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 had it been much higher, it had been as high as mount Calvary itself—therefore, I suppose it must be high enough in all conscience.

There was nothing struck me more than the great Square; tho' I cannot say 'tis either well paved or well built; but 'tis in the heart of the town, and most of the streets, especially those in that quarter, all terminate in it; could there have been a fountain in all Calais, which it seems there cannot, as such an object would have been a great ornament, it is not to be doubted, but that the inhabitants would have had it in the very centre of this square,—not that it is properly a square,—because 'tis forty feet longer from east to west, than from north to south; so that the French in general have more


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 fall in love with a cockroach and the kingdom would suffer the shame of being ruled by a queen who loses her shell now and then...

And so, chatting, the two of them walked along the very clean and tidy avenues of the garden. Every morning, the ants ran all over the park, picking up all the little spikes, trimming the lawns and making everything look top-notch. There was a pond at the edge of which they stopped, gazing into the liquid mirror. They were both deep in thought: Narizinho missing her prince and Spider missing her sixty daughters eaten by Master Frog. Then they heard a moan some distance away. They approached. It was Master Grab, who was moaning with a huge belly full of pebbles.

— Alas, he cried, I can't even walk! Little girl with the golden hair, take pity on this poor frog and ask the prince to forgive me!...

Narizinho had a good heart and, sympathizing with the unfortunate animal's misery, she promised to intervene on his behalf.

— Look, she said to Spider, this poor

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 reason on their side in calling them Places than Squares, which strictly speaking, to be sure they are not.

The town-house seems to be but a sorry building, and not to be kept in the best repair; otherwise it had been a second great ornament to this place; it answers however its destination, and serves very well for the reception of the magistrates, who assemble in it from time to time; so that 'tis presumable, justice is regularly distributed.

I had heard much of it, but there is nothing at all curious in the Courgain; 'tis a distinct quarter of the town inhabited solely by sailors and fishermen; it consists of a number of small streets, neatly built and mostly of brick; 'tis


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 his scheme put to the proof. But whether practicable or not, the proposal does him much honour. That he should thus have sought to make a love-match of it between the two peoples, and tried to win their inclination towards a union instead of simply transferring them, like so many sheep, by a marriage, or testament, or private treaty, is thoroughly characteristic of what is best in the man. Nor was this all. He had, besides, to assure himself of English support, secret or avowed, for the reformation party in Scotland; a delicate affair, trenching upon treason. And so he had plenty to say to Cecil, plenty that he did not care to "commit to paper neither yet to the knowledge of many." But his miserable publication had shut the doors of England in his face. Summoned to Edinburgh by the confederate lords, he waited at Dieppe, anxiously praying for leave to journey through England. The most dispiriting tidings reach him. His messengers, coming from so obnoxious a quarter, narrowly escape imprisonment. His old congregation are coldly received, and even begin to look back again to their place of exile with regret. "My First Blast," he writes ruefully, "has blown from me all my friends of England." And then he adds, with a snarl, "The Second Blast, I fear, shall sound somewhat more sharp, except men be more moderate than I hear


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 fellow is paying for the crime of being a sleeper. He was punished just because he couldn't resist falling asleep at work...

— It's well deserved," replied the spider. Who told him to eat my sixty daughters?

— So, said Narizinho, here in this kingdom, one attacking another is like that, and you can kill and swallow?

— That's right, my child, just like among men, who are vultures eating the flesh of corpses.

Narizinho was very surprised at the way the animals saw humanity and wanted to refute the spider. But she couldn't because the spider interrupted her by saying:

- Yes, they are vultures, and they eat animal carcasses. I used to have my web in a butcher's shop in the city and every night I would see a wagon full of skinned oxen, sheep and pigs arrive, which a man called a butcher, all smeared with blood, would sell to the maids, who would take their baskets.


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 they are." But the threat is empty; there will never be a second blast—he has had enough of that trumpet. Nay, he begins to feel uneasily that, unless he is to be rendered useless for the rest of his life, unless he is to lose his right arm and go about his great work maimed and impotent, he must find some way of making his peace with England and the indignant Queen. The letter just quoted was written on the 6th of April 1559; and on the 10th, after he had cooled his heels for four days more about the streets of Dieppe, he gave in altogether, and writes a letter of capitulation to Cecil. In this letter, which he kept back until the 22d, still hoping that things would come right of themselves, he censures the great secretary for having "followed the world in the way of perdition," characterises him as "worthy of hell," and threatens him, if he be not found simple, sincere, and fervent in the cause of Christ's gospel, that he shall "taste of the same cup that politic heads have drunken in before him." This is all, I take it, out of respect for the Reformer's own position; if he is going to be humiliated, let others be humiliated first; like a child who will not take his medicine until he has made his nurse and his mother drink of it before him. "But I


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 "Well, I will go and get some from the bank. How much do you want?" said he, with his well-known expression of vexation.

"No, wait!" She detained him by the arm. "Let us talk about this a moment; this troubles me. I try not to buy anything unnecessary;' still, the money runs away. We must retrench somehow or other."

"Not at all," said Levin, with a little cough, and looking askance upon her.

She knew this cough. It was a sign of strong vexation, not with her, but with himself. He was actually discontented, not because much money was spent, but because he was reminded of what he wanted to forget.

"I have ordered Sokolof to sell the corn, and to get the rent of the mill in advance. We shall have money enough."

"No; but I fear that, as a general thing ...."

"Not at all, not at all," he repeated. "Well, good-by, darling."

"Sometimes I wish I hadn't listened to mamma. How happy we were in the country! I tire you all, waiting for me; and the money we spend ...."

"Not at all, not at all! Not one single time since we were married till now have I thought that things would have been better than they are."

"Truly?" said she, looking into his face.

He said that, thinking only to comfort her. But when he saw her gentle, honest eyes turned to him with an inquiring look, he repeated what he had said with his whole heart; and he remembered what was coming to them so soon.

"How do you feel this morning? Do you think it will be soon?" he asked, taking both her hands in his.

"I sometimes think that I don't think and don't know anything."

"And don't you feel afraid?"

She smiled disdainfully:—

"Not the least bit. No, nothing will happen to-day; don't worry."

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 have, say you, written a treasonable book against the regiment and empire of women The writing of that book I will not deny; but to prove it treasonable I think it shall be hard It is hinted that my book shall be written against. If so be, sir, I greatly doubt they shall rather hurt nor (than) mend the matter." And here come the terms of capitulation; for he does not surrender unconditionally, even in this sore strait: "And yet if any," he goes on, "think me enemy to the person, or yet to the regiment, of her whom God hath now promoted, they are utterly deceived in me, for the miraculous work of God, comforting His afflicted by means of an infirm vessel, I do acknowledge, and the power of His most potent hand I will obey. More plainly to speak, if Queen Elizabeth shall confess, that the extraordinary dispensation of God's great mercy maketh that lawful unto her which both nature and God's law do deny to all women, then shall none in England be more willing to maintain her lawful authority than I shall be. But if (God's wondrous work set aside) she ground (as God forbid) the justness of her title upon consuetude, laws, or ordinances of men, then"—Then Knox will denounce her? Not so; he is more politic nowadays—then, he "greatly fears" that her ingratitude to God will not go long without punishment.


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 His letter to Elizabeth, written some few months later, was a mere amplification of the sentences quoted above. She must base her title entirely upon the extraordinary providence of God; but if she does this, "if thus, in God's presence, she humbles herself, so will he with tongue and pen justify her authority, as the Holy Ghost hath justified the same in Deborah, that blessed mother in Israel." And so, you see, his consistency is preserved; he is merely applying the doctrine of the "First Blast." The argument goes thus: The regiment of women is, as before noted in our work, repugnant to nature, contumely to God, and a subversion of good order. It has nevertheless pleased God to raise up, as exceptions to this law, first Deborah, and afterward Elizabeth Tudor—whose regiment we shall proceed to celebrate.

