Part 2 — POEMS AND BALLADS OF GOETHE.
Reading edition
No. I.
It may be as well to state at the outset, that we have not the most distant intention of laying before the public the whole mass of poetry that flowed from the prolific pen of Goethe, betwixt the days of his student life at Leipsic and those of his final courtly residence at Weimar. It is of no use preserving the whole wardrobe of the dead; we do enough if we possess ourselves of his valuables—articles of sterling bullion that will at any time command their price in the market—as to worn-out and threadbare personalities, the sooner they are got rid of the better. Far be it from us, however, to depreciate or detract from the merit of any of Goethe's productions. Few men have written so voluminously, and still fewer have written so well. But the curse of a most fluent pen, and of a numerous auditory, to whom his words were oracles, was upon him; and seventy volumes, more or less, which Cotta issued from his wareroom, are for the library of the Germans now, and for the selection of judicious editors hereafter. A long time must elapse after an author's death, before we can pronounce with perfect certainty what belongs to the trunk-maker, and what pertains to posterity. Happy the man—if not in his own generation, yet most assuredly in the time to come—whose natural hesitation or fastidiousness has prompted him to weigh his words maturely, before launching them forth into the great ocean of literature, in the midst of which is a Maelstrom of tenfold absorbing power!
From the minor poems, therefore, of Goethe, we propose, in the present series, to select such as are most esteemed by competent judges, including, of course, ourselves. We shall not follow the example of dear old Eckermann, nor preface our specimens by any critical remarks upon the scope and tendency of the great German's genius; neither shall we divide his works, as characteristic of his intellectual progress, into eras or into epochs; still less shall we attempt to institute a regular comparison between his merits and those of Schiller, whose finest productions (most worthily translated) have already enriched the pages of this Magazine. We are doubtless ready at all times to back our favourite against the field, and to maintain his intellectual superiority even against his greatest and most formidable rival. We know that he is the showiest, and we feel convinced that he is the better horse of the two; but talking is worse than useless when the course is cleared, and the start about to commence.
Come forward, then, before the British public, O many-sided, ambidextrous Goethe, as thine own Thomas Carlyle might, or could, or would, or should have termed thee, and let us hear how the mellifluous Teutonic verse will sound when adapted to another tongue. And, first of all—for we yearn to know it—tell us how thy inspiration came? A plain answer, of course, we cannot expect—that were impossible from a German; but such explanation as we can draw from metaphor and oracular response, seems to be conveyed in that favourite and elaborate preface to the poems, which accordingly we may term the
INTRODUCTION.
The morning came. Its footsteps scared away The gentle sleep that hover'd lightly o'er me; I left my quiet cot to greet the day And gaily climb'd the mountain-side before me. The sweet young flowers! how fresh were they and tender, Brimful with dew upon the sparkling lea; The young day open'd in exulting splendour, And all around seem'd glad to gladden me. And, as I mounted, o'er the meadow ground A white and filmy essence 'gan to hover; It sail'd and shifted till it hemm'd me round, Then rose above my head, and floated over. No more I saw the beauteous scene unfolded— It lay beneath a melancholy shroud; And soon was I, as if in vapour moulded, Alone, within the twilight of the cloud. At once, as though the sun were struggling through, Within the mist a sudden radiance started; Here sunk the vapour, but to rise anew, There on the peak and upland forest parted. O, how I panted for the first clear gleaming, That after darkness must be doubly bright! It came not, but a glory round me beaming, And I stood blinded by the gush of light. A moment, and I felt enforced to look, By some strange impulse of the heart's emotion; But more than one quick glance I scarce could brook, For all was burning like a molten ocean. There, in the glorious clouds that seem'd to bear her, A form angelic hover'd in the air; Ne'er did my eyes behold vision fairer, And still she gazed upon me, floating there. "Do'st thou not know me?" and her voice was soft As truthful love, and holy calm it sounded. "Know'st thou not me, who many a time and oft, Pour'd balsam in thy hurts when sorest wounded? Ah well thou knowest her, to whom for ever Thy heart in union pants to be allied! Have I not seen the tears—the wild endeavour That even