Chapter C: Columbia’s Banner (2)

“Within the fleecy drift we’ll lie,
We’ll hang upon the rainbow’s rim;
And all the jewels of the sky
Around thy brow shall brightly beam!
And thou shaft bathe thee in the stream
That rolls its whitening foam aboon,
And ride upon the lightning’s gleam,
And dance upon the orbed moon!
We’ll sit within the Pleiad ring,
We’ll rest on Orion’s starry belt,
And I will bid my sylphs to sing
The song that makes the dew-mist melt;
Their harps are of the umber shade,
That hides the blush of waking day,
And every gleamy string is made
Of silvery moonshine’s lengthened ray;
And thou shalt pillow on my breast,
While heavenly breathings float around,
And, with sylphs of ether blest,
Forget the joys of fairy ground.”

The emotions which this burst of burning passion excited in the doubting Fay, are well described. The remembrance of his earthly love, joined to the recollection of a sentence unperformed, enables him at last to utter a reply declining even such enjoyment. The impassioned queen, too generous to enforce her wishes, surrounds him with a spell that guards from every evil, and then bids him a reluctant and heart-felt adieu. Rapid is his progress to the termination of his labors. The conflict is soon over, and the prize is won. Already is he on the confines of his native land, and we listen to the music that proclaims his welcome. Gladly would we follow him still farther.

“But hark! from tower on tree-top high,
The sentry elf his call has made,
A streak is in the eastern sky,
Shapes of moonlight! flit and fade!
The hill-tops gleam in morning’s spring,
The sky-lark shakes his dappled wing,
The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn,
The cock has crowed and the Fays are gone.”

THE DOUBLE DISAPPOINTMENT.

A TALE FROM SPANISH HISTORY.

No one, save he who has witnessed with a heart all susceptible to the beauties of nature, can even picture to himself the delightful scene of a summer’s evening in the fair region of Granada. The mellowed tints of the declining sun gilding every object with a fairy brightness; the gushing fountains sending forth their drops of ruby light; the thick groves of citron and pomegranate, casting their deep shadows in the distance, seemingly inviting to repose, almost transport with rapture an inhabitant of our northern clime.

It was on such an evening, that a betrothed pair sat beneath the marble arcade at the dwelling of the Alcalde of the district. Their hearts seemed in unison with the delightful scene around them; their words were music to each other’s ears; their thoughts were of bright joys of the future,--and no one could have looked upon their innocent embrace, or listened to their words of love, without deeming their happiness complete. The youth rose to depart.

‘Nay, Muza, do not leave me yet,’ exclaimed the happy girl, as she turned her bright, half-smiling, half-imploring eyes, upon her lover; ‘but a short hour have we been together, and wilt thou leave me so soon?’

‘Leave thee, Zareda? nay, I would never leave thee.’

‘Why then dost thou look thus anxiously towards Hafiz, as if waiting but for thy steed to depart?’

‘Love, art not thou ever with me, as well in the raging of the conflict and in the exultation of victory, as when, side by side, we sit beneath the overhanging bower and by the cooling fountain? Am not I still with thee; and do not the thoughts of thee lead me on to glory? Allah be praised, that he has given me such a presiding angel.’

‘Thy praise is far too high, Muza, else, why shouldst thou not be willing to pass some longer portion of thy time in the immediate presence of such an angel?’

‘Love, think of our race, and lament not these too short moments of bliss; our race, scorned and trampled upon by the Christian, fast falling into the chains of slavery, and compelled to toil for him;--shall we endure it? No! rather let the desert be our home,--the home of our ancestors,--barren and desolate though it be, still may we breathe the air of freedom.--Yes, my country needs my sword, my country and my love. Do not then grieve for this short interview; am not I wholly thine,--and will not to-morrow join us never more to part? Farewell then, for a few short hours, made doubly brief by thoughts of thee.’ So saying, Muza sprang lightly upon his horse, which his faithful attendant had already led forward, and soon disappeared behind the trees that o’erhung the path. Zareda stood gazing in the direction, so long as the sound of trampling hoofs was audible, as he flew over the plain, and then, full of bright anticipations of the morrow, retired to her chamber.

