English

A WISE OLD OWL lived in an oak;
The more he saw the less he spoke;
The less he spoke the more he heard:
Why can't we all be like that bird?

To-day my quest of beauty lies
By rough-hewn ways of ancient France,
Mounting where broken castles rise
Out of lost dreams of love and lance—
The solid wreckage of Romance.
To follow dreams what foot can be
Too weary! My fatigue defies
The cobble-stones of Brittany.

What echoes pierce the silent hours!
What visions throng the darkest night:
The bowstrings' dirge from crowded towers;
The shining troopers' clattering flight
To noisy battle; women's fright
Hearing the clash they cannot see.

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come.
Knock as you please,--there's nobody at home.

I cannot tell what it presages
This weight of sorrow and care
A tale from the by-gone ages
In my mind, that will linger there.

The cool twilight o'er all is dreaming,
And the Rhine flows calmly on;
The mountain summit is gleaming
In the glow of the evening sun.

There sitteth alone a maiden
High over us, wondrous fair,
Her robe gleams jewel-laden,
And she combs her golden hair.

With a golden comb her tresses
She combs as she sings a lay,
And the melody weird possesses

icefish—
their lives transparent
in the rippling water

Woe: lightly to part with one's soul as the sea with its foam!
Woe to Tarpeia, Tarpeia, daughter of Rome!

Lo, now it was night, with the moon looking chill as she went;
It was morn when the innocent stranger strayed into the tent

The hostile Sabini were pleased as one meshing a bird;
She sang for them there in the ambush: they smiled as they heard

Her sombre hair purpled in gleams as she leaned to the light;
All day she had idled and feasted, and now it was night

The chief sat apart heavy-browed brooding elbow on knee;

O Study! while thy lovers raise
Thy name with all the pow'r of praise,
Frown not, thou nymph with piercing mind!
If in this bosom thou should'st find
That all thy deep, thy brilliant, lore,
Which charm'd it once, now charms no more:
Frown not, if, on thy classic line,
One strange, uncall'd-for, tear should shine;
Frown not, if, when a smile should start,
A sigh should heave an aching heart:
If Mem'ry, roving far away,
Should an unmeaning homage pay,
Should ask thee for thy golden fruit,

O love, depart,
Mislead my heart
No more, I do implore you.
I love your chains
But fear your pains—
I dread you and adore you.

Your voice is sweet,
Your touch replete
With all alluring blisses,
Your languid eye
Bewitching sly
And heaven is in your kisses.

You smile, and lo,
The heart's aglow
With radiant passion flowers.
But, ah, your frown
Doth shatter down
Their leaves like autumn showers.

No, Love, depart,
I'll trust my heart
No more unto your keeping.

Now was the work completed, and the temple
Of Balder built anew; not as before,
With palisade of wood surrounded, but
With iron railing; representing spears
With gilded points, like steel-clad men, with helms
Of brass, who stand around to guard the fane.
The cupola of massy granite rock
Was form'd, and with consummate skill erected.
It was indeed a work gigantic, built
To bid to time defiance, like the temple
In Upsala, where the astonished North
In its terrestrial form beholds Valhalla.

“Bright sets the sun, and sweet it is to view
Its mild rays quiver through the foliage green!
Alfader's look! as pure in evening dew
As in his ocean's wave, and as serene.
Tinged are the hill-tops with its rosy light,
Ah! still it tells of blood in Balder's fane.
Soon will the landscape be enwrapp'd in night,
And, like a golden shield, the sun sink in the main.

“Pleased I behold each well-remembered field,
Friend of my boyhood, dear to childish love
Still the same flowers their evening perfume yield,