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diff --git a/12510-h/12510-h.htm b/12510-h/12510-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3f44cb1 --- /dev/null +++ b/12510-h/12510-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2569 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Targum</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; /* all headings aligned centered */ + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Targum, by George Borrow</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Targum, by George Borrow + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Targum + +Author: George Borrow + +Release Date: June 3, 2004 [eBook #12510] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TARGUM*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<h2>TARGUM.<br /> +Or Metrical Translations From Thirty Languages And Dialects.<br /> +By George Borrow.</h2> +<blockquote><p>“The raven has ascended to the nest of the nightingale.”<br /> +Persian Poem</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The following pieces, selections from a huge and undigested mass +of translation, accumulated during several years devoted to philological +pursuits, are with much diffidence offered to the public, the writer +being fully aware that not unfrequently he has failed in giving his +version that cast and turn, which constitute no slight part of the beauty +of the original; a point the accomplishment of which the poetical Translator +ought, in all instances, to bear particularly in view, but which he +will invariably find the most difficult part of the task which he has +undertaken; in comparison with which the rendering of the diction of +his Author into tolerable verse is an easy achievement. Perhaps +no person, amongst the many individuals who have distinguished themselves +by skill in the targumannic art, has more successfully surmounted this +difficulty than Fairfax, the Translator into English “octave rhyme” +of “The Jerusalem,” the master-piece of the greatest poet +of modern Italy and, with one exception, of modern time.</p> +<p>That the character of a nation is best distinguishable by the general +tone of its poetry, has been frequently remarked, and is a truth which +does not admit of controversy; the soft songs of the Persian, and the +bold and warlike ditties of the Dane are emblems of the effeminacy of +the one, and the reckless heroism of the other.—In most instances +the writer in the selection of pieces for this little work has been +guided by a desire of exhibiting what is most characteristic of the +people to whose literature it belongs. At the same time, he has +been careful that this desire should not lead him to the countenancing +of any thing which could be considered as pregnant with injury to good +taste and morals, and has in consequence been compelled to exclude from +his anthology many a glorious flower, which he would gladly have woven +therein, had he not been apprehensive that it was the offspring of a +poisonous bulb. He cannot refrain from lamenting that in his literary +researches he has too often found amongst the writings of those, most +illustrious for their genius and imagination, the least of that which +is calculated to meet the approbation of the Christian, or even of the +mere Moralist; and in conclusion he will take the liberty of addressing +to those who may feel within them the stirrings of a mind capable of +mighty things, the sublime words, slightly modified, of an Arabian sage +and poet: O man, though the years of thy worldly fame are destined to +be equal in number to the doves of the heaven, they shall nevertheless +have an end, but whatever thou shalt do or say, which is founded on +the love of wisdom and of God, shall endure for ever.</p> +<p>Saint Petersburg. June 1, 1835.</p> +<h2>ODE TO GOD.</h2> +<p><i>From the Hebrew.</i></p> +<p>Reign’d the Universe’s Master ere were earthly things +begun;<br /> +When His mandate all created, Ruler was the name He won,<br /> +And alone He’ll rule tremendous when all things are past and gone;<br /> +He no equal has nor consort, He the singular and lone<br /> +Has no end and no beginning, His the sceptre, might, and throne;<br /> +He’s my God and living Saviour, rock to which in need I run;<br /> +He’s my banner and my refuge, fount of weal when call’d +upon;<br /> +In His hand I place my spirit at night-fall and rise of sun,<br /> +And therewith my body also; God’s my God—I fear no one.</p> +<h2>PRAYER.</h2> +<p><i>From the Arabic.</i></p> +<p>O Thou who dost know what the heart fain would hide;<br /> +Who ever art ready whate’er may betide;<br /> +In whom the distressed can hope in their woe;<br /> +Whose ears with the groans of the wretched are plied—<br /> +Still bid Thy good gifts from Thy treasury flow;<br /> +All good is assembled where Thou dost abide;<br /> +To Thee, save my poverty, nought can I show,<br /> +And of Thee all my poverty’s wants are supplied;<br /> +What choice have I save to Thy portal to go?<br /> +If ’tis shut, to what other my steps can I guide?<br /> +’Fore whom as a suppliant low shall I bow,<br /> +If Thy bounty to me, Thy poor slave, is denied?<br /> +But oh: though rebellious full often I grow<br /> +Thy bounty and kindness are not the less wide.</p> +<h2>DEATH.</h2> +<p><i>From the Arabic.</i></p> +<p>Grim Death in his shroud swatheth mortals each hour,<br /> +Yet little we reck of what’s hanging us o’er;<br /> +O would on the world that ye laid not such stress,<br /> +That its baubles ye lov’d not, so gaudy and poor;<br /> +O where are the friends we were wont to caress,<br /> +And where are the lov’d ones who dwelt on our floor?<br /> +They have drank of the goblet of death’s bitterness,<br /> +And have gone to the deep, to return never more;<br /> +Their mansions bewail them in tears and distress;<br /> +Yet has paradise lovelier mansions in store;<br /> +Of the worth of the plume the dove strips from its dress<br /> +Were their views, save in memory heaven they bore.</p> +<h2>STANZAS.</h2> +<p><i>From the Arabic.</i></p> +<h3>On a Fountain.</h3> +<p>In the fount fell my tears, like rain,<br /> +And straight defil’d became its flood;<br /> +How should it undefil’d remain,<br /> +All purpled o’er with human blood?</p> +<h3>The Pursued.</h3> +<p>How wretched roams the weary wight,<br /> +Who rage of keen pursuers fears;<br /> +The whole earth’s surface in his sight<br /> +A hunter’s treacherous net appears.</p> +<h2>ODES.</h2> +<p><i>From the Persian.</i></p> +<h3>1.</h3> +<p>Boy, hand my friends the cup, ’tis time of roses now;<br /> +Midst roses let us break each penitential vow;<br /> +With shout and antic bound we’ll in the garden stray;<br /> +When nightingales are heard, we’ll rove where roses blow;<br /> +Here in this open spot fill, fill, and quaff away;<br /> +Midst roses here we stand a troop with hearts that glow;<br /> +The rose our long-miss’d friend retains in full array;<br /> +No fairer pearls than friends and cups the roses know;<br /> +Poor Hafiz loves the rose, and down his soul would lay,<br /> +With joy, to win the dust its guardian’s foot below.</p> +<h3>2.</h3> +<p>If shedding lovers’ blood thou deem’st a matter slight,<br /> +No goodness I can plead to scare thee and affright,<br /> +O Thou, in whose black locks night’s Genius stands confest,<br /> +Whose maiden cheek displays the morning’s Master bright.<br /> +My eyes to fountains turn, down pouring on my breast,<br /> +I sink amid their waves, to swim I have no might.<br /> +O ruby lip, by thee life’s water is possest,<br /> +Thou couldst awake the dead to vigour and delight;<br /> +There’s no salvation from the tresses which invest<br /> +Those temples, nor from eyes swift-flashing left and right.<br /> +Devotion, piety I plead not to arrest<br /> +My doom, no goodness crowns the passion-madden’d wight;<br /> +Thy prayer unmeaning cease, with which thou weariest,<br /> +O Hafiz, the most High at morning and at night.</p> +<h3>3.</h3> +<p>O Thou, whose equal mind knows no vexation,<br /> +Who holding love in deep abomination,<br /> +On love’s divan to loiter wilt not deign,<br /> +Thy wit doth merit every commendation.<br /> +Love’s visions never will disturb his brain,<br /> +Who drinketh of the vine the sweet oblation;<br /> +And know, thou passion-smit, pale visag’d swain,<br /> +There’s medicine to work thy restoration;<br /> +Ever in memory the receipt retain—<br /> +’Tis quaffing wine-cups to intoxication.</p> +<h2>STANZAS.</h2> +<p><i>From the Turkish of Fezouli.</i></p> +<p>O Fezouli, the hour is near,<br /> +Which bids thee from this world depart,<br /> +And leave—what now thou hold’st so dear—<br /> +The loves of thy too ardent heart.</p> +<p>Yet till that fated hour arrive,<br /> +Be thy emprises, every one,<br /> +If thou wouldst fain behold them thrive,<br /> +In God’s Almighty name begun.</p> +<h2>DESCRIPTION OF PARADISE.</h2> +<p><i>From the Turkish.<br /> +</i>(Translated from the metrical History of the World.)</p> +<p>Eight Gennets <a name="citation8"></a><a href="#footnote8">{8}</a> +there be, as some relate,<br /> +Or one subdivided, as others state;<br /> +The first Dar al Galal, the next is Salem,<br /> +And Gennet Amawi stands next to them;<br /> +Then Kholud and Nayim and Gennet Ferdous—<br /> +And that last as most lovely is pictur’d to us;<br /> +A seventh there is, Dar al Karar the same,<br /> +And an eighth there is also, and Ad is its name.<br /> +God made Dar al Galal of white pearls fair,<br /> +Then of rubies Al Salem, so red in their glare;<br /> +He made Gennet Kholud so splendid to stand<br /> +Of bright yellow corals, so smooth to the hand;<br /> +Then blest Gennet Nayim of silver ore—<br /> +Behold ye its strength, and its Maker adore.<br /> +Gold bricks He employ’d when He built Ferdous,<br /> +And of living sapphires Al Karar rose.<br /> +He made the eighth Gennet of jewels all,<br /> +With arbours replete ’tis a diamond hall.<br /> +Broad and vast is paradise-peak—<br /> +The lowest foundation is not weak.<br /> +One over the other the stories are pil’d:<br /> +The loftiest story Ad is styl’d.<br /> +From above or below if you cast your eyes,<br /> +You can see the Gennets in order rise.<br /> +You ask, for whom are those mansions gay;<br /> +For the prophets of God, for his lov’d, I say.</p> +<p>Seven walls are plac’d, which to open are meant,<br /> +Far betwixt them is the extent;<br /> +Betwixt two walls the whole doth stand,<br /> +Walls uncrumbling, mighty and grand.<br /> +Within are bowers, cedar-woods dusk,<br /> +Houries and odours of amber and musk;<br /> +Eight are the gates for the eight estates,<br /> +Jewel-beset, gold-beaming gates;<br /> +Upon the first inscrib’d you see:<br /> +For those who repent this gate is free.<br /> +On the second: for those who up-offer pray’r;<br /> +On the third: for the sons of charity fair.<br /> +On the fourth this solemn inscription stands:<br /> +For those who fulfil the Lord’s commands.<br /> +In painted letters the fifth doth say:<br /> +For those who for pilgrimage gold up-lay.<br /> +The sixth fair portal thus proclaims:<br /> +For ye who inhibit from sin your frames;<br /> +The seventh: for God’s own warrior train,<br /> +Who bleed for his cause, nor flinch from pain.<br /> +’Tis written in white the eighth above:<br /> +For those who instruct for Allah’s love <a name="citation10"></a><a href="#footnote10">{10}</a>.<br /> +For ye who serve God with heart and eye,<br /> +Control your passions when swelling high,<br /> +Your parents cherish and all your race,<br /> +For ye are the halls of joy and grace;<br /> +For the prophets of God are they decreed,<br /> +Who His law in the sacred volumes read.</p> +<h2>O LORD! I NOTHING CRAVE BUT THEE.</h2> +<p><i>From the Tartar.</i></p> +<p>O thou, from whom all love doth flow,<br /> +Whom all the world doth reverence so,<br /> +Thou constitut’st each care I know;<br /> + O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.</p> +<p>O keep me from each sinful way;<br /> +Thou breathedst life within my clay,<br /> +I’ll therefore serve Thee, night and day;<br /> + O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.