Read Ebook: Poems translated and original by Ellet E F Elizabeth Fries

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Ebook has 621 lines and 47796 words, and 13 pages

To the Lance-fly, 108

The Division of the Earth, 109

In yonder lake of silver sheen, 111

The Swallows, 112

Nature, 114

Lines, 116

Fragment from "Ildegonda," 117

A Life spent in Pursuit of Glory, 119

The Wish, 120

The Northern Hunter's Song, 121

From Ippolito Pindemonte--The Poet's Last Dwelling, 123

From mountains at the dawn of day, 125

The Witches' Revel, 126

Song, 128

Sodus Bay, 130

Notes, 133

Teresa Contarini--a tragedy, 137

POEMS.

THE SEPULCHRES.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF UGO FOSCOLO.

Thus is it, Pindemonte! Man's last friend, Hope, flies the tomb; and dim forgetfulness Wraps in his rayless night all mortal things: Change after change, unfelt, resistless, takes Its tribute--and o'er man, his sepulchres, His being's lingering traces, and the relics Of earth and heaven, time in mockery treads.

But he who leaves no heritage of love, Is heedless of an urn; and if he look Beyond the grave, his spirit wanders lost Among the wailings of infernal shores; Or hides itself beneath the sheltering wings Of God's forgiving mercy; while his bones Moulder unrecked of on the desert sand, Where never loving woman pours her prayer, Nor solitary pilgrim hears the sigh Which mourning nature sends us from the tomb.

Not in those times did stones sepulchral pave The temple floors--nor fumes of shrouded corpses, Mixed with the altar's incense, smite with fear The suppliant worshipper--nor cities frown Ghastly with sculptured skeletons--while leaped Young mothers from their sleep in wild affright, Shielding their helpless babes with feeble arm, And listening for the groans of wandering ghosts, Imploring vainly from their impious heirs Their gold bought masses.--But in living green Cypress and stately cedar spread their shade O'er unforgotten graves, scattering in air Their grateful odors; vases rich received The mourners' votive tears. There pious friends Enticed the day's pure beam to gild the gloom Of monuments--for man his dying eye Turns ever to the sun; and every breast Heaves its last sigh toward the departing light! There fountains flung aloft their silvery spray, Watering sweet amaranths and violets Upon the funeral sod; and he who came To commune with the dead, breathed fragrance round, Like bland airs wafted from Elysian fields. Sublime and fond illusion! This endears The rural burial place to British maids, Who wander there to mourn a mother lost, Or supplicate the hero's safe return, Who of its mast the hostile ship despoiled, To scoop from it his own triumphal bier.

Where from past fame springs hope of future deeds, In daring minds, for Italy enslaved Draw we our auspices. Around these tombs In thought entranced, Alfieri wandered oft. Indignant at his country, here he strayed O'er Arno's desert plain, and looked abroad With silent longing on the field and sky: And when no living aspect soothed his grief, Turned to the voiceless dead; while on his brow There sat the paleness, with the hope, of death. With them he dwells for ever! Here his bones Murmur a patriot's love. Oh, truly speaks A god from this abode of pious rest! The same that fired of old in Grecian bosoms Hatred of Persian foes at Marathon, Where Athens consecrates her heroes gone. The mariner since, whose white sails woo the winds Before Euboea's isle, through midnight deep Hath seen the lightning flash of gleaming casques, And swift encountering brands; seen blazing pyres Roll forth their volumed vapors--phantom warriors Begirt with steel, and striding to the fight: While in night's silence, o'er the distant shores, From those tumultuous phalanxes was borne The clang of arms--and trumpet's hoarse response-- The tramp of rushing steeds, with hurrying hoofs Above the helmed dead--and mingling wild, Wails of the dying--hymns of victory-- And high o'er all, the Fates' mysterious chant.

Happy, my friend, who in thine early years Hast crossed the wide dominion of the winds! If e'er the pilot steered thy wandering bark Beyond the Egean isles, thou heardst the shores Of Hellespont resound with ancient deeds; And the proud surge exult, that bore of old Achilles' armor to Rhetoeum's shore Where Ajax sleeps. To souls of generous mould Death righteously awards the meed of fame: Nor subtle wit, nor kingly favor gave The perilous spoils to Ithaca--when waves Stirred to wild fury by infernal gods, Rescued the treasures from the shipwrecked bark.

LAKE ONTARIO.

Deep thoughts o'ershade my spirit while I gaze Upon the blue depths of thy mighty breast: Thy glassy face is bright with sunset rays, And thy far-stretching waters are at rest, Save the small wave that on thy margin plays, Lifting to summer airs its flashing crest; While the fleet hues across thy surface driven, Mingle afar in the embrace of heaven.

Thy smile is glorious when the morning's spring Gives half its glowing beauty to the deep; When the dusk swallow dips his drooping wing, And the gay winds that o'er thy bosom sweep, Tribute from dewy woods and violets bring, Thy restless billows in their gifts to steep. Thou'rt beautiful when evening moonbeams shine, And the soft hour of night and stars is thine.

Thou hast thy tempests too--the lightning's home Is near thee though unseen; thy peaceful shore, When storms have lashed these waters into foam, Echoes full oft the pealing thunder's roar. Thou hast dark trophies--the unhonored tomb Of those now sought and wept on earth no more-- Full many a goodly form, the loved and brave, Lies whelmed and still beneath thy sullen wave.