There is no evidence as to how the Reformer's explanations were received, and indeed it is most probable that the letter was never shown to Elizabeth at all. For it was sent under cover of another to Cecil, and as it was not of a very courtly conception throughout, and was, of all things, what would most excite the Queen's uneasy jealousy about her title, it is like enough that the secretary exercised his discretion (he had Knox's leave in this case, and did not always wait for


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 "If that is so, then I am going to Katavasof's."

"I am going with papa to take a little walk on the boulevard. We are going to see Dolly. I shall expect you back before dinner. Oh, there! Do you know, Dolly's position is getting to be entirely unendurable? She is in debt on every side, and has n't any money at all. We talked about it yesterday with mamma and Arseny,"—this was her sister Natali Lvova's husband,—"and they decided that you should scold Stiva. It is truly unendurable. It is impossible for papa to speak about it; but if you and he ...."

"Well, what can we do?" asked Levin.

"You had better go to Arseny's, and talk with him; he will tell you what we decided about it."

"All right! I will follow Arseny's advice. Then, I will go directly to his house. By the way, if he is at the concert, then I will go with Natali. So good-by."

On the staircase, the old bachelor servant, Kuzma, who acted in the city as steward, stopped his master.

"Krasavtchika has just been shod, and it lamed her,"—this was Levin's left pole-horse, which he had brought from the country;—"what shall I do?" said he.

When Levin established himself in Moscow, he brought his horses from the country. He wished to set up as good a stable as possible, but not to have it cost too much. It seemed to him now that hired horses would have been less expensive; and even as it was, he was often obliged to hire of the izvoshchik.

"Take her to the veterinary; perhaps she is going to have a swimmer."

"Well, how shall you arrange for Katerina Aleksandrovna?" asked Kuzma.

Levin was now no longer troubled as he had been at first, when he first came to Moscow, that for the drive from Vozdvizhenko to Svintsef Vrazhek it was necessary to have a span of heavy horses harnessed into his heavy carriage and drive in it four versts through mealy snow, and keep them waiting four hours there, and have to pay

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 that, it is reputed) to put the letter harmlessly away beside other valueless or unpresentable State Papers. I wonder very much if he did the same with another, written two years later, after Mary had come into Scotland, in which Knox almost seeks to make Elizabeth an accomplice with him in the matter of the "First Blast." The Queen of Scotland is going to have that work refuted, he tells her; and "though it were but foolishness in him to prescribe unto her Majesty what is to be done," he would yet remind her that Mary is neither so much alarmed about her own security, nor so generously interested in Elizabeth's, "that she would take such pains, unless her crafty counsel in so doing shot at a further mark." There is something really ingenious in this letter; it showed Knox in the double capacity of the author of the "First Blast" and the faithful friend of Elizabeth; and he combines them there so naturally, that one would scarcely imagine the two to be incongruous.

Twenty days later he was defending his intemperate publication to another queen—his own queen, Mary Stuart. This was on the first of those three interviews which he has preserved for us with so much dramatic vigour in the picturesque pages of his history. After he had avowed


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 Narizinho didn't answer back, because she knew it was true...

Then drums and clarions sounded in the distance. It was the prince returning, leading a guard of crickets. Narizinho's heart beat fast.

— Hail! said the prince as soon as he saw the girl. Hail to the lady of my heart!

— If I am the lady of your heart, she replied, I want to ask you for a grace...

— Command and it will be obeyed, said the prince.

— I want Master Grab's forgiveness," said Narizinho, "who is groaning with the five hundred stones in his belly."

The prince granted her request and ordered that Doctor Snail be called to extract the stones. The doctor came with his surgeon's bag. He examined the overstuffed frog, palpated it, raised his glasses to his forehead and said:

— I need to open his stomach.

— So open it, ordered the prince.

Doctor Snail rolled up his sleeves, put on his apron and, helped by several ants, began the operation. The frog was placed on its back, with its belly in the air, and the ants, with their sharp stings, opened a hole in it. Then they entered through the opening and


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 five rubles for it. Now it seemed to him the natural thing to do.

"Get a pair of horses from the izvoshchik, and put them into our carriage."

"I will obey."

And having thus decided simply and quickly, thanks to his training in city ways, a labor which in the country would have cost him much trouble and attention. Levin went out on the porch, and, beckoning to an izvoshchik, took his seat in the cab, and rode off to the Nikitskaya Street.

On the way the question of money did not occupy him, but he thought over how he was about to make the acquaintance of the sociological savant from Petersburg, and what he should say to him in regard to his treatise.

It was only during the first part of his stay in Moscow that Levin, who had been used to the productive ways of the country, was amazed at the strange and unavoidable expenses which met him on every side. But now he was wonted to them. He had somewhat the same experience as he had been told drunken men went through: each successive glass made him more reckless.

When Levin took the first hundred-ruble note for the purchase of liveries for the lackey and Swiss, he could not avoid the consideration that these liveries were wholly useless to any one; and yet they seemed to be unavoidable and indispensable, judging from the amazement of Kitty and her mother, when he made the remark that they might go without them—and he put it to himself that these liveries represented the wages of two laborers for a year, that is to say, about three hundred working days from early in the morning till late at night; so that the first hundred-ruble note corresponded to the first glass.

But the second bill of twenty-eight rubles, expended for the purchase of provisions for a family dinner, cost

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 him less trouble, though he still mentally computed that this money represented nine chetverts, or more than fifty bushels, of oats which these same workmen, at the cost of many groans, had mowed, bound into sheaves, threshed, winnowed, gathered up, and put into bags.

And now the money spent in this way had long ceased to evoke any such considerations, but they flew around him like little birds. He had long ceased to ask him- self whether the pleasure purchased by his money was anywhere near commensurate with the labor spent in acquiring it. He also forgot the common principle of economics, that there is a certain price below which it is impossible to sell grain except at a loss. His rye, the price of which he had kept up so long, had to be sold at ten kopeks a bushel cheaper than he had sold it a month earlier. Even the calculation that if he kept on at his present rate of expenditure it would be impossible to get through the year without getting into debt, did not cause him any anxiety.

Only one thing troubled him: the keeping up his bank account, without asking how, so that there might be always enough for the daily needs of the household. And up to the present time he had succeeded in doing this. But now his deposit at the bank had run low, and he did not know exactly how to restore it. And this problem was causing him some anxiety just at the time when Kitty asked him for some more money. But he did not want to bother about that just now. So he drove away, thinking of Katavasof and his approaching acquaintance with Metrof.

CHAPTER III

his present stay in Moscow Levin had once more come into intimate relationship with his old university friend, Professor Katavasof, whom he had not seen since the time of his marriage. Katavasof was agreeable to him because of the clearness and simplicity of his philosophy. Levin thought that the clearness of

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 his philosophy arose from the poverty of his nature, while Katavasof thought that the incoherence of Levin's ideas arose from a lack of mental discipline. But Katavasof's lucidity was agreeable to Levin, and Levin's fecundity of undisciplined ideas was agreeable to Katavasof, and they both liked to meet and discuss together.

Levin had read several passages from his treatise to Katavasof, who had liked them. The evening before Katavasof, happening to meet Levin at a public lecture, told him that the celebrated scholar, Professor Metrof, whose article had pleased Levin, was in Moscow, and was greatly interested in what he had heard of Levin's work. He was to be at Katavasof's house the next day at eleven o'clock, and would be delighted to make Levin's acquaintance.

"Delighted to see you, batyushka," said Katavasof, receiving Levin in his reception-room. "I heard the bell, and wondered if it could be time And now what do you think of the Montenegrins? It looks to me like war."

"What makes you think so?" asked Levin.

Katavasof in a few words told him the latest news, and then, taking him into his library, introduced him to a short, thick-set, and very pleasant-looking man: it was Metrof. The conversation for a short time turned on politics, and on the views held by the high authorities in Petersburg in regard to the recent elections. Metrof, in regard to this, quoted some significant words spoken by the emperor and one of the ministers, which he had heard from a reliable source. Katavasof had heard from an equally reliable source that the emperor had said something quite different. Levin tried to imagine to himself the conditions in which the words in either case might have been said, and the conversation on this theme came to an end.