</p> +<p>I ope my eyes and see Thy face,<br /> +On Thee my musings all I place,<br /> +I’ve left my parents, friends and race;<br /> + O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.</p> +<p>Take Thou my soul, my every thing,<br /> +My blood from out its vessels wring,<br /> +Thy slave am I, and Thou my King;<br /> + O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.</p> +<p>I speak—my tongue on Thee doth roam;<br /> +I list—the winds Thy title boom;<br /> +For in my soul has God His home;<br /> + O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.</p> +<p>The world the shallow worldling craves,<br /> +And greatness need ambitious knaves,<br /> +The lover of his maiden raves;<br /> + O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.</p> +<p>The student needs his bookish lore,<br /> +The bigot shrines, to pray before,<br /> +His pulpit needs the orator;<br /> + O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.</p> +<p>Though all the learning ’neath the skies,<br /> +And th’ houries all of paradise,<br /> +The Lord should place before my eyes,<br /> + O Lord! I’d nothing crave but Thee.</p> +<p>When I through paradise shall stray,<br /> +Its houries and delights survey,<br /> +Full little gust awake will they,<br /> + O Lord! I’ll nothing crave but Thee.</p> +<p>For Hadgee Ahmed is my name,<br /> +My heart with love of God doth flame,<br /> +Here and above I’ll bide the same;<br /> + O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.</p> +<h2>MYSTICAL POEM.</h2> +<p>Relating to the worship of the Great Foutsa or Buddh.<br /> +<i>From the Tibetian.</i></p> +<p>Should I Foutsa’s force and glory,<br /> +Earth’s protector, all unfold,<br /> +Through more years would last my story<br /> +Than has Ganges sands of gold.<br /> +Him the fitting reverence showing<br /> +For a minute’s period e’en,<br /> +Bringeth blessing overflowing<br /> +Unto heaven and man, I ween.<br /> +If from race of man descended,<br /> +Or from that of dragon-sprite,<br /> +When thy prior course <a name="citation13"></a><a href="#footnote13">{13}</a> +is ended,<br /> +Thou in evil paths shouldst light,—<br /> +If Great Foutsa ever, ever<br /> +Thou but seek with mind sincere,<br /> +Thou the mists of sin shalt sever,<br /> +All shall lie before thee clear.<br /> +Whosoe’er his parents losing<br /> +From his early infancy,<br /> +Cannot guess with all his musing,<br /> +Where their place of birth might be;<br /> +He who sister dear nor brother,<br /> +Since the sun upon him shone,<br /> +And of kindred all the other<br /> +Shoots and branches ne’er has known—<br /> +If of Foutsa Grand the figure<br /> +He shall shape and colour o’er,<br /> +Gaze upon it rapt and eager,<br /> +And with fitting rites adore,<br /> +And through twenty days shall utter<br /> +The dread name with reverend fear,<br /> +Foutsa huge of form shall flutter<br /> +Round about him and appear,<br /> +And to him the spot discover,<br /> +Birth-place of his flesh and bone <a name="citation14"></a><a href="#footnote14">{14}</a>;<br /> +And though evils whelm them over,<br /> +For his sake release them soon;<br /> +If that man unchang’d still keeping<br /> +From back-sliding shall refrain,<br /> +He, by Foutsa touch’d when sleeping,<br /> +Shall Biwangarit’s title gain;<br /> +If to Bouddi’s elevation,<br /> +He would win, and from the three<br /> +Confines dark of tribulation<br /> +Soar to light and liberty—<br /> +When a heart with kindness glowing<br /> +He within him shall descry,<br /> +To Grand Foutsa’s image going,<br /> +Let him gaze attentively:<br /> +Soon his every wish acquiring<br /> +He shall triumph glad and fain,<br /> +And the shades of sin retiring<br /> +Never more his soul restrain.<br /> +Whosoever bent on speeding<br /> +To that distant shore, the home<br /> +Of the wise, shall take to reading<br /> +The all-wondrous Soudra tome;<br /> +If that study deep beginning,<br /> +No fit preparation made,<br /> +Scanty shall he find his winning,<br /> +Straight forgetting what he’s read:<br /> +Whilst he in the dark subjection<br /> +Shall of shadowing sin remain,<br /> +Soudra’s page of full perfection<br /> +How shall he in mind retain?<br /> +Unto him the earth who blesses,<br /> +Unto Foutsa, therefore he<br /> +Drink and incense, food and dresses<br /> +Should up-offer plenteously;<br /> +And the fountain’s limpid liquor<br /> +Pour Grand Foutsa’s face before,<br /> +Drain himself a cooling beaker<br /> +When a day and night are o’er;<br /> +Tune his heart to high devotion:<br /> +The five evil things eschew,<br /> +Lust and flesh and vinous potion,<br /> +And the words which are not true;<br /> +Living thing abstain from killing<br /> +For full twenty days and one,<br /> +And meanwhile with accents thrilling<br /> +Mighty Foutsa call upon—<br /> +Then of infinite dimension<br /> +Foutsa’s form in dreams he’ll see,<br /> +And if he with fixt attention,<br /> +When his sleep dissolv’d shall be,<br /> +Shall but list to Soudra’s volume,<br /> +He, through thousand ages flight,<br /> +Shall of Soudra’s doctrine solemn;<br /> +Ne’er forget one portion slight<br /> +Yes, a soul so richly gifted<br /> +Every child of man can find,<br /> +If to mighty Foutsa lifted<br /> +He but keep his heart and mind.<br /> +He who goods and cattle lacking<br /> +Is to fell disease a prey,<br /> +In whose household bones are cracking,<br /> +Cuts occurring every day,<br /> +Who though slumbering never resteth<br /> +From excess of bitter pain,<br /> +And what he in prayer requesteth<br /> +Never, never can obtain,—<br /> +To earth-favouring Foutsa’s figure<br /> +If but reverence he shall pay<br /> +Dire misfortune’s dreadful rigour<br /> +Flits for ever and for aye;<br /> +In his sleep no ills distress him,<br /> +And of nought he knows the want;<br /> +Cattle, corn and riches bless him,<br /> +Which the favouring demons grant.<br /> +Those, who sombre forests threading,<br /> +Those, who sailing ocean’s plain,<br /> +Fain would wend their way undreading<br /> +Evil poisons, beasts and men,<br /> +Evil spirits, demons, javals <a name="citation17"></a><a href="#footnote17">{17}</a>,<br /> +And the force of evil winds,<br /> +And each ill, which he who travels<br /> +In his course so frequent finds—<br /> +Let them only take their station<br /> +’Fore the form of Foutsa Grand,<br /> +On it gaze with adoration,<br /> +Sacrifice with reverent hand—<br /> +And within the forest gloomy,<br /> +On the mountain or the vale,<br /> +On the ocean wide and roomy<br /> +Them no evil shall assail.<br /> +Thou, who every secret knowest,<br /> +Foutsa, hear my heart-felt pray’r;<br /> +Thou, who earth such favour showest,<br /> +How shall I thy praise declare?<br /> +Through ten million calaps <a name="citation18"></a><a href="#footnote18">{18}</a> +hoary<br /> +If with cataract’s voice I roar,<br /> +Yet of Foutsa’s force and glory<br /> +I may not the sum out-pour<br /> +Whosoe’er the title learning<br /> +Of the earth’s protector high,<br /> +Shall, whene’er his form discerning,<br /> +On it gaze with steadfast eye,<br /> +And at times shall offer dresses,<br /> +Offer fitting drink and food.<br /> +He ten thousand joys possesses,<br /> +And escapes each trouble rude.<br /> +Whoso into deed shall carry<br /> +Of the law each precept, he<br /> +Through all time alive shall tarry,<br /> +And from birth and death be free.<br /> +Foutsa, thou, who best of any<br /> +Know’st the truth of what I’ve told,<br /> +Spread the tale through regions, many<br /> +As the Ganges’ sands of gold.</p> +<h2>MORAL METAPHORS.</h2> +<p><i>From the Chinese.</i></p> +<h3>1.</h3> +<p>From out the South the genial breezes sigh,<br /> +They shake the bramble branches to and fro,<br /> +Whose lovely green delights the gazer’s eye—<br /> +A mother’s thoughts are troubled even so.</p> +<p>From out the South the genial breezes move,<br /> +They shake the branches of the bramble-tree;<br /> +Unless the sons fair men and honest prove,<br /> +The virtuous mother will dishonor’d be.</p> +<p>The frigid fount with violence and spray<br /> +By Shiyoun’s town upcasts its watery store;<br /> +Though full seven sons she give to life and day<br /> +The mother’s heart is but disturb’d the more.</p> +<p>When sings the redbreast it is bliss to hear<br /> +The dulcet notes the little songster breeds;<br /> +But ah, more blissful to a mother’s ear<br /> +The fair report of seven good children’s deeds.</p> +<h3>2.</h3> +<p>Survey, survey Gi Shoi’s murmuring flood!<br /> +How its bamboos with living green are gay;<br /> +Survey the great, illustrious and good—<br /> +How sculptur’d, polish’d and refin’d are they!<br /> +What elegance and majesty they bear!<br /> +What witchery lurketh in their voice and eyes;<br /> +View them but once, and whilst thou breath’st the air<br /> +Thou’lt ne’er forget the great, the good and wise.</p> +<p>Survey, survey Gi Shoi’s murmuring flood!<br /> +How its bamboos uptower in green array;<br /> +The bonnets of the great, the wise and good<br /> +At either ear an agate gem display;<br /> +Bright as a star the crownlet of their hair—<br /> +What witchery lurketh in their voice and eyes;<br /> +Survey them once, and whilst thou breath’st the air<br /> +Thou’lt ne’er forget the great, the good and wise.</p> +<p>Survey, survey Gi Shoi’s murmuring flood!<br /> +Like to the green bamboos upon it’s shore<br /> +Are the illustrious, the great and good—<br /> +More pure than gold, more soft than stannine ore;<br /> +The round imperial agate’s not more sheen;<br /> +Ever magnanimous and constant found,<br /> +On glory’s car they sit with placid mien,<br /> +And smile benign where jocund sports abound.</p> +<h2>THE MOUNTAIN-CHASE.</h2> +<p><i>From the Mandchou or Chinese Tartar.<br /> +</i>(An extract from the “Description of Moukden” by the +Emperor Kian Loung.)</p> +<p>Autumn has fled and winter left our bounds;<br /> +Now for the chase amongst the mountain grounds,<br /> +Our troops their implements and arms prepare.<br /> +Like colour’d rainbow see our banners glare;<br /> +While paler far and like the waning bow,<br /> +Rustle the standards in the winds that blow;<br /> +Piercing the mists, above our heads that lower,<br /> +Aloft behold our stately Toron <a name="citation21"></a><a href="#footnote21">{21}</a> +tower,<br /> +Flapping the skies with its embroider’d rim.<br /> +Away we journey, hale in mind and limb;<br /> +Our cars of state are creaking in the rear,<br /> +Whilst in the front the active guides appear.</p> +<p>And now our children mount their colts of speed,<br /> +Their sculptur’d cars full little here they need;<br /> +From the right side they take the arrow keen,<br /> +Ne’er to its quiver to return, I ween;<br /> +The bow, the left side’s fitting ornament<i>;<br /> +</i>The bow, the tough and pliant bow is bent;<br /> +It yields a sound, like thunder from afar,<br /> +While flies the arrow, like a streaming star.</p> +<p>None now expects a tale of fabled might;<br /> +Wang Liyang’s <a name="citation22"></a><a href="#footnote22">{22}</a> +bridle will no more delight;<br /> +Nor how his chariot Siyan Ou did guide;<br /> +Nor how, incas’d in hauberk’s steely pride,<br /> +His hundred myriads, at the cymbals’ sound,<br /> +The falcon launch’d, or slipp’d the eager hound;<br /> +Or giving rein to every fiery steed<br /> +No more precipitous Tai Shan would heed,<br /> +Than stair which leadeth to some upper bower;<br /> +Or swarming down tumultuous to the shore,<br /> +Chain’d the sea-waters with the nets they cast—<br /> +For such wild miracles the time is past.</p> +<p>Numerous and brilliant spreads our hunting train,<br /> +Stilly or noisily the aim is ta’en,<br /> +Forth the shaft speedeth all athirst for blood,<br /> +Whilst the string rattleth sharp against the wood;<br /> +The stags we scatter, in the plain which browse,<br /> +Or from his cavern the rough boar uprouse;<i><br /> +</i>We scare the bokoin to the highest steeps,<br /> +Hunt down the hare, along the plain which leaps.