English

Hail to the brightness of Freedom's glad morning!
Join, all the earth! in an anthem of praise;
Day—joyful day—in its glory is dawning,
Light is dispensing its soul-cheering rays.
See, how 'tis gilding those isles of the ocean!
Hark to the echoing songs of their joy!
Brighter is burning the flame of devotion,
Music far sweeter the angels employ.

Thousands, long buried in deep degradation,
Rise to the sphere which their Maker assign'd;
Bearing glad triumph to God's free salvation,

Unaided! Then when I started, timorous,
there was no Mother, who might my knapsack fill
with bread for the day,
for one on the morrow away.

No kiss for me there was, and no tear did fall,
and no beloved hand on my shoulder lay,
its touch lingering there;
no sign of the cross, and no prayer.

Thou wert not near, and none saw me wretchedly
turn me away from all eyes; yet suddenly,
O Mother, heartbroke
that no one to my need awoke.

I, of myself, all alone and famishing

Deep in the night I hear, mid the querulous
trilling of crickets, and mid the murmuring
 of rain-swollen streamlets unseen,
 which flow in the shadow serene. . . .

Down in the hidden valley, where wander now
the fleet fire-flies, unseen in their loneliness …
 from hedges far distant or near
 a dog's muffled barking I hear.

Who, passing late there, through streets of solitude,
between the gloomy hedges of box-wood trees,
 awakened that dog in the night,
 with echoing footstep and light?

Let Fate, my Fortune, and my Stars conspire,
Jointly to pour on me their worst disgrace;
So I be gracious in your heavenly face,
I weigh not Fates, nor Stars, nor Fortune's ire.
'Tis not the influence of heaven's fire
Hath power to make me blessed in my race;
Nor in my happiness hath Fortune place,
Nor yet can Fate my poor life's date expire.
'Tis your fair eyes, my Stars, all bliss do give;
'Tis your disdain, my Fate, hath power to kill;
'Tis you, my Fortune, make me happy live,

As she is fair, so faithful I;
My service she, her grace I merit;
Her beauty doth my love inherit,
But grace she doth deny.
Oh, knows she not how much I love?
Or doth knowledge in her move
No small remorse?
For the guilt thereof must lie
Upon one of these of force,
Her ignorance, or cruelty.

As she is fair, so cruel she:
I sow true love, but reap disdaining;
Her pleasure springeth from my paining,
Which Pity's source should be.
Too well she knows how much I love,

And beyond the Jordan Jesus saw again
(not far remote, His day was drawing nigh)
the lifeless meadow lands shorn of their grain.

The women stood about beneath the high
house portals crying loud: " O Prophet, hail! "
He had in mind the day that He should die.

He took His seat under a sheafing pale
of grain, and said: " Unless one hideth there
the seed in earth, the harvesting will fail. "

He had in mind the heavenly granaries fair:
and you, O children, round about Him played,

I

No more then you recall those mornings fair
of marvel? Clouds seemed all things to enclose,
rosy and white, of peach and plum; an air

all hanging full of feathery tufts; or rose
or white, or both; the apple blossoms gleamed,
frail apricots, the pear, that hardy grows.

Such, neath the veiling of our tears, then seemed
that orchard, and, reflected there for days,
it held a heavenly light of dawn undreamed.

That dawn, you know, shed round us hopeful rays,

Fair is thy face, and great thy wit's perfection;
So fair, alas, so hard to be exprest,
That if my tired pen should never rest,
It should not blaze thy worth, but my affection:
Yet let me say, the Muses make election
Of your pure mind, there to erect their nest;
And that your face is such, a flint-hard breast
By force thereof without force feels subjection.
Witness mine ear, ravished when you it hears;
Witness mine eyes, ravished when you they see:
Beauty and virtue, witness eyes and ears,

There's something in the sun that's new this morn,
or something old: I live elsewhere, and know
that round about the violets are born.

Deep in the monastery woods they grow,
the Capuchins', among the lifeless leaves
under the oak tree, where the soft winds blow.

There is an air of freshness, one which cleaves
the sods, and at the country church makes bright
the threshold, where the year its greenness leaves:

an air of other place, of other light,
of other life: an air of heavenly blue,

Let not, sweet saint! let not these lines offend you;
Nor yet the message that these lines impart:
The message my unfeigned love doth send you,
Love, which yourself hath planted in my heart.
For being charmed by the bewitching art
Of those inveigling graces which attend you,
Love's holy fire makes me breathe out in part
The never-dying flames my breast doth lend you.
Then if my lines offend, let Love be blamed;
And if my love displease, accuse mine eyes:
If mine eyes sin, their sin's cause only lies