Imagination's  flight; 
For,  on  flakes  of  surge,  like  feathers  light. 
The  ashes  of  the  desolation  cast 
Upon  the  gloomy  blast 
Tell  of  the  footsteps  of  the  storm. 
And  nearer  see  the  melancholy  form 

Of  a  great  ship,  the  outcast  of  the  sea, 
Drives  miserably  ! 
And  it  must  fly  the  pity  of  the  port. 
Or  perish,  —  and  its  last  and  sole  resort 
Is  its  own  raging  enemy. 
The  terror  of  the  thrilling  cry 
Was  a  fatal  prophecy 

Of  coming  death,  who  borers  now 
Upon  that  shattered  prow. 
That  they  who  die  not  may  be  dying  still. 
And  not  alone  the  insane  elements 
Are  populous  with  wild  portents  : 
But  that  sad  ship  is  as  a  miracle 

Of  sudden  ruin  ;   for  it  drives  so  fast, 
It  seems  as  if  it  had  arrayed  its  form 
With  the  headlong  storm. 
It  strikes  !  —  I  almost  feel  the  shock  !  — 
It  stumbles  on  a  jagged  rock  !  — 
Sparkles  of  blood  on  the  white  foam  are  cost ! 
[A  tempeeu  ~  All  exclaim  within, 
We  are  all  lost ! 


(within). 
Now  from  this  plank  will  I 
Pass  to  the  land,  and  thus  fulfil  my  scheme. 

CTPaiAH. 

As  in  contempt  of  the  elemental  rage, 

A  man  comes  forth  in  safety,  while  the  ship's 
Great  form  is  io  a  watery  eclipse 

Obliterated  from  the  Ocean's  page. 

And  round  its  wreck  the  huge  sea-monstera  sit, 

A  horrid  conclave,  and  the  whistling  wave 

Are  heaped  over  its  carcass,  like  a  grave. 

[The  DflBmon  enters,  as  escaped  from  the  mm. 

hmuok  (aside). 
It  was  essential  to  my  purposes 
To  wake  a  tumult  on  the  sapphire  ocean. 
That  in  this  unknown  form  I  might  at  length 
Wipe  out  the  blot  of  the  discomfiture 
Sustained  upon  the  mountain,  and  assail 
With  a  new  war  the  soul  of  Cyprian, 
Forging  the  instruments  of  his  destruction 
Even  from  his  love  and  from  his  wisdom.  — O 
Beloved  earth  !  dear  mother  !   in  thy  bosom 
I  seek  a  refuge  from  the  monster  who 
Precipitates  itself  upon  me. 

CTPftlAH. 

Friend, 

Collect  thyself ;  and  be  the  memory 

Of  thy  late  suffering,  and  thy  greatest  sorrow. 

But  as  a  shadow  of  the  past,  —  for  nothing 

Beneath  the  circle  of  the  moon,  but  flows 

And  changes  and  can  nerer  know  repose. 

hmuok. 
And  who  art  thou,  before  whose  feet  my  fate 
Has  prostrated  me  ? 


One  who,  mored  with  pity, 
Would  soothe  its  stings. 


O,  that  can  never  be  ! 

No  solace  can  my  lasting  sorrows  find. 

otpbzah. 
Wherefore  ? 

DJBMOir. 

Because  my  happiness  is  lost. 
Yet  I  lament  what  has  long  ceased  to  be 
The  object  of  desire  or  memory. 
And  my  life  is  not  life. 

OTPXIAN. 

Now,  since  the  fbry 
Of  this  earthquaking  hurricane  is  still, 
And  the  crystalline  heaven  has  reassamed 
Its  windless  calm  so  quickly,  that  it  seems 
As  if  its  heayy  wrath  had  been  awakened 
Only  to  overwhelm  that  yessel,  —  speak  ! 
Who  art  thou,  and  whence  comest  thou  ? 

DASfOK. 

Far  more 

My  coming  hither  cost,  than  thou  hast  seen 
Or  I  can  tell.     Among  my  misadventures. 
This  shipwreck  is  the  least.     Wilt  thou  hear  ? 


CALDERON   DE   LA   BARCA. 


716 


Speak. 

D^BfON. 

Since  thou  desirest,  I  will,  then,  aoTeil 

Myself  to  thee  ;  for  in  myielf  I  am 

A  world  of  happiness  and  misery : 

This  I  have  lost,  and  that  I  must  lament 

For  ever.    In  my  attributes  I  stood 

So  high  and  so  heroically  great, 

In  lineage  so  supreme,  and  with  a  genius 

Which  penetrated  with  a  glance  the  world 

Beneath  my  feet,  that,  won  by  my  high  merit, 

A  king — whom  I  may  call  the  King  of  Kings, 

Because  all  others  tremble  in  their  pride 

Before  the  terrors  of  his  countenance, 

In  his  high  palace,  rooied  with  brightest  gems 

Of  living  light— call  them  the  stars  of  heaven — 

Named  me  his  counsellor.     But  the  high  praise 

Stuog  me  with  pride  and  envy,  and  I  rose 

In  mighty  competition,  to  ascend 

His  seat  and  place  my  foot  triumphantly 

Upon  his  subject  thrones.     Chastised,  I  know 

The  depth  to  which  ambition  Alls.     Too  mad 

Was  the  attempt,  and  yet  more  mad  were  now 

Repentance  of  the  irrevocable  deed  : 

Therefore  I  chose  this  ruin,  with  the  glory 

Of  not  to  be  subdued,  before  the  shame 

Of  reconciling  me  with  him  who  reigns 

By  coward  cession.     Nor  was  I  alone. 

Nor  am  I  now,  nor  shall  I  be  alone  ; 

And  there  was  hope,  and  there  may  still  be  hope ; 

For  many  suffrages  among  his  vassals 

Hailed  me  their  lord  and  king,  and  many  still 

Are  mine,  and  many  more,  perchance,  shall  be. 

Thus  vanquished,  though  in  foot  victorious, 

I  left  his  seat  of  empire,  from  mine  eye 

Shooting  forth  poisonous  lightning,  while  my 

words 
With  inauspicious  thunderings  shook  heaven. 
Proclaiming  vengeance,  public  as  my  wrong, 
And  imprecating  on  his  prostrate  slaves 
Rapine,  and  death,  and  outrage.     Then  I  sailed 
Over  the  mighty  fabric  of  the  world, 
A  pirate  ambushed  in  its  pathless  sands, 
A  lynx  crouched  watchfully  among  its  caves 
And  craggy  shores ;  and  I  have  wandered  over 
The  expanse  of  these  wide  wildernesses 
In  this  great  ship,  whose  bulk  is  now  dissolved 
In  the  light  breathings  of  the  invisible  wind. 
And  which  the  sea  has  made  a  dustless  ruin,— 
Seeking  ever  a  mountain,  through  whose  forests 
I  seek  a  man,  whom  I  must  now  compel 
To  keep  his  word  with  me.     I  came  arrayed 
In  tempest ;  and  although  my  power  could  well 
Bridle  the  forest  winds  in  their  career, 
For  other  causes  I  forbore  to  soothe 
Their  fury  to  fovonian  gentleness ; 
I  could  and  would  not.     ^hus  I  wake  in  him 

[Aside. 
A  loTe  of  magic  art.)     Let  not  this  tempest. 
Nor  the  succeeding  calm,  excite  thy  wonder ; 
For  by  my  art  the  sun  would  turn  as  pale 
As  his  weak  sister,  with  unwonted  foar. 
And  in  my  wisdom  are  the  orbs  of  heaven 
Written  as  in  a  record ;  I  have  pierced 


The  flaming  circles  of  their  wondrous  spheres. 
And  know  them  as  thou  knowest  every  comer 
Of  this  dim  spot.     Let  it  not  seem  to  thee 
That  I  boast  vainly  :  wouldst  thou  that  I  work 
A  charm  over  this  waste  and  savage  wood. 
This  Babylon  of  crags  and  aged  trees. 
Filling  its  leafy  coverts  with  a  horror 
Thrilling  and  strange .'  I  am  the  fi-iendless  guest 
Of  these  wild  oaks  and  pines,  — and  as  from  thee 
I  have  received  the  hospitality 
Of  this  rude  place,  I  offer  thee  the  fi'uit 
Of  years  of  toil  in  recompense ;  whate'er 
Thy  wildest  dream  presented  to  thy  thought 
As  object  of  desire,  that  shall  be  thine. 

And  thenceforth  shall  so  firm  an  amity 
'Twixt  thou  and  me  be,  that  neither  Fortune, 
The  monstrous  phantom  which  pursues  success. 
That  carefol  miser,  that  free  prodigal. 
Who  ever  alternates,  with  changeAil  hand. 
Evil  and  good,  reproach  and  fame ;  nor  Time, 
That  loadstar  of  the  ages,  to  whose  beam 
The  winged  years  speed  o*er  the  intervals 
Of  their  unequal  revolutions ;  nor 
Heaven  itself,  whose  beautiful  bright  stars 
Rule  and  adorn  the  world,  can  ever  make 
The  least  division  between  thee  and  me. 
Since  now  I  find  a  refuge  in  thy  favor. 


SCENE  THIRD. 
[The  Damon  tempts  Jiutina,  who  la  a  ChrlsUao.] 

DSMON. 

Abyss  of  Hell !  I  call  on  thee, 
Thou  wild  misrule  of  thine  own  anarchy ! 
From  thy  prison-house  set  free 
The  spirits  of  voluptuous  death, 
That  with  their  mighty  breath 
They  may  destroy  a  world  of  virgin  thoughts. 
Let  her  chaste  mind  with  Ancies  thick  as  motes 
Be  peopled  from  thy  shadowy  deep. 
Till  her  guiltless  phantasy 
Full  to  overflowing  be ; 
And  with  sweetest  harmony. 
Let  birds,  and  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  all 

things  move 
To  love,  —  only  to  love. 
Let  nothing  meet  her  eyes 
But  signs  of  Love's  soft  victories ; 
Let  nothing  meet  her  ear 
But  sounds  of  Love's  sweet  sorrow : 
So  that  from  faith  no  succour  may  she  borrow. 
But,  guided  by  my  spirit  blind, 
And  in  a  magic  snare  entwined. 
She  may  now  seek  Cyprian. 

Begin,  —  while  I  in  silence  bind 
My  voice,  when  thy  sweet  song  thou  hast  be- 
gun. 

▲  voica  wrram. 
What  is  the  glory  fiir  above 
All  else  in  human  life  ? 

ALL. 

Love  !  love ! 


716 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


[While  these  words  are  auog,  the  Demon  goes  out  at  one 
door,  and  Justina  enters  at  another. 

THB  FIRST  TOICS. 

There  is  no  form  in  which  the  fire 
Of  love  its  traces  has  impressed  not. 

Man  lives  far  more  in  love's  desire 
Than  by  life's  breath,  soon  possessed  not. 

If  all  that  lives  must  love  or  die, 

All  shapes  on  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky, 

With  one  consent,  to  Heaven  cry 

That  the  glory  far  above 

All  else  in  life  is 

ALL. 

Love  !   O,  love ! 

JUSTIN  A. 

Thou  melancholy  thought,  which  art 
So  fluttering  and  so  sweet,  to  thee 
When  did  I  give  the  liberty 
Thus  to  afflict  my  heart  ? 
What  is  the  cause  of  this  new  power 

Which  doth  my  fevered  being  move, 
Momently  raging  more  and  more  ? 
What  subtle  pain  is  kindled  now. 
Which  from  my  heart  doth  overflow 

Into  my  senses  ? 

ATJ.- 

Love !   O,  love ! 

JUSTIN  A. 

T  is  that  enamoured  nightingale 

Who  gives  me  the  reply  ; 
He  ever  tells  the  same  soft  tale 
Of  passion  and  of  constancy 
To  his  mate,  —  who  rapt  and  fond 
Listening  sits,  a  bough  beyond. 
Be  silent,  Nightingale  !  —  no  more 
Make  me  think,  in  hearing  thee 
Thus  tenderly  thy  love  deplore, 
If  a  bird  can  feel  his  so, 
What  a  man  would  feel  for  me. 
And,  voluptuous  Vine !  O  thou 
Who  seekest  most  when  least  pursuing,  — 
To  the  trunk  thou  interlacest 
Art  the  verdure  which  embracest. 
And  the  weight  which  is  its  ruin,  — 

"No  more,  with  green  embraces,  Vine, 
Make  me  think  on  what  thou  lovest ;  — 

For,  whilst  thou  thus  thy  boughs  entwine, 
I  fear  lest  thou  shouldst  teach  me,  sophist. 
How  arms  might  be  entangled  too. 
Light-enchanted  Sunflower  !  thou 
Who  gazest  ever  true  and  tender 
On  the  sun's  revolving  splendor,  — 
Follow  not  his  faithless  glance 
With  thy  faded  countenance. 
Nor  teach  my  beating  heart  to  fear, 
If  leaves  can  mourn  without  a  tear. 
How  eyes  must  weep.  —  O  Nightingale, 
Cease  from  thy  enamoured  tale  ! 

Leafy  Vine,  unwreathe  thy  bower ! 
Restless  Sunflower,  cease  to  move  !  — 

Or  tell  me,  all,  what  poisonous  power 
Te  use  against  me ! 

ALL. 

Love  !  love  !  love  ! 


JUSTINA. 

It  cannot  be !  —  Whom  have  I  ever  loTed  .' 

Trophies  of  my  oblivion  and  disdain, 

Floro  and  Lelio  did  I  not  reject.' 

And  Cyprian  ?  — 

[She  becomes  troubled  at  the  name  of  Cjpriaa. 

Did  I  not  requite  him 

With  such  severity,  that  he  has  fled 

Where  none  has  ever  heard  of  him  again  ?  — 

Alas '.  I  now  begin  to  fear  that  this 

May  be  the  occasion  whence  desire  grows  bold. 

As  if  there  were  no  danger.     From  the  mo- 
ment 

That  I  pronounced  to  my  own  listening  heart, 

**  Cyprian  is  absent,"  O  miserable  me  ! 

I  know  not  what  I  feel !  — 

It  must  be  pity,  [Mors  calmly. 

To  think  that  such  a  man,  whom  all  the  world 

Admired,  should  be  forgot  by  all  the  world, 

And  I  the  cause. — 

[She  again  boeoinas  tronbled. 

And  yet  if  it  were  pity, 

Floro  and  Lelio  might  have  equal  share ; 

For  they  are  both  imprisoned  for  my  sake.  —^ 

[Calmlj. 

Alas !  what  reasonings  are  these  ?    It  is 

Enough  I  pity  him,  and  that  in  vain. 

Without  this  ceremonious  subtlety. 

And,  woe  is  me !  I  know  not  where  to  find  him 
now. 

Even  should  I  seek  him  through  this  wide  world. 

[Enter  DraioD. 

DJSHON. 

Follow,  and  I  will  lead  thee  where  he  is. 

JUSTINA. 

And  who  art  thou  who  hast  found  entrance 

hither. 
Into  my  chamber,  through  the  doors  and  locks .' 
Art  thou  a  monstrous  shadow  which  my  madness 
Has  formed  in  the  idle  air  ? 

DJSHON. 

No.     I  am  one 

Called  by  the  thought  which  tyrannizes  thee 
From  his  eternal  dwelling;  who  this  da/ 
Is  pledged  to  bear  thee  unto  Cyprian. 

JUSTIN  A. 

So  shall  thy  promise  fail.     This  agony 
Of  passion  which  afflicts  my  heart  and  soal 
May  sweep  imagination  in  its  storm  ; 
The  will  is  firm. 

B.SMON. 

Already  half  is  done 

In  the  imagination  of  an  act. 

The  sin  incurred,  the  pleasure  then  remains : 

Let  not  the  will  stop  half-way  on  the  road. 


I  will  not  be  discouraged,  nor  despair. 
Although  I  thought  it,  and  although  't  is  tme 
That  thought  is  but  a  prelude  to  the  deed  ; 
Thought  is  not  in  my  power,  but  action  is : 
I  will  not  move  my  foot  to  follow  thee. 


CALDERON  DE   LA   BARCA. 


717 


DJBMOir. 

But  a  far  mightier  wisdom  than  thine  own 
Ezerta  itself  within  thee,  with  such  power 
Compelling  thee  to  that  which  it  inclines, 
That  it  shall  force  thy  step  :  how  wilt  thon  then 
Resist,  Justina  ? 

JUSTUIA. 

By  my  free  will. 


Must  force  thy  will. 

JUSTIMA. 

It  is  invincible : 

It  were  not  free,  if  thon  hadst  power  upon  it. 
[He  draws,  bat  cannot  move  her. 

DJmON. 

Come,  where  a  pleasure  waits  thee. 

jvsmfA. 
It  were  bought 
Too  dear. 

IXUON. 

'T  will  soothe  thy  heart  to  softest  peace. 

lUSTUfA. 

'T  is  dread  captiyity. 


'T  is  joy,  'tis  glory. 

JUSTUIA. 

'T  is  shame,  't  is  torment,  't  is  despair. 

BJOIOK. 

But  how 

Canst  thou  defend  thyself  from  that  or  me, 

If  my  power  drags  thee  onward  ? 

JUBTXMA. 

My  defence 

Consists  in  God. 

[He  Tslnly  endeaToors  to  force  her,  and  at  last  rsleassa  her. 


Woman,  thou  hast  subdued  me. 
Only  by  not  owning  thyself  subdued. 
But  since  thou  thus  findest  defence  in  God, 
I  will  assume  a  feigned  form,  and  thus 
Make  thee  a  victim  of  my  baffled  rage. 
For  I  will  mask  a  spirit  in  thy  form. 
Who  will  betray  thy  name  to  infamy. 
And  doubly  shall  I  triumph  in  thy  loss : 
First  by  dishonoring  thee,  and  then  by  turning 
False  pleasure  to  true  ignominy.  [Exit. 


Appeal  to  Hearen  against  thee;  so  that  Heayen 
May  scatter  thy  delusions,  and  the  blot 
Upon  my  fame  vanish  in  idle  thought. 
Even  as  flame  dies  in  the  envious  air. 
And  as  the  floweret  wanes  at  morning  frost, 

And    thou  shouldst  never But,  alas  !    to 

whom 
Do  I  Btill  speak .'  —  Did  not  a  man  but  now 
Stand  here  before  me?  —  No,  I  am  alone ; 
And  yet  I  saw  him.     Is  he  gone  so  quickly.^ 
Or  can  the  heated  mind  engender  shapes 
From  its  own  fear  ?     Some  terrible  and  strange 
Peril   is  nenr.     Lysander !  father  !  lord  ! 
Liivia  !  —  [Enter  Lysander  and  LWla. 


LTSAMDIB. 

O  my  daughter !   what  ? 

LIVIA. 

What? 


Saw  yon 

A  man  go  forth  from  my  apartment  now  ?  — 

I  scarce  sustain  myself! 

LTSAITOKB.  ■ 

A  man  here ! 

lUSTUTA. 

Have  you  not  seen  him  ? 

UVIA. 

No,  lady. 

TUMtOKA. 

I  saw  him. 

LTSAMDIR. 

T  is  impossible ;  the  doors 
apartmen 

UVIA  (aside). 
I  dare  say  it  was  Moscon  whom  she  saw ; 
For  he  was  locked  up  in  my  room. 

LTSAiroaB. 
It  must 

Have  been  some  image  of  thy  phantasy : 
Such  melancholy  as  thou  feedest  is 
Skilful  in  forming  such  in  the  vain  air 
Out  of  the  motes  and  atoms  of  the  day. 


Which 


ipoesib 
led  to 


this  apartment  were  all  locked. 


UVIA. 

*s  in  the  right. 


My 


O,  would  it  were 

Delusion  !  but  I  fear  some  greater  ill. 

I  feel  as  if  out  of  my  bleeding  bosom 

My  heart  was  torn  in  fragments.     Ay, 

Some  mortal  spell  is  wrought  against  my  frame : 

So  potent  was  the  charm,  that,  had  not  God 

Shielded  my  humble  innocence  from  wrong, 

I  should  have  sought  my  sorrow  and  my  shame 

With  willing  steps.  —  Livia,  quick   bring  my 

cloak; 
For  I  must  seek  refuge  from  these  extremes 
Even  in  the  temple  of  the  highest  God, 
Which  secretly  the  faithful  worship. 

LIVIA. 

Here. 

jcsnNA  (patting  on  her  cloak). 
In  this,  as  in  a  shroud  of  snow,  may  I 
Quench  the  consuming  fire  in  which  I  bum, 
Wasting  away ! 


And  I  will  go  with  thee. 

UVIA. 

When  I  once  see  them  safe  out  of  the  house, 
I  shall  breathe  freely. 

JUSTINA. 

So  do  I  confide 

In  thy  just  favor.  Heaven ! 

LTBANDBB. 

Let  us  go. 

insmcA. 
Thine  is  the  cause,  great  God  !  turn,fbr  my  sake, 
And  for  thine  own,  mercifully  to  me ! 


718 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


PEDRO  DE   CASTRO  Y  ANAYA. 

This  poet  lived  in  the  first  half  of  the  seyen- 
teenth  century.  Nothing  further  is  known  of 
him,  except  that  he  wrote  a  work,  entitled 
<*  Auroras  de  Diana." 


THE  RIVULET. 

Stat,  riTulet,  nor  haste  to  leare 

The  lovely  vale  that  lies  around  thee ! 

Why  wouldst  thou  be  a  sea  at  eve, 

When  but  a  fount  the  morning  found  thee  ? 

Bom  when  the  skies  began  to  glow. 

Humblest  of  all  the  rock's  cold  daughters. 


No  blossom  bowed  its  stalk  to  show 
Where  stole  thy  still  and  scanty  waten. 

Now  on  thy  stream  the  noonbeams  look. 
Usurping,  as  thou  downward  driftesC, 

Its  crystal  from  the  clearest  brook. 
Its  rushing  current  from  the  swiftest. 

Ah,  what  wild  haste  !  —  and  all  to  be 

A  river  and  expire  in  ocean  ! 
Each  fountain's  tribute  hurries  thee 

To  that  vast  grave  with  quicker  motion. 

Far  better  *t  were  to  linger  still 

In  this  green  vale,  these  flowers  to  cherish. 
And  die  in  peace,  an  aged  rill. 

Than  thus,  a  youthful  Danube,  perish. 


THIRD  PERIOD. -FROM  1700  TO  1844. 


IGNAOIO  D£  LUZAN. 

loNAcio  Ds  LvzAH  was  bom  at  Saragossa, 
March  28,  1702.  The  death  of  his  parents, 
and  the  disturbed  state  of  the  country,  caused 
him  to  be  placed  with  a  relative  at  Barcelona, 
where  he  remained  until  1715.  His  uncle, 
Don  Jo86  Luzan,  then  took  him  to  Genoa  and 
Milan,  and  afterwards  to  Sicily,  where  he  pur- 
sued his  studies,  and  took  bis  degree  in  1727. 
His  fiivorite  occupations  were  literature  and 
poetry.  He  made  himself  master  of  the  Latin, 
Greek,  Italian,  French,  and  German.  His 
uncle  dying  in  1729,  he  went  to  Naples,  and 
joined  his  brother,  the  Count  de  Luzan,  who 
was  governor  of  the  castle  of  Sant  Elmo.  Four 
years  afterwards,  he  was  sent  to  Spain,  to  attend 
to  his  brother's  affairs.  He  went  to  Madrid,  and, 
in  1741,  was  elected  into  the  Royal  Spanish 
Academy.  His  learning,  abilities,  and  agreea- 
ble manners  gained  him  the  appointment  of 
Secretary  of  Legation  at  Paris,  in  1747,  and  of 
Charge  d' Affaires,  the  year  following.  In  1750, 
he  returned  to  Madrid,  and  estaMlsbed  himself 
there  with  his  family.  He  continued  to  fill  va- 
rious public  offices  of  high  importance  until  his 
death,  which  took  place  March  19,  1754. 

Luzan  is  more  distinguished  as  a  critic  than 
as  an  original  writer,  his  principal  work  being 
his  **  Pontics."  He  enjoys  the  questionable  glory 
of  being  the  Coryphsus  of  French  taste  in  Spain. 


FROM  THE  ADDRESS  TO  LA  ACADEMU  DE  LAS 
NOBLES  ARTE& 


Its  ever-varying  sway 
Inconstant  Fate  exerts  o'er  all. 
Bom  subject  to  successive  fall 


Each  earthly  state !  —  Fleeting  the  ancient 
glory 
Of  early  Greece  and  Rome's  immortal  name: 

Ruins  whose  grandeur  yet  survives  in  story. 
And   treasured  fondly  still    by  long-recording 
Fame. 
Even  at  the  touch  of  years  that  pass  away, 
Cities  and  empires  crumble  to  decay !  — 

Virtue  sole  remains,  — 
Fair  daughter  of  the  Mighty,  in  whose  mind 
Perfection  of  all  goodness  rests  enshrined,  — 
And,  changeless  still,  her  steadfastness  main- 
tains. 

How  vainly  Chance 
With   desperate  wrath    that  peaceful  reign 

would  mar ! 
So  'gainst  the  rock,  'midst  raging  ocean  stance, 
In  idle  war  the  headlong  waves  advance ; 

While,  as  the  unvarying  star 
That  to  the  trembling  pilot  points  his  course. 
Though  Aquilo  and  Notus  try  their  force. 
She  guides  our  wandering  bark  to  sheltering 
havens  fiir. 


PAINTINO. 

Light  and  mingling  shade 
Being  and  birth  on  Painting  first  bestowed ; 
Beneath  her  hand  the  varying  colors  glowed. 
And  fair  design  in  long  perspective  showed. 

Touch  alone  could  tell. 
In  the  warm  tablets'  flowing  lines,  inwrought 
With  brightest  hues,  fVom  living  nature  caught. 
How  deeply  treasured  there  deception's  spell. 

All  that  the  eyes  surveyed. 
All  that  imagination's  power  could  trace. 
Breathed  in  the  Pencil's  imitative  grace : 
O'er  the  cold  canvass  form,  and  soul,  and  feeling 
That  wondrous  art  infused,  with  power  of  life ; 


LUZAN.  — N.  F.  DE  MORATIN— CADALSO. 


719 


Portrayed  each  pabe,  each  paasion's  might  re- 
pealing. 
Sorrow  and  joy,  love,  hatred,  fear,  and  strife. 
Though  haply  mute,  the  eternal  doubt  npepning, 
Can  each  perfection  be  denied  a  tongue  ? 


NICOLAS  FERNANDEZ  DE  MORATIN. 

Nicolas  Fkrxandkz  dk  Moratin  was  bom 
at  Madrid,  in  1737.     He  studied  first  at  San 
Ildefonso,  and  afterwards  at  the  Jesuits*  College 
in  Calatayud.    Thence  he  went  to  Valladolid 
to  study  the  law,  diversifying  his  pursuits  by 
reading  the  Greek  and  Latin  classics.     He  re- 
turned to  San  Ildefenso,  where   he  married. 
He  went  aAerwards  to  Madrid,  where  he  soon 
became  distinguished  among  the  literary  men 
of  the  time.     He  wrote  fer  the  theatre,  which 
be  endeavoured  to  reform.     He  received  many 
literary  honors,  and  enjoyed  the  friendship  of 
the  most  eminent  men  in  his  own  and  in  foreign 
countries.     His  miscellaneous  poems  were  first 
published  in  a  periodical  form,  and  entitled  **  £1 
Poeta."     He  composed  three  tragedies,  the  best 
of  which,  **  La  Hormesinda,"  was  first  acted  in 
1770.     Shortly  after  this,  he  returned  tempo- 
rarily to  the  law,  without,  however,  renouncing 
his  poetical  pursuits.     Having  received  an  ap- 
pointment as  substitute  for  Ayala  in  the  chair  of 
Poetry  at  Madrid,  he  retired  from  his  profession. 
The  rest  of  his  life  was  spent  in  literature,  and 
he  died  at  Madrid,  May  11,  1780. 


FROM  AN  ODE  TO  PEDRO  ROMERO,  THE  BULL- 
FIGITTER. 

Along  the  Plaza  moved  the  gallant  youth, 

With  head  erect,  and  manly  pride ; 
Nor  is  there  one  from  out  the  crowd,  in  sooth, 
Who  may  his  boding  fears  and  pity  hide. 
Tet  with  smooth  brow,* and  beauteous  face. 
He  scorns  the  danger  that  awaits  him  there : 

Scarce  had  the  down  begun  to  grace 
His  lip,  yet  conscious  courage  bids  him  dare 
The  fierce  encounter;   for  he  feels  inspired, 
E*en  as  of  old  Pelides  young  was  fired. 
Then  onward  doth  he  to  the  combat  go, — 
With  what  a  gait  of  lordliness. 
And  manly  grace  and  gentleness !  — * 
ind  in  the  midst  the  Spanish  athlete  low 
Sends    to   the  fiiir,  -^  whose    eyes    all-joyous 

glow 
^ith  hopes,  —  while  cymbals  loudly  sound  and 
trumpets  blow. 

fore  valiant  looked  not  JEson's  godlike  son, 

When  first  in  Colchian  lands  he  stepped, 
ind,  breathing  fury,  tamed  the  beasts  of  Mars, — 
When  from  his  covert  close  impetuous  leaped 

The  fierce  and  pain-bemaddened  bull, 
Fed  where  the  Jarama*8  blue  waters  flow. 
Thou,  like  a  god,  of  valor  full, 


Await'st  the  onset,  —  in  that  listed  field, 
Thy  sole  defence  a  simple  shield,  — 
Weak  safeguard  'gainst  so  fierce  a  foe ! 
With  left  foot  fixed  in  the  ground. 
And  breast  exposed,  thou  proudly   look'st 

around ! 
And  in  thy  ample,  sinewy  right  hand 
(Flung  nobly  back,  —  while  smiles  irradiant 
play 
Around  thy  lips)  a  flaming  brand 
Is  waved,  *-  which  Mars  might  covet  in  the 
battle-fray ! 

Save  that  the  hearts  of  all  are  throbbing  loud. 

Within  each  pale  spectator's  breast,  — 
Deep  silence  hovered  o'er  the  astonished  crowd ; 
And  on  each  lady's  cheek  had  fear  impressed 
A  mark,  —  to  make  their  lovers  frown, 
And  feel  the  pangs  of  jealousy  : 
With  breath  suppressed  and  strained  eye. 
The  crowd  in  deep  attention  wait. 
To  see  their  youthfbl  champion's  fate. 
Called  at  the  signal,  forth  the  bull  hath  flown, 
Bellowing  with  fury,  breathing  fire. 
And  mad  with  ire. 
'Mid^t  his  career  he  sudden  stops  to  look 
Upon  the  matadore's  wind-wafted  cloak,  — 
In  shape  as  huge  as  the  Phalarian  brute : 
He  snorts,  recoils,  — and  eager  to  assail. 

He  proudly  shakes  aloft  his  ample  front. 
And   scatters  wide  the   sand,  and   points   his 
lengthened  tail. 


JOS^  DE  CADALSO. 

This  anthor  was  born  at  Cadiz,  October  8, 
1741 .  His  parents  sent  him  to  Paris  very  young, 
where  he  studied  literature  and  the  sciences. 
Having  travelled  through  France,  England, 
Germany,  Italy,  and  Portugal,  he  returned  to 
Spain,  took  the  military  order  of  Santiago,  and 
entered  the  service  in  1762,  joining  the  Span- 
ish forces  then  employed  against  Portugal.  He 
greatly  distinguished  himself  in  the  profession 
of  arms,  and  rose  to  a  high  rank.  But  in  the 
midst  of  his  military  occupations  he  found  time 
fer  the  cultivation  of  letters,  and  formed  ac- 
quaintance with  the  principal  literary  men  of 
his  time,  among  whom  his  advice  and  example 
exercised  much  influence.  He  died,  February 
27,  1782,  of  a  wound  he  received  at  the  siege 
of  Gibraltar. 

Cadalso  wrote  a  tragedy  after  the  French 
models,  entitled  **  Sancho  Garcia  " ;  his  lyrical 
poems  were  first  published  in  1^73,  under  the 
title  of  **  Los  Ocios  de  mi  Juventud."  He  is 
chiefly  known  by  his  '**  Cartas  Marruecas,"  or 
Moorish  Letters,  written  in  the  character  of  a 
Moor  travelling  in  Spain,  on  the  model  of  the 
**  Lettres  Persanes,"  and  by  *<  Los  Erudites  A  la 
Violeta,"  a  satirical  work,  in  which  he  ridicules 
the  pretensions  of  literary  charlatans. 


720 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


ANACREONTIC. 

Who,  crowned  with  ivy 
And  vine  leaves,  descends 

From  yonder  green  mountain, 
And  hitherward  wends, — 

A  flask  in  his  hand 
And  a  smile  in  his  eye, 

Surrounded  by  shepherds 
And  nymphs,  who,  with  joy, 

To  the  sound  of  their  cymbals 
His  high  deeds  record, 

Applauding  and  singing 
The  gifts  of  their  lord? 

'T  is  certainly  Bacchus, 
The  monarch  of  vines :  — 

O,  no,  't  is  the  poet 

Who  fancied  these  lines! 


IMITATION  OF  (xiNGORA. 

That  much  a  widowed  wife  will  moan, 
When  her  old  husband  'a  dead  and  gone, 

I  may  conceive  it : 
But  that  she  won*t  be  brisk  and  gay, 
If  another  offer  the  next  day, 

I  won't  believe  it. 

That  Chloris  will  repeat  to  me, 
«(Of  all  men,  I  adore  but  thee," 

I  may  conceive  it : 
But  that  she  has  not  often  sent 
To  fifty  more  the  compliment, 

I  won't  believe  it. 

That  Celia  will  accept  the  choice 
Elected  by  her  parents'  voice, 

I  may  conceive  it : 
But  that,  as  soon  as  all  is  over. 
She  won't  elect  a  younger  lover, 

I  won't  believe  it. 

That,  when  she  sees  her  marriage  gown, 
Inez  will  modestly  look  down, 

I  may  conceive  it : 
But  that  she  does  not,  from  that  hour. 
Resolve  to  amplify  her  power, 

I  won't  believe  it. 

That  a  kind  husband  to  his  wife 
Permits  each  pleasure  of  this  life, 

I  may  conceive  it : 
But  that  the  man  so  blind  should  be 
As  not  to  see  what  all  else  see, 

I  won't  believe  it 

That  in  a  mirror  young  coquettes 
Should  study  all  their  traps  and  nets, 

I  may  conceive  it : 
But  that  the  mirror,  above  all. 
Should  be  the  object  principal, 

I  won't  believe  it. 


GASPAR  MELCHIOR  DE  JOVELLANOS. 

This  distinguished  Spaniard  was  bom  at  GU 
jon,  in  Asturia,  January  6,  1744.  ile  studied 
at  Oviedo,  Alcali  de  Henares,  and  Aviia.  He 
rose  rapidly  in  the  profession  of  the  law,  and 
became  a  member  of  various  learned  societies. 
He  occupied  himself  with  poetry,  and  wrote  a 
play,  entitled,  *'  El  Delinquente  Honrado,"  the 
tragedy  of  <*  Pelayo,"  a  translation  of  the  first 
book  of  Milton's  **  Paradise  Lost,"  and  varioos 
poems,  which  he  entitled,  **  Ocios  Juveniles." 
He  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  the  most  distin- 
guished among  his  contemporaries.  But  bis 
prosperity  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the 
downfall  of  his  friend,  the  Count  de  Gabamis, 
in  whose  disgrace  he  was  involved.  Being 
banished  from  the  court,  he  retired  to  his  native 
place,  where  he  lived  from  1790  to  1797,  wholly 
occupied  with  literature,  and  with  projects  of 
practical  utility.  At  the  end  of  this  period,  he 
was  nominated  Ambassador  to  Russia,  and  soon 
after  was  called  to  Madrid,  and  appointed  Min- 
ister  of  Grace  and  Justice.  He  did  not  long 
remain  in  the  ministry.  The  intrigues  of  the 
favorite,  Godoy,  the  Prince  of  the  Peace,  drove 
him,  in  1798,  again  to  Gijon.  In  1801,  he  was 
arrested  and  sent  to  a  Carthusian  monastery  in 
the  island  of  Majorca ;  thence,  in  1802,  transfer- 
red to  the  castle  of  Belver,  where  he  endored 
a  close  imprisonment  for  seven  years.  The 
change  of  public  affairs  in  1808  led  to  his  liber- 
ation. Joseph  Bonaparte  offered  him  a  place 
in  his  cabinet,  but  Jovellanos  refused  it,  and 
embracing  the  cause  of  the  insurgents,  became 
a  member  of  the  Central  Junta,  which  had 
the  diroction  of  the  patriotic  forces  in  defence 
of  the  throne  and  of  independence.  The  junta 
was  dissolved  in  1810,  in  the  island  of  Leon, 
and  Jovellanos  embarked  at  Cadiz  for  Astoria. 
But  he  was  driven  by  a  storm  to  Muros  de  Noya, 
in  Galicia,  where  he  was  detained  more  than  a 
year,  Asturia  being  then  occupied  by  the  French. 
He  finally  reached  Gijon  in  1811,  and  was  re- 
ceived with  acclamations  by  the  inhabitants. 
But  the  enemy  again  invaded  Asturia,  and  he 
was  forced  to  make  his  escape  by  sea.  Havin|r 
encounterod  violent  tempests,  he  died  of  an 
acute  pulmonary  complaint,  in  the  small  port 
of  Vega,  November  27, 1811. 


TO  THE  SUN. 

Great  parent  of  the  universe ! 
Bright  ruler  of  the  lucid  day ! 

Thou  glorious  Sun  !  whose  influence 
The  endless  swarms  of  life  obey. 
Drinking  existence  from  thy  ray !  — 

Thou,  who  from  ferth  the  opening  womb 
Of  the  fair  dawning  crystalline 
Com'st  radiant  to  thine  eastern  shrine. 
Pouring  thy  golden  floods  in  light 
O'er  humblest  veil  and  proudest  height ; 


JOVELLANOS.— TRIARTE IGLESIA8. 


781 


Whilst  thy  respleodeDt  car  reveals 
Its  rolling  adamantiDe  wheels, 
That  speed  sublime,  nor  leave  a  trace, 
Through  all  the  airy  realms  of  space : 
Welcome  thy  reign ! 
Thy  morning  beams 
And  crown  of  rays. 
Whose  glory  never  more  decays ', 
While  every  gladdening  bosom  feels  the  gleams 
Of  joy  and  peace  again !  — 
'Dark-shading  Night, 
Parent  of  treasons,  perfidies,  and  guile. 

Flies  from  thy  sight, 
And  ftr  in  deep  abysses  hides  the  while ; 

And  lazy  Sleep, 
Her  shadows,  lying  phantasms,  and  alarms, 

A  hateful  train. 
Melt  into  air ;  and  in  their  place  the  charms 

Of  lucid  light  and  joy  gay  vigil  keep; 
And  peace  and  pleasure  visit  us  again. 


TOMAS   DB  TRIARTE. 

T0MA8  D£  Yriarts  was  a  native  of  the  island 
of  TenerifTe,  where  he  was  born  September  18, 
1750.  He  studied  first  at  Orotava,  and  after- 
wards at  Madrid.  He  wrote  much  for  the 
stage,  furnishing  both  original  plays  and  trans- 
lations fh>m  the  French.  He  held  various  pub- 
lic employments,  and  wrote  constantly  for  the 
public ;  but  he  owes  his  literary  fame  chiefly  to 
a  poem,  entitled,  *<  Mdsica,'*  which  he  published 
in  1780,  and  the  "  Fibulas  Literarias,"  which 
appeared  in  1782.  In  1786,  he  fell  under  the 
censures  of  the  Inquisition,  on  a  charge  of  in- 
culcating infidel  principles,  and  was  obliged  to 
perform  a  secret  penance  to  obtain  absolution. 
His  laborious  and  sedentary  habits  aggravated 
the  gout  with  which  he  was  afflicted,  and  he 
died  September  17,  1791. 


FROM  THE  fIbULAS  LITERARIA& 
THE  ASS   AND   THE   FLUTE. 

Toir  must  know  that  this  ditty, 

This  little  romance, 
Be  it  dull,  be  it  witty, 

Arose  from  mere  chance. 

Near  a  certain  inclosure. 
Not  far  from  my  manse, 

An  ass,  with  composure. 
Was  passing  by  chance. 

As  he  went  along  prying, 

With  sober  advance, 
A  shepherd's  flute  lying. 

He  found  there  by  chance. 

Our  amateur  started 

And  eyed  it  askance. 
Drew,  nearer,  and  snorted 

Upon  it  by  chance. 
91 


The  breath  of  the  brute.  Sir, 
Drew  music  for  once ; 

It  entered  the  flute.  Sir, 
And  blew  it  by  chance. 

**  Ah  !  "  cried  he,  in  wonder, 
**  How  comes  this  to  pass  ? 

Who  will  now  dare  to  slander 
The  skill  of  an  ass.'" 


And  asses  in  plenty 

I  see  at  a  glance. 
Who,  one  time  in  twenty. 

Succeed  by  mere  chance. 


THE   BEAR  AlO)   THE   MONKEY. 

A  BEAR,  with  whom  a  Piedmontese 

Joined  company  to  earn  their  bread. 
Essayed  on  half  bis  legs  to  please 
,    The  public,  where  his  maslpr  led. 

With  looks  that  boldly  claimed  applause. 
He  asked  the  ape,  <*  Sir,  what  think  you  ?  " 

The  ape  was  skilled  in  dancing-laws. 
And  answered,  **It  will  never  do." 

*'  You  judge  the  matter  wrong,  my  friend," 
Bruin  rejoined ;  **  you  are  not  civil ! 

Were  these  legs  given  fbr  you  to  mend 
The  ease  and  grace  with  which  they  swivel  ?  " 

It  chanced  a  pig  was  standing  by : 

"  Bravo !  astonishing !  encore !  " 
Exclaimed  the  critic  of  the  sty; 

**  Such  dancing  we  shall  see  no  more ! ' 

Poor  Bruin,  when  he  heard  the  sentence. 

Began  an  inward  calculation ; 
Then,  with  a  face  that  spoke  repentance. 

Expressed  aloud  his  meditation  :  — 

'*  When  the  sly  monkey  called  me  dunce, 
I  entertained  some  slight  misgiving ; 

But,  Pig,  thy  praise  has  proved  at  once 
That  dancing  will  not  earn  my  living." 

Let  every  candidate  for  fame 

Rely  upon  this  wholesome  rule :  — 

Your  work  is  bad,  if  wise  men  blame ; 
But  worse,  if  lauded  by  a  fool. 


JOS]£  IGLESIAS  DE  LA  CASA. 

Josi  Iglssias  was  bom  at  Salamanca,  in 
1753.  H»  .studied  in  the  University  of  that 
city.  He  devoted  himself  particularly  to  the 
ancient  Spanish  poets,  and  to  humorous  and 
satirical  composition.  He  became  a  priest  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Salamanca,  and  discharg- 
ed the  duties  of  his  office  with  great  fidelity. 
Having  thus  consecrated  himself  to  the  church, 
he  abandoned  the  light  and  humorous  style  of 
his  early  writings,  and  wrote  in  a  more  serious 
vein.  He  died  August  26,  1791. 
3i 


722 


SPANISH  POETRY. 


SONG. 

Alexia  calls  me  cruel ; 

The  rifted  crags  that  hold 
The  gathered  ice  of  winter, 

He  says,  are  not  more  cold : 

When  even  the  very  blossoms 
Around  the  fountain's  brim, 

And  forest  walks,  can  witness 
The  love  I  bear  to  him. 

I  would  that  I  could  utter 
My  feelings  without  shame; 

And  tell  him  how  I  love  him, 
Nor  wrong  my  virgin  fame. 

Alas  !  to  seize  the  moment 
When  heart  inclines  to  heart, 

And  press  a  suit  with  passion, 
Is  not  a  woman's  part. 

If  man  comes  not  to  gather 
The  roses  where  they  stand, 

They  fade  among  their  foliage ; 
They  cannot  seek  his  hand. 


JUAN  MELENDEZ  VALDES. 

This  writer  was  born  at  Ribera,  in  the  bish- 
opric of  Badajoz,  March  11, 1754.  He  studied 
at  Madrid,  Segovia,  and  Salamanca.  At  the 
last  named  city,  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  gain 
the  friendship  of  Cadalso,  who  directed  his 
studies,  and  formed  his  taste  to  such  an  extent, 
that  it  was  said,  **Melendez  is  Cadalso's  best 
work.'  In  1781,  he  went  to  Madrid,  where 
he  became  acquainted  with  Jovellanos,  who  bad 
already  formed  a  very  favorable  opinion  of  his 
talents.  Jovellanos  took  him  into  his  house,  in- 
troduced him  to  his  friends,  and  did  all  that  the 
most  generous  friendship  could  suggest,  to  pro- 
mote his  success.  In  1784,  he  wrote  the  pas- 
toral comedy,  entitled,  "  Las  Bodas  de  Camacho 
el  Rico,"  and  in  1785,  published  bis  "  Poesias 
Liricas,"  which  were  received  with  extraordi- 
nary applause,  and  established  his  reputation  as 
a  poet.  In  1789,  he  received  an  appointment 
in  SaragOBsa,  and  in  1791,  was  transferred  to 
Valladolid.  In  1797,  he  was  called  to  Madrid, 
where  bis  friend  and  protector,  Jovellanos,  was 
at  the  height  of  his  power;  but  in  the  next  year 
he  shared  in  the  fall  of  his  illustrious  friend, 
and  was  banished  to  Medina  del  Campo,  and  in 
1800,  to  Zamora.  Having  passed  through  a 
series  of  vicissitudes,  caused  by  the  political  and 
military  occurrences  of  the  times,  he  returned 
to  Madrid,  after  the  capitulation  of  Baylen,  in 
1808.  With  the  final  overthrow  of  the  intru- 
sive government  of  the  French,  under  which  he 
had  accepted  office,  he  left  Spain,  and  passed 
the  remainder  of  his  life  in  France.  He  died 
at  Montpellier,  May  24,  1817. 


SACRED  ODE. 

Lord  !  in  whose  sight  a  thousand  years  but 

seem 
A  fleeting  moment,  —  O  Eternal  Being ! 
Turn  towards  me  thy  clemency, 
Lest  like  a  shadow  vain  my  brief  existence  fiee ! 

Thou  who  dost  swell  with  thine  inefiable 
Spirit  the  world,  —  O  Being  Infinite  ! 
Regard  me  graciously, 
Since  than  an  atom  more  invisible  am  I ! 

Thou  in  whose  mighty,  all-protecting  hand 
The  firmament  of  heaven  abides, — O  Power ! 
Since  of  my  soul  thou  know'st 
The  fallen  and  abject  state,  unveil  the  Tiitaoas 
boast ! 

Thou  who  dost  feed  the  world's  immensity, 
O  Fount  of  Life,  still  inexhaustible  > 
Hear  my  despised  breath. 
Since  before  thee  my  life  will  seem  but  wretch- 
ed death  I 

Thou  who  dost  see  within  thy  boundless  mind 
Whatever    was    or    will    be!  —  knowledge 
vast!  — 
Thy  light  I  now  implore. 
That  I  in  error's  shades  may  wander  lost  no 
more ! 

Thou,  who  upon  the  sacred  throne  of  heaTen 
In  glorious  light  dost  sit.  Immutable  ! 
For  thine  eternal  rest. 
Exchange,  my  Lord,  the  thoughts  of  this  unsta- 
ble breast ! 

Thou,  whose  right  hand,  if  from  the  abyss 

withdrawn. 
Doth  cause  the  stars  to  fall,  —  Omni[K>tent ! 
Since  I  am  nothing,  take 
Sweet  mercy  upon  me,  for  thy  dear  Jesus'  sake ! 

Thou,  by  whose  hand  the  sparrow  is  sustained. 
Father  of  all,  God  of  the  universe  ! 
Thy  gifls  with  gracious  speed 
Scatter  upon  my  head,  since  I  am  poor  indeed  ! 

Being  Eternal,  Infinite !  Soul !  Lifb ! 
Father  all-knowing !  wise,  omniscient  Power! 
From  thine  exalted  throne. 
Since  I  thy  creature  am,  look  down  upon  thine 
own ! 


NOON. 

Tuv  Sun,  'midst  shining  glory  now  concealed 

Upon  heaven's  highest  seat. 
Darts  straightway  down  upon  the  parched  field 

His  fierce  and  burning  heat ; 

And  on  revolving  Noonday  calls,  that  he 

His  flushed  and  glowing  fiice 
May  show  the  world,  and,  rising  from  the  sea, 

Aurora's  reign  displace. 


MELENDEZ   VALDES. 


723 


The  wandering  Wind  now  rests  his  weary  wings, 
And  hashed  in  silence  broods ; 

And  all  the  vocal  choir  of  songsters  sings 
Among  the  whispering  woods. 

And  sweetly  warbling  on  his  oaten  pipe 

Hig  own  dear  shepherd-maid, 
The  herdboy  leads  along  his  flock  of  sheep 

To  the  sequestered  shade ; 

Where  shepherd  youths  and  maids  in  secret 
bowers 

In  flong  and  feast  unite, 
In  joyful  band,  to  pass  the  sultry  hours 

Of  their  siesta  light. 

The  stnrdy  hunter,  bathed  in  moisture  well, 

Beneath  an  oak-tree's  boughs. 
Beside  his  faithful  dog,  his  sentinel, 

Now  yields  him  to  repose. 

All,  all  is  calm  and  silent   O,  how  sweet. 

On  this  enamelled  ground, 
At  ease  recumbent,  from  its  flowery  seat 

To  cast  your  eyes  around ! 

I 

The  busy  bee,  that  round  your  listening  ear 

Murmurs  with  drowsy  bum ; 
The  fiiithful  turtles,  perched  on  oak-trees  near. 

Moaning  their  mates'  sad  doom.' 

And  ever  in  the  distance  her  sweet  song 

Murmurs  lorn  Philomel ; 
While  the  hoar  forest's  echoing  glades  prolong 

Her  love  and  music  well. 


And  'midst  the  grass  slow  creeps  the  rivulet, 
In  whose  bright,  limpid  stream 

The  blue  sky  and  the  world  of  bougha  are  met. 
Mirrored  in  one  bright  gleam. 

And  of  the  elm  the  hoar  and  silvery  leaves 
The  slumbering  winds  scarce  blow } 

Which,  pictured  in  the  bright  and  tremulous 
waves. 
Follow  their  motion  slow. 

These  airy  mountains,  and  this  fragrant  seat. 
Bright  with  a  thousand  flowers ', 

These  interwoven  forests,  where  the  heat 
Is  tempered  in  their  bowers ! 

The  dark,  umbrageous  wood,  the  dense  array 
Of  trunks,  through  which  there  peers 

Perchance  the  town;  which,  in  the  glow  of 
day, 
Like  crystal  bright  appears ! 

These  cooling  grottoes!  — O  retirement  blest ! 

"Within  thy  calm  abode, 
dy  mind  alone  can  from  her  troubles  rest 

With  solitude  and  God. 

fhou  giv'st  me  life,  and  liberty,  and  love. 

And  all  I  now  admire; 
Lod  from  the  winter  of  my  soul  dost  move 

The  deep  enthusiast  fire. 


O  bounteous  Nature,  't  is  thy  healing  womb 

Alone  can  peace  procure  ! 
Thither  all  ye,  the  weary,  laden,  oome. 

From  storms  of  life  secure  ! 


TO  DON  GASPAR  MELCHIOR  JOYELLANOa 
FOB  THE  EASTER  HOLIDAYS. 