in boyhood brought thee to my side?" "Yes! I have felt thy influence oft," I cried, And sank on earth before her, half-adoring; "Thou brought'st me rest when Passion's lava tide Through my young veins like liquid fire was pouring. And thou hast fann'd, as with celestial pinions, In summer's heat my parch'd and fever'd brow; Gav'st me the choicest gifts of earth's dominions, And, save through thee, I seek no fortune now. "I name thee not, but I have heard thee named, And heard thee styled their own ere now by many; All eyes believe at thee their glance is aim'd, Though thine effulgence is too great for any. Ah! I had many comrades whilst I wander'd— I know thee now, and stand almost alone: I veil thy light, too precious to be squander'd, And share the inward joy I feel with none." Smiling, she said—"Thou see'st 'twas wise from thee To keep the fuller, greater revelation: Scarce art thou from grotesque delusions free, Scarce master of thy childish first sensation; Yet deem'st thyself so far above thy brothers, That thou hast won the right to scorn them! Cease. Who made the yawning gulf 'twixt thee and others? Know—know thyself—live with the world in peace." "Forgive me!" I exclaim'd, "I meant no ill, Else should in vain my eyes be disenchanted; Within my blood there stirs a genial will— I know the worth of all that thou hast granted. That boon I hold in trust for others merely, Nor shall I let it rust within the ground; Why sought I out the pathway so sincerely, If not to guide my brothers to the bound?" And as I spoke, upon her radiant face Pass'd a sweet smile, like breath across a mirror; And in her eyes' bright meaning I could trace What I had answer'd well and what in error, She smiled, and then my heart regain'd its lightness, And bounded in my breast with rapture high: Then durst I pass within her zone of brightness, And gaze upon her with unquailing eye. Straightway she stretch'd her hand among the thin And watery haze that round her presence hover'd; Slowly it coil'd and shrunk her grasp within, And lo! the landscape lay once more uncover'd— Again mine eye could scan the sparkling meadow, I look'd to heaven, and all was clear and bright; I saw her hold a veil without a shadow, That undulated round her in the light. "I know thee!—all thy weakness, all that yet Of good within thee lives and glows, I've measured;" She said—her voice I never may forget— "Accept the gift that long for thee was treasured. Oh! happy he, thrice-bless'd in earth and heaven, Who takes this gift with soul serene and true, The veil of song, by Truth's own fingers given, Enwoven of sunshine and the morning dew. "Wave but this veil on high, whene'er beneath The noonday fervour thou and thine are glowing, And fragrance of all flowers around shall breathe, And the cool winds of eve come freshly blowing. Earth's cares shall cease for thee, and all its riot; Where gloom'd the grave, a starry couch be seen; The waves of life shall sink in halcyon quiet; The days be lovely fair, the nights serene." Come then, my friends, and whether 'neath the load Of heavy griefs ye struggle on, or whether Your better destiny shall strew the road With flowers, and golden fruits that cannot wither, United let us move, still forwards striving; So while we live shall joy our days illume, And in our children's hearts our love surviving Shall gladden them, when we are in the tomb.
This is a noble metaphysical and metaphorical poem, but purely German of its kind. It has been imitated, not to say travestied, at least fifty times, by crazy students and purblind professors—each of whom, in turn, has had an interview with the goddess of nature upon a hill-side. For our own part, we confess that we have no great predilection for such mysterious intercourse, and would rather draw our inspiration from tangible objects, than dally with a visionary Egeria. But the fault is both common and national.
The next specimen we shall offer is the far-famed Bride of Corinth. Mrs Austin says of this poem very happily—"An awful and undefined horror breathes throughout it. In the slow measured rhythm of the verse, and the pathetic simplicity of the diction, there is a solemnity and a stirring spell, which chains the feelings like a deep mysterious strain of music." Owing to the peculiar structure and difficulty of the verse, this poem has hitherto been supposed incapable of translation. Dr Anster, who alone has rendered it into English, found it necessary to depart from the original structure; and we confess that it was not without much labour, and after repeated efforts, that we succeeded in vanquishing the obstacle of the double rhymes. If the German scholar should perceive, that in three stanzas some slight liberties have been taken with the original, we trust that he will perceive the reason, and at least give us credit for general fidelity and close adherence to the text.