That what follows may be readily understood, it is necessary to state, that the incidents of the present sketch occurred about the year 1450, when Mohammed X. ruled over the kingdom of Granada, but who, together with his people, was in turn experiencing the ill fortunes of war from the increasing power of the Christians, as had, nearly eight centuries before, the Goths from his predecessors. Though, at the time of which we write, the army of the Christians was not in force against them, still, a kind of partizan warfare continued,--sometimes, indeed, to the temporary triumph of the Moors, but always, eventually, to the permanent advantage of their enemy. The Christian leaders, attended by a few hundred followers, were continually ravaging the country; and one of them, Fernando Narvaez, with less than two hundred men, had more than once spread alarm to the very gates of Granada.

It was on the eve of an expedition of one of these partisan bands, as some twenty cavalry were scouring the country, seizing upon such travelers as were so unwary, or rather unfortunate, as to fall into their hands, that upon turning an acclivity rising abruptly from the road, and skirted by a grove of citrons, they came full upon a young Moorish horseman, riding leisurely forward, as though unconscious of danger. He appeared to be just in the prime of manhood; in stature rather above middling, yet finely proportioned. His noble bearing, together with the richness of his dress, proclaimed him a person of distinction and a warrior; his turban and scarf were wrought of the most costly materials, and spangled with jewels, whilst a sword and buckler of exquisite workmanship hung by his side;--his horse was in every respect worthy of his rider. No sooner did he perceive the band of the enemy, than he turned in flight with the speed of the wind; winding rapidly round the edge of the hill, until, for a moment, he was obscured from sight, he dashed headlong into the grove, trusting to art and his knowledge of the country to elude their pursuit. But escape was vain. They hurried eagerly forward, piercing the grove in every direction, following each winding path, and seized upon him as he was emerging from the opposite side. Resistance he saw would be useless; but he deigned not a word to his captors, and there was nought betrayed emotion, save a slight curl of contempt upon his lip as he delivered his arms into their hands, and quietly took his station, as he was bid, between two of their number. They continued about an hour reconnoitering the country, but no enemy appearing, returned to their quarters, bringing with them their prisoner.

During this interval, the young Moor had had leisure to reflect upon his situation. He was a brave warrior; and like every one who is truly brave, he possessed not only a spirit of boldness and daring during the raging of the battle, and in the hour of triumph, but could yield to disappointment and defeat, and meet the reverses of fortune with equal fortitude. So now, though he knew from the first that slavery would be the mildest lot for which he could even hope, nevertheless, he willingly yielded to necessity, and seemed to the observer, as if regardless of his situation. But this appearance was not long maintained;--a tinge of melancholy stole over his countenance; the stern and fearless look of the warrior was changed to the appearance of thoughtful anxiety and inward grief;--some more powerful emotion, and apparently unconnected with the feelings of a soldier, was working at his heart. Such was his situation as they arrived at their quarters, and conducted him immediately to the presence of their leader.

All the decision and sternness of a Spanish general was depicted in the countenance of Narvaez. His authority was usually severe, and his will not to be questioned; but, at times, he would exhibit a natural disposition of kindness and benevolence, which endeared him to his followers, and rendered him none the less fitted to command.

‘Who art thou?’ said he, as the prisoner was led before him, ‘and whither wert thou going, thus unattended, through a hostile country?’

‘Christian,’ said the Moor, as he endeavored to assume an appearance becoming his rank, but which, it was evident at the time, cost him no slight exertion,--‘know that I am the son of the Alcalde of Ronda; and I was going, this very night, to claim--’ but the effort was too much for him; he burst into tears.

‘Thou astonishest me!’ cried Narvaez,--‘thy father I knew well, and, though an enemy, yet will I acknowledge him as brave a warrior as ever crossed a lance; but thou weepest like a woman! Seest thou not that this is but one of the chances of war; one, which thy noble father would have met, had fortune so ordered, with as calm a brow as if greeted with the tribute of success? Is the son so far degenerated from the sire!’

‘Nay, Christian,’ answered Muza, for it was he, ‘I hope in all things to be worthy of the fame of my father; and among my own people, the name of Muza ben Hassan is not spoken with contempt. ’Tis not for the loss of liberty that I grieve, but for something a thousand times dearer than that, of which I must be deprived;’--and as he concluded the sentence, his spirit, which for a moment had been aroused by the taunting allusion to his degeneracy, sank again. But Narvaez saw the marks of a noble mind within, as he drew up his manly figure to its height, displaying to the best advantage his finely proportioned limbs, whilst his brow contracted with a look almost of defiance. He saw that there was something more than his present misfortune which so powerfully affected him,--and at once he became deeply interested in the youth.

‘And what is that,’ said he, as he saw him a little more composed, ‘which thou valuest at a price so much dearer than liberty?’