A  TRUCK  now,  dear  Jov6,  to  care  for  a  season  ! 
Come,  —  Easter  is  nigh, — to  the  lute  let  us 

Whilst  the  March  wind  pines  sadly,  gay  strains 
such  as  Teos 
Heard  warbled  'midst  grapes  to  her  bard's 
Attic  string. 
Or,  beside  the  mild  fire,  bid  with  exquisite  con- 
verse 
The  fugitive  hours  pass  in  brilliant  relief: 
They  go,  —  but  from  night's  shady  keeping  re- 
turn not; 
Why,  then,  by  lost  dreams  should  we  make 
them  more  brief? 

As  tcgold  the  white  down  on  the  summer  peach 
changes. 
So  the  bloom  that  my  cheek  early  feathered 
is  fled, 
And  the  years  that  have  passed,  bringing  wis- 
dom but  slowly, 
With  thousand  gray  ringlets  have  mantled  my 
head. 
I  have  seen  the  vale  smile  beneath  April's  sweet 
blossoms. 
Beneath  burning  June  have  I  seen  them  de- 
cay. 
And  the  pomp  and  profbsion  of  viny  October 
Befbre  dull  December  waste  coldly  away. 

Tes !  the  days  and  winged  months  escape  from 
us  like  shadows. 
And  years  follow  months,  as  the  sea-billows 
pass: 
Mind  it  not,  —  we  've  a  charm  against  Time's 
revolutions. 
In  the  bright  golden  liquor  that  laughs  in  the 
glass.  • 

Pour  it  out ;  crowned  with  myrtle  and  rose,  we 
will  frighten 
Chsgrin  far  away  with  our  long,  merry  shout. 
And  in  pledges  quafied  off  to  wit,  wine,  and  dear 
woman. 
Disregard  the  rude  elements  warring  without 

For  what  are  they  to  us,  if  our  bosoms  beat 
lightly. 
And  beauty  and  song  set  our  prisoned  souls 
free. 
Whilst  the  bliss  which  a  king  would  exchange 
for  a  sceptre,- 
Love,  the  holy  enchantress,  consigns  me  in 
thee.' 
I  remember,  one  eve,  when  the  sun,  half  in 
shadow. 
Sank  slow  to  his  own  western  island  afhr. 


724 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


Whilst  the  peasants  and  peasant-girls  danced 
near  my  trellis, 
And  I  in  the  porch  touched  my  festal  gaitar; 

How  I  sang  the  rich  treasure  which  Heaven,  in 
its  bounty, 
Had  lent,  to  console  me  in  pleasure  and  pain. 
And  in  prayers  for  thy  welfare  implored  all  its 
angels,  — 
Thy  welfare,  so  dear  to  our  own  native  Spain ; 
Smit  with  passionate  thirst,  in  my  right  hand 
the  beaker 
I  filled  till  the  bright  bubbles  danced  o'er  the 
top, 
And  to  thee  and  to  thine,  in  a  frenzy  of  feeling, 
Drained  it  manfully  off  to  the  last  purple  drop ; 

And  whilst  maiden  and  youth  stood  in  loud  ad- 
miration 
Applauding  the  feat,  how  I  filled  it  again. 
And  with   yet  deeper  rapture  a  second   time 
emptied 
Its  bowl  of  the  glory  that  brightened  my  brain; 
Singing  still,  singing  still,  in  my  zeal  for  thy 
glory. 
As  now  to  my  lute  m  its  ardent  excess, 
Thy  virtues,  thy  fame  in  the  land's  future  story. 
And  the  bliss,  more  than  all,  that  in  thee  we 
possess! 


LEANDRO  FERNANDEZ  MORATIN. 

Leakdro  Fernandez  Moratin,  the  son  of 
the  poet  Nicolas,  was  born  at  Madrid,  Marcli 
10,  1760.  His  fiither  destined  him  to  a  life  of 
business,  and  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  find, 
that,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  he  ventured  to  com- 
pete for  the  Royal  Academy's  poetical  prize,  by 
offering,  in  1779,  a  heroic  ballad  on  the  tak- 
ing of  Granada.  The  next  ye^  his  father 
died,  and,  in  order  to  support  his  mother,  he 
continued  to  work  several  years  at  the  trade  of 
jeweller,  in  which  he  had  been  brought  up. 
He  did  not,  however,  renounce  his  literary  oc- 
cupations. ,In  1786,  he  again  offered  a  poem 'to 
the  Royal  Academy  ;  but  it  was  not  until  1786 
that  he  was  able  to  find  a  position  suitable  to 
his  taste  and  talenu.  In  that  year,  the  Count 
de  Cabarrus,  being  sent  to  Paris  on  important 
business,  appointed  Moratin  his  secretary,  by 
the  advice  of  Jovellanos.  There  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  Goldoni,  who  contributed  to  the 
formation  of  his  taste  in  comedy.  Returning 
to  Spain,  he  received  from  the  government  an 
ecclesiastical  benefice,  and  was  ordained  in 
1789.  His  situation  was  greatly  improved,  soon 
after,  by  a  promotion  to  a  much  more  valuable 
benefice  in  Montoro,  which  enabled  him  to 
follow  his  literary  occupations  uninterruptedly. 
Having  obtained  leave  to  travel,  he  visited 
France,  England,  Flanders,  Germany,  Switzer- 
land, anill  Italy,  and  then  fixed  his  residence  at 
Bologna,  where  he  remained  until  1796,  when 


he  returned  to  Spain.  In  1808,  he  withdrew 
from  Madrid,  but  returning  with  the  French, 
was  appointed  librarian  in  1811.  Again,  when 
the  French  evacuated  Madrid  in  1812,  he  was 
forced  to  leave  the  capital,  and  was,  for  a  time, 
reduced  to  a  state  of  the  most  lamentable  desti- 
tution ;  but  at  length,  his  property,  which  had 
been  sequestrated,  was  restored  to  him.  In  1817, 
he  went  to  France,  and  remained  in  Paris  until 
1820,  and  thence  returned  to  Barcelona,  where, 
in  1821,  he  published  an  edition  of  his  father's 
writings.  Once  more  he  took  up  his  residence 
in  Paris,  where  he  died  June  21,  1828,  at  the 
age  of  sixty-eight. 


FROM  EL  VIEJO  Y  LA  THSa. 

DON  BOaUB. 

This,  MuSoz,  is  our  opportunity. 

•  XUNOZ. 

Go  to  !  go  to ! 

DON  ^oauB. 
But  look  ye,  now,  Munoz,  — 
This  is  our  opportunity  ;  while  I 
Keep  watch  to  see  if  any  one  approach. 
Do  thou  go  hide,  as  we  have  settled  it. 
Bestir !    Why,  how  now,  man  ^   How  slow  thou 
art! 

KUNOZ. 

I  am  not  very  lively,  it  is  true. 


DON  Boaua. 
despatch  !    On  this  aide  you 


Come,  come,  • 
can  enter. 

[He  walks  to  the  canopy.    Munoz  remaim  stUL 

KUKOZ. 

Sooth  to  say,  an  excellent  contrivance  ! 

DOK  Ro^va. 
How  now  ? 

ITONOZ. 

Go  to  !  —  I  say,  't  is  useless  all. 
What,  think  you,  shall  we  do  by  hiding  here  ? 
'T  is  labor  lost,  —  in  vain,  —  if  I  have  eyes. 
I  hope,  —  nay,  take  for  granted,  —  that  to-day 
They  go,  —  and  we  remain.   What  then  ?  Why, 

that 
Trouble  and  jealousies  will  never  ceaae. 

DOM  ROaUB. 

And,  prithee,  wherefore  ? 

MUNOZ. 

Canst  thou  not  diyine  ? 
Because  dull,  firozen  age  and  May-dde  youth 
Can  never  meet  in  dalliance.     If  she  live 
In  constant  fear,  —  to  solitude  condemned, — 
Each   day  to  play  the  nurse,  and  mend  your 

hose, — 
To  see  this  face  and  form,  for  aye,  —  to  hear 
The    endless    growling    of    your    phthtaicky 

cough,  — 
To  warm  o'  winter  nights  your  woollen  wrap- 
pers,— 
To  cook  your  herbs,  prepare  rank  ointments,  and 


L.   F.   MORA  TIN. 


725 


Tour  powders,  plasters,  cataplasms ; —  how  shall 
Her  delicate  hands  take  pleasure  in  such  work  ? 
T  is  mingling  oil  and  vinegar  !    Go  to  ! 
Believe  rae,  master,  though  she  smile,  her  ftce 
Portrays  her  heart's  dissemblance. 

DOM  BO<lUBi 

Thou  mistak'st,  — 

Prate  is  thy  pleasure.     Come,  now,  to  our  pur- 
pose ! 

XUNOS. 

I  will  not  crouch  me  like  a  spaniel  hound  ; 
And  thou  art  sore  beset  with  gins  and  traps. 
Look  to  hear  tender  whisperings  at  each  step ; 
Your  movements  will   be  watched  by  prying 

eyes, 
And  juggling  hands  will  dexterously  convey 
The  billet-doux,  for  assignations  sweet, 
When  they  may  carry  on  th^ir  vile  intrigues. 

DON  ROdUB. 

Ay,  now,  in  part  I  take  thy  meaning,  Munoz, — 
Her  inclination  hankers  for  such  fare  ! 

mrSoz. 
No,  no,  —  you  understand  not,  —  't  is  not  so : 
Her  age  —  her  age  is  that  wherein  lies  hid 
The   mystery.     Men   and   women  —  more   or 

less  — 
Have  minds  o*  th'  selfiame  metal,  mould,  and 

form. 
Doth  not  the  infant  love  to  sport  and  laugh, 
And  tie  a  kettle  to  a  puppy's  tail  ? 
Doth  not  the  dimpled  girl  her  kerchief  don 
(Mocking  her  elder)  mantilla-wise,  —  then  speed 
To  mass  and  noontide  visits,  where  are  bandied 
Smooth  gossip- words  of  sugared  compliment.^ 
But  when  at  budding  womanhood  arrived. 
She  casts  aside  all  childish  games,  nor  thinks 
Of  aught  save  some  gay  paranymph,  —  who, 

caught 
In  Love's  stout  meshes,  flutters  round  the  door. 
And  fondly  beckons  her  away  from  home ; 
The  whilst,  her  lady  mother  fain  would  cage 
The  foolish  bird  within  its  narrow  cell  ! 
And  then  the  grandam  idly  wastes  her  breath 
In  venting  saws  'bout  maiden  modesty 
And  strict  decorum,  —  from  some  musty  vol- 
ume: 
Bat   the   clipped    wings  'will   quickly   sprout 

again; 
And  whilst  the  doting  father  thinks  hb  child 
A  paragon  of  worth  and  bashfulness. 
Her  thoughts  are  hovering  round  the  precious 

form 
Of  her  sweet  furnace-breathing  Don  Diego ;  — 
And  he,  all  proof  'gainst  dews  and  nightly  blasts. 
In  breathless  expectation  waits  to  see 
His  panting  Rosa  at  the  postern-door ; 
While  she  sighs  forth,  "  My  gentle  cavalier !  " 
And  then  they  straightway  fall  to  kissing  hands. 
And  antic  gestures,  —  such  as  lovers  nse,  — 
Expreaeive  of  their  wish  quickly  to  tie 
The  Gordian  knot  of  marriage ;  pretty  creatures ! 
But  why  not  earlier  to  have  thought  of  this,  — 
When  he,  the  innocent  youth,  was  wont  to  play 


At  eoscogUla  ;  and  the  prattling  girl. 

Amid  her  nursery  companions,  toiled 

In  sempstress  labors  for  her  wooden  dolls  ? 

Ah  !  wherefore,  did  I  ask  ?  Because,  forsooth. 

Their  ways  are  changed   with   their  increasing 

years  ! 
For  when  for  gallantry  the  time  be  come, 
And  when  the  stagnant  blood  begins  to  boil 
Within  the  veins,  my  Master,  —  then  the  lads 
Cast  longing  looks  on  damosels ;  —  for  nature 
Defies  restraint,^ and  kin-birds  flock  together. 
And  think  not.  Master,  Chance  disposes  thus ; 
Or  were  it  so,  then  Chance  directs  us  all. 
Whene'er  we  have  attained  the  important  age. 
I  —  thy  Munov —  am  a  living  instance  ! 
Was  I  not  once  a  lively,  laughing  boy .' 
And,  in  my  stripling  age,  did  I  not  love 
The  pastimes  suited  to  those  madcap  days.' 
O,  would  to  Heaven   those  times  were  present 

still  ! 
But  wherefore  fret  myself  with  hopes  so  vain  ? 
The  silly  thought  doth  find  no  shelter  here,  — 
That  any  beauty,  with  dark,  roguish  eyes. 
With  sparkling   blood,  and   rising  warmth  of 

youth. 
Would  e'er  affect  this  wrinkled  face  of  mine  : 
The  very  thought  doth  smack  of  foolishness ! 
And  though  the  truth  may  be  a  bitter  pill, 
Yet,  Senor  Don  Roque  de  Urrutia, 
It  is  most  fitting  that  we  know  ourselves. 

DON  ROaUB. 

Peace,   peace,   good   Munoz,  for   the  love   of 

Heaven ! 
No  more  of  this,  —  for  every  word 
Is  a  sharp  dagger  to  my  heart. 

IfOnOZ. 

'T  is  meet 

That  I  explain  myself  in  phrases  such 

As  my  poor  wit  can  furnish. 


FROM  THE  EPISTLE  TO  LASO. 

SwsET  peace  of  mind,  that  only  mortal  joy. 
Can  ne'er  be  found,  until  ambitious  rage 
Is  quelled,  and  vicious  bonds  are  boldly  severed. 
Nor  hope  the  charm  to  find  in  poverty. 
Which  squalid  fevers,  and  despair,  and  crime 
Accompany,  —  nor  is  it  gained  by  all 
The  wealth  which  royal  coffers  can  bestow. 
The  unenlightened  vulgar  and  the  vain 
To  Fortune's  luring  idol  homage  bring ; 
But  prudent  moderation  is  alone 
The  virtue  of  the  wise.     O,  blest  is  he 
Who  in  the  golden  mean,  from  both  extremes 
Removed,  enjoys  that  calm  so  little  known  ! 
He  envies  not  his  neighbour's  happiness ; 
He  neither  fears  the  proud  man's  anger,  nor 
His  favor  courts  ;  truth  falling  from  his  tongue. 
He  Vice  abhors, — aitd  though  earth's  sceptre 

she 
Should  -  grasp,  and  servile  slaves  should  bow 

before  her. 
Free,  innocent,  retired,  and  happy  lives. 
Of  none  the  master,  and  of  none  the  slave. 
3i* 


726 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


O  thou,  fair  wandering  Arias*  humble  shore, 
So  rich  in  Ceres'  gifts,  her  fruits  and  vines  ! 
Thou  verdant  plain,  that  giv  'st  a  pasture  to 
The  wandering  flock !  thou  lofty-towering  hill ! 
Thou  forest  dark  and  cool !  —  ah !  when  shall  I, 
A  blest  inhabitant,  be  here  possessed 
Of  one  small,  rural,  and  convenient  spot, 
A  temple  sacred  to  the  Muses  and 
To    friendship,  —  grateful    unto    Heaven    and 

man, — 
And  see  my  fleeting  years  roll  gently  by 
In  a  delicious  peace  ?   A  frugal  board ; 
A  lovely  garden  rich  in  fruits  and  flowers, 
Which  I  myself  shall  till ;  melodious  streams 
From  summits  gliding  downward  to  the  vale, 
And  forming  there  a  smooth,  transparent  lake 
For  Venus'  swans ;  a  hidden  grotto,  decked 
With  moss  and  laurel ;  tuneful  birds,  that  flit 
Around  as  free  as  I ;  the  gentle  sound 
Of  humming  bees  around  the  honeycomb ; 
And  light  winds  breathing  odoriferous  balm  : 
This  is  sufficient  for  my  heart,  —  and  when 
At  length  the  silence  of  the  eternal  night 
In  gloom  envelopes  me,  I  shall  repose 
A  happy  shade,  if  but  some  tender  tears 
Should  sweetly  bathe  my  sepulchre. 


JUAN  BAUTISTA   DE  ARRIAZA  Y 
SUPERVIELA. 

Juan  Bautista  dk  Arriaza  was  born  at 
Madrid,  in  1770.  He  acquired  the  rudiments 
of  education  in  the  Seminary  of  Nobles  there, 
and  studied  the  sciences  in  the  military  school 
at  Segovia.  Having  completed  bis  studies,  he 
entered  the  service  of  the  royal  navy.  He 
continued  in  this  career  until  1798,  when  a  se- 
vere disease  of  the  eyes  compelled  him  to  retire. 
He  had  already  published  some  of  his  poems, 
which  showed  to  the  world  his  uncommon 
talents.  He  now  entered  upon  diplomacy,  and 
was  appointed  Secretary  of  Legation  in  London, 
where  he  finished,  in  1802,  his  descriptive  and 
moral  poem,  **  Emilia,"  which  was  published 
the  following  year  at  Madrid.  In  1805,  he 
went  to  Paris,  and  on  bis  return,  two  years  after- 
ward, to  Spain,  took  part  in  the  political  move- 
ments of  the  following  years,  and  maintained 
the  cause  of  the  king  and  of  absolutism,  both 
against  Joseph  Bonaparte  and  the  French  fac- 
tion, and  against  the  constitutional  party  of  1812. 
At  the  Restoration,  his  services  were  rewarded 
by  the  king  with  several  high  appointments  in 
the  court.  Thenceforward,  be  gave  much  of 
his  time  to  poetry.  The  best  edition  of  his 
lyrical  poems  was  published  at  Madrid,  in  1829, 
and  reprinted  at  Paris,  in  1834.  His  works  are 
distinguished  for  clearness,  harmony,  and  ele- 
gance of  style.  He  has  shown  great  fertility  of 
invention,  and  richness  of  genius.  Maury  says, 
**  Since  Lope  de  Vega,  Arriaza  is  the  only  one 
of  our  poets  who  seems  to  think  in  verse." 


THE  VAIN  RESOLUTION. 

Iif  fair  Elfrida's  chains  I  once  was  bound ; 

She  proudly  with  my  faithful  homage  bore. 
Then  scorned  my  vows :  —  but  time  has  closed 
the  wound, 

And  now,  O  Love,  I  swear  to  love  no  more ! 

Love,  in  these  latter  days  is  lost  in  art, 
And  with  the  frost  of  falsehood  it  is  hoar; 

It  has  no  charms  to  fascinate  the  heart, 

Its  better  reign  is  done :  —  I  '11  love  no  more ! 

*«Say,"  asked  the  little  god,  <«what  fears  af- 
fright thee  ? 
All  thy  fair  fortunes  I  will  soon  restore ; 
The  Graces,  three  in  one,  shall  now  delight 
thee."  — 
No  matter,  Love,  I  wish  to  love  no  more ! 

Delina  then  he  set  befi>re  my  eyes,  — 
One  like  the  fair  ideals  known  of  yore; 

A  star  she  seemed,  just  fallen  from  the  skies :  — 
But  still  I  swore  that  I  would  love  no  more ! 

At  her  fair  side  the  rose  would  lose  its  smile. 
And  pale  would  bum  the  beacon  on  the  shore ; 

Full  many  a  heart  her  charms  may  well  beguile, 
But  never  mine :  —  for  I  will  love  no  more ! 

She  walks,  —  and,  springing  up  to  kiss  her  feet. 
The  flowerets  seem  to  me  from  earth  to  soar ; 

She  sings,  with  voice  most  musically  sweet :  — 
Still,  still  I  swear  that  I  will  love  no  more ! 

Many  the  lovers  who  their  homage  bring; 

Her  conquests  I  would  surely  not  deplore, — 
Nay,  her  fair  praises  I  would  gladly  sing : 

I  give  my  verse,  —  but  I  will  love  no  more ! 

<*  Join  her  gay  train,"  the  blind  boy  sofUy  cried, 
"  Nor  weakly  fear  her  beauty  to  adore ; 

If  in  its  light  thy  heart  is  truly  tried, 

Thou  canst  renew  thy  vow  to  love  no  more.'* 

Strange  as  it  seems,  I  heeded  not  the  wile 
By  which  I  had  been  led  away  before, 

Nor  even  marked  Love's  bright  malicious  smile, 
As,  once  again,  I  swore  to  love  no  more  ! 

In  my  lost  heart  there  rises  every  hour 

A  purer  flame  than  that  which  burned  of  yore : 

Delina,  thou  hast  taught  me  all  Love's  power ! 
To  see  thee  is  to  love  tbee  evermore  I 


FRANCISCO  MARTINEZ  DE  LA  ROSA. 

This  distinguished  man  was  bom  at  Granada, 
March  10, 1789.  He  studied  at  the  University, 
and  afterwards  became  Professor  in  the  College 
of  San  Miguel.  When  Spain  was  invaded  in 
1808,  he  enlisted  under  the  standard  of  the  na- 
tional  party,  which  he  encouraged  and  supported 


MARTINEZ  DE  LA   ROSA.— RIVAS. 


727 


by  his  patriotic  writings.     He  was  obliged  to 
take  refuge  in  Cadiz  fi;om  the  victorioai  arms 
of  the  French.     He  was  intrasted  with  varioas 
diplomatic  negotiations,  and,  among  the  rest,  was 
sent  to  London,  where  he  published  bis  poem 
of  **Zaragoza."     On   his  return  to  Cadiz,  in 
1813,  be  composed  his  tragedy  of  **  La  Viuda 
de  Padilla,"   which   was   represented    in   the 
midst  of  the  siege  of  that  city,  so  that  the  spec- 
tators, on  their  way  to  the  theatre,  were  exposed 
to  danger  from  the  bursting  of  the  bombs  which 
were  continually  thrown  into  the  city  by  the 
French.    In  1814,  he  was  appointed  a  member, 
from  Granada,  of  the  cortes  convoked  at  Ma- 
drid.   At  the  Restoration,  he  was  sent  to  Africa, 
and  imprisoned  in  consequence  of  the  zeal  with 
which  he  had  supported  the  constitutional  par- 
ty.   The  revolution  oT  1820  restored   him  to 
liberty,  and  he  was  a  member  of  the  extraordi- 
nary cortes  of  1820  and   1821,  in  which  he 
distinguished  himself  by  his  eloquence  and  his 
moderation.     In  1822,  he  became,  against  bis 
will,  a  member  of  the  cabinet;  but  was  driven 
from  office  by  the  crisis  of  the  7th  of  July,  and 
came  near  losing  his  life.     The  Restoration  of 
1823  again  drove  him  into  banishment.     After 
travelling  through  Holland,  Switzerland,  and 
Italy,  he  fixed  his  residence  in  Paris,  where 
he  remained,  devoted  to  poetry  and  letters,  and 
occupied  with  the  publication  of  his  **  Obras  Lit- 
erarias,"  until  1831,  when,  by  the  king's  permis- 
sion, he  returned  to  his  country,  and  lived  in 
Malaga.      Here   he   collected  and  revised  his 
*<  Poeslas  Liricas,"  which  were  printed  in  1833, 
at  Madrid.     Since  then,  he  has  written  a  vari- 
ety of  historical,  lyrical,  and  dramatic  works. 
His  poetical   style  is  marked  by  ease,  pictu- 
resqueness,  and  harmony. 

THE  ALHAMBRA. 

Comb  to  my  bidding,  gentle  damsels  fair. 
That  haunt  the  banks  of  Douro  and  Genii ! 

Come,  crowned  with  roses  in  your  fragrant 
hair. 
More  fresh  and  pure  than  April  balms  distil ! 


With  long,  dark  locks  adown  your  shoulders 
straying; 

With  eyes  of  fire,  and  lips  of  honeyed  power ; 
Uncinctured  robes,  the  bosom  bare  displaying, 

Let  songs  of  love  escort  me  to  the  bower. 

With  love  resounds  the  murmur  of  the  stream; 
With  love  the  nightingale  awakes  the  grove ; 
0*er    wood  and    mountain   love  inspires   the 
theme. 
And  Earth  and  Heaven  repeat  the  strain  of 
love. 

£ven  there,  where,  *midflt  the  Alcazar's  Moorish 
pride. 

Three  centuries  of  ruin  sleep  profound. 
From  marble  walls,  with  gold  diversified. 

The  sullen  echoes  murmur  love  around. 


Where  are  its  glories  now.' — the  pomps,  the 
charms, 
The  triumph,  the  emprise  of  proud  display. 
The  song,  the  dance,  the  feast,  the  deeds  of  arms, 
The  gardens,  baths,  and  fountains,  —  where 
are  they  ? 

Round  jasper  columns  thorns  and  ivy  creep; 

Where  roses  blossomed,  brambles  now  o'er- 
spread : 
The  mournful  ruins  bid  the  spirit  weep ; 

The  broken  fragments  stay  the  passing  tread. 

Te  nymphs  of  Douro !  to  my  words  give  heed  ; 

Behold  how  transient  pride  and  glory  prove ; 
Then,  while  the  headlong  moments  urge  their 
speed. 

Taste  happiness,  and  try  the  joys  of  love. 


ANGEL    DB    SAAVEDRA,  DUQUE    DE 
RIVAS. 

This  nobleman,  who  unites  the  qualities  of 
the  soldier,  patriot,  and  statesman  to  the  genius 
of  the  poet  and  painter,  was  bom  at  C6rdova, 
March  1, 1791.  He  studied  in  the  Seminary  of 
Nobles  at  Madrid,  and  in  1807  entered  the  royal 
guards.  He  fought  in  the  battles  of  Rio  Seco, 
Tudela,  Ucl^s,  Ciudad  Real,  Talavera,  and 
Ocana.  In  the  last  he  received  eleven  severe 
wounds,  and  was  borne  from  the  field  by  a 
soldier  of  cavalry.  He  was  made  prisoner  at 
Malaga  by  General  Sebastiani,  but  succeeded 
in  escaping  to  Gibraltar,  and  afterwards  to  Ca- 
diz. He  was  present  during  the  whole  siege  of 
Cadiz,  and  took  part  in  the  battle  of  Chiclana. 
In  1620,  he  supported  the  constitutional  party 
with  great  zeal,  and  about  this  time  published 
two  volumes  of  **Poesias."  He  also  repre- 
sented Cdrdova  in  the  cortes,  and  when  that 
body  was  dissolved  by  the  French  in  1823,  he 
went  to  London,  where  he  occupied  himself 
with  literary  labors.  His  love  of  painting  at- 
tracted him  to  Italy.  He  reached  Leghorn  in 
July,  1825,  but,  not  being  allowed  to  remain 
there,  crossed  over  to  Malta,  where  he  was 
received,  both  by  the  English  and  the  natives, 
with  great  distinction.  While  here,  he  studied 
painting  and  literature,  and  finished  his  epic 
poem  of  *'  Florinda."  He  remained  in  Malta 
until  1830.  Not  being  permitted  by  the  gov- 
ernment of  Charles  the  Tenth  to  reside  in  Paris, 
he  opened  a  school  of  drawing  in  Orleans ;  but 
afler  the  July  revolution,  he  lived  in  Paris,  with 
his  wife  and  children.  In  1832,  he  finished  a 
work,  entitled  "El  Moro  Exp6sito,"  written  in 
the  romantic,  as  distinguished  from  the  classical 
style,  to  which  he  bad  adhered  in  his  former 
productions.  In  1834,  he  was  restored  to  his 
country,  and  having  succeeded  to  the  dukedom 
of  Rivas,  by  the  death  of  his  elder  brother,  took 
rank  among  the  chief  grandees  of  Spain.  Since 
then,  he  has  written  several  dramatic  pieces. 


728 


SPANISH   POETRY. 


ODE  TO  THE  LIGHTHOUSE-  AT  MALTA. 

Ths  world  in  dreary  darkneu  sleeps  profound ; 
The  storm-clouds  hurry  on,  by  hoarse  winds 
driven ; 
And  night's  dull  shades  and  spectral  mists  con- 
found 

Earth,  sea,  and  heaven  ! 

King  of  surrounding  Chaos !  thy  dim  form 

Rises  with  fiery  crown  upon  thy  brow. 
To  scatter  light  and  peace  amid  the  storm, 
And  life  bestow. 

In  vain  the  sea  with  thundering  waves  may 
peal 
And  burst  beneath  thy  feet  in  giant  sport. 
Till  the  white  foam  in  snowy  clouds  conceal 
The  sheltering  port : 

Thy  flaming  tongue  proclaims,   '<  Behold   the 
shore ! " 
And  voiceless  hails  the  weary  ^lilot  back. 
Whose  watchful  eyes,  like  worshippers,  explore 
Thy  shining  track. 

Now  silent  night  a  gorgeous  mantle  wears,  — 
By  sportive  winds  the  clouds  are  scattered 
far, 
And,  lo !  with  starry  train  the  moon  appears 
In  circling  car : 

While  the  pale  mist,  that  thy  tall  brow  enshrouds. 

In  vain  would  veil  thy  diadem  from  sight. 
Whose  form  colossal  seems  to  touch  the  clouds 
With  starlike  light. 

Ocean's  perfidious  waves  may  calmly  sleep, 
Tet  hide  sharp  rocks,  —  the  cliff,  false  signs 
display,  — 
And  luring  lights,  far  flashing  o'er  the  deep, 
The  ship  betray  : 

But    thou,  whose   splendor   dims  each   lesser 
beam,  — 
Whose  firm,  unmoved  position  might  declare 
Thy  throne  a  monarch's, —  like  the  North  Star's 
gleam, 

ReveaFst  each  snare. 

So  Reason's  steady  torch,  with  light  as  pure. 
Dispels   the  gloom,  when   stormy   passions 
rise. 
Or  Fortune's  cheating  phantoms  would  obscure 
The  soul's  dim  eyes. 

Since  I  am  cast  by  adverse  fortunes  here. 

Where  thou  presidest  o'er  this  scanty  soil, 
And  bounteous  Heaven  a  shelter  grants  to  cheer 
My  spirit's  toil ; 

Frequent  I  turn  to  thee,  with  homage  mute. 
Ere  yet  each  troubled  thought  is  calmed  in 
sleep, 
And  still  thy  gem-like  brow  my  eyes  salute 
Aliove  the  deep. 


How  many  now  may  gaze  on  this  seashore, 
Alas !  like  me,  as  exiles  doomed  to  roam ! 
Some  who,  perchance,  would  greet  a  wife  oooe 
more. 
Or  children's  home.' 

Wanderers,  by  poverty  or  despots  driven 

To  seek  a  refiige,  as  I  do,  afar. 
Here  find,  at  last,  the  sign  of  welcome  giren,  — 
A  hospitable  star ! 

And  still,  to  guide  the  bark,  it  calmly  shines, — 
The  bark  that  from  my  native  Iqpd  oft  bears 
Tidings  of  bitter  grieft,  and  mournful  lines 
Written  with  tears. 

When  first  thy  vision  flashed  upon  my  eyes. 

And  all  its  dazzling  glory  I  beheld, 

O,  how  my  heart,  long  used  to  miseries. 

With  rapture  swelled ! 

Inhospitable  Latinm's  shores  were  lost. 

And,  as    amid    the    threatening   waves   we 
steered. 
When  near  to  dangerous  shoals,  by  tempests 
tossed. 

Thy  light  appeared. 

No  saints  the  fickle  mariners  then  praised, 
But  vows  and  prayers  forgot  they  with  the 
nighti 
While  firom  the  silent  gloom  the  cry  was  raised, 
«« Malta  in  sight !  " 

And  thou  wert  like  a  sainted  image  crowned. 

Whose  forehead  bears  a  shower  of  golden  rays. 
Which  pilgrims,  seeking  health  and  peace,  sur- 
round 

With  holy  praise. 

Never  may  I  forget  thee !     One  alone 

Of  chAidhed  objects  shall  with  thee  aspire, 
King  of  the  Night !  to  match  thy  lofty  throne 
And  friendly  fire  : 

That  vision  still  with  sparkling  light  appears 
In  the  sun's  dazzling  beams  at  matin  hour, 
And  is  the  golden  angel  memory  rears 
On  CiSrdova's  proud  tower. 


JOSE  mar/a  HEREDIA. 

This  poet  was  a  native  of  the  island  of  Cuba. 
During  a  residence  in  the  United  Sutes,  in  the 
year  1825,  he  published  at  New  York  a  collec- 
tion of  pieces,  entitled,  <*Poes{as  de  Jos^  Maria 
Heredia,"  some  of  which  are  of  distinguished 
merit.  He  died  in  1839,  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
five  years.  _« 

NIAGARA. 

Mr  lyre !  give  me  my  lyre !  my  bosom  feels 
The  glow  of  inspiration.     O,  bow  long 
Have  I  been  left  in  darkness,  since  this  light 


HEREDIA. 


729 


Last  viuted  my  brow !     Niagara ! 

Thoa  with  thy  rushing  waters  dost  restore 

The  heavenly  gift  that  sorrow  took  away. 

-  Tremendous  torrent !  for  an  instant  hush 

The  terrors  of  thy  voice,  and  cast  aside 

Those  wide-involving  shadows,  that  n»y  eyes 

May  see  the  fearful  beauty  of  thy  face ! 

I  am  not  all  unworthy  of  thy  sight ; 

For  from  my  very  boyhood  have  I  loved. 

Shunning  the  meaner  track  of  common  minds, 

To  look  on  Nature  in  her  loftier  moods. 

At  the  fierce  rushing  of  the  hurricane. 

At  the  near  bursting  of  the  thunderbolt, 

I  have  been  touched  with  joy ;  and  when  the 

sea. 
Lashed  by  the  wind,  hath  rocked  my  bark,  and 

showed 
Its  yawning  caves  beneath  me,  I  have  loved 
Its  dangers  and  the  wrath  of  elements. 
But  never  yet  the  madness  of  the  sea 
Hath  moved  me  as  thy  grandeur  moves  me 

now. 

'    Thou  flowest  on  in  quiet,  till  thy  waves 
Grow  broken  'midst  the  rocks ;  thy  current  then 
Shoots  onward  like  the  irresistible  course 
Of  Destiny.     Ah,  terribly  they  rage, — 
The  hoarse  and  rapid  whirlpools  there!     My 

brain 
Grows  wild,  my  senses  wander,  as  I  gaze 
Upon  the  Jiurrying  waters;  and  my  sight 
Vainly  would  follow,  as  toward  the  verge 
Sweeps  the  wide  torrent     Waves  innumerable 
Meet  there  and  madden,  —  waves  innumerable 
Urge  on  and  overtake  the  waves  before. 
And  disappear  in  thunder  and  in  foam. 

They  reach,  they  leap  the  barrier,  —  the  abyss 
Swallows  insatiable  the  sinking  waves. 
A  thousand  rainbows  arch  them,  and  woods 
Are  deafened  with  the  roar.    The  violent  shock 
Shatters  to  vapor  the  descending  sheets. 
A  cloudy  whirlwind  fills  the  gulf^  and  heaves 
The  mighty  pyramid  of  circling  mist 
To  heaven.     The  solitary  hunter  near 
Pauses  with  terror  in  the  forest  shades. 


What  seeks  my  restless  eye  ?    Why  are  not 
here. 
About  the  jaws  of  this  abyss,  the  palms, — 
Ah,  the  delicious  palms,  —  that  on  the  plains 
Of  nay  own  nadve  Cuba  spring  and  spread 
Their  thickly  fbliaged  summits  to  the  sun. 
And,  in  the  breathings  of  the  ocean  air. 
Wave  flofi  beneath  the  heaven's  unspotted  blue  ? 

But  no,  Niagara,  —  thy  forest  pines 
Are  fitter  coronal  for  thee.     The  palm. 
The  efTeminate  myrtle,  and  frail  rose  may  grow 
In  gardens,  and  give  out  their  firagrance  there. 
Unmanning  him  who  breathes  it.     Thine  it  is 
To  do  a  nobler  office.     Generous  minds 
Behold  thee,  and  are  moved,  and  learn  to  rise 
98 


Above  earth's  frivolous  pleasures ;  they  partake 
Thy  grandeur,  at  the  utterance  of  thy  name. 

God  of  all  truth  !  in  other  lands  I  've  seen 
Lying  philosophers,  blaspheming  men, 
Questioners  of  thy  mysteries,  that  draw 
Their  fellows  deep  into  impiety  ; 
And  therefore  doth  my  spirit  seek  thy  face 
In  earth's  majestic  solitudes.     Even  here 
My  heart  doth  open  all  itself  to  thee. 
In  this  immensity  of  loneliness, 
I  fbel.thy  hand  upon  me.     To  my  ear 
The  eternal  thunder  of  the  cauract  brings  . 
Thy  voice,  and  I  am  humbled  as  I  hear. 

Dread  torrent,  that  with  wonder  and  with* 
fear 
Doet  overwhelm  the  soul  of  him  that  looks 
Upon  thee,  and  dost  bear  it  from  itself, — 
Whence  hast  thou  thy  beginning  ?     Who  sup- 
plies. 
Age  after  age,  thy  unexhausted  springs  ? 
What  power  hath  ordered,  that,  when  all  thy 

weight 
Descends  into  the  deep,  the  swollen  waves 
Rise  not  and  roll  to  overwhelm  the  earth  ? 

The  Lord  hath  opened  his  omnipotent  hand, 
Covered  thy  face  with  clouds,  and  given  his 

voice 
To  thy  down-rushing  waters ;  he  hath  girt 
Thy  terrible  forehead  with  his  radiant  bow. 
I  see  thy  never-resting  waters  run. 
And  I  bethink  me  how  the  tide  of  time 
Sweeps  to  eternity.     So  pass  of  man  -— 
Pass,  like  a  noonday  dream — the  blossoming 

days. 
And  he  awakes  to  sorrow.     I,  alas ! 
Feel  that  my  youth  is  withered,  and  my  brow 
Ploughed  early  with  the  lines  of  grief  and  care. 

Never  have  I  so  deeply  felt  as  now 
The  hopeless  solitude,  the  abandonment, 
The  anguish  of  a  loveless  life.     Alas ! 
How  can  the  impassioned,  the  unfrozen  heart 
Be  happy  without  love  ^     I  would  that  one. 
Beautiful,  worthy  to  be  loved  and  joined 
In  love  with  me,  now  shared  my  lonely  walk 
On  this  tremendous  brink.     'T  were  sweet  to 

see 
Her  dear  face  touched  with  paleness,  and  become 
More  beautiful  fh>m  fear,  and  overspread 
With  a  faint  smile  while  clinging  to  my  side. 
Dreams,  —  dreams !    I  am  an  exile,  and  for  me 
There  is  no  country  and  there  is  no  love. 

Hear,  dread  Niagara,  my  latest  voice ! 
Tet  a  few  years,  and  the  cold  earth  shall  close 
Over  the  bones  of  him  who  sings  thee  now 
Thus  feelingly.     Would  that  this,  my  humble 

verse. 
Might  be,  like  thee,  immortal !     I,  meanwhile. 
Cheerfully  passing  to  the  appointed  rest, 
Might  raise  my  radiant  forehead  in  the  clouds 
To  listen  to  the  echoes  of  my  fame. 


PORTUGUESE  LANGUAGE  AND  POilTRY. 


The  Portuguese  language  is  that  form  which 
the  Romance  assumed  on  the  Atlantic  seaboard 
of  the  Peninsula,  and  was  originally  one  and 
the  same  with  the  Galician  dialect  of  Spain. 
It  is  a  sister  dialect  of  the  Spanish  or  Castilian, 
to  which  it  bears  a  striking  resemblance. 
"  Daughters  of  the  same  country,"  says  a  Por- 
tuguese writer,*  "but  differently  educated,  they 
have  distinct  features,  and  a  different  genius, 
gait,  and  manner ;  and  yet  there  is  in  the  fea- 
tures of  both  that  family  likeness  (ar  de  fa- 
fnUia)^  which  is  recognized  at  the  first  glance." 
The  Portuguese  is  soKer  and  more  musical  than 
the  Spanish,  but  wants  the  Spanish  strength 
and  msjesty.  It  has  discarded  the  Arabic 
guttural,  but  has  adopted  the  equally  unmusical 
nasal  of  the  French. t  Sismondi  calls  it  im 
Castilian  disossi,  "  boned  Castilian." 

The  history  of  Portuguese  poetry  may  be  di- 
vided into  three  periods,  corresponding  with 
those  of  the  Spanish.  I.  From  1150  to  1500. 
II.  From  1500  to  1700. .  III.  From  1700  to 
the  present  time. 

I.  From  1150  to  1500.     The  first  names  re- 


*  Boaquejo  da  Hlstoria  da  Poeala  e  Lingua  Portugueza 
(by  ALMiiDA  GARBHTr),  In  FoHsacA's  Pamaao  Lusitano. 
5  vols.    Paris.    32im>. 

t  "  The  Romance,  oat  of  which  the  present  Portuguese 
language  haa  grown  "  (aaye  Bouterwek,  in  the  Introduaioo 
to  his  History  of  Spanish  and  Portugueee  Literature,  VoL 
I.,  pp.  12- 14),  "  was  probably  spoken  along  the  coast  of  the 
Atlantic  long  before  a  kingdom  of  Portugal  was  founded. 
Though  for  more  nearly  allied  to  the  GSstlllan  dialect  than 
to  the  Gauilonian,  It  resembles  the  latter  in  the  remarkable 
abbreviation  of  words,  both  In  the  grammatical  structure 
and  in  the  pronunciation.  At  the  same  time,  it  Is  strikingly 
distinguished  from  the  Castilian  by  the  toud  rejection  of  the 
guttural,  by  the  great  abundance  of  Its  hissing  sounds,  and 
by  a  natel  pronunciation  common  to  no  people  in  Europe 
except  the  French  and  the  Portuguese.  In  the  Spanish 
province  of  Galicia,  only  politically  separated  from  Portu- 
gal, this  dialect,  known  under  the  name  of  lingoa  Oalkgay 
Is  still  as  Indigenous  as  In  Portugal  Itself,  and  was,  at  an 
early  period,  so  highly  esteemed,  that  Alfonso  the  Tenth, 
king  of  Castile,  sumamed  the  Wise  id  Sabio),  com- 
posed verses  in  it.  But  the  Galician  modification  of  this 
dialect  of  the  western  shores  of  the  Peninsula  has  sunk, 
like  the  Oatalonian  Romance  of  the  opposite  coast,  Into  a 
mere  provincial  idiom,  in  consequence  of  the  Isnguage  of 
the  Castilian  court  being  adopted  by  the  higher  clsssei  in 
Galicia.  Indeed,  the  Portuguese  language,  which,  In  lU 
present  state  of  Improvement,  must  no  longer  be  con- 
founded with  the  popular  Idiom  of  Galicia,  would  have 
experienced  great  difficulty  in  obtaining  a  literary  culti- 
vation, had  not  Portugal,  which,  even  in  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury, formed  an  Independent  kingdom,  cooiuntly  vied  in 
arts  and  In  arms  with  Castile,  and  during  the  sixty  yesn 
of  bar  union  with  Spain,  from  1580  to  1640,  xealously 
maintained  her  particular  national  character." 


corded  in  the  annals  of  Portuguese  poetry  are 
those  of  Gonzalo  Hermiguez,  and  Egaz  Moniz. 
They  flourished  about  the  middle  of  the  twelfth 
century,  during  the  reign  of  Alfonso  the  First. 
They  were  knights  of  his  court,  and,  like  all 
poetic  knights,  since  knighthood  first  began, 
sang  of  love  and  its  despairs,  —  *'  the  sweet 
pains  and  pleasant  woes  of  true  love.*'  Some 
specimens  of  their  songs  have  been  published 
by  Faria  y  Souza.*  To  the  same  period  belongs 
also  the  first  essay  in  Portuguese  epic  poetry ; 
the  fragment  of  an  old  chronicle  of  the  con- 
quest of  Spain  by  the  Moors,  from  the  hand  of 
an. unknown  author. 

During  the  thirteenth  century,  no  advance 
was  made  in  Portuguese  poetry,  though  the  lan- 
guage became  more  fixed  and  subject  to  rtilea. 
In  the  last  half  of  this  century.  King  Diniz 
(Dionysius),  like  his  contemporary,  Alfi>nso  the 
Wise,  of  Spain,  displayed  himself  as  a  poet 
and  the  friend  of  poets.  He  likewise  founded, 
in  1290,  the  National  University.  His  poems 
are  preserved  in  Cancioneiros^ .  as  yet  unpub- 
lished. 

In  the  fourteenth  century,  the  entire  Portu- 
goese  Parnassus  seems  to  have  escheated  to  the 
crown.  Hardly  a  poetic  name  of  that  century 
survives,  which  does  not  belong  to  the  royal 
family.  Alfonso  the  Fourth,  son  of  King 
Diniz,  was  a  poet ;  so  was  his  brother,  Alfonso 
Sanchez ;  so  was  Pedro  the  First,  the  poetical 
part  of  whose  history  is  not  in  what  be  wrote, 
but  in  what  he  did,  in  the  romantic .  episode  of 
«« Ignez  de  Castro." 

The  Portuguese  poetry  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, like  the  Spanish,  is  preserved,  for  the 
most  part,  in  the  Song-books,  or  Canddmaros 
GeraesA  That  of  Garcia  de  Resende  is  aaid 
to  contain  the  names  of  more  aothors  than  the 
Spanish  collection,  that  is,  more  than  one  hun- 
dred and  thirty-six.  Among  these,  the  moat 
distinguished  are  Bernard  im  Ribeyro,  and  Chri»- 
tovaS  FalcaS.  Ribeyro  is  called  the  Portuguese 
Ennius;  and  his  fame  rests  chiefly  upon  bis 
eclogues,  and  his  pastoral  romance  in  prose, 
«« Menina  e  Moea  "  (The  Innocent  Maiden),  the 
prototype  of  Montemayor's  ^  Diana.**     FSilcao 

*  Europe  PortttguoML  Por  Mjotobl  db  Fabza  r  Soubjl. 
3  vols.    Llaboa.    1678-80.    foL 

t  The  Concioneiro  usually  spoken  of  is  that  of  Garcia 
de  Resende,  puUisbed  In  IBIH.  Another  was  made  In  1577, 
by  Father  Psdro  Ribeyro,  but  never  printed.  One  of  the 
series  of  the  "BiUlothek  des  Uterartehen  Terrins,*'  in 
Stuttgart,  now  In  press.  Is  entitled  "  Der  PbitiigQesiecba 
Cancloneiro,  herausgegeben  von  Archlvrath  Kausler.'*The 
full  title  is  not  given. 


PORTUGUESE   LANGUAGE   AND   PORTRY. 


731 


was  a  knigbt  of  the  order  of  Christ,  an  admiral, 
and  a  governor  of  Madeira,  as  well  as  a  poet 
His  principal  work  is  the  eclogue  of  **  Crisfkl," 
in  which,  as  in  the  writings  of  Ribeyro,  the 
Tagas,  the  Mondego,  and  the  rocks  and  groTos 
of  Cintra  form  the  scenery,  and  the  heroine 
is  the  poet's  mistress.  At  the  conclusion  of 
this  pastoral,  a  wood  nymph,  who  has  over- 
heard the  lover's  complaints,  "  inscribes  them 
on  a  poplar,  in  order,  as  it  is  said,  that  they 
may  grow  with  the  tree  to  a  height  beyond  the 
reach  of  vulgar  ideas.'*  * 

To  this  century  belong,  doubtless,  many  of 
the  Portuguese  ballads,  of  which  no  collec- 
tion has  yet  been  published.  This  was  the 
heroic  age  of  Portugal,  when  «*a  tender  as 
well  as  heroic  spirit,  a  fiery  activity  and  a  soft 
enthusiasm,  war  and  love,  poetry  and  glory, 
filled  the  whole  nation  ',  which  was  carried,  by 
its  courage  and  spirit  of  chivalrous  enterprise, 
far  over  the  ocean  to  Africa  and  India.  This 
separation  from  home,  and  the  dangers  encoun- 
tered on  the  ocean,  in  distant  climes,  and  on- 
known  regions,  gave  their  songs  a  tone  of  mel- 
ancholy and  complaining  love,  which  strangely 
contrasts  with  their  enthusiasm  ibr  action,  their 
heroic  fire,  and  even  cruelty.*'  f 

II.  From  1500  to  1700.  This  is  the  most 
illustrious  period  of  Portuguese  lilerature.  At 
its  commencement,  the  classic  or  Italian  taste 
was  introduced  by  Saa  de  Miranda,  and  Anto- 
nio Ferreira,  as  it  was  in  Spain  by  Boscan  and 
Garcilaso.  Saa  de  Miranda  is  called  the  Portu- 
guese Theocritus,  as  indicating  his  supremacy 
in  bucolic  poetry.  Living  for  the  most  part  in 
the  seclusion  of  the  country,  he  made  his  song 
an  image  of  his  life ;  for  he  divided  his  hours 
between  domestic  ease,  hunting  the  wolf  through 
the  forests  of  Entre  Douro  e  Minbo,  and,  as 
he  himself  expresses  it,  *'  culling  flowers  with 
the  Muses,  the  Loves,  and  the  Graces."  From 
his  solitude  he  sang  to  his  countrymen  the  charms 
of  a  simple  life,  the  dangers  of  foreign  luxuries, 
and  the  enervating  effecu  of  "  the  perfumes  of 
Indian  spices."  Antonio  Ferreira  was  sumamed 
the  Portuguese  Horace.  He  is  distinguished 
for  the  beauty  of  his  odes,  which  have  become 
the  models  for  the  poets  of  his  nation,  as  those 
of  Herrera  and  Luis  de  Leon  are  for  those  of 
Spain.  To  these  distinguished  names  may  be 
added  a  third,  of  equal,  if  not  greater,  distinc- 
tion, that  of  Gil  Vicente,  the  Portuguese  Plau- 
tus.  Had  he  been  born  later,  or  under  more 
auspicious  dramatic  influences,  he  might  have 
stood  beside  the  great  Lope  de  Vega ;  as  it  is, 
his  fame  is  by  no  means  inconsiderable,  and 
Erasmus  is  said  to  have  studied  Portuguese 
for  the  purpose  of  reading  his  comedies.  He 
persevered  to  the  last  in  adhering  to  the  old 
national  taste,  in  opposition  to  the  new  school 
of  Saa  de  Miranda  and  Ferreira. 