THE BRIDE OF CORINTH.
I.
A youth to Corinth, whilst the city slumber'd, Came from Athens: though a stranger there, Soon among its townsmen to be number'd, For a bride awaits him, young and fair: From their childhood's years They were plighted feres, So contracted by their parents' care.
II.
But may not his welcome there be hinder'd? Dearly must he buy it, would he speed. He is still a heathen with his kindred, She and her's wash'd in the Christian creed. When new faiths are born, Love and troth are torn Rudely from the heart, howe'er it bleed.
III.
All the house is hush'd. To rest retreated Father, daughters—not the mother quite; She the guest with cordial welcome greeted, Led him to a room with tapers bright; Wine and food she brought Ere of them he thought, Then departed with a fair good-night.
IV.
But he felt no hunger, and unheeded Left the wine, and eager for the rest Which his limbs, forspent with travel, needed, On the couch he laid him, still undress'd. There he sleeps—when lo! Onwards gliding slow, At the door appears a wondrous guest.
V.
By the waning lamp's uncertain gleaming There he sees a youthful maiden stand, Robed in white, of still and gentle seeming, On her brow a black and golden band. When she meets his eyes, With a quick surprise Starting, she uplifts a pallid hand.
VI.
"Is a stranger here, and nothing told me? Am I then forgotten even in name? Ah! 'tis thus within my cell they hold me, And I now am cover'd o'er with shame! Pillow still thy head There upon thy bed, I will leave thee quickly as I came."
VII.
"Maiden—darling! Stay, O stay!" and, leaping From the couch, before her stands the boy: "Ceres—Bacchus, here their gifts are heaping, And thou bringest Amor's gentle joy! Why with terror pale? Sweet one, let us hail These bright gods—their festive gifts employ."
VIII.
"Oh, no—no! Young stranger, come not nigh me; Joy is not for me, nor festive cheer. Ah! such bliss may ne'er be tasted by me, Since my mother, in fantastic fear, By long sickness bow'd, To heaven's service vow'd Me, and all the hopes that warm'd me here.
IX.
"They have left our hearth, and left it lonely— The old gods, that bright and jocund train. One, unseen, in heaven, is worshipp'd only, And upon the cross a Saviour slain; Sacrifice is here, Not of lamb nor steer, But of human woe and human pain."
X.
And he asks, and all her words cloth ponder— "Can it be, that, in this silent spot, I behold thee, thou surpassing wonder! My sweet bride, so strangely to me brought? Be mine only now— See, our parents' vow Heaven's good blessing hath for us besought."
XI.
"No! thou gentle heart," she cried in anguish; "'Tis not mine, but 'tis my sister's place; When in lonely cell I weep and languish, Think, oh think of me in her embrace! I think but of thee— Pining drearily, Soon beneath the earth to hide my face!"
XII.
"Nay! I swear by yonder flame which burneth, Fann'd by Hymen, lost thou shalt not be; Droop not thus, for my sweet bride returneth To my father's mansion back with me! Dearest! tarry here! Taste the bridal cheer, For our spousal spread so wondrously!"
XIII.
Then with word and sign their troth they plighted. Golden was the chain she bade him wear; But the cup he offer'd her she slighted, Silver, wrought with cunning past compare. "That is not for me; All I ask of thee Is one little ringlet of thy hair."
XIV.
Dully boom'd the midnight hour unhallow'd, And then first her eyes began to shine; Eagerly with pallid lips she swallow'd Hasty draughts of purple-tinctured wine; But the wheaten bread, As in shuddering dread, Put she always by with loathing sign.
XV.
And she gave the youth the cup: he drain'd it, With impetuous haste he drain'd it dry; Love was in his fever'd heart, and pain'd it, Till it ached for joys she must deny. But the maiden's fears Stay'd him, till in tears On the bed he sank, with sobbing cry.
XVI.
