Flower Pieces and other poems By William Allingham: With two designs by Dante Gabriel Rossetti |
 |
|
|
 | TRANSLATED OR ADAPTED. |
 | Flower Pieces and other poems |  |
181
TRANSLATED OR ADAPTED.
183
THE SAILOR.
A ROMAIC BALLAD.
Thou that hast a daughter
For one to woo and wed,
Give her to a husband
With snow upon his head;
Oh, give her to an old man,
Though little joy it be,
Before the best young sailor
That sails upon the sea!
For one to woo and wed,
Give her to a husband
With snow upon his head;
Oh, give her to an old man,
Though little joy it be,
Before the best young sailor
That sails upon the sea!
How luckless is the sailor
When sick and like to die!
He sees no tender mother,
No sweetheart standing by.
Only the captain speaks to him,—
Stand up, stand up, young man,
And steer the ship to haven,
As none beside thee can.
When sick and like to die!
He sees no tender mother,
No sweetheart standing by.
Only the captain speaks to him,—
Stand up, stand up, young man,
And steer the ship to haven,
As none beside thee can.
Thou sayst to me, ‘Stand up, stand up;’
I say to thee, take hold,
Lift me a little from the deck,
My hands and feet are cold.
And let my head, I pray thee,
With handkerchiefs be bound;
There, take my love's own handkerchief,
And tie it tightly round.
I say to thee, take hold,
Lift me a little from the deck,
My hands and feet are cold.
And let my head, I pray thee,
With handkerchiefs be bound;
There, take my love's own handkerchief,
And tie it tightly round.
184
Now bring the chart, the doleful chart;
See, where these mountains meet—
The clouds are thick around their head,
The mists around their feet:
Cast anchor here; 'tis deep and safe
Within the rocky cleft;
The little anchor on the right,
The great one on the left.
See, where these mountains meet—
The clouds are thick around their head,
The mists around their feet:
Cast anchor here; 'tis deep and safe
Within the rocky cleft;
The little anchor on the right,
The great one on the left.
And now to thee, O captain,
Most earnestly I pray,
That they may never bury me
In church or cloister gray;—
But on the windy sea-beach,
At the ending of the land,
All on the surfy sea-beach,
Deep down into the sand.
Most earnestly I pray,
That they may never bury me
In church or cloister gray;—
But on the windy sea-beach,
At the ending of the land,
All on the surfy sea-beach,
Deep down into the sand.
For there will come the sailors,
Their voices I shall hear,
And at casting of the anchor
The yo-ho loud and clear;
And at hauling of the anchor
The yo-ho and the cheer,—
Farewell, my love, for to thy bay
I nevermore may steer!
Their voices I shall hear,
And at casting of the anchor
The yo-ho loud and clear;
And at hauling of the anchor
The yo-ho and the cheer,—
Farewell, my love, for to thy bay
I nevermore may steer!
185
KOSTAS.
A ROMAIC BALLAD.
She had nine noble brothers,
This beautiful young Maid,
And of old gloomy Charon
Not much was she afraid.
This beautiful young Maid,
And of old gloomy Charon
Not much was she afraid.
Young Kostas her betrothèd
Of four estates was heir,
And for old gloomy Charon
Right little did she care.
Of four estates was heir,
And for old gloomy Charon
Right little did she care.
But Charon like a bird flew past,
And shot his deathly dart,
Flew like a coal-black swallow,
And pierced her to the heart.
And shot his deathly dart,
Flew like a coal-black swallow,
And pierced her to the heart.
Then deep, deep did her father sigh,
And loud her mother moan,
‘O my one only daughter,
My fair, my only one!’
And loud her mother moan,
‘O my one only daughter,
My fair, my only one!’
And down the valley Kostas came,
With thrice three hundred men,
And sixty-two musicians,
Along the mountain glen.
With thrice three hundred men,
And sixty-two musicians,
Along the mountain glen.
186
‘Oh! stop the marriage jubilee,
Musicians, play no more;
Oh, stop awhile, for I can see
A cross upon the door.
Musicians, play no more;
Oh, stop awhile, for I can see
A cross upon the door.
‘It may be one of her brethren
Lies wounded on his bed;
Perchance her old grandfather
Is dying now, or dead.’
Lies wounded on his bed;
Perchance her old grandfather
Is dying now, or dead.’
He spurreth to the churchyard
His steed so black and brave,
And there he finds the sacristan
Digging in a grave.
His steed so black and brave,
And there he finds the sacristan
Digging in a grave.
‘O Sacristan, I greet thee!
For whom that grave?’ he cries.
‘'Tis for a fair young Maiden,
Her with the beautiful eyes;
For whom that grave?’ he cries.
