Even as the snow, among the living rafters
Upon the back of Italy, congeals,
Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds,
And then, dissolving, filters through itself,
Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes,
Like as a taper melts before a fire,
Even such I was, without a sigh or tear,
Before the song of those who chime for ever
After the chiming of the eternal spheres ;
But, when I heard in those sweet melodies
Compassion for me, more than had they said,
"Oh, wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him?"
The ice, that was about my heart, congealed,
To air and water changed, and, in my anguish,
Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast.
Confusion and dismay, together mingled,
Forced such a feeble "Yes!" out of my mouth,
To understand it one had need of sight.
Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 'tis discharged,
Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow,
And with less force the arrow hits the mark;
So I gave way under this heavy burden,
Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs,
And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF GUIDO GUINICELLI.
To noble heart Love doth for shelter fly,
As seeks the bird the forest's leafy shade;
Love was not felt till noble heart beat high,
Nor before love the noble heart was made.
Soon as the sun's broad flame
Was formed, so soon the clear light filled the air;
Yet was not till he came :
So love springs up in noble breasts, and there
Has its appointed space,
As heat in the bright flame finds its allotted place.
Kindles in noble heart the fire of love,
As hidden virtue in the precious stone:
This virtue comes not from the stars above,
Till round it the ennobling sun has shone;
But when his powerful blaze
Has drawn forth what was vile, the stars impart
Strange virtue in their rays:
And thus when Nature doth create the heart
Noble and pure and high,
Like virtue from the star, love comes from woman's eye.
FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES D'ORLEANS.
Fifteenth Century.
GENTLE Spring!-in sunshine clad,
Well dost thou thy power display!
For Winter maketh the light heart sad,
And thou,-thou makest the sad heart gay.
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,
The sleet and the snow, and the wind and the rain;
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,
When thy merry step draws near.
Winter giveth the fields and trees, so old,
Their beards of icicles and snow;
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,
We must cower over the embers low;
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,
When thy merry step draws near.
Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud;
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,
Who has toiled for nought both late and early,
Is banished afar by the new-born year,
When thy merry step draws near.
SWEET babe! true portrait of thy father's face,
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed!
Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast.
Upon that tender eye, my little friend,
Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me! I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend;"Tis sweet to watch for thee, alone for thee!
His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow;
His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm.
Wore not his check the apple's ruddy glow;
Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm?
Awake, my boy!-I tremble with affright!
Awake, and chase this fatal thought!—Unclose Thine eye but for one moment on the light! Even at the price of thine, give me repose!
Sweet error! he but slept,-I breathe again;Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile! Oh! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?
DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN.
FROM THE FRENCH OF CHANSON DE ROLAND.
THE Archbishop, whom God loved in high degree,
Beheld his wounds, all bleeding fresh and free;
And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan,
And a faint shudder through his members ran.
Upon the battle-field his knee was bent;
Brave Roland saw, and to his succour went,
Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced;
And tore the shining haubert from his breast,
Then raising in his arms the man of God,
Gently he laid him on the verdant sod.
"Rest, Sire," he cried, "for rest thy suffering needs."
The priest replied, "Think but of warlike deeds!
The field is ours; well may we boast this strife!
But death steals on,-there is no hope of life;
In paradise, where the almoners live again,
There are our couches spread, there shall we rest from pain." Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel I, alas!
That thrice he swooned upon the thick green grass.
When he revived, with a loud voice cried he,
"O heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie!
Why lingers death to lay me in my grave?
Beloved France! how have the good and brave
Been torn from thee, and left thee weak and poor!"
Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o'er
His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow,
"My gentle friend!-what parting full of woe!
Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see ;-
Whate'er my fate, Christ's benison on thee!
Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath,
The Hebrew prophets from the second death."
Then to the paladins, whom well he knew,
He went, and one by one unaided drew
To Turpin's side, well skilled in ghostly lore ;-
No heart had he to smile,-but, weeping sore,
He blessed them in God's name, with faith that he
Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity.
The archbishop, then,-on whom God's bension rest!—
Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast;-
His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore,
And many a wound his swollen visage bore.
Slow beats his heart,-his panting bosom heaves,—
Death comes apace,-no hope of cure relieves.
Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed
That God, who for our sins was mortal made,-
Born of the Virgin,-scorned and crucified,-
In paradise would place him by his side.
Then Turpin died in service of Charlon,
In battle great and eke great orison;
'Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion ;-
God grant to him his holy benison !
FROM THE FRENCH OF JEAN FROISSART.
LOVE, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? Nought see I fixed or sure in thee!
I do not know thee,-nor what deeds are thinc:
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Nought see I fixed or sure in thee!
Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine?
Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me:
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Nought see I permanent or sure in thee!
FROM THE FRENCH OF CLEMENT MAROT.
To gallop off to town post-haste,
So oft, the times I cannot tell;
To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced,-
Friar Lubin will do it well.
But a sober life to lead,
To honour virtue, and pursue it,
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