And she leans above him—"Dear one, still thee! Ah, how sad am I to see thee so! But, alas! these limbs of mine would chill thee: Love, they mantle not with passion's glow; Thou wouldst be afraid, Didst thou find the maid Thou hast chosen, cold as ice or snow."
XVII.
Round her waist his eager arms he bended, Dashing from his eyes the blinding tear: "Wert thou even from the grave ascended, Come unto my heart, and warm thee here!" Sweet the long embrace— "Raise that pallid face; None but thou and are watching, dear!"
XVIII.
Was it love that brought the maiden thither, To the chamber of the stranger guest? Love's bright fire should kindle, and not wither; Love's sweet thrill should soothe, not torture, rest. His impassion'd mood Warms her torpid blood, Yet there beats no heart within her breast.
XIX.
Meanwhile goes the mother, softly creeping, Through the house, on needful cares intent, Hears a murmur, and, while all are sleeping, Wonders at the sounds, and what they meant. Who was whispering so?— Voices soft and low, In mysterious converse strangely blent.
XX.
Straightway by the door herself she stations, There to be assured what was amiss; And she hears love's fiery protestations, Words of ardour and endearing bliss: "Hark, the cock! 'Tis light! But to-morrow night Thou wilt come again?"—and kiss on kiss.
XXI.
Quick the latch she raises, and, with features Anger-flush'd, into the chamber hies. "Are there in my house such shameless creatures, Minions to the stranger's will?" she cries. By the dying light, Who is't meets her sight? God! 'tis her own daughter she espies!
XXII.
And the youth in terror sought to cover, With her own light veil, the maiden's head, Clasp'd her close; but, gliding from her lover, Back the vestment from her brow she spread, And her form upright, As with ghostly might, Long and slowly rises from the bed.
XXIII.
"Mother! mother! wherefore thus deprive me Of such joy as I this night have known? Wherefore from these warm embraces drive me? Was I waken'd up to meet thy frown? Did it not suffice That, in virgin guise, To an early grave you brought me down?
XXIV.
"Fearful is the weird that forced me hither, From the dark-heap'd chamber where I lay; Powerless are your drowsy anthems, neither Can your priests prevail, howe'er they pray. Salt nor lymph can cool Where the pulse is full; Love must still burn on, though wrapp'd in clay.
XXV.
"To this youth my early troth was plighted, Whilst yet Venus ruled within the land; Mother! and that vow ye falsely slighted, At your new and gloomy faith's command. But no God will hear, If a mother swear Pure from love to keep her daughter's hand.
XXVI.
"Nightly from my narrow chamber driven, Come I to fulfil my destined part, Him to seek for whom my troth was given, And to draw the life blood from his heart. He hath served my will; More I yet must kill, For another prey I now depart. XXVII.
"Fair young man! thy thread of life is broken, Human skill can bring no aid to thee. There thou hast my chain—a ghastly token— And this lock of thine I take with me. Soon must thou decay, Soon wilt thou be gray, Dark although to-night thy tresses be.
XXVIII.
"Mother! hear, oh hear my last entreaty! Let the funeral pile arise once more; Open up my wretched tomb for pity, And in flames our souls to peace restore. When the ashes glow, When the fire-sparks flow, To the ancient gods aloft we soar."
After this most powerful and original ballad, let us turn to something more genial. The three following poems are exquisite specimens of the varied genius of our author; and we hardly know whether to prefer the plaintive beauty of the first, or the light and sportive brilliancy of the other twain.
FIRST LOVE.
Oh, who will bring me back the day, So beautiful, so bright! Those days when love first bore my heart Aloft on pinions light? Oh, who will bring me but an hour Of that delightful time, And wake in me again the power That fired my golden prime? I nurse my wound in solitude, I sigh the livelong day, And mourn the joys, in wayward mood, That now are pass'd away. Oh, who will bring me back the days Of that delightful time, And wake in me again the blaze That fired my golden prime?
WHO'LL BUY A CUPID?