"Well! here is the gentleman who is writing a book on the natural condition of the laborer in relation to the soil," said Katavasof. "I am not a specialist, but it pleases me as a naturalist that he does not consider the human race outside of zoölogical laws, but recognizes

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 took out the five hundred pebbles of punishment one by one. When the last one came out, Master Grab let out a great sigh of relief. Once the stones had been gathered and the inside cleaned, the doctor set about sewing up the cut. To do this, he joined the edges of the belly and had the ants sting them there, so that each sting was a stitch. And so he made three stitches, leaving three ants clinging to the frog's belly. Then the doctor took a pair of scissors and guillotined the ants so that only the heads of the poor things remained in the frog's skin.

Master Grab thanked the doctor for his service and, in order not to waste any time, went on to eat the bodies of the three beheaded ants that lay on the ground in dispair. Master Grab never missed his chance!

Once this curious operation was over, Narizinho continued her walk with Mrs. Spider, and later went home very pleased with herself for having saved the life of a poor creature of God who had been condemned to a painful ordeal for the simple fact of being a sleeper.

— Friend Spider," she said, "the prince has forgiven the poor frog. Do you forgive him too?

— Never! replied the spider. I can't ever forget my children...


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 man's dependence on his environment, and seeks to find in this dependence the laws of his development."

"That's very interesting," said Metrof.

"I began simply to write a book on rural economy," said Levin, reddening;" but in studying the principal instrument, the laborer, I arrived at a decidedly unexpected conclusion, in spite of myself."

And Levin expatiated on his ideas, trying the ground carefully as he did so, for he knew that Metrof had written an article against the current views on political economy; and how far he could hope for sympathy in his new views, he did not know, and could not tell from the scholar's calm, intellectual face.

"How, in your opinion, does the Russian laborer differ from that of other peoples?" asked Metrof. "Is it from the point of view which you call zoological? or from that of the material conditions in which he finds himself?"

This way of putting the question proved to Levin how widely their opinions diverged; nevertheless, he continued to set forth his theory, which was based on the idea that the Russian people could not have the same relation to the soil as the other European nations; and to prove this position, he hastened to add that, in his opinion, the Russian people feels instinctively predestined to populate the immense uncultivated tracts stretching toward the East.

"It is easy to be mistaken about the general destiny of a people, by forming premature conclusions," said Metrof, interrupting Levin; "and the situation of the laborer will always depend on his relation to land and capital."

And, without giving Levin time to reply, he began to explain the peculiarity of his own views. Levin did not understand, because he did not try to understand, in what consisted the peculiarity of his views; he saw that Metrof, like all the rest, notwithstanding his article, in which he refuted the teachings of the economists, looked on the condition of the Russian people from the

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text: Translation:The girl with a turned up nose/Chapter 4


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 :1 I e


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 standpoint of capital, wages, and rent, though he was obliged to confess that for the eastern and by far the greater part of Russia, there was no such thing as rent; that for nine-tenths of Russia's eighty millions, wages consisted in a bare subsistence, and the capital did not yet exist, except as it was represented by the most primitive tools. Although Metrof differed from other political economists, in many ways he regarded the laborer from this point of view, and he had a new theory as to wages, which he demonstrated at length.

Levin listened with some disgust, and tried to reply. He wanted to interrupt Metrof, in order to express his own opinions, which he felt deserved to be heard at far greater length. But, finally recognizing that they looked on the subject from such a radically opposite standpoint that they could never understand each other, he no longer tried to refute him, he let Metrof talk, and only listened. Though he was not at all interested in what he said, nevertheless he experienced a certain pleasure in listening to him. He was flattered that such a learned man would condescend to give him the benefit of his thoughts, sometimes by a hint pointing to a complete phase of the subject, and showing him so much deference as to one thoroughly versed in the subject. He ascribed this to his own merits; he did not know that Metrof, having talked this over with all his own intimates on this subject, was glad to have a new auditor; and, moreover, that he liked to talk with any one on the subjects that occupied him, so as to elucidate certain points for his own benefit.

"We shall be late," remarked Katavasof, consulting his watch as soon as Metrof had concluded his argument. "Yes! there is a special session to-day of the 'Society of Friends' in honor of the semi-centennial of Svintitch," he added, in reply to Levin's question. "We meet at the house of Piotr Ivanuitch; I promised to speak on his work in zoology. Come with us; it will be interesting."

"Yes, it is high time," said Metrof. "Come with us,

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 extremely populous, but as that may be accounted for, from the principles of their diet,—there is nothing curious in that neither.—A traveller may see it to satisfy himself—he must not omit however taking notice of La Tour de Guet, upon any account; 'tis so called from its particular destination, because in war it serves to discover and give notice of the enemies which approach the place, either by sea or land;—but 'tis monstrous high, and catches the eye so continually, you cannot avoid taking notice of it, if you would.

It was a singular disappointment to me, that I could not have permission to take an exact survey of the fortifications, which are the strongest in the world, and


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 which, from first to last, that is, from the time they were set about by Philip of France Count of Bologne, to the present war, wherein many reparations were made, have cost (as I learned afterwards from an engineer in Gascony)—above a hundred millions of livres. It is very remarkable that at the Tête de Gravelenes, and where the town is naturally the weakest, they have expended the most money; so that the outworks stretch a great way into the campaign, and consequently occupy a large tract of ground.—However, after all that is said and done, it must be acknowledged that Calais was never upon any account so considerable from itself, as from its situation, and that easy enterance which it gave our ancestors upon all occasions into France: it was not without its inconveniences


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 also; being no less troublesome to the English in those times, than Dunkirk has been to us, in ours; so that it was deservedly looked upon as the key to both kingdoms, which no doubt is the reason that there have arisen so many contentions who should keep it: of these, the siege of Calais, or rather the blockade (for it was shut up both by land and sea) was the most memorable, as it withstood the efforts of Edward the third a whole year, and was not terminated at last but by famine and extream misery; the gallantry of Eustace de St. Pierre, who first offered himself a victim for his fellow citizens, has rank'd his name with heroes. As it will not take up above fifty pages, it would be injustice to the reader, not to give him a


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 minute account of that romantic transaction, as well as of the siege itself, in Rapin's own words:

courage! gentle reader!—I scorn it—'tis enough to have thee in my power—but to make use of the advantage which the fortune of the pen has now gained over thee, would be too muchNo! by that all powerful fire which warms the visionary brain, and lights the spirits through unworldly tracts! ere I would force a helpless creature upon this hard service, and make thee pay, poor soul! for fifty pages which I have no right to sell thee,—naked as


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text: The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman/Volume 7/Chapter 5


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 OEMS OF THE PAST AND THE PRESENT

BY

THOMAS HARDY


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 blunderbuss, and keeping a sharp look-out wherever any lurking place was. However, I saw only sheep and small red cattle, and the common deer of the forest, until I was nigh to Porlock town, and then rode straight to Mr. Pooke's, at the sign of the Spit and Gridiron.

Mr. Pooke was asleep, as it happened, not having much to do that day; and so I fastened Peggy by the handle of a warming-pan, at which she had no better manners than to snort and blow her breath; and in I walked with a manful style, bearing John Fry's blunderbuss. Now Timothy Pooke was a peaceful man, glad to live without any enjoyment of mind at danger, and I was tall and large already as most lads of a riper age. Mr. Pooke, as soon as he opened his eyes, dropped suddenly under the counting-board, and drew a great frying-pan over his head, as if the Doones were come to rob him, as their custom was, mostly after the fair-time. It made me feel rather hot and queer to be taken for a robber; and yet methinks I was proud of it.