But  the  greatest  poet  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 


*  Ross's  BODTBRWBK,  VoI.  IL,  pu  42. 

t  Encyclopedia  Amerleana,  Art.  Portugueat  Language 
and  Literature. 


tury,  as  of  all  others  in  Portuguese  poetry,  is 

he  who  sang  of 

"  the  renowned  men,, 
Who,  fhmi  the  weetem  Luslumian  ebon, 
SuUng  through  aeas  man  never  sailed  before, 
FSMed  beyond  Taprobane,"  — 

Luis  de  Camoens,  author  of  the  national  epic, 
"Os  Lusiadas,"  who  lived  in  poverty  and 
wretchedness,  died  in  the  Lisbon  hospital,  and, 
aAer  death,  was  sumamed  the  Great,  —  a  title 
never  given  before,  save  to  popes  and  emperors. 
The  life  of  no  poet  is  so  full  of  vicissitude  and 
romantic  adventure  as  that  of  Camoens.  In 
youth,  \kB  was  banished  from  Lisbon  on  account 
of  a  love  affair  with  Catharine  de  Attayda,  a 
dama  do  pa^o,  or  lady  of  honor  at  court ;  - 
he  served  against  the  Moors  as  a  volunteer  on 
board  the  fleet  in  the  Mediterranean,  and  lost 
his  right  eye  by  a  gun-shot  wound  in  a  battle 
off  Ceuta ;  he  returned  to  Lisbon,  proud  and 
poor,  but  found  no  favor  at  court,  and  no  means 
of  a  livelihood  in  the  city  ;  he  abandoned  his 
native  land  fbr  India,  indignantly  exclaiming 
withScipio,  **Ingratapatria,ium  possidetis  ossa 
"  mea ! "  three  ships  of  the  squadron  were  lost 
in  a  storm,  he  reached  Goa  safely  in  the  fourth ; 
he  fought  under  the  king  of  Cochin  against 
the  king  of  Pimenta ;  he  fought  against  the 
Arabian  corsairs  in  the  Red  Sea ;  he  was  ban- 
ished from  Goa  to  the  island  of  Macao,  where 
he  became  administrator  of  the  effects  of  de- 
ceased persons,  and  where  he  wrote  the  great- 
er part  of  the  **  Lusiad  " ; '  he  was  shipwrecked 
on  the  coast  of  Camboya,  saving  only  his  life  and 
his  poem,  the  manuscript  of  which  he  brought 
ashore  saturated  with  sea- water ;  he  was  accus- 
ed of  malversation  in  office,  and  thrown  into 
prison  at  Goa ;  aAer  an  absence  of  sixteen 
years,  he  returned  in  abject  poverty  to  Lisbon, 
then  ravaged  by  the  plague ;  he  lived  a  few 
years  on  a  wretched  pension  granted  him  by 
King  Sebastian  when  the  '*  Lusiad  "  was  pub- 
lished, and  on  the  alms  which  a  slave  he  had 
brought  with  him  from  India  collected  at  night 
in  the  streets  of  Lisbon ;  and  finally  died  in 
the  hospital,  exclaiming,  "  Who  could  believe 
that  on  so  small  a  stage  as  that  of  one  poor  bed 
Fortune  would  choose  to  represent  so  great  a 
tragedy?"  Thus  was  completed  the  Iliad  of 
his  woes.  Fifteen  years  aflerward,  a  splendid 
monument  was  erected  to  his  memory  ;  so  that, 
as  has  been  said  of  another,  *'  he  asked  for 
bread,  and  they  gave  him  a  stone." 

The  other  poets  of  this  century  are  eclipsed 
and  rendered  almost  invisible  by  the  superior 
splendor  of  Camoens.  Those  most  worthy  of 
mention  among  them  are  Pedro  de  Andrade 
Caminba,  and  Dtogo  Bernardes,  both  admirers 
and  disciples  of  Ferreira  and  the  classic  school ; 
and  Francisco  Rodriguez  Lobo,  whose  **  Corte 
na  Aldea,  e  Noites  de  Inverno  "  (The  Court  in 
the  Country,  and  Winter  Nights),  with  its  state- 
ly phrases  and  Ciceronian  fulness  of  periods,  is 
one  of  the  earlidbt  specimens  of  elegant  and 
cultivated  prose  in  Portuguese  literature,  and 


732 


PORTUGUESE   LANGUAGE  AND    POETRY. 


in  whose  three  pastoral  roiDancea,  "  Primave- 
ra"  (Spring),  »*  O  Pastor  Peregrino "  (The 
Wandering  Shepherd),  and  *' O  Desenganado  " 
(The  Disenchanted),  the  whole  bacolic  passion 
of  the  nation  seems  to  hare  reached  its  per- 
fect blossom  and  most  luxuriant  expansion,  till, 
overpowered  by  excess,  in  dreamy  mazes  lost, 
the  reader  begins  to  **  envy  no  man's  nightin- 
gale or  spring,'*  and  exclaims,  with  George 
Herbert  — 

"  U  it  not  verse,  except  enchanted  groves 

And  sudden  arboura  shadow  coarse-spun  lines  f 
Must  purling  streams  refresh  a  lover's  loves? 
Must  all  be  veiled,  while  he  that  reads  divines, 
Catching  the  sense  at  two  removes  1 " 


To  the  sixteenth  century  belongs  the  ok>igin  of 
the  Portuguese  drama,  or,  perhaps,  mo^  prop- 
erly speaking,  its  entire  history.  It  begins  with 
Saa  de  Miranda ;  for,  if  any  dramatic  works  were 
produced  before  his  day,  they  are  now  lost  and 
forgotten.  He  is  the  author  of  two  comedies  in 
prose,  which  are  imitations  of  Plautus  and  Te- 
rence, and  in  their  general  character  not  unlike 
the  Italian  imitations  of  these  classic  models,  of 
the  same  age,  the  **Calandria"  of  Cardinal 
Bibbiena,  and  Ariosto's  "Cassaria.'*  Ferreira 
also  wrote  plays;  and  notwithstanding  he  was 
called  the  Portuguese  Horace  for  the  excellence 
of  his  odes,  his  fame  at  the  present  day  rests 
chiefly  upon  his  tragedy  of  ^^Ignez  de  Castro." 
The  subject  of  this  tragedy  is  drawn  from  Portu* 
^uese  history,  being  the  well  known  tale  of  Dom 
Pedro's  wife.  In  style  and  management  it  is 
an  imitation  of  the  Greek  tragedy,  with  chorus- 
es of  Coimbrian  women. 

But  the  greatest  of  the  old  playwrights,  and, 
in  truth,  the  greatest  dramatic  genius  that  Por- 
tugal has  produced,  is*Gil  Vicente,  who,  as  has 
already  been  remarked,  is  surnamed  the  Portu- 
guese Plautus.  He  belongs  to  the  national  or 
romantic,  not  to  the  classic  school ;  and  has 
left  behind  him  thirty-four  pieces  in  his  native 
tongue,  and  several  others  in  Spanish.  They 
are  divided  into  Christmas  plays,  or  autos  seteru" 
mewtales,  comedies,  tragi-comedies,  and  farces. 
Of  these,  the  autos  are  the  most  important,  and 
display  most  prominently  the  author's  charac- 
teristic beauties  and  defects.  The  following 
analysis  of  some  of  his  pieces  is  from  Bouter- 
wek's  excellent  "  History  of  Portuguese  Litera- 
ture "  (pp.  9S  — 99),  aiid  shows  with  what  gandy 
colors,  and  on  how  large  a  canvass,  this  ancient 
scene-painter  illustrated  his  art. 

**The  invention  and  the  execution  of  Gil 
Vicente's  autos  present  an  equal  degree  cf 
rudene«8.  The  least  artificial  are  also  those 
in  which  the  most  decided  traits  of  national 
character  appear.  The  shepherds  and  shep- 
herdesses who  are  introduced  into  these  autos 
are  Portuguese  and  Spanish  both  in  their  names 
and  manners.  Their  simple  phrases  and  turns 
of  language  are  similar  to  those  employed  by 
the  characters  in  Saa  de  Miranda's  eclogues, 
except  that  their  discourse  is  more  negligent, 
and  occasionally  more  coarse.     In  combining 


the  appearance  of  angels,  the  Devil,  the  Holy 
Virgin,  and  allegorical  characters,  with  popular 
scenes,  an  effect  perfectly  consistent  with  the 
ideas  of  the  audience  was  produced ;  for,  ac- 
cording to  the  Catholic  doctrine,  the  miracles 
with  which  Christianity  commenced  are  con- 
tinued without  intermission  ;  through  the  mys- 
teries of  faith,  the  connection  between  the 
terrestrial,  celestial,  and  infernal  worlds  is  de- 
clared ;  and  by  allegory,  that  connection  is  ren- 
dered perceptible.  The  critic  would  therefore 
judge  very  unfairly,  were  he  to  regard  as  proofi 
of  bad  taste  the  consequences  which  a  poet 
naturally  entails  on  himself  in  writing  according 
to  the  spirit  of  his  religion.  Making  allow- 
ance, however,  for  that  spirit,  the  rudeness  of 
Gil  Vicente's  autos  must  be  acknowledged 
even  by  him,  who,  measuring  them  by  the  rule 
of  critical  judgment,  is  perfectly  disposed  to 
view  every  system  of  religion  only  on  its  poetic 
side.  For  instance,  in  one  of  the  simplest  of 
ihese  autoSj  some  shepherds,  who  discourse  in 
Spanish,  enter  a  chapel,  which  b  decorated 
with  all  the  apparatus  necessary  for  the  cele- 
bration of  the  festival  of  Christmas.  The 
shepherds  cannot  sufficiently  express  their  rus- 
tic admiration  of.  the  pomp  exhibited  in  the 
chapel.  Fai|h  (La  JRQ  enters  as  an  allegorical 
character.  She  speaks  Portuguese,  and,  afler 
announcing  herself  to  the  shepherds  as  True 
Faith,  she  explains  to  them  the  nature  of  faith, 
and  enters  into  an  historical  relation  of  the 
mysteries  of  the  incarnation.  This  is  the  whole 
subject  of  the  piecet  Another  atcfo,  in  which 
the  poet's  fancy  has  taken  a  wider  range,  pre- 
sents scenes  of  a  more  varied  nature.  Mercury 
enters  as  an  allegorical  character,  and  as  the 
representative  of  the  planet  which  bears  his 
name.  He  explains  the  theory  of  the  plane- 
tary system  and  the  zodiac,  and  cites  astro- 
nomical facts  from  Regiomontanus,  -in  a  long 
series  of  stanzas  in  the  old  national  style.  A 
seraph  then  appears,  who  is  sent  down  from 
heaven  by  God  in  compliance  with  the  prayers 
of  Time.  The  seraph,  in  the  quality  of  a 
herald,  proclaims  a  large  yearly  fkir  in  honor 
of  the  Holy  Virgin,  and  invites  customers  to  it. 
A  devil  next  makes  his  appearance  with  a 
little  stall  which  he  carries  before  him.  He 
gets  into  a  dispute  with  Time  and  the  seraph, 
and  asserts  that  among  men  such  as-  they  are 
he  shall  be  sure  to  find  purchasers  for  his  wares. 
He  therefore  leaves  to  every  customer  his  free 
choice.  Mercury  then  summons  Eternal  Rome 
as  the  representative  of  the  church.  She  ap- 
pears, and  offers  for  sale  peace  of  mind,  as  the 
most  precious  of  her  merchandise.  The  devil 
remonstrates,  and  Rome  retires.  Two  Por- 
tuguese peasants  now  appear  in  the  market. 
One  is  very  anxious  to  sell  his  wife,  and  ob- 
serves, that,  if  be  cannot  sell  her,  he  will  give 
her  away  for  nothing,  as -she  is  a  wicked  spend- 
thrift. Amidst  this  kind  of  conversation,  a 
party  of  peasant  women  enter,  one  of  whom, 
with  considerable  comic  warmth,  vents  bitter 


PORTUGUESE  LANGUAGE  AND  POETRY. 


733 


eomplainti  agtinst  her  busband.    Tbe  man  who 
has  aJready  been  inveighing  against  his  wifi» 
immediately  recognizes  her,  and  says,  *  That  is 
my  slippery  helpmate.'     Daring  this  snccession 
of  comic  scenes,  the  action  does  not  advance. 
The  devil  at  last  opens  his  little  stall,  and  dis- 
plays his  stock  of  goods  to  the  female  peaa- 
ant8;'but  one  of  them,  who  is  the  most  pious 
of  the  party,  seems  to  suspect  that  all  is  not 
quite  right  with  regard   to  the   merchandise, 
and  she  exclaims,  *  Jesus  !  Jesus  !     True  Gk>d 
and  man!'     The  devil  immediately  takes  to 
flight,  and  does  not  reappear;  but  the  seraph 
again  comes  forward  and  mingles  with  the  rus- 
tic groups.     The  throng  continues  to  increase ; 
other   countrywomen,  with   baskets    on    their 
heads,  arrive ;  and  the  market  is  stored  with 
vegetables,  poultry,  and  other  articles  of  rural 
produce.    The  seraph  offers  virtues  for  sale; 
but  they  find  no  purchasers.     The  peasant  girls 
observe,  that  in  their  village  money  is  more 
sought  after  than  virtue,  when  a  young  man 
wants  a  wife.      One  of  the   party,  however, 
says,  that  ^  she  wished  to  come  to  the  market, 
because  it  happened  to  fell  on  the  festival  of 
the  Mother  of  God ;  and  because  the   Virgin 
does  not  sell  her  gifts  of  grace  (as  gramas),  but 
she  distributes  them  gratis  (de  graga).    This  ob- 
servation crowns  the  theological  morality  of  the 
piece,  which  terminates  with  a  hymn  of  praise,  in 
the  popular  style,  in  honor  of  the  Holy  Virgin. 
» These  specimens  will  afford  an  adequate 
idea  of  the  spirit  and  style  of  Gil  Vicente's 
auios.     His  largest  work  of  this  class  may, 
however,  be  referred  to,  in  proof  of  the  little 
attention  he  bestowed  on  dramatic  plan  in  the 
composition  of  his  spiritual  comedies.     It  pur- 
ports to  be    *A   Summary  of  the  History  of 
God.*     After  the  prologfoe,  which  is  spoken  by 
an  angel.  Sir  Lucifer  {Senkor  Lue{fer)  entefs, 
attended   by   a  numerous    retinue    of   devils. 
Belial  is  president  of  his  court  of  justice  /fnetn'ii- 
ko  de  eorte)j  and  Satan  gentleman  of  his  privy 
council  (fidalgo  do  eansdko).     After  this  privy 
councillor  has  performed  his  part  in  the  temp- 
tation of  Adam  and  Eve  in  Paradise,  the  whole 
details  of  which  are  represented  on  the  stage, 
Lucifer  confers  on  him  the  dignities  of  duke 
and   captain   of  the  kingdoms  of  the  world. 
Next  succeeds  a  series  of  scenes  which  sum- 
marily  represent  the  history  of  the  Christian 
redemption^      The    World,    accompanied    by 
Time  and  angels,  enters  as  a  king.     The  rep- 
resentation of  the  fall  of  man  is  followed  by 
the  history  of  Abel,  by  whom  a  beautiftil  and 
simple  hymn  is  sung.     The  next  scenes  exhibit 
the  histories  of  Abraham,  Job,  and  David ;  and 
thus  the  auto  proceeds  through  the  incidents  of 
the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  until  the  ascen- 
sion of  Christ,  which  is  represented  on  the  stage 
amidst  an  accompaniment  of  drums  and  trum- 
pets. 

««  On  comparing  the  atOos  of  Gil  Vicente  with 
those  of  Calderon,  the  difference  appears  not 
much  less  considerable  than  that  which^xists  be- 


tween the  works  of  Hans  Sachs  and  Shakspelire. 
But  the  graceful  simplicity  with  which  many  of 
the  scenes  of  these  spiritual  dramas  are  executed 
raises  the  Portuguese  poet  infinitely  above  the 
poetic  shoemaker  of  Nuremberg." 

Camoens,  also,  was  a  dramatic  writer,  and  has 
left  behind  him  three  comedies,  which  were 
probably  written  in  his  youth,  and  rather  show 
the  versatility  of  his  talent  than  increase  his 
fame.-  In  the  latter  half  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, the  Portuguese  stage,  like  the  Portuguese 
monarchy,  was*  subdued  by  the  Spanish,  and 
Lope  de  Vega  took  possession  of  the  theatre,  as 
Philip  did  of  the  throne.  There  was  no  longer 
a  national  court  nor  a  national  drama. 

In  the  seventeenth  century,  the  national  taste 
became  more  and  more  corrupted,  and  the  in- 
fluences of  the  Spanish  language  and  literature 
were  more  extensive  and  obvious.  Few  names 
are  recorded,  and  these  few,  like  words  written 
with  phosphorus,  bum  with  a  pale  light,  and 
are  visible  only  from  the- surrounding  darkness. 
.This  century  has  been  called  7^  Ags  of  Som- 
nets.  Manoel  de  Faria  e  Souza,  the  commen- 
tator of  the  **Lusiad,"  opened  the  poetic  can- 
nonade with  six  hundred,  or,  as  he  expresses  it, 
^«  Six  Centuries  of  Sonnets."  He  was  followed 
by  Barbosa  Bacellar,  noted  for  his  SoMdadts^ 
or  **  Complaints  of  a  Lovelorn  Heart,  vented  in 
Solitude  " ;  then  came  Torrezao  Coelbo,  Ribeiro 
de  Macedo,  Correa  de  la  Cerda,  Violante  do  Ceo, 
Jeronymo  Bahia,  and  Alvares  da  Cunha,  all 
infected  with  It4lian  Marinism  an^  the  Span- 
ish Gongorism.  Bahia  wrote  an  idyl,  of  fifty 
octavo  pages,  on  a  chandelier  which  the  duchess 
of  Savoy  presented  to  the  queen  of  Portugal ; 
and  Da  Cunha  says,  in  one  of  his  epistles, 
**  Though  the  pen  touch  softly  the  guitar  of  the 
paper,  rude  thunder  resounds  from  that  guitar." 
One  poet,  however,  Freire  de  Andrada,  arose 
in  determined  opposition  to  this  bad  taste,  and 
opposed  it  with  ineffectual  sallies  of  wit,  and  a 
comic  power,  which,  had  it  been  employed  upon 
themes  of  more  general  interest,  would  have 
given  him  a  more  prominent  station  in  the  liter- 
ature of  his  country.  The  writings  of  the  most 
celebrated  of  these  poets  may  be  found  in  a  col- 
lection entitled  ^*A  Fenix  Renascida,"  edited 
by  Matthias  Pereira  da  Sylva.* 

III.  From  1700  to  tbe  present  time.  At 
length,  the  long  caravan  of  sonneteers,  crossing 
the  desert  of  the  seventeenth  century,  disap- 
pears, and  the  tinkling  of  their  little  rhymes  is 
heard  no  more ;  but  the  barren  waste  is  around 
us  still,  and  at  the  commencement  of  the  eight- 
eenth century,  like  the  Sphinx  half  buried  in 
the  sand,  lies  the  '*  Henriqueida  "  of  Ericeyra, 
in  all  its  epic  ponderosity.  Francisco  Xavier 
de  Menezes,  Conde  da  Ericeyra,  was  president 
of  the  Spanish  Academy,  and  a  man  of  distinc- 
tion and  letters.  He  was  mainly  instrumental 
in  introducing  into  Portuguese  literature  the 

*  A  Fenlx  Renawida,  ou  Obraa  Poeticas  dos  melhores  en- 
fsnhoa  Portugueaea.  Segvnda  Edl^.  3  vols.  Liaboa :  1746. 
8vo. 

8j 


734 


PORTUGUESE   LANGUAGE   AND   POETRY. 


French  taste,  which  prevailed  extensively, 
though  not  universally,  during  the  first  part  of 
this  period.  His  principal  work  is  the  "  Hen- 
riqueida,*'  an  epic  poem,  of  which  Henry  of 
Burgundy,  the  founder  of  the  Portuguese  mon- 
archy, is  the  hero.  '*  In  his  theoretical  intro- 
duction," says  Bouterwek,  "  Ericeyra  declares, 
that  he  has,  in  a  certain  measure,  endeavoured 
to  imitate  all  epic  poets,  and  to  imbibe  a  portion 
of  the  manner  of  each ;  but  had  he  withheld 
this  acknowledgment,  no  reader  acquainted  with 
other  epic  poems  could  have  failed  to  recog- 
nize in  the  '  Henriqueida '  the  styles  of  Homer, 
Virgil,  Ariosto,  Tasso,  and,  progressively,  of 
Lucan,  Silius  Italicus,  and  Statins,  but  without 
ever  discerning  the  animating  spirit  of  genuine 
poetry.  The  tedious  coldness  which  pervades 
the  whole  poem  destroys  the  effect  of  those 
incidental  beauties  of  style  which  it  roust  be 
allowed  to  possess."  *  Five  counts  of  Ericeyra, 
in  succession,  were  distinguished  as  men  of 
letters ;  till  at  length  a  degenerate  scion  of  the 
race  scattered  the  magnificent  library  that  five, 
generations  had  accumulated,  and  even  bartered 
.  a  portion  of  .its  treasures  for**  a  great  Spanish 
ass!"t 

This  was  the  iron  age  of  Portuguese  song. 
But  in  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
sublime  and  more  harmonious  strains  were 
heard,  welcome  as  music  at  night,  in  the  odes 
of  Pedro  Antonio  Correa  Gar^ao.  He  was  the 
founder  of  the  Arcadian  Society,  and  the  first 
to  renovate  the  spirit  of  poetry  in  his  benighted 
country ;  and  he  perished  miserably  in  a  dun- 
geon. He  was  followed  by  Antonio  Diniz  da 
Cruz,,  also  an  Arcadian,  who  wrote  a  "  Century 
of  Sonnets,*'  and  a  heroi-comic  poem,  entitled 
"O  Hysope,"  the  Hyssop,  or  Holy-water 
Sprinkler.  Then  came  Domingos  dos  Reis 
Quits,  the  barber's  apprentice,  and  author  of 
eclogues,  idyls,  odes,  and  a  new  tragedy  of 
**Ignez  de  Castro."  Then  Claudio  Manoel 
da  Costa,  the  earliest  of  the  Brazilian  poets, 
who,  first  as  a  student  under  the  cork-trees  of 
Coimbra,  and  afterwards  among  the  gold  and 
diamond  mines  of  his  native  country,  imitated 
the  songs  of  Petrarch  and .  Metastasio,  and  sang 
so  melodiously,  that  **the  reader  cannot  fail 
sometimes  to  fancy  he  recognizes  the  sim- 
ple tone  of  the  old.  Portuguese  lyric  poetry, 
refiected  by  an  Italian  echo."  Then  the  reck- 
less and  dissolute  improvvisatore,  Barbosa  du 
Bocage,  the  gay  Lothario  of  Setubal,  who, 
like  Byron,  died  old  at  thirty-nine ;  and  finally, 
Francisco  Manoel  do  Nascimento,  who  probably 
did  more  for  Portuguese  poetry  than  any  man 
since  Camoens,  and  who,  from  the  bosom  of 
wealth  and  literary  ease,  was  driven  into  exile 
by  the  Inquisition,  and  died  in  Paris,  a  poor  old 
man,  of  more  than  eighty  years.  Surely^  if 
ever  a  country  dishonored  itself  by  stoning  its 
prophets,  that  country  is  Portugal. 

*  HiAory  of  Portuguese  Lltenture,  p.  342. 
t  Quarterly  Rerlew,  Vol.  L,  p.  256. 


The  state  of  Portuguese  literature  since  the 
commencement  of  the  present  century  is  far 
from  brilliant.  Among  the  most  distinguished 
of  the  living  poets  are  Curvo  Semedo,  J.  A.  de 
Macedo,  Evangelista  Moraes  Sarmento,  the 
Chevalier  de  Almeida  Garrett,  Silva  Moziobo 
de  Albuquerque,  Pina  Leitao,  a  Brazilian,  and 
Medina  e  Vasconcellos,  a  native  of  Madeira. 
To  these  may  be  added  the  names  of  four  female 
writers  who  have  distinguished  themselves  in 
poetry.  Dona  Marianne  Maldonadoi,  Dona  Fran- 
cises da  Costa,  Dona  Leonor  de  Almeida,  and  the 
Viscondessa  de  Balsemao,  an  ancient  lady,  whom 
we  lose  sight  of  between  the  ages  of  seventy 
and  eighty,  stifl  warbling  songs  of  love.  Many 
of  these  writers  have  a  mournful  destiny,  and 
are  of  that  class  which  Dante  thought  most  of 
all  men  to  be  pitied,  '*  who,  being  in  exile  and 
affliction,  behold  their  native  land  in  dreams 
only." 

Speaking  of  the  Portuguese  poetry,  and  that 
of  the  other  Romance  languages,  Sismondi  grace- 
fully remarks:  "Its  writers  do -not  attempt  to 
engage  our  attention  with  ideas,  but  with  ima- 
ges richly  colored,  which  incessantly  pass  before 
our  view.  Neither  do  they  ever  name  any  ob- 
ject that  they  do  not  paint  to  the  eye.  The 
whole  creation  seems  to  grow  brighter  around 
us,  and  the  world  always  appears  to  us  through  , 
the  medium  of  this  poetry  as  when  we  gaze  on 
it  near  the  beautiful  waterfalls  of  Switzerland, 
while  the  sun  is  upon  their  waves.  The  land- 
scape suddenly  brightens  under  the  bow  of 
heaven^  and  all  the  objects  of  nature  are  tinged 
with  its  colors.  It  is  quite  impossible  for  any 
translation  to  convey  a  feeling  of  this  pleasure. 
The  romantic  poet  seizes  the  most  bold  and 
lofty  image,  and  is  little  solicitous  to  convey  its 
full  meaning,  provided  it  glows  brightly  in  his 
verse.  In  order  V)  translate  it  into  another  lan- 
guage, it  would  first  of  all  be  requisite  to  soflen 
it  down,  that  it  might  not  stand  forward  out  of 
all  proportion  with  the  other  figures;  to  com- 
bine it  with  what  precedes  and  follows,  that  it 
might  neither  strike  the  reader  unexpectedly, 
nor  throw  the  least  obscurity  oter  the  style." 

For  a  farther  account  of  Portuguese  poetry, 
the  reader  is  referred  to  the' following  works :  — 
<*  History  of  Spanish  and  Portuguese  Litera- 
ture,"  by  Frederick  Bouterwek;  translated  by 
Thomasina  Ross,  2  vols.,  London,  1823,  8vo. ; 
— "  Historical  View  of  the  Literature  of  the 
South  of  Europe,"  by*  J.  C.  L.  Simonde  de  Sis- 
mondi; translated  by  Thomas  Roecoe,  4  vols., 
London,  1823,  8vo. ;  republished  in  New  York, 
1827,  2  vols.,  8vo.;  —  >>Bosqoejo  da  Historia 
da  Poesia  e  Lingua  Portugueza,"  by  Almeida 
Garrett,  in  Fonseca's  "Parnaso  Lusitano,"  5 
volsv,  Paris,  1826,  32mo. ;  —  Articles  in  the 
"Quarterly  Review,"  Vol  I.,  p.  235,  and  the 
•*  Foreign  Quarterly  Review,"  Vol.  X.,  p.  437. 
See,  also,  **  Bibliotheca  Lusitana  Histories,  Cri- 
tica,  e  Cronologica,"  by  1>iogo  Barbosa  Macha- 
do,  4  vols.,  Lisboa,  1741  —  59,  folio. 


y 


FIRST  PERIOD.-CENTURIES  XII.-XV. 


ANONYMOUS. 

FRAGMENT  OF  AN  OLD  HISTORIC  POEM. 

'*In  his  'Europa  Portuguesa,'  "  says  Sismon- 
dif  *'  Manuel  de  Faria  y  Sousa  preseiits  us  with 
fragments  of  an  historical  poem,  in  verses  of  arte 
mayor^  and  which  he  asserts  had  been  discover- 
ed, in  the  beginniftg  of  the  twelfth  century,  in 
the  castle  of  Lousam,  when  it  was  taken  from 
the  Moore.  The  manuscript  containing  them 
appeared,  even  then,  he  observes,  to  have  been 
defaced  by  time ;  from  which  he  would  infer 
that  the  poem  may  be  attributed  to  the  period  of 
the  conquest  of  the  Arabs.  But  the  fkct  itself 
seems  to  rest  on  very  doubtful  authority,  and  the 
verses  do  not  appear,  either  in  their  construction, 
in  their  language,  or  even  in  their  ideas,  to  lay 
claim  to  so  high  an  antiquity.  This  earliest  mon- 
ument of  the  Romance  language  is,  however, 
sufficiently  curious  to  merit  attention,  and  three 
stanzas  are  therefore  here  subjoined." 


Julian  and  Horpas,  with  the  adulterous  blood 

Of  Agar,  fiercest  spoilera  of  the  land, 
These  changes  wrought.     They  called  fierce 
Islam's  brood 
'Neath  the  Miramolin's  sway;   a  numerous 
band 
Of  shameless  priests  and  nobles.     Musa  stood. 
And  Zariph  there,  upon  the  Iberian  strand. 
Hailed  by  the  false  count,  who  betrayed  the 

power 
Of  Bcetica,  and  yielded  shrine  and  tower. 

He  led  them  safely  to  that  rocky  pile, 

Gibraltar's  strength.   Though  stored  with  rich 
resource 

Of  full  supplies,  though  men  and  arms  the  while 
Bristled  its  walls,  its  keys  without  remorse 

Or  strife  he  gave,  a  prey,  by  shameless  guile, 
To  that  vile,  unbelieving  herd,  the  curse 

Of  Christian  lands,  who,  rifling  all  its  pride. 

To  slavery  doomed  the  fair ;  the  valiant  died. 

And  died  those  martyre  to  the  truth,  who  clung 
To  their  dear  faith,  'midst  every  threatening 
•11; 
Nor  pity  for  the  aged  or  the  young 

Stayed  their  fierce  swords,  till  they  had  drank 
their  fill ; 
No  sex  found  mercy,  though,  unarmed,  they 
hung 
Round  their  assassins'  knees,  rejoiced  to  kill ; 
\nd  Moors,  within  the  temples  of  the  Lord, 
lYorsbipped  their  prophet  false  with  rites  ab- 
horred. 


BERf^ARDIM  RIBETRO. 

Bkrnardim  Ribztro  is  one  of  the  best  poets 
of  Portugal.  He  flourished  in  the  reign  of  Em- 
manuel, between  1495  and  1521.  He  was  born 
at  Torrao,  in  the  province  of  Alemtejo,  and  afler 
having  studied  the  law  entered  the  service  of 
the  king.  A  passion  for  one  of  the  ladies  of 
the  court,  said  by  some  to  have  been  Dona 
Beatrix,  the  daughter  of  the  king,  absorbed  him 
to  such  a  degree,  that  he  often  retired  into  the 
solitude  of  the  fields  and  the  woods,  or  wandered 
along  the  banks  of  some  stream,  mourning  all 
night  long  his  woes.  But,  as  Bouterwek  says, 
it  is  a  comfort  to  know  **  that  he  was  married, 
and  was  affectionately  attached  to  his  consort " ; 
and  yet  some  expressions  in  one  of  his  eantigas 
seem  to  prove  that  "  ancient  recollections  still 
agitated  him  during  this  union." 

Bernardim  was  the  first  Portuguese  writer 
who  gained  a  high  reputation  as  a  pastoral  poet. 
His  most  celebrated  pieces  are  five  eclogues,  the 
scenes  of  which  are  laid  on  the  banks  of  the 
Tagus  and  the  Mondego.  They  are  written,  for 
the  most  part,  in  redoruUlhas.  The  poet  gives 
utterance  in  them  to  the  monotonous  accents  of 
despairing  love ;  but  the  subject  is  rendered  less 
fatiguing  by  the  graces  of  his  poetry.  Ribeyro 
was  the  author  of  another  work,  entitled  "  Me- 
nina  e  Mo^a,"  which  is  remarkable  for  being 
the  earliest  Portuguese  prose  work  which  aims 
at  the  expression  of  impassioned  sentiment  in  an 
elevated. style.  Although  fragmentary  and  ob. 
scure,  it  was  the  model  of  the  pastoral  romances 
with  which  the  literature  of  Spain  afterwards 
abounded. 


FROM  THE  THIRD  ECLOGUE. 

O  WRETCHED  lover !  whither  flee  ? 

What  refuge  firom  the  ills  I  bear.' 
Non^  to  console  me,  or  to  free. 

And  none  with  whom  my  griefs  to  share  1 
Sad,  to  the  wild  waves  of  the  sea- 

I  tell  the  tale  of  my  despair 
In  broken  accents,  passion-fraught. 

As  wandering  by  some  rocky  steep, 

I  teach  the  echoes  how  to  weep 
In  dying  strains,  strains  dying  Love  hath  taught. 

There  is  not  one  of  all  I  loved 

But  failed  me  in  my  sufferhig  hour, 

And  saw  my  silent  tears  unmoved. 

Soon  may  these  throbbing  griefi  o'erpower 

Both  life  and  love,  so  Heaven  approved ! 
For  she  hath  bade  me  hope  no  more. 


736                                            PORTUGUESE   POETRY.                                                    | 

I  would  not  wish  her  such  a  doom : 

For  if  I  dared  desire,  sweet  Hope 

No  !  though  she  break  this  bruised  heart, 

Would  follow  in  its  train ;  and  how 

I  could  not  wish  her  so  to  part 

Could  I  with  thy  displeasure  cope. 

From  all  she  loved,  to  seek,  like  me,  the  tomb. 

Who  wilt  no  glance  of  Hope  allow  ? 

And  so  to  Death  I  turn  me  now. 

How  long  these  wretched  days  appear, 

For  my  desire  dare  not  aspire 

Consumed  in  vain  and  weak  desires, 

Even  to  Desire. 

Imagined  joys  that  end  in  fear, 

And  baffled  hopes  and  wild  Love's  fires  ! 

At  last,  then,  let  roe  cease  to  bear 

The  lot  my  sorrowing  spirit  tires ! 

FERNANDO   DE  ALMEYDA. 

For  length  of  days  fresh  sorrow  brings: 

I  meet  the  coming  hours  with  grief,— 

This  poet  was  born  at  Alberca,  in  1459.    His 

Hours  that  can  bring  me  no  relief, 

poetical  pieces  are  mostly  of  a  religious  charac- 

But deeper  anguish  on  their  silent  wings. 

ter. 

♦     ■ 

TOE  TIMBEEL. 

FRANCISCO    DE    PORTUGAL,   CONDE 

When  I  stril^e  thee,  0  my  timbrel. 

DO  VIMIOSO. 

Think  not  that  I  think  of  thee  ! 

This  nobleman  held  a  high  rank  at  the  court 

Couldst  thou  know,  ungentle  timbrel. 

of  Manoel,   being  connected   with   the   royal 

Couldst  thou  know  my  misery. 

family.  .  He  was  born  in  the  last  half  of  the 

All  thy  notes  of  mirth  and  gladness     . 

fifteenth  century,  at  Evora,  was  elevated  to  the 

Soon  transformed  to  gloom  would  be, — 

dignity  of  Count  in  1515,  and  died  in  1549. 

Couldst  thou  know  that  when  I  strike  thee 

His  "  Ohras  Poeticas "  were  published  in  the 

'T  is  in  sorrow's  agony, 

Cancioneiro  of  1S16. 

To  escape  the  recollection 

Of  the  woes  that  visit  me. 

LOVE  AND  DESIRE. 

Sirs !  my  heart  is  now  the  mansion 

O  LovB !  sweet  Love !  I  love  you  so, 

Of  a  clamorous  misery : 

That'my  desire  dares  not  aspire 

Timbrel !  dost  thou  hear  my  sadness  ?  — 

Even  to  Desire. 

Think  not  that  I  think  of  thee ! 

SECOND  PERIOD.-CENTURIES  XVL,  XVII. 

GIL  VICENTE. 

Wait  not  to  find  thy  slippers. 

But  come  with  thy  naked  feet : 

This  famous  poet,  the  founder  of  the  theatre 

We  shall  have  to  pass  through  the  dewy  graaa. 

in  Spain  and  Portugal,  was  bom  at  Barcellos, 

And  waters  wide  and  fleeL 

about  the  yeara480.     He  studied  the  law,  but 

abandoned  it  for  dramatic  poetry,  in  which  he 

acquired  such  distinction  that  he  has  been  called 

HOW  FADl  THE  MAmEN! 

the  Portuguese  Plautus.     His  pieces  were  rep- 

How fiur  the  maiden  !  what  can  be 

resented  before  the  court  of  King  Emmanuel, 

So  fiiir,  so  beautiful,  as  she.' 

and  afterwards  of  Joao  III.,  and  one  was  printed 

in  1504.     As  a  dramatist,  Gil  Vicente  stood 

Ask  the  mariner  who  sails 

alone  in  that  age ;  for  he  preceded  all  the  great 

Over  the  joyous  sea. 

dramatic  poets  of  England,  France,  and  Spain. 

If  wave,  or  star,  or  friendly  gales, 

Erasmus  is  said  to  have  studied  Portuguese  that 

Are  half  so  fair  as  she. 

he  might  read  his  works  in  the  original.  Vicente 
died  at  Evora,  in  1557. 

Ask  the  knight  on  his  prancing  steed 
Returning  fi'om  victory, 

If  weapon,  or  war,  or  arrow's  speed. 

SONO. 

Is  half  so  fair  as  she. 

Ir  thon  art  sleeping,  maiden. 

Ask  the  shepherd  who  leads  his  flocks 

Awake,  and  open  thy  door : 

Along  the  flowery  lea. 

*T  is  the  break  of  day,  and  we  roust  away, 

If  the  valley's  lap,  or  the  son-crowned  roeks;. 

O'er  meadow,  and  mount,  and  moor. 

Are  half  so  fair  as  she. 

OIL  VICENTE 8AA   DE   MIRANDA. 


737 


THE  NIGHTINOALE. 

The  rose  looks  out  in  the  vailey, 

And  thither  will  I  go,  — 
To  the  rosy  yale,  where  the  nightingale 

Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

The  virgin  is  on  the  river-aide, 
Culling  the  lemons  pale : 

Thither,  —  yes !  thither  will  I  go, 
To  the  rosy  vale,  where  the  nightingale 

Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

The  fairest  fruit  her  hand  hath  culled, 
T  is  for  her  lover  all : 

Thither,  —  yes !  thither  will  I  go, 
To  the  rosy  vale,  where  the  nightingale 

-  Sings  Lis  song  of  woe. 

In  her  hat  of  straw,  (or  her  gentle  swain. 
She  has  placed  the  lemons  pale  : 

Thither, — yes !  thither  will  I  go. 
To  the  rosy  vale,  where  the  nightingale 

Sings  his  song  of  woe. 


FRANCISCO  DE  8AA  DE  MIRANDA. 

This  poet,  one  of  the  first  that  distinguished 
themselves  at  the  court  of  John  the  Third,  was 
born  at  Coimbra,  in  1495.     He  studied  the  law 
at  the  University  in  that  city,  in  compliance 
with  the  wishes  of  his  father,  though  his  own 
taste  inclined  him  strongly  to  poetry.     After 
his  father's  death,  he  leA  the  law,  and  travelled, 
▼isiting  the  principal  cities  of  Spain  and  Italy. 
On  his  return,  he  was  well  received  by  the 
king,  and  attached  himself  for  a  time  to  the 
court ;  but  having  given  offence  to  a  powerful 
court  lady,  by  a  passage  in  one  of  his  poems,  he 
soon  retired,  dissatisfied  and  disappointed,  to  his 
estate  of  Tapada,  near  Ponte  de  Lima,  where  he 
passed  the  rest  of  his  life.     He  married  Dona 
Briolanja  de  Azevedo,  a  lady  who  bad  neither 
youth    nor  beauty,  but  whose  amiable  qualities 
attached  him  so  strongly  to  her  that  he  never 
recovered  from  the  shock  occasioned  by  her 
death.     After  this  event,  he  never  trimmed  his 
beard,  nor  pared  his  nails,  nor  answered  a  letter, 
nor  left  his  house,  except  to  go  to  church.     He 
suryi  ved  her  three  years,  in  a  state  of  the  deep- 
est melancholy,  and  died  in  the  year  1558,  at 
the  age  of  sixty-three. 

Saa  de  Miranda,  after  the  custom  of  the  liter- 
arj  men  of  his  time,  wrote  both  in  Castilian 
and  Portuguese,  and  some  of  his  best  eclogues 
are  in  the  former  language,  two  of  them  only 
being  in  his  native  tongue.  He  is  remarkable 
for  being  the  first  who  introduced  poetical  epis- 
tles to  the  Portuguese.  *<  Saa  de  Miranda,"  says 
Oarrett,  in  his  **  Historia  da  Lingua  e  da  Poesia 
Portogueza,'*  prefixed  to  the  *^  Pornaso  Lusita- 
no,"  —  «*  the  true  father  of  our  poetry,  one  of 
the  greatest  men  of  his  age,  was  the  poet  of 
93 


reason  and  of  virtue;  he  philosophized  with  the 
Muses,  and  poetized  with  philosophy.  His 
great  knowledge,  his  experience,  his  affable 
manners,  and  even  the  nobility  of  his  birth, 
gave  him  an  undisputed  superiority  over  all  the 
writers  of  that  time,  by  whom  he  was  listened 
to,  consulted,  and  imitated.  Saa  de  Miranda 
exercised  over  all  the  poets  of  that  epoch  the 
same  species  of  power  which  Boileau  succeeded 
in  acquiring  in  France." 

SONNETS. 
I  KHow  not,  lady,  by  what  nameless  charm 
Those  looks,  that  voice,  that  smile,  have  each  the 

power 
Of  kindling  loftier  thoughts,  and  feelings  more 
Resolved  and  high.  Even  in  your  silence,  warm. 
Soft  accents  seem  ray  sorrows  to  disarm ; 
And  when  with  tears  your  absence  I  deplore, 
Where'er  I  turn,  your  influence,  as  before. 
Pursues  me,  in  your  voice,  your  eye,  your  form. 
Whence  are  those  mild  and  mournful  sounds  I 

hear. 
Through  every  land,  and  on  the  pathless  sea.' 
Is  it  some  spirit  of  air  or  fire,  from  thee. 
Subject  to  laws  I  move  by  and  revere ; 
Which,  lighted  by  thy  glance,  can  ne'er  de- 
cay ?  — 
But  what  I  know  not,  why  attempt  to  say .' 

As  now  the  sun  glows  broader  in  the  west. 
Birds  cease  to  sing,  and  cooler  breezes  blow, 
And  from  yon  rocky  heights  hoarse  waters  flow. 
Whose  music  wild  chases  the  thoughts  of  rest; 
With  mournful  fancies  and  deep  cares  oppressed, 
I  gaze  upon  this  fleeting  worldly  show. 
Whose  vain  and  empty  pomps  like  shadows  go. 
Or  swift  as  light  sails  o'er  the  ocean's  breast. 
Day  after  day,  hope  after  hope,  expires ! 
Here  once  I  wandered,  'mid  these  shades  and 

flowers. 
Along   these   winding  banks   and   greenwood 

bowers. 
Filled  with  the  wild-bird's  song,  that  never  tires : 
Now  all  seems  mute,  —  all  fled !   But  these  shall 

live. 
And  bloom  again :  alone  unchanged,  I  grieve. 

Thb  sun  is  high, — the  birds  oppressed  with  heat 

Fly  to  the  shade,  until  refreshing  airs 

Lure  them  again  to  leave  their  cool  retreat. 

The  falls  of  water  but  of  wearying  cares 

To  me  the  memory  give.     Things  changeful  all 

And  vain !  what  heart  in  you  its  trust  may 

place  ? 
While  day  succeeds  to  day  with  rapid  pace. 
Far  more  uncertain  we,  than  whether  squall 
Or  favoring  breeze  the  ships  betide.     I  see 
About  me  shady  groves  with  flowerets  decked, 
Waters  and  fountains,  fields  with  verdure  gay. 
The  birds  are  singing  of  their  loves  the  lay. 
Now,  like  myself^  is  all  grown  dry  and  checked : 
Yet  all  shall  change  again,  save  only  me  ! 
3j» 


738 


PORTUGUESE  POETRY. 


That  spirit  pure,  which  from  this  world  of  woe 
Contented  journeyed,  in  exalted  spherea 
Justly  rewarded  for  its  well  spent  years,. 
Left  U3,  as  weary  grown  of  scenes  below  : 
That  noble  mind  a  harbour  safe  hath  gained, 
Through  life's  yexed  sea  its  voyage  performed 

at  last ; 
Leaving  the  track  by  which  it  fleeting  passed 
To  that  pure  glory  rightfully  obtained. 
Thou  soul,  that  cam'st  in  this  our  iron  age, 
By  deeds,  which  with  humanity  were  fraught. 
Fain  hadst  restored  the  olden  time,  of  sage 
The    theme,    and    hoards    of   purer    treasure 

brought. 
Designed  to  everlast,  —  presumption  bold  !  — 
While  Tejo's  sands  are  rich,  and  Douro*s  shores, 

with  gold. 


FROM  HIS  EPISTLE  TO  KING  JOHN. 

Great  king  of  kings,  one  single  day, 
One  hour  of  yours,  in  idle  mood 

Should  I  consume,  it  would  betray, 

That,  guiltily,  I  did  not  pay 

Due  reverence  to  the  general  good. 

For  in  a  distant  hemisphere, 

Where  other  stars  gem  other  skies. 

Nations  of  various  form  and  cheer,  — 
By  God  till  now  hid  from  our  eyes,  — 

Submiss,  your  mandates  wait  to  hear. 

Tou  in  all  subject  hearts  abide, 

O  monarch  powerful  as  just,  — 
You  who  willHcnots  the  hardest  tied 
Untangle,  or  with  sword  divide,  — 
Great  living  law  in  whom  we  trust ! 

Where  men  are,  Covetise  is  ever ; 

All  she  bewilders,  all  deceives ; 
Less  foiled  by  Justice's  firm  endeavour. 

The  web  that  fraudful  Malice  weaves, 
Or  to  unravel  or  dissever. 


Your  ships  that  boldly  navigate, . 

Sailing  this  solid  globe  around, 
'Midst  their  discoveries,  no  state 

Ungoverned  by  some  king  have  found. 
What  were  a  headless  body's  fate  ? 

Kingdoms  confessing  two  kings'  right 

Inevitable  ills  o'erwhelm. 
Earth  from  one  sun  receives  her  light, 
One  God  upholds  her  by  his  might : 

One  monarch  only  suits  one  realm. 


With  privileges  high  as  these. 

Conscientiously  should  kings  beware 

Of  looks  deceptive,  arts  to  please. 
Practised  their  justice  to  ensnare. 

And  cobweb  laws  to  break  with  ease. 

Who  cannot  'gainst  the  law  prevail 
By  force,  or  art,  or  fiivor.  Sire, 


Is  deemed  in  interest  to  fail : 
If  valueless  at  public  sale. 

None  will  to  favoritism  aspire. 

The  man  who  bears  a  single  mind, 

A  single  face,  a  single  truth, 
Uptorn,  not  bent,  by  stormiest  wind. 
For  all  besides  on  earth  's  desigoed  ; 
But  for  a  courtier, — no,  in  sooth  ! 


O  BASE  GALiaANl 

0  BASE  Galician  !  lone  and  lost. 
Thou  'st  lefl  me  on  the  desert  coast, 
Vile,  base  Galician ! 

1  went  where  once  thou  didftt  abide,  — 
There  thou  abid'st  not ; 

The  valley  to  my  cries  replied,  — 

But  thou  repliedst  not. 
Sad,  melancholy,  mortified, 
I  wander  weeping,  while 
Thou  dost  but  smile. 

Say  where  thy  mother's  dwelling  is, — 

I  will  go  to  her. 
Galician  !  who  could  dream  of  this. 

Thou  —  tkau  no  truer ! 
Eyes  filled  with  tears  of  bitterness, 
A  heart  where  flames  of  anguish  bom,  - 
O,  when  shall  peace  return .' 


LUIS  DE  CAMOENS. 

Luis  db  Camoens,  the  glory  of  Portugal,  and 
one  of  the  most  illustrious  poets  of  modem  times, 
was  born  of  a  noble  family,  at  Lisbon,  in  1524. 
He  studied  at  the  University  of  Coimbra,  which 
he  entered  in  1537  or  1538.  In  1545,  he  lefl  the 
University  for  Lisbon  and  the  court,  having  ac- 
complished himself  in  elegant  literature,  and, 
contrary  to  the  customs  of  the  time  and  place, 
having  assiduously  cultivated  the  art  of  writing 
in  his  mother  tongue.  While  he  was  residing 
in  Lisbon,  he  fell  deeply  in  love  with  a  lady  of 
the  palace,  Dona  Catharina  de  Attayda,  whose 
charms  are  celebrated  in  his  poems.  This  pas- 
sion involved  him  in  some  difficulties,  and  he 
was  banished  from  "the  court  to  Santarem. 
Here  he  wrote  an  elegy  bewailing  the  hardship 
of  his  lot,  and  comparing  his  own  exile  to  that 
of  Ovid:  — 

"Thua  &ncj  paints  me,  thaS|  like  him,  fbriora, 
Condemned  the  hapless  exile's  fate  to  prove; 
In  llle-consiimins  pain  thas  doomed  to  mourn 
The  lose  of  all  I  prized,— of  her  I  love." 

Like  Ovid,  he  beguiled  the  weariness  of  ban- 
ishment with  study  and  composition.  He  is 
supposed  to  have  conceived  the  idea  of  his  great 
poem  at  this  period ;  but  at  length,  despairing  of 
a  restoration  to  the  favor  of  the  court,  he  deter- 
mined to  become  a  soldier.     His  first  plan  was 


CAMOENS. 


739 


to  go  to  India,  and  be  actually  took  passage  on 
board  the  vessel  in  which  Dom  Affbnso  de 
Noronha,  the  Portuguese  viceroy,  sailed ;  but  he 
changed  his  mind,  and,  with  his  friend,  Dom 
Antooio  de  Noronha,  joined  the  troops  at  Ceuta, 
which  were  assembled  for  an  expedition  to 
Africa.  He  displayed  great  bravery,  and,  in  a 
DBYal  engagement  in  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar, 
received  a  wound  from  a  splinter,  which  de- 
prived him  of  his  right  eye.  He  remained 
some  time  in  Africa,  and  then  returned  to  Lis- 
bon, and  finding  his  fortunes  at  a  low  ebb,  being 
bopelessly  separated  from  the  object  of  his  at- 
tachment,  and  his  father  having  died  at  Goa, 
after  a  disastrous  shipwreck  on  the  coast  of  Mal- 
abar, he  now,  having  reached  the  twenty-ninth 
year  of  his  age,  embarked  for  India.  The  ship 
in  which  he  sailed  was  the  only  one  out  of  the 
whole  squadron  which  reached  its  destination. 

Immediately  on  his  arrival  at  Goa,  he  joined 
an  expedition  against  the  king  of  Pimenta,  re- 
turning from  which,  he  received  the  sorrow- 
ful news  of  the  death  of  his  friend,  Antonio  de 
Noronha,  who  fell  in  battle  with  the  Moors  near 
Tetuan,  in  Africa.     In  1554,  he  served  as  a 
volunteer  against  the  Mahometans,  who  cruised 
in  the  straits  of  Mecca,  and  inflicted  much  in- 
jury on  the  Portuguese  trade.    The  hardships  he 
endured  in  this  expedition  are  described  in  one 
of  his  poems.     When  he  returned  to  Goa,  he  is 
said  to  have  made  enemies  among  the  persons 
composing  the  Portuguese  administration  of  In- 
dia, by  writing  a  satire,  in  which  their  infamous 
conduct  was  severely  reprobated.    They  applied 
for  redress  tp  Barreto,  who  was  then  exercising 
the  powers  of  viceroy,  and  Camoens  was  sent, 
or,  as  it  is  sometimes  expressed,  banished,  to 
China.     Arriving  at  Macao,  he  held  the  office 
of  Pravedor  dos   Dtfantos^  or  commissary  for 
the   effects   of  persons  deceased.     The   situa- 
tion appears  to  have  been  both  profitable  and 
easy,  for  he  amassed  a  small  fortune,  and  found 
much  leisure  from  the  details  of  business,  which 
he  devoted  to  his  poem.    He  spent  much  of  his 
time  in  a  grotto  overlooking  the  sea,  and  there 
the  greater  part  of  the  **Lusiad"  is  said  to 
have  been  written.     The  place  is  still  shown 
to  strangers  as  the  Grotto  of  Camoens. 

After  a  few  years  passed  in  this  manner,  he 
was  invited  by  Constantino  de  Braganza,  the 
new  viceroy,  to  return  to  Goa.  He  embarked 
with  the  little  fortune  he  had  accumulated,  but 
his  evil  destiny  still  pursued  him,  and  he  was 
wrecked  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  Mecon,  es- 
caping with  his  life,  and  saving  only  the  manu- 
script of  his  **  Lusiad,'*  which  he  justly  regarded 
as  the  moat  precious  of  his  possessions.  He 
thus  alludes  to  his  misfortune  in  the  seventh 
canto  of  the  poem  :  — 

"  Now  Uest  with  all  the  wealth  fond  hope  coald  crave, 
Soon  I  beheld  that  wealth  beneath  the  wave 
For  ever  lost;— myself  escaped  alone, 
Oa  the  wild  shore  aU  friendless,  hopeless^  thrown; 
Mj  life,  like  Judah's  Heaven-doomed  king  of  jora, 
Bj  miracle  prolonged." 