Of all the wares so pretty That come into the city, There's none are so delicious, There's none are half so precious, As those which we are binging. O, listen to our singing! Young loves to sell! young loves to sell! My pretty loves who'll buy? First look you at the oldest, The wantonest, the boldest! So loosely goes he hopping, From tree and thicket dropping, Then flies aloft as sprightly— We dare but praise him lightly! The fickle rogue! Young loves to sell! My pretty loves who'll buy? Now see this little creature— How modest seems his feature! He nestles so demurely, You'd think him safer surely; And yet for all his shyness, There's danger in his slyness! The cunning rogue! Young loves to sell! My pretty loves who'll buy? Oh come and see this lovelet, This little turtle-dovelet! The maidens that are neatest, The tenderest and sweetest, Should buy it to amuse 'em, And nurse it in their bosom. The little pet! Young loves to sell! My pretty loves who'll buy? We need not bid you buy them, They're here, if you will try them. They like to change their cages; But for their proving sages No warrant will we utter— They all have wings to flutter. The pretty birds! Young loves to sell! Such beauties! Come and buy!
SECOND LIFE.
After life's departing sigh, To the spots I loved most dearly, In the sunshine and the shadow, By the fountain welling clearly, Through the wood and o'er the meadow, Flit I like a butterfly. There a gentle pair I spy. Round the maiden's tresses flying, From her chaplet I discover All that I had lost in dying, Still with her and with her lover. Who so happy then as I? For she smiles with laughing eye; And his lips to hers he presses, Vows of passion interchanging, Stifling her with sweet caresses, O'er her budding beauties ranging; And around the twain I fly. And she sees me fluttering nigh; And beneath his ardour trembling, Starts she up—then off I hover. "Look there, dearest!" Thus dissembling, Speaks the maiden to her lover— "Come and catch that butterfly!"
In the days of his boyhood, and of Monk Lewis, Sir Walter Scott translated the Erl King, and since then it has been a kind of assay-piece for aspiring German students to thump and hammer at will. We have heard it sung so often at the piano by soft-voiced maidens, and hirsute musicians, before whose roaring the bull of Phalaris might be dumb, that we have been accustomed to associate it with stiff white cravats, green tea, and a superabundance of lemonade. But to do full justice to its unearthly fascination, one ought to hear it chanted by night in a lonely glade of the Schwartzwald or Spessart forest, with the wind moaning as an accompaniment, and the ghostly shadows of the branches flitting in the moonlight across the path.
THE ERL KING.
Who rides so late through the grisly night? 'Tis a father and child, and he grasps him tight; He wraps him close in his mantle's fold, And shelters the boy from the biting cold. "My son, why thus to my arm dost cling?" "Father, dost thou not see the Erlie-king? The king with his crown and long black train!" "My son, 'tis a streak of the misty rain! " "Come hither, thou darling! come, go with me! Fair games know I that I'll play with thee; Many bright flowers my kingdoms hold! My mother has many a robe of gold!" "O father, dear father and dost thou not hear What the Erlie-king whispers so low in mine ear?" "Calm thee, my boy, 'tis only the breeze Rustling the dry leaves beneath the trees!" "Wilt thou go, bonny boy! wilt thou go with me? My daughters shall wait on thee daintilie; My daughters around thee in dance shall sweep, And rock thee, and kiss thee, and sing thee to sleep!" "O father, dear father! and dost thou not mark Erlie-king's daughters move by in the dark?" "I see it, my child; but it is not they, 'Tis the old willow nodding its head so grey!" "I love thee! thy beauty charms me quite; And if thou refusest, I'll take thee by might!" "O father, dear father! he's grasping me— My heart is as cold as cold can be!" The father rides swiftly—with terror he gasps— The sobbing child in his arms he clasps; He reaches the castle with spurring and dread; But, alack! in his arms the child lay dead!
Who has not heard of Mignon?—sweet, delicate little Mignon?—the woman-child, in whose miniature, rather than portrait, it is easy to trace the original of fairy Fenella? We would that we could adequately translate the song, which in its native German is so exquisitely plaintive, that few can listen to it without tears. This poem, it is almost needless to say, is anterior in date to Byron's Bride of Abyos
MIGNON.