‘Know then, since thou wishest it, that I have long been in love with the daughter of a neighboring Alcalde; that love was crowned with success, and this very night was to have made her mine, but thy arms have detained me. She is even now waiting in suspense, or perhaps accusing me of inconstancy,--wretched, wretched fate! would that I might see her yet once more.’

‘Noble cavalier! if thy wish is granted thee, wilt thou promise to return before to-morrow’s sun?’

‘Allah bless thee, generous Christian!’ exclaimed Muza, overjoyed at the proposal, ‘upon the word of a Moor, whose word, when sincerely given, has never been broken, I promise faithfully to return. Generosity, I see, belongs not to one race alone.’

‘Go then,--and remember thy promise,’ said Narvaez, as he gave orders to permit him instantly to depart.

Let us change the scene, and introduce once more the fair lady of our tale, whom we have already too long neglected. Throughout the day all had been bustle and preparation in the house of her father. The halls had been richly hung with tapestry, and put in readiness for the giddy dance; the tables were loaded with the choicest productions of that fruitful clime for the marriage banquet. Zareda had been all gayety and happiness; but towards evening she appeared more thoughtful, and her accustomed laugh and words of mirth were no longer heard. She expected to have seen him ere this, and to have met that embrace, which would crown all her love. An hour passed away, yet still he came not:--her watchfulness was fast verging to anxiety. Another long half hour is gone--in gloomy sadness she sat herself down ’neath the arcade, where they had so often met together. ‘Why comes he not?--has any mischief befallen him?--has he fallen into the hands of any marauding company of the enemy? has he--can it be, that he has deserted me?--away, ungrateful thought! it cannot be; some accident surely has overtaken him.’ As these, and various like reflections, were passing in her mind, a song of plaintive melancholy fell softly on her ear.

The rainbow’s brightest tint
Soonest fades away;
The tenderest floweret’s bloom
Quickest meets decay.
The first bright rose of spring,
That exhales its morning breath,
Returning dews of even
Strike with the chill of death.

So I, my love, must soon
Ne’er meet with thee again,--
Our marriage tie is changed
To slavery’s cruel chain.
Thy ruby cheek will fade,
Tears dim thine eye of blue,
For I, my love, must bid
A long, a last adieu.

So deeply melancholy was the strain--so much in unison with her own increasing fears, that Zareda recognized not the cheerful voice of her Muza, till the song was finished, and he himself stood before her.

‘Muza, is it thou?--thanks to Allah! now will we indeed be happy. But why so late? Is this the eagerness with which to meet thy bride?--or why didst thou fright me with that gloomy song?’

‘Zareda, I am a prisoner; perhaps a slave--two hours ago I fell into the hands of the enemy, and I am now to behold thee for the last time.’

‘A prisoner! how so, even if thou hast been with the enemy, since thou now standest here free before me? Thy bonds are loose for a Christian’s hands to inflict. Oh Allah! hast thou too proved faithless to thy country! art thou a--’

‘Traitor! and from thee! Zareda, hear me: accuse me not of faithlessness either to thee or to my country. Though I am now before thee, still am I no less a prisoner; I must return before to-morrow’s sun--my word is pledged. Then doubt me not, but take my last farewell. Would that I might see _thee_ happy; then would I be content.’

‘I will not doubt thee, Muza. Oft hast thou given me proofs of thy love, but this surpasses all.--Nay, thou shalt not say farewell; I will go with thee, perhaps they may listen to my prayers. I have wealth and jewels,--they shall purchase thy freedom, or together we will share thy fate.’ Muza saw that to oppose her wishes would only increase her zeal; and, though he had no hopes for his own freedom, he knew that to her at least no injury would be suffered by his enemies. Zareda was soon in readiness to depart, and long before morning they had arrived at the station of their enemy. Narvaez was ready to receive them.

‘Ha,’ exclaimed he, as Muza again appeared before him, supporting on his arm the trembling Zareda, ‘thou hast brought thy mistress with thee, to cheer thy spirits, and soften the ills of confinement?’

‘Christian,’ said Zareda in a faltering voice, falling at the feet of Narvaez, ‘if thou hast an eye to pity, a heart to feel, do not separate us. Here is money: here are jewels--take them all, but let _him_ go free.’

‘Generous maiden, fear not;’ and he raised her gently as he spoke;--‘thy devotedness is worthy the fidelity of thy lover. Cruel should I indeed be, had I the heart to mar such happiness as is in store for thee. Go, and may ye both live long to enjoy your happiness.’

