Lady Jane Wilde

(1826-1896)

Lady Jane Pages1 2 3 4 5

Wanderings through European Literature

Le Réveille
Our Fatherland I II III IV V VI VII
The Knight's Pledge
Opportunity
King Erick's Faith I II III IV V VI VII VIII
"For Norge!" I II III IV
The Fountain in the Forest I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV
Salvation
Misery is Mystery I II
Farewell!
Catarina
The Poet at Court I II III
The Mystic Tree
'Tis Not Upon Earth
The Itinerant Singing Girl
Ignez de Castro I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII
The Waiwode
The Comparison I II III IV
Budris and His Sons I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X
The Lady Beatriz
A Servian Song I II III IV V VI VII
Instability

Wanderings through European Literature

Le Réveille

IT was the lark--not the nightingale--
    Poured forth her notes of warning;
Upwards she flew from the sun-lit vale,
    Awoke by the light of the morning.
        The day, the day is bright!
            The night
    Hath fled that in darkness bound ye;
Fling ye the myrtle of love aside,
And grasp the sword whate'er may betide--
    For the Foemen are gathering round ye!

It was the lark--not the nightingale--
    Arouse ye from apathy's slumber!
Few and dull do your watchfires pale,
    But they soon shall the stars outnumber.
        Awake, awake to life!
            The strife
    For God and your right advances;
Leave the white arms of weeping beauty,
The van of the battle's your post of duty,
    Where glitter the Foeman's lances!

It was the lark--not the nightingale--
    The gate of the morning uncloses;
She sings of the thundering cannon's hail--
    She sings of the battle's roses;
        On the warrior's breast
            They rest--

    The crimson roses that free the world!
Up, then, in Liberty's cause ye are sent--
Let the wide heavens be but one warrior's tent
    When the banner of Freedom's unfurled.

It was the lark--not the nightingale--
    Leave, then, O youth, thy dreaming!
As dashes the torrent adown the vale,
    O'er all barriers wildly streaming,
        So of thy young heart's blood,
            The flood
    Pour down on the thirsty land;
And Liberty's cause, that would else have died,
Will bloom afresh from that crimson tide;
    So pledge ye your heart and hand.

It was the lark--not the nightingale--
    Who chanted a Nation's rise;
Borne on the wings of the morning gale,
    It peals through the azure skies.
        Liberty's torch is bright!
            The light
    May mock our tyrant's scorning,
For millions of hearts will be kindled ere noon;
And the freedom we dream'd of in darkness, full soon
    We'll achieve in the light of the morning!

Our Fatherland

I

    WHY pour the ruby wine,
    For glad carousal, brothers mine,
In the sparkling glass that flashes
        In your hand,
When, mourning, sits in dust and ashes
        Our Fatherland?

II

    What means the joyous song
    Of the festive bridal throng?
Oh! let music no more waken
        The echoes of our strand,
For the bridegroom hath forsaken
        Our Fatherland!

III

    No more your masses falter,
    Trembling priests, before the altar.
Can prayer avail the dead or dying?
        Oh! vain demand!
Prostrate, trodden on the ground, is lying
        Our Fatherland!

IV

    Ye princes, fling ye down
    Your blood-bought jewelled crown--
Bear the circlet on your brow no more,
        Nor signet on your hand;
For, shivering, stands before your door
        Our Fatherland!

V

    Woe to ye rich; in gloom
    Hath toll'd your hour of doom--
There, reck'ning up your gold, ye sit in state
        In palace grand,
While Lazarus is dying at your gate,
        Our Fatherland!

VI

    And woe to you, ye poor--
    Want and scorn ye must endure;
Yet before ye many noble jewels shine
        In the sand.
Ah! they are patriots' tears--even mine--
        For Fatherland!

VII

    But the Poet's mission
    Is but prophetic vision;
To him the daring heart is granted--
        Not the hand.
He may cease--the death-song has been chanted
        For Fatherland!

The Knight's Pledge

THE tedious night at length hath pass'd;
To horse! to horse! we'll ride as fast
    As ever bird did fly.
Ha! but the morning air is chill;
Frau Wirthin, one last goblet fill,
    We'll drain it ere we die!

Thou youthful grass, why look'st so green?
Soon dyed in blood of mine I ween,
    With damask rose thou'lt vie.
The goblet here! with sword in hand
I pledge thee first, my Fatherland,
    Oh! blessed for thee to die!

Again our mailed hands raise the cup:
Freedom, to thee we drink it up.
    Low may that coward lie
Who fails to pledge, with heart and hand,
The freedom of our glorious Land--
    Her Freedom, ere we die!

Our wives--but, ah! the glass is clear,
The cannon thunders--grasp the spear,
    We'll pledge them in a sigh.
Now, on the Foe like thunder crash!
We'll scathe them as a lightning flash,
    And conquer, though we die!

