Chapter XV: Introduction (13)

_Hour._ We are of that sort ourselves.
But, Silvan, say, why do you love
Only to frequent the grove?

_Silvan._ Life is fullest of content
When delight is innocent.

_Hour._ Pleasure must vary, not be long;
Come, then, let’s close, and end the song.
DR. THOMAS CAMPION 1607.

TO CYNTHIA.

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep; Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright!

Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia’s shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close; Bless us, then with wished sight, Goddess excellently bright!

Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever; Thou that mak’st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright! BEN JONSON 1574–1637.

TO NIGHT.

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?

Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus with the host of Heaven came,
And lo! creation widened in man’s view.
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,
While fly, and leaf, and insect lay revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad’st us blind!
Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife?
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life?
BLANCO WHITE.

NIGHT.

When I survey the bright
Celestial sphere,
So rich with jewels hung, that night
Doth like an Ethiop bride appear;

My soul her wings doth spread,
And heavenward flies
The Almighty’s mysteries to read
In the large volume of the skies.

For the bright firmament
Shoots forth no flame
So silent, but is eloquent
In speaking the Creator’s name.

No unregarded star
Contracts its light
Into so small character,
Remov’d far from our human sight:

But if we steadfast look,
We shall discern
In it, as in some holy book,
How man may heavenly knowledge learn.

It tells the conqueror
That far-stretch’d power,
Which his proud dangers traffic for,
Is but the triumph of an hour.

That from the farthest north
Some nation may
Yet undiscovered issue forth,
And o’er his new-got conquest sway.

Some nation yet shut in
With hills of ice,
May be let out to scourge his sin,
Till they shall equal him in vice.

And they likewise shall
Their ruin have;
For as yourselves, your empires fall,
And every kingdom hath a grave.

There those celestial fires,
Though seeming mute,
The fallacy of our desires,
And all the pride of life confute.

For they have watch’d since first
The world had birth,
And found sin in itself accurst,
And nothing permanent on earth.
WILLIAM HABINGTON, 1560–1647.

TO THE MOON.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Fillest hill and vale again,
Still with softening light!
Loosest from the world’s cold chain
All my soul to-night!

Spreadest round me, far and nigh,
Soothingly thy smile;
From thee, as from friendship’s eye,
Sorrow shrinks the while.

Every echo thrills my heart—
Glad and gloomy mood;
Joy and sorrow both have part
In my solitude.

River, river, glide along!
I am sad, alas!
Fleeting things are love and song—
Even so they pass!

I have had, and I have lost
What I long for yet;
Ah! why will we, to our cost,
Simple joys forget?

River, river, glide along,
Without stop or stay;
Murmur, whisper to my song,
In melodious play:

Whether on a winter’s night
Rise thy swollen floods,
Or in spring thou hast delight,
Watering the young buds.

Happy he, who, hating none,
Leaves the world’s dull noise,
And with trusty friends alone
Quietly enjoys

What, forever unexpressed,
Hid from common sight,
Through the mazes of the breast
Softly steals the night!
_Translation of_ J. S. DWIGHT. JOHANN WOLFGANG V. GOETHE,
1749–1832.

MOONLIGHT.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Darker than the day,
Clearer than the night,
Shines the mellow moonlight,

From the rocky heights,
Shapes in shimmer clad,
Mistily are mounting.

Pearls of silver dew,
Soft distilling, drop
On the silent meadows.

Night of sweetest song,
With the gloomy woods,
Philomela mingleth.

Far in ether wide
Yawns the dread abyss
Of deep worlds uncounted.

Neither eye nor ear,
Seeking, findeth here
The end of mazy thinking.

Evermore the wheel
Of unmeasured Time
Turns round all existence;

And it bears away
Swift, how swift! the prey
Of fleet-flitting mortals.

Where soft breezes blow,
Where thou see’st the row
Of smooth-shining beeches;

Driven from the flood
Of the thronging Time,
Lina’s hut receives me.

Brighter than aloft,
In night’s shimmering star,
Peace with her is shining.

And the vale so sweet,
And the sweet moonlight,
Where she dwells, is sweeter.
_Anonymous Translation._ CARL V. KNEBEL, 1744–1834.

ELEGY.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF PETRARCH.

In the still evening, when with rapid flight,
Low in the western sky the sun descends
To give expectant nations life and light,
The aged pilgrim, in some clime unknown,
Slow journeying, right onward fearful bends
With weary haste, a stranger and alone;
Yet, when his labor ends,

He solitary sleeps.
And in short slumber steeps
Each sense of sorrow hanging on the day,
And all the toil of the long past way:
But O each pang, that wakes with morn’s first ray,
More piercing wounds my breast,
When heaven’s eternal light sinks crimson in the west!