<br /> +But though we slaughter, nor the work resign<br /> +When stiff and wearied are each hand and spine,<br /> +On field and mountain still the beasts are spied<br /> +Plenteous as grasses in the summer tide;<br /> +As at three points the fierce attack I ply,<br /> +Seeing what numbers still remain to die,<br /> +Captains, pick’d captains I with speed despatch,<br /> +Who by the tail the spotted leopard catch,<br /> +Crash to the brain the furious tiger’s head,<br /> +Grapple the bear so powerful and dread,<br /> +The ancient sow, the desert’s haunter, slay—<br /> +Whilst with applause their prowess we survey.</p> +<p>When thus fresh meat they have obtain’d with glee,<br /> +The largest beasts the hunters bear to me,<br /> +From which we separate and cast aside<br /> +Whatever beast by frontal wound has died;<br /> +To those the preference we at once decree,<br /> +In whose left side the fatal mark we see,<br /> +Those to be offer’d to our fathers’ manes,<br /> +Within their high and consecrated fanes,<br /> +To dry and cure in wooden trays are laid,<br /> +Till bak’d or roast the offering is made.<br /> +Our guests they dine on the rejected prey,<br /> +And what they leave is safely stor’d away;<br /> +The gross amount of what is slain and shot<br /> +Falls to the carmen and the rabble’s lot.</p> +<h2>THE GLORY OF THE COSSACKS.</h2> +<p>An Ode.<br /> +<i>From the Russian of Boris Fedorow.</i></p> +<p>Quiet Don!<br /> +Azure Don!<br /> +Who dost glide<br /> +Deep and wide,<br /> +To the proud<br /> +Cossack crowd<br /> +Drink which cheers,<br /> +Path which bears.</p> +<p>Quiet Don!<br /> +Azure Don!<br /> +Glory be<br /> +To thy sons,<br /> +Cossacks free<br /> +Warrior ones;<br /> +The world mute<br /> +Of their deeds<br /> +Hears the bruit—<br /> +Wide it speeds.</p> +<p>Light, I wot,<br /> +Hands they’ve not;<br /> +Down they fly<br /> +Thundringly,<br /> +Foes to crush,<br /> +E’en as rush<br /> +Down midst rocks<br /> +Eagle flocks.</p> +<p>Silent Don!<br /> +Azure Don!<br /> +Praise to their<br /> +Deeds so fair;<br /> +Fain our bright<br /> +Czar requite<br /> +Would each one,<br /> +Knew it might<br /> +Scarce be done—<br /> +Gave his son.</p> +<p>Silent Don!<br /> +Azure Don!<br /> +Sport and play,<br /> +Shine forth gay;<br /> +Gift most rare—<br /> +Alexander,<br /> +Russia’s heir,<br /> +To thy clan<br /> +Given is for<br /> +Attaman.</p> +<p>Joys now every Cossack man,<br /> +Joys the Black sea’s every stan <a name="citation26"></a><a href="#footnote26">{26}</a><br /> + And Ural<br /> + Flings its spray,<br /> + Roars withal<br /> + Night and day—<br /> +Joy to Cossacks—joy and glee<br /> +To each hero-regiment be:<br /> + Given is an<br /> + Attaman.</p> +<h2>THE BLACK SHAWL.</h2> +<p><i>From the Russian of Pushkin.</i></p> +<p>On the shawl, the black shawl with distraction I gaze,<br /> +And on my poor spirit keen agony preys.</p> +<p>When easy of faith, young and ardent was I,<br /> +I lov’d a fair Grecian with love the most high.</p> +<p>The damsel deceitful she flatter’d my flame,<br /> +But soon a dark cloud o’er my sunshine there came.</p> +<p>One day I’d invited of guests a gay crew,<br /> +Then to me there came creeping an infamous Jew.</p> +<p>“With thy friends thou art feasting” he croaked in my +ear—<br /> +“Whilst to thee proves unfaithful Greshenka thy dear.”</p> +<p>I gave to him gold and a curse, for his meed,<br /> +And I summon’d a thrall, ever faithful in need.</p> +<p>Forth rushing, I leap’d my tall courser upon,<br /> +And soft pity I bade from my bosom begone.</p> +<p>But scarcely the door of Greshenka I view’d<br /> +When my eyes became dark, and a swoon near ensu’d.</p> +<p>Alone to a far remote chamber I pac’d,<br /> +And there an Armenian my damsel embrac’d.</p> +<p>My sight it forsook me—forth flash’d my sword straight,<br /> +But I to prevent the knave’s kiss was too late.</p> +<p>The vile, headless trunk I spurn’d fierce with my foot,<br /> +And I gaz’d on the pallid maid darkly and mute.</p> +<p>I remember her praying—her blood streaming wide—<br /> +There perish’d Greshenka, my sweet love there died.</p> +<p>The shawl, the black shawl from her shoulders I tore,<br /> +And in silence I wip’d from my sabre the gore.</p> +<p>My thrall, when the evening mists fell with their dew,<br /> +In the waves of the Dunau her fair body threw.</p> +<p>From that hour I have seen not her eyes’ beamy lights,<br /> +From that hour I have known no delectable nights.</p> +<p>On the shawl, the black shawl with distraction I gaze,<br /> +And on my poor spirit keen agony preys.</p> +<h2>SONG.</h2> +<p><i>From the Russian of Pushkin.</i></p> +<p>Hoary man, hateful man!<br /> +Gash my frame, burn my frame;<br /> +Bold I am, scoff I can<br /> +At the sword, at the flame.</p> +<p>Thee as hell I abhor,<br /> +And despise heartily;<br /> +I another do adore,<br /> +And for love of him die.</p> +<p>Gash my frame, burn my frame!—<br /> +Nothing I will tell thee;<br /> +Man of age, man of rage,<br /> +Him thou’lt ne’er know from me.</p> +<p>Fresh as May and as gay,<br /> +Warm as Summer days he;<br /> +O how sweet, young and neat,<br /> +O how well he loves me.</p> +<p>O how him I carest<br /> +In the night still and fine;<br /> +O how then we did jest<br /> +At that grey head of thine.</p> +<h2>THE COSSACK.</h2> +<p>An ancient Ballad.<br /> +<i>From the Malo-Russian.</i></p> +<p>O’er the field the snow is flying,<br /> +There a wounded Cossack’s lying;<br /> +On a bush his head he’s leaning,<br /> +And his eyes with grass is screening,<br /> +Meadow-grass so greenly shiny,<br /> +And with cloth the make of China;<br /> +Croaks the raven hoarsely o’er him,<br /> +Neighs his courser sad before him:<br /> +“Either, master, give me pay,<br /> +Or dismiss me on my way.”<br /> +“Break thy bridle, O my courser,<br /> +Down the path amain be speeding,<br /> +Through the verdant forest leading;<br /> +Drink of two lakes on thy way,<br /> +Eat of mowings two the hay;<br /> +Rush the castle-portal under,<br /> +With thy hoof against it thunder,<br /> +Out shall come a Dame that moaneth,<br /> +Whom thy lord for mother owneth;<br /> +I will tell thee, my brave prancer,<br /> +When she speaks thee what to answer.</p> +<p>“O thou steed, than lightning faster,<br /> +Tell me where’s thy youthful master!<br /> +Him in fight thou hast forsaken,<br /> +Or has cast him down, I reckon.”</p> +<p>“Nor in fight I’ve him forsaken,<br /> +Nor have cast him down, I reckon,<br /> +The lone field with blood bedewing,<br /> +There the damsel Death he’s wooing.”</p> +<h2>THE THREE SONS OF BUDRYS.</h2> +<p>A Lithuanian Ballad.<br /> +<i>From the Polish of Mickiewicz.</i></p> +<p>With his three mighty sons, tall as Ledwin’s were once,<br /> +To the court-yard old Budrys advances;<br /> +“Your best steeds forth lead ye, to saddle them speed ye,<br /> +And sharpen your swords and your lances.</p> +<p>For in Wilna I’ve vow’d, that three trumpeters loud<br /> +I’d despatch unto lands of like number,<br /> +To make Russ Olgierd vapour, and Pole Skirgiel caper,<br /> +And to rouse German Kiestut from slumber.</p> +<p>Hie away safe and sound, serve your dear native ground;<br /> +May the High Gods Litewskian defend ye!<br /> +Though at home I must tarry, my counsel forth carry:<br /> +Ye are three, and three ways ye must wend ye.</p> +<p>Unto Olgierd’s Russ plain one of ye must amain,<br /> +To where Ilmen and Novogrod tower;<br /> +There are sables for plunder, veils work’d to a wonder,<br /> +And of coin have the merchants a power.</p> +<p>Let another essay to prince Kiestut his way,<br /> +To whose crosletted doys <a name="citation32"></a><a href="#footnote32">{32}</a> +bitter gruel!<br /> +There is amber like gravel, cloth worthy to travel,<br /> +And priests deck’d in diamond and jewel.</p> +<p>Unto Pole Skirgiel’s part let the third hero start,<br /> +There the dwellings but poorly are furnish’d;<br /> +So choose ye there rather, and bring to your father,<br /> +Keen sabres and bucklers high-burnish’d.</p> +<p>But bring home, above all, Laskian <a name="citation33"></a><a href="#footnote33">{33}</a> +girls to our hall,<br /> +More sprightly than fawns in fine weather;<br /> +The hues of the morning their cheeks are adorning,<br /> +Their eyes are like stars of the ether.</p> +<p>Half a century ago, when my young blood did glow,<br /> +A wife from their region I bore me;<br /> +Death tore us asunder, yet ne’er I look yonder,<br /> +But memory straight brings her before me.”</p> +<p>Now advis’d them he hath, so he blesseth their path,<br /> +And away they high-spirited rattle;<br /> +Grim winter comes chiding—of them there’s no tiding;<br /> +Says Budrys: they’ve fallen in battle.</p> +<p>With an avalanche’s might to the gate spurs a knight,<br /> +And beneath his wide mantle he’s laden:<br /> +“Hast there Russian money—the roubles so bonny?”<br /> +“No, no! I’ve a Laskian maiden.”</p> +<p>Like an avalanche in might riding comes an arm’d knight,<br /> +And beneath his wide mantle he’s laden:<br /> +“From the German, brave fellow, bring’st amber so yellow?”<br /> +“No, no! here’s a Laskian maiden.”</p> +<p>Like an avalanche of snow the third up rideth now,<br /> +Nor has he, as it seemeth, been idle;<br /> +As the booty he showeth, old Budrys hallooeth<br /> +To bid guests for the brave triple bridal.</p> +<h2>THE BANNING OF THE PEST.</h2> +<p><i>From the Finnish.</i></p> +<p>The plague is solemnly conjured to leave the country, and the speaker +offers to find a suitable conveyance, namely a demon-horse summoned +from one of those mountains in Norway supposed to be inhabited by evil +spirits and goblins.</p> +<p>Hie away, thou horrid monster!<br /> +Hie away, our country’s ruin!<br /> +Hie thee from our plains and valleys!<br /> +I will find thee fit conveyance,<br /> +Find a horse for thee to ride on,<br /> +One whose feet nor slip nor stumble<br /> +On the ice or on the mountain;<br /> +Get thee gone, I do conjure thee;<br /> +Take thee from the hill a courser,<br /> +From the Goblin’s Burg a stallion<br /> +For thy dreary homeward journey;<br /> +If thou ask me for conveyance,<br /> +If thou ask me for a courser,<br /> +I will raise thee one full quickly,<br /> +On whose back though mayest gallop<br /> +To thy home accurst in Norway,<br /> +To the flint-hard hill in Norway.<br /> +When the Goblin’s Burg thou reachest<br /> +Burst with might its breast asunder;<br /> +Plunge thee past its sand-born witches<br /> +Down into the gulf eternal;<br /> +Never be thou seen or heard of<br /> +From that dismal gulf eternal.<br /> +Get thee gone, I do conjure thee,<br /> +Into Lapland’s thickest forest,<br /> +To the North’s extremest region;<br /> +Get thee gone, I do command thee,<br /> +To the North’s most dusky region.</p> +<h2>WOINOMOINEN.</h2> +<p><i>From the Finnish.</i></p> +<p>Woinomoinen was, according to the Mythology of the ancient Finns, +the second Godhead, being only inferior to Jumala. He was master +of the musical art, and when he played upon his instrument produced +much the same effect as the Grecian Orpheus, enticing fishes from the +stream and the wild animals from the forest. The lines here translated +are a fragment of a poem which describes a musical contest between Woinomoinen +and the Giant Joukkawainen, in which the latter was signally defeated.</p> +<p>Then the ancient Woinomoinen,<br /> +On the bench himself he seated,<br /> +Took the harp betwixt his fingers,<br /> +On his knee about he turn’d it,<br /> +In his hand he fitly plac’d it.<br /> +Play’d the ancient Woinomoinen,<br /> +Universal joy awaking;<br /> +Like a concert was his playing;<br /> +There was nothing in the forest<br /> +On four nimble feet that runneth,<br /> +On four lengthy legs that stalketh,<br /> +But repair’d to hear the music,<br /> +When the ancient Woinomoinen,<br /> +When the Father joy awaken’d.<br /> +E’en at Woinomoinen’s harping<br /> +’Gainst the hedge the bear up-bounded.<br /> +There was nothing in the forest<br /> +On two whirring pinions flying,<br /> +But with whirl-wind speed did hasten;<br /> +There was nothing in the ocean,<br /> +With six fins about that roweth,<br /> +Or with eight to move delighteth,<br /> +But repair’d to hear the music.