But the goodness of Narvaez was not alone manifested in words. He loaded them with presents, and furnished an escort to conduct them in safety to Ronda. And long was the name of Narvaez celebrated in song and romance, as the _generous-hearted Christian_.

J.

GREEK ANTHOLOGY.--No. III.

Bless thee, reader--Let us live and love, since brief is our time for either. _Of course_, I wish to please thee. I might make a huge boast of independence: but the boast would be as false as foolish. I might feign contempt of thee, and of the public: but it would be a wicked lie. So far as I am an author, _thy_ smiles, and _their_ favor, are my life. I may read, think, act, to please myself; but it is clear that _I write_ to please thee. This blows sky-high all scornful prefaces, such as some modern authors paste on the foreheads of their little bantlings, which they send forth to angle for favor in the muddy and shifting stream of popular applause. How mortified are these scribbling autocrats, when their very _cartels_ of defiance are unanswered, and unread! Yet, on the other hand, is there something of courtesy,--nay, of indulgence, due to him, who neither assumes, nor dictates, but offers, in the words, and with the spirit of humility, what he hopes may please, and possibly instruct. I steal not--I borrow not. Scanty though be my cloak in breadth, and coarse in texture, yet I wove it in mine own loom, and with mine own hands. Whatever I give is mine, or rather, _was_--for it is _thine_ now. It is all I have--the widow’s mite--and, as such, receive it. I would not bring a “vain oblation” to the literary altar--that blood-stained shrine, on which so many a helpless victim is dissected by unfeeling butchers. I have not time to give thee much, (I fear me thou art not sorry,) nor can I ‘lick into shape’ what I _do_ give.

I have thought of essaying a few remarks on the principles of translation, and the practice of translators, that thou be not inordinately surprised, if on comparing my version with the original, thou dost not find in both _all_ the same words, and in the same order--meeting, tooth to tooth. I do so to satisfy the scruples of the well-disposed, and not to blunt the arrows of small-beer wit, or to elude the aim of pop-gun ammunition. “Out! out! brief candle!” says the immortal Shakspeare. “Get out! get out! you short candle!” says the spruce Frenchman. The Frenchman was _literal_; but he had better have understood the _spirit_ of his author, and given that, though it were with a periphrasis. The truth is, you cannot render any passage in a Greek or Latin poem _religiously_ into English--preserving the precise form, attitude, expression and size--if you attempt the absurdity, you present to the eyes of your readers, not a living body, but a lifeless corpse. All, that can be done with works written among nations at so wide a remove from our own in age, character, customs, and religion, is to breathe the spirit and manner of the original into English as elegant, yet close and strong as possible. Their works are full of phrases and allusions, which, with us, are dry and barren, while to them they were instinct with poetry, and eloquent with meaning. To the heart of the Grecian the history of his country was sanctified, and made dear by a long line of traditionary glories. Familiar to them, though lost to us, were a thousand memories of mystic interest, and patriotic pride--tales of the gods and heroes, who had lived and moved in their land, amid the days of its splendor--histories woven from facts, but tinged in the multitudinous colorings of fancy--fables, that stretched far back through the haze of ages, from wonder to doubt, and from doubt to darkness. Here had Jupiter been cradled in the mountains--there gushed a fountain from the foot-print of Neptune’s charger--here, from the sown teeth of the slaughtered dragon, sprang to life and fell in battle a field of steel-clad warriors--and there had Orpheus charmed the stones to life, and made the forests dance in chorus to his lyre. These were so many chords of interest, which the poet had but to touch, and the souls of his readers responded with a thrill. Now all these springs of passion are sealed to us--for, in the first place, the history of another and a buried nation excites but a feeble sympathy, compared with that which ponders and glows above our own--and, secondly, we rarely feel deeply what we do not thoroughly believe, or fully comprehend. Deprived, then, of these advantages, unaided by fancy, and unadorned by language, a translation would be about as _touching_ as a table of _tangents_. And this is what has made English translations so insipid compared with English originals, and has induced in some the belief that even the master-pieces of antiquity are poor and pointless--the fondled god-children of pedantic book-worms. This deficiency the translator must labor to supply. It is to be supplied--not by stripping the original of its _nationality_, and making it apply as well to New England as to Greece--but by preserving it bold, free, and spirited, as it is in its native language--by clothing it in words sufficiently glowing and graceful to arouse sympathy, yet exhibiting, through all, the body of the original, like a lamp flame, shining through its glassy vase--in short, by having it still Greek, but English-Greek.

