« AnteriorContinuar »
Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face-cloth from the face,
Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee,
Lord Clare on the field of Ramillies is charging,
“Sweet my child, I live for thee."
A BRIGADE BALLAD.
In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying, THE FLOWER OF FINAE.
And by it a pale weeping maidlen is praying ; That flag 's the sole trophy of Ramillies' tray, This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae.
THOMAS DAVIS. (Early in the eighteenth century the Aower of the Catholic youth of Ireland were drawn away to recruit the ranks of the Irish Bri. gade in the service of the King of France. These recruits were popularly known as "Wild Geese." Few returned.)
[The following old Irish ballad has reference to the same event.) A cool gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing, While fair round its islets the small ripples play,
I would I were on yonder hill, But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae.
'T is there I'd sit and cry my fill,
And every tear would turn a mill, Her hair is like night, and her eyes like gray Is go de tu mo murnin slùn. morning,
Shule, shule, shule aroon, She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning,
Shule go succir, agus shule go cuin, Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May day,
Shule go den durrus augus eligh glum, Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae.
Is go de tu mo murnin slùn. But who down the hillside than red deer runs
I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel, fleeter ?
I'll sell my only spinning-wheel,
To buy for my love a sword of steel,
I'll dye my petticoats, — dye them red, One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of glad.
And round the world I'll beg my bread,
Until my parents shall wish me dead, Ah ! why do they change on a sudden to sadness,
Is go de tu mo murnin slàn.
I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
I wish I had my heart again,
And vainly think I'd not complain,
Is go de tu mo murnin slùn.
But now my love has gone to France, But he vows he'll come back to the Flower of Finae.
To try his fortune to advance, He fought at Cremona, she hears of his story ;
If he e'er come back 't is but a chance, He fought at Cassano, – she's proud of his glory,
Is go de tu mo murnin slùn.
THE MAID'S LAMENT. broken-hearted, Her reel, and her rock, and her flax she has I Loved him not ; and yet, now he is gone, parted ;
I feel I am alone. She sails with the “Wild Geese" to Flanders away, I checked him while he spoke ; yet could he speak, And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae.
Alas! I would not check.
For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought
My love, could he but live
'T was vain, in holy ground
I waste for him my breath
And this lone bosom burns
And waking me to weep
Wept he as bitter tears ! "Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer,
"These may she never share !" Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold
Than daisies in the mould,
His name and life's brief date.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
And there the langest tarry ;
O’ my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom ! The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie ;
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Our parting was fu' tender ;
We tore oursels asunder;
That nipt my flower sae early !
That wraps my Highland Mary !
I aft hae kissed sae fondly !
That dwelt on me sae kindly ;
That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
THY BRAES WERE BONNY.
THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. THREE students were travelling over the Rhine ; They stopped when they came to the landlady's
sign; "Good landlady, have you good beer and wine ? And where is that dear little daughter of thine ?” "My beer and wine are fresh and clear ; My daughter she lies on the cold death-bier !'” And when to the chamber they made their way, There, dead, in a coal-black shrine, she lay. The first he drew near, and the veil gently raised, And on her pale face he mournfully gazed : "Ah! wert thou but living yet,” he said, "I'd love thee from this time forth, fair maid !” The second he slowly put back the shroud, And turned him away and wept aloud : "Ah! that thou liest in the cold death-bier ! Alas! I have loved thee for many a year !” The third he once more uplifted the veil, And kissed her upon her mouth so pale : "Thee loved I always ; I love still but thee ; And thee will I love through eternity!”
UHLAND. Translation of J. S. DWIGHT.
Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream !
When first on them I met my lover ; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream !
When now thy waves his body cover. Forever now, O Yarrow stream !
Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I
Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. He promised me a milk-white steed,
To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page,
To 'squire me to his father's towers ; He promised me a wedding-ring,
The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow; Now he is wedded to his grave,
Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow ! Sweet were his words when last we met;
My passion I as freely told him ! Clasped in his arms, I little thought
That I should nevermore behold hiin!
HIGHLAND MARY. Ye banks and bres and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ;
It vanished with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,
And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow. His mother from the window looked
With all the longing of a mother ; His little sister weeping walked
The greenwood path to meet her brother. They sought him east, they sought him west,
They sought him all the forest thorough ; They only saw the cloud of night,
They only heard the roar of Yarrow !
“But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,
And does not hear me weeping ; Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e
When other maids are sleeping. “Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,
The night I'll mak' it narrow, For a' the livelang winter night
I lie twined o' iny marrow.
Pou'd you the rose or lily?
Or saw you my sweet Willie ?"
She sought him braid and narrow; Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,
She found him drowned in Yarrow !
No longer from thy window look,
Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! No longer walk, thou lovely maid ;
Alas, thou hast no more a brother! No longer seek him east or west,
And search no more the forest thorough ; For, wandering in the night so dark,
He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.
The tear shall never leave my cheek,
No other youth shall be my marrow; I'll seek thy body in the stream, And then with thee I 'll sleep in Yarrow.
WILLY DROWNED IN YARROW.