<br /> +E’en the briny water’s mother <a name="citation38"></a><a href="#footnote38">{38}</a><br /> +’Gainst the beach, breast-forward, cast her,<br /> +On a little sand-hill rais’d her,<br /> +On her side with toil up-crawling.<br /> +E’en from Woinomoinen’s eye-balls<br /> +Tears of heart-felt pleasure trickled,<br /> +Bigger than the whortle-berry,<br /> +Heavier than the eggs of plovers,<br /> +Down his broad and mighty bosom,<br /> +Knee-ward from his bosom flowing,<br /> +From his knee his feet bedewing;<br /> +And I’ve heard, his tears they trickled<br /> +Through the five wool-wefts of thickness,<br /> +Through his jackets eight of wadmal.</p> +<h1>THE WORDS OF BEOWULF, SON OF EGTHEOF.</h1> +<p><i>From the Anglo Saxon.</i></p> +<p>Every one beneath the heaven<br /> +Should of death expect the day,<br /> +And let him, whilst life is given,<br /> +Bright with fame his name array.</p> +<p>For amongst the countless number<br /> +In the clay-cold grave at rest,<br /> +Lock’d in arms of iron slumber,<br /> +He most happy is and blest.</p> +<h2>THE LAY OF BIARKE.</h2> +<p><i>From the Ancient Norse.</i></p> +<p>The day in East is glowing,<br /> +The cock on high is crowing;<br /> +Upon the heath’s brown heather<br /> +’Tis time our bands we gather.<br /> +Ye Chieftains disencumber<br /> +Your eyes of clogging slumber;<br /> +Ye mighty friends of Attil,<br /> +The far-renown’d in battle!</p> +<p>Thou Har, who grip’st thy foeman<br /> +Right hard, and Rolf the bowman,<br /> +And many, many others,<br /> +The forky lightning’s brothers!<br /> +Wake—not for banquet-table!<br /> +Wake—not with maids to gabble!<br /> +But wake for rougher sporting,<br /> +For Hildur’s <a name="citation40"></a><a href="#footnote40">{40}</a> +bloody courting.</p> +<p>Now food forego and drinking;<br /> +On war be ye all thinking,<br /> +To serve the king who’ve bound ye<br /> +For roof and raiment found ye;<br /> +Reflect there’s prize and booty<br /> +For all who do their duty;<br /> +Away with fear inglorious,<br /> +If ye would be victorious!</p> +<p>Great Rolf, the land who shielded,<br /> +And who its sceptre wielded,<br /> +Who freely fed and paid us,<br /> +With mail and swords array’d us,<br /> +Now lies on bier extended,<br /> +His life by treachery ended—<br /> +To us be like disaster,<br /> +Save we avenge our master.</p> +<h2>THE HAIL-STORM.</h2> +<p><i>From the Ancient Norse.</i></p> +<p>(This piece describes the disaster of Sigvald, Earl of Jomsborg, +a celebrated viking or pirate, who, according to tradition, was repulsed +from the coast of Norway by Hakon Jarl, with the assistance of Thorgerd, +a female demon, to whom Hakon sacrificed his youngest son, Erling.)</p> +<p>For victory as we bounded,<br /> +I heard, with fear astounded,<br /> +The storm, of Thorgerd’s waking,<br /> +From Northern vapours breaking.<br /> +Sent by the fiend in anger,<br /> +With din and stunning clangour,<br /> +To crush our might intended,<br /> +Gigantic hail descended.</p> +<p>A pound the smallest pebble<br /> +Did weigh, and others treble;<br /> +Full dreadful was the slaughter;<br /> +And blood ran out like water,<br /> +Ran, reeking, red and horrid<br /> +From batter’d cheek and forehead.<br /> +But though so rudely greeted,<br /> +No Jomsborg man retreated.</p> +<p>The fiend, so fierce and savage,<br /> +To work us further ravage,<br /> +Shot lightning from each finger,<br /> +Which sped, and did not linger;<br /> +Then sank our brave in numbers<br /> +To cold, eternal slumbers;<br /> +There lay the good and gallant,<br /> +Unmatch’d for warlike talent.</p> +<p>Our captain this perceiving,<br /> +The signal made for leaving,<br /> +And with his ship departed,<br /> +Down-cast and broken-hearted;<br /> +We spread our sails to follow,—<br /> +And soon the breezes hollow,<br /> +From shores we came to harry,<br /> +Our luckless remnant carry.</p> +<h2>THE KING AND CROWN.</h2> +<p><i>From the Suabian.</i></p> +<p>The King who well crown’d does govern the land,<br /> +And whose fair crown well fill’d does stand—<br /> + That King adorns his crown, I trow;<br /> +And he who is thus by his crown adorn’d,<br /> +And for whose sake never that crown is scorn’d,<br /> + Does bear a well-fill’d crown on his brow.</p> +<h2>ODE.</h2> +<p>To a Mountain Torrent.<br /> +<i>From the German of Stolberg.</i></p> +<p>O stripling immortal thou forth dost career<br /> +From thy deep rocky chasm; beheld has no eye<br /> +The mighty one’s cradle, and heard has no ear<br /> +At his under-ground spring-head his infant-like cry.</p> +<p>How lovely art thou in the foam of thy brow,<br /> +And yet the warm blood in my bosom grows chill;<br /> +For awful art thou and terrific, I vow,<br /> +In the roar of the echoing forest and hill.</p> +<p>The pine-trees are shaken—they yield to thy shocks,<br /> +And crashing they tumble in wild disarray;<br /> +The rocks fly before thee—thou seizest the rocks,<br /> +And contemptuously whirlst them like pebbles away.</p> +<p>But why dost thou haste to the ocean’s dark flood?<br /> +Say, art thou not blest in thine own native ground,<br /> +When in the lone mountain and black shady wood<br /> +Thou dost bellow, and all gives response to thy sound?</p> +<p>Then haste not, I pray thee, to yonder blue sea,<br /> +For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny’s rod,<br /> +Whilst here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free—<br /> +Free as a cloud-bird, and strong as a God.</p> +<p>Forsooth it is pleasant, at eve or at noon,<br /> +To gaze on the sea and its far-winding bays,<br /> +When ting’d by the light of the wandering moon,<br /> +Or when red with the gold of the midsummer rays.</p> +<p>What of that? what of that? thou shouldst ever behold<br /> +That lustre as nought but a bait and a snare:<br /> +Ah, what is the summer sun’s purple and gold<br /> +Unto him, who can breathe not in freedom the air?</p> +<p>O pause for a while in thy downward career!<br /> +But still art thou streaming, my words are in vain:<br /> +Bethink thee that oft-changing winds domineer<br /> +On the billowy breast of the time-serving main.</p> +<p>Then haste not, I pray thee, to yonder blue sea,<br /> +For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny’s rod,<br /> +Whilst here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free—<br /> +Free as a cloud-bird, and strong as a God.</p> +<h2>CHLOE.</h2> +<p><i>From the Dutch of Johannes Bellamy.</i></p> +<p>O we have a sister on earthly dominions!<br /> +Cried two of the holy Angelical train,<br /> +And flew up to heaven with fluttering pinions,<br /> +But quickly to earth they descended again;<br /> +Their brothers, with voices triumphantly lifted,<br /> +Behind them came flocking this wonder to view,<br /> +More fast than the gleam from the cloud that is rifted,<br /> +Down, down to a forest of beeches they flew,</p> +<p>And there beheld Chloe, all rapt in devotion,<br /> +Upon the ground kneeling, unable to speak;<br /> +A tear-drop, the offspring of pious emotion,<br /> +Was streaming like dew down her beautiful cheek.<br /> +Confounded, astonish’d, in ecstacy gazing,<br /> +Around her the spirits aerial stood,<br /> +Then sudden their voices tumultuously raising<br /> +Cried: Father, we’ll stay with her here in the wood!</p> +<p>Then frown’d the dread Father; his thunders appalling<br /> +To rattle began, and his whirlwinds to roar,<br /> +Then trembled the host, but they heeded his calling,<br /> +And Chloe up-snatching, to heaven they soar.<br /> +O we had a sister on earthly dominions!<br /> +They sang as through heaven triumphant they stray’d,<br /> +And bore with flush’d faces and fluttering pinions<br /> +To God’s throne of brightness the yet praying maid.</p> +<h2>NATIONAL SONG.</h2> +<p><i>From the Danish of Evald.</i></p> +<p>Written to commemorate three great naval victories achieved by the +three great Danish heroes, Christian, Juul, and Tordenskiold.</p> +<p>King Christian stood beside the mast<br /> +In smoke and mist.<br /> +His weapons, hammering hard and fast,<br /> +Through helms and brains of Gothmen pass’d,<br /> +Then sank each hostile sail and mast<br /> +In smoke and mist.<br /> +“Fly,” said the foe, “fly all that can,<br /> +For who can Denmark’s Christian<br /> +Resist?”</p> +<p>Niels Juul he mark’d the tempest’s roar:<br /> +“Now, now’s the tide!”<br /> +He hoists his banner, red as gore,<br /> +And plied his foemen aft and fore,<br /> +Loud crying ’midst the tempest’s roar:<br /> +“Now, now’s the tide!”<br /> +“Fly each, who knows a refuge path,<br /> +For who can Juul, when hot with wrath,<br /> +Abide!”</p> +<p>O North sea, Weasel’s <a name="citation50"></a><a href="#footnote50">{50}</a> +flashes rent<br /> +Thy vapours dun.<br /> +Down to thy bosom heroes went,<br /> +For with those flashes death was blent;<br /> +From the fight rose a yell which rent<br /> +Thy vapours dun.<br /> +From Denmark lighteneth Tordenskiold,—<br /> +“Yield, yield to heaven’s favourite bold,<br /> +And run.”</p> +<p>Thou Danish path to fame and might,<br /> +Dark-rolling main!<br /> +Receive thy friend, who holds as light<br /> +The perils of the stormy fight,<br /> +Who braves like thee the tempest’s might,<br /> +Dark-rolling main!<br /> +Bear me through battle, song and sport,<br /> +Until the grave, my final port,<br /> +I gain!</p> +<h2>SIR SINCLAIR. <a name="citation51"></a><a href="#footnote51">{51}</a></h2> +<p><i>From the Danish of Edward Storm.</i></p> +<p>(At the commencement of the last century, Colonel Sinclair, a Scotsman +in the service of the King of Sweden, landed upon the coast of Norway, +at the time war was raging between the Danish and Swedish crowns, with +a band of Scots which he had levied in his native country. After +committing much havoc and cruelty, the invaders were destroyed to a +man in a conflict with the peasantry, who had assembled in considerable +number. Many of the broad-swords lost by the Scots in this encounter +are to be seen in the Museum of Copenhagen, trophies of a victory achieved +in a hallowed cause—the defence of the father-land against unprovoked +aggression.)</p> +<p>Sir Sinclair sail’d from the Scottish ground,<br /> +To Norroway o’er he hasted;<br /> +On Guldbrand’s rocks his grave he found,<br /> +Where his corse in its gore is wasted.</p> +<p>Sir Sinclair sail’d o’er the blue, blue wave,<br /> +For Swedish pay he hath sold him,<br /> +God help the Scot, for the Norsemen brave<br /> +Shall biting the grass behold him.</p> +<p>The moon at night shed pale its light,<br /> +The billows are gently swelling;<br /> +See a mermaid merge from the briny surge,<br /> +To Sir Sinclair evil telling.</p> +<p>“Turn back, turn back, thou bonny Scot:<br /> +Thy purpose straight abandon:<br /> +To return will not be Sir Sinclair’s lot,<br /> +Should Sir Sinclair Norroway land on.”</p> +<p>“A curse on thy strain, thou imp of the main,<br /> +Who boding ill art ever!<br /> +For what thou dost preach, wert thou in my reach,<br /> +Thy limbs I would dissever.”</p> +<p>He sail’d for a day, he sail’d for three,<br /> +With all his hired legions;<br /> +On the fourth day’s morn Sir Sinclair he<br /> +Saw Norroway’s rocky regions.</p> +<p>On Romsdale’s sands he quickly lands,<br /> +Himself for a foe declaring;<br /> +Him follow’d then twelve hundred men<br /> +Such evil intentions bearing.</p> +<p>They vex’d the people, where’er they rov’d,<br /> +With pillage and conflagration;<br /> +Nor them old age’s feebleness mov’d,<br /> +Nor the widow’s lamentation.</p> +<p>The child was slain at the mother’s breast,<br /> +Though it smil’d on the murderous savage:<br /> +But soon went tidings, east and west,<br /> +Of all this wo and ravage.</p> +<p>From neighbour to neighbour the message runs,<br /> +On the mountain blaz’d the beacon;<br /> +Into lurking-holes crept not the valley’s sons,<br /> +As the Scots perchance might reckon.</p> +<p>“The soldiers have follow’d the King to the war,<br /> +Ourselves must arm us, brothers!<br /> +And he who here his life will spare<br /> +Shall be damn’d as a cur by the others.”