Opportunity

From the Italian of Machiavelli
"Chi sei tu, che non par Donna mortale?"

WHO art thou, glorious Form, flashing by me,
So beautiful, so Godlike--wilt thou fly me?
Why o'er thy face and bosom fall thy tresses streaming?
And why the airy pinions on thy white feet gleaming?
My name is Opportunity. Pause or rest I never:
Mortals rarely know me till I'm gone for ever.
To seize me passing on to few is granted;
Therefore one foot upon a wheel is planted--
Therefore the light wings bound on them, to make me
So quick in flight that none shall overtake me.
Down fall my tresses, face and bosom veiling,
That none may know me 'till to know be unavailing;
Then, mockingly, I fling aside the veil, and please me
With their vain hope, and vainer haste to seize me.

And who is this dark form that follows thee with weeping,
Ever as a shadow on thy bright track keeping?
Her name's Repentance. When I fleet quickly by them,
She stoppeth weeping, vainly weeping nigh them.
But thou, poor mortal, precious moments wasting,
Idly thou dreamest while I'm onwards hasting.
Wilt thou not wake? Alas! weep now, I've passed for ever.
Weep, for Repentance henceforth leaves thee never.

King Erick's Faith

I

IN Upsal's stately Minster, before the altar, stands
The Swedish King, brave Erick, with high uplifted hands--
His royal robes are round him, the crown upon his head,
And thus, before his people, right sovranly he said:--

II

"God! whoso trusteth in Thee will never rue his trust;
If God the Lord be with us, our foes shall flee like dust."
He spake--from priests and people rose up the answering cry--
"If God the Lord be with us, all danger we defy!"

III

Scarce through the aisles is dying their mingled voices' din,
A pallid slave, disordered, comes rushing wildly in.
"Now God us aid!--Skalater, the Dane, has come agen,
Fast pouring down the mountains with seven hundred men!"

IV

King Erick heard him calmly, then strong in faith replied--
"What man can fight against us, with God upon our side?"
A second slave comes rushing all breathless as the first--
"The gate is down--Skalater each bar and bolt hath burst!"

V

King Erick's brow grew paler, but still he looked on high--
"If God the Lord be with us, no danger need we fly!"
In comes another, trembling, but ere he uttered sound
The Danish axes glisten--they cleave him to the ground.

VI

Then rose a fearful tumult--then rose a wildered cry--
Skalater comes in fury--defenceless we must die--
Skalater comes in fury, with all his pagan hordes,
And Priest, and King, and Altar must fall beneath their swords.

VII

King Erick's glance grew prouder; he grasp'd the golden rood--
He held it high to Heaven, as on Skalater strode:
Lo! from each wound, the seven, pours forth a thousand rays,
And down to earth Skalater sinks dazzled by the blaze.

VIII

They're prostrate on their foreheads, the seven hundred Danes,
Praying the God to spare them who guards the Christian fanes;
But Erick and his people lift up the joyful cry--
Our God, the Lord, has conquered; all praise to Him on high!

"For Norge!"

From the Danish

I

FOR NORWAY, Freedom's fatherland,
    Fill up the wine-cup flowing,
And pledge it, brothers, hand in hand,
    To keep the hot blood glowing.

By gyves and fetters rent we swear,
No tyrant's hand shall ever dare
To chain our souls, while swords we bear
    To guard old Norway's Freedom!

II

Again the wine-cup passes round;
    We'll drain it to the glory
Of all the Chiefs and names renowned
    In Norway's ancient story.
Across our gloomy northern night
Their clashing arms flashed the light,
And won for us, in hero fight,
    The prize of Norway's Freedom.

III

And now to all the brave ones here,
    And to the maids that love us--
To men who never knew a fear,
    Maids pure as saints above us.
The Norway maidens! fill on high--
The Norsemen, brave to do and die!
And shame to him who passes by
    The pledge to Love and Freedom!

IV

And yet one cup to Norway's land,
    Her snow and icy fountains,
The rocks that guard her stormy strand,
    The pines upon her mountains!
Aye--three times three fill up the wine,
Pledge mountain, torrent, rock, and pine--
Pledge all that marks the snowy line
    Where Norsemen guard their Freedom!

The Fountain in the Forest

From Lamartine

I

LONELY stream of rushing water,
    From the rock that gave thee birth,
Hast thou fallen, O Naiad's daughter!
    Mingling with the common earth?
Shall Carrara's snowy marble
    Never more thy waves inurn;
That with wild and plaintive warble,
    By their broken temple mourn?

II

Nor thy dolphins lying shattered,
    Fling their columns up again,
That in radiant glory scattered,
    Fell to the earth a jewelled rain
Must the bending beeches only,
    Veil thy desolate decay,
Spreading solemnly and lonely
    O'er thy waters, dark as they?