‘'Tis for a fair young Maiden,
Her with the beautiful eyes;
‘Who had nine noble brethren
Within her father's gates,
And Kostas for her bridegroom,
The heir of four estates.’
Within her father's gates,
And Kostas for her bridegroom,
The heir of four estates.’
‘O Sacristan, I pray thee,
Now dig the grave more wide,
Now dig it wide enough for two
To rest there side by side.’
Now dig the grave more wide,
Now dig it wide enough for two
To rest there side by side.’
He drew his golden-hilted sword,
He plunged it in his breast;
And there the young betrothèd lie
Side by side at rest.
He plunged it in his breast;
And there the young betrothèd lie
Side by side at rest.
187
THE FISHERMAN.
FROM GOETHE.
The water gushed, the water swell'd;
A Fisherman sat by,
Gazing upon the line he held,
With peaceful heart and eye;
And while he watched in listless mood,
A billow heaved and surged;
And, rustling from the parted flood,
A woman's form emerged.
A Fisherman sat by,
Gazing upon the line he held,
With peaceful heart and eye;
And while he watched in listless mood,
A billow heaved and surged;
And, rustling from the parted flood,
A woman's form emerged.
She sung to him, she spake to him:
‘Why lure my brood away,
By human skill, and human fraud,
Up to the burning day?
Oh, happy live the little fish!
So happy—might'st thou know
This moment 'twere thine only wish
To come to us below.
‘Why lure my brood away,
By human skill, and human fraud,
Up to the burning day?
Oh, happy live the little fish!
So happy—might'st thou know
This moment 'twere thine only wish
To come to us below.
‘Finds not the Sun a resting-place;
The moon, within the mere?
Uplifts not each a radiant face
Grown doubly bright and clear?
Persuade thee not these heav'ns so deep?
This moist, embracing blue?
Thy features, lo! that swim and sleep
In soft eternal dew?’
The moon, within the mere?
Uplifts not each a radiant face
Grown doubly bright and clear?
Persuade thee not these heav'ns so deep?
This moist, embracing blue?
Thy features, lo! that swim and sleep
In soft eternal dew?’
188
The water gush'd, the water swell'd,
It kiss'd his naked feet;
Deep longing all his heart impell'd,
As when our love we meet.
She spake to him, she sang to him;
No help could come between;
Half drew she him, half sunk he in,
And never more was seen.
It kiss'd his naked feet;
Deep longing all his heart impell'd,
As when our love we meet.
She spake to him, she sang to him;
No help could come between;
Half drew she him, half sunk he in,
And never more was seen.
189
THE QUEEN'S PAGE.
In the summer of 1854 I had rooms in quiet, shady little Queen's Square, Bloomsbury (corner house on the left as you come from Southampton Row), and there one afternoon appeared, as it often did, the welcome face of Gabriel Rossetti. ‘Would I come out with him?’ ‘With the greatest pleasure, if he could wait a little while.’ He took a book and sat silent. A quarter of an hour or so later (it was a scribbling-book of mine that was in his hands) he had made a pen and ink drawing in it opposite to a translation of a poem of Heine's, twelve lines long, which he had never seen before. I think he was not dissatisfied with this rapid design, which he signed and dated, and that many will be gratified by its reproduction. The size of the original is six inches by four and a quarter.
There was a King, an old King,
Chill his heart, and gray his head;
And that poor King, that old King,
A sweet young wife must wed.
Chill his heart, and gray his head;
And that poor King, that old King,
A sweet young wife must wed.
There was a Page, a young Page,
Light of heart, and bright of hair;
And that fair Page, that young Page,
The young Queen's train must bear.
Light of heart, and bright of hair;
And that fair Page, that young Page,
The young Queen's train must bear.
But dost thou know the old song,
Old story, sad to tell?—
Death they found, they needs must die,
Who loved each other well.
Old story, sad to tell?—
Death they found, they needs must die,
Who loved each other well.
190
TO THE TETTIX.
O Tettix! drunk with drops of dew,What magician equals you
In the rural solitude?
On a perch amidst the wood
Scraping to your heart's desire
Dusky sides with notchy feet,
Shrilling, thrilling, fast and sweet,
Like the music of a lyre.
O my Tettix! I entreat,
Sing the Dryads something new;
So from thick-embower'd seat
Pan himself may answer you,
Till every inmost glade rejoices
With your loud alternate voices;
And I listen, and forget
All the thorns, the doubts and fears,
Love in lover's heart may set,—
Listen, and forget them all.
And so, with music in mine ears,
Where the plane-tree shadows steep
The ground with freshness, gently fall
Into a noontide sleep.
| Flower Pieces and other poems | |