"The trees gently bent Was the tremulous rose; The rose is no more; The zephyr's light air Is exchanged for the roar Of storms, and the May-fields have mantles of hoar "Then why do we stay In the North, where the sun More dimly each day His brief course will run? And why need we sigh We leave but a grave, To cleave through the sky On the wings which God gave; Then, Ocean, we welcome the roar of thy wave!" Of rest thus bereaved, They soar in the air, Into regions more fair; In the zephyr's light play, Among myrtles their way, And the groves are resounding with Hope's happy lay. When earth's joys are o'er When autumn winds roar- For the birds brightly bloom; A land smiles for thee, Beyond the dark tomb, Where beams never fading its beauties illume. Anonymous Translation, ERIC JOHAN STAGNELIUS, 1793-1523. THE DOVE. RUSSIAN. On an oak-tree sat, One he seized and tore, Tore the little dove, Ah, how wept and wept, The poor doveling then For her little dove. "Weep not, weep not so, Tender little bird!" Spake the light young hawk To the little dove. "O'er the sea away, O'er the far blue sea, I will drive to thee Flocks of other doves; From them choose thee then, Choose a soft and blue, With his feathered feet, Better little dove." "Fly, thou villain! not O'er the far blue sea, Drive not here to me Ah! of all thy doves None can comfort me, Only he, the father Of my little ones." Translated by J. G. PERCIVAL. THE DYING SWAN. The plain was grassy, wild, and bare, An under-roof of doleful gray. It was the middle of the day. Ever the weary wind went on And shook the reed-tops as it went. Some blue peaks in the distance rose, And white against the cold-white sky One willow over the river wept, And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; Chasing itself at its own wild will, And far through the marish green and still The tangled water-courses slept, Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Hidden in sorrow; at first to the ear As when a mighty people rejoice With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, Through the open gates of the city afar, To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, Were flooded over with eddying song. ALFRED TENNYSON. THE TWA CORBIES. OLD SCOTTISH BALLAD, As I gaed doun by yon house-en', Twa corbies there were sittand their lane. The tane unto the tother sae, 66 O where shall we gae dine to-day?" "O down beside yon new-faun birk, There lies a new-slain knicht, Nae livin kens that he lies there, But his horse, his hounds, and his lady fair. "His horse is to the huntin gone, His hounds to bring the wild deer hame; His lady's taen another mate; Sae we may make our dinner swate. "O we'll sit on his bonnie briest-bane, And we'll pyke out his bonnie grey e'en; "Mony a ane for him maks mane, Anonymous, about 1600. THE RED-BREAST IN SEPTEMBER. The morning mist is clear'd away, Nor yet th' autumnal breeze has stirr'd the grove, Faded, yet full, a paler green Skirts soberly the tranquil scene, The red-breast warbles round this leafy cove. Sweet messenger of calm decay, As one still bent to make, or find the best, In thee, and in this quiet mead The lesson of sweet peace I read, Rather in all to be resign'd than blest. 'Tis a low chant, according well As homeward from some grave belov'd we turn, Most welcome to the chasten'd ear Of her whom Heaven is teaching how to mourn. O cheerful, tender strain! the heart Singing so thankful to the dreary blast, Though gone and spent its joyous prime, 'Mid withered hues, and sere, its lot be cast, That is the heart for thoughtful seer, And tracing through the cloud th' eternal Cause. 10* JOHN KEBLE. |