Know'st thou the land where the pale citron grows, And the gold orange through dark foliage glows? A soft wind flutters from the deep blue sky, The myrtle blooms, and towers the laurel high. Know'st thou it well? O there with thee! O that I might, my own beloved one, flee! Know'st thou the house? On pillars rest its beams, Bright is its hall, in light one chamber gleams, And marble statues stand, and look on me— What have they done, thou hapless child, to thee? Know'st thou it well? O there with thee! O that I might, my loved protector, flee! Know'st thou the track that o'er the mountain goes, Where the mule threads its way through mist and snows, Where dwelt in caves the dragon's ancient brood, Topples the crag, and o'er it roars the flood. Know'st thou it well? O come with me! There lies our road—oh father, let us flee!
In order duly to appreciate the next ballad, you must fancy yourself (if you cannot realize it) stretched on the grass, by the margin of a mighty river of the south, rushing from or through an Italian lake, whose opposite shore you cannot descry for the thick purple haze of heat that hangs over its glassy surface. If you lie there for an hour or so, gazing into the depths of the blue unfathomable sky, till the fanning of the warm wind and the murmur of the water combine to throw you into a trance, you will be able to enjoy
THE FISHER.
The water rush'd and bubbled by— An angler near it lay, And watch'd his quill, with tranquil eye, Upon the current play. And as he sits in wasteful dream, He sees the flood unclose, And from the middle of the stream A river-maiden rose. She sang to him with witching wile, "My brood why wilt thou snare, With human craft and human guile, To die in scorching air? Ah! didst thou know how happy we Who dwell in waters clear, Thou wouldst come down at once to me, And rest for ever here. "The sun and ladye-moon they lave Their tresses in the main, And breathing freshness from the wave, Come doubly bright again. The deep blue sky, so moist and clear, Hath it for thee no lure? Does thine own face not woo thee down Unto our waters pure?" The water rush'd and bubbled by— It lapp'd his naked feet; He thrill'd as though he felt the touch Of maiden kisses sweet. She spoke to him, she sang to him— Resistless was her strain— Half-drawn, he sank beneath the wave, And ne'er was seen again.
Our next extract smacks of the Troubadours, and would have better suited good old King René of Provence than a Paladin of the days of Charlemagne. Goethe has neither the eye of Wouverman nor Borgognone, and sketches but an indifferent battle-piece. Homer was a stark moss-trooper, and so was Scott; but the Germans want the cry of "boot and saddle" consumedly. However, the following is excellent in its way.
THE MINSTREL.
"What sounds are those without, along The drawbridge sweetly stealing? Within our hall I'd have that song, That minstrel measure, pealing." Then forth the little foot-page hied; When he came back, the king he cried, "Bring in the aged minstrel!" "Good-even to you, lordlings all; Fair ladies all, good-even. Lo, star on star within this hall I see a radiant heaven. In hall so bright with noble light, 'Tis not for thee to feast thy sight, Old man, look not around thee!" He closed his eyne, he struck his lyre In tones with passion laden, Till every gallant's eye shot fire, And down look'd every maiden. The king, enraptured with his strain, Held out to him a golden chain, In guerdon of his harping. "The golden chain give not to me, For noble's breast its glance is, Who meets and beats thy enemy Amid the shock of lances. Or give it to thy chancellere— Let him its golden burden bear, Among his other burdens. "I sing as sings the bird, whose note The leafy bough is heard on. The song that falters from my throat For me is ample guerdon. Yet I'd ask one thing, an I might, A draught of brave wine, sparkling bright Within a golden beaker!" The cup was brought. He drain'd its lees, "O draught that warms me cheerly! Blest is the house where gifts like these Are counted trifles merely. Lo, when you prosper, think on me, And thank your God as heartily As for this draught I thank you!"
We intend to close the present Number with a very graceful, though simple ditty, which Goethe may possibly have altered from the Morlachian, but which is at all events worthy of his genius. Previously, however, in case any of the ladies should like something sentimental, we beg leave to present them with as nice a little chansonette as ever was transcribed into an album.
THE VIOLET.