The world was young with thee;--this swelling flood As proudly swelled, as purely met the sky, When sound of life roused not the ancient wood, Save the wild eagle's scream, or panther's cry. Here on this verdant bank the savage stood, And shook his dart and battle-axe on high, While hues of slaughter tinged thy billows blue, As deeper and more close the conflict grew.

Here too at early morn the hunter's song Was heard from wooded isle and grassy glade; And here at eve, these clustered bowers among, The low sweet carol of the Indian maid, Chiding the slumbering breeze and shadows long, That kept her lingering lover from the shade: While, scarcely seen, thy willing waters o'er, Sped the light bark that bore him to the shore.

Those scenes are past. The spirit of changing years Has breathed on all around--save thee alone. More faintly the receding woodland hears Thy voice, once full and joyous as its own. Nations have gone from earth, nor trace appears To tell their tale--forgotten or unknown. Yet here unchanged, untamed, thy waters lie, Azure, and clear, and boundless as the sky.

THE PRINCE AND THE PALM TREE.

Abderahman, the first king of Moorish Spain, is said to have been the first who transplanted the palm from the East into Spain. He is represented as frequently addressing it with great feeling, connecting it with recollections of his native land, whence he had been driven by the usurper of his rightful throne.

Beautiful palm! though strange and rude The gales that breathe around thee here, Though in ungenial solitude There bloom no kindred foliage near-- Yet lovely tree, no foreign hand Shall rear thee in the stranger's land.

My fellow exile!--dost thou sigh For thy lost native soil again-- For the warm rays of Syria's sky, Her bowers of fragrance, or the plain Where thy broad leaves once joyed to lave Their verdure in the southern wave?

Across the sunlight hours of glee Do memories of sadness come, That speak of groves beyond the sea, That whisper of a glorious home? Dost thou partake my grief, when here I bathe thy stem with many a tear?

Ah no! thou drink'st the beams of day As if thy country's air they blest; As proudly do thy branches play, Fanned by the breezes of the west. The glad earth yields a soil as light-- The heaven above thee shines as bright.

But I, a pilgrim desolate, Must mourn unheeded and alone; Thou sharest with me the exile's fate-- The exile's sorrow is mine own! Still glorious in thy reckless pride Wave thou--while I weep by thy side!

HACON.

The clash of arms in battle's rout Was heard on Storda's shore; The war-steed's tramp--the victor's shout-- Blent with the billows' roar. There standard, helm, and burnish'd shield Were mingled on the plain-- And blood, like rivers, from that field Crimsoned the shuddering main.

Amid the plumed and martial host, With lofty step and bold, A warrior strode! a monarch's boast His kingly bearing told. And well that boast his arm of might In glorious deeds redeemed-- A meteor in the gathering night The sword of HACON gleamed.

The storm was o'er; from lurid skies Looked forth each silent star: And forms that never more should rise Cumbered the ground afar. And o'er them stalks the conqueror now, With step and glance of pride; The hue of slaughter on his brow-- His falchion at his side.

His red blade rested on the dead, He laid his helmet by; When hark! a sudden courser's tread-- Is it a foeman nigh? His ready arm has grasped the spear-- Why falls it from his hand? Why mutely and with glance of fear Greets he that midnight band?

Lo! shield, and crest, and lance were there, And casque of glittering gold; And long bright waves of shining hair Beneath each helmet rolled. Each on a dark steed mounted high, He saw the shadowy train-- He knew the Maids of Destiny-- The CHOOSERS OF THE SLAIN!

Like music on the breath of night Their softened chorus came-- As bending in the wan moon's light, They called on HACON'S name. "Hero! there's mirth in Odin's hall, The royal feast is spread-- Thou son of Yngvon! thee we call To banquet with the dead!

High in Valhalla's starry dome The gods expecting stand-- They wait thy presence--conqueror--come! There's joy in that green land! Haste, sisters, haste! Ere midnight fall, His welcome we prepare-- And tell the guests in Odin's hall HACON will meet them there!"

The forms are gone. The quivering gale Their echoed voices bore-- The warrior king, all cold and pale, Lay on that lonely shore.-- They buried his corse beside the wave, His good sword by his side;-- The only requiem o'er his grave, The moanings of the tide!

THE FOREST TEMPLE.

Lonely, and wild, and vast! Oh, is not here A temple meet for worship? These tall trees Stand like encircling columns, each begirt With the light drapery of the curling vine; While bending from above their woven leaves Like shadowy curtains hang; the trembling light Steals sparkling through, tinged with an added beauty Of bright and changeful green. Sweeping their tops, The low deep wind comes with a solemn tone, Like some high organ's music, and the stream With rushing wave makes hallowed symphony. Is not religion here? Doth not her voice Speak in those deep-toned murmurs? Aye! not less 'Tis sweetly uttered in the wild bird's note, That upward with its hymn of joy and love Soars to the clear blue sky. The heaving ground Robed in its verdant mantle--the cool spring That gushes forth its joy, and sends abroad A radiant blessing to the thirsty earth-- The glowing flowers that throng its mossy brink, Shedding their perfumes to the breezes round-- Are redolent of her. Who then would seek To pour his heart's devotion in a shrine Less mighty--less majestic? Who would quit A temple canopied by arching heaven, Fraught with the melody of heaven's free winds, Nature his fellow worshipper, to bow In man's frail sanctuaries? Who feels not In the lone forest depths at this still hour, A thrill of holy joy, that lifts the soul Above the thoughts of earth, and gives it power Nearer to commune with its kindred heaven?

OH! HER GLANCE IS THE BRIGHTEST THAT EVER HAS SHONE.

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