"Gadzooks, Master Pooke," said I, having learned fine words at Tiverton; "do you suppose that I know not then the way to carry firearms? An it were the old Spanish match-lock, in the lieu of this good flint-engine, which may be borne ten miles or more and never once go off, scarcely couldst thou seem more scared. I might point at thee muzzle on—just so as I do now—even for an hour or more, and like enough it would never shoot thee, unless I pulled the trigger hard,


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 PREFACE EREWITH I tender my thanks to the editors and proprietors of the Times, the Morning Post, the Daily Chronicle, the Westminster Gazette, Literature, the Graphic, Cornhill, Sphere, and other papers, for permission to reprint from their pages such of the following pieces of verse as have already been published.

Of the subject-matter of this volume which is in other than narrative form, much is dramatic or impersonative eveven where not


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 explicitly so. Moreover, that portion which may be regarded as individual comprises a series of feelings and fancies written down in widely differing moods and circumstances, and at various dates. It will probably be fond, therefore, to possess little cohesion of thought or harmony of colouring. I do not greatly regret this. Unadjusted impressions have their value, and the road to a true philosophy of life seems to lie in humbly recording diverse readings of its phenomena as they are forced upon us by chance and change.

T. H.

August 1901.


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Once upon a time a Sultan, ruler over nomad bands, Roaming with their herds and seeking pastures new in many lands, On the earth lay sleeping, pillowed was his head upon his arm, But his eyes, beneath closed lashes, now awoke in dream’s sweet charm. From the sky down gliding gently, all in silver dress arrayed, Came the moon towards him descending as a pure and lovely maid, On her pathway, all, around her, as on mild spring’s step did bloom, Yet her eyes were full of shadows born of secret sorrow’s gloom, All the woods with so much beauty charmed were thrilling with delight, All the brooks and rivers quivered with their limpid faces bright, Diamond dust was lightly falling from above like finest rain, Glitt’ring in the air, on flowers, over all in nature’s reign, In the night resplendent rainbows arching on the sky were seen, And bewitching, softly whispered, sounded music sweet, serene… Lovely arms she streched towards him as he lay, her raven hair Fell like silken waves down streaming on her snowy shoulders bare: —„Let our lives be bound together, come, belovèd, to my breast, Soothing balm to my sweet sorrow be thy sorrow, near me rest… This in Life’s book for all ages on the stars did Fate record: I must be thy sovereign lady, thou must be my life’s dear lord.“

As to her he looked and listened, darkening she disappeared; From his heart sprang up a tree that towards the sky its branches reared, And it grew, it grew in moments as in ages long, this tree Shot its boughs with massy foliage over all, on land and sea, Underneath the shadows creeping over all the world disperse, One great shadow now embracing all the boundless universe. On the four points of th’horizon the gigantic mountain ranges, Atlas, Caucasus and Taurus, and the Balkans hoar with ages, And the Tigris, the Euphrates and the Nile, the Danube old, All the world th’unmeasured shadow of this tree did now enfold.

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 Vast espanses, Asia, Europe, Africa with deserts wide, With their sea-shores and their harbours, and strong cities on each side, On the seas and on the rivers galleons rocking on the waves, And the undulating corn-fields, riches, all that man’s heart craves, Linked together, countries, nations, wheresoe’er his eyes would stray, A vast carpet intermingling countless hues before him lay. Through a greyish mist transparent there before his eager view, Under one tree’s shadow only an all-powerful empire grew. Towards the sky the eagles flying to its branches could not soar; Loud and victory presaging, a strong wind began to roar, And the rustling foliage wildly in the stormy blast was rent, Cries of battle, Allah! Allah! to the highest clouds were sent. And the tumult grew tremendous like a high tempestuous sea, Shouts of triumph, shouts of horror, howling now unceasingly; But with spear-like leaves the branches in the tossing winds contending, Over the new Rome inclining to the earth were lowly bending.

Shaken by his dream the Sultan wakened... looking upwards, there On the sky the moon was gliding o’er the hills of Eski-Shehr, And behind a latticed window smiling was a face so meek, Twas the graceful child, the daughter of Edèbali, the sheik, Like a hazel twig so slender, haloed by the bright full moon, Dreaming on the casement leaning stood the fair maid Malcatoon. Then he knew that the great Prophet had imagined this device, That in dream he had ascended in Mohammed’s paradise, And that from his love an empire would be born and wide would grow. But its destined years and limits Heaven could alone foreknow.

So, as Fate decreed, the passing ages proved his vision true, Like an eagle soaring upwards every year the empire grew, Sultan after sultan followed, their green banner rose still higher, Nation after nation conquered was by them with sword and fire, Country after country open all the ways for them did set… Full of glory to the Danube came the stormy Bajazet. At a sign with floating vessels shore to shore was quickly bound, The whole army crossing over to the martial trumpets’ sound. Janizaries, Allah’s children, spahees, with their spears and shields,

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 Swarmed like bees, the whole earth dark’ning on Rovine’s marshy fields, Numberless their high tents pitching, waiting for the battle grim; Ominous the oak-woods rustled looming in the distance dim. A peace messenger came bearing on a rod a kerchief white. Bajazet then asked him, looking as to one whom he did slight: —„Say, what wantest thou?“ —„Your Highness, peace is all we come to seek, If you grant it, fain our lord would with the gracious emperor speak“ At a sign the way was opened, to the tent with nobleness Came an old man plain and simple in his words and in his dress. —„Thou art Mircea?“ —„Yes, High Sultan!“ —„For thine homage here came I, Lest thy crown to thorns be changèd, with my will thou must comply.“ —„Howsoe’er thou camest, Sultan, and whate’er thy thought may be, While we are in peace and quiet, as a friend I welcome thee. As for vassal’s homage, pardon! but our honour this denies: Would’st thou with thy warring armies this poor country now chastise? Give us rather, mighty Sultan, a high token of thy grace And magnanimously leave us, back again thy way retrace... Be the one or be the other, what our fate may have in store, Gladly shall we bear it always, be it peace or be it war.“ —„When the world to me is open, thinkest thou that I can bear That my mighty host should stumble on a stump that’s lying there? O thou knowest not how many in my way with armies pressed! All the heroes bold and famous, all the glory of the West. All that ’neath the cross was gathered, kings and emperors great did form An innumerable army ’gainst the crescent’s furious storm. In their shining mail, well armoured, and in martial proud array Came the dauntless knights of Malta bold and eager for the fray; And the Pope, the triple-crownèd, all his gathered thunders sent Gainst the thunder that most direful earth and sea with rage had rent.

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 At a sign, like rivers flooding from the mountain, field and wood, The whole West sent forth its nations, for the glory of the Rood. And they came, the whole world shaking from its deepest quietness, Darkening the far horizon with their shields, spears numberless. On the land like moving forests they advanced in awful might, By their daring galleons shaken, trembled e’en the sea with fright. At Nicopolis thou sawest how they camped, assembling all, To my power there opposing an unshaken bulwark wall; When I saw them there as many as the sands are on the shore, With an unquenched hate I muttered in my beard, an oath I swore, Over them to tread, to crush them, ruthlessly my way to force, And in Rome, on Peter’s alter, make a manger for my horse. And my hurricane, that’s sweeping all away like dust and chaff, Thinkest thou that thou canst stay it only with an old man’s staff?“ —„Yes, ’tis true, an old man, Sultan! but the man thou dost behold Is a man not of the common, but Wallachia’s ruler bold. I wish not that thou shouldst ever come our direful wrath to know, That thy mighty hosts should perish in the Danube’s angry flow. Yet in olden times full many, on their way all conquering, First of all and the most famous, great Darius, Persian king, Built a bridge on our old Danube, battling o’er with might and main. Fright’ning all around and thinking the whole world was their domain: Emperors, whom the vastest empires could within their bounds not hold, Came here asking earth and water, as in olden tales is told, And I do not wish to frighten, nor do I now wish to boast, They were turned to earth and water, nought was left of all their host. Thou dost boast that thou couldst conquer, all before thee crushing down, Emperors’ proud, great hosts, well armoured, bravest knights of high renown, Thou dost boast the Western powers all their armies ’gainst thee pressed, But what urged them to the battle, what allured the glorious West? They would fain have torn the laurels from thy iron brow so bright, Victory for faith and glory — this was sought by every knight. I do here defend my country, my poor nation in distress… Therefore all that here is stirring, friends to me with help will press: Men, all creatures, woods and rivers, everything will be thy foe, And the meaning of our hatred to its fulness thou wilt know. Armies have we not, but know it, love of country is a wall That by fear is never shaken, nothing ever makes it fall!“