He  was  kindly  treated  by  the  natives  of  the 
country,  among  whom  'he  remained  some  days. 
He  is  said  to  have  written,  at  this  time,  his  par- 
aphrase of  the  one  hundred  and  thirty-seventh 
Psalm.  Arriving  at  Goa  in  1561,  he  was 
well  received  by  the  viceroy,  to  whom  he  ad- 
dressed a  poem,  in  imitation  of  the  epistle  of 
Horace  to  Augustus.  The  departure  of  Con- 
stantino,  the  same  year,  again  exposed  Camoens- 
to  the  machinations  of  his  enemies.  He  was 
arrested  and  imprisoned,  on  a  charge  of  malver- 
sation in  the  office  he  had  held  at  Macao. 

**  Woes,  succeeding  woes, 
Belled  mj  earnest  hope  of  sweet  repoee ; 
In  place  of  bays  aroond  my  faiOws  to  shed 
Their  sacred  honors  o'er  my  destined  head, 
Foul  calumny  proclaimed  the  fraudful  tale, 
And  leA  me  mourning  In  a  dreary  jalL" 

He  proved  his  innocence,  but  was  still  detain- 
ed in  custody  by  a  hard  creditor,  named  Miguel 
Rodrigues  Coutinho,  to  whom  he  owed  a  trifling 
debt.  From  his  prison  he  addressed  some  play- 
ful verses  to  the  viceroy,  praying  to  be  released, 
and  he  was  at  length  liberated.  He  remained 
in  India  several  years  longer,  occupying  his 
winters  in  composition,  and  the  spring  and 
summer  serving  as  a  volunteer  in  the  military 
and  naval  expeditions,  always  displaying  a  bra- 
very in  danger,  and  a  cheerful  fortitude  under 
hardships  and  misfortunes,  which  won  for  him 
the  love  and  admiration  of  his  companions  in 
arms. 

About  this  time  be  is  said  to  have  heard  of 
the  death  of  Catharina  de  Attayda.  He  laments 
her  loss  and  commemoratejs  her  virtues  in  sev- 
eral of  his  most  beautiful  poems.  The  follow- 
ing sonnet  on  that  subject  was  translated  by 
Hayley :  — 

**  While,  pressed  with  woes  ftom  which  it  cannot  flee, 
My  fancy  sinks,  and  slumber  seals  my  eyes. 
Her  spirit  hastens  in  my  dreams  to  rise, 
Who  was  in  life  but  as  a  dream  to  me. 
O'er  the  drear  waste,  so  wide  no  eye  can  see 
How  ftr  Its  sense-evading  limit  lies, 
I  follow  her  quick  step;  but,  ah,  she  flies  I 
Our  distance  widening  by  fkte's  stem  decree. 
'Fly  not  from  me,  kind  shadow  1 '  I  exclaim ;  — 
She,  with  fixed  eyes,  that  her  soil  thoughts  reveal, 
And  seemed  to  say,  'Forbear  thy  fond  design,'  — 
Still  flies.    I  call  her,  but  her  half-formed  name 
Dies  on  my  Altering  tongue ;  —  I  wake,  and  feel 
Not  e'en  one  short  delusion  can  be  mine." 

Having  at  length  completed  the  *'  Lusiad,"  Ca- 
moens determined  to  return  to  Europe,  and  lay 
the  work  at  the  feet  of  his  sovereign,  the  youth- 
ful Dom  Sebastian ;  but  not  having  the  means 
in  his  power,  he  accepted  an  invitation  to  ac- 
company Pedro  Barreto,  who  was  on  the  point 
of  embarking  to  assume  the  government  of 
Sofala.  This  vain,  mean,  and  tyrannical  man 
soon  made  the  condition  of  Camoens  intolerable; 
and  when  some  of  his  fViends,  who  had  newly 
arrived,  relieved  his  pressing  wants,  and  invited 
him  to  join  them  on  their  return  to  Portugal, 
Barreto  refused  to  let  him  go  until  he  had  paid 
two  hundred  ducats,  which  he  asserted  Camo- 


740 


PORTUGUESE  POETRY. 


ens  owed  him.  The  money  was  contributed 
by  the  gentlemen,  and  Camoens  continued  his 
homeward  voyage.  He  reached  Portugal  in 
1569.  King  Sebastian  was  at  this  time  mak- 
ing preparations  for  his  disastrous  expedition  to 
Africa,  and  had  but  little  time  or  thought  for 
the  merits  and  services  of  a  man  like  Camoens. 
The  **  Lusiad  "  was  not  published  until  two  years 
aAerwards }  and  the  king  is  said  to  have  granted 
the  poet  an  insignificant  pension.  The  poem 
was  received  with  enthusiasm,  and  was  reprint- 
ed within  a  year.  The  situation  of  Camoens, 
however,  became  more  and  more  disheartening. 
He  was  poor,  and  no  further  favor  or  assistance 
was  offered  him  by  the  court.  His  health  was 
BO  broken  by  the  hardships  he  had  undergone 
and  by  the  climate  of  India,  that  he  was  una- 
ble to  write ;  and  he  is  said  to  have  sunk  into 
such  extreme  and  utter  poverty,  that  his  exist- 
ence was  maintained  from  day  to  day  by  his 
servant  Antonio,  a  native  of  Java,  whom  he 
had  brought  home  from  India,  and  who  begged 
by  night  for  the  bread  which  kept  his  master 
from  starving  the  following  day.  At  length,  he 
was  reduced  so  low  that  he  lost  all  power  of 
exertion.  He  closed  his  days  in  a  hospital, 
dying  in  1579,  at  the  age  of  fifty-five.  The 
very  sheet  in  which  he  was  shrouded  was  the 
gift  of  charity.  His  deathbed  was  watched  by 
a  friar,  Josepe  Indio,  who  wrote  in  a  copy  of  the 
first  edition  of  the  "Lusiad"  these  words:  — 
"  How  miserable  a  thing  to  see  so  great  a  genius 
so  ill  rewarded !  I  saw  him  die  in  a  hospital  at 
Lisbon,  without  possessing  a  shroud  to  cover  his 
remains,  after  having  borne  arms  victoriously  in 
India,  and  having  sailed  five  thousand  five  hun- 
dre(f  leagues :  —  a  warning  for  those  who  weary 
themselves  by  studying  night  and  day  without 
profit,  as  the  spider  who  spins  his  web  to  catch 
flies.*' 

Besides  the  "Lusiad,"  Camoens  wrote  son- 
nets, songs,  odes,  elegies,  eclogues,  redondUkas^ 
epigrams,  epistles,  and  three  comedies.  They  all 
exhibit  an  exalted  genius,  and  the  noblest  traits 
of  character.  But  his  great  national  epic,  the 
"  Lusiad,"  is  the  crowning  glory  of  his  life,  and 
the  highest  literary  claim  that  his  country  has  to 
urge  upon  the  respect  of  foreign  nations.  In  it 
are  immortalized  the  grand  discoveries  of  Vasco 
de  Gama,  and  the  illustrious  deeds  that  adorn 
the  annals  of  the  great  age  of  Portugal,  —  the 
age  of  enthusiasm,  adventure,  and  gigantic  en- 
terprise. In  spirit  and  style  it  is  more  national 
than  any  other  heroic  poem  of  modern  times ; 
and  notwithstanding  the  incongruities  of  the  su- 
pernatural machinery,  introduced  by  the  poet  in 
compliance  with  the  pedantic  views  that  pre- 
vailed in  his  age,  it  must  be  considered  an  ad- 
mirable  monument  of  genius.  It  displays  great 
powers  of  invention,  the  most  plastic  command 
of  style,  and,  at  times,  a  wonderful  sublimity  of 
conception.  Many  passages  are  adorned  with 
the  most  exquisite  beauties  and  the  most  melt- 
ing tenderness  of  sentiment,  the  richest  music 
of  language  and  the  most  glowing   imagery. 


Above  all,  it  is  informed  with  the  profound  and 
impassioned  feelings  of  the  poet's  heart. 

The  "  Lusiad  "  has  been  translated  jnto  nearly 
all  the  languages  of  modern  Europe,  not  to 
mention  the  versions  into  Hebrew  and  Latin. 
The  best  account  of  the  author  is  found  in  the 
"  Memoirs  of  the-Lifo  and  Writings  of  Luis  de 
Camoens,"  by  John  Adamson,  London,  1820, 
3  vols.,  8vo. 


FROM  THE  LUSIAD. 
lONEZ  DE  CASTRO. 

While  glory  thus  Alonzo*s  name  adorned, 
To  Lisboa's  shores  the  happy  chief  returned, 
In  glorious  peace  and  well  deserved  repose 
His  course  of  fame  and  honored  age  to  close. 
When  now,  O  king,  a  damsel's  fate  severe,^ 
A  fate  which  ever  claims  the  woful  tear. 
Disgraced  his  honors.     On  the  nymph's  lorn 

head 
Relentless  rage  its  bitterest  rancor  shed  : 
Yet  such  the  zeal  her  princely  lover  bore. 
Her  breathless  corse  the  crown  of  Lisboa  wore. 
'T  was  thou,  O  Love,  whose  dreaded  shaft* 

control 
The  hind's  rude  heart,  and  tear  the  hero's  soul  \ 
Thpu   ruthless   power,  with   bloodshed   never 

cloyed, 
'T  was  thou  thy  lovely  votary  destroyed. 
Thy  thirst  still  burning  for  a  deeper  woe. 
In  vain  to  thee  the  tears  of  beauty  flow ; 
The  breast,  that  foels  thy  purest  flames  divine. 
With  spouting  gore  must  bathe  thy  cruel  shrine. 
Such  thy  dire  triumphs !  —  Thou,  O  Nymph,  the 

while, 
Prophetic  of  the  god's  unpitying  guile, 
In  tender  scenes  by  lovesick  fancy  wrought, 
By  fear  oft  shifted  as  by  fancy  brought, 
In  sweet  Mondego's  ever-verdant  bowers. 
Languished  away  the  slow  and  lonely  hours : 
While  now,  as  terror  waked  thy  boding  fears. 
The  conscious  stream  received  thy  pearly  tears; 
And  now,  as  hope  revived  the  brighter  flame. 
Each  echo  sighed  thy  princely  lover's  name. 
Nor  less  could  absence  fix>m  thy  prince  remove 
The  dear  remembrance  of  his  distant  love  *. 
Thy  looks,  thy  smiles,  before  him  ever  glow. 
And  o'er  bis  melting  heart  endearing  flow : 
By  night  his  slumbers  bring  thee  to  his  arms. 
By  day  his  thoughts  still  wander  o'er  thy  charms; 
By  night,  by  day,  each  thought  thy  loves  employ. 
Each  thought  the  memory  or  the  hope  of  joy. 
Though  fiiirest  princely  dames  invoked  his  love. 
No  princely  dame  his  constant  faith  could  move : 
For  thee  alone  his  constant  passion  burned. 
For  ihee  the  proflTered  royal  maids  he  scorned. 
Ah,  hope  of  bliss  too  high !  — the  princely  dames 
Refused,  dread  rage  the  fiither's  breast  inflames : 

&  Dona  Ignes  do  Castro,  daughter  of  a  Gaflillian  gentle* 
man  who  bad  taken  rafuge  in  iha  court  of  Portugal,  and 
privately  married  to  Dom  Pedro;  ahe  waa,  hovravar,  craeDy 
murdered,  at  the  inatigatlon  of  the  poUUciana,  on  account 
of  her  partialitj  to  Castilians. 


CAMOENS. 


741 


He,  with  an  old  man's  wintry  eye,  sunreys 
The  youth's  ibnd  love,  and  coldly  with  it  weighs 
The  people's  murmurs  of  his  son's  delay 
To  bless  the  nation  with  his  nuptial  day ; 
(Alas !  the  nuptial  day  was  passed  unknown. 
Which  but  when  crowned  the  prince  could  dare 

to  own ;) 
And  with  the  fair  one's  blood  the  vengefiil  sire 
Resolves  to  quench  his  Pedro's  faithful  fire. 
0  thoa  dread  sword,  oft  stained  with  heroes'  gore, 
Thou  awful  terror  of  the  prostrate  Moor, 
What  rage  could  aim  thee  at  a  female  breast. 
Unarmed,  by  softness  and  by  love  possessed  ? 


Dragged  from  her  bower  by  murderous,  ruffian 
hands. 
Before  the  frowning  king  feir  Ignez  stands ; . 
Her  tears  of  artless  innocence,  her  air 
So  mild,  so  lovely,  and  her  fiice  so  fair. 
Moved  the  stem  monarch ;  when  with  eager  seal 
Her  fierce  destroyeis  urged  the  public  weal : 
Dread  rage  again  the  tyrant's  soul  possessed. 
And  his  dark  brow  his  cruel  thoughts  confessed. 
O'er  her  fair  face  a  sudden  paleness  spread  ; 
Her  throbbing  heart  with  generous  anguish  bled, 
Anguish  to  view  her  lover's  hopeless  woes ; 
And  all  the  mother  in  her  bosom  rose. 
Her  beauteous  eyes,  in  trembling    tear-drops 

drowned. 
To  heaven  she  lifted,  but  her  hands  were  boond ; 
Then  on  her  infiints  turned  the  piteous  glance. 
The  look  of  bleeding  woe :  the  babes  advance. 
Smiling  in  innocence  of  infant  age, 
Unawed,  unconscious  of  their  grandsire's  rage ; 
To  whom,  as  bursting  sorrow  gave  the  flow. 
The  native,  heart-sprung  eloquence  of  woe. 
The  lovely  captive  thus: — ''O  monarch,  hear, 
If  e'er  to  thee  the  name  of  man  was  dear, — , 
If  prowling  tigers,  or  the  wolf's  wild  brood. 
Inspired  by  nature  with  the  lust  of  blood. 
Have  yet  been  moved  the  weeping  babe  to  spare. 
Nor  left,  but  tended  with  a  nurse's  care. 
As  Rome's  great  founders  to  the  world  were 

given; 
Shalt  thou,  who  wear'st  the  sacred  stamp  of 

Heaven, 
The  human  form  divine,  —  shalt  thou  deny 
That  aid,  that  pity,  which  e'en  beasts  supply  ? 
O,  that  thy  heart  were,  as  thy  looks  declare. 
Of  human  mould  !  superfluous  were  my  prayer; 
Thou  couldst  not  then  a  helpless  damsel  slay, 
Whose  sole  oflience  in  fond  affection  lay, 
In  faith  to  him  who  first  his  love  confessed, 
Who  first  to  love  allured  her  virgin  breast. 
In  these  my  babes  shalt  thou  thine  image  see. 
And  still  tremendous  hurl  thy  rage  on  me? 
Me,  for  their  sakes,  if  yet  thou  wilt  not  spare, 
O,  let  these  infants  prove  thy  pious  care ! 
Yet  pity's  lenient  current  ever  flows 
From   that  brave  breast  where  genuine  valor 

glows; 
That  thou  art  brave  let  vanquished  Afric  tell. 
Then  let  thy  pity  o'.er  mine  anguish  swell ; 
Ah  !    let  my  woes,  unconscious  of  a  crime. 
Procure  mine  exile  to  some  barbarous  clime: 


Give  me  to  wander  o'er  the  burning  plains 

Of  Lybia's  deserts,  or  the  wild  domains 

Of  Scy  thia's  snow-dad  rocks  and  frozen  shore ; 

There  let  me,  hopeless  of  return,  deplore. 

Where  ghastly  horror  fills  the  dreary  vale. 

Where  shrieks  and  bowlings  die  on  every  gale. 

The  lion's  roaring,  and  the  tiger's  yell. 

There  with  mine  infant  race  consigned  to  dwell. 

There  let  me  try  that  piety  to  find, 

In  vain  by  me  implored  firom  human-kind : 

There  in  some  dreary  cavern's  rocky  womb, 

Amid  the  horrora  of  sepulchral  gloom. 

For  him  whose  love  I  mourn,  my  love  shall  glow, 

The  sigh  shall  murmur,  and  the  tear  shall  flow : 

All  my  fond  wish,  and  all  my  hope,  to  rear 

These  infant  pledges  of  a  love  so  dear,— 

Amidst  my  griefs  a  soothing,  glad  employ. 

Amidst  my  fears  a  wofUl,  hopeless  joy."  ' 

In  tears  she  uttered.    As  the  frozen  snow, 
Touched  by  the  spring's  mild  ray,  begins  to 

flow, — 
So  just  began  to  melt  his  stubborn  soul. 
As  mild-rayed  pity  o'er  the  tyrant  stole : 
But  destiny  forbade.     With  eager  zeal. 
Again  pretended  for  the  public  weal. 
Her  fierce  accusers  urged  her  speedy  doom ; 
Again  dark  rage  diffused  its  horrid  gloom 
O'er  stern  Alonzo's  brow :  swift  at  the  sign. 
Their  swords  unsheathed  around  her  brandished 

shine. 
O  foul  disgrace,  of  knighthood  lasting  stain, 
By  men  of  arms  an  helpless  lady  slain ! 

Thus  Pyrrhus,  burning  with  unmanly  ire. 
Fulfilled  the  mandate  of  his  furious  sire : 
Disdainful  of  the  frantic  matron's  prayer. 
On  fair  Polyzena,  her  last  fond  care. 
He  rushed,  .his  blade  yet  warm  with  Priam's 

gore. 
And  dashed  the  daughter  on  the  sacred  floor ; 
While  mildly  she  her  raving  mother  eyed. 
Resigned  her  bosom  to  the  sword,  and  died. 
Thus  Ignez,  while  her  eyes  to  Heaven  appeal. 
Resigns  her  bosom  to  the  murdering  steel : 
That  snowy  neck,  whose  matchless  form  sus- 
tained 
The  loveliest  face,  where  all  the  Graces  reigned. 
Whose  charms  so  long  the  gallant  prince  in- 
flamed. 
That  her  pale  corse  was  Lisboa's  queen  pro- 
claimed, — 
That  snowy  neck  was  stained  tvilJi  spouting 

gore; 
Another  sword  her  lovely  bosom  tore. 
The  flowers,  that  glistened  with  her  tears  be- 
dewed. 
Now  shrunk  and  languished  with  her  blood  im- 
brued. 
As  when  a  rose,  erewhlle  of  bloom  so  gay. 
Thrown  from  the  careless  virgin's  breast  away, 
Lies  faded  on  the  plain,  the  living  red. 
The  snowy  white,  and  all  its  fragrance  fled ; 
So  from  her  cheeks  the  roses  died  away. 
And  pale  in  death  the  beauteous  Ignez  lay. 


743 


PORTUGUESE  POETRY. 


With  dreadful  smiles,  and  crimsoned  with  her 

blood, 
Round  the  wan  victim  the  stern  murderers  stood, 
Unmindful  of  the  sure,  though  future  hour, 
Sacred  to  vengeance  and  her  lover's  power. 

O  sun,  couldst  thou  so  foul  a  crime  behold, 
.  Nor  veil  thine  head  in  darkness,  —  as  of  old 
A  sudden  night  unwonted  horror  cast 
O'er  that  dire  banquet,  where  the  sire's  repast 
The  son's  torn  limbs  supplied?  —  Tet  you,  ye 

vales, 
Te  distant  forests,  and  ye  flowery  dales. 
When,  pale  and  sinking  to  the  dreadful  fidl, 
Tou  heard  her  quivering  lips  on  Pedro  call ; 
Your  faithful  echoes  caught  the  parting  sound, 
And  "  Pedro !  Pedro ! "  mournful,  sighed  around. 
Nor  less  the  wood-nymphs  of  Mondego's  groves 
Bewailed  the  memory  of  her  hapless  loves : 
Her  griefs  they  wept,  and  to  a  plaintive  rill 
Transformed  their  tears,  which  weeps  and  mur- 
murs still.: 
To  give  immortal  pity  to  her  woe, 
They  taught  the  rivulet  through  her  bowers  to 

flow ; 
And  still  through  violet  beds  the  fountain  pours 
Its  plaintive  wailing,  and  is  named  Amours. 
Nor  long  her  blood  fl>r  vengeance  cried  in  vain : 
Her  gallant  lord  begins  his  awful  reign. 
In  vain  her  murderers  for  refuge  fly ; 
Spain's  wildest  hills  no,place  of  rest  supply. 
The  injured  lover's  and  the  monarch's  ire. 
And  stern-browed  justice,  in  their  doom  conspire : 
In  hissing  flames  they  die,  and  yield  their  souls 
in  fire. 

THE  SPIRIT  or  THE  CAPE. 

Now  prosperous  gales  the  bending  canvass 

swelled; 
From  these  rude  shores  our  fearless  course  we 

held. 
Beneath  the  glistening  wave  the  god  of  day 
Had  now  five  times  withdrawn  the  parting  ray. 
When  o'er  the  prow  a  sudden  darkness  spread, 
And  slowly  floating  o'er  the  mast's  tall  head 
A  black  cloud  hovered ;  nor  appeared  from  far 
The  moon's  pale  glimpse,  nor  faintly  twinkling 

star : 
So  deep  a  gloom  the  lowering  vapor  cast. 
Transfixed  with  awe,  the  bravest  stood  aghast 
Meanwhile  a  hollow  bursting  roar  resounds, 
As  when  hoarse  surges  lash  their  rocky  mounds ; 
Nor  had  the  blackening  wave,  nor  frowning 

heaven. 
The  wonted  signs  of  gathering  tempest  given. 
Amazed  we  stood. — *<0  thou,  our  fortune's 

guide. 
Avert  this  omen,  mighty  God  !  "  I  cried. 
*'0r    through    fbrbiddeii    climes    adventurous 

strayed. 
Have  we  the  secrets  of  the  deep  surveyed. 
Which  these  wide  solitudes  of  seas  and  sky 
Were  doomed  to  hide  firom  man-'s  unhallowed 

eye? 


Whate'er  this  prodigy,  it  threatens  more 
Than  midnight  tempests  and  the  mingled  roar. 
When  sea  and  sky  combine  to  rock  the  marble 
shore." 

I  spoke ;—- when,  rising  through  the  dark- 
ened air, 
Appalled  we  saw  an  hideous  phantom  glare ; 
High  and  enormous  o'er  the  flood  he  towered. 
And  'thwart  our  way  with  sullen  aspect  lowered. 
An  earthly  paleness  o'er  his  cheeks  was  spread  ; 
Erect  uprose  his  hairs  of  withered  red ; 
Writhing  to  speak,  his  sable  lips  disclose. 
Sharp  and  disjoined,  his  gnashing  teeth's  blue 

rows; 
His  haggard  beard  flowed  quivering  on  the  wind. 
Revenge  and  horror  in  his  mien  combined ; 
His    clouded   front,  by    withering   lightniogs 

scarred. 
The  inward  anguish  of  his  soul  declared ; 
His  red  eyes  glowing  from  their  dusky  caves 
Shot  livid  fires ;  far  echoing  o'er  the  waves 
His  voice  resounded,  as  the  caverned  shore 
With  hollow  groan  repeats  the  tempest's  roar. 
Cold-gliding  horrors  thrilled  each  hero-'s  breast ; 
Our  bristling  hair  and  tottering  knees  confessed 
Wild  dread  ;— the  while, with  visage  ghastly  wan, 
His  black  lips  trembling,  thus  the  fiend  began : — 

**>  O  you,  the  boldest  of  the  nations,  fired 
By  daring  pride,  by  lust  of  fame  inspired  ; 
Who,  scornful  of  the  bowers  of  sweet  repose. 
Through  these  my  waves  advance  your  fearless 

prows. 
Regardless  of  the  lengthening  watery  way. 
And  all  the  storms  that  own  my  sovereign  sway ; 
Who,  'mid  surrounding  rocks  and  shelves,  ex- 

plore 
Where  never  hero  braved  my  rage  before ;  — > 
Ye  sons  of  Lusus,  who  with  eyes  profiine 
Have  viewed  the  secret^  of  my  awful  reign. 
Have  passed  the  bounds  which  jealous  Nature 

drew 
To  veil  her  secret  shrine  from  mortal  view : 
Hear  from  my  lips  what  direful  woes  attend. 
And  bursting  soon  shall  o'er  your  race  descend !  - 

"  With  every  bounding  keel  that  dares  my  rage 
Eternal  war  my  rocks  an^  storms  shall  wage  ; 
The  next  proud  fleet'  that  through  my  drear 

domain. 
With  daring  search,  shall  hoist  the  streaming 

vane, — 
That  gallant  navy,  by  my  whirlwinds  toned. 
And  raging  seas,  shall  perish  on  my  coast ; 
Then  he,  who  first  my  secret  reign  descried, 
A  naked  corse  wide  floating  o'er  the  tide 
Shall  drive.    Unless  my  heart's  full  raptures  fiiil, 
O  Lusus,  ofl  shalt  thou  thy  children  wail ; 

1  On  the  rstum  of  Gftina  to  Portugal,  a  float  of  thirtMn 
sail,  under  the  commaud  of  radro  Alvam  do  Cafaral,  was 
sent  out  OQ  the  aecood  voyage  to  India,  where  the  admiral, 
with  only  six  ships,  arrived.  The  rest  were  mostly  deatrojed 
by  a  terrible  tempest  al  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  which  leaiad 
twenty  days. 


CAMOENS. 


743 


Each  year  thy  shipwrecked  sons  shalt  thou  de- 
plore, 
Each  year  thy  sheeted  masts  shall  strew  my 

shore. 

*<With  trophies  plumed  behold  a  hero  come!* 
Te  dreary  wilds,  prepare  his  yawning  tomb ! 
Though  smiling  fortune  blessed   bis  youthful 

morn, 
Though  glory's  rays  his  faurelled  brows  adorn, 
Full  oft  though  he  beheld  with  sparkling  eye 
The  Turkish  moons  in  wild  confusion  fly, 
While  he,  proud  victor,  thundered  in  the  rear, — 
All,  all  his  mighty  fame  shall  vanish  here : 
Quiloa*8  sons,  and  thine,  Mombaze,  shall  see 
Their  conqueror  bend  his  laurelled  head  to  me ; 
While,  proudly  mingling   with   the   tempest's 

sound. 
Their  shouts  of  joy  flrom  every  cliff  rebound. 

«The  howling  blast,  ye  slumbering  storms, 
prepare !      • 
A  youthful  lover  and  his  beauteous  fair 
Triumphant  sail  from  India's  ravaged  land ; 
His  evil  angel  leads  him  to  my  strand. 
Through  the  torn  hulk  the  dashing  waves  shall 

roar. 
The  shattered  wrecks  shall  blacken  all  my  shore. 
Themselves  escaped,  despoiled  by  savage  hands, 
Shall  naked  wander  o'er  the  burning  sands. 
Spared  by  the  waves  far  deeper  woes  to  bear. 
Woes  even  by  me  acknowledged  with  a  tear. 
Their  infant  race,  the  promised  heirs  of  joy, 
Shall  now  no  more  an  hundred  hands  employ  y 
By  cruel  want,  beneath  the  parents'  eye, 
In  these  wide  wastes  their  infant  race  shall  die. 
Through  dreary  wilds,  where  never  pilgrim  trod, 
Where  caverns  yawn  and  rocky  fragments  nod. 
The  hapless  lover  and  his  bride  shall  stray, 
By  night  unsheltered,  and  forlorn  by  day. 
In  vain  the  lover  o'er  the  trackless  plain 
Shall  dart  his  eyes,  and  cheer  his  spouse  in  vain ; 
Her  tender  limbs,  and  breast  of  mountain  snow. 
Where  ne'er  before  intruding  blast  might  blow. 
Parched  by  the  sun,  and  shrivelled  by  the  cold 
Of  dewy  night,  shall  he,  fond  man,  behold. 
Thus  wandering  wide,a  thousand  ills  o'erpassed, 
In  fond  embraces  they  shall  sink  at  last ; 
While  pitying  tears  their  dying  eyes  o'erflow, 
And  the  last  sigh  shall  wail  each  other's  woe. 


*^  Some  few,  the  sad  companions  of  their  fate, 
3hall  yet  survive,  protected  by  my  hate, 
Dn  Tagos'  banks  the  dismal  tale  to  tell 
Flow  blasted  by  my  frown  your  heroes  fell." 

He  paused,  in  act  still  fjurther  to  disclose 
K  loD^f  a  dreary  prophecy  of  woes; 
iVben,  springing  onward,  loud  my  voice  re- 
sounds, 
^nd  'midst  his  rage  the  threatening  shade  con- 
founds : 

s  Dom  Francisco  de  Almeyda,  first  Portuguese  viceroy  of 
iidia,  where  he  obuined  aerera]  great  victories  over  tlie 
lohammodaiui  end  pagans. 


"  What  art  thou,  horrid  form,  that  rid'st  the  air? 
By  heaven's  eternal  light,  stern  fiend,  declare  !  " 
His  lips  he  writhes,  his  eyes  far  round  he  throws, 
And  from  his  breast  deep  hollow  groans  arose ; 
Sternly  askance  he  stood :  with  wounded  pride 
And  anguish  torn,  **  In  me,  behold,"  he  cried, 
While  dark-red  sparkles  from  his  eyeballs  rolled, 
«*  In  me,  the  Spirit  of  the  Cape  behold, — 
That  rock  by  you  the  Cape  of  Tempests  named, 
By  Neptune's  rage  in  horrid  earthquakes  framed. 
When  Jove's  red   bolts  o'er  Titan's  offspring 

flamed. 
With  wide-stretched  piles  I  guard  the  pathless 

strand. 
And  Afric's  southern  mound  unmoved  I  stand  : 
Nor  Roman  prow,  nor  daring  Tyrian  oar. 
E'er  dashed  the  white  wave  foaming  to  my  shore; 
Nor  Greece  nor  Carthage  ever  spread  the  sail 
On  these  my  seas  to  catch  the  trading  gale ;  -^ 
Tou,  you  alone,  have  dared  to  plough  my  main, 
And  with  the  human  voice  disturb  my  lonesome 

reign." 

He  spoke,  and  deep  a  lengthened  sigh  he 
drew, 
A  doleful  sound,  and  vanished  from  the  view : 
The  lightened  billows  gave  a  rolling  swell, 
And  distant  far  prolonged  the  dismal  yell ; 
Faint  and  more  faint  the  howling  echoes  die. 
And  the  black  cloud  dispersing  leaves  the  sky. 
High  to  the  angel  host,  whose  guardian  care 
Had  ever  round  us  watched,  my  hands  I  rear. 
And  heaven's  dread  King  implore, —  "As  o'er 

our  head  * 

The  fiend  dissolved,  an  empty  shadow,  fled ; 
So  may  his  curses  by  the  winds  of  heaven 
Far  o'er  the  deep,  their  idle  sport,  be  driven !  " 

With  sacred  horror  thrilled,  Melinda's  lord 
Held  op  the  eager  hand,  and  caught  the  word : 
"O  wondrous  feith  of  ancient  days,"  he  cries, 
«t  Concealed  in  mystic  lore  and  dark  disguise ! 
Taught  by  their  sires,  our  hoary  fathers  tell, 
On  these  rude  shores  a  giant  spectre  fell. 
What  time  from  heaven  the  rebel  band  were 

thrown : 
And  oh  the  wandering  swain  has  heard  his  moan. 
While  o'er  the  wave  the  clouded  moon  appears 
To  hide  her  weeping  face,  his  voice  he  rears 
O'er  the  wild  storm.     Deep  in  the  days  of  yore 
A  holy  pilgrim  trod  the  nightly  shore ; 
Stern  groans  he  heard ;  by  ghostly  spells  con- 
trolled, 
His  fiite  mysterious  thus  the  spectre  told :  •— 

«« « By  forceful  Titan's  warm  embrace  com- 
pressed. 
The  rock-ribbed  mother  Earth  his  love  con- 

feissed; 
The  hundred-handed  giant,  at  a  birth, 
And  me  she  bore.    Nor  slept  my  hopes  on  earth ; 
My  heart  avowed  my  sire's  ethereal  flame : 
Great  Adamastor  then  my  dreaded  name. 
In  my  bold  brothers'  glorious  toils  engaged. 
Tremendous  war  against  the  gods  I  waged  : 


744 


PORTUGUESE   POETRY. 


Tet  not  to  reach  the  throne  of  heaven  I  try, 

With  mountain  piled  on  mountain  to  the  sky ; 

To  me  the  conquest  of  the  seaa  befell, 

In  his  green  realm  the  second  Jove  to  qnell. 

Nor  did  ambition  all  my  passions  hold  ; 

'T  was  love  that  prompted  an  attempt  so  bold. 

Ah  me!  one  summer,  in  the  cool  of  day, 

I  saw  the  Nereids  on  the  sandy  bay. 

With  lovely  Thetis,  from  the  wave  advance 

In  mirthful  frolic  and  the  naked  dance  : 

In  all  her  charms  revealed  the  goddess  trode. 

With  fiercest  fires  my  struggling  bosom  glowed : 

Tet,  yet  I  fisel  them  burning  in  my  heart. 

And  hopeless  languish  with  the  raging  smart. 

For  her,  each  goddess  of  the  l^eavens  I  scorned; 

For  her  alone  my  fervent  ardor  burned. 

In  vain  I  wooed  her  to  the  lover's  bed ; 

From  my  grim  form  with  horror  mute  she  fled. 

Maddening  with  love,  by  force  I  ween  to  gain 

The  silver  goddess  of  the  blue  domain ; 

To  the  hoar  mother  of  the  Nereid  band 

I  tell  my  purpose,  and  her  aid  command : 

By  fear  impelled,  old  Doris  tries  to  move 

And  win  the  spouse  of  Peleus  to  my  love. 

The  silver  goddess  with  a  smile  replies, 

"  What  nymph  can  yield  her  charms  a  giant's 

prize  ? 
Yet  from  the  horrors  of  a  war  to  save,  - 
And  guard  in  peace,  our  empire  of  the  wave. 
Whatever  with  honor  he  may  hope  to  gain. 
That  let  him  hope  his  wish  shall  soon  attain." 
The  promised  grace  infused  a  bolder  fire. 
And  shook  my  mighty  limbs  with  fierce  de- 
sire. 
But,  ah,  what  error  spreads  its  dreamful  might ! 
What  phantoms  hover  o*er  the  lover's  sight ! 
The  war  resigned,  my  steps  by  Doris  led. 
While  gentle  eve  her  shadowy  mantle  spread. 
Before  my  steps  the  snowy  Thetis  shone 
In  all  her  charms,  all  naked,  and  alone. 
Swift  as  the  wind,  with  open  arms  I  sprung. 
And  round  her  waist  with  joy  delirious  clung; 
In  all  the  transports  of  the  warm  embrace, 
An  hundred  kisses  on  her  angel  face. 
On  all  its  various  charms,  my  rage  bestows. 
And  on  her  cheek  my  cheek  enraptured  glows : 
When  —  O,  what  anguish,  while  my  shame  I 

tell! 
What   fixed    despair,   what    rage    my   bosom 

swell !  ^ 
Here  was  no  goddess,  here  no  heavenly  charms; 
A  rugged  mountain  filled  my  eagjBr  arms. 
Whose  rocky  top,  o'erhung  with  matted  brier. 
Received  the  kisses  of  my  amorous  fire. 
Waked  from  my  dream,  cold  horror  freezed  my 

blood; 
Fixed  as  a  rock  before  the  rock  I  stood : 
**  O  fairest  goddess  of  the  ocean  train, 
Behold  the  triumph  of  thy  proud  disdain  I 
Yet  why,"  I  cried,  **  with  all  I  wished  decoy, 
And,  when  exulting  in  the  dream  of  joy. 
An  horrid  mountain  to  mine  arms  convey  ?  *' 
Maddening  I  spoke,  and  furious  sprung  away. 
Far  to  the  south  I  sought  the  world  unknown. 
Where  I,  unheard,  unscorned,  might  wail  alone, 


My  foul  dishonor  and  my  tears  to  hide. 
And  shun  the  triumph  of  the  goddess'  pride. 
My  brothers  now,  by  Jove's  red  arm  o'ertbrown. 
Beneath  huge  mountains  piled  on  mountains 

groan; 
And  I,  who  taught  each  echo  to  deplore, 
And  tell  my  sorrows  to  the  desert  shore,  — 
I  felt  the  hand  of  Jove  my  crimes  pursue : 
My  stifiTening  flesh  to  earthy  ridges  grew ; 
And   my    huge    bones,   no   more    by   marrow 

warmed. 
To  horrid  piles  and  ribs  of  rock  transformed. 
Yon  dark-browed  cape  of  monstrous  size  became ; 
Where  round  me  still,  in  triumph  o'er  my  shame. 
The  silvery  Thetis  bids  her  surges  roar. 
And  waft  my  groans  along  the  dreary  shore.'  ** 


GAN^AO. 

Canst  thou  forget  the  silent  tears 

Which  I  have  shed  for  thee,  — 
And  all  the  pangs,  and  d(9ubts,  and  fears. 
Which  scattered  o'er  my  bloom  of  years 
The  blights  of  misery  ? 

I  never  close  my  languid  eye. 

Unless  to  dream  of  thee ; 
My  every  breath  is  but  the  sigh. 
My  every  sound  the  broken  cry, 

Of  lasting  misery. 

O,  when  in  boyhood's  happier  scene 
I  pledged  my  love  to  thee, 

How  very  little  did  I  ween 

My  recompense  should  now  have  been 
So  much  of  misery  ! 


CANZONET. 
Flowers  are  fresh,  and  bushes  green  ; 

Cheerily  the  linnets  sing  ; 
Winds  are  soft,  and  skies  serene  : 

Time,  however,  soon  shall  throw 
Winter's  snow 
O'er  the  buxom  breast  of  Spring. 

Hope  that  buds  in  lover's  heart 

Lives  not  through  the  scorn  of  yean: 
Time  makes  Love  itself  depart ; 

Time  and  scorn  congeal  the  mind ; 
Looks  unkind 
Freeze  AflTection's  warmest  tears. 

Time  shall  make  the  bushes  green, 

Time  dissolve  the  winter  snow, 
Winds  be  soft,  and  skies  serene. 

Linnets  sing  their  wonted  strain : 
But  again 
Blighted  Love  shall  never  blow  ! 

CTANZAS. 
I  SAW  the  virtuous  man  contend 

With  life's  unnumbered  woes ; 
And  he  was  poor,  —  without  a  friend, — 

Pressed  by  a  thousand  foes. 


CAMOEN8. 


745 


I  saw  the  PaMions'  pliant  slave* 

In  gallant  trim,  and  gay ; 
Hia  coarse  was  Pleasure's  placid  wave,  - 

His  life,  a  summer's  day. 

And  I  was  caught  in  Folly's  snare. 
And  joined  her  giddy  train, — 

Bat  found  her  soon  the  nurse  of  Care, 
And  Punishment,  and  Pain. 

There  surely  is  some  guiding  power 
Which  rightly  suffers  wrong,  — 

Gives  Vice  to  bloom  its  little  hour,  — 
But  Virtue,  late  and  long. 


CANCAa 

Whxit  day  has  smiled  a  soft  farewell, 
And  night-drops  bathe  each  shutting  bell. 
And  shadows  sail  along  the  green. 
And  birds  are  still  and  winds  serene, 
I  wander  silently. 

And  while  my  lone  step  prints  the  dew. 
Dear  are  the  dreams  that  bless  my  view; 
To  Memory's  eye  the  maid  appears, 
For  whom  have  sprung  my  sweetest  tears, 
80  oft,  BO  tenderly ! 

I  see  her,  as  with  graceful  care 
She  binds  her  braids  of  sunny  hair ; 
I  feel  her  harp's  melodious  thrill 
Strike  to  my  heart,  and  thence  be  still 
Reechoed  faithHilly. 

I  meet  her  mild  and  quiet  eye. 
Drink  the  warm  spirit  of  her  sigh. 
See  young  Love  beating  in  her  breast. 
And  wish  to  mine  its  pulses  pressed, — 

God  knows  how  fervently ! 

Such  are  my  hours  of  dear  delight ; 
And  mom  but  makes  me  long  for  night, 
And  think  how  swift  the  minutes  flew. 
When  last  amongst  the  dropping  dew 
I  wandered  silently. 


CAN^AO. 

O,  wssp  not  thus !  —  we  both  shall  know 

Ere  long  a  happier  doom  : 
There  is  a  place  of  rest  below. 
Where  thou  and  I  shall  surely  go. 
And  sweetly  sleep,  released  from  woe. 
Within  the  tomb. 

My  cradle  was  the  couch  of  Care, 
And  Sorrow  rocked  me  in  it : 
Fate  seemed  her  saddest  robe  to  wear. 
On  the  first  day  that  saw  me  there. 
And  darkly  shadowed  with  despair 

My  earliest  minute. 

E'en  then  the  grieft  I  now  possess 

As  natal  boons  were  given ; 
And  the  fair  form  of  Happiness, 
M 


Which  hovered  round,  intent  to  bless. 
Scared  by  the  phantoms  of  distress. 

Flew  back  to  heaven. 

For  I  was  made  in  Joy's  despite, 

And  meant  for  Misery's  slave ; 
And  all  my  hours  of  brief  delight 
Fled,  like  the  speedy  winds  of  night. 
Which  soon  shall  wheel  their  sullen  flight 
Across  my  grave. 

STANZASL 
TO  NIGHT. 

Night  !  to  thee  my  vows  are  paid ; 
Not  that  e'er  thy  quiet  shade 
Me,  in  bower  of  dalliance  laid 

Blest  and  blessing,  covers : 
No,  —  for  thy  friendly  veil  was  made 

To  shroud  successful  lovers  ; 
And  I,  Heaven  knows. 
Have  never  yet  been  one  of  those 
Whose  love  has  proved  a  thorn  less  rose  ! 

But  since,  as  piteous  of  my  pain. 
Goddess !  when  I  to  thee  complain 
Of  truth  despised  and  hard  disdain. 

Thou  dost  so  mutely  listen ; 
For  this,  around  thy  solemn  fkne 

Young  buds  I  strew,  that  glisten 
With  tears  of  woe 
By  jealous  Tithon  made  to  flow. 
From  Morning,  —  thine  eternal  foe  ! 


CANZONET. 
How  sprightly  were  the  roundelays 
I  sang  in  Love's  beginning  days  ! 
Now,  alas,  I  but  deplore 
Death  of  all  that  blessed  before ! 

Then  my  heart  was  in  its  prime,— 
'T  was  Affection's  budding-time ! 
It  is  broken  now,  and  knows 
One  sense  only, — sense  of  woes ! 

Joy  was  whilom  dashed  with  ill. 
Yet  my  songs  were  cheerful  still ; 
They  were  like  the  captive's  strains. 
Chanted  to  the  sound  of  chains ! 


CANZONET. 

Si5CB  in  this  dreary  vale  of  tears 

No  certainty  but  death  appears. 

Why  should  we  waste  our  vernal  years 

In  hoarding  useless  treasure  ? 

No,  —  let  the  young  and  ardent  mind 
Become  the  friend  of  human-kind, 
And  in  the  generous  service  find 

A  source  of  purer  pleasure  ! 

Better  to  live  despised  and  poor, 
Than  guilt's  eternal  stings  endure ; 
The  future  smile  of  God  shall  cure 

The  wound  of  earthly  woes. 
3k 


746 


PORTUGUESE   POETRY. 


Vain  world  !  did  we  but  rightly  feel 
What  ills  thy  treacherous  charms  conceal, 
How  would  we  long  from  thee  to  steal 

To  death, — and  sweet  repose  ! 


CANCAO. 

'T  18  done  !  by  human  hopes  and  human  aid 

Abandoned,  and  unpitied  lefl  to  mourn, 

I  weep  o'er  all  my  wrongs;  o*er  friends  fast 

sworn, 
Whose  friendship  but  betrayed. 
But  whose  firm  hatred  not  so  soon  decayed. 
The  land  that  witnessed  my  return. 
The  land  I  loved  above  all  lands  on  earth. 
Twice  cast  me  like  a  weed  away ; 
And  the  world  lefl  me  to  the  storm  a  prey : 
While  the  sweet  airs  I  first  drank  at  my  birth, 
My  native  airs,  once  round  me  wont  to  blow. 
No  more  were  doomed  to  fan  the  exile's  fever- 
ish brow. 

0  strange,  unhappy  sport  of  mortal  things ! 
To  live,  yet  live  in  vain ; 

Berefl  of  all  that  Nature's  bounty  brings. 
That  life  to  sweeten  or  sustain  ; 
Doomed  still  to  draw  my  painful  breath, 
Though  borne  so  often  to  the  gates  of  death. 
For,  ah,  not  mine  —  like  the  glad  mariner 
To  his  long-wished-fbr  home  restored  at  last, 
Telling  his  chances  to  his  babes,  and  her 
Whose  hope  had  ceased  —  to  paint  misfortunes 

past: 
Through  the  dread  deep  my  bark,  stilt  onwards 

borne. 
As  the  fierce  waves  drive  o'er  it  tempest-torn. 
Speeds  'midst  strange  horrors  to  its  fatal  bourn. 
Tet  shall  not  storms  or  flattering  calms  delude 
My  voyage  more ;  no  mortal  port  is  mine  : 
So  may  the  Sovereign  Ruler  of  the  flood 
Quell  the  loud  surge,  and  with  a  voice  divine 
Hush  the  fierce  tempest  of  my  soul  to  rest,  — 
The  last  dear  hope  of  the  distressed. 
And  the  lost  voyager's  last  unerring  sign. 
But  man  ~>weak  man  !  —  will  ever  fondly  cast 
A  forward  glance  on  beckoning  forms  of  bliss ; 
And  when  he  deems  the  beauteous  vision  his, 
Grasps  but  the  painful  memory  of  the  past. 
In  tears  my  bread  is  steeped ',  the  cup  I  drain 
Is  filled  with  tears,  that  never  cease  to  flow, 
Save  when  with  dreams  of  pleasure  short  and 

vain 

1  chase  the  conscious  pangs  of  present  woe. 


SONNETS. 

Few  years  I  number,  —  years  of  anxious  care, 
Sad  hours  and  seasons  of  unceasing  woe ; 
My  fifth  short  lustr^  saw  my  youth  laid  low : 
So  soon  was  overcast  life's  morning  fair ! 
Far  lands  and   seas  I  roamed,  some  hope  to 

share 
Of  solace  for  the  cares  that  stamped  my  brow : 
But  they,  whom  fortune  fiiils,  in  vain  bestow 
Stem  toils,  and  imminent  hazards  vainly  dare. 


Beside  Alanquer  first  my  painful  breath 

I  drew,  'midst  pleasant  fields  of  fruits  and 

flowers ; 
But  fate  hath  driven  me  on,  and  dooms  that  here 
These  wretched  limbs  be  rendered  up  to  death, 
A  prey  to  monsters  of  the  sea,  where  lowers 
The  Abyssinian  steep,  far  from  my  country  dear. 


Ah,  vain  desires,  weak  wishes,  hopes  that  fade ! 
Why  with  your  shadowy  forms  still  mock  tny 

view  ? 
The  hours  return  not ;  nor  could  Time  renew. 
Though  he  should  now  return,  my  youth  de- 
cayed : 
But  lengthened  years  roll  on  in  deepening  shade. 
And  warn  you  hence.    The  pleasures  we  purstie 
Vary,  with  every  fleeting  day,  their  hue  ; 
And  our  frail  wishes  alter  soon  as  made. 
The  forms  I  loved,  all  once  roost  dear,  are  fled. 
Or  changed,  or  no  more  the  same  semblance 

wear 
To  me,  whose  thoughts  are  changed,  whose 

joys  are  dead : 
For  evil  times  and  fortunes  what  small  share 
Of  bliss  was  mine  with  daily  cares  consume. 
Nor  leave  a  hope  to  gild  the  hours  to  come. 


What  is  there  left  in  this  vain  world  to  crare, 
To  love,  to  see,  more  than  I  yet  have  seen  ? 
Still    wearying   cares,   disgusts  and   coldness, 

spleen. 
Hate,  and  despair,  and  death,  whose  banners 

wave 
Alike  o'er  all !     Tet,  ere  I  reach  the  grave, 
*T  is  mine  to  learn,  no  woes  nor  anguish  keen 
Hasten  the  hour  of  rest;  woes  that  have  been. 
And  worse  to  come,  if  worse,  *t  is  mine  to  brave. 
I  hold  the  future  frowns  of  fate  in  scorn  ; 
Against  them  all  hath  death  a  stern  relief 
Afibrded,  since  my  best-loved  friend  was  torn 
From  this  sad  breast.     In  life  I  find  but  grief; 
By  death  with  deepest  woe  my  heart  was  riven  : 
For  this  alone  I  drew  the  breath  of  heaven  ! 


SwssTLT  was  heard  the  anthem's  choral  strain. 
And  myriads  bowed  before  the  sainted  shrine, 
In  solemn  reverence  to  their  Sire  Divine, 
Who  gave  the  Lamb,  for  guilty  mortals  slain  : 
When,  in  the  midst  of  God's  eternal  fiine, — 
Ah,  little  weening  of  his  fell  design !  — 
Love  bore  the  heart,  which  since  hath  ne'er 

been  mine, 
To  one  who  seemed  of  Heaven's  elected  train ! 
For  sanctity  of  place  or  time  were  vain, 
'Gainst    that    blind    archer's    soul-consuming 

power, 
Which  scorns,  and  soars  all  circumstance  above. 
O  lady  !  since  I  've  worn  thy  gentle  chain. 
How  oft  have  I  deplored  each  wasted  hour. 
When   I   was  free,  and   had   not   learned   to 

love! 


CAMOENS. 


747 


Silent  and  cool,  now  freshening  breezee  blow 
Where  gro?et  of  chestnut  crown  jon  shadowy 

steep; 
And  all  around  the  tears  of  evening  weep 
For  closing  day,  whose  vast  orb,  westering  slow, 
FliogB  o*er  the  embattled  clouds  a  mellower 

glow; 
While  hum  of  folded  herds,  and  murmuring 

deep, 
And  (idling  rills,  such  gentle  cadence  keep, 
As  e'en  might  soothe  the  weary  heart  of  woe. 
Yet  what  to  me  is  eve,  what  evening  airs. 
Or  falling  rills,  or  ocean's  murmuring  sound, 
While  sad  and  comfortless  I  seek  in  vain 
Her  who  in  absence  turns  my  joy  to  cares, 
And,  as  I  cast  my  listless  glances  round. 
Makes  varied  scenery  but  varied  pain  ? 


ON  THS  DEATH  OF  CATHARINA  DE  ATTATDA. 

Thosx  charming  eyes,   within   whose   starry 

sphere 
Love  whilom  sat,  and  smiled  the  hours  away,  — 
Those  braids  of  light,  that  shamed  the  beams 

of  day,  — 
That  hand  benignant,  and  that  heart  sincere,  — 
Those  virgin  cheeks,  which  did  so  late  appear 
Like  snow-banks  scattered  with  the  blooms  of 

May, 
Turned  to  a  little  cold  and  worthless  clay, 
Ar6  gone,  for  ever  gone,  and  perished  here,  — 
But  not  unbathed  by  Memory's  warmest  tear ! 
Death  !  thou  hast  torn,  in  one  unpitying  hour. 
That  fragrant  plant,  to  which,  while  scarce  a 

flower. 
The  mellower  fruitage  of  its  prime  was  given  : 
Love  saw  the  deed, — and,  as  he  lingered  near. 
Sighed  o'er  the  ruin,  and  returned  to  heaven  ! 


