University of Virginia Library

Exotic Sonnets

FROM THE SWEDISH OF GUSTAF ROSENHANE

(1619-1684)

I.

Deep in a vale where rocks on every side
Shut out the winds, and scarcely let the sun
Between them dart his rays down one by one,
Where all was still and cool in summer-tide,
And softly, with her whispering waves that sighed,
A little river, that had scarce begun
Her silver course, made bold to fleet and run
Down leafy falls to woodlands dense and wide,
There slept a tiny plain just large enow
To give small mountain-folk right room to dance,
With oaks and limes and maples ringed around;
Hither I came, and viewed its turf askance,
Its solitude with beauty seemed a-glow,—
My Love had walked there and 'twas holy ground!

II.

And then I sat me down, and gave the rein
To my wild thoughts, till many a song that rang
From leafy boughs where hidden warblers sang
Recalled me from myself; then “Ah! in vain,”
I said, “do these outpour the tender strain?
Can these sweet birds that with such airs harangue
Their feathered loves, like me, feel sorrow's pang?
Ah! would that I, like them, had pinions twain!
Straight would I fly to her whom I love best,
Nor vainly warbling in the woodland sing,
But chirp my prayer, and preen my plumèd crest,
And to this spot once more her beauty bring,
And flutter round her flight with supple wing,
And lead her to my secret leafy nest.”

FROM THE SWEDISH OF OLOF WEXIONIUS

(1656-1690)

ON THE DEATH OF A PIOUS LADY

The earthly roses at God's call have made
Way, lady, for a dress of heavenly white,
In which thou walk'st with other figures bright,
Once loved on earth, who now, like thee arrayed,
Feast on two-fold ambrosia, wine and bread;
They lead thee up by sinuous paths of light
Through lilied fields that sparkle in God's sight,
And crown thee with delights that never fade.
O thou thrice-sainted mother, in that bliss,
Forget not thy two daughters, whom a kiss
At parting left as sad as thou art glad;
In thy deep joy think how for thee they weep,
Or conjure through the shifting glass of sleep
The saint heaven hath, the mother they once had.

FROM THE SWEDISH OF ERIK JOHAN STAGNELIUS

(1793-1823)

I. HOPE REPULSED

Up through the ruins of my earthly dreams
I catch the stars of immortality;
What store of joy can hide in heaven for me?
What further hope feed those celestial gleáms?
Can there be other grapes whose nectar streams
For me, whom earth's vine fails? oh! can it be
That this abandoned heart again may see
A forehead garlanded, an eye that beams?
Alas! 'tis childhood's dream that vanisheth!
The heaven-born soul that feigns it can return,
And end in peace this hopeless strife with fate!
There is no backward step; 'tis only death
Can quench at last these wasting fires that burn,
Can break the chain, the captive liberate.

II. MEMORY

O camp of flowers, with poplars girdled round,
Grey guardians of life's soft and purple bud!
O silver spring, beside whose brimming flood
My pensive childhood its Elysium found!
O happy hours by love and fancy crowned,
Whose horn of plenty flatteringly subdued
My heart into a trance, whence, with a rude
And horrid blast, fate came my soul to hound!
Who was the goddess that empowered you all
Thus to bewitch me? Out of wasting snow
And lily-leaves her head-dress should be made!
Weep, my poor lute! nor on Astræa call,
She will not smile, nor I, who mourn below,
Till I, a shade in heaven, clasp her, a shade.

III. LUNA

Deep slumber hung o'er sea and hill and plain;
With pale pink cheek fresh from her watery caves
Slow rose the moon out of the midnight waves,
Like Venus out of ocean born again;
Then blazed Olympian on the dark blue main;
“So shall, my star,” hark how my weak hope raves!
“My happy star ascend the sea that laves
Its shores with grief, and silence all my pain!”
With that there sighed a wandering midnight breeze,
High up among the topmost tufted trees,
And o'er the moon's face blew a veil of cloud;
And in the breeze my genius spake, and said,
“While thy heart stirs, thy glimmering hope has fled,
And like the moon lies muffled in a shroud.”

FROM THE DUTCH OF PIETER CORNELISZOON HOOFT

I. TO HUGO GROTIUS

Great soul, that with the keenness of clear sight
Just measure takest of approaching things,
Yet by the wisdom that high memory brings
Dost hold full judgment of all past years' flight,
What God or man in counsel or of right
May speak, thou can'st expound; from thee light springs;
Thou art the eye of Holland; when storm rings
In starless weather, thou dost lift thy light.
Sun of our sphere, how shall I liken you?
Art thou a blast that God from heaven out-blew,
Come to our hearts, to find them well prepared?
Or, from the roofs of paradise, a spirit,
Dowered with all skill that sons of light inherit,
Whose wit and power our earth with heaven hath shared?

II. FRIENDSHIP

This earth, embossed with mountains, laced with streams,
Starred with fair cities ringed about with towers,
Whose face with hill and laughing valley gleams,
Whose shadowy woods are full of tender flowers,
The birds, the careless beasts beneath the moon,
And that conceited race of feeble man,
All hold their place by harmony, and soon
Sans friendship would sink out of nature's plan.
From manly friendship cities take their root,
Their nurture and their life; from strife their death;
Thro' civil jars they pant with heavy breath;
So dangerous is division in the State!
In harmony the seeds of glory shoot,
And peace at home makes little kingdoms great.

FROM THE DUTCH OF JOOST VAN VONDEL

ON THE TRUCE OF THE NETHERLANDS

Heaven, tired of war, takes pity on our woes;
Castille herself is moved to grant us rest;
The States give ear; and lo! at their request
The mild peace-makers part us from our foes;
To all delay there comes at length a close.
For two brief years, or three, at Heaven's behest,
They offer truce, and Holland thus possess'd
Of hope at last, sighs, glad of her repose.
Nassau disarms himself, and, wearily,
Puts up his sword, notched in so many a fight,
And our United Land in her delight
Sends up to God her altar-fires of praise.
Now to the Lord of Hosts our thanks we cry
Who gives us gladness after many days.

FROM THE SPANISH OF CERVANTES

When I was marked for suffering, Love forswore
All knowledge of my doom; or else at ease
Love grows a cruel tyrant, hard to please;
Or else a chastisement exceeding sore
A little sin hath brought me. Hush! no more!
Love is a god! all things he knows and sees,
And gods are bland and mild! Who then decrees
The dreadful woe I bear and yet adore?
If I should say, O Chloë, that 'twas thou
I should speak falsely, since, being wholly good
Like Heaven itself, from thee no ill may come.
There is no hope; I must die shortly now,
Not knowing why, since sure no witch hath brewed
The drug that might avert my martyrdom.