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 Scarce the old man had departed, when with storm the forest torn Rustled, roared with shouts and clangour, sounds of arms and sounds of horn. Coming from the dark, deep shadows, on the green skirts of the wood, Thousands, thousands of bright helmets, long-haired yeoman gathered stood. At a sign together swarming, on their horses, wild and fleet, On the panting flanks the riders with their wooden stirrups beat, Like a dust cloud, storm fore-telling, lightly, swiftly on they sped, Shield on shield gave back the sunlight, spear points glittered over head, As from copper clouds in autumn hail storms driven by the blast, Hide in darkness the horizon, so sharp arrows flashing passed, Whizzing, singing, hurtling, ringing, filled the air with dread alarms, And to thundering horsehoofs echoed cries of battle, clash of arms. Vainly like the fiercest lion did the sultan roar and rage, Death’s grim shadow grew still greater on all those who war did wage: Vainly to arouse their spirits did they lift the Prophet’s flag, For on front, on flanks fast seizing Death did all to ruin drag; Wavering whole troops were shaken, thinned fell down long battle rows, The Arabians fell like grass-blades, when a man his meadow mows, Horsemen from their steeds were tumbled, footmen beaten to their knees, And the arrows came like billows surging on tempestuous seas, Like the frost from all sides biting, and it seemed as if the world, To the darkest depths down falling, heaven and hell on earth were hurled. Mircea led himself in battle this fierce storm so wildly rushing, Coming on and on, in fury, all beneath it trampling, crushing. Vanquished were the foe’s great armies, scattered, cast away, like rags, And victoriously advancing came the country’s blessed flags. As in wind the chaff is winnowed, so the paynims were dispersed, To the Danube they were driven, as within a flood immersed, That doth carry all resistless to the raging sea’s wild coast, And behind them came in triumph the Rumanian glorious host.

As to rest the army settled, gorgeously the sun went down, As if victory’s bright nimbus the land’s highest crests would crown, Like a long and lasting lightning, that with splendour now did rest, O’er the dark high rising mountains, our land’s bulwark toward the West.

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 From the deep night of the ages, one by one, the stars came, soon From the mists, o’er darkgreen forests, shimmering appeared the moon. The great queen of night and oceans, peace and sleep to all things sent. A young son of our bold ruler watchful sat beside his tent, Smiling with a dear remembrance, while the calm moon shone above, On his knee a letter writing, home to send it to his love:

From Rovine, in a dale Lady mine, I send this mail. Many things I have to say, But thou art so far away. I must send all in a letter, Since I cannot now do better. Lady dear this soul of mine Yearns for all that’s truly thine, For thine eyes, sweet, smiling, good, For the springs, the fields, the wood. Send them, for I too send, dear, All that is most lovely here, My proud host with banners glorious, Over our great foes victorious, And with them will come together My bright helm with pea-cock feather And my brows, my loving eyes: All to thee, with longing hies. Thanking Christ, God save my soul! I am safe and sound and whole. With my love I send thee this, Thy sweet lips, sweet soul, I kiss.

Such were those old times that happy chroniclers and poets knew, Our own age is full of jugglers, mountebanks and all their crew. In the legends and old annals may the heroes still be found. Shall I greet with dreamy music, with my lyre and flute’s sweet sound All these patriots who later in their heritage did follow? Oh! before all these, with horror, veil and hide thyself, Apollo! You were hid in glorious shadows of the past, O heroes bold! But it is the newest fashion, with your fame from annals old Our own hollow times to brighten, and to drape with it those fools,

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 Who your golden age are smirching with their prose, their filthy pools, Bassarabs, Mushats, in holy shadows stay, you noble race, Settlers of the land and givers of new laws, you who did trace With the spade and plough new frontiers for a country large and free, Far extending from the mountains to the Danube and the sea. Is not great our present? Does not all that one can wish abound? In our throng is there not any precious jewel to be found? Is not here the Sybaritic temple of false glories, none But are offsprings of the taverns, reputations cheaply won! See we not the fighting heroes, who with rhetor’s lances meet, Thus exciting the loud plaudits of the rabble in the street? Dancers on the rope, impostors, jugglers, rivals for the prize, Famous masquerading actors in the comedy of lies. Does the liberal not always speak of virtue, country-love? One would think his life is crystal, like the purest sky above. You would not think that before you is a coffee-house supporter, Who at his own words is laughing, a mere ape, a word distorter. See that soulless, heartless being, with big jaws, and swollen face, Monster in whom all the vices find the fittest meeting place, Swarthy, hunchbacked, greedy, wily, he with all the ruffians leagues, And imparts to his low fellows all his venomous intrigues. On their lips is always virtue, but their souls are hollow shells, Worthlessness in these mere nothings, void from top to bottom, dwells. Mustering his army’s numbers, eagerly and well pleased spies Over all that hideous monster with his swollen, frog-like eyes. Such are those whom our land choosing representatives must call, Men who fitly would be gathered all behind some bedlam’s wall, In long shirt and with a fool’s cap; these assemble now and thus, Making laws and fixing taxes, they our public weal discuss. Patriots and pious founders of establishments like those Where in words, in deeds, in gestures lewdness, only lewdness shows. They in parliament assemble, sit admiring there each other’s Thick, stiff necks or long, thin noses, all these Greek, Bulgarian brothers. Heirs of the great Roman empire are they alil, and everyone Of his ancestors is boasting, being Trajan’s great grandson! And this mob, this scum, this vermin, this our country’s desolation, They should now become our leaders, rulers of this once great nation!

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 All that in the neighb’ring countries was deformed and misbegotten, All that’s stained with foul corruption’s mark by nature, all that’s rotten, All these helots, mean and greedy, which the Phanar here has sent, Self-styled patriots, so-called brothers, on their selfish schemes intent, Babblers, stutterers, and cretins, wry-mouthed wretches, now grown great Are your masters,— yes, these prattlers are the pillars of the state.

You the heirs of Rome? You, eunuchs, of her fame are boasting when All the world, with horror shrinking, is ashamed to call you men! And this pestilence, these creatures with their nasty mouths proclaim That they are the country’s saviours, and they dare, they have no shame, All the glory of our nation with their filth but to besmear And thy holy name pronouncing to disgrace it, country dear!

In the lupanars, in Paris, day and night you have been seen With the most depraved of women and in revelry obscene, You have lost your youth and fortune, gambling, drinking, wild and lewd, How could Paris make you better, since in you was nothing good? Wearing monocles like dandies, with a little walking cane, You came back, your heads pomaded, in your brains did nought remain But some waltz learnt in the ballrooms, nothing else was left behind: And all prematurely withered, with an empty childish mind, And a harlot’s dancing slippers, all the wealth you did acquire… I admire you, proudest offspring of the Romans, I admire!

Now you look amazed and frightened to our cold and sceptic eyes, And you wonder why no longer we can listen to your lies? When we see that all these loafers, who with great words make such din Are but chasing after money, cheaply, without work to win. If these polished, empty phrases, all this idle talk, my brothers, Cannot cheat us any longer, is it now the fault of others? Too much did you this poor country with our foes to pieces tear, Too much did you shame our nation, too much, too much did you dare

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 Our most holy things, our customs, language, ancestors defile! But we have now all your measure, O you scoundrels mean and vile! Yes, to gain without an effort is your end, and rich to be, Virtue is the merest folly, genius is but misery!