III

Pallid Autumn-leaves are lying
    On thy hollow marble tomb,
And the willows round it sighing,
    Wave their bannerets of gloom.
Still thou flowest ever, ever--
    Like a loving heart that gives
Smiles and blessings, though it never
    Meeteth smile from one who lives.

IV

Roughest rocks to polished beauty
    Changing as thou flowest on;
Such the Poet's heaven-taught duty,
    Mid the stony-hearted throng!
Thus thy voice to me hath spoken,
    Falling, falling from on high,
As a chord in music, broken
    By a gently-murmured sigh.

V

Ah! what sad yet glorious vision
    Of my youth thy scenes unroll,
When I felt the Poet's mission
    Kindling first within my soul;
When the passion and the glory
    Of the far-off future years,
Shone in radiant light before me,
    Through the present dimm'd by tears.

VI

Can thy stream recall the shadow
    Of the spirit-haunted boy,
Who in sunlight, through the meadow,
    Roamed in deep and wondrous joy?
Yet bright memory still reaches,
    All athwart thy glistening beams,
Where, beneath the shading beeches,
    Lay the sunny child of dreams;

VII

Weaving fancies bright as morning,
    With its purple and its gold;
Strong to trample down earth's scorning
    With the faith of men of old.
Ready life itself to render
    At the shrine to which he bowed,
Knowing not the transient splendour
    Gilded but the tempest-cloud.

VIII

On my heart was still'd the laughter,
    Cold the clay around the dead,
When I came in years long after
    Here to rest my weary head.
Waked the sad tears fast and warm,
    Once again the ancient place,
Till, like droppings of the storm,
    They fell heavy on thy face.

IX

Human voice was none to hear me
    In that silence of the tomb;
But thy waters, sobbing near me,
    Seemed responsive to the gloom;
And I flung my thoughts all idly
    On thy current in a dream,
Like the pale leaves scattered widely
    On thy autumn-drifted stream.

X

Yet 'twas in that mournful hour
    Rose the spirit's mighty words;
Never soul could know its power
    Until sorrow swept the chords--
Blended with each solemn feature
    Of the lonely scenes I trod,
For the sacred love of Nature
    Is the Poet's hymn to God.

XI

Did He hear the words imploring
    Of a strong heard tempest-riven?
Did the tears of sorrow pouring
    Rise like incense up to Heaven?
Ah! the heart that mutely prayeth
    From the ashes of the past,
Finds the strength that ever stayeth,
    Of the Holy, round it cast!

XII

But the leaf in winter fadeth,
    And the cygnet drops her plumes:
Time in passing ever shadeth
    Human life in deeper glooms;
So, perchance, with white hair streaming,
    In my age to thee I'll turn--
Muse on life, with softened dreaming,
    By thy broken marble urn.

XIII

While thy murmuring waters falling
    Drop by drop upon the plain,
Seem like spirit-voices calling--
    Spirit-voices not in vain;
For life's fleeting course they teach me,
    With life's endless source on high,
Past and future thus may reach me,
    While I learn from thee to die.

XIV

O stream! hath thy lonely torrent
    Many ages yet to run?
O life! will thy mournful current
    See many a setting sun?
I know not; but both are passing
    From the sunlight into gloom--
Yet the light we left will meet us
    Once again beyond the tomb!

Salvation

WHEN the gloom is deepest round thee;
When the bands of grief have bound thee,
    And in loneliness and sorrow,
By the poisoned springs of life
Thou sittest, yearning for a morrow,
That will free thee from the strife;

Look not upward, for above thee
    Never sun or star is gleaming;
Look not round for one to love thee;
    Put not faith in mortal seeming;
Lightly would they scorn, then leave thee.
Trust not man--he will deceive thee.

But in the depths of thy own soul
Descend; mysterious powers unroll--
Energies that long had slumbered
In its mystic depths unnumbered.
Speak the word!--the power divinest
Will awake, if thou inclinest.

Thou art lord in thine own kingdom;
    Rule thyself--thou rulest all!
Smile, when from its proud dominion
    Earthly joy will rudely fall.
Be true unto thyself and hear not
Evil thoughts, that would enslave thee.
God is in thee! Mortal, fear not;
Trust in Him, and He will save thee!

Misery is Mystery

I

MISERY his heart hath broken--
Misery is mystery!
Let the sad one lonely be;
As the Ancients shunned the token
Of a lightning-blasted tree.

II

Breathe no word, his doom is spoken--
Misery is mystery!
By its scathing lightning fated,
Human hearts are consecrated,
For a higher destiny.

Farewell!

LET mine eyes the parting take,
Which my faint lips never can;
Moments such as these might break
Even the sternest heart of man.