A violet blossom'd on the lea, Half hidden from the eye, As fair a flower as you might see; When there came tripping by A shepherd maiden fair and young, Lightly, lightly o'er the lea; Care she knew not, and she sung Merrily! "O were I but the fairest flower That blossoms on the lea; If only for one little hour, That she might gather me— Clasp me in her bonny breast!" Thought the little flower. "O that in it I might rest But an hour!" Lack-a-day! Up came the lass, Heeded not the violet; Trod it down into the grass; Though it died, 'twas happy yet. "Trodden down although I lie, Yet my death is very sweet— For I cannot choose but die At her feet!"
THE DOLEFUL LAY OF THE NOBLE WIFE OF ASAN AGA.
What is yon so white beside the greenwood? Is it snow, or flight of cygnets resting? Were it snow, ere now it had been melted; Were it swans, ere now the flock had left us. Neither snow nor swans are resting yonder, 'Tis the glittering tents of Asan Aga. Faint he lies from wounds in stormy battle; There his mother and his sisters seek him, But his wife hangs back for shame, and comes not. When the anguish of his hurts was over, To his faithful wife he sent this message— "Longer 'neath my roof thou shalt not tarry, Neither in my court nor in my household." When the lady heard this cruel sentence, 'Reft of sense she stood, and rack'd with anguish: In the court she heard the horses stamping, And in fear that it was Asan coming, Fled towards the tower, to leap and perish. Then in terror ran her little daughters, Calling after her, and weeping sorely, "These are not the steeds of Father Asan; 'Tis thy brother Pintorovich coming!" And the wife of Asan turn'd to meet him; Sobbing, threw her arms around her brother. "See the wrongs, O brother, of thy sister! These five babes I bore, and must I leave them?" Silently the brother from his girdle Draws the ready deed of separation, Wrapp'd within a crimson silken cover. She is free to seek her mother's dwelling— Free to join in wedlock with another. When the woful lady saw the writing, Kiss'd she both her boys upon the forehead, Kiss'd on both the cheeks her sobbing daughters; But she cannot tear herself for pity From the infant smiling in the cradle! Rudely did her brother tear her from it, Deftly lifted her upon a courser, And in haste, towards his father's dwelling, Spurr'd he onward with the woful lady. Short the space; seven days, but barely seven— Little space I ween—by many nobles Was the lady—still in weeds of mourning— Was the lady courted in espousal. Far the noblest was Imoski's cadi; And the dame in tears besought her brother— "I adjure thee, by the life thou bearest, Give me not a second time in marriage, That my heart may not be rent asunder If again I see my darling children!" Little reck'd the brother of her bidding, Fix'd to wed her to Imoski's cadi. But the gentle lady still entreats him— "Send at least a letter, O my brother! To Imoski's cadi, thus imploring— I, the youthful widow, greet thee fairly, And entreat thee, by this selfsame token, When thou comest hither with thy bridesmen, Bring a heavy veil, that I may shroud me As we pass along by Asan's dwelling, So I may not see my darling orphans." Scarcely had the cadi read the letter, When he call'd together all his bridesmen, Boune himself to bring the lady homewards, And he brought the veil as she entreated. Jocundly they reach'd the princely mansion, Jocundly they bore her thence in triumph; But when they drew near to Asan's dwelling, Then the children recognized their mother, And they cried, "Come back unto thy chamber— Share the meal this evening with thy children;" And she turn'd her to the lordly bridegroom— "Pray thee, let the bridesmen and their horses Halt a little by the once-loved dwelling, Till I give these presents to my children." And they halted by the once-loved dwelling, And she gave the weeping children presents, Gave each boy a cap with gold embroider'd, Gave each girl a long and costly garment, And with tears she left a tiny mantle For the helpless baby in the cradle. These things mark'd the father, Asan Aga, And in sorrow call'd he to his children— "Turn again to me, ye poor deserted; Hard as steel is now your mother's bosom; Shut so fast, it cannot throb with pity!" Thus he spoke; and when the lady heard him, Pale as death she dropp'd upon the pavement, And the life fled from her wretched bosom As she saw her children turning from her.