Down in yon garden sweet and gay
Where bonnie grows the lily, I heard a fair maid sighing say,
"My wish be wi' sweet Willie ! “Willie's rare, and Willie 's fair,
And Willie 's wondrous bonny ; And Willie hecht to marry me
Gin e'er he married ony.
“O gentle wind, that bloweth south,
From where my Love repaireth, Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth
And tell me how he fareth !
The moon had climbed the highest hill
Which rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summit sheil
Her silver light on tower and tree, When Mary laid her down to sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, When, soft and slow, a voice was heard,
Saying, "Mary, weep no more for me !" She from her pillow gently raised
Her head, to ask who there might be, And saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With visage pale, and hollow e'e. “O Mary dear, cold is my clay ;
It lies beneath a stormy sea.
So, Mary, weep no more for me!
We tossed upon the raging main ; And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain. Even then, when horror chilled my blood,
My heart was filled with love for thee : The storm is past, and I at rest;
So, Mary, weep no more for me ! “O maiden dear, thyself prepare ;
We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care,
And thou and I shall part no more !" Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled,
No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said, “Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!"
“O, tell sweet Willie to come doun
And hear the mavis singing, And see the birds on ilka bush
And leaves around them hinging. "The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast
And gentle throat sae narrow ; There's sport eneuch for gentlemen
On Leader haughs and Yarrow. “O, Leader haughs are wide and braid,"
And Yarrow haughs are bonny ; There Willie hecht to marry me
If e'er he married ony.
BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead !
Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed ;
She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,
Little has yet been changed, I think;
Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.
There was place and to spare for the frank young
smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young
gold. So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep ;
See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. There, that is our secret! go to sleep ;
You will wake, and remember, and understand.
LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.
Sixteen years old when she died !
Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name, It was not her time to love ; beside,
Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares ;
And now was quiet, now astir, Till God's hand beckoned unawares,
And the sweet white brow is all of her.
Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ?
What! your soul was pure and true ; The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire, and dew; And just because I was thrice as old,
And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told ?
We were fellow-mortals, — naught beside ?
No, indeed! for God above
Is great to grant as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love ;
I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet,
Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few; Much is to learn and much to forget
Ere the time be come for taking you.
I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side
When first you were my bride ;
And the lark sang loud and high ;
And the love-light in your eye.
The day is bright as then;
And the corn is green again ;
And your breath, warm on my cheek ;
You nevermore will speak. 'T is but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near,
I see the spire from here.
And my step might break your rest, – For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary,
For the poor make no new friends ; But, O, they love the better still
The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessin' and my pride ;
Since my poor Mary died.
That still kept hoping on,
And my arm's young strength was gone ; There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow, I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
But the time will come at last it will
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, In the lower earth, — in the years long still,
That body and soul so gay?
And your mouth of your own geranium's red, And what you would do with me, in fine,
In the new life come in the old one's stead.
I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,
Given up myself so many times, Gained me the gains of various men,
Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; Yet one thing - one in my soul's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me, And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope !
What is the issue ? let us see !
I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ;
My heart seemed full as it could hold,
When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, It haunts me still, though many a year las fled, And you hid it for my sake ;
Like some wild melody! I bless you for the pleasant word,
Alone it hangs When your heart was sad and sore,
Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, 0, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm, Where grief can't reach you more !
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ, I’m biddin' you a long farewell,
A chest that came from Venice, and had lield My Mary — kind and true !
The ducal robes of some old Ancestor, But I 'll not forget you, darling,
That by the way - it may be true or false — In the land I'm goin' to ;
But don't forget the picture ; and you will not They say there's bread and work for all,
When you have heard the tale they told me there. And the sun shines always there; But I'll not forget old Ireland,
She was an only child, her name Ginevra, Were it fifty times as fair !
The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Father ;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride, And often in those grand old woods
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, l'll sit, and shut my eyes,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies ;
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, And I'll think I see the little stile
She was all gentleness, all gayety, Where we sat side by side,
Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; When first you were my bride.
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy ; but at the Nuptial Feast, If ever you should come to Modena,
When all sate down, the Bride herself was wanting, Where among other trophies may be seen
Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, Tassoni's bucket (in its chain it hangs (72)
“'Tis but to make a trial of our love !" Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina),
And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook, Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
'T was but that instant she had left Francesco, Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. Will long detain you ; but, before you go,
But now, alas, she was not to be found ; Enter the house — forget it not, I pray —
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, And look awhile upon a picture there.
But that she was not !.
Weary of his life, "T is of a Lady in her earliest youth,
Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, The last of that illustrious family ;
Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Done by Zampieri (73) — but by whom I care not. Orsini lived, and long might you have seen He who observes it, ere he passes on,
An old man wandering as in quest of something, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, Something he could not find, he knew not u hat. That he may call it up when far away.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
then went to strangers. She sits inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up,
Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, As though she said “Beware!” her vest of gold When on an idle day, a day of search Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to Mid the old lumber in the Gallery, foot,
That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 't was said An emeralı stone in every golden clasp ; By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
“Why not remove it from its lurking place ?" A coronet of pearls.
| 'T was done as soon as said ; but on the way But then her face,
It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, The overflowings of an innocent heart, – A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.