His burning wheels when downward Phœbus bends,
And leaves the world to night, its lengthened shade
Each towering mountain o’er the vale extends;
The thrifty peasant shoulders light his spade,
With sylvan carol gay and uncouth note,
Bidding his cares upon the wild winds float—
Content in peace to share
His poor and humble fare,
As in that golden age
We honor still, yet leave its simple ways;
Whoe’er so list, let joy his hours engage:
No gladness e’er has cheer’d my gloomy days,
Nor moment of repose,
However rolled the spheres, whatever planet rose.

When as the shepherd marks the sloping ray
Of the great orb that sinks in ocean’s bed,
While on the east soft steals the evening gray,
He rises, and resumes the accustom’d crook,
Quitting the beechen grove, the field, the brook,
And gently homeward drives the flock he fed;
Then far from human tread,
In lonely hut or cave,
O’er which the green boughs wave,
In sleep without a thought he lays his head:
Ah! cruel Love! at this dark, silent hour,
Thou wak’st to trace, and with redoubled power,
The voice, the step, the air
Of her who scorns my chain, and flies thy fatal snare.

And in some sheltered bay, at evening’s close,
The mariners their rude coats 'round them fold,
Stretched on the rugged plank in deep repose:
But I, though Phœbus sink into the main,
And leave Granada wrapt in night with Spain,
Morocco, and the Pillars fam’d of old—
Though all of human kind,

And every creature blest,
All hush their ills to rest,
No end to my unceasing sorrows find:
And still the sad account swells day by day;
For, since these thoughts on my lorn spirit prey,
I see the tenth year roll;
Nor hope of freedom springs in my desponding soul.

Thus, as I vent my bursting bosom’s pain!
Lo! from their yoke I see the oxen freed—
Slow moving homeward o’er the furrowed plain:
Why to my sorrow is no pause decreed?
Why from my yoke no respite must I know?
Why gush these tears, and never cease to flow?
Ah, me! what sought my eyes,
When, fixed in fond surprise,
On her angelic face
I gazed, and on my heart each charm impress’d?
From whence nor force nor art the sacred trace
Shall e’er remove, till I the victim rest
Of Death, whose mortal blow
Shall my pure spirit free, and this worn frame lay low.
_Translation of_ LADY DACRE. FRANCESCO PETRARCA, 1304–1374.

NIGHT SONG.

FROM THE GERMAN.

The moon is up in splendor,
And golden stars attend her;
The heavens are calm and bright;
Trees cast a deepening shadow,
And slowly off the meadow
A mist is rising silver-white.

Night’s curtains now are closing
'Round half a world reposing
In calm and holy trust:
All seems one vast, still chamber,
Where weary hearts remember
No more the sorrows of the dust.
_Translation of_ C. T. BROOKS. MATTHIAS CLAUDIUS, 1740–1818.

PROGRESS OF EVENING.

From yonder wood mark blue-eyed Eve proceed: First through the deep, and warm, and secret glens, Through the pale-glimmering, privet-scented lane, And through those alders by the river-side: Now the soft dust impedes her, which the sheep Have hollow’d out beneath their hawthorn shade. But ah! look yonder! see a misty tide Rise up the hill, lay low the frowning grove, Enwrap the gay, white mansion, sap its sides, Until they sink and melt away like chalk. Now it comes down against our village tower, Covers its base, floats o’er its arches, tears The clinging ivy from the battlements— Mingles in broad embrace the obdurate stone All one vast ocean! and goes swelling on Slow and silent, dim and deepening waves. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

NIGHT.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

Night dew-lipped comes, and every gleaming star
Its silent place assigns in yonder sky;
The moon walks forth, and fields and groves afar,
Touched by her light, in silver beauty lie
In solemn peace, that no sound comes to mar;
Hamlets and peopled cities slumber nigh;
While on this rock, in meditation’s mien,
Lord of the unconscious world, I sit unseen.

How deep the quiet of this pensive hour!
Nature bids labor cease—and all obey.
How sweet this stillness, in its magic power
O’er hearts that know her voice and own her sway!
Stillness unbroken, save when from the flower
The whirring locust takes his upward way;
And murmuring o’er the verdant turf is heard
The passing brook—or leaf by breezes stirred.

Borne on the pinions of night’s freshening air,
Unfettered thoughts with calm reflection come;

And fancy’s train, that shuns the daylight glare,
To wake when midnight shrouds the heavens in gloom;
Now tranquil joys, and hopes untouched by care,
Within my bosom throng to seek a home;
While far around the brooding darkness spreads,
And o’er the soul its pleasing sadness sheds.
_Anonymous Translation._ IPPOLITO PINDEMONTE, 1753–1828.

EVENING.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS.

Silent and cool, now freshening breezes blow
Where groves of chestnut crown yon shadowy steep,
And all around the tears of evening weep
For closing day, whose vast orb, westering slow,
Flings o’er the embattled clouds a mellower glow;
While pens of folded herds, and murmuring deep,
And falling rills, such gentle cadence keep,
As e’en might soothe the weary heart of woe.
Yet what to me is eve, what evening airs,
Or falling rills, or ocean’s murmuring sound,
While sad and comfortless I seek in vain
Her who in absence turns my joy to cares,
And, as I cast my listless glances round,
Makes varied scenery but varied pain?
_Translation of_ VISCOUNT STRANGFORD. LUIS DE CAMOENS, 1524–1579.