Let the ancestors sleep soundly in their annals’ dusty book, From their glorious past they surely down on you with scorn would look. Where art thou, old prince, Vlad Tzepesh, on them all to lay thy hands Treating them as rogues and madmen, to divide them into bands, Throw them into two big houses, as with others thou didst whilom, Setting fire unto the prison, and the lunatic asylum.

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Solitary stands the castle mirrored in the lake and deep In the waters clear for ages quietly its shadows sleep, There it rises in the silence, high above the ancient trees, Throwing darkness on the waters ruffled by the summer breeze. Inside one can see but faintly through the panes of arched bays Folded curtains like the hoar-frost glinting in the twilight rays. Over forests trembling rises now the moon and burning grows, Mossy rocks and tree-tops painting ’gainst the sky, their beauty shows; Those tall oaks, a guard of giants, tow’ring high there, on the azure, Her bright orient bed seem guarding like a precious, secret treasure.

There the white swans softly gliding through the reeds come from their nests, Lonely lords of quiet waters, in this calm the only guests, Now they soar, their heads uplifting, and their outspread wings they shake Cutting undulating circles, glowing furrows on the lake; By the waves moved quiver rustling all the rushes in the thicket, In the grass with flowers fragrant drowsy chirps and sighs a cricket… O how sweet the summer breathing, sweet the voices of the night!… Under the veranda sighing stands a solitary knight. All the balustrade is hidden under woodbine, roses rare, Their intoxicating perfume has embalmed the evening air; With the night’s bewitching fragrance drunk now all his senses are, Over this whole charm of nature sweetly ripples his guitar:

„Come in thy white silken garment, with its long train, which doth seem All with silver dust bespringled, come again my dearest dream. All my life thy radiant presence I shall worhip, lady mine, With thy slender hand caressing those soft golden curls of thine. Corne and play with me, the flowers from thy bosom on me throw…

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 O the night’s so white in moonlight, all seems sleeping under snow. Shall we linger, time beguiling, in the bower’s fragrant shade? Cupid, prankish page, the candle hides away, my tender maid!“

Rustling silk is heard above him, on the balustrade inclining, Childlike laughs a face so happy, as an angel she is shining; From the balcony she throws him down a rose, she seems but scolding While she whispers to him fondly, round her lips her white hands holding; She again now disappearing, quick steps come downstairs in haste… Running with their arms outstretchèd fondly they are now enlaced… Arm in arm they go, so meetly to each other they belong, She so beautiful and slender, he so handsome, tall and strong. From the shady shore advances slowly moved by oars a barge, From the mast its sails are drooping, and the wind abaft at large, And they fly on dream wings happy, far from envy, far from harm, Rocked in soul with so much beauty, spellbound, rapt by nature’s charm.

Now the moon, the moon ascendeth in her splendour, full and bright, And from shore to shore on waters builds a path of glowing light, That in thousandfold quick ripples mirrors gleaming every beam Sent by heaven’s fairest maiden, of eternal mist the dream; And the more her sweet light shining clearer, brighter still doth glow, So the waves, the shores are greater, and the forest seems to grow, While the ocean swaying moon disk nearer seems, on shady bowers From the mighty lime-trees shaken, their fair blossoms fall in showers, Or by wind o’er waters driven fly to match her golden hair. Throwing back her head, enraptured, in her arms she clasps him there:

„O thy words are sweetly thrilling, speak no more, O thou amazest Thy poor slave whom now so highly in thy lofty thought thou raisest: This love pain that thy soul feeleth this is all my life’s desire, My poor heart is aching, kindled by thy voice’s gentle fire. O this seems an old love story! All thy dreams, thy eyes’ sweet night, O they burn my soul to ashes, and they fill me with delight. These deep eyes, though they may blind me, give them me, my heaven’s gates! Listen how the waves are talking with the stars that know the fates! Those dark forests speak now dreaming; listen, every wand’ring spring When he meets another wand’rer of our love is whispering,

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 And the morning star above us that his trembling cold rays sends, This whole earth, the lake, the heavens, they are all our loving friends. Thou may’st now forget the rudder, thou may’st throw away the oars, Let’s be taken where it listeth by the wind that gently soars, Let’s be led on wheresoever, our dear aim we cannot miss, If to life or death we’re led on, wheresoe’er we go is bliss!“

Fancy, O my dearest fancy! When I am alone with thee How oft dost thou make me wander in the groves, on fields, on sea! How to all these unknown countries couldst thou ever wander so? When did all these strange things happen? Many centuries ago? Now there is no time with full heart thy beloved to caress, To embrace and kiss her, feeling in her eyes love’s blessedness; Now her hand thou scarcely touchest, and at once through opened door. All her relatives assembled in a congress in will pour, Soon aside thy head thou turnest, casting down thy humble look… In this world is there no longer left for love a quiet nook?

With this life I’m sick and weary… Not that I its cups have sipped, But its misery’s so bitter, in its prose to be so dipped! Fools, how can you cry and suffer, sanctify with holy tear This vain instinct, common impulse, that e’en birds feel twice a year? No, you do not live, another loves, inspires you,—he but lives, He with your own mouth is laughing, he to all the impulse gives, All your lives are like the waters, waves in never ending surge In a stream that is eternal, this stream is the Demiurge. Don’t you feel that you see wonders in these dull desires? O fools! That your love is but another’s, that all these are but the tools To fulfil another’s purpose, serving only nature’s need? That this all is but the cradle of new life, of hate the seed? Don’t you see your joy and laughter in your sons cause only pain? That in all our veins is running still the guilty blood of Cain? Much ado of human voices, nothing but a puppet show, They tell jokes, mere words like parrots, but their meaning do not know… The same actor through the ages one same thing again will say, Endlessly soliloquizing, in an everlasting play. Why then, while the moon o’er deserts through the clouds is gliding slowly,

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 Creepest thou with thoughts so lofty on a woman’s footsteps lowly? Look at her through lighted windows how, surrounded in a ball By a swarm of idle fellows, frivolous she smiles at all? While they wink with understanding, and the while she flirts with these, With such foolish adoration thou before her door wilt freeze? And with passion love her, faithful, thinking that she is delightful, While like April she’s capricious, while she is so cold and spiteful? In thy dreams embrace her always, all consumed with holy fire, And from top to toe caress her in thy thought, and to admire, To adore like a Madonna painted by a Raphael, While she is so cold, coquettish?—’Tis ridiculous, mark well! Yes… anon I dreamt so often of the only one to love me, Knowing that I understand her, she would stand inclined above me, Like a muse when I am thoughtful, I should feel her near me, near… Our whole life would be a love-tale, like a fountain pure and clear. No, I seek her now no longer… Why should I? The same old song, Thirst for quietude eternal, this is all for which I long; But the instrument is shattered, midst disordered screetches wild, As in night the spring soft murmurs, that old song is heard so mild. Here and there a voice, though faintly, sounds as clearly as before From a Carmen saeculare which I dreamt in times of yore, But the whole now whistles, screetches, jars with broken sounds so dire, Wildly driving, tossing, whirling, rolls tumultuous on my lyre. My poor head is waste and burning, in my thought the winds howl strong, Harsh and shrill is still resounding that eternal, endless song…

Where are they, those clear, light moments of my poor life now so sad? O the instrument is shattered, the musician now is mad!

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186

With one accord they answer’d: “Then must we fain confess

That for the first time, truly, our hearts know bitterness

Since you indeed are willing here with our foes to bide:

On such a grievous journey did heroes never ride.”

Said she: “Ye may, God-speeding, without foreboding fare:

Safe-conduct shall be given— of that I’ll have a care—

From here to Siegmund’s country. As for my darling child,

Unto ye knights I trust him, and to your mercies mild!”

When they were well persuaded that thence she would not go,

The lieges all of Siegmund did weep for very woe.

How full of bitter sorrow was Siegmund when his leave

He took of dame Kriemhilda! Then knew he how to grieve.

“Woe be on these great doings,” the noble king quoth he:

“An ending worse of pleasure there ne’er again can be

To king or to his kinsfolk, than this to us has been.

No more shall we henceforward in Burgundy be seen.”

Then loud, that all might hear them, the men of Siegfried spake:

“Yet once again the journey may we to this land make,

When we shall have discover’d who laid our master low.

They’ll have among his kinsfolk stout enemies enow!”

And so he kiss’d Kriemhilda; and mournfully did say,

Whenas he saw for certain she had a mind to stay:

“Now will we unrejoicing go home unto our land.

My sorrow for the first time now do I understand.”


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In the Bible we are told how Samson’s wife one fateful night, While he slept, his long hair shaving, severed him from all his might, That his foes might overcome him, fetter him and blind his eyes, This to show the soul that hidden ’neath a woman’s garment lies. O young man who always follow’st in her footsteps full of dreams, While the golden shield of heaven on the alleys brightly beams And the shadow’s green with laces so mysteriously are girt, O forget not thy belovèd hath short wit, though long her skirt. A midsummernight’s dream charms thee, with its beauty, fairylike; All that is in thy soul only… Ask her what she thinks, belike She will speak of ribbons, flounces, all that is the newest fashion, While thy heart is throbbing rhythmic, like an ode, with sacred passion… When her little head close nestles on thy breast, ’tis to beguile. Ah! If thou hast a heart and senses, then beware, think of Delilah!

Yes, of course, she is so charming… Like a child, so full of fun, When she laughs she has two dimples in her cheeks, and there is one On each knuckle of her fingers, she’s not lanky, lean or tall, Fashioned well to be embracèd, to be loved, adored, and all That she says is so becoming, what she does is always sweet, It is so because she does it, all perfections in her meet: If she speaks or if she’s silent, she’s delightful, only she, And if „go away“ her lips say, then her laugh says „come to me!“ Idly balancing she walketh as if listening to a song, Fondly spoiled, as if for kisses only she did always long, Towards thy lips she’ll rise on tiptoe for a heartfelt given kiss, That mysterious warmth instilling, lavishing that heav’nly bliss That a woman’s soul alone can yield with her bewitching charms… O the happiness thou findest only in her loving arms! If thou couldst but see her blushing thy whole soul would be alight — She a dreamy queen, capricious, thou a young and hopeful knight — Deeply in her eyes then looking thou wouldst unterstand and see

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/39


text:
Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/40

 What the price of life for thee is, what the price of death may be. Poisoned with sweet melancholy, spellbound as thou art, she seems Queen of queens, the fairest empress of thy world of thoughts and dreams: In thy fancy, with her tearful eyes in which her love does shine, Brighter she would seem than Venus rising from the foamy brine: In the chaos of oblivion though the hours may run so fast, For thee she’ll be always dearer every day unto the last. Vain illusions! Dost thou not see from her look, from her whole face, That her attitude is habit, and her smile but a grimace, That here all her splendid beauty wasteth like a useless thing, That her soul’s most precious treasure she is idly squandering? With its seven strings thy tuneful lyre accompanies in vain With its cadences harmonious thy melodious wailful strain; Vainly does thy mind transfigure fairylike this world of ours, Like the frost that paints on windows an embroidery of flowers, When thy heart is full of summer; vainly now thy soul endears Her proud head to sanctify it, on her soft hair fall thy tears. No, she cannot see that ’tis not thou who wantest her… in thee Is a daemon that is thirsting after her sweet light, and he Cries and laughs,—O the poor daemon—but himself he hears not, and If he longs for her ’tis only his own self to understand; So he pineth like a sculptor to whom neither arm was left, Like the great inspired composer who of hearing was bereft, While his soul was soaring upwards in the music of the spheres, Whose harmonious, rhythmic rolling in his mind he always hears. He does not ask her to offer on an altar her own life, As in olden times fell victim to the high priest’s sacred knife Many pure and lovely virgins, who with holy rites were slain, Having stood as sculptor’s models for a goddess in a fane. She might help him to discover his own self, aloft to strive, And with his own fire consumèd, to a new life to revive; With his wild unsated passion, he, inspired by her, would try, In Adonic verse, like Horace, skilfully his tongue to ply; In his dream would bring the murmur of the springs, all flowers vernal, Cooling shadows of deep forests and the stars’ bright fire eternal, And in that mysterious moment, feeling happy, in his eyes The antique blest world with glamour to new life would seem to rise, And with deepest passion kneeling he would praise, he would adore her, In her youthful eyes up looking, for her grace, he would implore her, In his arms would keep her ever, on his bosom warm infold,

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/40


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/475


text:
Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/41

 Try to thaw with long, hot kisses those unfeeling eyes so cold. If she were a marble statue, she would melt with so much love, On his knees he would entreat her, that stone heart would strive to move; Mad, with so much bliss all smothered, feeling more than words could form, More and more he now would love her, in his passion’s wildest storm.

Does she know that she might give thee a whole splendid world, if she Tried to understand thee better, plunging in thy soul’s deep sea, She would fill it with a heaven full of morning stars so bright! With coquettish smile, delighted, and with looks demure, she might Act as if she understood thee. Highly flattered are they all The eternal Beauty’s shadows to be on this earthly ball. Call her flower among the women, she’ll be pleased, but ask her who Is the one whom she would favour of the three who round her woo, And who all pretend to love her, thou wilt see that though naïve, Thy belovèd will at once be practical and positive. With thy heart and mind perhaps thou art but serving as a screen, And behind thee she’s attracting some young fop with courtly mien, While with gallant looks, coquettish, she is seeking but to shine, Captivating now a dandy, now a lewd old libertine, There’s no wonder that her spirit should be all a sad confusion, And an upstart knave impress her like the king of spades, delusion! And with thy poor spirit’s daemon she’ll feign meekness, like a nun, While when that young fop appeareth, then at once her heart is won, And at this fool’s wit and beauty she’ll be fondly marvelling.

O to dream that truth, high spirit, or some other useless thing, One small jot could change in nature, or of any help might be, This is the eternal hindrance to the truth’s great victory.

Therefore in woman’s footsteps when thou follow’st full of dreams, While the golden shield of heaven on the alleys brightly beams, And the shadows green with laces so mysteriously are girt, O forget not, thy belovèd hath short wit though long her skirt. A midsummernight’s dream charms thee, with its beauty, fairylike, All that is in thy soul only… Ask her what she thinks, belike She will speak of ribbons, flounces, all about the newest fashion, While thy heart is throbbing rhythmic, like an ode, with sacred passion, When thou see’st th’unfeeling marble, without pity’s gentle smile, Ah! If thou hast a heart and senses, go away, she is Delilah!

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/41


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/414


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/413


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/396

 '■•'.•' /">> .>.,".!


text:
Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/43

Dreary the horn sounds in the eve on the hill, Sheepflocks return, stars on their way twinkle still, Watersprings weep murmuring clear, and I see Under a tree, love, thou art waiting for me.

Holy and pure passes the moon on the sky, Moist seem the stars born from the vault clear and high, Longing thine eyes look from afar to divine, Heaving thy breast, pensive thy head doth recline.

Tired with their toil, peasants come back from the field, From the old church, labourer’s comfort and shield, Voices of bells thrill the whole sky high above; Struck is my heart, trembling and burning with love.

Ah! very soon quietness steals over all, Ah! very soon hasten shall I to thy call, Under the tree, there I shall sit the whole night, Telling thee, love, thou art my only delight.

Cheek press’d to cheek, there in sweet ecstasy we, Falling asleep under the old locust-tree, Smiling in dream, seem in a heaven to live, For such a night who his whole life would not give?

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/43


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/394

 N,


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/393


text:
Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/44

That I’m doomed to die I believed it never; Always young and clad in my mantle I wandered, Dreaming eyes uplifted for ever fixed on Solitude’s starlight.

When so sudden, there on my pathway rising, Sorrow, O so painfully sweet, thou camest! Then with deep delight to the dregs I drank thy Merciless death cup.

And like Nessus burning alive and tortured, Poisoned as was Hercules with his garment, This great fire that’s blazing in me I cannot Quench with an ocean.