This accords with the practice of all the best translators. No translator ever gave, or intended to give every word, or even shade of idea, that he found in the original. I appeal with confidence to any page in Dryden, or Cowley, in Addison, or Pope. They have, I acknowledge, generally carried their _liberality_ to a fault--still, if _they_ do not translate correctly, who does? Open at any page of Pope--say the last four lines of the Iliad. Read the simple original. “And after having heaped up the (sepulchral) mound, they went back. And then, happily assembled, they banqueted upon a very splendid banquet in the dwelling of Priam, Jove-nourished king. Thus did they attend to the burial of Hector, tamer-of-horses.”

“All Troy then moves to Priam’s court again,
A solemn, silent, melancholy train.
Assembled there, from pious toil they rest,
And sadly shared the last sepulchral feast.
Such honors Ilion to her hero paid,
And peaceful slept the mighty Hector’s shade.”

Too wide, I grant--yet it is Pope, the king of translators.

Addison, dear reader, was not a bad translator. Yet take his rendering of that grand Horatian--the third of the third book. “Not the heat of the citizens, commanding crooked things, not the countenance of an urgent tyrant, shakes in his solid mind the man just and firm to his purpose.”

“The _man_, resolved, and steady to his trust,
Inflexible to all and obstinately _just_,
May the rude _rabble’s_ insolence despise,
Their senseless clamors, and tumultuous cries:
The _tyrant’s_ fierceness he beguiles,
And the stern brow, and the harsh voice defies,
And with superior greatness smiles.”

He has rendered literally but four words, and them I have italicised. Is it, therefore, a bad translation? No. It is good--though, with all due deference to thy shade, Oh! Joseph, I must think it a _little_ diffuse--still, it is good, because it expresses the spirit and manner of the original in fine, forcible English. I give thee a literal translation--not that one better and as close might not be made--but to exemplify the difference between transfusing the _spirit_ and the _words_ of an author from one language into another.

The upright man, _who_ to his purpose clings,
No rabble’s heat, commanding crooked things,
Nor urgent tyrant’s countenance can shake
In his firm mind----

Almost perfectly literal, and--sweet reader--how spirited! I might _multiply_ my remarks, were I not loth to _divide_ thine attention.

I give thee two or three things--such as an aching head and sleepy eyes made them.

_By Lucillius, to Nicylla._

Those, who affirm that thou dost dye
The ringlets of thy jetty hair,
Can easily be proved to lie--
Thou _bought’st_ them black as now they are.

_By the same, to a Miser._

Thou hast, indeed, the rich man’s pelf,
But dost possess the beggar’s soul,
Oh, thou, who starvest for thyself,
And for thine heirs in wealth dost roll.

_By the same. Envy._

When Flaccus on the gallows swung,
And chanced to see a brother-thief
Upon a loftier gibbet hung,
He grinned, and died in envious grief.

_A quodam, mihi ignoto._

A man, that once before has married,
And longs again the _noose to splice_,
Is one, that has at sea miscarried,
And wishes to be shipwrecked twice.

Be this a _caveat_ to all amorous widowers.

Hermeneutes.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

“Charles K.” is a well written tale, and, as it is apparently founded upon facts, would undoubtedly interest those personally acquainted with the scenes which it describes; but, unless we misjudge, it would strike others differently.

“Evening Thoughts,” an article on William Wirt, and a “Sonnet,” are declined.

“The Seminole,” with some metrical alterations, may appear in our next.

“A Rhyming Mood,” is accepted.

The author of “Niobe,” and “Spring,” (we suppose them both from the same pen,) would do well to use the ‘_file_’ a little more freely, and also, read, at his leisure, a chapter or two of some treatise on _Perspicuity_.

“My Village Home,” “The Pleasures of Innocence,” and “The Future,” (which, from the _paper_ and chirography, we judge to be the productions of one and the same intellect,) might, perhaps, be creditable to the powers of an Infant School poet; but, _Dii Immortales!_ can it be possible they have been perpetrated by any one of riper years? Take a specimen or two.

“But ah! where’s now their boyish pranks
Since last I saw those sloping banks;
_Time’s_ stern mandate, bid to hardy toil,
Some with Fame--the rest on Nature’s soil.”

“Oh! ’tis that off distant hill
By the shady grove, all leafless--still
Where I’d seek an humble place
To lay low my care-worn face.”

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Transcriber’s Notes

A number of typographical errors were corrected silently.

Cover image is in the public domain.