High  in  the  glowing  heavens,  with  cloudless 

beam. 
The  sun  had  reached  the  zenith  of  his  reign, 
And  fbr  the  living  fount,  the  gelid  stream. 
Each  flock  forsook  the  herbage  of  the  plain ; 
'Midst  the  dark  foliage  of  the  forest-shade. 
The   birds  had  sheltered  from  the  scorching 

ray,— . 
Hushed    were  their  melodies,   and  grove  and 

glade 
Resounded  but  the  shrill  cicada's  lay ;  — 
When  through  the  glassy  vale  a  lovelorn  swain. 
To  seek  the  maid  who  but  despised  his  pain. 
Breathing  vain  sighs  of  fruitless  passion,  roved : 
*<  Why  pine  for  her,"  the  slighted  wanderer 

cried, 
<*  By  whom  thou  art  not  loved  ?  "  —  and  thus 

replied 
An  echo's  murmuring  voice, — *<Thou  art  not 

loved !  " 


Fair  Tejo  !  thou,  whose  calmly  flowing  tide 
Bathes  the  fresh  verdure  of  these  lovely  plains. 


Enlivening  all  where'er  thy  waves  may  glide,  — 
Flowers,  herbage,  flocks,  and  sylvan  nymphs 

and  swains : 
Sweet  stream  !   I  know  not  when   my  steps 

again 
Shall  tread  thy  shores ;   and  while  to  part  I 
\       mourn, 

I  have  no  hope  to  meliorate  my  pain. 
No  dream  that  whispers,  —  I  may  yet  return ! 
My  frowning  destiny,  whose  watchful  care 
Forbids  me  blessings,  and  ordains  despair. 
Commands  me  thus  to  leave  thee  and  repine  : 
And  I  must  vainly  mourn  the  scenes  I  fly. 
And  breathe  on  other  gales  my  plaintive  sigh. 
And  blend  my  tears  with  other  waves  than  thine ! 


Spirit  beloved !  whose  wing  so  soon  hath  flown 
The  joyless  precincts  of  this  earthly  sphere. 
Now  is  yon  heaven  eternally  thine  own,  — 
Whilst  I  deplore  thy  loss,  a  captive  here. 
O,  if  allowed  in  thy  divine  abode 
Of  aught  on  earth  an  image  to  retain, 
Remember  still  the  fervent  love  which  glowed 
In  my  fond  bosom,  pure  from  every  stain ! 
And  if  thou  deem  that  all  my  faithful  grief, 
Caused  by  thy  loss,  and  hopeless  of  relief. 
Can  merit  thee,  sweet  native  of  the  skies,  — 
O,  ask  of  Heaven,  which  called  thee  soon  away. 
That  I  may  join  thee  in  those  realms  of  day, 
Swiftly  as  thou  hast  vanished  from  mine  eyes ! 


Savxd  from  the  perils  of  the  stormy  wave, 
And  fiunt  with  toil,  the  wanderer  of  the  main. 
But  just  escaped  from  shipwreck's  billowy  grave. 
Trembles  to  hear  its  horrors  named  again. 
How  warm  his  vow,  that  Ocean's  fairest  mien 
No  more  shall  lure  him  from  the  smiles  of  home ! 
Tet  soon,  forgetting  each  terrific  scene, 
Once  more  he  turns,  o'er  boundless  deeps  to 

roam. 
Lady !  thus  I,  who  vainly  oft  in  flight 
Seek  refuge  fh>m  the  dangers  of  thy  sight. 
Make  the  firm  vow  to  shun  thee  and  be  free  : 
But  my  fond  heart,  devoted  to  its  chain. 
Still  draws  me  back  where  countless  perils  reign. 
And  grief  and  ruin  spread  their  snares  for  me. 

Waves  of  Mondego,  brilliant  and  serene ! 
Haunts  of  my  thought,  where  Memory  fondly 

strays ; 
Where  Hope  allured  me  with  perfidious  mien. 
Witching  my  soul,  in  long-departed  days  ; 
Tes !  I  forsake  your  banks  :  but  still  my  heart 
Shall  bid  remembrance  all  your  charms  restore, 
Artd,  suflTering  not  one  image  to  depart. 
Find  lengthening  distance  but  endear  you  more. 
Let  fortune's  will,  through  many  a  future  day. 
To  distant  realms  this  mortal  frame  convey. 
Sport  of  each  wind,  and  tossed  on  every  wa^e  ; 
Tet  my  fond  soul,  to  pensive  memory  true. 
On  thought's  light  passion  still  shall  fly  to  you. 
And  still,  bright  waters,  in  your  current  lave  ! 


748 


PORTUGUESE   POETRY. 


ANTONIO  FERREIRA. 

This  elegant  and  classical  poet  has  been 
called  the  Horace  of  Portugal.  He  was  bom  al 
Lisbon,  in  1526,  and  was  educated  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Coimbra,  where  he  aAerwards  became 
a  professor.  He  followed  the  example  of  Saa  de 
Miranda  in  studying  the  Italian  poets,  and  in 
writing  exclusively  in  the  Portuguese,  notwith- 
standing the  custom  of  the  place  to  compose 
Latin  verses.  He  was  subsequently  appointed 
to  a  place  at  court,  and  gained  a  high  reputation 
by  his  literary  acquirements  and  hia  critical 
ability.  He  died  suddenly  of  the  plague,  in 
1569,  in  the  forty-first  year  of  his  age. 

The  reputation  of  Ferreira  rests  chiefiy  on 
his  tragedy  of  "  Ignez  de  Castro,"  written  after 
the  antique  model,  with  a  chorus  of  Coimbrian 
women.  The  subject  is  the  murder  of  Ignez 
de  Castro,  the  wife  of  Dom  Pedro,  whose  story 
is  so  beautifully  told  in  the  '<  Lusiad."  In 
point  of  time,  this  is  the  second  regular  drama  in 
modem  literature  ;  the  **  Sofonisba  *'  of  Trissino 
having  appeared  a  few  years  earlier.  Ferreira 
composed  also  sonnets,  epigrams,  odes,  poetical 
epistles,  and  various  other  minor  poems,  togeth- 
er with  two  comedies. 


SONNETS. 

O  SPIRIT  pure,  purer  in  realms  above 
Than  whilst  thou  tarriedst  in  this  vale  of  pain, 
Why  hast  thou  treated  me  with  cold  disdain, 
Nor,  as  thou  ought'st,  returned  my  faithful  love  ? 
Was  it  for  this,  thou  hast  so  oft  professed, — 
And  thee  believing  was  my  heart  secure,  -^ 
That  the  same  moment  of  death's  night  ob- 
scure 
Should  lead  us  both  to  days  of  happy  rest  ? 
Ah,  why,  then,  leave  me  thus  imprisoned  here  ? 
And  how  didst  thou  alone  thy  course  pursue, 
My  body  lingering  in  existence  drear 
Without  its  soul  .^ — Too  clear  the  reason  trae !  ^^ 
Thy  virtues  rare  the  glorious  palm  obtain, 
While  I,  unworthy,  sorrowful  remain. 


To  thy  clear  streams,  Mondego,  I  retara 
With  renovated  life  and  eyes  now  clear. 
How  fruitless  in  thy  waters  fell  the  tear. 
When  Love's  delirium  did  with  me  sojourn, — 
When  I,  with  face  betraying  anguish  deep. 
And  hollow  voice,  and  unsuspecting  ear, 
Knew  not  the  danger  of  the  mountain  steep 
Whereon  I  stood,  —  of  which  my  soul  with 

fear 
The  memory  chills !    Seducing  wiles  of  Love  ! 
'Neath  what  vain  shadows  did  you  hide  my 

fate, — 
Shadows  that  swii\ly  passed  the  happier  state 
Which  now  this  breast  enjoys !    Now  peace  I 

prove ; 
For  smiling  day  succeeds  the  clouds  of  night, 
And   sweet   repose,   and   joys,   and   prospects 

bright. 


FROM  THE  TRAQEDT  OF  lONEZ  DE  CASTBO. 
8BMI-CH0RU8. 

Whkh  first  young  Love  was  born. 
Earth  was  with  life  imbued ; 
The  sun  acquired  his  beams,  the  stars  their  light; 
Heaven  shone  in  Nature's  morn ; 
And,  by  the  light  subdued. 
Darkness  revealed  long-hidden  charms  to  sight ; 
And  she,  the  rosy-hued. 
Who  rales  heaven's  fiiirest  sphere, 
Daughter  of  Ocean  rade, — 
She  to  the  world  gave  Love,  her  ofispring  dear. 

T  is  Love  adorns  our  earth 
With  verdure  and  soft  dews ; 
With  colors  decks  the  flowers,  with  leaves  the 
groves; 
Turns  war  to  peace  and  mirth  ; 
O'er  harshness  softness  strews ; 
And  melts  a  thousand  hates  in  thousand   loves. 
Incessant  he  renews 
The  lives  stem  Death  consumes. 
And  gives  the  brilliant  hues 
In  which  earth's  beauteous  picture  ever  blooms. 

The  raging  of  his  flames 
T  were  cowardice  to  fear ; 
For  Love  is  soft  and  tender  as  a  child. 
His  rage  entreaty  tames ; 
And  passion's  starting  tear 
He  kisses  from  the  eyes,  tenderly  mild. 
Within  his  quiver  hear 
The  golden  arrows  ring ; 
They  deadly  shafis  appear ; 
But  love-fraught,  love-impelled,  their  flight  they 
wing. 

Love  sounds  in  every  lay. 
In  every  tunefUl  choir ; 
Tempestuous  winds  are  lulled  by  his  sweet  voiee ; 
Sorrow  is  chased  away  ; 
And  in  his  genial  fire 
The  limpid  streams,  the  hills  and  vales  rejoice. 
Love's  own  harmonious  lyre 
In  heaven  is  heard  to  sound ; 
And  whilst  his  flames  inspire 
Thy  heart,  thou,  Castro,  by  Love's  €rod  art 
crowned. 


SECOND  BBMI-CHORUS. 

Rather,  a  tyrant  blind. 
Forged  by  the  poet's  brain ; 
Desire,  deceit  nnkind, 
Oflispring  of  idleness,  god  of  the  vain  ; 
The  never-failing  bane 

Of  all  high  thoughts  inspire. 
His  arrows,  tipped  with  fire. 
Madly  he  hurls  around  : 
Apollo,  Mars,  groan  with  the  scorching  wound. 

Aloft  in  air  he  flies. 
And  the  earth  bums  below ; 

His  deadly  shafis  he  plies. 
And,  when  he  misses,  causes  bitterest  woe. 
He  glories  foe  with  foe 


FERREIRA. 


749 


Id  paasion's  chains  to  bind ; 
And  those  by  Fate  designed 
For  anion,  those  he  parts  : 
Uosatod  be  with  tears,  blood,  breaking  hearts. 

Into  the  tender  breast 
Of  chastely  blnshing  maid, 
As  time  and  chance  suggest. 
He  'H  steal,  or  furiously  her  heart  invade. 
The  fire,  by  reason's  aid 
Extinguished,  will  revire ; 
Id  cold  blood,  scarce  alive, 
In  age's  snows  will  blaze. 
Kindling  the  inmost  soul  with  beauty's  rays. 

From  thence  the  venom  streams 
Through  the  erst  healthy  frame : 
The  slumbering  spirit  dreams 
In  self-delusion,  weaving  webs  of  flame. 
Then  disappear  chaste  shame 
And  generous  constancy ; 
Then  death  and  misery 
Enter  in  softness'  guise. 
The  heart  is  hardened,  and  the  reason  dies. 

From  great  Alcides'  hand 
Who  snatched  the  iron  mace, 
At  foot  of  maiden  bland 
Marking  the  lion-conqueror's  maid-like  place .' 
The  spoils  of  that  dread  chase 
Who  turned  to  delicate 
Attire  of  female  state ; 
And  fingers,  wont  to  hurl 
War's  weapons  round,  the  distaff  forced  to  twirl  ? 


What  other  fire  consumed 
The  glories  of  old  Troy? 

Or  Spain,  the  mighty,  doomed 
To  groan  beneath  a  paynim  yoke's  annoy  ? 
A  blind  and  wanton  boy 

The  noblest  minds  o'erthrew. 
Mangled,  and  maimed,  and  slew ; 
Triumphing  over  lives  and  blood. 
The  prey  of  appetite's  remorseless  mood. 

Blest,  O,  how  wondrous  blest. 
Who  'gainst  the  fiital  dart 

Has  known  to  guard  his  breast. 
Or  quench  the  flames  whilst  kindling  in  his 
heart! 
Such  grace  doth  Heaven  impart 
But  to  a  favored  few. 
Vain  joys,  that  quickly  flew. 
Thousands  with  tears  lament. 
And  their  submission  to  Love's  power  repent. 


DOM   PEDRO^S  LAMENT. 


O,  HEAvr  tidings!  —  A  sad  messenger. 
My  lord,  thou  seest. 

DOM  PSDRO. 

What  tidings  bring'st  thou  ? 


Tidings 

So  cruel,  that,  in  bearing  them,  myself 

Towards  thee  am  cruel .    But  first  calm  thy  spirit. 

And  in  it  fashion  of  calamities 

The  worst  that  could  befall.    A  soul  thus  armed 

Is  the  best  remedy  against  ill  fortune. 

DOM  PBDRO. 

Thou  hold'st  me  in  suspense.  I  pray  thee,  speak ! 
Procrastination  aggravates  the  ill. 

MXSSBNOaB. 

That  Dona  Ignez,  thou  so  lov'st,  is  dead ! 

DOM  PSDaO. 

O  God !    O  Heavens !     What  say'st  thou  ? 


By  a  death 

So  cruel,  to  relate  it  were  fresh  sorrow. 

DOM  PBDSa 

Is  dead  ? 
She  is. 

DOM  PBDRO. 

Who  murdered  her  ? 


This  day. 

Thy  father  with  armed  followers  surprised  her. 

Secure  in  innocence,  she  did  not  fly ; 

But  naught  availed  her,  nor  her  love  for  thee. 

Nor  yet  thy  sons,  in  whom  she  sought  defence. 

No,  nor  the  innocence  and  piety 

With  which,  down  falling  at  thy  father's  fi»et. 

So  forcefully  for  pardon  she  entreated. 

That  weeping  he  pronounced  it.    But  even  then 

His  cruel  ministers  and  counsellors 

Against  a  pardon  so  well  merited 

Unsheathed  their  swords,  and  plunged  them  in 

her  breast. 
They  murdered  her  as  she  embraced  her  babes. 
Who  there  remained  discolored  with  her  blood. 


What  should  I  say  ?  what  do  ?  what  shriek  or 

groan.' 
O  fortune !  O  barbarity !  O  grief ! 

0  mine  own  Dona  Ignez !  O  my  soul ! 

And  art  thou  slain  ?     Hath  death  the  audacity 
To  touch  thee  ?    Do  I  hear  it,  and  survive  ? 

1  live,  and  thou  art  dead !     O  cruel  death  ! 
My  life  thou  'st  slain,  and  yet  I  am  not  dead ! 
Open,  thou  earth,  and  swallow  me  at  once ! 
Burst,  burst  away,  my  soul,  from  this  evil  body, 
Whose  weight  by  force  detains  thee ! 

O  mine  own  Dona  Ignez !  O  my  soul ! 

My  love,  my  passion,  my  desire,  my  care. 

Mine  only  hope,  my  joy,  and  art  thou  murdered  f 

They  've  munlered  thee !    Thy  soul,  so  innocent, 

So  beautiful,  so  humble,  and  so  holy. 

Has  left  ito  home!     Thy  blood  has  drenched 

their  swords ! 
Thy  blood !     What  cruel  swords !     What  cruel 

hands! 

8k* 


750 


PORTUGUESE   POETRY. 


How  could  tbey  move  against  thee?     Those 

hard  weapons, 
How  had  they  strength  or  edge,  turned  against 

thee  ? 
How,  cruel  king,  couldst  thou  allow  the  deed  ? 
Mine  enemy,  —  not  father,  —  enemy ! 
Wherefore  thus  murder  me  ?     Te  sayage  lions, 
Te  tigers,  serpents !  why,  if  for  my  blood 
Athirst,  glutted  ye  not  on  me  your  rage  ? 
Me  had  you  slain,  I  might  survive.    Barbarians, 
Wherefore  not  murder  me  ?    If  wronged  by  me, 
Mine  enemies,  why  not  on  me  revenge 
Tour  wrongs  P     She  had  not  wronged  you,  that 

meek  Iamb, 
Innocent,  beautiful,  sincere,  and  chaste ; 
But  you,  as  rancorous  enemies,  would  slay  me,  — 
Not  in  my  life,  but  soul.    Te  heavens,  that  saw 
Such  monstrous  cruelty,  how  fell  ye  not  ? 
Te  mountains  of  Coimbra,  'neath  your  rocks 
Why  overwhelmed  ye  not  such  ministers? 
Why  trembles  not  the  earth  ?  why  opens  not  ? 
Wherefore  supports  it  such  barbarity  ? 


My  lord,  for  weeping  there  is  ample  leisure ; 
But  what  can  tears  'gainst  death  ?     I  pray  thee, 

now. 
Visit  the  corse,  and  render  it  due  honors. 

DOM  PSDBO. 

Sad  honors !     Other  honors,  lady  mine, 
I  had  in  store  for  thee,  —  honors  thy  due ! 


How  look  upon  those  eyes,  for  ever  closed  ? 
Upon  those  tresses,  now  not  gold,  but  blood  ? 
Upon  those  hands,  so  cold  and  livid  now, 
That  used  to  be  so  white  and  delicate  ? 
On  that  ftiir  bosom,  pierced  with  cruel  wounds  ? 
Upon  that  form,  so  oflen  in  mine  arms 
Clasped  living,  beautiful,  now  dead  and  cold  ? 
How  shall  I  see  the  pledges  of  our  loves? 

0  cruel  father,  didst  thou  not  in  them 
Behold   thy  son?     Thou   hear'st  not,  my  be- 
loved ! 

1  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more!    throughout  the 

world 
Shall  never  find  thee !  —  Weep  my  griefi  with 

me. 
All  you  who  hear  me!     Weep  with  me,  ye 

rocks. 
Since  in  men's  hearts  dwells  such  barbarity ! 
And  thou,  Coimbra,  shroud  thyself  for  ever 
In  melancholy  I     Ne'er  within  thy  walls 
Be  laughter  heard,  or  aught  save  tears  and  sighs ! 
Be  thy  Mondego's  waters  changed  to  blood ! 
Withered  thy  trees,  thy  flowers !     Help  me  to 

call 
Upon  Heaven's  justice  to  avenge  my  woes !  — 
I  slew  thee,  lady  mine !     'T  was  I  destroyed 

thee ! 
With  death  I  recompensed  thy  tenderness ! 
But  far  more  cruelly  than  thee  they  slew 
Will  I  destroy  myself,  if  I  avenge  not 
Thy  murder  with  unheard-of  cruelties ! 
For  this  alone  does  God  prolong  my  life ! 


With  mine  own  hands  their  breasts  I  '11  open ; 

thence 
I  '11  tear  out  the  ferocious  hearts  that  dorst 
Conceive  such  cruelty :  then  let  them  die  ! 
Thee,  too,  I  '11  persecute,  thou  king,  my  foe ! 
Quickly  shall  wasting  fires  work  ravages 
Amidst  thy  firiends,  thy  kingdom!     Thy  slain 

friends 
Shall  look  on  others'  deaths,  whose  blood  shall 

drown 
The  plains,  with  whose  blood  shall  the  liTers 

stream. 
For  hers  in  retribution  !     Slay  me  thoa. 
Or  fly  my  rage !     No  longer  as  my  father 
Do  I  acknowledge  thee !     Thine  enemy 
I  call  myself,  —  thine  enemy !     My  father 
Thou  'rt  not, — I  'm  no  son,  —  I  'm  an  enemy !— ~ 
Thou,  Ignez,  art  in  heaven !     I  remain 
Till  I  've  revenged  thee;  then  I  there  rejoin 

thee! 
Here  shalt  thou  be  a  queen,  as  was  thy  doe  ; 
Thy  sons  shall,  only  as  thy  sons,  be  princes; 
Thine  innocent  body  shall  in  royal  state 
Be  placed  on  high  !     Thy  tenderness  shall  be 
Mine  indivisible  associate. 
Until  I  leave  with  thine  my  weary  body. 
And  my  soul  hastes  to  rest  with  thine  for  ever! 


PEDRO   DE   ANDRADE   CAMINHA. 

This   poet  was  a  native    of  Oporto.      His 
family  came  originally  from  Castile.     He  was  t 
the  friend  of  Ferreira  and  Bernardes.     He  held   | 
the  post  of  Gentleman  of  the  Chamber  to  Dom   j 
Duarte,  brother  of  King  Joao  III.,  and  after- 
wards enjoyed  the  favor  of  Sebastian.     Camin- 
ha  was  not  a  poet  of  a  high  order  of  genius^ 
but  his  style  is  elegant  and  correct     He  has 
been  called  the  Fontenelle  of  Portuguese  literar 
ture. 

Caminha  died  in  1594,  at  Villa  Vi^oea ;  bot 
his  works  were  not  collected  and  printed  until 
1791. 

SONNET. 

With  equal  force  should  sweep  the  poet*s  Ijre 
As  filled  the  spirits  of  those  sons  of  fiime 
Whose  valorous  deeds  secured  the  world's  ac- 
claim. 
The  hero's  ardor  and  the  warrior's  fire 
Should  in  the  cadence  of  his  measures  gleam : 
Harmonious  sounds,  unknown  in  vulgar  song. 
Justly  to  deeds  of  bold  emprise  belong. 
When  such  brave  actions  form  the  poet's  theme. 
Full  well  thy  lay,  Jeronimo,  portrays 
In  lively  tints,  revealing  to  the  eye. 
The  achievements  grand  which  bear  thy  Muse's 

praise; 
And  for  that  praise,  from  all  who  can  descry 
The  beauties  of  thy  verse  and  feel  its  power, 
Is  due  the  approving  meed,  the  bard's  immortal 
dower. 


BERNARDES. 


751 


DI060  BERNARDES. 

Diooo  Bern ARDBS,  who  has  been  pronoaoced 
by  Mr.  Southey  one  of  the  best  Portogaeae  poets, 
was  born  at  Ponte  de  Barca,  on  the  river  Lima, 
in  the  province  of  Entre  Douro  e  Minho.  He 
was  secretary  of  the  embassy  to  Spain,  and 
afterwards  accompanied  Sebastian  in  his  expe- 
dition for  the  conquest  of  Africa.  He  was 
made  prisoner  in  the  disastrous  battle  of  Alca- 
zar, remained  some  time  in  captivity,  and 
wrote  several  pieces  describing  his  misfortnnes. 
Though  he  had  encouraged  Sebastian  in  the 
rash  enterprise,  he  complained  bitterly  of  the 
king's  folly,  when  he  himself  had  to  share  in  its 
consequences.  After  obtaining  his  liberty,  he 
returned  to  Lisbon,  where  he  died  in  1596. 

The  character  of  Bernardes  has  suffered  from 
a  charge  of  plagiarism  that  has  been  sometimes 
brought  against  him.  He  is  accused  of  having 
printed  several  of  Camoens's  sonnets  as  his  own. 
Upon  this,  Mr.  Southey  remarks,  in  his  Notes 
to  ^* Roderick": — **To  obtain  any  proofi  upon 
this  subject  would  be  very  difficult ;  this,  how- 
ever, is  certain,  that  his  own  undisputed  pro- 
ductions resemble  them  so  closely,  in  unaffected 
tenderness  and  in  sweetness  of  diction,  that  the 
whole  appear  like  the  works  of  one  author." 

SONNETS. 

O  Lima  !  thou  that  in  this  valley's  sweep 
Now  murmuring  glid*st,  with  soothing  sounds, 

the  while 
That  western  skies  obscure  Sol's  gilded  smile. 
Luring  the  neighbours  of  thy  stream  to  sleep : 
I,  now  lovelorn,  of  other  sounds  than  thine 
Catch  but  the  whispers  as  thy  waters  flow, 
And,  in  the  loved  one's  absence  sunk  in  woe. 
Increase  thy  wave  with  gushing  tears  of  mine. 
And  whilst  meandering  gently  to  the  sea, 
Seemeth,  methinks,  —  so  sweet  the  moan  thou 

makest,  — 
That  thou  a  share  in  all  my  griefs  partakest : 
Yet  I  *m  deceived ;  thou  but  complain'st  of  me. 
That  the  intrusion  of  my  falling  tear 
Should  break  the  sur&ce  of  thy  waters  clear. 


It  thee,  my  friend,  should  Love,  of  nature  kind. 
Like  to  a  tyrant  treat,  and  e'er  impose 
Upon  thee,  blameless,  all  his  host  of  woes, — 
And  well  thy  mien  betrays  what  now  thy  mind 
[n  sorrow  feels,  —  contented  suffer  all 
The  cruel  pangs  which  she  thou  lov'st  ordains; 
For  gentle  calm  succeeds  the  direful  squall, 
^nd  gilded  mornings  follow  nights*  dark  reigns. 
\8  well  I  hope,  when  these  thy  torments  end. 
Thou  'It  gather  the  sweet  fruit  of  all  thy  toil; 
Then  dear  will  be  the  memory  of  the  past : 
\nd  e'en  should  fate  thine  ardent  wishes  foil, — 
Tor  the  loved  cause  that  did  thy  bloom  o'er- 

cast, 
'ride  shouldst  thou  in  the  tears  which  thou 

didst  so  misspend. 


SiNcx,  now  that  Lusitania's  king  benign. 
To  wage  thy  battle,  Christ,  to  arms  resorts. 
And  high  aloft — his  guide — the  standard  sports. 
Bearing  the  picture  of  thy  death  divine : 
What,  Afric,  canst  thou  hope,  but  by  such  host 
To  see  thyself  o'erwhelmed ;   e'en  could  that 

chief. 
Thy  Hannibal,  and  other  warriors  lost. 
Come  to  thy  succour  and  attempt  relief  ? 
Wouldst  thou  avert  a  desolation  new. 
Such  as  thy  Carthage  still  in  memory  bears. 
Then  bow  submissive,  where  no  chance  appears ; 
Accept   Sebastian's   sway,  —  God's   ordinance 

true: 
If  Lusian  valor  ne'er  was  known  to  quail, 
With  such  a  king  and  God  how  must  its  force 

prevail ! 

FROM  THE  FIRST  ECLOGUE. 

SSBKAlfO. 

O  BRIGHT  Adonis !  brightest  of  our  train  ! 
For   thee  our   mountain    pastures   greenest 
sprung. 
Transparent  fountains  watered  every  plain. 
And   lavish   Nature  poured,  as  once  when 
young. 
Spontaneous  fruits,  that  asked  no  fostering  care ; 
With  thee  our  flocks  from  dangers  wandered 
free 
Along  the  hills,  nor  did  the  fierce  wolf  dare 
To  snatch  by  stealth  thy  timorous  charge  from 
thee. 

STLVXO. 

Come,  pour  with  me  your  never-ceasing  tears ! 

Come,  every  nation,  join  our  sad  lament 
For  woes  that  fill  our  souls  with  pains  and  fears ; 

Woes,  at  which  savage  nations  might  relent ! 

SBEKAMa 

Let  every  living  thing  that  walks  the  earth. 
Or  wings  the  heavens,  or  sails  the  oozy  deep. 

Unite  their  sighs  to  ours  !  Adieu  to  mirth ! 
Pleasures,  and  joys,  adieu !  for  we  must  weep. 

STLVIO. 

O  ill-starred  day !  O  day  that  brought  our  woe. 
Sacred  to  grief!  that  saw  those  bright  eyes 
close. 

And  Death's  cold  hand  from  the  unsullied  snow 
Of  thy  fair  cheek  pluck  forth  the  blooming 


Faint  and  more  faint,  the  tender  colors  died. 
Like  the  sweet  lily  of  the  summer  day,  — 

Found  by  the  ploughshare  in  its  fragrant  pride. 
And  torn,  unsparing,  from  its  stem  away. 


FROM  THE  ECLOGITE  OF  MARILU. 

How  sweetly  'midst  these  hazel-bushes  rose 
E'en  now  the  nightingale's  melodious  lay. 
Whilst  the  unhappy  Phyllis  mourned  her  woes ! 

I  came  to  drive  my  lambs,  idly  that  stray. 
From  yonder  wheat,  and  caught,  as  I  drew  near, 
Either's  last  cadence,  ere  both  fled  away. 


752 


PORTUGUESE   POETRY. 


Sad  Phyllis  cried,  "  Alas !  *'  in  tone  so  drear, 
So  inly  felt,  that  sorrow's  voice  I  knew, 
And  my  heart  bled  such  suffering  to  hear : 

Complaining  thus,  she  mournfully  withdrew ; 
The  bird  flew  off'^  and  my  regrets  are  yain. 

**  Those  nymphs  who  from  their  bosoms  Love 
exclude 
Are  happy,  —  O,  how  enviable  their  state ! 
How  wretched  those  whose  hearts  he  has  sub- 
dued ! 

**  How  often  do  they  vainly  call  on  Fate ! 
How  oAen  cruel  Love  invoke,  and  wail. 
And  lavish  sighs  and  tears  on  an  ingrate  ! 

"  Vainly  their  eyes  disclose  the  tender  tale 
Of  a  lost  heart.     In  us,  foredoomed  to  grief, 
Beauty  and  grace,  alas !  of  what  avail  ? 

"  If  we  *re  disdained,  *t  is  sorrow  past  relief; 
In  which  if  curelessly  the  heart  must  pine. 
The  term  of  life  and  suffering  will  be  brief. 

*'  I  loved  thee  holily  as  the  chaste  dove : 
If  other  thoughts  within  thy  bosom  dwell. 
Thine  own  heart  must  that  wrongful  thought 
reprove. 

**  But  wherefore  do  I  here  my  sorrows  tell, 
Where  Echo  only  to  my  sad  lament 
Can  answer,  and  not  he  I  love  so  well  ? 

'*  Across  these  mountains  since  his  course  he 
bent. 
Never  again  revisiting  oar  plains. 
By  what  dark  jealousies  my  heart  is  rent ! 

"  So  little  room  for  hope  to  me  remains, 
Despair  were  haply  lesser  misery : 
But  Love  resists  despair,  and  Love  still  reigns." 


FRA  AGOSTINHO  DA  CRUZ. 

This  religious  poet  was  the  brother  of  Diogo 
Bemardes,  and  took  the  name  of  Da  Cruz,  from 
the  convent  of  Santa  Cruz,  where  he  served  bis 
novitiate.  He  was  bom  in  1540,  and  early 
manifested  the  devotional  and  pious  feelings 
which  led  him  to  consecrate  bis  life  to  religion. 
The  order  to  which  he  joined  himself  was  one 
of  the  most  austere  in  Portugal ;  but,  not  satisfied 
with  the  ordinary  rigors  of  ascetic  life,  he  ob- 
tained permission  to  retire  and  become  a  hermit 
on  the  Serra  de  Arrabida.  Here  he  took  up  his 
abode  in  a  small  hut,  and  lived  until  1619; 
when,  being  attacked  by  a  fever,  he  was  carried 
to  a  hospital  at  Setubal,  and  died  there,  May  14 
of  the  same  year. 

The  works  of  Fra  Agostinho,  entitled  ^  Va- 
rias  Poesias,"  consisting  of  sonnets,  eclogues, 
and  elegies,  were  published  at  Lisbon,  in  1771. 


SONNETS. 
TO  HIS  SORROWFUL  STATE. 

Or  lively  spring  this  vale  displays  the  charms; 
The  birds  here  sing,  and  plants  and  flowers  are 
seen 


With  joy  to  deck  the  fields ;  tbe  ivy  green 
Around  the  lofliest  laurel  twines  its  arms. 
Calm  is  tbe  sea,  and  firom  the  river's  flow. 
Now  gently  ebbing,  asks  a  smaller  due, — 
Whilst  loveliest  dawnings  waken  to  the  view : 
But  not  for  me,  who  ne'er  a  change  must  know. 
In  tears  I  fearful  wait  my  coming  fate. 
And  mourn  the  memory  of  my  former  state. 
And  naught  have  I  to  lose,  nor  aught  to  hope. 
Useless  to  him  a  change,  for  whom  nor  joj 
Nor  pleasure  may  his  future  time  employ,  i 

Whoee  sorrows  can  admit  no  wider  scope. 

TO   HIS   BROTHER,   DIOOO   BERNARDX8.  L 

Or  Lima,  whence  I  bent  my  pilgrim  way  | 

In  this  lone  mount  my  sepulchre  to  make,  ii 
I  may  not  to  the  beauties  tune  my  lay ; 

For  thoughts  would  rise  which  I  should  dow  J 

forsake.  1, 

The  humble  garb  of  wool  about  me  bound,  i' 

Formed  to  no  fiishion  but  a  lowly  vest,  t 

And  feet  which  naked  tread  the  stony  ground,  ;) 

From  worldly  converse  long  have  closed  my  i 

breast.  I 

The  gaysome  throng,  who  loudly  laud  thj  name,  i, 
Seeing  thy  gentle  Lima  'neath  the  care 

Of  one,  a  noble  prince  and  monarch's  heir,  i 

The  more  thou  writ'st,  the  more  will  sound  thy  !■ 

feme.  I 

Brother,  though  I  on  thee  less  praise  bestow,  j. 

Jointly  let  ours  to  Grod  eternal  flow  I  V 


FERNA6  ALVARES   DO  ORIENTE. 

This  poet  was  born  about  the  middle  of  tbe 
sixteenth  century,  in  Groa.  He  is  supposed  to 
have  passed  his  life  in  the  Portuguese  posses- 
sions in  India,  and  never  to  have  visited  Portu- 
gal. He  bore  arms  under  the  command  of 
Femao  Tellez,  in  an  expedition  undertaken  by 
that  officer  to  the  North.  He  lived  until  after 
1607.  His  principal  work  is  a  pastoral,  partly 
in  prose  and  partly  in  verse,  entitled  "  Lusitania 
Transformada." 

SONNET. 

Placed  in  the  spangled  sky,  with  visage  bright, 
Tbe  fijll-orbed  moon  her  radiant  beams  displays; 
But  'neath  the  vivid  sun's  more  splendid  rays 
Sink  all  her  charms,  and  fedes  her  lovely  light 
Spring  with  the  rose  and  flowers  adorns  tbe 

field,  I 

Yet  they  are  doomed  to  doflT  their  gay  attire ;  — 
The  murmuring  fountain  to  Sol's  parching  Are, 
The  sparkling  stream  from  rock  distilled,  must 

yield. 
And  he  who  founds  on  earth  his  hopes  of  ease 
111  knows  the  order  which  this  earth  obeys  : 
Nor  sky,  nor  sun,  nor  moon,  a  lasting  peace 
Enjoy,  but  ever  change ;  and  so  the  days 
Of  man  precarious  are,  that,  though  be  seem 
To  flourish  long,  yet  fells  the  febrie  like  a  dream.   |i 


LOBO.— FARIA   E   SOUZA— DO  CEO. 


753 


FRANCISCO  RODRIGUEZ   LOBO. 

This  poel(  who  .has  been  called  the  Portu- 
guese TheocrituB,  was  born  about  1550,  at 
Leiria,  in  Portuguese  Estremadura.  Ha  was 
distioguished  white  jet  at  the  University.  But 
little  is  known  of  his  life.  He  is  said  to  have 
travelled ;  but  he  passed  the  greater  portion  of 
his  time  in  the  country,  occupied  with  study. 
He  was  drowned  in  attempting  to  cross  the 
Tagus,  which  be  had  so  often  celebrated  in  his 
writings. 

As  a  poet,  Lobo  has  been  ranked  next  to  Saa 
de  Miranda  and  Camoens.  He  was  a  scholar  of 
great  erudition,  and  the  services  he  rendered  to 
the  Portuguese  language  and  style  make  an  era 
io  that  literature;  His  principal  prose  work  is 
the  "Corte  na  Aldea,  e  Noites  de  Inverno" 
(the  Court  in  the  Country,  and  Winter  Nights). 
He  also  wrote  pastoral  romances,  in  which  were 
introduced 'sonnets,  songs,  redondUhas,  &c.,  of 
great  beauty ;  and  an  epic  poem,  entitled,  *'  O 
Condestable  de  Portugal,"  in  which  he  chron- 
icled, in  twenty  mortal  cantos,  the  exploits  of 
Nuno  Alvaros  Pereyra,  the  renowned  constable 
of  Portugal.  He  also  composed  a  hundred  ro- 
mances, or  occasional  poems,  the  greater  portion 
of  which  are  in  the  Spanish  language. 


SONNETS. 

Waters,  which,  pendent  from  your  airy  height, 
Dash  on  the  heedless  rocks  and  stones  below. 
Whilst  in  your  white  uplifted  foam  ye  show. 
Though  vexed  yourselves,  your  beauties'  much 

more  bright, — 
Why,  as  ye  know  that  changeless  is  their  doom, 
Do  ye,  if  weary,  strive  against  them  still  ? 
Year  after  year,  as  ye  your  course  fulfil, 
Te  find  them  rugged  nOr  less  hard  become. 
Return  ye  back  unto  the  leafy  grove. 
Through  which  your  way  ye  may  at  pleasure 

roam. 
Until  ye  reach  at  last  your  longed-for  home. 
How  hid  in  mystery  are  the  ways  of  Love ! 
Te,  if  ye  wished,  yet  could  not  wander  free : — , 
Freedom,  in  my  lorn  state,  is  valueless  to  me. 


How,  lovely  Tagus,  different  to  our  view 
Our  |>ast  and  present  states  do  now  appear  i 
Muddy  the  stream,  which  I  have  seen  so  clear,^- 
And  sad  the  breast,  which  you  contented  knew. 
Thy  banks  o'erfiowed,  through  unresisting  plains 
Thy  waters  stray,  by  fitful  tempests  driven,  — 
LfOet  is  to  Die  the  object  which  had  given 
A  life  of  pleasures  or  a  life  of  pains. 
As  thus  our  sorrows  such  resemblance  bear, 
May  we  of  joy  an  equal  cup  partake ! 
But,  ah,  what  favoring  power  to  me  can  make 
Our  fates  alike  P  —  for  spring,  with  soothing  air, 
Shall  to  its  former  state  thy  stream  restore ; 
W^bilst  hid  if  I  again  may  be  as  heretofore. 
d6 


MANOEL  DE   FARIA   E   SOUZA. 

Tbis  voluminous  author,  whose  writings  be- 
long more  to  Spanish  than  to  Portuguese  litera- 
ture, was  born  in  1590.  At  the  age  of  fifteen, 
he  was  appointed  secretary  by  one  of  his  rela- 
tions who  held  an  office,  and  he  soon  displayed 
a'remarkable  capacity  for  business.  Not  having, 
however,  obtained  an  appointment  commensu- 
rate with  his  desires,  he  left  his  native  country 
and  went  to  Madrid.  He  was  appointed  to  a 
place  in  the  embassy  to  Rome ;  but  on  his  return 
to  Madrid,  withdrew  from  pqblic  afiTairs  and  de- 
voted himself  to  literature.  He  boasted  that  he 
filled  every  day  twelve  sheets  of  paper,  each 
page  containing  thirty  lines.     He  died  in  1649. 

Souza's  historical  works  were  written  in  Span- 
ish ;  the  greater  part  of  his  poems  are  also  in  that 
language.  In  Portuguese  he  wrote  only  sonnets 
and  eclogues.  Some  of  the  sonnets  are  of  great 
beauty,  but  most  of  them  abound  in  conceits, 
and  extravagant  figures  of  speech.  He  is  also 
known  in  literature  as  the  author  of  several 
critical  treatises. 


SONNET. 

Now  past  for  me  are.  April's  maddening  houre. 
Whose  freshness  feeds  the  vanity  of  youth ; 
A  spring  so  utterly  devoid  of  truth. 
Whose  fruit  is  error,  and  deceit  whose  Bowers. 
Gone,  too,  for  me,  is  summer's  sultry  time. 
When  idly,  reasonless,  I  sowed  those  seeds 
Yielding    to    manhood    charms,   now   proving 

weeds. 
With  gaudy  colors,  poisoning  as  they  climb. 
And  well  I  fancy  that  they  both  are  flown. 
And  that  beyond  their  tyrant  reach  I  'm  placed ; 
But  yet  I  know  not  if  I  yet  must  taste 
Their  vain  attacks :  my  thoughts  still  make  me 

own. 
That  fruits  of  weeds  deceitfUl.do  not  die. 
When  feelings  sober  not  as  years  pass  by. 


VIOLANTE   DO   CEO. 

This  poetess,  who  has  been  somewhat  ex- 
travagantly called  the  Tenth  Muse  of  Portu- 
gal, was  born  at  Lisbon,  in  1601.  At  the  age  of 
eighteen,  she  wrote  a  comedy  in  verse.  She  is 
said  to  have  been  a  good  singer  and  performer 
on  the  harp.  -  Afterwards  she  devoted  herself 
to  a  religious  life,  and  entered  a  cloister.  She 
lived  to  the  age  of  ninety-two,  dying  in  1693. 

Violante  do  Ceo  wrote  in  Portuguese  and 
Spanish.  Her  poems  were  not  collected  until 
after  her  death.  Her  writings  are  marked  by 
the  characteristic  faults  of  her  age.  They  are 
full  of  far-fotched  antitheses,  conceits,  and,  in 
general,  of  the  afifectations  of  the  Gdngora  and 
Marini  schools. 


754 


PORTUGUESE   POETRY. 


SONNET. 

Thou,  who  amidst  the  world's  alluring  toil 
Liv'st  joyous,  and  neglectful  of  thy  state,  — 
Take  here  a  warning,  ere  it  be  too  late. 
Which  thy  expected  conquests  all  should  foil. 
Ponder;  again  to  earth  resigned  the  trust. 
Lies  one  whose  beauty  bore  the  praise  of  all ;  — 
Think  that  whate'er  has  life  is  naught  but  duat,->- 
That  thy  existence,  too,  is  less  than  small. 
Let  this  my  tomb  instruct,  —  Death  comes,  and 

then 
E'en  beauty  bows  before  his  rigorous  power; 
And  skill  avails  not  to  avert  the  hour. 
To  all  appointed,  but  uncertain  when. 
Live  as  thou  ought'st;  be  mindful  that  thy  late 
Is  fixed,  —  although  unknown  if  soon  or  late. 


WHILE  TO  BETHLEM  WE  ARE  GOING. 

**  Wrils  to  Betblem  we  are  going. 
Tell  me,  Bias,  to- cheer  the  road. 

Tell  me  why  this  lovely  infant 
Quitted  his  divine  abode." 

<*  From  that  world  to  bring  to  this 
Peace,  which,  of  all  earthly  blisses, 

Is  the  brightest,  purest  bliss." 

«*  Wherefore  from  his  throne  exalted  . 

Came  he  on  this  earth  to  dwell,  — 
All  his  pomp  a  bumble  manger. 

All  his  court  a  narrow  cell .?  " 
<*  From  that  world  to  bring  to  this 

Peace,  which,  of  all  earthly  blisses, 
Is  the  brightest,  purest  bliss.'* 

"  Why  did  he,  the  Lord  Eternal, 
Mortal  pilgrim  deign  to  be, — 

He  who  Ashioned  for  his  glory 
Boundless  immortality  ?  " 

**  From  that  world  to  bring  to  this 
Peace,  which,  of  all  earthly  blisses 

Is  the  brightest,  purest  bliss." 

Well,  then,  let  us  haste  to  Betblem,  — 
Thither  let  us  haste  and  rest: 

For,  of  all  Heaven's  gifls,  the  sweetest, 
Sure,  is  peace,  —  the  sweetest^  best. 

NIGHT  OF  MARVELSu 

Ih  such  a  marvellous  night,  so  fair, 
And  fbll  of  wonder  strange  and  new, 

Ye  shepherds  of  the  vale,  declare. 

Who  saw  the  greatest  wonder  ?    Who  ? 

PIABT. 

I  saw  the  trembling  fire  look  wan. 

8B00in>. 

I  saw  the  sun  shed  tears  of  blood. 

.     TBIRD. 

I  saw  a  Qod  become  a  man. 

FOURTH. 

I  saw  a  man  become  a  Grod. 


O  wondrous  marvels !  at  the  thought, 
The  bosom's  awe  and  reverence  move: 

But  who  such  prodigies  has  wrqpght? 
What  gave  such  wonders  birth .'    T  wsi 
love  .'*  I 

What  called  from  heaven  that  flame  divine  < 

Which  streams  in  glory  from  above ;  j 

And  bid  it  o'er  earth's  bosom  shine,  . 

And  bless  us  with  its  brightness.'    Love!  | 

Who  bid  the  glorioas  sun  arrest 

His  course,  and  o'er  heaven's  concave  move 
In  tears,  —  the  saddest,  Ibneliest,  | 

Of  the  celestial  orbs  ?     'T  was  love ! 

Who  raised  the  human  race  so  high,  i 

E'en  to  the  starry  seats  above,  ' 

That,  for  our  mortal  progeny, 

A  man  became  a  God  ?     'T  was  love !  l 

Who  humbled  from  the  seata  of  light 

Their  Lord,  all  human  woes  to  prove ; 
Led  the  great  source  of  day  to  night;  | 

And  made  of  God  a  man ?     T  was  lore! 

I 
Yes !  love  has  wrought,  and  love  alone,         i 

The  victories  all,  —  beneath,  above ;  | 

And  earth  and  heaven  shall  shout,  as  one. 

The  all-tilumphant  song  of  love. 

The  song  through  all  heaven's  arches  ran, 
And  told  the  wondrous  tales  aloud : 

The  trembling  fire  that  looked  so  wan,— 
The  weeping  sun  behind  the  cloud,  — 

A  God  —  a  God  —  become  a  man !  — 

A  mortal  man  become  a  God  ! 


ANTONIO  BARBOSA  BACELLAR. 

Antoitio  Barbosa  Bacjellar  was  bom  at 
Lisbon,  about  1610.  He  gave  early  manifesta- 
tions of  talent,  and  acquired  in  his  yooth  a 
knowledge  of  several  sciences  and  laagoages. 
He  was  particularly  noted  for  the  excellence  of 
his  memory.  He  wrote  with  equal  iacility  io 
Spanish  and  Pbrtuguese.  He  studied  the  law 
at  Coimbra,  went  afterwards  to'  Lisbon,  sod 
was  appointed  to  several  high  judicial  stttions 
in  succession.     He  died  at  Lisbon,  in  1663. 

Bacellar  was  an  admirer  and  imitator  of  Cs* 
moens.  His  works,  having  long  remained  in 
manuscript,  were  published  1n  1716,  in  a  col- 
lection entitled  "  A  Fenix  Reoascida,  ou  Obrai 
Poeticas  doe  melhores  engenbos  Portugueses." 
He  wrote  many  poems,  called  Saudides,  or 
Complaints  in  Solitude. 


SONNET. 
Gat,  gentle  bird  !  thou  pour'st  forth  sweetest 

■trains, 
Although  a  captive,  yet  as  thoa  wert  firee ; 
Like  Orpheus  singing  to  the  winds  with  glee, 
And  as  of  old  Ampbion  charmed  the  plains. 


BACELLAR.  — VASCONCELLOS   COUTINHO.  — GARC a6. 


755 


Near  where  the  brooklet's  cooling  waters  laye 
The  meads  around,  the  traitoroos  snare  was  laid, 
Which  thee,  unconscious  of  thy  lot,  betrayed, 
And  to  thy  ^e  enjoyment  fetters  gave. 
Just 80  with  me, — my  liberty  I  lost;  — 
For  Love,  in  ambush  of  soft  beaming  eyes. 


Seized  on  my  heart,  and  I  became  his  prize. 
Yet  liv'st  thou  gladsome,  —  whilst,  with  sorrow 

crossed, 
I  linger  sad.     How  different  do  we  bear 
The  chains  which  Fate  iias  fixed  that  we  alike 

must  wear ! 


THIRD  PERIOD.-FROM  1700  TO  1844. 


FRANCISCO  DE  VASqONCELLOS  COU- 
TINHO. 

This  poet  was  born  at  Funehal,  in  Madeira. 
He  belongs  to  the  lint  part  of  the  seventeenth, 
and  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
He  studied  at  the  University  of  Coimbra,  jind 
took  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Canon  Law. 
His  writings  are  less  infected  with  extravagant 
mannerisms  than  those  of  most  of  his  contem- 
poraries. He  wrote  a  poem  on  the  story  of 
Polyphemus  and  Galatea.  Many  of  his  sonnets 
were  published  in  ^*A  Fenix  Renascida.** 


SONNETS. 

To  tell  of  sorrows  doth  the  pangs  increase. 
While  silence  dulls  such  feelings  as  oppress; 
So,  if^  remembrance  doubles  loss  of  peace. 
The  man  who  stifles  thought  will  suffer  less.   • 
Silence  may  still  the  memory  of  pain, — 
Thus  grief  may  be  divested  of  its  sting ; 
But  if  of  woe  the  image  back  we  bring. 
The  wounds  of  sorrow  become  green  again. 
If  memory  thus  augments  the  force  of  woes. 
He,  who  that  memory  wakes,  the  more  will  feel 
Than  h'e  who  puts  upon  his  tongue  the  seal. 
In  silence  sorrows  ofltimes  find  repose ; 
While  he,  whose  feelings  will  not  brook  restraint. 
Renews  his  sorrows  when  he  makes  complaint. 


O   THOUGHTLESS  bird,   that  thus,  with   carol 

sweet, 
From  airy  bough  pour*st  forth  thy  joyous  tale. 
Regardless  of  the  ills  which  may  assail, 
When  thou  art  absent  from  thy  lone  retreat ! 
Fly,  quickly  haste,  —  give  heed,  while  I  protest. 
If  still  thou  tarriest  here,  that,  sunk  in  woe. 
Thy  tears  eternally  are  doomed  to  flow. 
And  wail  thy  young  ones  stolen,  and  spoiled  thy 

nest. 
Ah,  let  my  griefs  thy  slumbering  feelings  wake  I 
For  I,  while  absent,  trusting  all  to  Fate, 
Lost  the  reward  which  I  had  sought  to  gain. 
Why  dost  thou  yet  delay,  nor  counsel  take? 
Soon  by  thy  loss  convinced,  thou  Mt  mourn  too 

late,    • 
Though  happy  now  thou  poor'st  thy  lively  strain. 


TO   A  NIOHTINOALK. 

0  Nature's  sweet  enchanter !  Flower  of  Song! 
E'en  joyous  seem  the  notes  you  sing  of  grief, — 
Those  plaintive  strains  afford  to  you  relief; 
Whilst  weepings  still  my  hapless  loves  prolong. 
For  mine  's  the  grief  that  must  in  patience  wait, 
While  you  your  sorrows  tell  to  whom  you  love ; 
Tou  hope  each  hour  some  happy  bliss  to  prove. 
While  I  each  moment  dread  disastrous  fate. 
We  both  now  suflTer  from  Love*s  tyrant  sway ; 
But  cruel,  ah,  my  lot,  compared  with  thine ! 
*T  is  I  whom  reason  teaches  to  repine, 

But  tfiou  unconscious  pourest  forth  thy  lay ; 
Thou  sing'st  of  sorrows  which  do  now  assail, 

1  present  ills  and  those  I  fear  bewail. 


PEDRO  ANTONIO  CORREA  GARCAO. 

This  poet  is  noted  in  the  literary  history  of 
Portugal  for  his  instrumentality  in  the  formation 
of  the  Portuguese  Arcadian  Society,  which  was 
established  about  1756.  He  belongs,  therefore, 
to  the  middle  and  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  He  formed  bis  style  on  the  model  of 
Horace,  and,  since  Ferreira,  no  writer  had  ap- 
proached so  near  the  ancient  prototype,  so  .that 
be  was  called  the  Second  Portuguese  Horace. 
He  even  introduced  into  the  Portuguese  the 
ancient  metres.  Besides  lyric  poems,  he  wrote 
several  plays,  by  which  he  endeavoured  to  form 
a  more  correct  dramatic  taste  than  then  prevailed 
among  his  countrymen.  Having  given  offence 
to  the  government,  which  was  at  that  time  ad- 
ministered by  the  rigid  Pombal,  he  was  thrown 
into  prison,  where  he  died  miserably. 