</p> +<p>The peasants of Vaage, of Laxoe and Lom,<br /> +With axes sharp and heavy,<br /> +To the gathering at Bredaboig, one and all, come,<br /> +On the Scots fierce war to levy.</p> +<p>A pass, which all men Kringe call,<br /> +By the foot of the mountain goeth;<br /> +The Lauge, wherein the Scots shall fall,<br /> +Close, close beside it floweth.</p> +<p>The aged shooters are taking aim,<br /> +Each gun has been call’d into duty;<br /> +The Naik <a name="citation54"></a><a href="#footnote54">{54}</a> his +wet beard uplifts from the stream,<br /> +And with longing expects his booty.</p> +<p>Sir Sinclair fell the first, with a yell<br /> +His soul escap’d him for ever,<br /> +Each Scot loud cried when his leader died;<br /> +“May the Lord-God us deliver!”</p> +<p>“Now fierce on the dogs, ye jolly Norse-men,<br /> +To the chine strike down and cleave them!”<br /> +Then the Scots would fain be at home again,<br /> +Their vaunty spirits leave them.</p> +<p>Filling their craws to their hearts content<br /> +’Midst carnage the ravens wander’d;<br /> +The Scottish maids shall long lament<br /> +The young blood on the Kringe squander’d.</p> +<p>Not a single man escap’d, not one,<br /> +To his landsmen to tell the story;<br /> +’Tis a perilous thing to invade who wone<br /> +On Norroway’s mountains hoary.</p> +<p>A pillar still towers on that self-same spot,<br /> +Which Norraway’s foes defyeth;<br /> +To the Norman wo, whose heart glows not<br /> +When he that pillar eyeth.</p> +<h2>HVIDFELD.</h2> +<p><i>From the Danish.</i></p> +<p>Our native land has ever teem’d<br /> +With warriors gallant-hearted,<br /> +Who bravery as their duty deem’d,<br /> +And ne’er from danger started;<br /> +Such Tordenskiold, and Adeler,<br /> +And Juul, and many others were.<br /> +Our native land has ever teem’d<br /> +With warriors gallant-hearted.</p> +<p>But who had e’er of bravery<br /> +The gallant Hvidfeld’s measure?<br /> +Who e’er saw Death so plain as he,<br /> +And enter’d it with pleasure?<br /> +Ne’er shall his name oblivion meet,<br /> +For with his death he sav’d our fleet.<br /> +Our native land has ever teem’d<br /> +With warriors gallant-hearted.</p> +<p>’Gainst numerous foes we fought one day<br /> +A fight so fierce and gory,<br /> +And next the foe Sir Hvidfeld lay,<br /> +To danger close and glory;<br /> +And there was no man fought so stout<br /> +As Hvidfeld fought, that bloody bout.<br /> +Our native land has ever teem’d<br /> +With warriors gallant-hearted.</p> +<p>But as Sir Hvidfeld broadsides loud<br /> +Lay taking and returning,<br /> +His own fire set his vessel proud,<br /> +His Dannebrog, a burning.<br /> +“Slip anchor, Sir,” his sailors cry,<br /> +“To land for safety let us fly!”<br /> +Our native land has ever teem’d<br /> +With warriors gallant-hearted.</p> +<p>“No!” answer’d he, “for danger then<br /> +’Midst Denmark’s fleet we carry;<br /> +Shall it be risk’d by Danish men,<br /> +That they alive may tarry?<br /> +We’ll die, but we’ll avenge our death;<br /> +We’ll fight until our latest breath.”<br /> +Our native land has ever teem’d<br /> +With warriors gallant hearted.</p> +<p>“Yes, to the latest breath we’ll fight!”<br /> +His seamen answer’d, cheering;<br /> +Around was death in horrors dight,<br /> +But still they fought unfearing,<br /> +Till the fire reach’d the powder-store,<br /> +And all died heroes midst its roar.<br /> +Our native land has ever teem’d<br /> +With warriors gallant-hearted.</p> +<p>And Hvidfeld’s fame shall ne’er decay,<br /> +His gallant seamens’ never;<br /> +A worthy countryman shall they<br /> +In every Dane find ever;<br /> +When Denmark dear to us shall cry,<br /> +Like them will we grim death defy.<br /> +Our native ground shall still abound<br /> +With warriors gallant-hearted.</p> +<h2>BIRTING.</h2> +<p>A Fragment.<br /> +<i>From the Ancient Danish.</i></p> +<p>It was late at evening tide,<br /> +Sinks the day-star in the wave,<br /> +When alone Orm Ungarswayne<br /> +Rode to seek his father’s grave.</p> +<p>Late it was at evening hour,<br /> +When the steeds to streams are led;<br /> +Let me now, said Orm the young,<br /> +Wake my father from the dead.</p> +<p>It was bold Orm Ungarswayne<br /> +Stamp’d the hill with mighty foot:<br /> +Riv’n were wall and marble-stone,<br /> +Shook the mountain to its root.</p> +<p>It was bold Orm Ungarswayne<br /> +Struck the hill with such a might,<br /> +That it was a miracle,<br /> +That the hill fell not outright.</p> +<p>From the hill Orm’s father cried,<br /> +Where so long, so long he’d lain;<br /> +“Cannot I in quiet lie<br /> +Deep within my dark domain?</p> +<p>Who upon my hill doth stand?<br /> +Who doth dare disturb my bones?<br /> +Cannot I in quiet lie<br /> +’Neath my heavy roof of stones?</p> +<p>Who doth dare my sleep to scare?<br /> +Who brings down this ruin all?<br /> +Let him fear, for now I swear<br /> +That by Birting he shall fall.”</p> +<p>“I’m Orm Ungarswayne, thy son,<br /> +Youngest son, O father dear:<br /> +And to beg a mighty boon<br /> +In my need I seek thee here.”</p> +<p>“If thou be Orm Ungarswayne,<br /> +Orm the kempion bold and free,<br /> +Silver, gold, last year I told—<br /> +All thou cravedst—o’er to thee.”</p> +<p>“Thou wast free of gold and fee,<br /> +Glittering trash of little worth—<br /> +Birting now I crave of thee,<br /> +Birting bravest sword of earth.”</p> +<p>“Never shalt thou Birting win,<br /> +To obtain the King’s fair daughter,<br /> +Till to Ireland thou hast been,<br /> +And aveng’d thy father’s slaughter.”</p> +<p>“Give to me the Birting sword,<br /> +And with Birting bid me thrive,<br /> +Or I will thy sheltering hill<br /> +Into thousand atoms rive.”</p> +<p>“Stretch thou down thy right hand here,<br /> +Take the falchion from my side;<br /> +If thou break thy father’s hill,<br /> +Dreadful wo will thee betide.”</p> +<p>From the hill he Birting stretch’d,<br /> +Plac’d the hilt within his grasp:<br /> +“Strong of hand and valiant stand,<br /> +That thy foes before thee gasp.”</p> +<p>From the hill he Birting stretch’d,<br /> +Plac’d the hilt within his hold:<br /> +“Save good fate on thee await,<br /> +I shall never be consol’d.”</p> +<h2>INGEBORG’S LAMENTATION.</h2> +<p><i>From the Swedish of Tegner.<br /> +</i>(An extract from Frithiof’s Saga.)</p> +<p>Autumn winds howl;<br /> +Ocean is swelling so stormy.—My soul,<br /> +Would with the sighs which I utter<br /> +Forth thou wouldst flutter!</p> +<p>Long did I view<br /> +Far in the West the sail which flew—<br /> +Happy my Frithiof to follow<br /> +O’er the wave hollow!</p> +<p>Blue billow run<br /> +O not so high, for it still sails on!<br /> +Stars, for my mariner sparkle,<br /> +As the nights darkle!</p> +<p>Spring will appear.<br /> +He will come home, but unmet by his dear<br /> +Or in the hall, or the dingle,<br /> +Or on the shingle.</p> +<p>She’ll lie in mould,<br /> +All for her love’s sake, pallid and cold,<br /> +Or she will bleed, by no other<br /> +Slain than her brother.</p> +<p>Hawk, left behind!<br /> +Thou shalt be mine and I’ll prove ever kind:<br /> +Ever, wing’d hunter, I’ll scatter<br /> +Food on thy platter.</p> +<p>Here on his hand<br /> +Work’d on my kerchiefs hem thou shalt stand,<br /> +Pinions of silver and glowing<br /> +Gold-talons showing.</p> +<p>Hawk-pinions tried<br /> +Freia <a name="citation63"></a><a href="#footnote63">{63}</a> one time, +and around about hied;<br /> +Sought North and South to discover<br /> +Oder her lover.</p> +<p>E’en shouldst thou lend<br /> +Me thy brave wings, yet I could not ascend;<br /> +Only Death brings me, poor minion,<br /> +The divine pinion.</p> +<p>Hunter so free!<br /> +Sit on my shoulder and look to the sea;<br /> +Spite of our looking and yearning,<br /> +He’s not returning.</p> +<p>When I’m at rest,<br /> +And he comes safe, do thou mind my behest:<br /> +O with best greetings receive him,<br /> +Frithiof, who’ll grieve him.</p> +<h2>THE DELIGHTS OF FINN MAC COUL <a name="citation65"></a><a href="#footnote65">{65}</a></h2> +<p><i>From the Ancient Irish.</i></p> +<p>Finn Mac Coul ’mongst his joys did number<br /> +To hark to the boom of the dusky hills;<br /> +By the wild cascade to be lull’d to slumber,<br /> +Which Cuan Na Seilg with its roaring fills.<br /> +He lov’d the noise when storms were blowing,<br /> +And billows with billows fought furiously,<br /> +Of Magh Maom’s kine the ceaseless lowing,<br /> +And deep from the glen the calves’ feeble cry;<br /> +The noise of the chase from Slieve Crott pealing,<br /> +The hum from the bushes Slieve Cua below,<br /> +The voice of the gull o’er the breakers wheeling,<br /> +The vulture’s scream, over the sea flying slow;<br /> +The mariners’ song from the distant haven,<br /> +The strain from the hill of the pack so free,<br /> +From Cnuic Nan Gall the croak of the raven,<br /> +The voice from Slieve Mis of the streamlets three;<br /> +Young Oscar’s voice, to the chase proceeding,<br /> +The howl of the dogs, of the deer in quest;<br /> +But to recline where the cattle were feeding<br /> +That was the delight which pleas’d him best.<br /> +Delighted was Oscar, the generous-hearted,<br /> +To listen when shields rang under the blow:<br /> +But nothing to him such delight imparted<br /> +As fighting with heroes and laying them low.</p> +<h2>CAROLAN’S LAMENT.</h2> +<p><i>From the Irish.</i></p> +<p>The arts of Greece, Rome and of Eirin’s fair earth,<br /> +If at my sole command they this moment were all,<br /> +I’d give, though I’m fully aware of their worth,<br /> +Could they back from the dead my lost Mary recall.</p> +<p>I’m distrest every noon, now I sit down alone,<br /> +And at morn, now with me she arises no more:<br /> +With no woman alive after Thee would I wive,<br /> +Could I flocks and herds gain and of gold a bright store.</p> +<p>Awhile in green Eirin so pleasant I dwelt,<br /> +With her nobles I drank to whom music was dear;<br /> +Then left to myself, O how mournful I felt<br /> +At the close of my life, with no partner to cheer.</p> +<p>My sole joy and my comfort wast thou ’neath the sun,<br /> +Dark gloom, now I’m reft of thee, filleth my mind;<br /> +I shall know no more happiness now thou art gone,<br /> +O my Mary, of wit and of manners refin’d.</p> +<h2>TO ICOLMCILL.</h2> +<p><i>From the Gaelic of Mac-Intyre.</i></p> +<p>On Icolmcill may blessings pour!<br /> +It is the island blest of yore;<br /> +Mull’s sister-twin in the wild main,<br /> +Owning the sway of high Mac-Lean;<br /> +The sacred spot, whose fair renown<br /> +To many a distant land has flown,<br /> +And which receives in courteous way<br /> +All, all who thither chance to stray.</p> +<p>There in the grave are many a King<br /> +And duine-wassel <a name="citation68"></a><a href="#footnote68">{68}</a> +slumbering;<br /> +And bodies, once of giant strength,<br /> +Beneath the earth are stretch’d at length;<br /> +It is the fate of mortals all<br /> +To ashes fine and dust to fall;<br /> +I’ve hope in Christ, for sins who died,<br /> +He has their souls beatified.</p> +<p>Now full twelve hundred years, and more,<br /> +On dusky wing have flitted o’er,<br /> +Since that high morn when Columb grey<br /> +Its wall’s foundation-stone did lay;<br /> +Images still therein remain<br /> +And death-memorials carv’d with pain;<br /> +Of good hewn stone from top to base,<br /> +It shows to Time a dauntless face.</p> +<p>A man this day the pulpit fill’d,<br /> +Whose sermon brain and bosom thrill’d,<br /> +And all the listening crowd I heard<br /> +Praising the mouth which it proferr’d:<br /> +Since death has seiz’d on Columb Cill,<br /> +And Mull may not possess him still,<br /> +There’s joy throughout its heathery lands,<br /> +In Columb’s place that Dougal stands.</p> +<h2>THE DYING BARD.</h2> +<p><i>From the Gaelic.</i></p> +<p>O for to hear the hunter’s tread<br /> +With his spear and his dogs the hills among;<br /> +In my aged cheek youth flushes red<br /> +When the noise of the chase arises strong.