LOVE'S LAST MESSAGES. MERRY, merry little stream, Tell me, hast thou seen my dear? "I passed him in his church-yard bed— O cruel! can he lie alone? Or in the arms of one more dear? Or hides he in the bower of stone, To cause and kiss away my fear? "He doth not speak, he doth not moan- Moonlight whisp'rer, summer air Whether thou hast seen my love. THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL To make my Lady's obsequies My love a minster wrought, That light and odor gave; And round about, in quaintest guise, Above her lieth spread a tomb Of gold and sapphires blue: The sapphires mark her true; Were livelily portrayed, When gracious God with both His hands He framed her in such wondrous wise, No more, no more: my heart doth faint Of her, who lived so free from taint, I think that she was ta'en And with his saints to reign; But nought our tears avail, or cries: All soon or late in death shall sleep; Nor living wight long time may keep The fairest thing in mortal eyes. CHARLES DUKE OF ORLEANS (French) Translation of HENRY CARY. THE BURIAL OF LOVE. Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day, Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers un Bring forest blooms of name unknown; Close softly, fondly, while ye weep, And make his grave where violets hide, Was carved: "Within this tomb there lies And blue-birds, in the misty spring, The fairest thing in mortal eyes." Of cloudless skies and summer sing. Place near him, as ye lay him low, His idle shafts, his loosened bow, The silken fillet that around His waggish eyes in sport he wound. WINIFREDA. But we shall mourn him long, and miss Sweet frowns and stammered phrases sweet; And graver looks, serene and high, A light of heaven in that young eye: The bow, the band, shall fall to dust; Not thus his nobler part shall dwell, Shall break these clods, a form of light, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, Love not! oh warning vainly said 829 EPITHALAMION. Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing, 331 And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to devoure, With your steele darts doe chace from coming neare Bring with you all the nymphes that you can Be also present here, heare, Both of the rivers and the forests greene, For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses, riband. And let them make great store of bridale posies; And let them eke bring store of other flowers, To deck the bridale bowers. And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread, For feare the stones her tender foot should Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along, The whiles do ye this song unto her sing, To helpe to decke her, and to help to sing, Wake now, my love, awake; for it is time: Hark! how the cheerfull birds do chaunt And carroll of love's praise! The merry larke his mattins sings aloft; playes; The ouzell shrills; the ruddock warbles soft: Ah! my deare love, why do ye sleepe thus When meeter were that ye should now awake, That all the woods them answer, and theyr Ye nymphes of Mulla, which with carefull My love is now awake out of her dreame; heed The silver-scaly trouts do tend full well, And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmed were beame, And greedy pikes which used therein to With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly feed, (Those trouts and pikes all others doe ex- More bright than Hesperus his head doth cell;) reare. And ye, likewise, which keepe the rushy Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight, lake, Where none do fishes take Bynd up the locks the which hang scattered And in his waters, which your mirror make, No blemish she may spie. Helpe quickly her to dight! But first come, ye fayre Houres, which were begot In Jove's sweet paradise of Day and Night; And ye, three handmayds of the Cyprian And eke, ye lightfoot mayds, which keepe The which do still adorn her beauteous That on the hoary mountayne used to towre- Helpe to adorn my beautifullest bride; And, as ye her array, still throw between And, as ye used to Venus, to her sing, The whiles the woods shal answer, and your echo ring. Now is my love all ready forth to come- The joyfulest day that ever sun did see. O fayrest Phoebus! father of the Muse! Or sing the thing that mote thy minde delight, Do not thy servant's simple boone refuse; But let this day, let this one day, be mine; Let all the rest be thine. Then I thy soverayne prayeses loud will sing, That all the woods shal answer, and theyr echo ring. Harke! how the minstrels 'gin to shrill aloud street, Crying aloud with strong, confused noyce, Hymen, Io Hymen, Hymen! they do shout. That even to the heavens theyr shouting shrill Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill; And evermore they Hymen, Hymen! sing, echo ring. Loe! where she comes along with portly pace, Her long, loose, yellow locks, lyke golden wyre, Sprinkled with perle, and perling flowres atweene, Do lyke a golden mantle her attyre; Nathlesse do ye still loud her prayse sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. |