The  writings  of  Gar^o  are  distinguished  by 
purity*  of  language,  delicacy  of  taste,  and  fine- 
ness of  tact.  His  **  Cantata  de  Dido  "  is  pro- 
nounced by  Almeida  Garrett  '*  one  of  the  most 
sublime  conceptions  of  human  genius,  one  of 
the  most  perfect  works  executed  by  the  hand  of 
man  '* ;  a  judgment  far  more  patriotic  than  dis- 
criminating. 

SONNETS. 

The  gentle  youth,  who  reads  my  hapless  strain. 
And  ne'er  hath  felt  the  shafts  of  frenzied  Love, 


756 


PORTUGUESE  POETRY. 


Nor  knows  the  anguish  he  is  doomed  to  prove, 
Whom  vile  deceit,  when  kept  in  heauty's  chain, 
Torments,  —  if  thai!  a  stone  less  hard  his  heart, 
Woald  fly  the  sad  recital  of  my  woes  j 
For  faces  firm  the  tale  would  discompose 
Of  Love's  deceptions  causing  so  much  smart. 
O,  list,  ye  doomed  to  weep !  while  I  display 
The  drear  and  mournful  scene  in  saddest  plaint. 
The  scaffold  base  and  platform's  bloody  way, — 
Where,  dragged   to  death,  behold  a  martyred 

saint;  — 
And  where  to  shameful  pain  unto  your  view 
Love  faithful  and  sincere  condemned  I  show. 


In  Moorish  galley  chained,  unhappy  slave. 
Poor,  weary  Corydon,  with  grief  oppressed, 
Upon  his  oar  bad  crossed  his  hands  in  rest. 
Tired  by  the  breeze  which  roughly  kissed  the 

wave. 
What  time  he  slept  and  fondly  thought  him  free,  — 
Folded  in  sweet  oblivion  all  his  woes, — 
The  beauteous  Lilia  on  his  view  arose. 
Cleaving  with  snowy  breast  the  rippled  sea. 
The  wishing  lover  trembled,  as  he  strove 
To  rise  and  meet  the  object  of  his  love, 
To  greet  the  maid,  and  catch  the  fond  embrace : 
His  cruel  chains  still  fixed  him  to  the  place. 
In  vain  amidst  the  crew  he  sought  relief: 
Each  had  to  wail  his  own  peculiar  grief. 

DIDO.— A  CANTATA. 
Alrsadt  in  the  ruddy  east  shine  white 
The  pregnant  sails  that  speed  the  Trojan  fleet : 
Now  wafled  on  the  pinions  of  the  wind. 
They  vanish  'midst  the  golden  sea's  blue  waves. 

The  miserable  Dido 
Wanders  loud  shrieking  through  her  regal  halls. 
With  dim  and  turbid  eyes  seeking  in  vain 

The  fugitive  JRneaa, 
Only  deserted  streets  and  lonesome  squares 
Her  new-built  Carthage  offers  to  her  gaze ; 
And  frightfully  along  the  naked  shore 
The  solitary  billows  roar  i'  th'  night; 

And  'midst  the  gilded  vanes 

.    Crowning  the  splendid  domes 

Nocturnal  birds  hoot  their  ill  auguries. 

In  fancy  now  she  hears,    • 

Amazed,  the  ashes  cold 
Of  dead  Sichseus,  from  his  marble  tomb. 
In  feeble  accents  mixed  with  heavy  aighs, 
*^£Iiza  !  mine  Eliza !  "  ceaseless  call. 

To  the  dread  gods  of  hell 

A  solemn  sacrifice 

Prepares  she ;  but,  dismayed, 
Upon  the  incense-fuming  altars  sees 
The  sacred  vases  mantling  with  black  scum, 

And  the  libation  wine 
Transformed  into  abhorrent  lakes  of  blood. 

Deliriously  she  raves; 

Pale  is  her  beauteous  face, 
Her  silken  tresses  all  dishevelled  stream. 
And  with  uncertain  foot,  scarce  conscious,  she 

That  happy  chamber  seeks. 


Where  she  with  melting  heart 
Her  faithless  lover  heard 
Whisper  impassioned  sighs  and  soft  eompUints. 

There  the  inhuman  Fates  before  her  sight, 
Hung  o'er  the  gilded  nuptial  oooch,  displayed 
The  Teucrian  mantles,  whose  loose  folds  dis- 
closed 
The  lustrous  shield  and  the  Dardanian  sword. 
She  started; — suddenly,  with  hand  ooDvalsed, 
From  out  the  sheath  the  glittering  blade  sbe 

snatched. 
And  on  the  tempered,  penetrating  steel 
Her  delicate,  transparent  bosom  cast ; 
And  murmuring,  gushing,  foaming,  the  warm 

blood 
Bursts  in  a  fearful  torrent  flrom  the  wound ; 
And,,  from  the  encrimsoned  rushes  spotted  red. 
Tremble  the  Doric  columns  of  the  hall. 

Thrice  sbe  essayed  to  rise ; 
Thrice  fainting  on  the  bed  she  prostrate  fell. 
And,  writhing  as  she  lay,  to  heaven  upraised 

Her  quenched  and  failing  eyes. 
Then  earnestly  upon  the  lustrous  mail 

Of  Ilium's  fugitive 
Fixing  her  look,  she  uttered  these  last  words ; 
And  hovering  'midst  the  golden  vaulted  roo&, 
The  tones,  lugubrious  and  pitiful. 
In  after  days  were  often  heard  to  moan :  — 

**  Te  precious  memorials) 
Dear  souttse  of  delight. 
Enrapturing  my  sight, 
Whilst  relentless  Fate, 
Whilst  the  gods  above. 
Seemed  to  bless  my  love. 
Of  the  wretched  Dido 
The  spirit  receive  ! 
From  sorrows  whose  burden 
Her  strength  overpowers 
The  lost  one  relieve ! 
The  hapless  Dido 
Not  timelessly  dies : 
The  walls  of  her  Carthage, 
Loved  child  of  her  care, 
High  towering  rise. 
Now  a  spirit  bare. 
She  flies  the  sun's  beam ; 
And  Phlegethon's  dark 
And  horrible  stream. 
In  Charon's  foul  bark. 
She  lonesomely  ploughs.'* 


DOMINGOS   DOS  REIS   QUITA. 

This  poet,  the  son  of  a  tradesman,  was  bom 
in  1717,  at  Lisbon.  His  father,  being  unforto- 
nate  in  business,  left  Portugal  for  America  when 
Domingos  was  only  sevea  years  old.  For  a 
time,  the  family  was  supported  humbly  by  the 
remittances  which  Quits  was  able  to  send  home 
from  America.     But  these  at  length  foiling, 


QUITA.-DA   COSTA. 


757 


DomingoB  was  apprenticed  to  a  hair-dresfler,  at 
'the  age  of  thirteen.  Having  always  been  Ibnd 
of  reading  and  poetry,  he  studied  diligently  the 
works  of  Camoena  and  Lobo,  and  imitated  the 
beat  models  in  the  language.  His  modesty  was 
80  great  that  he  did  not  venture  to  show  his 
verses  to  his  friends  as  bis  own,  but  produced 
them  as  the  composition  of  a  monk  in  the 
Azores.  His  talents  became  known  to  the 
Conde  de  San  Louren^,  whose  patronage  en- 
abled him  to  acquire  the  Spanish,  Italian,  and 
French  languages;  and  he  studied  all  the  best 
authors  in  them,  and  as  many  of  the  Latin, 
German,  and  English,  as  were  translated.  He 
was  elected  into  the  Portuguese  Arcadia,  a  so- 
ciety formed  for  the  restoration  of  polite  litera- 
ture. The  archbishop  of  Braga  was  desirous 
of  taking  him  into  his  household,  but  some 
stupid  bigot  persuaded  him  that  it  would  be  un- 
becoming to  have  a  man  of  wit  about  his  person, 
and  so  the  place  was  lost  to  the  poet.  The 
marquis  of  Pombal,  the  great  minister  of  Portu; 
gal,  proposed  to  reward  him  for  hiq  excellent 
character  and  abilities ;  but  some  malignant  ip- 
fluence  interfered,  and  deprived  him  of  the 
statesman's  favor.  The  earthquake  of  Lisbon 
stripped  him  of  the  little  he  possessed ;  but  he 
was  kindly  received  into  the  house  of  Dona 
Theresa  Theodora  de  Aloim,  the  wife  of  a  phy- 
sician, named  Balthazar  Tara,  and  every  atten- 
tion was  bestowed  upon  him  by  these  affectionate 
friends.  He  lived  with  them  many  years ;  but 
finally,  from  a  sense  of  duty  to  his  infirm  and 
aged  mother,  Domingos  left  the  hospitable  roof 
of  his  benefkctors,  and  took  a  bouse,  that  she 
might  reside  with  him.  He  removed  to  his 
new  home  in  1770,  but  in  a  few  weeks  he  was 
!  seized  with  a  severe  illness,  which  ended  his 
life,  in  the  fifly-third  year  of  his  age. 

Domingos  wrote  eclogues,  idyls,  odes,  son- 
nets, and  tragedies,  one  of  which,  founded  on 
the  story  of  Ignez  de  Castro,  has  been  translated 
into  English. 

SONNETS. 

Thx  wretches.  Love,  who  of  thy  laws  complain, 
And,  bold,  conspire  against  thy  fixed  decree, 
Have  never  felt  the  pleasure  of  that  chain 
Whose  sweet  endearment  binds  my  soul  to  thee. 
Those  callous  breasts,  unbending  to  thy  sway. 
Which  ne'er  have  heaved  with  throbs  of  soft 

desire, 
Have  never  seen  thoscr  fond  allurements  play 
Which  fill  my  heart  with  flames  of  living  fire. 
O,  come,  ye  hapless  railers !  %one,  and  see 
The  bliss  for  which  are  raised  my  constant  sighs, 
And  ye  shall  taste  of  Love  the  golden  prize  :  — 
But  hold,  ye  railers !  hold  !  —  there  must  ngt  be 
A  change  in  your  hard  fiite,  until  those  eyes 
On  their  Alcino  only  shine  with  glee. 


'T  WAS  on  a  time, — the  sun's  last  glimmering  ray 
Id  ocean  sunk, — that,  sore  by  Fate  dismayed. 


Along  the  shore  Alcino  lovelorn  strayed, 
His  woes  the  lone  companions  of  his  way ; 
And  o'er  the  vast  expanse  of  waters  drear 
His  eyes  he  cast,  for  there  he  found  relief. 
Whilst  heaved  his  sighs,  and  fast  the  trickling  tear 
Paced  his  sad  cheek,  the  youth  thus  told  his 

grief: 
<*Ye  waves,  tranfeport  the  tears  which  now  I 

weep,  — 
Ye  winds,  upon  your  breezes  waft  my  sighs 
To  where  my  fondest  hopes  of  comfort  sleep. 
Where  ye  have  borne  the  form  of  her  I  prize. 
O,  if  ye  can,  have  pity  on  my  c^re ; 
Restore  the  bliss  which  ye  removed  so  far ! " 

Amidst  the  storms  which  chilling  winter  brings, 
All  horror  seems, — the  gladsome  hours  are  past ; 
The  laboring  sky,  with  darkening  clouds  o'er- 

cast, 
In  mingling  wind  and  rain  its  fury  flings  ; 
Spoiled  of  their  mantles  green,  the  meadows 

mourn ; 
And  headlong  rushing  o'er  its  bed,  the  stream 
Its  turbid  course  pursues.     I  equal  deem 
The  gloom  of  nature  and  my  state  forlorn. 
But  winter's  reign  is  o'er ;  again  the  sky 
Beams  fbrth  its  lustre,  and  its  crystal  range 
The  river  takes ;  no  more  the  meadows  sigh, 
But  smiling  Nature  greets  the  lovely  change. 
Not  thus  with  me ;  no  rest  these  eyes  may  know 
From  tears  of  sadness,  caused  by  ceaseless  woe. 


.CL AUDIO  MANGEL   DA   COSTA. 

This  poet  flourished  about  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  He  was  born  in  Brazil,  in 
the  province  of  Minas  Geraes,  where  the  princi- 
pal occupation  is  the  working  of  the  mines.  He 
spent  five  years  at  the  University  of  Coimbra. 
While  there,  he  applied  himself  to  the  study  of 
the  older  Italian  poets,  and  composed  sonnets  in 
imitation  of  Petrarch,  in  the  Italian  language. 
On  his  return  to  Brazil,  he  continued  his  poetic 
studies.  He  wrote  sonnets,  elegies,  eclogues, 
imitations  of  the  Italian  caTixonij  and  various 
other  lyrical  pieces. 

The  style  of  this  poet,  unlike  the  literary  fash- 
ion of  bis  day,  is  free  from  exaggeration  and 
affectation :  his  language  is  simple  and  elegant, 
and  some  of  his  sonnets  have  been  ranked 
among  the  best  in  Portuguese  literature.  His 
works  were  published  at  Coimbra,  in  1768. 

SONNET. 
Short  were  the  hours  which  were  so  gayly 

passed. 
When,  Love,  in  thee  my  trust  I  fondly  placed ; 
Possessed  of  all  my  soul  desired  to  taste, 
I  careless  deemed  they  would  for  ever  last. 
Quite  unsuspecting  any  fraud  of  thine. 
In  that  blessed  state  my  time  was  thus  em- 
ployed ; 


758 


PORTUGUESE   POETRY. 


Eocb  passing  scene  I  proudlj  thus  enjoyed, 
Thinking  what  truly  happy  lot  was  mine. 
The  glittering  veil  removed,  no  joys  remain ; 
The  brilliant  structure,  which  thou  bad'st  arise, 
Which  fed  my  vanity,  in  ruin  lies. 
What  hapless  end !  in  Love  to  trust  how  vain  ! 
But  why  surprised?  —  the   fate   may  soon   be 

guessed 
Of  hopes  which  in  the  bands  of  fickle  beauty 

rest. 

THE  LYRE. 

Yes  !  I  bare  loved  thee,  O  my  Lyre ! 
My  day,  my  night-dream,  loved  thee  long ! 
When  thou  wouldst  pour  thy  soul  of  song. 
When  did  I  turn  away .' 

'T  is  thine,  with  thy  bewitching  wire, 
To  charm  my  sorrow's  wildest  mood, 
To  calm  again  my  feverish  blood. 
Till  peace  resumes  her  sway. 

How  oft  with  fond  and  flattering  tone 
I  wooed  thee  through  the  still  midnight. 
And  chasing  slumbers  with  delight. 
Would  vigils  hold  with  thee ; 

Would  tell  thee  I  am  all  thine  own  ; 
That  thou,  sweet  Lyre,  shalt  rule  me  still ; 
My  love,  my  pride,  through  every  ill. 
My  world  of  bliss  to  me ! 

Thine  are  those  quenchless  thoughts  of  fire, 
The  beamings  of  a  burning  soul. 
That  cannot  brook  the  world's  control. 
Or  breathe  its  sickening  air ; 

And  thine  the  raptures  that  inspire 
With  antique  glow  my  trembling  frame. 
That  bid  me  nurse  the  wasting  flame. 
And  court  my  own  despair. 


JOAO  XAVIER  DE  MATOS. 

This  poet  belongs  to  the  latter  half  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  He  was  highly  esteemed 
at  Lisbon.  His  works  consist  of  sonnets,  odes, 
and  other  miscellaneous  pieces,  together  with  a 
translation  of  a  tragedy  by  the  Abb6  Genest,  and 
an  original  tragedy,  entitled  "Viriacia,"  on  a 
subject  drawn  from  the  early  history  of  Portugal. 


SONNET. 

Thb  sun  now  sets ;  whilst  twilight's  misty  hue 
Closes  with  slow  approach  the  light  of  day ; 
And  sober  night,  with  hand  of  mantling  gray. 
In  gathering  clouds  obscures  the  fading  view  : 
Scarce  do  I  see  my  villa  through  the  gloom. 
Or  from  the  beech  discern  the  cypress  grave. 
All  wears  the  stilly  silence  of  the  tomb. 
Save  that  the  sound  is  heard  of  measured  wave 


ypon  the  neighbouring  sand.    With  face  erect. 
Looks  raised  to  heaven,  in  anguish  of  my  soal. 
From  my  sad  eyes  the  frequent  tear-drops  roll ; 
And  if  a  comfort  I  might  now  select, 
'T  would  be  that  night  usurp  so  long  a  reign. 
That  never  more  should  day  appear  again. 


PAULINO    CABRAL    DE    VASCONCELr- 
LOS. 

Paulino  Cabral  de  Vabcoitcellos  is  known 
as  the  abbot  of  Jacente.  He  belongs  to  the  lat- 
ter part  of  the  eighteenth  century.  His  works;, 
consisting  of  sonnets  and  other  poems,  are  writ- 
ten with  polished  elegance,  and  contributed  to 
reclaim  his  countrymen  from  the  extravagant 
ces  of  the  prevailing  bad  taste,  to  a  clear  and 
classical  style.  They  were  published  at  Oporto, 
in  two  volumes,  1786-87. 


SONNET. 

Love  is  a  power  which  all  controlling  spurns. 
Nor  youth  nor  age  escape,  nor  high  nor  low  ; 
When  most  concealed,  more  lively  still  it  burns. 
And,  least  expected,' strikes  the  fatal  blow. 
E'en  conquering  heroes  to  its  sway  must  yield. 
Disdains  not  it  the  humble  cottage  roof, 
Nor  will  it  from  the  palace  keep  aloof. 
Nor  offers  wisdom's  mantle  any  shield. 
Against  its  shafls  the  convent's  awful  lane 
No  sacred  shelter  can  to  beauty  give  ; 
Naught  is  .so  strong  against  its  force  to  live ; 
It  combats  honor,  and  would  virtue  gain. 
Where'er  its  cruel  banner  is  unfurled, 
It  as  its  vassal  binds  the  universal  world. 


J.  A.  DA  CUNHA. 

J.  A.  DA  Cdhha  is  known  chiefly  as  an  emi- 
nent mathematician  of  the  latter  part  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  He  is  also  placed  high 
among  the  poets  of  his  age.  His  poetical 
writings  were  collected  in  1778,  but  remained 
in  manuscript.  Sismondi  says,  '*The  manu- 
scripts have  been  in  my  possession;  and  so  far 
from  detecting  in  them  any  traces  of  that  lame- 
ness, or  want  of  vigor  and  imagination,  which 
might  be  supposed  to  result  from  a  long  appli- 
cation  to  the  exact  sciences,  I  was  surprised  by 
their  tender  and  imaginative  character,  and  in 
particular  by  thai  deep  tone  of  melancholy 
which  seems  peculiar  to  the  Portuguese  poetry 
above  that  of  all  the  languages  of  the  South.*' 


LINES  WRnTEN  DURING  8EYERB  ILLNE8& 

O  GRIEF  beyond  all  other  grief, 

Com'st  thou  the  messenger  of  Death  ? 

Then  come  !  I  court  thy  wished  relief. 
And  pour  with  joy  this  painful  breath. 


DA  CUNHA.  — VALADARES  GAMBOA. 


759 


But  thou,  my  soul,  what  art  thou  ?  Where 
Wing'st  thou  thy  flight,  immortal  flame  ? 

Or  fad'st  thou  into  empty  air, 
A  lamp  burnt  out,  a  sigh,  a  name  ? 

I  reck  not  life,  not  that  with  life 
The  world  and  the  world's  toys  are  o'er: 

But,  ah,  't  is  more  than  mortal  strife 
To  leave  the  loved,  and  love  no  more ! 

To  leave  her  thus  !  —  my  fond  soul  torn 
From  hers,  without  e'en  time  to  tell 

Hera  are  these  tears  and  sighs  that  burn, 
And  hers  this  last  and  wild  flirewell ! 

Tes !  while,  upon  the  awful  brink 

Of  fate,  I  look  to  worlds  above. 
How  happy,. did  I  dare  to  think 

These  last  fliint  words  might  greet  my  love  : 

"  O  ever  loved,  though  loved  in  vain, 
With  such  a  pure  and  ardent  truth 

As  grows  but  once,  and  ne'er  again 
Renews  the  blossom  of  its  youth  ! 

•«  To  breathe  the  oft  repeated  vow,. 

To  say  my  soul  was  always  thine. 
Were  idle  here.     Live  happy  thou,  — 

As  I  had  been,  hadst  thou  been  mine !  " 

Now  grief  and  anguish  drown  my  voice. 
Fresh  pangs  invade  my  breast ;  more  dim 

Earth's  objects  on  my  senses  rise, 
And  forms  receding  round  me  swim. 

Shroud  me  with  thy  dear  guardian  wings. 

Father  of  universal  love  ! 
Be  near  me  now,  with  fhith  that  springs 

And  joys  that  bloom  in  worlds  above ! 

A  mourner  at  thine  awful  throne, 

I  bring  the  sacrifice  required,  — 
A  laden  heart,  its  duties  done. 

By  simple  truth  and  love  inspired  : 

Love,  such  as  Heaven  may  well  approve, 

Delighting  most  in  others'  joy. 
Though  mixed  with  errors  such  as  love 

May  pardon,  when  no  crimes  alloy. 

Come,  friendship,  with  thy  last  sad  rite, 

Thy  pious  office  now  fulfil ! 
One  tear  and  one  plain  stone  requite 

Lifb'e  tale  of  misery  and  ill. 

And  thou,  whose  name  is  mingled  thus 

With  these  last  trembling  thoughts  and  sighs, 

Thojugh  love  his  fond  regrets  refuse, 
Lsel  the  soft  voice  of  friendship  rise, 

And  gently  whisper  in  thine  ear, 

**  He  loves  no  more  who  lored  so  well !  **   ' 
And  when  thou  wanderest  through  those  dear, 

Delicious  scenes,  where,  first  to  tell 

The  secrets  of  my  glowing  breast, 
I  led  thee  to  the  shadiest  bower, 

\nd  at  thy  feet,  absorbed,  oppressed, 

With  faltering  tongue  confessed  thy  power,  — 


Then  own  no  truer,  holier  vow 

Was  ever  breathed  in  woman's  ear ; 

And  let  one  gush  of  tears  avow 

That  he  who  loved  thee  once  was  dear. 

Tet  weep  not  bitterly,  but  say, 
**  He  loved  me  not  as  others  love  ; 

Mine,  only  mine,  ere  called  away,  — 
Mine,  only  mine  in  heaven  above  !  " 


JOAQUIM  FORTUNATO  DE   VALA- 
DARES GAMBOA. 

This  poet  belonged  to  the  latter  half  of  the 
eighteenth  and  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  His  poems  were  first  published  at 
Lisbon  in  1779,  and  again  in  1791.  A  second 
volume  appeared  in  1804. 

SONNETS. 
Mr  gentle  love,  ^  to  bid  this  valley  smile. 
Which  now  in  sadness  droops,  thy  steps  retrace ; 
Denied  the  gladdening  influence  of  thy  face, 
Unjoyous  hours  and  sadness  reign  the  while. 
Now  slowly  falling  drops  alone  employ 
The  fountain  pure,  which  flowed  with  copious 

stream ; 
And  parched  and  languishing  the  meadows  seem. 
That  showed  before  the  laughing  garb  of  joy. 
E'en,  at  the  dawning  hour,  in  gleams  less  bright 
The  purple  east  emits  its  cheering  rays ; 
All  nature,  mourning,  signs  of  grief  displays. 
And  weeps  the  memory  of  her  past  delight. 
Judge,  then,  what  pangs  my  stricken  heart  must 

prove, 
Which  ceaseless  pours  for  thee  the  sighs  of  faith- 
ful love ! 

How  calm  and  how  serene  yon  river  glides 
Through  verdant  meads,  that  smiling  meet  my 

view! 
And  upland  slopes,  which  glow  with  sunny  hue. 
And  vales,  with  flowerets  gemmed,  adorn  its 

sides. 
Now  basking  in  yon  elm,  from  loftiest  spray 
A  little  songster,  careless,  pours  his  strain 
And  decks  his  plumes ;  while  to  his  woodland  lay. 
From  willow-bough,  a  chorister  again 
Returns  the  lively  song.     All  bears  around 
Accordant  joy  and  signs  of  sweet  repose ; 
And  be  may  well  rejoice  and  glad  appear, 
Who  ne'er  of  female  tyranny  hath  found 
The  smart; — but  woe  to  him,  who  hapless  knows 
Its  cruel  wrongs,  and  base  deceit,  and  care ! 


Adieu,  ye  Nine  !  O,  bow  much  woe  I  prove, 
To  quit  your  service,  and  your  charms  forsake ! 
How  deep  the  wound  which  distance  far  can 

make 
In  those  together  joined  by  so  much  love ! 
Inspired  by  you,  in  gay  and  joyous  strain, 


760 


PORTUGUESE   POETRY. 


Of  Love's  delights  I  sang  the  pleasing  lay ; 
But  griefs,  to  which  my  soul  is  now  a  prey, 
Usurp  their  place,  and  fill  my  breast  with  pain. 
Thrice  envied  he  whom  your  eodearmeDts  blesa, 
Happy  to  live,  nor  feel  the  torments  dire 
Which  now  so  close  and  cruel  round  me  press ! 
With  such  a  host  of  ills  have  I  to  strive. 
That,  quitting  you,  I  discontented  live, 
And  give  to  sad  repose  my  silent  lyre. 


ANTONIO  DINIZ  DA   CRUZ. 

Among  the  most  distinguished  of  the  Portu- 
guese  poets  who  flourished  about  the  end  of  the 
last  century  is  Antonio  Diniz  da  Cruz.  He  be- 
longed to  the  Arcadian  Society,  in  which  he 
was  known  by  the'name  of  Elpino  Nonacriense. 
He  cultivated  poetry  in  the  midst  of  his  duties 
as  a  magistrate;  for  he  held  the  office  of  a  dea- 
embargador  or  judge.  His  successful  imitations 
of  the  style  of  the  Theban  poet  have  gained  for 
him  the  name  of  the  Portuguese  Pindar.  He 
is  chiefly  known  to  foreigners  by  a  heroi-comic 
poem  in  eight  cantos,  entitled  **  O  Hysope,"  the 
Hyssop.  Oarrett  affirms  that  "  « The  Hyssop  ' 
is  the  roost  perfect  heroi-comic  poem,  of  its  kind, 
that  has  ever  been  written  in  any  language; 
if  the  <  Lutrin  *  exceeds  it  in  severe  correct- 
ness of  diction,  yet,  in  the  design  of  the  work, 
in  the  regularity  of  the  structure,  the  disciple 
of  Boileau  was  much  in  advance  of  his  master." 
The  occasion  which  gave  rise  to  it  is  thus  ex- 
plained by  a  writer  in  the  "  Quarterly  Review  " 
(Vol.  I.,  p.  244)  :  —  "  Joe6  Carlos  de  Lara,  dean 
of  Elvas,  used,  for  the  sake  of  ingratiating  him- 
self with  his  bishop,  to  attend  him  in  person, 
with  the  hyssop,  at  the  door  of  the  chapter-house, 
whenever  he  officiated.  After  a  while,  some 
quarrel  arose  between  them,  and  he  then  dis- 
continued this  act  of  supererogatory  respect; 
but  he  had  practised  it  so  long,  that  the  bishop, 
and  his  par^  in  the  chapter,  insisted  upon  it  as 
a  right,  and  commanded  him  to  continue  it  as  a 
service  he  was  bound  to  perform.  He  appealed 
to  the  metropolitan,  and  sentence  was  given 
against  him."  This  is  the  story  of  the  poem. 
"After  his  death,  the  dean's  successor,  who 
happened  to  be  his  nephew,  tried  the  cause 
again,  and  obtained  a  reversal  of  the  decree.  A 
prophetic  hope  of  this  eventual  triumph  is  given 
to  the  unsuccessful  hero." 

SONNETS. 
One  time,  when  Love,  his  beauteous  mother 

lost. 
Wandered    through   fields  where   Tejo's  soft 

streams  wind. 
Sighing  to  each   fair  nymph  whose  path  he 

crossed. 

Inquiring  still  where  he  might  Venus  find, 

Undone  the  brace,  his  golden  quiver  fell : 
He,  who  not  now  for  bow  or  arrow  cares. 
Sobs  out  what  thousand  pleasures  shall  be  theirs 


Who  may  some  tidings  of  the  goddess  tell. 
It  chanced  her  flock  that  Jonia  tended  there ; 
His  tears  she  dried,  and  with  a  cheerful  air 
Proffered  to  lead  him  to  the  wished-fbr  sight : 
When,  rising  on  his  wings,  the  urchin  said. 
While  her  sweet  face  he  kissed, —  "Ah,  gentle 

maid. 
Who  sees  those  eyes  forgetteth  Venus  quite  !  '* 


Herk,  lonely  in  this  cool  and  verdant  seat, 
Gemmed  with  bright  flowers  the  smiling  mead- 
ow yields. 
While  herds  depasture  in  the  neighbouring  fields, 
I  long  to  see  my  torments  all  retreat. 
How  pure  and  fresh  this  eve  !  how  soft  the  wind 
Now  moving  o'er  the  river's  surface  clear. 
As  in  yon  poplar  high  the  turtle  near 
In  soothing  murmurs  moumeth  forth  her  mind ! 
Joyous  meanwhile,  as  if  to  banish  grief^ 
The  tuneful  birds  their  sweetest  carols  ring. 
And  lovely  flowers  their  choicest  fragrance  flin^: 
But  to  my  sorrows  they  give  no  relief; 
For  cruel  tortures  all  my  thoughts  employ, 
Nor  grant  to  hapless  me  but  one  short  hour  of 

joy-  

FROMOHYSOPE. 

[Tha  Dean  and  the  Pftdre  Jubtlado,  In  the  ganSeo,  dbcoDns 
of  the  statues  of  Monsieur  Paris  and  Madama  Pona  Lopes 
(Penelope).] 

"  Who  is  this  Monsieur  Paris,  as  he  's  called 
In  the  inscription  on  his  pedestal  ? 
If  fi'om  appearances  I  judge,  the  name. 
Countenance,  and  well  dressed  hair  bespeak  this 

beau 
A  Frenchman,  and  perhaps  a  cavalier, 
The  great  inventor  of  his  own  toupie" 

The  learned  father  cautiously  replied,  — 
"  Nor  Frenchman,  a«  you  judge,  nor  cavalier. 
Was  he  this  statue  represents.     In  Troy, 
One  of  Troy*B  royal  family,  he  lived." 

"If  Frenchman  he  was  not,"  the  dean  re- 
joined, 
^^  Vf  hy  cnWed  Monsieur  f"    And  the  ex-doctor 

thus. 
Smiling,  made  answer :  — **  Let  not  that  surprise. 
Since  at  each  step  recurring.     Now-a-days, 
At  every-comer,  are  we  Portuguese 
Shamelessly  treated  as  Monsieurs.     This,  Sir, 
Is  now  the  fashion,  and  the  fashion  must 
Be  followed.     Above  all,  is  't  requisite 
We  should  convince  the  world  that  we  apeak 
French." 

"  O  Padre  Jubilado,"  asked  the  dean, 
"  Is  't,  then,  of  such  importance  to  speak  French, 
That  your  proficiency  your  reverences 
Must  thus  display  ?     Without  this  sacrament. 
Were  neither  wisdom  nor  salvation  yonra  ? 
For  I  must  tell  you  here,  under  the  rose, 
The  savage  Boticudo's  jargon  's  not 
More  unintelligible  to  me  than  French." 

"  Do  not  confess  it.  Sir ;  for  in  these  times,  -^ 
O  times!  O  morals!  —  French  b  all  in  all," 
The  &ther  said. 


^ 


DINIZ   DA   CRUZ.  — FRANCISCO   MANOEL, 


761 


"  Of  this  audacity,  this  impudence, 

Raging  unchecked  amongst  us.  Sir,  the  effects 

Most  terrible,  most  noxious,  those  appear 

That  fall  on  our  chaste  mother-tongue;   that 

tongue. 
Wasted  upon  translations  meriting 
Most  ri^hlj  to  be  burnt,  is  there  defiled 
With  thousand  Gallicbms  of  word  and  phrase. 

As  though  our  language,  beautiful  and  rich, 
The  eldest  born  of  Latin,  stood  in  need 
Of  foreign  ornament." 

<<  And  at  the  loom,  all  weavers  of  those  days 
Surpassing,  on  one  web  ten  years  she  spent." 

"  What  say  you,  father-master  ?  Do  you  jest  ?  " 
The  astonished  dean  exclaimed.     "  What !  ten 

whole  years. 
Warping  and  weaving  at  one  single  web. 
Did  this  Madama  spend  ?     And  will  you  say 
She  was  a  famous  weaver  ?     Why,  my  nurse  — 
And  she  's  decrepid — spends  not  on  one  web 
More  than  nine  months." 

«*  Evenr  in  this  her  great  ability," 
The  father  said,  **  consisted ;  since  by  night 
She  carefully  unravelled  each  day*s  work." 

"  Still  worse  and  worse,"  rejoined  the  dean ; 
"  why,  this 
Is  going,  crab-like,  backwards.     I  would  swear 
Upon  an  hundred  pair  of  Grospels,  she. 
Tour  fiuned  Penelope,  had  lost  her  wits." 


FRANCISCO  MANOEL  DO   NASCI- 
MENTO. 

This  poet  belonged  to  a  distinguished  Portu- 
guese family,  and  was  bom  at  Lisbon,  in  1734. 
His  taste  for  poetry  was  early  manifested,  and  a 
youthful  passion  favored  its  fiirther  develop- 
ment. He  was  one  of  the  number  of  Portu- 
guese scholars,  who,  about  the  middle  of  the 
last  century,  contributed  to  reform  the  national 
literature.  The  most  remarkable  incident  in 
the  life  of  Francisco  Manoel  was  his  escape 
in  the  great  earthquake  of  1755,  "He  found 
hiiitsieir/^  uaya  hia  biogTapher,  San^^,  '^at  this 
awfut  tnomorvl,  in  the  patriarchal  church,  and 
ovired  hia  saftity  entirely  to  hi«  speed,  aod  to  the 
fortunate  rashnesai  with  which,  to  gnin  the 
country,  he  Leaped  over  stret^ts  blocked  up  with 
ruin«,  in  the  midet  of  a  shower  or  stones, — - 
many  times  thrown  down  by  the  agHationd^  and 
eipeciing  to  meet  his  dtjath  at  every  sttp," 

A  Pter  this  diaaAter  had  beeti  somewhnL  repaired 
by  the  energy  of  Pombal,  \Ianoel  devoted  him- 
self anew  to  literature.  Some  of  hm  works, 
bt^ing  published  by  friends  who  thought  more 
highly  of  them  than  he  did  himi^lf,  gave  him 
much  reputation.  He  nmdied  the  beat  models 
in  th«  Latin,  French,  and  English  Jangaages, 
His  reputation  eicited  (he  envy  of  the  inferior 
»Triteri4;  and  the  ridicule  with  which  he  treated 
.he  Ignorance  of  the  monks  exposed  him  to  the 


hatred  of  that  powerful  body.  At  length,  a 
translation  of  Moli^re*s  "Tartufe"  appeared, 
and  was  attributed  to  him.  This  determined 
the  Inquisition  to  subject  him  to  the  punishment 
of  (heir  dread  tribunal ;  and  a  familiar  of  the 
Holy  Office  was  sent  to  arrest  him,  July  4, 1778. 
Manoel  suspected  his  errand,  seized  a  dagger, 
'and,  threatening  to  stab  him  if  he  uttered  a  word, 
wrapped  himself  in  bis  cloak,  locked  up  his 
enemy,  and  fled  down  the  staircase.  He  re- 
mained concealed  in  Lisbon  eleven  days,  at 
the  house  of  a  French  merchant,  and  then 
made  his  escape  on  board  a  French  ship  bound 
for  Havre  de  Grace.  He  took  up  his  abode  in 
France,  living  by  turns  at  Paris,  Versailles,  and 
Choisy,  actively  engaged  in  literature.  He  pub- 
lished several  volumes  of  odes,  satures,  and 
epistles,  which  show  a  high  poetic  talent.  He 
died  at  Paris,  February  25,  1819. 

SONNETS. 
ON  ASCENDING  A  HILL  LEADING   TO  A  CONVENT. 

Pause  not  with  lingering  foot,  O  pilgrim,  here ! 
Pierce  the  deep  shadows  of  the  mountain-side ; 
Firm  be  thy  step,  thy  heart  unknown  to  fear; 
To  brighter  worlds  this  thorny  path  will  guide. 
Soon  shall  thy  feet  approach  the  calm  abode. 
So  near  the  mansions  of  supreme  delight: 
Pause  not,  but  tread  this  consecrated  road; 
'T  is  the  dark  basis  of  the  heavenly  height. 
Behold,  to  cheer  thee  on  the  toilsome  way. 
How  many  a  fountain  glitters  down  the  hill ! 
Pure  gales,  inviting,  soAIy  round  thee  play. 
Bright  sunshine  guides, —  and  wilt  thou  linger 

still  ? 
O,  enter  there,  where,  freed  from  human  strife, 
Hope  is  reality,  and  time  is  life  ! 

Descend,  O  Joy !  descend  in  brightest  guise. 
Thou  cherished  hope  to  pining  lovers  dear ! 
More  bright  to  me  the  sun,  the  day  more  clear. 
For  thy  inspiring  looks  and  radiant  eyes. 
When  heard  thy  voice,  —  abashed,  in  anguish 

sad. 
Cruel  Melancholy  quails,  —  unhallowed  Woe 
And  Grief  with  doubting  step  together  gn. 
Their  bosoms  heaving  at  thy  clarion  glad. 
Through  my  tired  frame  a  aofl  emotion  steals, 
And  in  my  veins  a  vital  apirit  springa. 
Chasing    the    blood,  which    cold    and    languid 

Bowed ; 
The  meadows  laugh,  and  light  the  air  now  ft^ela: 
For  Marcia*B  smite,  when  graciously  bestowed, 
To  me  and  all  around  contentment  brings. 

As  yet  unpractised  in  the  ways  of  Love, 
The  vale  [  sought,  —  my  sole  intent  to  hear 
The  nightingale  pour  forth  tho«e  love- notes  clear 
Which  to  his  mate  his  food  affection  prove. 
A  tender  imp  I  chanced  encounter  there. 
With  golden  hair,  and  eyes  wiih  cunning  bright ; 
His  nnked  feet  with  travel  weary  were, 
And,  cold  and  pate,  he  seemed  in  piteous  plight  i 
3l* 


762 


PORTUGUESE  POETRY. 


I  took  him  to  my  breast  and  soothed  his  grief, 
Kissed  his  sad  cheek,  and  proffered  him  relief. 
Who  would  believe  that  'neath  his  dealing  fair 
Was  hid  such  crafl?  —  the  wily  boy  infused 
His  poison,  and,  my  confidence  abused, 
Laughed  in  my  face,  and  vanished  in  the  air. 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  ODE. 
NEPTUNE   TO   THE   PORTUGUESE. 

Watk-wandxrirg  armadas  people  now 

The  Antillean  Ocean, 
And  strands  for  centuries  that  desert  lay. 

Lo !  here  D'Estaing  the  fearless, 
And  there  the  prosperous  Rodney,  cuts  the  plains 

Subject  to  Amphitrite. 
Already,  at  each  hostile  banner's  sight, 

Enkindles  every  spirit; 
The  sails  are  slacked,  the  cannon's  thunders  roll ; 

From  numberless  volcanoes 
Death  bursts,  on  scattering  balls  borne  widely 
round. 

The  rocks  that  tower  sharp-pointed, 
Bristling  the  shore  of  many  a  neighbouring  isle, 

Are  with  the  din  fear-shaken 
Of  the  hoarse  brass  rebellowing  that  roars. 

Tremulously  the  waters 
Amidst  the  placid  grottos  crystalline 

Proclaim  the  news  of  terror. 
Their  green  dishevelled  tresses^etreaming  far, 

The  Nereids,  affrighted, 
Fly  to  the  shuddering  ocean's  deepest  abyss. 

Neptune,  exasperated. 
Flings  on  his  biped  coursers'  necks  the  reins, 

And  in  his  conch  upstanding, 
With  straining  eyes  the  liquid  azure  field 

Explores, — seeking,  but  vainly. 
The  bold,  the  conquest- loving  Lusian  ships. 

Lilies  he  sees,  and  Leopards, 
Of  yore  on  ocean's  confines  little  known, 

Triumphantly  now  waving 
From  frigid  Thule  to  the  ruddy  East. 

He  sees  the  dull  Batavian 
In  fragrant  Ceylon,  and  Malacca  rich, 

His  grasping  laws  promulgste. 
**  Offspring  of  Qama  and  of  Albuquerque  !  " 

Thus  Neptune,  deeply  sighing. 
Exclaims,  "  encrimson  ye  with  deathless  shame ! 

Where  is  the  trident  sceptre 
I  gave  to  that  adventurous  hero,  first 

Who  ploughed  with  daring  spirit 
The  unknown  oceans  of  the  rosy  morn  f 

No  Lusitanian  Argos, 
With  heroes  filled,  in  Mauritanian  schools 

Created,  trained,  and  hardened, 
Now  furrows  with  bold  nimbleness  my  realm." 


MANOEL  MARIA   DE   BARBOSA   DU 
BOCAGE. 

This   famous   improvvisatore  and  poet  was 
born  at  Setubal,  in  1766.     He  showed  in  his 


early  years  uncommon  talent,  and  his  parents 
spared  no  pains  with  his  education.  Quitting 
school,  he  received  a  commission  in  the  infantry 
of  Setubal,  and  not  long  afler  entered  the  naval 
service.  He  spent  three  years  in  Lisbon,  and 
acquired  a  high  reputation  as  an  improrvisatore. 
At  the  age  of  twenty,  he  left  Lisbon  and  em- 
barked for  the  Portuguese  possessions  in  India. 
Arriving  at  Goa,  he  was  appointed  a  lieutenant, 
and  was  wrecked  on  a  voyage  from  that  city 
to  Macao,  saving  only  the  manuscript  of  the 
first  volume  of  his  works.  His  talents  soon 
attracted  the  attention  of  persons 4n  power; 
but  the  indulgence  of  his  satirical  vein  exposed 
him  to  hatred,  and  even  to  the  danger  of  loaing 
his  life,  and  he  returned  to  Portugal  afler  an 
absence  of  five  years.  He  was  well  received 
on  his  arrival  in  Lisbon,  but  soon  injured  his 
reputation  by  associating  with  dissolute  com- 
pany, was  thrown  into  jail,  and  imprisoned  by 
the  Inquisition.  During  this  confinement,  he 
translated  the  first  book  of  Ovid's  **  Metamor- 
phoses." He  was  released  at  the  interposition 
of  the  Marquesses  of  Ponte  de  Lima  and  of 
Abrantes,  but  returned  to  his  old  habits  and 
associates.     He  died  December  21,  1805. 

The  works  of   Bocage  were  collected  and 
published  at  Lisbon,  in  1812. 


SONNETS. 

Scarce  was  put  off  my  infant  swath ing-band. 
Till  o'er  my  senses  crept  the  sacred  fire ; 
The  gentle  Nine  the  youthful  embers  fanned. 
Moulding  my  timid  heart  to  their  desire. 
Faces  angelic  and  serene,  ere  long, 
And  beaming  brightness  of  revolving  eyes. 
Bade  in  my  mind  a  thousand  transports  rise. 
Which  I  should   breathe   in  sofl   and   tender 

song. 
As  time  rolled  on,  the  fervor  greater  was ; 
The  chains  seemed  harsh  the  infant  god  had 


Luckless  the  Muses'  gift;  —  release  I  urged 
From  their  sad  dowry,  and  from  Cupid's  laws : 
But  finding  destiny  had  fixed  my  state. 
What  could  I  do  ?  —  I  yielded  to  my  fkte. 


If  it  is  sweet,  in  summer's  gladsome  day. 
To  see  the  morn  in  spangling  flowerets  dressed. 
To  see  the  sands  and  meadows  gay  caressed 
By  river  murmuring  as  it  winds  its  way,  — 
If  sweet  to  hear,  amidst  the  orchard  grove. 
The  winged  lovers  to  each  other  chant. 
Warble  the  ardor  of  their  fervent  love. 
And  in  their  songs  their  joyous  bliss  descant, — 
If  it  is  sweet  to  view  the  sea  serene. 
The  sky's  cerulean  brightness,  and  the  charms 
Which  Nature  gives  to  gild  this  mortal  scene. 
And  fill  each  living  thing  with  sofl  alarms : 
More  sweet  to  see  thee,  conquered  by  my  sighs. 
Deal  out  the  sweetest  death  from  thy  soft  yield- 
ing eyes. 


BOCAGE— CONDE  DA  BARCA. 


763 


THE   FALL   OF  OOA. 

Fallix  is  the  emporium  of  the  Orieotf 
That  Item  Alfonso's  arms  in  dread  array 
Erst  from  the  Tartar  despot  tore  away, 
Shaming  in  war  the  god  armipotent. 
Goa  lies  low !  that  fortress  eminent, 
Dfead  of  the  haughty  Nayre,  the  &lse  Malay, 
Of  many  a  barbarous  tribe.     What  faint  dismay 
In  Lusian  breasts  the  martial  fire  has  spent  ? 
O  bygone  age  of  heroes !  days  of  glory ! 
Exalted  men  !  ye,  who,  despite  grim  death, 
Still  in  tradition  live,  still  live  in  story. 
Terrible  Albuquerque,'  and  Castro  great,  — 
And  you,  their  peers,  your  deeds  in  memory^s 

breath 
Preserved,  avenge  the  wrongs  we  bear  from 

fate! 

THE  YfOLP  AND  THE  EWE. 

Once  upon  a  time  great  friendship 
'Twizt  a  wolf  and  ewe  there  reigned  : 

What  saint's  influence  wrought  such  marvel 
Has  not  rightly  been  explained. 

She  forgot  the  guardian  shepherd. 
Fold,  flock,  dog,  she  all  forsook. 

And  her  way  with  her  new  comrade 
Through  the  tangled  thicket  took. 

Whilst  she  with  her  fellows  pastured, 

Galless  she  as  turtle-dove ; 
But  her  new  friend  quickly  taught  her 

Cruel  as  himself  to  prove. 

And  when  the  ferocious  tutor 

Saw  the  poor  perverted  fool 
Make  so  marvellous  a  progress 

In  his  brutalizing  school, 

Vanity  with  pleasure  mingled, 
Till  his  heart  within  him  danced ; 

And  his  tbndness  for  his  pupil 
Every  murderous  feast  enhanced. 

But  one  day,  that,  almost  famished, 

Master  wolf  pursued  the  chase. 
Of  the  victims  he  was  seeking 

He  discovered  not  a  trace. 

Mountain,  valley,  plain,  and  forest. 

Up  and  down,  and  through  and  through. 

Vainly  he  explored ;  then  empty 
To  his  den  led  back  hb  ewe. 

There,  his  weary  limbs  outstretching. 

On  the  ground  awhile  he  lies ; 
Then  upon  his  weak  companion 

Ravenously  turns  his  eyes. 

Thus  the  traitor  inly  muses  : 

*^  Ne'er  was  known  such  agony  ! 

And  must  I  endure  these  tortures? 
Must  I,  out  of  friendship,  die  ? 

<*  Shall  I  not  obey  the  mandate 
Nature  speaks  within  my  breast .' 

And  is  not  self-preservation 
Nature's  holiest  behest.' 


(*  Virtue,  thou  belong'st  to  reason,  — 
Let  proud  man  confess  thy  sway ! 

I  'm  by  instinct  merely  governed. 
And  its  dictates  must  obey." 

Thus  decided,  swift  as  lightning. 
Springs  he  on  the  hapless  ewe ; 

Fangs  and  claws,  deep  in  her  entrails 
Plunging,  stains  a  crimson  hue. 

With  a  trembling  voice,  the  victim 
Questions  her  disloyal  friend : 

**  Why,  ingrate,  shouldst  thou  destroy  me  ? 
When  or  how  could  I  offend  ? 

*<  By  what  law  art  thou  so  cruel, 
Since  I  never  gave  thee  cause  f  '* 

Greedily  he  cried,  "  I  'm  hungry : 
Hunger  is  the  first  of  laws." 

Mortals,  learn  from  an  example 
With  such  horrid  sufferings  fraught 

What  dire  evils  an  alliance 

With  the  false  and  cruel  brought. 

If  the  wicked  are  your  comrades, 

I  engage  you  'II  imitate 
Half  their  crimes,  and  will  encounter 

Wolves  like  ours,  or  soon  or  late. 


ANTONIO  DE  ARUAJO  DE  AZEVEDO 
PINTO  PEREYRA,  CONDE  DA  BARCA. 

This  nobleman  was  the  contemporary,  friend, 
and  benefactor  of  Manoel  do  Nascimento.  He 
was  the  ambassador  of  Portugal  at  several  of 
the  European  courts,  and  was  a  person  of  promi- 
nent rank  in  his  country.  He  united  the  study 
of  letters  with  the  cares  of  state.  Among  the 
services  which  he  rendered  to  Portuguese  lit- 
erature, his  translation  of  Dryden's  *'  Alexan- 
der's Feast,"  and  some  of  Gray's  odes  and  his 
(*  Elegy,"  deserve  to  be  specially  mentioned.  In 
1807,  he  accompanied  the  Portuguese  court  to 
Rio  de  Janeiro,  where  he  died  in  1816. 


SONNET. 

Tou  who,  when  maddened  by  the  learned  fire. 
Disdain  the  strict  poetic  laws,  and  rise 
Subfftne  beyond  the  ken  of  human  eyes, 
Striking  with  happiest  art  the  Horatian  lyre,  — 
Who  streams  of  equal  eloquence  diffuse. 
Whether  new  Games  or  the  old  you  praise, 
And  with  pure  strain  and  loAiest  language  raise 
Majestic  more  the  Lusitanian  Muse  : 
As  the  bold  eagle  in  its  towering  flights 
Instructs  its  young  to  brave  the  solar  blaze. 
Skim  the  blue  sky,  or  balance  on  the  wing,  — 
So  teach  you  me  to  gain  those  sacred  heights. 
On  famed  Apollo's  secrets  let  me  gaze, 
The  waters  let  me  quaff  of  Gabalinus'  spring  ! 


764 


PORTUGUESE   POETRY. 


ANTONIO  RIBEIRO   DOS   SANTOS. 

Among  the  recent  poets  of  Portugal,  this  au- 
thor ia  distinguished  for  the  spirit  and  purity  of 
his  style.  His  ^'  Ode  to  the  Infante  Dom  Hen- 
rique" is  especially  praised  for  its  elegance. 
He  was  a  member  of  the  Arcadian  Society, 
under  the  name  of  Elpino  Duriense.  His 
works  were  published  in  three  volumes. 

SONNET. 
Here  cruel  hands  struck  deep  the  deadly  blow, 
Nor  aught  fair  Ignez'  beauty  might  avail,  — 
The  spot,  lest  memory  of  the  deed  should  fail. 
Graved  on  this  rock  the  marks  of  blood  still 

show. 
The  mourning  Nymphs,  who  viewed  such  hap- 
less woe, 
Did  o'er  her  pallid  corpse  in  sadness  wail ; 
And  fell  those  tears,  which,  telling  aye  the  tale, 
Caused  the  pure  waters  of  this  fount  to  flow. 
Te  dwellers  to  this  languid  fountain  near, 
Te  shepherds  of  Mondego,  ah,  beware. 
As  of  the  stream  ye  taste  !  reflect  in  lime  ! 
Fly,  fly  from  Love,  whose  rigorous  fate  decreed 
That  innocence  should  here  in  Ignez  bleed. 
Whose  peerless  beauty  was  her  only  crime ! 


DOMINGOS   MAXIMIANO   TORRES. 

This  poet  was  a  contemporary  of  Francisco 
Manoel  do  Nascimento.  He  was  a  member  of 
the  Arcadian  Society,  in  which,  he  bore  the 
name  of  Alfeno  Cyntbio.  His  works,  though 
deficient  in  originality,  are  marked  by  purity 
and  elegance.  He  died  wretchedly,  in  the  hos- 
pital of  Tra&ria,  in  1809.  He  wrote  eclogues, 
sonnets,  and  canzonets. 


SONNET. 
Marilia,  dear,  but,  O,  ungrateful  fair ! 
Look  on  the  sea  serene  and  calmly  bright,  — 
The  sky*s  blue  lustre  and  the  sun's  clear  light 
How  on  its  bosom  now  reflected  are ! 
A  sudden  storm  comes  on, —  in  mountains  high 
By  furious  gusts  the  silvery  billows  driven. 
Seem  as  they  would,  while  raging  up  to  heaven. 
Blot  the  fair  lamp  of  Phoebus  from  the  sky. 
Dear  one,  how  copied  to  the  life  in  thee 
The  same  perfidious  element  I  see,  — 
The  smile,  the  look,  which  fondest  hopes^can 

raise ! 
But  let  a  false  suspicion  once  arise. 
Thy  &ce  indignant  sullen  wrath  betrays, 
Love^laps  his  wings  and  all  the  soflness  flies. 


BELCHIOR  MANOEL  CURVO  SEMEDO. 

CuRvo  Semkdo  is  one  of  the  authors  included 
in  the  «*  Pamaso  Lusitano  "  of  Fonseca.  He  is 
specially  noted  for  his  dithyrambics. 


SONNET. 

((  It  is  a  fearful  night ;  a  feeble  glare 
Streams  from  the  sick  moon  in  the  o*ercloaded 

sky; 
The  ridgy  billows,  with  a  mighty  cry, 
Rush  on  the  foamy  beaches  wild  and  bare; 
No  bark  the  madness  of  the  waves  will  dare; 
The  sailors  sleep;  the  winds  are  loud  and  high: 
Ah,  peerless  Laura !  for  whose  love  I  die. 
Who  gazes  on  thy  smiles  while  I  despair? " 
As  thus,  in  bitterness  oC  heart,  I  5ried, 
I  turned,  and  saw  my  Laura,  kind  and  bright, 
A  messenger  of  gladness,  at  my  side : 
To  my  poor  bark  she  sprang  with  footstep  light; 
And  as  we  furrowed  Tejo's  heaving  tide, 
I  never  saw  so  beautiful  a  night 


JOAM  BAPTISTA  GOMEZ. 

This  poet,  who  died  in  the  first  quarter  of  the 
present  century,  was  a  writer  of  much  merit,  and 
his  style  is  distinguished  by  elegance  and  hsr- 
mony.  He  wrote  a  tragedy  on  the  story  of  Ig- 
nez de  Castro,  which  retains  a  high  reputation. 
An  analysis  and  criticism  of  this  play  may  be 
found  in  "  Blackwood's  Magazine,"  Vol.  XXIII. 


FROM  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  IGNEZ  DB  CASTRa 

lONEZ  AND  KINO   ALFONSO. 

lONBS. 

Advance  with  me,  my  children,  and  embrace 
Tour  royal  grandsire*s  knees ;  upon  bis  hand 
Plant  your  first  kisses.     Mighty  prince,  behold 
The  ofispring  of  thy  son,  who  come  with  tears 
To  implore  thy  pity  for  their  hapless  mother ! — 
Weep,  weep  with  me,  my  children, — intercede 
For  me  with  your  soft  tears,  —  tears  more  ex- 
pressive 
Than  words,  of  which  your  helpless  infancy 
Is  yet  incapable  !     Aid  my  laments. 
My  prayers,  —  obtain  my  pardon!  —  Clement 

king. 
Of  thy  descendants,  lo !  the  unhappy  mother. 
Embracing   them,  entreats   that   thou  wooldst 

spare 
To  them  her  wretched  life.     Too  well  I  know 
Thou  art  prepared  to  doom  my  present  death. 
I,  envy*s  victim,  of  intrigue  the  mark. 
Timid,  unfortunate,  and  unprotected. 
Behold  my  death  impending,  —  death  unjust. 
That  tyrannous,  infuriate  counsellors. 
Deceiving  the  compassion  of  thy  soul. 
Thunder  against  me.     What  atrocity ! 
For  what  enormous  crimes  am  I  condemned  ? 
To  love  thy  son,  my  liege,  and  be  beloved, 
Is  that  esteemed  a  crime  worthy  of  death  ? 
I  dare  implore,  I  dare  attest,  thy  justice. 
Merciful  prince,  consult  thy  clemency, 
Confiult  thy  heart;  *t  will  tell  thee  that  my  death 
I9  undeserved. 


1 


GOMEZ.  — MACEDO. 


765 


Arise,  anhappy  woman  !  — 

0  nature !  O  stem  duties  of  a  king !  — 

Arise,  unhappy  woman  !    Fatal  oaase 

6f  all  the  cruel  sorrows  that  surround  me, 

Thine  aspect  irritates,  yet  touches  me.     . 

The  father  would  forgive,  —  the  king  may  not. 

lONBZ. 

Alas,  my  liege !  to  pardon  the  distressed 
Is  of  a  monarch's  power  the  sweetest  act, 
And  highest!    Follow  thine  heart's  impulses; 
Let  nature,  lei  compassion,  reign  supreme ;  ^ 
Of  pity  thou  sbalt  ne*er  repent.     O,  rather, 
Shouldst  thou  pronounce  my  death-doom,  shall 

remorse 
Torture  thee  evermore,  —  incessant  anguish 
Consume  thee  !  Portugal's  renown  and  hopes 
Would   moulder  on   my  tombstone.     To   the 

grave 
With  me  wonldst  thou  behold,  in  thy  despite, 
Thy  son  descend.     My  liege,  destroying  me. 
See   whom   thou  slaughterest !      Our  wedded 

hearts 
Are  so  indissolubly  joined,  the  blow 
That  pierces  mine  must  needs  transfix  thy  son's : 
Neither  without  the  other  can  exist. 
For  him,  not  for  myself,  life  I  implore ; 
Tes,  once  again  I  clasp  thy  royal  feet,  — 
Have  pity  on  the  consort  of  thy  son ! 
O,  were  it  not  for  these  sweet  ties  that  force  me 
To  live,  though  miserable,  and  value  life, 
I  would  not  sue  for  *t,  —  but,  unmurmuring 
And  calm,  would  wait  my  death-blow !     But  to 

leave 
For  ever  what  I  love !     I  am  a  wife, 
A  mother !  — Heavens !  I  faint !  —  My  precious 

babes, 
Unhappy  orphans !  thus  deprived  at  once 
Of  a  fond  mother,  of  the  fondest  father. 
What  shall  become  of  you. ^  —  O  mighty  king, 
If,  to  my  tears  inexorable,  my  fate 
Touch  thee  not,  yet  to  nature's  cry  give  ear ! 
Of  these  most  innocent  and  tender  victims, 
O,  pity  the  impending  desolation  ! 
They  are  not  guilty  of  my  crimes.     My  liege. 
Forget  that  they  're  my  sons,  remembering  only 
They  are  thy  grandsons.     But  thou  weep'st !  — 

O  sight! 
Kind  Heaven  has  heard  my  prayers !     Thy  tears 

proclaim 
My  pardon  !    Let  thine  accents  quell  my  fears  ! 
Speak,  gracious  monarch  !  say  thou  pardonest ! 


Vainly  I  struggle.     O,  were  't  possible 
Now  to  resign  my  sceptre ! 

[Enter  Ooelbo. 

COBLBO. 

Gracious  Sir, 

The  council  waits,  and  prays  thine  instant  pres- 
ence; 
The  populace  already  mutiny. 

XONU. 

O,  I  am  lost ! 


JOSE  AOOSTINHO  D£  MACEDO. 

This  author  is  known  as  a  voluminous  writer 
in  prose  and  verse.  One  of  his  principal  poems 
is  an  epic,  entitled  «  O  Oriente,"  on  the  same 
subject  as  the  **Lnsiad."  Another  poem  of 
his,  called  <*  A  Medita^ao,"  is  praised  by  Gar- 
rett for  its  sublimity  and  erudition,  its  copious 
style  and  great  ideas. 

A  MEDITATION. 

Portentous  Egypt !  I  in  thee  behold 
And  studiously  examine  human-kind, — 
Learning  to  know  me  in  mine  origin. 
In  the  primeval  and  the  social  state. 
A  cultivator  first,  man  next  obeyed 
Wise  Nature's  voice  internal,  equal  men 
Uniting,  and  to  empire  raising  law, 
The  expression  of  the  universal  will, 
That  gives  to  virtue  recompense,  to  crime 
Due  punishment,  and  to  the  general  good 
Bids  private  interest  be  sacrificed. 
In  thee  the  exalted  temple  of  the  arts 
Was  founded,  high  in  thee  they  rose,  in  thee 
Long  ages  saw  their  proudest  excellence. 
The  Persian  worshipper  of  sun  or  fire 
From  thee  derived  his  creed.     The  arts  from 

thee 
FoIIpwed  Sesostris'  arms  to  the  utmost  plains 
Of  the  scorched  Orient,  in  caution  where 
Lurks  the  Chinese.     'Thou  wondrous  Egypt! 

through 
Vast  Hindostan  thy  worship  and  thy  laws 
I  trace.     In  thee  to  the  inquirer's  gaze 
Nature  uncovered  first  the  ample  breast 
Of  science,  that  contemplates,  measuring, 
Heaven's  vault,  and   tracks  the  bright  stars' 

circling  course. 

From  out  the  bosom  of  thine  opulence 
And  glory  vast  imagination  spreads 
Her  wings.     In  thine  immortal  works  I  find 
Proofii  how  sublime  that  human  spirit  is. 
Which  the  dull  atheist,  depreciating, 
Calls  but  an  instinct  of  more  perfect  kind, 
More  active,  than  the  never-varying  brute's. 
More  is  my  being,  more.     Flashes  in  me 
A  ray  reflected  fVom  the  eternal  light. 
All  the  philosophy  my  verses  breathe. 
The  imagination  in  their  cadences. 
Result  not  from  unconscious  mechanisQi. 

Thebes  is  in  rnins,  Memphis  is  but  dust, 
O'er  polished  Egypt  savage  Egypt  lies. 
'Midst  deserts  does  the  persevering  hand 
Of  skilful  antiquary  disinter 
Columns  of  splintered  porphyry,  remains 
Of  ancient  porticos ;  each  single  one 
Of  greater  worth,  O  thou  immortal  Rome, 
Than  all  ^hou  from  the  desolating  Gbth, 
And  those  worse  Vandals  of  the  Seine,  hast 

saved ! 
Buried  beneath  light  grains  of  arid  sand, 


766 


PORTUGUESE   POETRY. 


The  golden  palaceg,  the  aspiring  towers, 

Of  Maeris,  Amasis,  Sesostris  lie ; 

And  the  immortal  pyramids  contend 

In  durability  against  the  world  : 

Planted  *midst  centuries'  shade,  Time  'gainst 

their  tops 
Scarce  grazes  his  ne'er-resting  iron  wing. 

In  Egypt  to  perfection  did  the  arts 
Attain  ;  in  Egypt  they  declined,  they  died  : 
Of  all  that 's  mortal  such  the  unfailing  lot; 
Only  the  light  of  science  'gainst  Death's  law 
Eternally  endures.     The  basis  firm 
Of  the  hit  temple  of  Geometry 
Was  in  portentous  Egypt  laid.     The  doors 
Of  vasty  Nature  by  Geometry 
Are  opened ;  to  her  fortress  she  conducts 
The  sage.     With  her,  beneath  the  fervid  sun. 
The  globe  I  measure ;  only  by  her  aid 
Couldst  thou,  learned  Kepler,  the  eternal  laws 
Of  the  fixed  stars  discover ;  and  with  her 
Grasps  the  philosopher  the  ellipse  immense, 
Eccentric,  of  the  sad,  and  erst  unknown, 
Far-wandering  comet.     Justly  if  I  claim 
The  name  geometrician,  certainly 
Matter  inert  is  not  what  in  me  thinks. 


JOAO  EVANGELISTA  DE  MORAES 
SARMENTO. 

Sarmknto,  a  poet  of  the  present  century, 
wrote  the  following  "Ode  on  War,"  during  the 
French  invasion  of  Portugal.  It  is  included  in 
Fonseca's  "  Pamaso  Lusitano." 


ODE  ON  WAR. 

Shaken,  convulsed  with  fear  intemperate. 
Breaks  my  hoarse-sounding  lyre ; 

And  sinking  on  the  chords,  in  woful  state, 
See  holy  Peace  expire  ! 

Whilst  yet  far  ofi*  tumultuously  rave 

The  progeny  of  Mars,  cruel  as  brave. 

Their  hot,  white  foam  is  by  the  chargers  proud 

Scattered  in  fleece  around ; 
Uprises  from  their  nostrils  a  dense  cloud ; 

And  as  they  paw  the  ground, 
A  thick  dust  blackens  the  pure  air  like  smoke. 
Through  which  sparks  glimmer  at  each  eager 
stroke. 

The  stately  cedar  and  the  resinous  pine 

No  more,  on  mountain's  brow. 
The  foathered  mother  and  her  nest  enshrine ; 

Felled  by  rude  hatchets  now. 
The  briny  deep  to  people  they  repair. 
And  for  green  leaves  fling  canvass  on  the  air. 


War,  monster  dire  \  what  baleful  planet's  force 
Towards  Lusia  marks  thy  path  ? 

Away !  away !  Mjuick  measure  back  thy  course ! 
Glut  upon  those  thy  wrath 


Who  joy  in  burnished  mail,  whose  ruthless  mood 
With  blood  bedews  the  earth,  banquets  oo  blood  ! 

But  unavoidable  if  war's  alarms, 

Lusians,  our  cause  is  just ! 
In  battle  will  we  crimson  our  bright  arms; 

To  battle's  lot  intrust 
All  hope  of  future  years  in  joy  to  run ; 
Only  in  battle  may  sweet  peace  be  won. 

The  Albuquerques  and  Castros  from  the  tomb 

Arise  on  Lusia's  sight ; 
Although  for  centuries  they  've  lain  in  gloom 

Unvisited  by  light, 
Portugal  they  forget  not,  of  whose  story 
Their  names  and  their  achievements  are  the 
glory. 


J.  B.  LEITA6  DE  ALMEIDA  GARRETT. 

Almeida  Garrett  is  known  in  literature  by 
a  "  Historical  Sketch  of  Portuguese  Literature," 
prefixed  to  Fonseca's  "  Pamaso  Lusitano,"  and 
by  a  poetical  romance,  in  four  cantos,  entitled 
^^Adozinda,"  published  in  London,  in  1828. 
An  analysis  of  his  "  Adozinda,"  with  extracts, 
may  be  found  in  the  *'  Foreign  Quarterly  Re- 
view," Vol.  X. 

FROM  ADOZINDA. 
Lo  !  what  crowds  seek  Landim  Palace, 
Where  it  towers  above  the  river  ! 
Sounds  of  war  and  sounds  of  mirth 
Through  its  lofty  walls  are  ringing ! 
Shakes  the  drawbridge,  groans  the  earth, 
Under  troops  in  armor  bright ; 
Steeds,  caparisoned  for  fight. 
Onward  tramp;   o'erhead  high  flinging 
Banners,  where  the  red  cross  glows. 
Standard-bearers  hurry  near ;  — 
Don  Sianando's  self  is  here  ! 
From  his  breastplate  flashes  light ; 
Plumes  that  seem  of  mountain  snow 
O'er  his  dazzling  helmet  wave ; 
T  is  Sisnando,  great  and  brave ! 

<*  Open,  open,  castle-portals ! 
Pages,  damsels,  swiftly  move  ! 
Lo !  from  paynim  lands  returning 
Comes  my  husband,  lord,  and  love !" 
Thus  the  fond  Auzenda  cries, 
Towards  the  portal  as  she  flies. 
Gates  are  opened,  shouts  ring  round ; 
And  the  ancient  castle's  echo 
Wakens  to  the  fostive  sound : 
<*  Welcome !  welcome !  Don  Sisnando  !** 


Weeps  her  joy  Auzenda  meek. 
Streams  of  rapture  sweetly  flow ; 
Down  the  never-changing  cheek 
Of  tbe  warrior  stout  and  stem. 
Steals  a  tear-drop  all  unheeded ;  — 
Stronger  far  is  joy  than  woe. 


APPENDIX- 


FROM  THE  GERMAN. 


Page  233. 
ANONYMOUS. 

THE  GERMAN  NIGHT-WATCHMAN'S  SONG. 

Hark,  while  I  sing  !  our  village  clock 
The  hour  of  Eighty  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 
Eight  souls  alone  from  death  were  kept, 
When  God  the  earth  with  deluge  swept : 
Unless  the  Lord  to  guard  us  deign, 
Man  wakes  and  watches  all  in  vain. 
Lord  !  through  thine  all-prevailing  might, 
Do  thou  vouchsafe  us  a  good  night ! 

Hark,  while  I  sing !  our  village  clock 
The  hour  of  Mne,  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 
Mne  lepers  cleansed  returned  not ;  — 
Be  not  thy  blessings,  man,  forgot ! 
Unless  the  Lord  to  guard  us  deign, 
Man  wakes  and  watches  all  in  vain. 

Lord  !  through  thine  all-prevailing  might, 
Do  thou  vouchsafe  us  a  good  night ! 

Hark,  while  I  sing !  our  village  clock 
The  hour  of  Tmt,  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 
Ten  precepts  show  God's  holy  will ;  — 
O,  may  we  prove  obedient  still ! 
Unless  the  Lord  to  guard  us  deign, 
Man  wakes  and  watches  all  in  vain. 

Lord  !  through  thine  all-prevailing  might, 
Do  thou  vouchsafe  us  a  good  night ! 

Hark,  while  I  sing !  our  village  clock 
The  hour  Eleven^  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 
Eleven  apostles  remained  true  ;  — 
May  we  be  like  that  faithful  few  ! 
Unless  the  Lord  to  guard  us  deign, 
Man  wakes  and  watches  all  in  vain. 

Lord  !  through  thine  all-prevailing  might, 
Do  thou  vouchsafe  us.a  good  night ! 

Hark,  while  I  sing !  our  village  clock 
The  hour  of  Twelve^  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 
Twelve  is  of  Time  the  boundary ',  — 
Man,  think  upon  Eternity ! 
Unless  the  Lord  to  guard  us  deign, 
Man  wakes  and  watches  all  in  vain. 

Ltord  !  through  thine  all-prevailing  might. 
Do  thou  vouchsafe  us  a  good  night ! 

Hark,  while  I  sing !  our  village  clock 
The  hour  of  One^  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 


One  God  alone  reigns  over  all ; 
Naught  can  without  his  will  befall  : 
Unless  the  Lord  to  guard  us  deign, 
Man  wakes  and  watches  all  in  vain. 

Lord  !  through  thine  all-prevailing  might. 
Do  thou  vouchsafe  us  a  good  night ! 

Hark,  while  I  sing !  our  village  clock 
The  hour  of  TwOy  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 
TSoo  ways  to  walk  has  man  been  given ; 
Teach  me  the  right, — the  path  to  heaven! 
Unless  the  X^ord  to  guard  us  deign, 
Man  wakes  and  watches  all  in  vain. 

Lord  !  through  thine  all-prevailing  might. 
Do  thou  vouchsafe  us  a  good  night ! 

Hark,  while  I  sing !  our  village  clock 
The  hour  of  Three,  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 
Three  Gods  in  one,  exalted  most. 
The  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 
Unless  the  Lord  to  guard  us  deign, 
Man  wakes  and  watches  all  in  vain. 

Lord !  through  thine  all- prevailing  might. 
Do  thou  vouchsafe  us  a  good  night ! 

Hark,  while  I  sing !  our  village  clock 
The  hour  of  Four,  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 
Four  seasons  crown  the  farmer's  care ;  — 
Thy  heart  with  equal  toil  prepare  ! 
Up,  up !  awake,  nor  slumber  on  ! 
The  mom  approaches,  night  is  gone  ! 

Thank  God,  who  by  his  power  and  might 
Has  watched  and  kept  us  through  this  night ! 


Page  316. 
SCHILLER. 

FROM  MARY  STUART. 

[Scene.— Tho  Park  at  Foiheringay.  Treea  in  the  ibre- 
ground ;  a  distant  prospect  behind.  Merj  advances  from 
between  the  txeee  at  a  quick  pace ;  Jean  Kennedy  slowly 
fi>llowing  ber.] 

KBNNBDT. 

Stat,  stay,  dear  lady !     You  are  hurrying  on 
As  though  you  'd  wings ;  — I  cannot  follow  you. 

MABT. 

Let  me  renew  the  dear  days  of  my  childhood ! 

Come,  rejoice  with  me  in  Liberty's  ray  ! 
O'er  the  gay-pansied  turf,  through  the  sweet- 
scented  wild  wood, 
Let 's  pursue,  lightly  bounding,  our  fetterless 
way  ! 


768 


APPENDIX. 


Have  I  emerged  from  the  dungeon's  deep  sad- 
ness? 
Have  I   escaped  from  the  grave's  yawning 
night  ? 
O,  let  me  sweep  on,  in  this  flood-tide  of  glad- 
ness, 
Drinking  full,  thirsty  draughts  of  fresh  free- 
dom and  light! 


Tour  prison  only  is  enlarged  a  little. 

Ton  thicket  of  deep  trees  alone  prevents  you 

From  seeing  the  dark  walls  that  stretch  around 


MAET. 

Thanks  to  those  trees  which  thus  in  dim  se- 
clusion 
Conceal  my  prison,  I  may  dream  I  'm  free. 
Why  wouldst  thou  wake  me  from  the  dear  illu- 
sion? 
Why  call  me  back  to  thought  and  misery  ? 
Does  not  heaven  hold  me  in  its  soft  embrace  ? 
Do  not  these  eyes,  once  more  unfettered, 
rove 
Far  through  immeasurable  realms  of  space, 

To  greet  each  object  of  their  earlier  love  ? 
There,  northwards,  are  my  kingdom's  bounds 
appearing,  — 
There,  —  where  yon-  hills  their  misty  tops 
advance ', 
And  these  light  clouds,  with  the  mid-day  ca- 
reering. 
Seek  the  far  ocean  of  thine  empire,  France ! 

Hastening  clouds,  ships  of  the  sky, 
(Ah,  could  I  sail  in  your  ocean  on  high !) 
Greet  with   a  blessing  my  youth's  cherished 
land  ! 
An  exile  I  weep,  in  fetters  I  languish,  — 
None  nigh,  but  you,  to  bear  note  of  my  an- 
guish. 
Free  is  your  course  over  billow  and  strand ; 
Ton  are  not  subject  to  this  queen's  command. 


Alas  !  dear  lady,  you  're  beside  yourself; 
This  long-withholden  freedom  makes  you  dream. 


A  bark  !  a  bark  is  in  the  gale ! 

She  scuds  down  yonder  bay  ! 
How  swiftly  might  that  slender  sail 

Transport  us  far  away  ! 
The  owner  starves ',  —  what  wealth  he  'd  get. 

Were  he  to  waft  us  o'er ! 
He  'd  have  a  catch  within  his  net 

No  fisher  had  before. 


O,  forlorn  wishes  I     See  you  not  from  fkr 
The  spies  that  dodge  us  ?     A  dark  prohibition 
Has   scared   each   pitying  creature    from    our 
path. 


UAMX. 

No,  Jean !    Believe  me,  it  is  not  without 
An  object  that  my  prison-doors  are  opened. 
This  little  favor  is  the  harbinger 
Of  greater  happiness.     I  do  not  err. 
It  is  Love's  active  hand  I  have  to  thank ; 
I  recognize  Lord  Leicester's  influence  in  it. 
Tes !  by  degrees  they  will  enlarge  my  prison, 
Through  little  boons  accustom  me  to  greater. 
Until,  at  length,  I  see  the  face  of  him 
Who  '11  loosen  with  his  hand  these  bonda  for 
ever. 


I  cannot  reconcile  these  contradictions. 

But  yesterday  condemned  to  death,  —  and  now 

To  live,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  such  free- 
dom! 

Even  so,  I  've  heard,  the  chain  is  loosed  firom 
those 

Whom  an  eternal  freedom  is  awaiting. 

KAKT. 

Heard'st  thou  the  hunters?    Through  thicket 
and  mead, 

Hark,  how  their  bugles  ring  out ! 
Ah,  could  I  vault  on  my  spirited  steed  ! 

Ah,  could  I  join  the  gay  rout ! 
Sounds  of  sweet,  bitter-sweet  recollection, — 

How  glad  were  ye  once  to  my  ear. 
When  the  rocks  of  my  native  Schihallion 

Exultant  sent  back  your  loud  cheer  ! 


FROM  DON  CABLOSL 

[Scene,  —The  king's  bed-chamber. '  Two  li^ts  are  on  a 
table.  In  the  background  Bererel  pages  uieep  oa  their 
knees.  The  king,  half  draaeed.  Is  standing  belbra  the 
table,  with  one  arm  leaning  over  a  chair,  tn  an  auUade 
of  thooghL  On  a  talrie  lie  a  miniature  and  some  papexa.] 


That  she  was  ever  an  enthnsiast,  —  that 
Is  certain.  Never  could  I  give  her  love : 
Tet  seemed  she  e'er  to  feel  the  want?     'Tia 

clear,  —    . 
She  's  false. 

[He  makes  a  movement  that  nmses  him  from  his  reverie, 
and  looks  up  with  surprise. 

Where  am  I  ?    Is  the  king  alone 

Awake  here  ?  —  What !  the  lights  burnt  down 

so  low. 
And  not  yet  day  ?    I  have  foregone  my  aleep. 
Account  it,  nature,  as  received.     A  king 
Has  not  time  to  repair  lost  slumber.     Noir 
I  am  awake,  —  it  must  be  day. 

[He  puts  out  the  lights  and  opens  a  window-curtain.  In 
walking  up  and  down,  he  obaervee  the  sleeping  pages,  and 
stops  for  some  time  before  them ;  he  then  rings  the  belL 

Are  all 

In  the  antechamber,  too,  asleep  perhaps  ? 

[Enter  Count  Lerma. 

LBRJCA  (starting,  as  he  obserres  the  king.) 
Your  Majesty  's  not  well  ? 


APPENDIX. 


769 


In  the  left  wing 

0'  th'  palace  there  waa  fire.     Toa  heard  the 
alarm? 


No,  Sire. 

UNO. 

No  ?    How  ?     Hare  I,  then,  oDly  dreamt  ? 
That  cannot  be  mere  chance.     'T  is  in  that 

wing 
That  sleeps  the  queen, — ia  *t  not.' 


Tea,  Sire. 


The  dream 

Affiig^hta  me.     Let  the  guards  be  doubled  there 

Hereafter,  —  hear  you  ?  —  as  soon  as   't  is 

night ;  — 
But  secretly,  —  quite  secretly.  —  I  will 
Not  have  it  that. — You  search  me  with  your 

looks? 


I  see  an  eye  inflamed,  that  begs  for  rest. 
May  I  be  bold,  and  of  a  precious  life 
Remind  your  Majesty,  —  remind  you  of 
Your  subjecto,  who  with  pained  surprise  would 

read 
In  such  looks  traces  of  a  sleepless  night 
But  two  short  morning  hours  of  sleep 


Sleep,  sleep! 

I  '11  find  it  in  the  Escnrial.    The  while 

He  sleeps,  the  king  has  parted  with  his  crown, — 

The  man  with  his  wife's  heart. — No,  no !  't  is 

slander. 
Was  't  not  a  woman  whispered  it  to  roe  ? 
Woman,  thy  name  is  slander !    Till  a  man 
Vouches  the  crime,  it  is  not  certain. 

[To  the  pi«a0,  wbo  inthe  mean  time  have  woke  ap. 
Call 
Duke  Alba. — Count,  come  nearer.    Is  it  true  ? 

[He  standi  before  the  count,  looking  at  falm  Intantlj. 
O,  for  one  moment  only  of  omniscience !  -^ 
Swear,  —  is  it  true  ?     Am  I  betrayed  ?    Am  I  ? 
Is  't  true  ? 


My  noble,  graciona  king 


King!  king! 

Nothing  but  king !  —  No  better  answer  than 

An  empty,  hollow  echo?     On  this  rock 

I  strike,  and  ask  for  water,  water  for 

My  fever-thirst ;  —  he  gives  me  molten  gold. 


What  'e  true,  my  king  ? 

Kxira. 
Naught,  —  naught.     Now  leave  me.     Go. 

[The  count  to  going ;  the  king  calls  him  back. 
Tou  're  married  ?     Are  a  fiither  ?     Yes  ? 


Yes,  Sire. 

Kiiro. 
Married, —  and  dare  you   with  your  king  to 

watch 
A  night  ?    Your  hair  is  silvered,  —  yet  you  are 
So  bold,  and  trust  the  honor  of  your  wife  ? 
Go  home,  —  go  home.    You  will  just  catch 

her  in 
The  incestuous  embracea  of  your  son. 
Believe  your  king.  Go.  —  Startled  are  you  ?  Me 
You  look  at  with  significance  ?    Because 
I,  I,  too,  have  gray  haira  ?  Bethink  you,  wretch ! 
Queens  stain  their  virtue  not.    You  die,  if  you 
But  doubt 


(with  varmth). 
Who  can  do  that?     In  all  your  realm. 
Who  is  so  bold  with  poisonous  distrust 
To  breathe  upon  her  angel  purity  ? 
The  best  of  queens 

sure. 
The  best  ?     So,  your  best,  too  ? 
She  has  warm  friends  around  me,  I  perceive. 
That  must  have  cost  her  much,  —  more  than  I 

knew 
She  had  to  give.  —  You  may  retire.    And  send 
The  duke. 


I  hear  him  in  the  antechamber. 

[li  abont  to  go. 

xme  (In  a  mild  tone). 
Count,  what  you  first  remarked  is  true.     My 

brain 
Is  heated  from  a  sleepless  night.     Forget 
What  in   my  waking  dream  I  spoke.     You 

hear? 
Forget  it     I  am  still  your  gracious  king. 
[He  vaaches  his  hand  to  him  to  kias.    Lerma  xetins,  and 
opens  the  door  to  the  dnke  of  AUw. 


FROM  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEDf. 

[Scene.— A.  aafoon,  terminated  by  a  gallery  which  extends 
&r  into  the  background.— Wallenetein  sitting  at  a  table. 
The  Swedish  captain  standing  before  him.] 


Commend  me  to  your  lord.     I  sympathize 
In  his  good  fortune;  and  if  you  have  seen  me 
Deficient  in  the  expressions  of  that  joy 
Which  such  a  victory  might  well  demand. 
Attribute  it  to  no  lack  of  good-will. 
For  henceforth  are  our  fortunes  one.    Farewell, 
And   for  your  trouble  take  my  thanks.    To- 
morrow 
The  citadel  shall  be  surrendered  to  you, 
On  your  arrival. 

[The  Swedish  captain  retires.  Wallenstein  sits  lost  in 
thought,  his  eyes  fixed  Tacantly,  and  his  head  susUined 
by  his  hand.  The  Countess  Tertsky  enters,  sUnds  before 
him  awhile,  unobserved  by  him ;  at  length  he  starts,  sees 
her  and  reeoUecU  himself. 

3k 


770 


APPENDIX. 


WALLBNSTBtN. 

Comest  thou  from  her  ?    Is  she  restored  ?    How 
is  she  ? 


Mj  sifter  tells  me,  she  was  more  collected 
After  her  conTeisatioo  with  tbe  Swede. 
She  has  now  retired  to  rest. 


The  pang  will  soften. 
She  will  shed  tears. 

OOUNTBSS. 

I  fiod  thee  altered  too. 

My  brother !     After  such  a  victory, 

I  had  expected  to  have  found  in  thee 

A  cheerftil  spirit.     O,  remain  thou  firm ! 

Sustain,  uphold  us )     For  our  light  thou  art. 

Our  sun. 


Where  's 


fie  quiet     I  ail  nothing. 
Thy  husband? 


At  a  banquet,  —  he  and  Illo. 

wAixaNSTBur  (risM  sod  gtrtdn  across  ths  salooa). 
The  night  's  fiir  spent     Betake  thee  to  thy 
chamber. 


Bid  me  not  go;  O,  let  me  stay  with  thee ! 

wALUwsmN  CmoTM  to  ths  window). 
There  is  a  busy  motion  in  the  heaven : 
The  wind  doth  chase  the  flag  upon  the  tower ; 
Fast  sweep  the  clouds ;  the  sickle  of  the  moon. 
Struggling,  darts  snatches  of  uncertain  light. 
No  form  of  star  is  visible  !     That  one 
White  stain  of  light,  that  single  glimmering 

yonder, 
Is  from  Cassiopeia,  and  therein 
Is  Jupiter.     [A  puue.]     But  now 
The  blackness  of  the  troubled  element  hides 

him! 
[He  flioks  into  profound  mdanelioly,  and  kwks  vacantly 
into  tho  diatance. 

oovmsaa  Oooka  on  Um  moamfuUy,  thai  grasps  bis  hand). 
What  art  thou  brooding  on  ? 


Methinks, 

If  I  but  saw  him,  't  would  be  well  with  me. 

He  is  the  star  of  my  nativity,        ' 

And  often  marvellously  bath  his  aspect 

Shot  strength  into  my  heart 

oomrass. 
Thou  'It  see  him  again. 

WALLBicamN  (remains  for  a  while  with  absent  mind,  titen 
assumes  a  livelier  manner,  and  turns  suddenly  to  the 
countess.) 

See  him  again  ?     O,  never,  never  again  ! 


thou  then  ? 


How? 

wALLaifsmii. 
He  is  gone,  — is  dust 


Whom 


He,  the  more  fortunate !  yea,  he  hath  finished ! 

For  him  there  is  no  longer  any  Aitiire  ! 

His  life  is  bright,  —  bright  without  spot  it  was, 

And  cannot  cease  to  be.     No  ominous  hour 

Knocks  at  bis  door  with  tidings  of  mishap. 

Far  off  is  he,  above  desire  and  fear ; 

No  more  submitted  to  the  change  and  ehmnee 

Of  the  unsteady  planets.    O,  *t  is  well 

With  him!  but  who  knows  what  tb«  ooming 

hour. 
Veiled  io  thick  darkneas,  brings  lor  us  ? 


Thou  speakest 

Of  Piccolomini.     What  was  his  death  ? 

The  courier  had  just  left  thee  as  I  came. 

[WaUenatein  by  a  moikw  of  his  hand  makes  algBs  to  bar  to 

be  silent 
Turn  not  thine  eyes  upon  the  backward  Tiew ; 
Let  us  look  forward  into  sunny  days. 
Welcome  with  joyous  heart  the  victory ; 
Forget  what  it  has  cost  thee.     Not  to^lay. 
For  the  first  time,  thy  friend  was  to  thee  dead ; 
To  thee  he  died,  when  first  he  parted  fron  thee. 


This  anguish  will  be  wearied  down,  I  know : 
What  pang  is  permanent  with  man  ? '  From  the 

highest. 
As  from  the  vilest  thing  of  every  day. 
He  learns  to  wean  himself:  for  tbe  strong  bovn 
Conquer  him.     Tet  I  feel  what  I  have  lost 
In  him.     The  bloom  is  vanbhed  from  my  lile. 
For,  O,  he  stcKMl  beside  me,  like  my  youth  ; 
Transformed  for  me  the  real  to  a  dream. 
Clothing  the  palpable  and  the  familiar 
With  golden  exhalations  of  the  dawn  ! 
Whatever  fortunes  wait  my  fiiture  toils. 
The  beautiful  is  vanished,  —  and  returns  not. 


O,  be  not  treacherous  to  thy  own  power ! 
Thy  heart  is  rich  enough  te  vivify 
Itself.     Thou  lovest  and  prizest  virtues  in  hios. 
The  which  thyself  didst  plant,  thyself  unfold. 


wiMi»w»i»M»  (stepping  to  the  door). 
Who  interrupts  us  now,  at  this  late  hour  ? 


1 A  very  Inadwiwate  trandatioo  of  the  originaL 
YerschmeneD  ward*  ich  diesen  Sehlag,  ika 
Denn  was  Tencbmento  nicht  dsr  Mansrhl 

LItenlly,— 
I  shall  grieve  dawn  this  blow,  of  that  I  'm 
What  does  not  man  grieve  down  f  1^ 


teb. 


APPENDIX. 


771 


Ii  ia  the  governor.     He  briogs  the  keji 

Of  the  ettadel.     T  is  midoight.    Leave  me, 

tbter! 


0,  't  ii  eo  herd  to  me  thia  night  to  leave  thee  1 
A  boding  fear 


Fear?    Wherefore? 


Sboaldst  thoQ  depart  this  night,  and  #e  at 

waicing 
Never  more  find  thee ! 


Fanciee ! 


O,  m  V  ioal 

Has  long  been  weighed  down  by  these  dark 

forebodings ! 
And  if  I  combat  and  repel  them  waking, 
They  still  rash  down  upon  my  heart  in  dreams. 
I  saw  thee  yesternight,  with  thy  first  wifo, 
Sit  at  a  banquet  gorgeously  attired. 

wAx.ijnisTai]r. 
This  was  a  dream  of  fovorable  omen, 
That  marriage  being  the  founder  of  my  for- 
tunes. 

oonimsa* 
To-day  I  dreamt  that  I  was  seeking  thee 
In  thy  own  chamber.     As  I  entered,  lo  ! 
It  was  no  more  a  chamber :  the  Chartreuse 
At  Oitachin  't  was,  which  thou  thyself  hadst 

founded, 
And  where  it  is  thy  will  that  thou  shonldst  be 
Interred. 


Thy  aoul  is  busy  with  these  thoughts. 

OOUMTSSS. 

What !  dost  thou  not  believe  that  oft  In  dreams 
A  voice  of  warning  speaks  prophetic  to  us  ? 


There  is  no  doubt  that  there  exist  such  voices. 

Tet  I  would  not  call  them 

Voices  of  warning,  that  announce  to  us 

Only  the  inevitable.     As  the  sun. 

Ere  it  Is  risen,  sometimes  paints  its  image 

In  the  atmosphere,  —  so  often  do  the  spirits 

Of  great  events  stride  on  before  the  events, 

And  in  to-day  already  walks  to-morrow. 

That  which   we  read  of  the  fourth  Henry's 

death 
Did  ever  vex  and  haunt  me  like  a  tale 
Of  my  own  foture  destiny.     The  king 
Felt  in  his  breast  the  phantom  of  the  knifo, 
Long  ere  Ravaillae  armed  himself  therewith. 
His  quiet  mind  forsook  him :  the  phantasma 
Started  him  in  his  Louvre,  chased  him  forth 
Into  the  open  air;  like  foneral  knells 


Sounded  that  coronation  festival ; 
And  still  with  boding  sense  he  heard  the  tread 
Of  those  foot  that  even  then  were  seeking  him 
Throughout  the  streets  of  Paris. 


Andtot&se 

The  voice  within  thy  soul  bodes  nothing  ? 


Nothing. 

Be  wholly  tranquil. 


And  another  time 

I  hastened  after  thee,  and  thou  rann'st  from  me 

Through  a  long  suite,  through  many  a  spacious 

hall; 
There  seemed  no  end  of  it:  doors  creaked  and 

clapped ; 
I  followed  panting,  but  could  not  o*ertake  thee ; 
When  on  a  sudden  did  I  feel  myself 
Grasped  from  behind, — the  hand  was  cold  that 

grasped  me, — 
'T  was  thou,  and  thou  didst  kiss  me,  and  there 

seemed 
A  crimson  covering  to  envelope  us. 


That  is  the  crimson  tapestry  of  my  chamber. 


(gaslng  on  him). 
If  it  should  come  to  that, — if  I  should  see  thee, 
Who  standest  now  before  me  in  the  folness 
Of  lift 

[She  ftUf  on  hlfl  bnaat  and  waeps. 

WAZiBMSTBUf. 

The  emperor's  proclamation  weighs  upon  thee  : 
Alphabets  wound  not,  —  and  he  finds  no  hands.. 


If  he  skomld  find  them,  my  resolve  is  taken : 
I  bear  about  me^ny  support  and  refoge. 

[EzltC 


FROM  THE  DUTCH. 

Fag0a96. 

JACOB  BELLAMY. 

Jacob  Bellamy  was  bom  at  Fluahing,  in 
the  year  1767.  Hia  boyhood  was  passed  in 
humble  circumstances,  and  he  worked  at  the 
trade  of  a  baker  until  he  was  fifteen  years  old. 
At  thia  early  age  he  acquired  considerable  rep- 
utation in  his  native  city  as  a  versifier.  In 
1772,  at  the  celebration  of  the  second  centen- 
nial festival  in  commemoration  of  the  founda- 
tion of  the  republic,  his  genius  was  inspired  by 
the  patriotic  enthusiasm  that  universally  pre- 


772 


APPENDIX. 


vailed.  His  prodactions  were  so  well  received, 
that  he  was  enabled,  by  the  genereiMtjr  of  a  li^ 
era!  patron,  to  study  at  the  Unirersitjr  of  Utrecht, 
where  he  devoted  part  of  bis  time  to  theology. 
He  acquired  a  knowledge  of  Latin,  studied  the 
mother  tongue  with  critical  accuracy,  and  wrote 
several  pieces  of  such  excellence,  that  the  Soci- 
ety of  Arts  at  the  Hague  incorporated  them  into 
their  collections.  Among  bis  poems,  those 
most  highly  esteemed  are  the  *^  Vaderlandse 
Gezengen  "  (Patriotic  Songs).  His  later  pieces 
are  in  a  more  melancholy  tone.  The  death  of 
this  distinguished  poet  occurred  in  1796.  The 
works  he  left  behind  him  entitle  him  to  be 
placed  with  Bilderdijk,  Helmers,  Loos,  and 
others,  among  the  restorers  of  Datoh  poetry. 


ODE  TO  GOD. 

For  Thee,  ibr  Thee,  my  lyre  I  string, 
Who,  by  ten  thousand  worlds  attended, 
Holdest  thy  course  sublime  and  splendid 

Through  heaven's  immeasurable  ring  ! 

I  tremble  'neath  the  blazing  throne 

Thy  light  eternal  built  upon, —  . 
Thy  throne,  as  thou,  all-radiant, — bearing 

Love's  day-beams  of  benignity : 
Yet,  terrible  is  thine  appearing 

To  them  who  fear  not  thee. 

0,  what  is  mortal  man,  that  he 
May  hear  thy  heavenly  temple  ringing 

With  songs  that  heaven's  own  choirs  are  sing- 

And  echo  back  the  melody  ? 

My  soul  is  wandering  from  its  place  ; 

Mine  eyes  are  lost  amidst  the  space 
Where  thousand  suns  are  rolled  through  heav- 
en,— 

Sons  waked  by  thee  from  chaos'  sleep : 
But  with  the  thought  mj  soul  is  driven 

Down  to  a  trackless  deep. 

There  was  a  moment  ere  thy  plan 
Poured  out  Time's  stream  of  mortal  glory,  -— 
Ere  thy  high  wisdom  tracked  the  story 
Of  all  the  years  since  Time  began : 
Bringing  sweet  peace  from  sorrow's  mine, 
And  making  misery  —  discipline  ; 
The  bitter  waters  of  affliction 

Distilling  into  dews  of  peace. 
And  kindling  heavenly  benediotioa 
From  earth's  severe  distress. 

Then  did  thine  omnipresent  eye, 
Earth's  million  million  wonders  seeing. 
Track  through  the  misty  maze  of  being 

E'en  my  obscurest  destiny  : 

1,  in  those  marvellous  plans,  thongh  yet 
Unborn,  had  mine  own  portion  set ; 

And  thou  hadst  marked  my  path,  though  lowly : 
E'en  to  my  meanness  thou  didst  give 

Thy  spirit,  —  thou,  so  high,  so  holy ; 
And  I,  thy  creature,  live. 


So,  through  this  trembling  ball  of  clay, 
Thou  to  and  fro  dost  kindly  lead  me; 
'Midst  life's  vicissitudes  I  speed  me. 

And  quiet  peace  attends  my  way. 

And,  O,  what  bliss  it  is  to  be  — 

Though  bat  an  atom -^formed  by  thee,— ^ 
By  thee,  who  in  thy  mercy  ponrest 

Rivers  of  grace,  —  to  whom,  indeed. 
The  eternal  oak-trees  of  the  fbrest 

Are  as  the  mustard-seed ! 

Up,  then,  my  spirit !  soar  above 
This  vale,  where  mists  of  darknen  gather ! 
Up  to  the  high,  eternal  Father  ! 

For  thou  wert  fashioned  by  his  love. 

Up  to  the  heavens !  away !  away !  — 

No, — bend  thee  down  to  dust  and  clay  : 
Heaven's  dazzling  light  will  blind  and  bum  thee; 

Thou  canst  not  bear  the  awful  blaze. 
No, — wouldst  thou  find  the  Godhead,  tmn  thee 

On  Nature's  fiice  to  gaze. 

There,  in  its  every  feature,  thou 
May'st  read  the  Almighty ;  —  every  fbatnre 
That 's  spread  upon  the  face  of  Nature 

Is  brightened  with  hb  holy  glow  : 

The  rushing  of  the  waterfall. 

The  deep  gr^en  valley, — silent  all,— 
The  waving  grain,  the  roaring  ocean. 

The  woodland's  wandering  melody, — 
All,  —  all  that  wakes  the  soul's  emotion, 

Creator,  speaks  of  thee  >. 

But,  of  thy  works  through  sea  and  land 
Or  the  wide  fields  of  ether  wending. 
In  man  thy  noblest  thoughts  are  blending  ; 
Man  is  the  glory  of  thy  hand ;  — 
Man, — modelled  in  a  form  of  grace. 
Where  every  beauty  has  its  place ; 
A  gentleness  and  glory  sharing 

His  spirit,  where  we  may  behold 
A  higher  aim,  a  nobler  daring : 
'T  is  thine  immortal  mould. 

O  wisdom !    O  unbonnded  might ! 
I  lose  me  in  the  light  Elysian ; 
Mine  eye  is  dimmed,  and  dark  my  vision  : 

Who  am  I  in  this  gloomy  night  ? 

Eternal  Being !  let  the  ray 

Of  thy  high  wisdom  bear  away 
My  thoughts  to  thine  abode  sablimeet  I 

But  how  shall  grovelling  passions  rise 
To  the  proud  temple  where  thou  climbeet 

The  threshold  of  the  skies  ? 

Enough,  if  I  a  stammering  hymn. 
My  Ood,  to  thee  may  sing,-* unworthy 
Of  those  sweet  strains  poured  out  before  Ifaee 
By  heavenly  hosts  of  cherubim : 
Despise  me  not,  —  one  spark  confer 
Worthy  of  thine  own  worshipper; 
And  better  songs  and  worthier  praises 

Shall  hallow  thee,  when  *midst  the  stnin 
Of  saints  my  voice  its  chorus  raises,— 
Never  to  sink  again. 


APPENDIX. 


773 


FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

CHATEAUBRIAND. 

HOMR 

How  tny  heart  ii  ever  turning 

To  my  distant  birthplace  fair  I 
Sister,  in  our  France,  the  morning 
Smileth  so  rare ! 
Home !  my  love  is  on  thy  shore 
For  evermore ! 

Dost  remember  how  onr  mother 

Oft,  our  cottage  fire  beside. 
Blessed  the  maiden  and  her  brother, 
In  her  heart's  pride, — 
And  they  smoothed  her  silver  hair 
With  tender  prayer? 

Dost  remember,  still,  the  palace 
Hanging  o'er  the  river  Dore  ? 
And  that  giant  of  the  valleys, 
The  Moorish  tower. 
Where  the  bell,  at  dawning  gray. 
Did  waken  day  ? 

And  the  lake,  with  trees  that  hide  it. 

Where  the  swallow  skimmeth  low  ? 
And  the  slender  reeds  beside  it, 
That  soft  airs  bow  ? 
How  the  sunshine  of  the  west 
Loved  its  calm  breast ! 

And  H616ne,  that  one  beloved 

Friend  of  all  my  early  hours. 
How  through  greenwood  we  two  roved. 
Playing  with  flowers  ? 
Listening  at  the  old  oak's  feet, 
How  two  hearts  beat ! 

Give  me  back  my  oaks  and  meadows, 

And  my  dearly  loved  H^I6ne ; 
One  and  all  are  now  but  shadows. 
Bringing  strange  pain. 
Home  !  my  love  is  on  thy  shore 
For  evermore ! 


FROM  THE  ITALIAN. 

Page  BSSL 
GIAMBATTISTA  MARINI. 

FADING  BEAtTTY.— SUPPLEMSNTABT  STANZA& 

Thk  translation  of  Marini's  **  Fading  Beau- 
ty," by  Daniel,  on  p.  582,  embraces  little  more 
than  half  of  the  ode.  The  fcdlowing  additional 
etaBzae  have  been  furnished  by  a  friend,  who 
has  skilfully  preserved  the  exact  measure  and 
the  doable  rhymes  of  the  original. 


A  lamp's  oncertain  splendor 

A  wandering  shadow  hideth ; 
In  fire  or  sun,  the  tender 
Snow  into  water  glideth : 
Tet  not  so  long  abideth 
Youth's  swMly  feding  blossom, 
Which  doth  at  onoe  more  joy  and  firailty  too 
embosom. 


Foolish  who  sets  his  hoping 

On  nature's  proud  displaying. 
Which  falls  in  merely  coping 
With  a  light  breeze's  playing  : 
Passeth,  passeth  without  staying, 
To-day's  delight  unsteady. 
Which  shows  itself,  and,  while  we  look,  is  gone 
already. 

VI. 

Flies,  flies  the  pleasant  bevy 

Of  amorous  delighting ; 
And  with  weary  foot  and  heavy 
Follow  sorrow  and  despiting  : 
To-day  youth  fears  no  blighting; 
To-morrow  the  year  rangeth. 
And  all  the  green  of  spring  for  winter's  snow 
eichangeth. 


How  swift  thou  disappearest, 
O  treasure  born  for  dying ! 
How  rapidly  thou  outwearest, 
O  dowry,  O  glory  lying  ! 
The  arrow  swiftest  flying, 
Which  the  blind  archer  wasteth. 
From  a  ftdr  countenance's  bow   not 
hasteth. 


The  sky's  now  bright  sereneness 
A  sndden  cloud-rack  dashes; 

The  fire's  high-blazing  cleanness 
Is  BOW  but  dust  and  ashes; 
The  rude  storm  bursts,  and  crashes 

The  smooth  glass  of  the  Ocean, 
Who  only  finds  repose  in  his  unresting  motion. 

XII. 

Thus  all  its  firesbneas  loseth 

The  spring-time  of  man's  living; 

Morning  its  green  uncloseth. 
But  night  is  unforgiving ; 
Flowers,  whence  the  heart  is  hiving 

Its  honey,  frost  surpriseth ; 
Each  falls  in  turn,  and,  fallen,  never  riseth. 

XIII. 

How  many  kingdoms  glorious, 

How  many  cities  over. 
Ruin  exults  victorious. 