</p> +<p>Awakes in my bones the marrow whene’er<br /> +I hark to the distant shout and bay;<br /> +When peals in my ear; “We’ve kill’d the deer”—<br /> +To the hill-tops boundeth my soul away;</p> +<p>I see the slug-hound tall and gaunt,<br /> +Which follow’d me, early and late, so true;<br /> +The hills, which it was my delight to haunt,<br /> +And the rocks, which rang to my loud halloo.</p> +<p>I see Scoir Eild by the side of the glen,<br /> +Where the cuckoo calleth so blithe in May,<br /> +And Gorval of pines, renown’d ’mongst men<br /> +For the elk and the roe which bound and play.</p> +<p>I see the cave, which receiv’d our feet<br /> +So kindly oft from the gloom of night,<br /> +Where the blazing tree with its genial heat<br /> +Within our bosoms awak’d delight.</p> +<p>On the flesh of the deer we fed our fill—<br /> +Our drink was the Treigh, our music its wave;<br /> +Though the ghost shriek’d shrill, and bellow’d the hill,<br /> +’Twas pleasant, I trow, in that lonely cave.</p> +<p>I see Benn Ard of form so fair,<br /> +Of a thousand hills the Monarch proud;<br /> +On his side the wild deer make their lair,<br /> +His head’s the eternal couch of the cloud.</p> +<p>But vision of joy, and art thou flown?<br /> +Return for a moment’s space, I pray,—<br /> +Thou dost not hear—ohone, ohone—<br /> +Hills of my love, farewell for aye.</p> +<p>Farewell ye youths, so bold and free,<br /> +And fare ye well, ye maids divine!<br /> +No more I can see ye—yours is the glee<br /> +Of the summer, the gloom of the winter mine.</p> +<p>At noon-tide carry me into the sun,<br /> +To the bank by the side of the wandering stream,<br /> +To rest the shamrock and daisy upon,<br /> +And then will return of my youth the dream.</p> +<p>Place ye by my side my harp and shell,<br /> +And the shield, my fathers in battle bore;<br /> +Ye halls, where Oisin and Daoul <a name="citation72"></a><a href="#footnote72">{72}</a> +dwell,<br /> +Unclose—for at eve I shall be no more.</p> +<h2>PROPHECY <a name="citation73a"></a><a href="#footnote73a">{73a}</a> +OF TALIESIN.</h2> +<p><i>From the Ancient British.</i></p> +<p> Within my mind<br /> + I hold books confin’d,<br /> +Of Europa’s land all the mighty lore;<br /> + O God of heaven high!<br /> + With how many a bitter sigh,<br /> +I my prophecy upon Troy’s line <a name="citation73b"></a><a href="#footnote73b">{73b}</a> +pour:</p> +<p> A serpent coiling,<br /> + And with fury boiling,<br /> +From Germany coming with arm’d wings spread,<br /> + Shall Britain fair subdue<br /> + From the Lochlin ocean blue,<br /> +To where Severn rolls in her spacious bed.</p> +<p> And British men<br /> + Shall be captives then<br /> +To strangers from Saxonia’s strand;<br /> + From God they shall not swerve,<br /> + They their language shall preserve,<br /> +But except wild Wales, they shall lose their land.</p> +<h1>THE HISTORY OF TALIESIN.</h1> +<p><i>From the Ancient British.</i></p> +<p>Talieson was a foundling, discovered in his infancy lying in a coracle, +on a salmon-weir, in the domain of Elphin, a prince of North Wales, +who became his patron. During his life he arrogated to himself +a supernatural descent and understanding, and for at least a thousand +years after his death he was regarded by the descendants of the ancient +Britons in the character of a prophet or something more. The poems +which he produced procured for him the title of “Bardic King;” +they display much that is vigorous and original, but are disfigured +by mysticism and extravagant metaphor; one of the most spirited of them +is the following, which the Author calls his “Hanes” or +history.</p> +<p>The head Bard’s place I hold<br /> +To Elphin, Chieftain bold;<br /> +The country of my birth<br /> +Was the Cherubs’ land of mirth;<br /> +I from the prophet John<br /> +The name of Merddin won;<br /> +And now the Monarchs all<br /> +Me Taliesin call.</p> +<p>My inspiration’s <a name="citation74"></a><a href="#footnote74">{74}</a> +flame<br /> +From Cridwen’s cauldron came;<br /> +Nine months was I in gloom<br /> +In Sorceress Cridwen’s womb;<br /> +Though late a child—I’m now<br /> +The Bard of splendid brow <a name="citation75"></a><a href="#footnote75">{75}</a>;<br /> +When roar’d the deluge dark,<br /> +I with Noah trod the Ark.</p> +<p>By the sleeping man I stood<br /> +When the rib grew flesh and blood.<br /> +To Moses strength I gave<br /> +Through Jordan’s holy wave;<br /> +The thrilling tongue was I<br /> +To Enoch and Elie;<br /> +I hung the cross upon,<br /> +Where died the .....................</p> +<p>A chair of little rest<br /> +’Bove the Zodiac I prest,<br /> +Which doth ever, in a sphere,<br /> +Through three elements career;<br /> +I’ve sojourn’d in Gwynfryn,<br /> +In the halls of Cynfelyn;<br /> +To the King the harp I play’d,<br /> +Who Lochlyn’s sceptre sway’d.</p> +<p>With the Israelites of yore<br /> +I endur’d a hunger sore;<br /> +In Africa I stray’d<br /> +Ere was Rome’s foundation laid;<br /> +Now hither I have hied<br /> +With the race of Troy to bide;<br /> +In the firmament I’ve been<br /> +With Mary Magdalen.</p> +<p>I work’d as mason-lord<br /> +When Nimrod’s pile up-soar’d;<br /> +I mark’d the dread rebound<br /> +When its ruins struck the ground;<br /> +When strode to victory on<br /> +The men of Macedon,<br /> +The bloody flag before<br /> +The heroic King I bore.</p> +<p>I saw the end with horror<br /> +Of Sodom and Gomorrah!<br /> +And with this very eye<br /> +Have seen the . . . ;<br /> +I till the judgment day<br /> +Upon the earth shall stray:<br /> +None knows for certainty<br /> +Whether fish or flesh I be.</p> +<h2>EPIGRAM.</h2> +<p>On a Miser who had built a stately Mansion.<br /> +<i>From the Cambrian British.</i></p> +<p>Of every pleasure is thy mansion void;<br /> +To ruin-heaps may soon its walls decline.<br /> +O heavens, that one poor fire’s but employ’d,<br /> +One poor fire only for thy chimneys nine!</p> +<p>Towering white chimneys—kitchen cold and drear—<br /> +Chimneys of vanity and empty show—<br /> +Chimneys unwarm’d, unsoil’d throughout the year—<br /> +Fain would I heatless chimneys overthrow.</p> +<p>Plague on huge chimneys, say I, huge and neat,<br /> +Which ne’er one spark of genial warmth announce;<br /> +Ignite some straw, thou dealer in deceit—<br /> +Straw of starv’d growth—and make a fire for once!</p> +<p>The wretch a palace built, whereon to gaze,<br /> +And sighing, shivering there around to stray;<br /> +To give a penny would the niggard craze,<br /> +And worse than bane he hates the minstrel’s lay.</p> +<h2>THE INVITATION.</h2> +<p>By Goronwy Owen.<br /> +<i>From the Cambrian British.</i></p> +<p>(Sent from Northolt, in the year 1745, to William Parry, Deputy Comptroller +of the Mint.)</p> +<p>Parry, of all my friends the best,<br /> +Thou who thy maker cherishest,<br /> +Thou who regard’st me so sincere,<br /> +And who to me art no less dear;<br /> +Kind friend, in London since thou art,<br /> +To love thee’s not my wisest part;<br /> +This separation’s hard to bear:<br /> +To love thee not far better were.</p> +<p>But wilt thou not from London town<br /> +Journey some day to Northolt down,<br /> +Song to obtain, O sweet reward,<br /> +And walk the garden of the Bard?—<br /> +But thy employ, the year throughout,<br /> +Is wandering the White Tower about,<br /> +Moulding and stamping coin with care,<br /> +The farthing small and shilling fair.<br /> +Let for a month thy Mint lie still,<br /> +Covetous be not, little Will;<br /> +Fly from the birth-place of the smoke,<br /> +Nor in that wicked city choke;<br /> +O come, though money’s charms be strong,<br /> +And if thou come I’ll give thee song,<br /> +A draught of water, hap what may,<br /> +Pure air to make thy spirits gay<br /> +And welcome from an honest heart,<br /> +That’s free from every guileful art.<br /> +I’ll promise—fain thy face I’d see—<br /> +Yet something more, sweet friend, to thee:<br /> +The poet’s cwrw <a name="citation79"></a><a href="#footnote79">{79}</a> +thou shalt prove,<br /> +In talk with him the garden rove,<br /> +Where in each leaf thou shalt behold<br /> +The Almighty’s wonders manifold;<br /> +And every flower, in verity,<br /> +Shall unto thee show visibly,<br /> +In every fibre of its frame,<br /> +His deep design, who made the same.—<br /> +A thousand flowers stand here around,<br /> +With glorious brightness some are crown’d:<br /> +How beauteous art thou, lily fair!<br /> +With thee no silver can compare:<br /> +I’ll not forget thy dress outshone<br /> +The pomp of regal Solomon.<br /> +I write the friend, I love so well,<br /> +No sounding verse his heart to swell.<br /> +The fragile flowerets of the plain<br /> +Can rival human triumphs vain.<br /> +I liken to a floweret’s fate<br /> +The fleeting joys of mortal state;<br /> +The flower so glorious seen to-day<br /> +To-morrow dying fades away;<br /> +An end has soon the flowery clan,<br /> +And soon arrives the end of man;<br /> +The fairest floweret, ever known,<br /> +Would fade when cheerful summer’s flown;<br /> +Then hither haste, ere turns the wheel!<br /> +Old age doth on these flowers steal;<br /> +Though pass’d two-thirds of Autumn-time,<br /> +Of summer temperature’s the clime;<br /> +The garden shows no sickliness,<br /> +The weather old age vanquishes,<br /> +The leaves are greenly glorious still—<br /> +But friend! grow old they must and will.</p> +<p>The rose, at edge of winter now,<br /> +Doth fade with all its summer glow;<br /> +Old are become the roses all,<br /> +Decline to age we also shall;<br /> +And with this prayer I’ll end my lay,<br /> +Amen, with me, O Parry say;<br /> +To us be rest from all annoy,<br /> +And a robust old age of joy;<br /> +May we, ere pangs of death we know,<br /> +Back to our native Mona go;<br /> +May pleasant days us there await,<br /> +United and inseparate!<br /> +And the dread hour, when God shall please<br /> +To bid our mutual journey cease,<br /> +May Christ, who reigns in heaven above,<br /> +Receive us to his breast of love!</p> +<h2>THE RISING OF ACHILLES.</h2> +<p><i>From the Iliad.</i></p> +<p>Straightway Achilles arose, the belov’d of Jove, round his +shoulders<br /> +Brawny her Ægis spread, fair fring’d, his guardian Athena,<br /> +And his head with a cloud of golden hue and transparent<br /> +She has encircled about, whence darted fire resplendent.<br /> +As when fire from the town ascending clambers the ether<br /> +Out of the island afar, around which enemies gather—<br /> +Fierce the defenders all day engage in desperate warfare,<br /> +Forth from the town advanc’d; but soon as the sun has descended<br /> +Flame with beacons the dense, huge turrets; upwards the blazes<br /> +Flaring, struggling ascend to be seen by friends and by neighbours,<br /> +If with assistance in war o’er the sea in ships they are coming—<br /> +So from Achilles’s head uptower’d the blazes to heaven;<br /> +Striding from out the wall, he stood o’er the trench, but he mingled<br /> +Not with the Greeks, for he heeded his mother’s solemn injunction;<br /> +Standing, he shouted there, conjointly Pallas Athena<br /> +Scream’d, and trouble immense was caus’d thereby to the +Trojans;<br /> +Like to the clamorous sound that’s heard, when pealing the trumpet<br /> +Thrills through the city, besieg’d by bands of turbulent foemen,<br /> +E’en was the clamorous sound sent forth by Eacus’ grandson—<br /> +Soon as the dreadful voice was heard of Eacus’ grandson,<br /> +All their minds were amaz’d—the fair-man’d beautiful +horses<br /> +Back’d with the chariots amain, such fear was awak’d in +their bosoms;<br /> +Ghasted the charioteers survey’d the untameable blazes<br /> +Horribly round the brow of high, heroic Peleides<br /> +Burning, ignited by her the blue-eyed Goddess Athena<br /> +Thrice then o’er the deep trench loud shouted god-like Achilles,<br /> +Thrice were the Trojans confus’d and all their illustrious aiders;<br /> +Already round that trench had twice six champions fallen,<br /> +Spoil’d of their chariots and arms, so that gladly now the Achaians<br /> +Out of the tempest of darts the slain Patroclus dragging<br /> +Plac’d on the sorrowful couch; his comrades round it arrang’d +them<br /> +Loudly lamenting, and thither there came swift-footed Achilles<br /> +Shedding the hottest of tears, when he saw his comrade so faithful<br /> +Stretch’d on that sorrowful couch, transfixt with the sharp pointed +iron—<br /> +Him he had lately despatch’d with chariot and steeds to the war-field<br /> +Never, alas, to receive from that red war-field returning.