SPRING EVENING.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Bright with the golden shine of heaven, plays
On tender blades the dew;
And the spring-landscape’s trembling likeness sways
Clear in the streamlet’s blue.

Fair is the rocky fount, the blossomed hedge,
Groves stained with golden light;
Fair is the star of eve, that on the edge
Of purple clouds shines bright.

Fair is the meadow’s green—the valley’s copse—
The hillock’s dress of flowers—
The alder-brook—the reed-encircled pond,
O’er-snowed with blossom-showers.

This manifold world of Love is held in one
By Love’s eternal band;
The glow-worm and the fire-sea of the sun
Sprang from one Father’s hand!

Thou beckonest, Almighty! from the tree
The blossom’s leaf doth fall;
Thou beckonest, and in immensity
Is quenched a solar ball!
_Anonymous Translation._ FRIEDRICH VON MATTHISSON, 1761–1831.

SONG.

The splendor falls on castle walls, And snowy summits old in story The long light shakes across the lakes And the wild cataract leaps in glory: Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh hark! oh hear! now thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! Oh! sweet and far, from cliff and scar, The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing. Blow; let us hear the purple glens replying, Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O Love, they die on yon rich sky, They faint on hill, on field, on river; Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer dying, dying, dying. ALFRED TENNYSON.

SONG.

Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv’st unseen Within thy airy shell By slow Meander’s margent green, And in the violet embroider’d vale, Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair

That likest thy Narcissus are?
O, if thou have
Hid them in some flow’ry cave,
Tell me but where,
Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere!
So may’st thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all heaven’s harmonies.
JOHN MILTON, 1608–1674.

LIFE.

Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring’s gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood—
Even such is man, whose borrow’d light
Is straight call’d in, and paid to-night,
The wind blows out; the bubble dies;
The spring entomb’d in autumn lies;
The dew dries up; the star is shot;
The flight is past—and man forgot.
HENRY KING, _Bishop of Chichester_, 1591–1669.

ON HOPE.

Reflected on the lake, I love
To see the stars of evening glow,
So tranquil in the heaven above,
So restless in the wave below.

Thus heavenly Hope is all serene;
But earthly Hope, how bright soe’er,
Still flutters o’er this changing scene,
As false and fleeting as ’tis fair.
BISHOP HEBER.

SONNET.

Beauty still walketh on the earth and air, Our present sunsets are as rich in gold As ere Iliad’s music was outrolled;

The roses of the spring are ever fair, 'Mong branches green still ring-doves coo and pair, And the deep sea still foams its music old. So, if we are at all divinely souled, This beauty will unloose our bonds of care. ’Tis pleasant, when blue skies are o’er us bending, Within old starry-gated Poesy, To meet a soul set to no worldly tune, Like thine, sweet friend! oh, dearer this to me Than are the dewy trees, the sun, the moon, Or noble music with a golden ending. ALEXANDER SMITH.

TWILIGHT.

There is an evening twilight of the heart When its wild passion-waves are lull’d to rest, And the eye sees life’s fairy scenes depart, As fades the day-dream in the rosy west. ’Tis with a nameless feeling of regret We gaze upon them as they melt away, And fondly would we bid them linger yet. But Hope is 'round us with her angel lay, Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour; Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power.

In youth the cheek was crimson’d with her glow Her smile was loveliest then; her matin song Had heaven’s own music, and the note of woe Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. Life’s little world of bliss was newly born; We knew not, cared not, it was born to die, Flush’d with the cool breeze and the dews of morn, With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, And mock’d the passing clouds that dimm’d its blue, Like our own sorrows then, as fleeting and as few.

And manhood felt her sway too—on the eye,
Half realized her early dreams burst bright,
Her promised bower of happiness seem’d nigh,
Its days of joy, its vigils of delight.
And though at times might lower the thunder-storm,
And the red lightnings threaten, still the air
Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form,
The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there.

’Tis in life’s noontide she is nearest seen, Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green.

But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, There’s more of heaven’s pure beam about her now; That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness, Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow; That smile shall brighten the dim evening-star That points our destined tomb, nor e’er depart Till the faint light of life is fled afar, And hush’d the last deep beating of the heart; The meteor bearer of our parting breath, A moonbeam in the midnight cloud of death. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

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Footnote 1:

See Part XXIX. of the following selections.

Footnote 2:

Unwilling, for a moment, to be supposed entitled to credit to which
she can lay no just claim, the writer of these remarks hastens to avow
that whatever opinions she may have formed on subjects connected with
ancient literature, have been entirely drawn from translations.
Although it is impossible to enjoy the full perfection of a great poem
in any other than the original language, yet we are enabled, by means
of the best versions, to form general views regarding a work, and to
appreciate, at least, the spirit with which it is imbued.

Footnote 3: