National Songs.

O’er the meadow not a turtle speeds or flutters, And the twilight no dew-drops scatters over: In her chamber a young maiden her griefs utters, As she thinks, drown’d in tears, of her lover: Her bright eyes with bursting sorrow are loaded, Her heart with disappointment has been goaded. ‘My beloved! my beloved! my heart’s master!’ She cried, in her agony overflowing: Her sighs thicken’d—her tears they hurried faster— ‘O some viper my bosom must be gnawing, Some poison must my life-blood be congealing!— No! thy absence creates this bitter feeling. ‘’Tis no traitor, ’tis no false one who has left me, No vile-minded, no polluted, no cold-hearted— How sad was the moment which bereft me— How bitter my sorrow when we parted! When I lost thee all was darkness about me; Life and death are indifferent without thee. ‘’Twas not violence fetter’d our affection; ’Twas thy prudence, ’twas thy virtue, that enchain’d me— In thy bosom love and friendship found protection, And the heart that was worthy of me gain’d me: We are pledged not—we are sworn not—for brighter Is the chain of sweet sympathy—and tighter. ‘Then return thee, my beloved! and forget not Thou controllest all my joy and all my sorrow;— Think of me, my heart’s confidence! and let not My thoughts any gloomier shadows borrow: ’Tis for thee—’tis for thee alone—that I grieve me— Come again, thou sweet spirit! to relieve me.’⁠[1]⁠

Autumn’s robes are on the mead, Colder blow the breezes cold; Sadness fills the shepherd’s fold, And the cheerful birds are fled. All are fled—ye swains, draw near, All your store of gladness bring: Shepherds—shepherdesses—hear! Gather round me while I sing. Come—the shadowy thatch is o’er ye— Listen to my jealous story. Daphne, wandering, chanced to look Towards the wood, and saw, alone, Sporting, his beloved one, Leaning on her pastoral crook; Her light morning garments on— On her hand a wreath she held, Playing with the early sun, In the forest and the field: O, it was a moment meet For a lover’s heart to beat! Forward she—he sought the wood Swiftly—not less swift she flew— Harder beat his bosom true— He was left in solitude. Like a rein-deer she is gone, Buried in the thickest shade. ‘Heaven—and faithless, treacherous one! ‘Do I dream?—No!—cruel maid! ‘Some heart’s-robber waits thee there— ‘Wretched man!—deceitful fair!’ But he reach’d the wood at last, And he hears the rustling boughs, Hides him midst the leaves, and vows That his eagle eye shall blast All her joy—her shame unveil: Then he put the boughs aside, But, as tutor’d to conceal, They rebound, dissatisfied; And he stands, a senseless thing, When he heard his maiden sing:— (Gods of heaven! and fiends of hell! Ye, who e’er a heart conferr’d— Ye, who e’er of passion heard— Thunder were less terrible.) ‘Come,’ she said, ‘O come, my dear! Come, thou brightest, sweetest, best! Sport thee with this garland here, Sleep upon my welcoming breast; Dwell, my joy, my pride, with me, And my heart shall dwell with thee.’ ‘Vile deceiver!—fallen to this!’ And the forest echo’d round Laughter, and the gentler sound Of the love-conferring kiss. Through the circling boughs he tears, And, with fury-flashing eyes, Met his maiden pale with fears, And—upon her hand espies A sweet bird that she caress’d, And was fondling in her breast. Canst thou, canst thou then forgive He who dared to doubt thy truth? ‘No! forgiveness, erring youth! Ne’er with doubting love can live.’ So she spoke—his heart was broken, Veil’d in grief and sunk in shame; Tears, repentance’ bitter token, Fell, but could not quench the flame: So—for love the victory wins— She forgave him all his sins.

Noisy nightingale! be still, Hear’st thou not the sweeter thrill Of my Mary, Of my fairy, From the cottage? through the trees, Born on breath of western breeze. As the skylark from her height, Midst the dews of opening light, Sweetly singeth; Joy upspringeth From the heart that song to hear— So I love thy voice, my dear! Turn I towards the window-seat— Give me one soft glance, my sweet! Kind is Mary, Kind my fairy, Joyous as a summer’s day In the mildest smile of May. Then her heart its folds unveils, And she sings its secret tales: Gently flowing, Mildly glowing, O how sweetly falls the strain! O how fascinating then! When upon her harpsichord Music leads the mournful word, And the spirit Sighs to hear it, Led by her in willing chain— Who was ever like her then? Who?—two Marys cannot be. Mary! life’s sweet witchery! Mary! bless me, And caress me: Kings might envy, for thou art, Mary! thou, my heart of heart. Peace!—she sighs—thou window fly Open—let me drink her sigh: Glowing, blushing, Thither rushing, Could I steal one rapturous kiss— Sing, sweet bird! thy song of bliss.

If the frost nipp’d the flowrets no more, If in winter the flowrets would bloom, If the woes of my spirit were o’er, My spirit should cast off its gloom: I would sit with my sorrow no longer, O’erwatching the dew-covered field. I said to my father already, Already I said to my taper⁠[2]⁠, ‘Nay! marry me not, O my father! O marry me not to a proud one! O seek not for high piles of riches, O seek not for palaces fair, ’Tis man, not his palace we dwell in, ’Tis comfort, not riches, we need!’ I hurried across the young grass, I threw off my sable fur cloak, Lest its rustling perchance might betray me, Lest its buttons of metal might tinkle— Afraid my stepfather would hear me, And say, ‘she is there,’ to his son— To his son—who is doom’d for my husband.

O how gloomy has been to me The year that speeds away, But gloomier than all the rest to me Gloomier than all—to-day! I must forget my meat and drink, And of my lover think. I must no longer idly sleep, But counsel seek, and keep. Counsel—counsel must I seek, And seek it from my lover. Let us, let us now, my hope, Let us live in love; Live in love, while time runs over, Were it but a year, And that year will then appear Like a little day. Fain, my love, I’d live with thee, But the wicked ones, Even our next door neighbours watch With a never-weary eye; Every step they watch, And to father and to mother Tell most lying tales; Such as that the youthful maiden Woke at early hour, Woke at early hour to watch her, Watch her youthful friend; And she stood upon the threshold And her kerchief waved. Truly, she did wave her kerchief To invite her friend. Turn again, my hopes! come hither, Hither to my soul! O thou com’st not!—tell me wherefore, Wherefore art thou hidden? Yes! they call thee, thou my treasure! Thou wilt marry thee. When thou hastenest to the altar, Say farewell! to me. Take away my woe and sorrow From the luckless maid, Bind her woe, and bind her sorrow To thy horse’s mane. Scatter all the maiden’s sorrow O’er the flowerless field; Spring there from the maiden’s sorrow, Fairest grass and turf! Grass and turf from maiden’s sorrow, And the sweetest flowers; All the flowers are brightly red— One more bright than all— One—yes, one is far more bright— O the bright red flower! Many and many a friend I love, One far more than all; One is dearer than the rest— Loved one of my soul!

Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine, Sitting there alone amidst the green of May! In the prison-tower the lad sits mournfully, To his father writes—to his mother writes: Thus he wrote—and these—these were the very words: ‘O good father mine—thou beloved sir! O good mother mine—thou beloved dame! Ransom me, I pray—ransom the good lad, He is your beloved—is your only son!’ Father—mother—both—both refused to hear, Cursed their hapless race—cursed their hapless seed: ‘Never did a thief our honest name disgrace— Highwayman or thief never stain’d the name.’ Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine, Sitting there alone in the green of May! From the prison-tower thus the prisoner wrote, Thus the prisoner wrote to his beloved maid: ‘O thou soul of mine! O thou lovely maid! Truest love of mine—sweetest love of mine! Save—O save, I pray—save the prison’d lad!’ Swiftly, then, exclaim’d that beloved maid: ‘Come, attendant! come—come my faithful nurse— Servant faithful—you that long have faithful been, Bring the golden key—bring the key with speed— Ope the treasure chests—open them in haste; Golden treasures bring—bring them straight to me: Ransom him, I say—ransom the good lad, He is my beloved—of my heart beloved.’ Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine, Sitting there alone amidst the green of May!

When the lovely sun is mounting high, And the bright moon leaves the morning sky; When no falcon floats upon the air, By the river’s side a youth is seen— Ah! he totters—slowly moving there, His faint eye glides o’er the gardens green, While he holds sad converse with woe and care: Then the little birds awake and greet Bridegroom and bride, in raptures sweet They flap their wings in ecstasy: My turtle!—all—yes! all but thou, Who slumberest in thy chamber now, Nor sighest—nor sendst a thought to me— No! I am banish’d from her dreams— My memory now no longer gleams In her heart—my soul’s bright hours are o’er— Nadesha will be mine no more! From her chamber then the maiden sped, And grief was on her cheeks distrest; And her eyes with sorrow’s tears were red, Her arms hung down—she is not dead, For no arrow has transfix’d her breast, And no venomous snake has poison’d her: He would speak—but he was forced to hear: ‘Now fare thee well, thou loving one! My soul!—my father’s best loved son! Last eve I was affianced— Oh! and the guests to-morrow come: They will lead me to God’s holy shrine, Call me another’s—wretched doom! Another’s——but for ever thine.’

Alas! on that plane, distant meadow towers A little tree, whose branches raise them high, And neath those branches grows the emerald grass, And o’er the grass full many a floweret blooms, There many a floweret blooms as blue as heav’n. And on those flowerets was a carpet spread, And on that carpet sat two brothers lone, Two lonely brothers, link’d in strongest love: The elder brother waked the cymbal’s voice, To which the younger’s sweetest hymns were join’d: ‘Two sons, our mother gave us to the world, Our father like two falcons rear’d his boys; He rear’d and fed us—yet he taught us nought— But rear’d us on this wide and foreign land: A wide and foreign land—the town unknown; Wide foreign land—dry even without the wind— Dry without wind, and chilly without frost. Our mother deem’d we never should get free, But we have freed us in this happy hour, And now, O mother! thou wilt find us not.’

‘O thou soul of mine, Gentle maid divine! Thou who didst possess All this heart of mine, Sit not, my love’s light! Watching through the night: Waxen taper now Burn no more, I pray, Wait me now no more Till the break of day! All our hope is over, And betrothed thy lover; And I came to ask For thy last farewell, And my gratitude For past love to tell.’ Hardly had he spoken, Hardly had he said— Sobbing—spirit-broken— Wept the lovely maid: Melting into tears, Trembling in her fears, Firmly yet she cried: ‘Give me, treacherous thing, Give my golden ring: Take the knife of steel Which thou once hadst given, Let its blade be driven To my heart—and feel How it burnt for thee, While thou murderedst me!’ ‘Weep not, gentle maid! Weep no more, I pray; I shall often come, Come from day to day: I shall love thee more— Better—than before.’ But she wept again, Lovely maid!—she wept, And her tearful eye On the traitor kept. Never is the sun Brighter than in June: Love can never see Twice its burning noon.

Listen yet a while, thou cuckoo dear! Call not, call not thou so sadly there! For without thy notes my heart is torn, Sicken’d, and dejected, and forlorn! For the sun his lovely face has shrouded, Frowning sits he in his palace clouded, And the lovely maid is full of grief, And that grief will never find an end— Never find an end—for how can she, How can she forget her bosom’s friend? Not an hour—not even a moment—he, He is present at the dawn of day, At the nightfall—eve—and morning’s ray. O he left the lovely maiden—he Left the maiden for a little week— For a week—but six months sped away— Six long months—’twas an eternity.

Hazel-eyebrow’d, hazel-eyed, Thou audacious boy, Why hast thou bewitch’d my heart, And to grief betray’d? Can the summer sun be cold, Can the light be shade, Can the heart exist on earth Uninspired by love? Does the sunshine cease to smile When the floweret fades? Is the heart untouch’d by love When the heart is sad? ’Tis no lawless love that dwells In my inner heart: I will fly and seek my mate, Like the bird in spring. I will show him all his gifts, Every kerchief sent; He shall see those kerchiefs steam With my burning tears! On thy bosom dry them, dry Those hot, burning tears; Or commingle them with thine, They will sweeter flow. Hear! on the damp hedge a noise, Snow-clouds on the field— Stormy winds are gathering round, Broken is the way. Tarry in thy little cage, O thou gentle bird, Thou canst open not with tears Yonder prison, dear! Tell to thy affianced now Some old tale of joy. Never alone should a lovely maid Wander across the field; Never the maiden’s wandering eye Should the handsome swains pursue; Never the maid should dare to love, To love the handsome swain: But the maid should watch her tender heart With ever-present care.

On an oak there sate A turtle with his mate— There in amorous meeting One another greeting, Each with flapping wing All its joy repeating. Swift a vulture sprung, Eagle-eyed and young, And he bore away That poor turtle gray— That poor turtle gray, With his ruby feet, On the oak-tree wood Spilt the turtle’s blood: All the plumage soft O’er the meadow driven; All his down aloft Borne by winds of heaven. O how desolate Sat the mourning mate; How she groan’d and sigh’d While her turtle died. ‘Weep not—why complain, Little turtle, love?’ Said the vulture then To the widow’d dove, ‘O’er the azure sea I will bring to thee Flocks of turtles, where Thou shalt choose thy dear, Choose thy lover sweet, Choose the brightest, best, With a fair gray breast, And with ruby feet.’ ‘Fly not, murderous bird! O’er the azure sea!’ Thus the dove was heard Answering mournfully: ‘Bring no flocks to me O’er the azure sea; Can their presence be Comfort to my breast? Will they bring to me The father of my nest?’

Ah! thou hurriest by the convent, My beloved one! Ah! the convent where the wretched monk Lives despairing. ’Twas by force he was conducted here, And devoted! O remove this hood, my dearest one, O remove it! Take away this frock, my fairest one, I beseech thee. Lay thy soft—O lay thy snowy hand On my bosom; Feel my heart—how my throbbing heart Beats and trembles With the flowing blood entangled, Deeply sighing! From thy countenance of gladness Tears of sorrow Drop! Come, contemplate with pity My fate’s darkness; I will ask not for forgiveness Of my errors, But that thou mayst love me—love me, Thou, my angel!