</p> +<h2>THE MEETING OF ODYSSES AND ACHILLES.</h2> +<p>In Hades.<br /> +<i>From the Odyssey.</i></p> +<p>Tow’rds me came the Shade of Peleidean Achilles,<br /> +And of Patroclus belov’d, and Antilochus daring and blameless,<br /> +And of Aias—of Him, who in bulk and beauty of figure<br /> +Far excell’d every Greek, to Peleides only inferior.<br /> +Me on the instant knew the Shade of Eacus’ grandson,<br /> +And in sorrowful mood with words swift flowing address’d me.</p> +<p>Tell me Laertes’ son, Odysses matchless in wisdom,<br /> +What fresh wondrous deed within thy brain thou art brooding,<br /> +That to the vasty deep of Hades down thou descendest,<br /> +Where the poor dead abide, mere idle shapes of the living.</p> +<p>Soon as the Hero ceas’d, in answer thus I address’d him:<br /> +Know, O Peleus’ son, Achilles bravest of Grecians,<br /> +Seeking Tiresias hither I’ve come, to beg of him counsel<br /> +How I may Ithaca reach with its high-ridg’d, cloud-cover’d +mountains;<br /> +Nor to Achaia I’ve been, nor my foot on the shore of my country<br /> +Wretch have I plac’d, whom ever misfortunes pursue; but no mortal<br /> +E’er was so blest, as Thou, or ever will be, O Achilles,<br /> +For when alive, as a God, we Argives held thee in honor;<br /> +Now e’en here, how high above the mighty departed<br /> +Thou dost in majesty rise; grieve not though dead, O Achilles.</p> +<p>Soon as these words I’d said, the Shade in answer address’d +me:<br /> +Talk not of death to me, in mercy, glorious Odysses,<br /> +For on the Earth’s green sod I’d rather toil as the hireling<br /> +Of some inglorious wight, and of one as poor as inglorious,<br /> +Than over all the dead in Hades reign as a Monarch;<br /> +But of my noble boy some tiding give me, I pray thee,<br /> +Whether or not he’s fam’d as a gallant leader in battle;<br /> +And if aught thou hast heard of good old Peleus, tell me;<br /> +Still is he held in dread in Myrmidonian cities,<br /> +Or has he lost respect in Hellas-land and in Pthia,<br /> +Now old age has robb’d his hands and feet of their vigour?<br /> +Think not an aid so good I’m now in the light of the sun-beam,<br /> +As of old time I prov’d on the broad domain of the Trojans,<br /> +When, in the Argives aid, I slew the best of their army;<br /> +Were I to enter now, as I am, the hall of my father,<br /> +Full little dread these hands would wake in the bosoms of any,<br /> +Who in that hall do serve, and are kept by fear in obeisance.</p> +<p>Soon as the Hero ceas’d, in answer thus I address’d him:<br /> +Nothing, alas, which regards the good, old Peleus know I;<br /> +But the whole tale of thy boy, thy Neoptolemus cherish’d,<br /> +I will with truth relate, by thee, great Shade, as commanded:<br /> +I myself had the luck in my own hollow ship to convey him<br /> +Forth from Scyros afar with a band of well-greav’d Achaians.<br /> +Ever when round Troy’s town in council grave we assembled<br /> +He was the first to rise with a flow of eloquence faultless,<br /> +So that Nestor divine and myself confess’d him our master;<br /> +But when on Troy’s champain we strove with spear and with buckler<br /> +Never amid the crowd you’d have found him or in the phalanx—<br /> +Far in front he advanc’d, in courage shining the foremost,<br /> +And full many a man he slew in the rage of the combat;<br /> +There’s no need to recount and to name in endless succession<br /> +All the renown’d he slew, whilst assisting strongly the Argives;<br /> +Let it suffice that with steel he stretch’d Eurypilus lifeless,<br /> +Telephos’ hero-son, and around that hero were slaughter’d<br /> +All his Ceteian friends, ensnar’d by the smiles of the damsels.</p> +<p>But when within the horse, the wondrous work of Epeius,<br /> +Enter’d the noble Greeks, with me their chosen commander,<br /> +Where we reclin’d thick and close, and one o’er the other +we panted,—<br /> +Then whilst the rest of the chiefs and princes high of the Argives<br /> +Wip’d away feminine tears, and each shook in every member,<br /> +Him in that hour of dread these orbs of vision beheld not<br /> +Either grow pallid or quake, or away from his cheek fresh and downy<br /> +Wiping the tears—O no! and ever he begg’d for the signal<br /> +Forth from the horse to emerge; and with ill intent to the Trojan,<br /> +Ever his spear he grip’d, or rattled the hilt of his falchion—<br /> +But when with ruin dread we raz’d the city of Priam<br /> +Fraught with the choicest prey the hero mounted his vessel,<br /> +Free from all scathe; his form nor smit from afar by the jav’lin,<br /> +Nor by the sword from near; no rare result of the combat,<br /> +For the tremendous Mars is no respecter of persons.</p> +<p>Scarce had I spoke when the Shade of Eacus’ swift-footed grandson<br /> +Stalk’d with huge strides away o’er the flowery grass of +the meadow,<br /> +Glad at the heart that its boy was fam’d ’mongst the brave +as a warrior.</p> +<h2>HYMN</h2> +<p>To Thetis and Neoptolemus.<br /> +<i>From the Greek of Heliodorus.</i></p> +<p>Of Thetis I sing with her locks of gold-shine,<br /> +The daughter of Nereus, lord of the brine,<br /> +To Peleus wedded, by Jove’s high decree;<br /> +I sing her, the Venus so fair of the sea.<br /> +Of the spearman tremendous, the Mars of the fight,<br /> +Thunderbolt of old Greece, she was quickly made light,<br /> +Of Achilles divine, to whom Pyrrha an heir,<br /> +The boy Neoptolemus, gladly did bear,<br /> +The destroyer of Trojans, of Grecians the shield—<br /> +Thy protection to us, Neoptolemus yield!<br /> +Who blessed doth slumber in Pythia’s green plain;<br /> +To accept this oblation of hymns from us deign,<br /> +And each peril drive far from our city benign.—<br /> +Of Thetis I sing with her locks of gold-shine.</p> +<h2>THE GRAVE OF DEMOS.</h2> +<p><i>From the Modern Greek.</i></p> +<p>Thus old Demos spoke, as sinking sought the sun the western wave:<br /> +Now, my brave lads, fetch us water, after supping let us lave;<br /> +O Lamprakes, O my nephew, down beside thy uncle sit—<br /> +When I’m gone, wear thou my trappings, and be captain, as is fit;<br /> +And do ye, my merry fellows, now my vacant sabre take,<br /> +And therewith green branches cutting, straight for me a pallet make;<br /> +Some one for the holy father, that I may confess me, run,<br /> +And that I to him may whisper all the crimes, in life I’ve done;<br /> +I’ve full thirty years as warrior, twenty five as robber pass’d;<br /> +Now I feel my end approaching, and I fain would breathe my last;<br /> +Me a tomb that’s broad and lofty, O forget not to prepare,<br /> +For erect I’ll stand within it, as in war, and weapons bear:<br /> +On the right side leave an opening, that the merry larks in spring,<br /> +Of its coming, welcome coming, may to me the tiding bring,<br /> +And for me in May’s sweet season nightingales may sweetly sing.</p> +<h2>THE SORCERIES OF CANIDIA.</h2> +<p><i>From Horace.</i></p> +<p>(Canidia and other witches, having enticed a boy of high birth into +some secret cell, proceed to bury him in the earth, up to the chin; +in order that, when he has perished with hunger in that situation, his +liver etc. may serve as ingredients for a draught, by administering +which Canidia purposes to regain the affection of Varus, who has deserted +her. The poem commences with the entreaties of the boy, and concludes +with the imprecations which he utters when about to be abandoned to +famine and inhumation.)</p> +<p>“Father of Gods, who rul’st the sky,<br /> +The earth and all the heavenly race!<br /> +What means this noise, why savagely<br /> +On me is turn’d each frightful face?—<br /> +By thy dear babes, if aid e’er lent<br /> +Lucine to thee in child-birth hour,<br /> +By this proud purple ornament,<br /> +By hands ne’er clasp’d to crave before,<br /> +I beg thee, Dame! thou wilt declare<br /> +Why she-wolf like thou me dost eye.”<br /> +Stript of his tests of lineage fair<br /> +He stood, who rais’d this piteous cry—<br /> +A boy, of form which might have made<br /> +The Thracian furies’ bosoms kind.<br /> +Canidia with her uncomb’d head<br /> +And hair with vipers short entwin’d,<br /> +Commands wild fig-trees, once that stood<br /> +By graves, and cypresses uptorn,<br /> +And toads foul eggs, imbued with blood,<br /> +And plume, by night-owl lately worn,<br /> +Herbs too, which Iolchos and Spain<br /> +Produce, renown’d for poisons dire,<br /> +And bone from hungry mastiff ta’en,<br /> +Straight to be burn’d in magic fire.<br /> +And now the witch strode through the house,<br /> +Hell-waters scattering wide around;<br /> +Her hair like hedgehog’s bristling rose,<br /> +Or like the boar’s whom hunters wound.<br /> +Veia, by pity unrestrain’d,<br /> +With pick-axe hastes the ground to tear,<br /> +And toil’d till sweat she panting rain’d,<br /> +That the poor wretch imburied there<br /> +Might slowly die, in sight of food<br /> +Renew’d each day, his head so far<br /> +Extant from earth, as from the flood<br /> +The heads of swimmers extant are;<br /> +That the parch’d marrow and the dry<br /> +Liver for a love-draught might be,<br /> +When fixt upon the feast the eye,<br /> +The craving eye should cease to see.<br /> +All Naples says in verity,<br /> +And all the neighbouring towns beside,<br /> +That Folia lewd of Rimini<br /> +Was present there, that dreadful tide—<br /> +She who with verse Thessalian sang<br /> +Down from their spheres the stars and moon.<br /> +Her uncut thumb with livid fang<br /> +The fell Canidia biting soon:<br /> +“Night and Diana,” scream’d she out,<br /> +“Of my deeds faithful witnesses!<br /> +Ye who spread silence wide about,<br /> +When wrought are sacred mysteries!<br /> +Now aid me: in my foe’s house bid<br /> +Your wrath and power divine to hie,<br /> +Whilst in their awful forests hid,<br /> +O’ercome with sleep, the wild beasts lie:<br /> +May suburb curs, that all may jeer,<br /> +Bay the old lecher, smear’d with nard <a name="citation94"></a><a href="#footnote94">{94}</a>,<br /> +More choice than which these fingers ne’er<br /> +Have, skilful, at my need prepar’d.<br /> +But why have charms by me employ’d,<br /> +Less luck than her’s, Medea dread,<br /> +With which her rival she destroy’d,<br /> +Great Creon’s child, then proudly fled,<br /> +When the robe bane-imbued, her gift,<br /> +Enwrapp’d the new-wed bride in flame?<br /> +But neither herb, nor root from rift<br /> +Of lone rock ta’en, are here to blame;<br /> +In every harlot’s bed lies he<br /> +Anointed with oblivion;<br /> +Ah, ah, ’tis plain he walketh free<br /> +Protected by some mightier one.<br /> +But Varus! thou shalt suffer yet!<br /> +Thou shalt re-seek these longing arms,<br /> +And ne’er from me re-alienate<br /> +Thy mind, enthrall’d by Marsan charms.<br /> +A cup more powerful I for thee<br /> +Will soon prepare, disdainful wretch!<br /> +Ere shall the sky sink ’neath the sea,<br /> +And that shall o’er the earth out-stretch,<br /> +Than with my love thou shalt not burn,<br /> +Like pitch, which in these flames I throw.”<br /> +Not with mild words their bosoms stern<br /> +To melt, as erst, the boy sought now;<br /> +But madly reckless he began<br /> +The direst curses forth to rave:<br /> +“And do not think your sorceries can<br /> +Yourselves from retribution save:<br /> +Your curse I’ll prove; my deathless hate<br /> +By sacrifice ne’er sooth’d shall be;<br /> +But when I perish, bid by fate,<br /> +A night-ghost ye shall have in me.<br /> +With crook’d nails I’ll your faces tear,<br /> +For great is injur’d spirits might,<br /> +On your breasts seated, hard I’ll bear,<br /> +And banish sleep with ceaseless fright;<br /> +Ye through the streets with stones the crowd<br /> +To death shall pelt, ye hags obscene!<br /> +Your limbs, no sepulture allow’d,<br /> +The wolves shall tear and birds unclean.