Mournfully doth Joy's eclipse,
Shroud in grief Love's sweetest sign;
Cold the pressure of thy lips,
Cold the hand that rests in mine.

Once the slightest stolen kiss--
O, what rapture did it bring!
Like a violet's loveliness,
Found and plucked in early spring.

Now, no more my hand shall twine,
Rose wreaths, sweetest love, for thee;
Without, is summer's glorious prime,
Within, weird autumn's misery.

Catarina

From the Portuguese of Camoens

"Um mover d'olhos brando e piadoso."

A MOVEMENT of the soft eyes, slow and eloquent,
A smile of sweet, yet of such chastened joy,
'Twere easy to transform it to a tear.
A gentle, timid motion, like young flowers
Beneath the murmuring west wind undulating.
A graceful, modest ardour--yet at times
Most grave and quiet majesty, as one
Who knows--that rarest knowledge--her own worth.

A childlike nature, index of a soul
Where goodness is intuitive--not put on
To gain false praises for a falser virtue.
A bashful softness when she tells her love--
A tremour as of guilt, with low-drooped eyes
And red-rose cheek, did not her brow serene,
Like to a temple of all holy things,
Forbid the thought. A patient power of sufferance,
Enduring all with angel smiles of love.
This, the celestial beauty of my Circé--
This is the magic potion which has changed
Earth and all earthly sorrows to a Heaven!

The snow on the valley falls heavier still,
A horseman is seen rushing down from the hill;
Wrapped close in his mantle some rich treasure lies--
"How now, my brave son--hast thou brought me a prize?
Is it silver of Argun thou'st won for thy ride?
Come show me!" "No, father--a young Polish bride!"

X

Faster and thicker the snow-showers fall--
A horseman rides fiercely through snow-flakes and all;
Budris sees how his mantle is clasped to his breast--
"Ho, slaves! 'tis enough, bid our friends to the feast!
I'll ask no more questions, whatever betides,
We'll drain a full cup to the three Polish brides!"

The Lady Beatriz

Romance

From the Spanish.--Thirteenth Century

"Bodas hacian en Francia."

THERE were stately nuptials in France,
    In the royal town of Paris:
Who is it leads the dance?
    The lovely Lady Beatriz.

Who is it gazes on her,
    With looks so earnest and bright?
'Tis her noblest Page of Honour,
    Don Martin, Count and Knight.

The bride and her maidens advance--
    Young Count, why lookest thou so?
Are thy dark eyes fixed on the dance,
    Or on me? Oh! I fain would know.

I gaze not upon the dance,
    Sweet Beatriz, lady mine;
For many a galliard I've seen in France,
    But never such beauty as thine.

Then if thou lovest me so, young Count,
    Oh! take me away with thee;
For nor gay nor young, though a prince's son,
    Is the bridegroom they'd wed with me.

There was mourning in France, I ween,
    In the royal town of Paris;
For no more was seen either Count Martín
    Or the lovely Lady Beatriz.

A Servian Song

I

WHEREFORE neighest thou so sadly?
Stampest with the hoof so madly?
Speak my steed--why at the tent
With thy stately neck down bent?

II

Have not my own hands caress'd thee?
Proudly in gay trappings dress'd thee?
Yet thou com'st not as of old,
Champing at thy curb of gold.

III

Hast thou not, in bright hues glowing,
Silken shabrack downward flowing,
Silver hoof and broidered rein.
Gemm'd with trophies from the slain?

IV

And the horse, he answered sadly--
Stamp I with the hoof so madly?
Tramp of steed I hear afar,
Trumpet clang and din of war.

V

But soon a stranger will bestride me,
Other hand than thine will guide me,
Never more by thee caress'd,
Or proudly in gay trappings dress'd.

VI

See, the foe, with fury glowing,
Rends my glittering shabrack flowing,
Curb of gold and broidered rein
Fiercely does he cleave in twain.

VII

And my stately neck is drooping,
'Neath a fearful burthen stooping--
There a dead man lies supine,
Cold as ice--the Form is thine!

Instability

From the Spanish--Sixteenth Century

"Como estoy alegre Tristezas temo."

WHEN the day is brightest,
    Darkness draweth near;
When the heart is lightest,
    Coming grief I fear.

Eyes of heavenly splendour,
    Radiance o'er me fling;
But when their light's most tender
    I fear its vanishing.

Lips, where passion keepeth
    Holiest incense, bend to mine;
But when woman speaketh,
    Who would trust so false a shrine?

Even in twined caresses
    Where love has woven his spells,
Of the mutual love that blesses,
    I hear a voice which tells.

As light with darkness weddeth,
    So must pleasure with annoy,
And sorrow ever treadeth
    On the doomed path of joy.