And  sand  and  herbage  cover ! 

What  boots  strength  P  or  how  discover 

A  buckler  which  protecteth 

'Gainst  what  doth  level  all  that  earth  or  flesh 

erecteth  ? 

.   8„* 


774 


APPENDIX. 


Of  Time,  with  which  she  yieth, 

Beauty  'a  the  trophy  after; 
Irreyocably  flieth 
The  iport,  the  joy,  the  laughter ;' 
The  cup,  from  which  she  quaffed  her 
Short  hli§s,  leayes  naught  that  '•  lasting, 
But  forrow  and  regret  lor  that  poor  moment's 
tasting. 


Ffe«e  610. 

IPPOLITO  PINDEMONTE. 

NIGHT. 

NiOHT  dew-lipped  comes,  and  every  gleaming 
star 

Its  silent  place  assigns  in  yonder  sky : 
The  moon  walks  forth,  and  fields  and  groyes 
aftr, 

Touched  by  her  light,  in  silver  beauty  lie. 
In  solemn  peace,  that  no  sound  comes  to  mar, 

Hamlets  and  peopled  cities  slumber  nigh ; 
While  on  this  rock,  in  meditation's  mien, 
Lord  of  the  unconscious  world,  I  sit  unseen. 

How  deep  the  quiet  of  this  pensive  hour ! 

Nature  bids  labor  cease, — and  all  obey. 
How  sweet  this  stillness,  in  its  magic  power 

O'er  hearts  that  know  her  voice  and  own  her 
sway! 
Stillness  unbroken,  save  when  from  the  flower 

The  whirring  locust  takes  his  upward  way ; 
And  murmuring  o'er  the  verdant  turf  is  heard 
The  passing  brook,— or  leaf  by  breezes  stirred. 

Borne  on  the  pinions  of  Night's  freshening  air. 
Unfettered  thoughts  with  calm  reflection  come ; 

And  Fancy's  train,  that  shuns  the  daylight  glare. 
To  wake  when  midnight  shrouds  the  heavens 
in  gloom. 

New,  tranquil  joys,  and  hopes  untouched  by  care, 
Within  my  bosom  throng  to  seek  a  home ; 

While  far  around  the  brooding  darkness  spreads, 

And  o'er  the  soul  its  pleasing  sadness  sheds. 


PSfB618. 
NICCOL6  UGO  FOSCOLO. 

THE  8EPULGHRB8L 
BiiTKATH  the  cypress  shade,  or  sculptured  urn 
By  fond  tears  watered,  is  the  sleep  of  death 
Less  heavy  ?     When  for  me  the  sun  no  more 
Shall  shine  on  earth,  and  bless  with  genial  beams 
This  beauteous  race  of  beings  animate,— 
When  bright  with  flattering  hues  the  future  hours 
No  longer  dance  before  me,  and  I  hear 
No  more  the  magic  of  thy  dulcet  verse. 
Nor  the  sad,  gentle  harmony  it  breathes,  — 
When  mute  within  my  breast  the  inspiring  voiee 
Of  youthful  Poesy,  and  Love,  sole  light 
To  this  my  wandering  life,  —  what  guerdon  then 
For  vanished  years  will  be  the  marble,  reared 


To  mark  my  dust  amid  the  countless  throng 
Wherewith  Death  widely  strews  the  land  and 
sea? 

And  thus  it  is !    Hope,  the  last  fKend  of  man. 
Flies  from  the  tomb,  and  dim  Foigetfulnees 
Wraps  in  its  ray  less  night  all  mortal  things. 
Change  after  change,  unfelt,  unheeded,  tiikes 
Its  tribute,— and  o'er  man,  his  sepnlehrea. 
His  being's  lingering  traces,  and  the  relics 
Of  earth  and  heaven.  Time  in  mockery  treads. 

Tet  why  hath  man,  from  immemorial  yean. 
Teamed  for  the  illusive  power  which  may  retain 
The  parted  spirit  on  life's  threshold  still .' 
Doth  not  the  buried  live,  e'en  though  to  him 
The  day's  enchanted  melody  u  mute. 
If  yet  fond  thoughts  and  tender  memories 
He  wake  in  friendly  breasts  ?  O,  't  is  from  heavoa. 
This  sweet  communion  of  abiding  love ! 
A  boon  celestial !     By  its  charm  we  bold 
Full  oft  a  solemn  converse  with  the  dead ; 
If  yet  the  pious  earth,  which  nourished  once 
Their  ripening  youth,  in  her  maternal  breast 
Yielding  a  last  asylum,  shall  protect 
Their  sacred  relics  from  insulting  storms. 
Or  step  profane,  —  if  some  secluded  stone 
Preserve  their  name,  and  flowery  verdure  wave 
Its  firagrant  shade  above  their  honored  dnsC 

But  he  who  leaves  no  heritage  of  love 

Is  heedless  of  an  urn ;  —  and  if  he  look 

Beyond  the  grave,  his  spirit  wanders  lost 

Among  the  wai lings  of  Infornal  shores ; 

Or  hides  its  guilt  beneath  the  sheltering  wings 

Of  God's  forgiving  mercy;  while  his  bones 

Moulder  unrecked-of  on  the  desert  sand. 

Where  never  loving  woman  pours  her  prayer. 

Nor  solitary  pilgrim  hears  the  sigh 

Which  mourning  Nature  sends  us  from  the  tomb. 

New  laws  now  banish  from  our  yearning  ^ 
The  hallowed  sepulchres,  and  envious  strip 
Their  honors  from  the  dead.     Without  a  tomb 
Thy  votary  sleeps,  Thalia !  he  who  sung 
To  thee  beneath  his  humble  roof,  and  reared 
His  bays  to  weave  a  coronal  for  thee. 
And  thou  didst  wreath  with  gracious  smiles  hk 

i.y. 

Which  stung  the  Sardanapalus  of  our  land,* 
Whose  grovelling  soul  loved  but  to  hoar  the 

lowing 
Of  cattle  pasturing  in  Tieino's  fields. 
His  source  of  boasted  wealth.  O  Muse  inspired! 
Where  art  thou  ?     No  ambrosial  air  I  breathe. 
Betokening  thy  blest  presence,  in  these  bowois 
Where  now  I  sigh  for  home.    Here  wert  tboo 

wont 
To  smile  on  him  beneath  yon  linden^tree, 
That  now  with  scattered  fbliage  seems  to  weep. 
Because  it  droops  not  o'er  the  old  man's  am. 
Who  once  sought  peace  beneath  its  cooling  shade. 
Perchance   thou.   Goddess,  wandering  among 

graves 

1  The  Prince  BelgloJosO)  soTeraly  asUriaed  in  Pterim'a 
poem  of  "Tbe  Dtj." 


APPENDIX. 


775 


UDhonored,  vainly  seek'st  the  spot  where  rests 
Parini'g  sacred  head  !     The  city  now 
To  him  DO  space  affords  within  her  walls, 
Nor  monument,  nor  votive  line.     His  bones, 
Perchance,  lie  sallied  with  some  felon's  blood. 
Fresh  from  the  scaffold  that  his  crimes  deserved. 
Seett  thou  the  lone  wild  dog,  among  the  tombs, 
Howling  with  iamine,  roam, — raking  the  dust 
From  mouldering  bones?  while  from  the  skull, 

through  which 
The  moonlight  streams,  the  noisy  lapwing  flies, 
And  flaps  his  hateful  wings  above  the  field 
Spread  with  funereal  crosses, — screaming  shrill, 
As  if  to  curse  the  light  the  holy  stars 
Shed  on  neglected  burial-grounds  ?     In  vain 
Dost  thou  invoke  upon  thy  poet's  dust 
The  sweet-distilling  dews  of  silent  night: 
There  spring  no  flowers  on  graves  by  human 

psaise 
Or  tears  of  love  unhallowed ! 

From  the  days 
When  first  the  nuptial  feast  and  judgment-seat 
And  altar  soflened  our  untutored  race. 
And  taught  to  man  his  own  and  others'  good. 
The  living  treasured  from  the  bleaching  storm 
And  savage  brute  those  sad  and  poor  remains. 
By  Nature  destined  for  a  lofty  fate. 
Then  tombs  became  the  witnesses  of  pride, 
And  altars  for  the  young  :~thence  gods  invoked 
Uttered  their  solemn  answers ;  and  the  oath 
Sworn  on  the  father's  dust  was  thrice  revered. 
Hence 'the  devo^on,  which,  with  various  rites, 
The  warmth  of  patriot  virtue,  kindred  love. 
Transmits  us  through  the  countless  lapse  of  yean. 

Not  in  those  times  did  stones  sepulchral  pave 
The    temple-floors, — nor  fumes  of  shrouded 

corpses, 
Mixed  with  the  altar's  incense,  smite  with  fear 
The  suppliant  worshipper,  —  nor  cities  frown. 
Ghastly   with    sculptured    skeletons,  —  while 

leaped 
Toung  mothers  from  their  sleep  in  wild  affright. 
Shielding  their  helpless  babes  with  feeble  arm, 
And  listening  for  the  groans  of  wandering  ghosts. 
Imploring  vainly  from  their  impious  heirs 
Their  gold-bought  masses.    But  in  living  green, 
Cypress  and  stately  cedar  spread  their  shade 
O'er  onforgotten  graves,  scattering  in  air 
Their  grateful  odors ;  —  vases  rich  received 
The  mourners'  votive  tears.    There  pious  friends 
Enticed  the  day's  pure  beam  to  gild  the  gloom 
Of  monuments ; — for  man  his  dying  eye 
Turns  ever  to  the  sun,  and  every  breast 
Heaves  its  last  sigh  toward  the  departing  light. 
There  fountains  flung  aloft  their  silvery  spray, 
Watering  sweet  amaranths  and  violets 
Upon  the  funeral  sod ;  and  he  who  came 
To  commune  with  the  dead  breathed  fragrance 

round, 
Like  bland  airs  wafted  from  Elysian  fields. 
Sublime  and  fond  illusion !  this  endears 
The  rural  burial-place  to  British  maids. 
Who  wander  there  to  mourn  a  mother  lost,  •— 
Or  supplicate  the  hero's  safe  return, 


Who  of  ito  mast  the  hostile  ship  despoiled. 
To  scoop  from  thence  his  own  triumphal  bier.  * 

Where  slumbers  the  high  thirst  of  glorious  deeds, 
And  wealth  and  fear  are  ministers  to  life, 
Unhallowed  images  of  things  unseen. 
And  idle  pomp,  usurp  the  place  of  groves 
And  mounds.    The  rich,  the  learned,  the  vulgar 

great, 
Italia's  pride  and  ornament,  may  boast 
Enduring  tombs  in  costly  palaces. 
With  their  sole  praise  —  ancestral  names  —  in- 
scribed. 
For  us,  my  friends,  be  quiet  couch  prepared, 
Where  Fate  for  once  may  weary  of  his  storms, 
And  Friendship  gather  from  our  urn  no  treasure 
Of  sordid  gold,  but  wealth  of  feeling  warm. 
And  models  of  free  song. 

Tes,  Pindemonte ! 
The  aspiring  soul  is  fired  to  lofty  deeds 
By  great  men's  monuments, —and  they  make  feir 
And  holy  to  the  pilgrim's  eye  the  earth 
That  has  received  their  trust.     When  I  beheld 
The  spot  where  sleeps  enshrined  that  noble 

genius,' 
Who,  humbling  the  proud  sceptres  of  earth's 

kings. 
Stripped  thence  the  illusive  wreaths,  and  showed 

the  nations 
What  tears  and  blood  defiled  them, — when  I 

saw 
His  mausoleum,  who  upreared  in  Rome  * 
A  new  Olympus  to  the  Deity, — 
And  his,  ^  who  'neath  heaven's  azure  canopy 
Saw  worlds  unnumbered  roll,  and  suns  unmoved 
Irradiate  countless  systems, — treading  first 
For  Albion's  son,  who  soared  on  wings  sublime. 
The  shining  pathways  of  the  firmament,  -— 
^  O,  blest  art  thou,  Etruria's  Queen,"  I  cried, 
**  For  thy  pure  airs,  so  redolent  of  life, 
And  the  firesh  streams  thy  mountain  summits 

pour 
In  homage  at  thy  feet !     In  thy  blue  sky 
The  glad  moon  walks, — and  robes  with  silver 

light 
Thy  vintage-smiling  hills ;  and  valleys  feir. 
Studded  with  domes  and  olive-groves,  send  up 
To  heaven  the  incense  of  a  thousand  flowers. 
Thou,  Florence,  first  didst  hear  the  song  divine 
That  cheered  the  Ghibelline's  *  indignant  flight. 
And  thou  the  kindred  and  tfweet  language  gav'st^ 
To  him,  the  chosen  of  Calliope,  ^ 
Who  Love  with  purest  veil  adorning,  —  Love, 
Th&t  went  unrobed  in  elder  Greece  and  Rome,— ^ 
Restored  him  to  a  heavenly  Venus'  lap. 
Tet  far  more  blest,  that  in  thy  fene  repose 
Italia's  buried  glories !  —  all,  perchance. 
She  e'er  may  boast !     Since  o'er  the  barrier  frail 
Of  Alpine  rocks  the  overwhelming  tide  of  Fate 


s  Nelson  carried  with  him,  some  time  before  hie  death,  a 
coffin  made  fkom  the  mainmast  of  the  Orient,— that,  when 
he  had  finished  his  military  career  in  this  worid,  he  might 
tie  buried  in  one  of  his  trophies. 

3  Niecol6  MachiaveUi.         »  Galileo.         7  Petrarch. 

4  Michel  Angelo.  •  Dante. 


776 


APPENDIX. 


Hath  f  wept  in  mif^hty  wreck  her  aroif ,  her  wealth. 
Altars,  and  oouDtry,~and,aaTe  inemory,~all ! " 

Where  from  past  fame  spriogs  hope  of  fiiture  deeds 
In  daring  minds,  for  Italy  enslaved, 
Draw  we  our  auspices.     Around  these  tomhs. 
In  thought  entranced,  Alfieri  wandered  oft,  -^ 
Indignant  at  his  country,  hither  strayed 
O'er  Arno*8  desert  plain,  and  looked  ahroad 
With  silent  longing  on  the  field  and  sky : 
And  when  no  living  aspect  soothed  his  grief, 
Turned  to  the  voiceless  dead ;  while  on  his  brow 
There  sat  the  paleness,  with  the  hope  of  death. 
With  them  he  dwells  for  ever ;  here  his  hoaes 
Murmur  a  patriot's  love.     0,  truly  speaks 
A  god  from  his  ahode  of  pious  rest ! 
The  same  which  fired  of  old,  in  Grecian  bosoms. 
Hatred  of  Persian  fbes  at  Marathon, 
Where  Athens  consecrates  her  heroes  gone. 

The  mariner  since,  whose  white  sails  woo  the 

winds 
Before  Eubcsa's  isle,  at  deep  midnight. 
Hath  seen  the  lightning-flash  of  gleaming  casques, 
And  swiftrenoountering  brands ',  —  seen  blazing 

pyres 
Roll  forth  their  volumed  vapors,  —  phantom 

warriors, 
Begirt  with  steel,  and  marching  to  the  fight : 
While  on  Night's  silent  ear,  o'er  distant  shores. 
From  those  far  airy  phalanxes,  was  borne 
The  clang  of  arms,  and  trumpet's  hoarse  re- 
sponse, — 
The  tramp  of  rushing  steeds,  with  hurrying  hoofii. 
Above  the  helmed  dead,  —  and,  mingling  wild. 
Wails  of  the  dying,  hymns  of  victory, 
And,  high  o'er  all,  the  Fates'  mysterious  chant  * 

Happy,  my  friend,  who  in  thine  early  years 
Hast  crossed  the  wide  dominion  of  the  winds ! 
If  e'er  the  pilot  steered  thy  wandering  bark 
Beyond  the  £gean  Isles,  thou  heard 'st  the  shores 
Of  Hellespont  resound  with  ancient  deeds ; 
And  the  proud  surge  exult,  that  bore  of  old 
Achilles'  armor  to  RhoBteum's  shore. 
Where  Ajax  sleeps.   To  souls  of  generous  mould 
Death  righteously  awards  the  meed  of  fame: 
Not  subtle  wit,  nor  kingly  favor  gave 
The  perilous  spoils  to  Ithaca,—- when  waves, 
Stirred  to  wild  fury  by  infernal  gods. 
Rescued  the  treasures  from  the  shipwrecked  bark. 

For  me,  whom  years  and  love  of  high  renown 
Impel  through  far  and  various  lands  to  roam, 
The  Muses,  gently  waking  in  my  breast 
Sad  thoughts,  bid  me  invoke  the  heroic  dead. 
Tbey  sit  and  guard  the  sepulchres ;  and  when 
Time  with  cold  wing  sweeps  tombs  and  ftnes  to 

ruin, 
The  gladdened  desert  echoes  with  their  song, 
And  its  loud  harmony  subdues  the  silence  ' 
Of  noteless  ages. 

Tet  on  Ilium's  plain. 
Where  now  the  harvest  waves,  to  pilgrim  eyes 

*  Iq  alliuloD  to  a  preralenl  •uperatitioD. 


Devout  gleams  star-like  an  eternal  shrine,  — 
Eternal  for  the  Nymph  espoused  by  Jove, 
Who  gave  her  royal  lord  the  son  whence  sprung 
Troy's  ancient  city,  and  Aasaraous, 
The  fifty  sons  of  Priam's  regal  line. 
And  the  wide  empire  of  the  Latin  r^e. 
She,  listening  to  the  Fates'  resistless  call. 
That  summoned  her  from  vital  airs  of  earth 
To  choirs  EJysian,  of  heaven's  sire  besought 
One  boon  in  dying :  —  t^O,  if  e'er  to  thee," 
She  cried,  '*  this  fading  form,  these  locks  were 


And  the  soft  cares  of  Lave, — since  Daatiny 
Denies  me  happier  lot,  guard  thou  at  least 
That  thine  Electra's  &me  in  death  survive ! " 
She  prayed,  and  died.    Then  shook  the  Thoo- 

derer's  throne. 
And,  bending  in  assent,  the  immortal  head 
Showered  down  ambrosia  from  celestial  4ocks, 
To  sanctify  her  tomb. — Eriethon  th«re 
Reposes, — there  the  dust  of  Ilus  lies. 
There  Trojan  matrons,  with  dishevelled  hair, 
Sought  vainly  to  avert  impending  fate 
From  their  doomed  lords.     There,  too,  Casnn- 

dra  stood, 
Inspired  with  deity,  and  told  the  ruin 
That  hung  o'er  Troy,  —  and  poured  her  wailing 

song 
To  solemn  shades, — and  led  the  children  forth. 
And  taught  to  youthful  lips  the  fond  lament : 
Sighing,  she  said,  *'  If  e'er  the  Gods  permit 
Tour  saft  return  fVom  Greece,  where,  exiled  slaves. 
Tour  hands  shall  feed  your  haughty  conqueror's  | 

steeds. 
Tour  country  ye  will  seek  in  vain !    Ton  walla. 
By  mighty  PhoBbus  reared,  shall  cumber  earth. 
In  smouldering  ruins.    Tet  the  Gods  of  Troy 
Shall  hold  their  dwelling  in  these  tombs;  — 

Heaven  grants 
One  proud,  last  gift,  —  in  griefs  deathless  Dame. 
Te  cypresses  and  palms,  by  princely  handa 
Of  Priam's  daughters  planted !  ye  shall  grow. 
Watered,  alas !  by  widows'  tears.     Guard  jre 
My  slumbering  fathers !    He  who  shall  withhold 
The  impious  axe  from  your  devoted  trunks 
Shall  feel  less  bitteriy  his  stroke  of  grief; 
And  touch  the  shrine  with  not  unworthy  hand. 
Guard  ye  my  fiithers !     One  day  shall  ye  nuirk 
A  sightless  wanderer  'mid  your  ancient  shadea: 
Groping  aaoong  your  mounds,  he  shall  embrace 
The  hallowed  urns,  and  question  of  their  trasC 
Then  shall  the  deep  and  caverned  cells  reply 
In  hollow  murmur,  and  give  up  the  tale 
Of  Troy  twice  razed  to  earth  and  twice  rebuilt; 
Shining  in  grandeur  on  the  desert  plain. 
To  make  more  lofty  the  last  monument 
Raised  for  the  sons  of  Peleus.    There  the  bard, 
Soothing  their  restless  ghosts  with  magic  song, 
A  glorious  immortality  shall  give 
Those  Grecian  princes,  in  all  lands  renowned. 
Which  ancient  Ocean  wraps  in  his  embrace. 
And  thou,  too.  Hector,  shah  the  meed  receive 
Of  pitying  tears,  where'er  the  patriot's  blood 
Is  prized  or  mourned,  —  so  long  as  yonder  son 
Shall  roll  in  heaven,  and  shine  on  human 


INDEX  OF  AUTHOES. 


Alamannl,  Loigl       .... 
Alciaur,  Bkltaaardel    .... 
Alfieri,  YiUorio         .... 
Alfonso  the  Second,  King  of  Aragon    . 
AUboM  the  Tsnth,  King  of  Castile 

Alfred,  King 

Almeyda,  Fernando  de     . 
Alvaree  do  Oriente,  Femao         .      .  . 
Aoduse,  Claire  d'      .       .       .       . 
Anhalt,  Helnrich,  Heraog  ron 
Ando,  Reinier  .... 

Argensola,  Bartolom^  Leonardo 
Argeneola,  Lupercio  Leonardo 
Ariosto,  LodoTico         .... 
Arndt,  Emst  Mortu 
Arriaia  y  Superrlela,  Juan  BautlsU  de 
Aat,  Dietmar  Ton      .... 
Athiea,  Hugnee  d\       .       .       .       . 
Atterbom,  Per  Daniel  Amadeua 
Aueraperg,  Anton  Alexander  von 
Auvergne,  Pierre  d'  ... 


Phge 

669 
.    676 

601 
.    634 

637 
.      23 

736 
.    7S2 

431 
.    197 

390 
.    701 

701 
.    547 

332 
.    726 

196 
.    426 

170 
.    366 


Bacellar,  Antonio  Barboea 
Baggeaen,  Jens         .... 
Bairf,  Jean  Antoine  de 
BarbedeYemie       .... 
Barbier,  Augnate  .       .       .       . 

Basso,  Andrea  del     .... 
Bellamj,  Jacob 
Bellay,  Joachim  da  ...       . 

Belleau,  Rem! 

Bembo,  Pietro  .... 

BentiToglio,  Comelio 

B^ranger,  Pleire-Jean  do 

Bercao,  Ooniab  de       .       .       .       . 

JBemardes,  Diogo      .... 

Beml,  Francesco,  da  Bibblena     . 

Bertant,  Jean 

Biarke,  Bodrar 

Bilderdijk.  Wltlem    .... 
Blazon,  Thiband  de      .       .       .       . 
Bocaga,  Manoel  Maria  de  Barbosa  da 
Boccaccio,  GioTanni    .       .       .       . 
Bodnier,  Johann  Jacob  .       . 

Bollcau  Despt^nz,  Nlcbolas      . 
Bojardo,  Matteo  Maria     . 

Boner,  Ulrich 

BoniUa,  Alonso  da 

Borger,  Ellas  Anne      .       .       •       . 
Borja  7  Esquilache,  Fraaclsco  de    . 
Bom,  Bertrand  de        .       .       .       . 
3omell,  Oirand  da    ...       . 
^oscan  Almogarer,  Juan 
Brandenburg,  Otho,  MargraTe  of    . 
Brederode,  Oerbrand    .... 
.Brealau,  Heinrich,  Menog  ron 
^Broekhuizan,  Jan  ran 
iBnilez,  Gaca 

r  « 


764 
89 
461 
427 
499 
643 
771 
447 
460 
646 
692 
486 
636 
761 
560 
463 
61 
303 
428 
762 
533 
242 
464 
639 
229 
708 
399 
704 
433 
436 
666 
196 
382 
199 


Tage 

Bhine,  Jan  de 381 

Buonarotti,  Michel  Angelo 663,  620 

BUrger,  Gottfried  Auguat 274 

Oabestaing,  GuiUanine  da 430 

Gadalso,  Jos«  da 719 

Csdmon    .       .      ' 10 

Calderon  de  la  Barca,  Pedro 708 

Ouninha,  Pedro  de  Andrada 760 

Oamoens,  Luis  da 738 

Otrtagena,  Alonso  de 666 

Caaa,  Gioranni  deUa 666 

Quaragi,  Giovanni  Bartotommao     ....  692 

Gksero,  Cicala 620 

CaBtillejo,  Crist^val  da 679 

OMtro  7  Anaya,  Pedro  da 718 

Cats,  Jacob 379 

Cervantes  Saavedra,  Miguel  de 688 

Chamisso,  Ludolf  Adalbert  von        ....  334 

Chancellor,  The 196 

Charles  d'Orltens 440 

Chartier,  Alain 438 

Chateaubriand,  Francis- Augusta,  Yicomte  da        481|  773 

Chftnedoll«,  Chartas  de 482 

Chlabrera,  Gabriello 677 

Chison,  Jaques  de 427 

Claudius,  Matthias 267 

Golonna,  Yittoria 656 

Contreras,  Hier6nimo  da 695 

Comeilla,  Pierre 456 

Costanzo,  Angelo  dl 665 

Cotta,  Giovanni 692 

Coac7,  Le  Ch&talain  da 425 

Gontinho,  Francisco  da  Yaaconcallos          ...  755 

Cretin,  GuUhuima 443 

Da  Barca,  Conde 763 

Daeh,  Simon 2|p 

DaCoata 400 

Da  Costa,  Clandio  Manoel 767 

Da  Cruz,  Antonio  Dinis 760 

Da  Cruz,  Fra  Agoatlnho          .       .       )       .       .  762 

DaCanha,J.  A 768 

Dalai,  Benedikt S'iO 

Daniel,  Amand 43* 

Dante  Alighiari 512 

Decker,  Jeremlas  da 388 

IVHuzatima 464 

Dalavlgna,  Jean-Fian^is-Caslmir       ....  491 

Dssportes,  Philippe 463 

Dingelstedt,  Franz 368 

Do  Ceo,  Ylolante 753 

Doata  de  Tkoias 427 

Doiat,  Jean 448 

Ehenheim,  GoesU  von 200 

Enzina,  Juan  de  la 660 

Ercilla  7  Zuniga,  Alonso  de        .....  684 


778 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS. 


Eschanbaeh,  Wolfrun  tod 
Espinel,  Vicente 
Erald,  Jobannei 


m 


Faldli,  Gaucelm 
Faria  e  Souza,  Manoel  de 
Ferrelra,  Anumio 
Figueroa,  Franciaco  de 
Filicaja,  Yincen^  da 
Flrenzuola,  Agnolo . 
FoUen,  AdolCLudwig 


7S3 

748 

684 

.  686 

659 

.  347 

FiMColo,  NIccoM  Ugo 612,  774 

Foulquea  de  ManeiUe 432 

Fracaatoro,  Oirolamo 656 

Fran^UI .       .444 

Freillgrath,  Ferdinand 369 

Froiaeart,  Jean 437 


Gamboa,  Joaqnim  Fortunato  de  Yaladaraa 
Oar^ao,  Pedro  Antonio  Coma     . 
Garrett,  J.  B.  Leitao  de  Almeida      . 
Oellert,  Christian  FurchtegoU     . 

Geeener,  Sriomon  - 

Gianni,  Lapo 

Gleim,  Johann  Wilhelm  Ludwig     . 
GoetiM,  Jobann  Wolfgang  Ton     . 

Goldoni,.  Carlo 

Gomes,  Joam  Baptiata         ... 
G6ngora  y  Argote,  Luie  do       .       .       • 

Gozzi,  Carlo 

Gribbe,  IMetrlch  Christian 
Greaset,  Jean-Baptiste-Louia 

Groot,  Hulg  de 

Groosi,  Tommaao 

Guarini,  GioTanni  BattiaU 
Guldi,  Alessandro         .       .       .       .       , 
Guidiccioni,  GioTannI      .... 
Guillaume,  Comte  do  Poltoa 

Guinicelli,  Guido 

Guitlone  d' Areziso,  Fra       .       .       .       , 


769 
756 
766 
214 
258 
612 
246 


764 
693 
696 
353 
476 
3S1 
620 
•667 
689 
660 
428 
611 
611 


Hadloub,  Jobann 201 

Hagedom,  Frederic 242 

Haller,  Albrecht  Ton        .       .       .       .               .  243 
Hamle,  Christian  Ton          .       .       .       .       .       .196 

Harald  the  Hardy 66 

Hebel,  Johasn  Peter 316 

Heiberg,  Peter  Andreaa 88 

Heine,  Heinrich 349 

Henri  U. 446 

Henri  IV 463 

Henry,  The  Emperor 193 

Herder,  Johann  Gottfried  Ton 269 

^eiedia,  Jo86  Maria 728 

Heredia,  Juan  Fernandas  de 676 

^errera,  Fernando  do 673 

Herwegh,  Georg           369 

Hlnojoaa  y  Garbajal,  AlTaro  de        ....  703 

Hoffmann  Ton  Falleraleben,  Heinrich  Augnsuia         .  362 

Hohenlels,  Burkhart  Ton 196 

H»Ity,  Ludwig  Heinrich  Chriatoph     ....  279 

Hooft,  Pieter  Cornells 379 

HomkloTo,  Thorbltfm 63 

Hugo,  YictorMarie 494 

Huijgena,  Constant!  jn 386 

Igleaiaa  de  la  Caaa,  Joa« 721 

Ingemann,  Bemhaid  SeTerin 123 

Isaure,  ClAmence 443 


Jacobi,  Jobann  Georg 260 

Jamyn,  Amadis 452 

Jodelle,  Btlenne    ........  451 

JoTetlanos,  Caspar  Melchlor  da        ....  720 

Jnantl.,  KingofOastlle .663 

Eamphuyzan,  Dirk  Ralael 382 

Kellgnan,  Johan  Henrik 140 

Eingo,  Thomas 82 

Einker 401 

Eirehberg,  Conrad  Ton     ......  190 

Eleist,  Ewald  Christian  tod 245 

Elopetock,  Friedrich  Gottlieb  ....  2(7 

Enaust,  Heinrich .  239 

Enebel,  Cari  Ludwig  Ton S73 

ESmer,  Eari  Theodor 345 

Eosegarten,  ^udwig  Theobol 304 

Eotzebue,  Auguat  Friedrich  Ferffinand  Ton        .       .  319 

Lab6,Loui8e 449 

La  Fontaine,  Jean  de 461 

Lamanlne,  Alphonse  de 4S7 

Ledesma,  Alonao  de 693 

Lenngren,  Anna  Maria 144 

Leon,  Luis  Ponce  de 680 

Leopold,  Cari  Gustaf  af 145 

Leasing,  Gotthold  E^hraim 232 

Lichtenstein,  Ulrich  von         .....  300 

Lobo,  Francisco  Rodrignes 753 

Lodbrock,  Regner 51 

Loots «      .       .  402 

Lorenzo,  Juan,  de  Astorga 638 

Lorris,  Guillaume  de 433 

Luther,  Martin  239 

Lusan,  Ignacio  de 718 

Macedo,  Jos4  Agostlnho  de      .....  785 

Maldonado,  Lopes G92 

Manoel  do  Naacimento^ Franciaco  .       .       .  7SI 

Manrique,  Jorge 655 

Manuel,  Don  Juan 639 

Manzoni,  Alessandro 613 

Marguerite  de  Yalois,  Heine  de  NaTano  444 

Marie  de  France 421 

Marie  Stuart 452 

Marini,  GiambattlsU 662,773 

Marot,  C14raent 445 

Martial  de  Parla,  dit  IVAuTergne        ....  442 

Martines  de  la  Rosa,  Francisco       .       .       «       .  726 

Maireil,  Amaud  de 434 

Matos,  Joao  XsTier  do 758 

Matthisson,  Friedrich  Ton 3^7 

Medici,  Lorenzo  de* 639 

Melendes  Yaldea,  Joan 722 

Mena,  Juan  de 654 

Mendosa,  Diego  Hurtado  da 6G8 

Mensinl,  Benedetto 588 

Metastasio,  Pietro 693 

MiUoToye,  Charles-Hubert 481 

Miranda,  Franciaco  de  Saa  de V37 

MoIIAre,  Jean-Baptiata  Pocquelin  do        .       .       .  459 

Monteudon,  The  Monk  of 431 

Montemayor,  Jofge  de. 67^^ 

Monti,  Yincenzo 

Moratin,  Leandio  Fernandas    ..... 

Moratin,  Nicolas  Fernandas  da 71< 

Morung,  Heinrich  Ton 1' 

Moaen,  Julius 355' 

Mttller,  Wilhelm 348 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS. 


779 


Nmbock,  Valartm  WniMlm 327 

NiceoUni,  OloTaDnl  Batista   .       .       .       .       .       616 
NUbUi  Oottfriad  von 196 


Oeam,  Fnnctoco  da 
Oehl«»ch]lger,  Adam  Gottlob 


696 
91 


FkdiIlft,P«drod0 684 

FkdroD,  RodrigtMS  del 660 

Pftrioi,  Giaaeppa 699 

PeUico^SHrio 617 

Petrarca,  FnncaMo 624 

Pfeffel,  Gottllab  Oomad 266 

Pfinr.GuatoT 369 

PindemoDte,  Ippolito 610,  774 

Pisan,  Chrfatlna  da 438 

Platen-HaUannlli^,  AngoitfOnfToa       ...  349 

Poliziano,  Aogalo 541 

Poto,  Oaapar  Gil 677 

Prorenca,  La  Comtaaaa  da       .       .  '    .  431 

PulcijLulgl 636 


Quevado  y  Yillegaa,  Fianclaeo  da 
Qaita,  Domiogoa  doa  Rata    . 


704 
766 


Raciaa,  Jean 460 

Rahbak,  Kirad  Lyna 87 

Ramler,  Call  Wllhelm 261 

Raprechtawell,  Albracht  tou 199 

Redi,  Francaeco        .   ' 683 

Ribeiro  doe  Saatoe,  Antonio 764 

Ribera,  Juan  de 702 

Ribejro,  Bernardim 736 

Richard  OoBor-de-Lkm 437 

Rioja,  Fiancieco  de 707 

Riapach,  Helnricb  Ton     ......  100 

Rlraa,  Duqae  de,  Angal  de  Skaredim  ....  727 

Rofiera,  Pierre 429 

Ronaanl,  Pierre  da 446 

Rota,  Bernardino 666 

RothenberfTi  Rudolph  Ton 197 

Rooget-del'Iala,  Joaeph 4S1 

Rilckert,  Friedrieh 341 

Rudel,  Geoffipol 429 

Rniz,  Joan,  de  Hiu 640 

Soemund 37 

Salnt-Gelala,  Mellln  de 444 

Salia,  Johann  Gaadenz  Ton 3M 

Sancta  Clara,  Abraham  a Ml 

San  Jordi,  Moeaen  Jordi  de 638 

Sannazzaro,  Jacopo 644 

Santa  Tereaa  de  Arila 676 

Santillana,  Marquee  de,  Lope  de  Mendoza                 .  663 

Santob,  or  Santo,  Rabbi  Don 641 

Sbmwnto,  Joao  Erangellata  de  Moraea                       .  766 

SaTloli,  Laigi  Ylttorio 600 

Schiller,  Johann  Chrlatoph  Friedrieh  Ton    .       .    306,  767 

Schulze,  Emat  Conrad  Friedrieh     ....  339 

Semedo,  Belchlor  Manoel  Cunro         ....  764 

Seren,  Latolt  toq 201 

SgriccI,  Tommaao 618 

Silrestro,  Gregorio 677 

Simrock,  Kari                            366 

SjSgren,  Eric  (YitaliO 177 


Skaldaapiilar,  EjTind 63 

Smlta,Dirk 883 

Soiaaone,  Raoal,  Oomte  de 427 

Stagnellua,  Eric  Johan 173 

Stelnmar 197 

Stdberg,  Chrlatlan,  Graf  n 278 

Siolbeif,  Friedrieh  Leopold,  Giafn  ....  297 

Storm,  Edward 84 

SarTiUe,GlolUdede 441 

Sater,Ha]b 227 

Tanaillo,  Luigl 666 

TVurala,  Galaazio  dl 656 

IVwao,  Bernardo           668 

Taaao,  Torquato 668 

'nMonl,  Aleenndro 580 

Tula,  Amable 497 

Tflgn4r,  Esalaa 146 

Thaarup,  Thomas 86 

ThJbaad,  King  of  Naram 426 

Thoringlan,  The 200 

TIbaldeo,  Antonio 643 

Tieck,  Lndwig 333 

Tledge,  Chriatoph  Angnat    .       .       •  '     .       .       .303 

Tlmoneda,  Joan  de           .       .^      ....  692 

Toggenburg,  Coant  Kraft  of 197 

Tonena,  K. 3S6 

Tolomei,  Claudlo         . 567 

Tomlers 436 

Torree,  Domlngoe  Mazlmlano 764 

TuUin,  Chrlatian  Brauman 83 

UUand,  Johann  Lndwig 336 

Van  der  Goee,  Joannea  Antonldea    ....  801 

Varchi,  Benedetto 664 

Yaaeoncelloe,  Paulino  Gabral  de       ....  768 

Vega  Carpio,  Lope  Felix  do 696 

Vega,  Gaitilaao  de  la 668 

Yelaeco,  Franciaco  de 702 

Yentadoor,  Bernard  de 432 

Yicente,  Gil 736 

Yidal,  Pierre 436 

Yillegaa,  Antonio  de 683 

Yillegaa,  Est^van  Manuel  de 706 

Yillon,  Fran^ia  Corbueil,  dit     .       .     #.  .442 

Yiroioao,  Conde  do,  Franciaco  de  Portugal      .  736 

Ylaacher,  Maria  Teaeelachada 380 

Yogelwelde,  Walther  Ton  der 192 

Yoltalre,  Fran^ola-Marie  Arouet  de     .  .472 

Yondel,  Jooet  Tan  den 383 

Yoaa,  Johann  Heinrich        ', 300 

Wace,  Robert \.       .  414 

Weber,  Yelt 230 

Werner,  Friedrieh  Ludwig  Zachariaa       ...  328 

Weeterinen,  Jacob 387 

WieUnd,  Chriatoph  Martin 261 

Wincealaua,  King  of  Bohemia 201 

Withula 402 

WBrtzborg,  Conrad  Ton 198 

Yriarte,  Toraaa  de .721 

Zedlitz,  Joeeph  Chrlatian  TOQ 346 


THE    END. 


c.^ 


^ 


774 


APPENDIX. 


Of  Time,  with  which  she.vietb, 

Beautj  's  the  trophy  after; 
Irrevocablj  flieth 

The  aport,  the  joy,  the  laughter ;' 
The  cup,  from  which  she  quaffed  her 
Short  bliia,  leavea  naught  Chat  '•  lasting, 
But  aorrow  and  regret  lor  that  poor  moment's 
tasting. 


FugB  610. 

IPPOLITO   PINDEMONTE. 

NIGHT. 
NiOHT  dew-lipped  comes,  and  every  gleaming 
star 
Its  silent  place  assigns  in  yonder  sky  : 
The  moon  walks  forth,  and  fields  and  groves 
aftr. 
Touched  by  her  light,  in  silver  beauty  lie. 
In  solemn  peace,  that  no  sound  comes  to  mar, 

Hamlets  and  peopled  cities  slumber  nigh ; 
While  on  this  rock,  in  meditation's  mien. 
Lord  of  the  unconscious  world,  I  sit  unseen. 

How  deep  the  quiet  of  this  pensive  hour ! 

Nature  bids  labor  cease, — and  all  obey. 
How  sweet  this  stillness,  in  its  magic  power 

O'er  hearts  that  know  her  voice  and  own  her 
sway! 
Stillness  unbroken,  save  when  from  the  flower 

The  whirring  locust  takes  his  upward  way ; 
And  murmuring  o'er  the  verdant  turf  is  heard 
The  passing  brook, — or  leaf  by  breezes  stirred. 

Borne  on  the  pinions  of  Night's  freshening  air, 
Unfettered  thoughts  with  calm  reflection  come ; 

And  Fancy's  train,  that  shuns  the  daylight  glare. 
To  wake  when  midnight  shrouds  the  heavens 
in  gloom. 

New,  tranquil  joys,  and  hopes  untouched  by  care. 
Within  my  bosom  throng  to  seek  a  home ; 

While  flir  around  the  brooding  darkness  spreads, 

And  o'er  the  soul  its  pleasing  sadness  sheds. 


Ps«b618. 
NICC0L6  UGO  FOSCOLO. 

THE  SEFULCHEBSL 

BiHiATH  the  cypress  shade,  or  sculptured  urn 
By  fond  tears  watered,  is  the  sleep  of  death 
Leas  heavy  ?     When  for  me  the  sun  no  more 
Shall  shine  on  earth,  and  bless  with  genial  beams 
This  beauteous  race  of  beings  animate,  — 
When  bright  with  flattering  hues  the  future  hours 
No  longer  dance  before  me,  and  I  hear 
No  more  the  magic  of  thy  dulcet  verse. 
Nor  the  sad,  gentle  harmony  it  breathes,  — 
When  mute  within  my  breast  the  inspiring  vmee 
Of  youthful  Poesy,  and  Love,  sole  light 
To  this  my  wandering  life,  —  what  guerdon  then 
For  vanished  years  will  be  the  marble,  reared 


To  mark  my  dust  amid  the  countless  throng 
Wherewith  Death  widely  strews  the  land  and 
sea? 

And  thus  it  is !    Hope,  the  last  firiend  of  man. 
Flies  from  the  tomb,  and  dim  Foigetfiilnesa 
Wraps  in  its  ray  less  night  all  mortal  things. 
Change  after  change,  unfelt,  unheeded,  takes 
Its  tribute,— and  o'er  man,  bis  sepulchres. 
His  being's  lingering  traces,  and  the  relics 
Of  earth  and  heaven.  Time  in  mockery  treads. 

Tet  why  hath  man,  from  immemorial  years. 
Teamed  for  the  illusive  power  which  may  retain 
The  parted  spirit  on  life's  threshold  still  ? 
Doth  not  the  buried  live,  e'en  though  to  him 
The  day's  enchanted  melody  u  mule. 
If  yet  fond  thoughts  and  tender  memories 
He  wake  in  friendly  breasts  ?  O,  't  is  from  heaven. 
This  sweet  communion  of  abiding  love ! 
A  boon  celestial !     By  its  charm  we  hold 
Full  oft  a  solemn  converse  with  the  dead ; 
If  yet  the  pious  earth,  which  nourished  onoe 
Their  ripening  youth,  in  her  maternal  breast 
Yielding  a  last  asylum,  shall  protect 
Their  sacred  relics  from  insulting  storms. 
Or  step  profane,  —  if  some  secluded  stone 
Preserve  their  name,  and  flowery  verdure  wave 
Its  firagrant  shade  above  their  honored  dust. 

But  he  who  leaves  no  heritage  of  love 

Is  heedless  of  an  urn ;  — and  if  he  look 

Beyond  the  grave,  his  spirit  wanders  lost 

Among  the  wailings  of  infernal  shores ; 

Or  hides  its  guilt  beneath  the  sheltering  wings 

Of  God's  forgiving  mercy ;  while  his  bones 

Moulder  unrecked-of  on  the  desert  sand. 

Where  never  loving  woman  pours  her  prayer. 

Nor  solitary  pilgrim  hears  the  sigh 

Which  mourning  Nature  sends  us  from  the  tomb. 

New  laws  now  banish  from  our  yearning  _ 
The  hallowed  sepulchres,  and  envious  strip 
Their  honors  from  the  dead.     Without  a  tomb 
Thy  votary  sleeps,  Thalia !  he  who  song 
To  thee  beneath  his  humble  roof,  and  reared 
His  bays  to  weave  a  coronal  for  thee. 
And  thou  didst  wreath  with  gracious  smiles  kia 

lay. 
Which  stung  the  Sardanapalus  of  oor  land,' 
Whose  grovelling  soul  loved  but  to  hear  tbe 

lowing 
Of  cattle  pasturing  in  Ticino's  fields. 
His  source  of  boasted  wealth.  O  Muse  inspired! 
Where  art  thou  f    No  ambrosial  air  I  breathe. 
Betokening  thy  blest  presence,  in  these  bowen 
Where  now  I  sigh  for  home.    Here  wert  tboa 

wont 
To  smile  on  him  beneath  yon  linden^tree. 
That  now  with  scattered  foliage  seems  to  weep. 
Because  it  droops  not  o'er  the  old  man's  am. 
Who  onoe  sought  peace  beneath  its  cooling  shade. 
Perchance  thou.   Goddess,  wandering  among 

graves 

1  The  Prince  BelglojoKS  seTcralj  aaUriaad  in  Farial** 
poem  of  "TiM  Day." 


< 


APPENDIX. 


775 


Unhonored,  vainly  eeek'st  the  spot  where  rests 
Parini'fl  sacred  head  !     The  city  now 
To  him  DO  space  aifords  within  her  walls. 
Nor  monument,  nor  votiTe  line.     His  bonea, 
Perchance,  lie  sallied  with  some  felon's  blood, 
Fresh  from  the  scaffold  that  bis  crimes  deaeired. 
Seest  thou  the  lone  wild  dog,  among  the  tombs, 
Howling  with  Amine,  roam, — raking  the  dast 
From  mouldering  bones?  while  from  the  akull, 

through  which 
The  moonlight  streams,  the  noisy  lapwing  flies, 
And  flaps  his  hateful  wings  above  the  field 
Spread  with  funereal  crosses, — screaming  shrill, 
As  if  to  curse  the  light  the  holy  stars 
Shed  on  neglected  burial-grounds  ?     In  vain 
Dost  thou  invoke  upon-  thy  poet's  dust 
The  sweet-distilling  dews  of  silent  night: 
There  spring  no  flowers  on  graves  by  human 

ptaise 
Or  tears  of  love  unhallowed ! 

From  the  days 
When  first  the  nuptial  feast  and  judgment-seat 
And  altar  softened  our  untutored  race. 
And  taught  to  man  his  own  and  others'  good. 
The  living  treasured  from  the  bleaching  storm 
And  savage  brute  those  sad  and  poor  remains, 
By  Nature  destined  for  a  lofty  fate. 
Then  tombs  became  the  witnesses  of  pride, 
And  altars  for  the  young: — thence  gods  invoked 
Uttered  their  solemn  answers ;  and  the  oath 
Sworn  on  the  father's  dust  was  thrice  revered. 
Hence 'the  devo\jon,  which,  with  various  rites, 
The  warmth  of  patriot  virtue,  kindred  love. 
Transmits  us  through  the  countless  lapse  of  years. 

Not  in  those  times  did  stones  sepulchral  pave 
The    temple-floors, — nor  fumes  of  shrouded 

corpses, 
Mixed  with  the  altar's  incense,  smite  with  f^ar 
The  suppliant  worshipper,  —  nor  cities  frown, 
Ghastly   with    sculptured    skeletons,  —  while 

leaped 
Toong  mothers  from  their  sleep  in  wild  affright. 
Shielding  their  helpless  babes  with  feeble  arm. 
And  listening  for  the  groans  of  wandering  ghosts. 
Imploring  vainly  from  their  impious  heirs 
Their  gold-bought  masses.    But  in  living  green. 
Cypress  and  stately  cedar  spread  their  shade 
O'er  unfbrgotten  graves,  scattering  in  air 
Their  grateful  odors ;  —  vases  rich  received 
The  mourners'  votive  tears.    There  pious  firiends 
Enticed  the  day's  pure  beam  to  gild  the  gloom 
Of  monuments ; — for  man  his  dying  eye 
Turns  ever  to  the  sun,  and  every  breast 
Heaves  its  last  sigh  toward  the  departing  light. 
There  fountains  flung  alofl  their  silvery  spray, 
Watering  sweet  amaranths  and  violets 
Upon  the  funeral  sod ;  and  he  who  came 
To  commune  with  the  dead  breathed  fragrance 

round, 
Like  bland  airs  wafted  from  Elysian  fields. 
Sublime  end  fond  illusion !  this  endears 
The  rural  burial-place  to  British  maids. 
Who  wander  there  to  mourn  a  mother  lost,  •— 
Or  supplicate  the  hero's  safe  return, 


Who  of  its  mast  the  hostile  ship  despoiled. 
To  scoop  from  thence  his  own  triumphal  bier.  * 

Where  slumbers  the  high  thirst  of  glorious  deeds. 
And  wealth  and  fear  are  ministers  to  life, 
Unhallowed  images  of  things  unseen. 
And  idle  pomp,  usurp  the  place  of  groves 
And  mounds.    The  rich,  the  learned,  the  vulgar 

great, 
Italia's  pride  and  ornament,  may  boast 
Enduring  tombs  in  costly  palaces. 
With  their  sole  praise  —  ancestral  names — in- 
scribed. 
For  us,  my  friends,  be  quiet  couch  prepared. 
Where  Fate  for  once  may  weary  of  his  storms, 
And  Friendship  gather  from  our  urn  no  treasura 
Of  sordid  gold,  but  wealth  of  feeling  warm, 
And  models  of  firee  song. 

Tes,  Pindemonte ! 
The  aspiring  soul  is  fired  to  lofty  deeds 
By  great  men's  monuments,— and  they  make  fair 
And  holy  to  the  pilgrim's  eye  the  earth 
That  has  received  their  trust.     When  I  beheld 
The  spot  where  sleeps  enshrined  that  noble 

genius,  < 
Who,  humbling  the  proud  sceptres  of  earth's 

kings. 
Stripped  thence  the  illusive  wreaths,  and  showed 

the  nations 
What  tears  and  blood  defiled  them, — when  I 

saw 
His  mausoleum,  who  uprearad  in  Rome^ 
A  new  Olympus  to  the  Deity, — 
And  his,*  who  'neath  heaven's  azure  canopy 
Saw  worlds  unnumbered  roll,  and  suns  unmoved 
Irradiate  countless  systems,  — treading  first 
For  Albion's  son,  who  soared  on  wings  sublime. 
The  shining  pathways  of  the  firmament,  — 
^  O,  blest  art  thou,  Etruria's  Queen,"  I  cried, 
**  For  thy  pure  airs,  so  redolent  of  life, 
And  the  fresh  streams  thy  mountain  summits 

pour 
In  homage  at  thy  feet !     In  thy  blue  sky 
The  glad  moon  walks,  —  and  robes  with  silver 

light 
Thy  vintage-smiling  hills ;  and  valleys  fiiir. 
Studded  with  domes  and  olive-groves,  send  up 
To  heaven  the  incense  of  a  thousand  flowers. 
Thou,  Florence,  first  didst  hear  the  song  divine 
That  cheered  the  Ghibelline's  *  indignant  flight. 
And  thou  the  kindred  and  tfweet  language  gav'st^ 
To  him,  the  chosen  of  Calliope,  ^ 
Who  Love  with  purest  veil  adorning, —  Love, 
Th&t  went  unrobed  in  elder  Greece  and  Ilome,-^ 
Restored  him  to  a  heavenly  Venus'  lap. 
Tet  far  more  blest,  that  in  thy  fane  repose 
Italia's  buried  glories !  —  all,  perchance. 
She  e'er  may  boast !     Since  o'er  the  barrier  frail 
Of  Alpine  rocks  the  overwhelming  tide  of  Fate 


s  Netoon  carried  with  him,  some  time  before  his  death,  a 
ooflin  made  fiom  the  maiomest  of  the  Onent,— that,  when 
he  had  finished  his  military  career  Id  this  world,  he  might 
be  baried  in  one  of  his  trophies. 

9  Niccold  MachiaveUL         »  Galileo.  7  Fetraich. 

4  Michel  Angelo.  •  Dante.