<br /> +My parents who, though grey and old,<br /> +Shall me survive, their youthful boy<br /> +When they that spectacle behold<br /> +Shall clap their hands and smile for joy.”</p> +<h2>THE FRENCH CAVALIER, etc.</h2> +<p><i>From the Provençal.</i></p> +<p>The French cavalier shall have my praise,<br /> +And the dame of the Catalan;<br /> +Of the Genoese the honorable ways,<br /> +And a court on Castilian plan;<br /> +The gentle, gentle Provençal lays,<br /> +The dance of Trevisan;<br /> +The heart which the Aragonese displays,<br /> +And the pearl of Julian;<br /> +The hands and face of the English race,<br /> +And a youth of Tuscan clan.</p> +<h2>ADDRESS TO SLEEP.</h2> +<p><i>From the Italian of Vincenzio Filicaia.</i></p> +<p>Sweet death of sense, oblivion of ill,<br /> +Sleep! who from war, from time to time, dost bear<br /> +Poor, wretched mortals, and in peace dost still—<br /> +Compose the discords, which my bosom tear,<br /> +For a brief space, and kindly interpose<br /> +Thy soothing wings betwixt me and my care.<br /> +These eyes, which seem in love with weeping, close!<br /> +And make my senses for a time thy bower,<br /> +That whilst I sleep I may my sorrows lose.<br /> +I do not crave that thou the wand of power,<br /> +Three times in Lethe dipp’d, at me shouldst shake,<br /> +And all my senses sprinkle o’er and o’er;<br /> +Let souls, more fortunate, thereof partake—<br /> +Of languid rest a portion scant and slight,<br /> +My weary, wandering eyes content will make.<br /> +Now all the world is hush’d; to sleep invite<br /> +The falling stars, and lull’d appears the main,<br /> +And prone the winds have slumber’d on their flight;<br /> +I, I alone—who will believe my strain?<br /> +I, I alone, in this repose profound<br /> +And universal, no repose can gain;<br /> +Four suns, and moons as many, have come round,<br /> +Since tasted last these wretched lights of mine<br /> +Of thee, sweet cordial to the sick and sound.<br /> +There on the rough peaks of the Apennine,<br /> +Or where to Arno’s breast in dower doth throw<br /> +The Pesa limpid waves and crystalline—<br /> +With eye-balls motionless, and hearts which glow<br /> +With zeal and faith, repel thee as a sin,<br /> +Perchance some band of eremites e’en now;<br /> +O come from thence! and for one hour within<br /> +My bosom deign to tarry, then retreat,<br /> +And in some other breast admission win;<br /> +I call thee thence! but if thou’dst hither fleet<br /> +From, where now Love excludes thy gentle might—<br /> +Love with its phantasies so bitter sweet,—<br /> +Avaunt, avaunt! full wretched is my plight!<br /> +But honor, virtue I adore ’bove all,<br /> +Nor to profane night’s sacred hours delight,<br /> +Descend on me, as on some mountain tall<br /> +Descends the snow, and there, dissolving soon,<br /> +Back to its pristine element doth fall;<br /> +Or that same dew, which suckleth bland and boon<br /> +Each green grass blade when morn begins to peep,<br /> +That none neglected may its faith impugn.<br /> +Before I die thy humid pinions sweep<br /> +Above me once, but O to stain forbear<br /> +The heart which still immaculate I keep!<br /> +But thou com’st not, and now, with rosy hair<br /> +From Ganges hastening, to all things again<br /> +Their native hue restores Day’s harbinger.<br /> +Perhaps thou’st come, and ah, my cruel pain<br /> +And wakeful thoughts thee ingress have denied<br /> +Into my eyes, or hurl’d thee out amain.<br /> +Since, blundering archer, thou dost shoot aside,<br /> +Or snapp’st thy every dart my breast upon,<br /> +To me thy wand be never more applied!<br /> +Away, away! grim Death can blunt alone<br /> +My miseries’ point, and ne’er till life be spent<br /> +I shall the hour of dear repose have won.<br /> +O how the strife within is vehement!<br /> +Now reason wins, now madness holds the sway;<br /> +So much my ill can do, nor I prevent.<br /> +O may this soul of mine from out its clay<br /> +Fly to repose elsewhere! I’m sure to see<br /> +My last hour once; and though far, far away<br /> +The feign’d death keep, the true shall visit me.</p> +<h2>THE MOORMEN’S MARCH FROM GRANADA.</h2> +<p>An Ancient Ballad.<br /> +<i>From the Spanish,</i></p> +<p>“Reduan, I but lately heard<br /> +From thy mouth the sounding word,<br /> +That for me the town of Jaen<br /> +In one night thou wouldst obtain;<br /> +Reduan, if thou do the same,<br /> +Double pay thou mayest claim;<br /> +Save thy word perform’d I see,<br /> +From Granada thou shalt flee,<br /> +Banish’d to a far frontier,<br /> +Where thy lady shall not cheer.”<br /> +Reduan, at the Monarch’s side,<br /> +With unalter’d mien replied:<br /> +“Though the word I never said,<br /> +It I’ll do, or lose my head.”<br /> +Reduan crav’d one thousand men—<br /> +Five the Monarch gave him then.<br /> +From Elvira’s portal-arch<br /> +See the cavalcado march:<br /> +Many a Moor of birth was there,<br /> +Many a bay, high-blooded mare,<br /> +Many a lance in fist of might,<br /> +Many a buckler beaming bright,<br /> +Many a green marlote is spied,<br /> +Many a ren aljube beside,<br /> +Many a plume of gallant air,<br /> +Many a rich-grain’d cappellare,<br /> +Many a boot a-borzegui,<br /> +Many a silken string and tie,<br /> +Many a spur of gold there clung,<br /> +Many a silver stirrup swung.<br /> +All the men that rode that day<br /> +Were expert at battle-fray:<br /> +Midst of all that pomp and pow’r<br /> +Chyquo Monarch of the Moor.<br /> +Moorish dames and maidens high<br /> +Them from proud Alhambra eye;<br /> +And the Moorish Queen so grey<br /> +In this guise was heard to say:<br /> +“Speed thee hence my son and love!<br /> +Mahomet thy Guardian prove!<br /> +Crown’d with honor back from Jaen<br /> +May he bring thee soon again.”</p> +<h2>THE FORSAKEN.</h2> +<p><i>From the Spanish.</i></p> +<p>Up I rose, O mother, early<br /> +On the blest Saint Juan’s morn;<br /> +By the sea I saw a damsel,<br /> +Saw a damsel all forlorn.</p> +<p>Lonely there she wash’d her garments<br /> +And upon a rose-tree hung;<br /> +Whilst the garments there were drying<br /> +She a plaintiff ditty sung.</p> +<p>“O my love, my fickle lover—<br /> +Where to find him shall I stray?”<br /> +Up and down the strand she hurried<br /> +Singing, singing this sad lay.</p> +<p>In her hand a comb she carried,<br /> +All of gold, to comb her hair;<br /> +“Tell me, tell me, gentle sailor—<br /> +Heaven take thee ’neath it’s care—<br /> +Hast thou seen my fickle lover,<br /> +Hast thou seen him any where?”</p> +<h2>STANZAS.</h2> +<p><i>From the Portuguese.</i></p> +<p>A fool is he who in the lap<br /> +Basking of every smiling joy,<br /> +Will each and all with fear alloy<br /> +Of what some future day may hap.</p> +<p>Let him enjoy his present state;<br /> +For he but double make his woes,<br /> +Who midst the future’s shadows goes<br /> +To meet the ills of murky fate.</p> +<h2>MY EIGHTEENTH YEAR.</h2> +<p><i>From the French.</i></p> +<p>Where is my eighteenth year? far back<br /> +Upon life’s variegated track;<br /> +Yet fondly oft I turn my eye,<br /> +And for my eighteenth year I sigh.</p> +<p>Each pleasure then I took with zest,<br /> +And hope was inmate of my breast—<br /> +Enchanting hope, consoling thing,<br /> +The plucker out of sorrow’s sting.</p> +<p>The sun above shone brighter then,<br /> +Fairer were women, kinder men;<br /> +If tears I shed, they soon were o’er,<br /> +And I was happier than before.</p> +<p>The minstrel-wight of ancient day<br /> +Wish’d that the twelve months all were May;<br /> +I wish that every year I see<br /> +The eighteenth of my life could be.</p> +<h2>SONG.</h2> +<p><i>From the Rommany or Gypsy Language.</i></p> +<p>The strength of the ox,<br /> +The wit of the fox,<br /> +And the leveret’s speed,—<br /> +Full oft, to oppose<br /> +To their numerous foes,<br /> +The Rommany need.</p> +<p>Our horses they take,<br /> +Our waggons they break,<br /> +And ourselves they seize,<br /> +In their prisons to coop,<br /> +Where we pine and droop,<br /> +For want of breeze.</p> +<p>When the dead swallow<br /> +The fly shall follow<br /> +O’er Burra-panee,<br /> +Then we will forget<br /> +The wrongs we have met,<br /> +And forgiving be.</p> +<h2>Footnotes:</h2> +<p><a name="footnote8"></a><a href="#citation8">{8}</a> Gennet +is a word of Arabic origin, and signifies paradise.</p> +<p><a name="footnote10"></a><a href="#citation10">{10}</a> No +true Mussulman will receive any remuneration for communicating instruction.</p> +<p><a name="footnote13"></a><a href="#citation13">{13}</a> Allusion +is here made to metempsychosis or the transmigration of souls.</p> +<p><a name="footnote14"></a><a href="#citation14">{14}</a> His +relations.</p> +<p><a name="footnote17"></a><a href="#citation17">{17}</a> Goblins.</p> +<p><a name="footnote18"></a><a href="#citation18">{18}</a> Spaces +of time.</p> +<p><a name="footnote21"></a><a href="#citation21">{21}</a> The +principal banner.</p> +<p><a name="footnote22"></a><a href="#citation22">{22}</a> Wang +Liyang and Siyan Ou were ancient kings of China, and mighty hunters, +of whose exploits many extravagant tales are related.</p> +<p><a name="footnote26"></a><a href="#citation26">{26}</a> Cossack +village.</p> +<p><a name="footnote32"></a><a href="#citation32">{32}</a> The +knights of the German Order, who eventually christianized the pagan +Lithuanians at the point of the lance and sword.</p> +<p><a name="footnote33"></a><a href="#citation33">{33}</a> Polish.</p> +<p><a name="footnote38"></a><a href="#citation38">{38}</a> The +Mermaid.</p> +<p><a name="footnote40"></a><a href="#citation40">{40}</a> The +war-goddess, according to the Northern Mythology.</p> +<p><a name="footnote50"></a><a href="#citation50">{50}</a> Wessel +was the family name of Tordenskiold. Tordenskiold is an epithet +bestowed upon the Danish Admiral for his prowess and heroism. +It signifies: shield of thunder.</p> +<p><a name="footnote51"></a><a href="#citation51">{51}</a> This +piece has already appeared in print, having been inserted some years +since in the Foreign Quarterly Review, in an article on Danish poetry, +of which the prose part proceeded from the pen of Doctor John Bowring.</p> +<p><a name="footnote54"></a><a href="#citation54">{54}</a> The +river-god.</p> +<p><a name="footnote63"></a><a href="#citation63">{63}</a> The +Northern Venus.</p> +<p><a name="footnote65"></a><a href="#citation65">{65}</a> The +personage, who figures in the splendid forgeries of MacPherson under +the name of Fingal.</p> +<p><a name="footnote68"></a><a href="#citation68">{68}</a> The +Gaelic word for nobleman.</p> +<p><a name="footnote72"></a><a href="#citation72">{72}</a> Ancient +bards, to whose mansion, in the clouds, the speaker hopes that his spirit +will be received.</p> +<p><a name="footnote73a"></a><a href="#citation73a">{73a}</a> +Written in the fifth century.</p> +<p><a name="footnote73b"></a><a href="#citation73b">{73b}</a> +The British, like many other nations, whose early history is involved +in obscurity, claim a Trojan descent.</p> +<p><a name="footnote74"></a><a href="#citation74">{74}</a> Awen, +or poetic genius, which he is said to have imbibed in his childhood, +whilst employed in watching the cauldron of the sorceress Cridwen.</p> +<p><a name="footnote75"></a><a href="#citation75">{75}</a> I was +but a child, but am now Taliesin,—Taliesin signifies: brow of +brightness.</p> +<p><a name="footnote79"></a><a href="#citation79">{79}</a> Ale.</p> +<p><a name="footnote94"></a><a href="#citation94">{94}</a> They +had, it seems, made an image of Varus, and besmeared it with some high-smelling +ointment, in the hope that Varus, by sympathy, would bear about him +the odour of the same, so that the dogs might bay at him in his nocturnal +excursions.</p> +<p> </p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TARGUM***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 12510-h.htm or 12510-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/5/1/12510 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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