My own dream consuming me, sore lamenting, On my pyre I die thus to ashes burning… Can I from it living arise as bright as Phoenix the immortal?

Troubling eyes, go out of my way for ever! Back to me indifference dreary come now! That I may in quietness die, O give me Back my old selfhood!

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/44


text:
Page:The lay of the Nibelungs; (IA nibelungslay00hortrich).pdf/265

XVIII.]

From Worms without an escort unto the Rhine they rode;

Well might they, notwithstanding, be confident of mood,

That if they should of foemen an onset have to ward,

The hands of stalwart Niblungs would serve them for a guard.

Leave did they take of no man ere they set forth to ride.

But Giselher and Gernot were presently espied

All kindly coming t’wards him: his sorrow made them grieve,

As soon these gallant heroes did bring him to believe.

For then the princely Gernot right courteously said:

“Be God in Heaven my witness! that Siegfried now is dead

Is through no fault on my part, nor have I heard men tell

Who wish’d him any evil: so can I mourn him well.”

Then had they a safe-conduct at Giselher’s own hand:

And carefully he led them in time, from out the land.

The king and all his warriors to Netherland got home.

How little could their kindred rejoice to see them come!

And what befell them after I cannot rightly say.

And still one heard Kriemhilda bewailing day by day

That none could give her comfort, in either heart or mood,

But Giselher, who only was true to her and good.

The beauteous Brunhilda still arrogantly sat:

Howe’er Kriemhilda fretted she took no thought for that,

And never more in goodwill did turn to her again.

Erelong the dame Kriemhilda did wring her heart with pain.


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/401


text:
Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/45

O, what is love? It is a cause Of pain so long and sore, That though thou shedd’st a million tears It still will ask for more.

A passing token but from her Forever binds thy soul, And never wilt forget her now, Thy life is hers, the whole.

But when on threshold there for thee, Or in the shady nooks, Fulfilling all thy hearts desire, She waits with longing looks,

Then earth and heavens disappear, And throbbing is thy heart, All hangs on a half-whispered word, New life with it doth start.

A pressure of the hand so sweet, An eyelash twinkling, nay, A lazy gait, an aimless word, Pursues thee night and day.

And eyes pursue thee, light thy way, Like sun and moon so bright, And wheresoever, night and day They are thy only light.

And it was doomed that all thy life For her alone shall long, For like the water bindweed she Has caught thy soul so strong.

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/45


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/395


text:
Page:Pentagon-Papers-Part IV. C. 2. a.djvu/81

Rh

16. Rostow memorandum to Secretary Rusk, "Southeast Asia," 13 February 1964, p-3. (In State Dept Material, Book I.)

17 Agenda papers - "OPIAN 341-64 (Horth Vietnam)."

18 SNIE 50-64, "Short-Term Prospects In Southeast Asia," 12 February 1964.

19 Rostow letter to Rusk, 13 February 1964, p. 4.

20 CJCS memorandum to SecDef, "Vietnam and Southeast Asia," 22 January 1964 (JesM 46-64). (In Vietnam 381: Sensitive File.)

21 Rask letter to Secretary Mellazara, 5 February 1964. (In Vietnan 381: February file.) Also Ibid ., p.3.

22 White House Memorandum for the Record, "South Vietnam," 20 February 1964. (In Vietnam 381: February file.)

23. Robert Johnson memorandum to Willian Sullivan, "Alternatives for Imposition of Measured Pressure Against North Vietnam," 13 March 1964. (In 092 North Vietnam: I-35316/64.)

24. Johnson memorandum to Sullivan, "Alternatives for Imposition of Measured Pressure Against North Vietnam (In 092 North Vietnam: I-35343/64. 19 March 1964 (with attachments).

25. SecDef memorandum to CJCS, "Vietnam," 21 February 1964. (In Vietnam 381: February file.)

26. Rusk message to Saigon Embassy and CINCFC, 25 February 1964 (State 1307), giving agenda of Honolulu and Saigon meetings. (In McNaughton VI.)

27. These included a "White Paper" detailing Hanoi's role; a Presidential statement of our rationale and limited intent; a Congressional Resolution; and diplomatic consultations. Annex A to SecDef Memorandum to President Johnson, "South Vietnam," 16 March 1964 (U.S. Military Action Against North Vietnam -- an analysis," pp. A-1, 2. (In "Pressures planning," McNaughton V.)

28 Ibid ., pp. A-3, A-4, A-6.

29 Ibid ., pp. A-7, A-8, A-10, A-11.

30 SecDef Memorandum to President, 16 March 1964, pp. 7-8, 15.

31 SACSA, Agenda Item Number C11, "Modification of Restrictions Placed on Cross Border Operations Beyond South Vietnam's International Boundaries," 27 February 1964 (In McNaughton VI). Rh


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/397

CONHEATH MANTILLA.


text:
Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/46

Thou goest and through years of suff’ring For thee will long my dreary eyes, Of all thy being’s charms enamour’d, For thy sweet smile my spirit sighs.

My love’s not mild like tales of fairies, My love so painful tears my breast, And O thy soul is but a demon In beauteous form of marble dressed!

Thy face has all the charms of pallor, And moist and sparkling is thine eye, With coaxing looks thou art so thrilling, So full of wiles, so roguish, sly.

And when thou touchest me I quiver, And when I hear thy steps I start, Thy trembling lashes’ charm for ever Enthralls my life, my throbbing heart.

Thou goest and I shall no longer With deep regret for past days mourn, No more a victim, will no longer My heart with ruthless pain be torn.

And in my ear thy burning whisper My ravished mind no longer woos, Thy hand no longer smooths my forehead, To make me all my wits to lose.

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/46


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/398

FRONT OP NIGHT-CAP IN BRAIDING.

THE HAVELOCK.


text:
Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/47

 O in my thought with names most shameful Thy conduct I could then reprove, I cursed thee with the wildest hatred, I cursed thee, O it was but love!

Now even this is left no longer And none have I to curse to-day, And as to-day will be to-morrow, So all my years will pass away.

An autumn which doth sadly linger Above a dreary fountain dry, And o’er it withered leaves are falling— They are my dreams that now must die.

And life to me seems but a madness, So spent before e’en it was born, In an eternity of darkness One moment’s bliss and thence forlorn.

O thence for ever from me flying My luck I never, never met, O give me back one moment’s treasure With all its years of deep regret!

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/47


text: The Lay of the Nibelungs/Chapter 18

title: The Lay of the Nibelungs/Chapter 18


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/399

GERMAN TEXT FOR MARKING.

WORK-BASKET IN STRAW AND VELVET.


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/400

MONTESPAN COLLAR.


text:
Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/48

In that narrow lane as always Shines the moon on windows clear, Only thou behind the lattice Never dost again appear!

And the same old tree now stretches O’er the hedge its blooming bough, Only those old days so happy As they were cannot be now.

Changèd is thy soul now wholly, Changèd are thy looks to-day, Only I, the same remaining, Wander on the wonted way.

Graceful, slender, gently treading, Thou didst come, so sweet and soft, To that secret grove, where longing I did wait for thee so oft.

With thee near my heart, not knowing What on earth around us stirred, O how much we were then telling, Without uttering a word!

Kisses were the only answer To all questions, and the best; Nothing else on earth desiring, With life’s utmost charm then blest.

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/48


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/402


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/403


text:
Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/49

 I forgot, thus happy dreaming, That it is the same, forsooth, If one leans against a shadow Or believes in woman’s truth.

Winds blow in the trembling curtains, As they did in days of yore, Only there behind the windows Thy sweet face appears no more.

Since so long with one another We could neither speak nor meet, O meseems we have forgotten How much we have loved, my sweet.

Now I see thee pale before me, And thy wounded heart I feel, As in former days, O let me At thy feet here humbly kneel.

Let me weep for pity; fondly Let those little hands be kissed; What did you so long, my dearest Hands, which many weeks I missed?

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/49


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/404

BONNET.

BONNET.

BONNET.

INFANT'S CAP.

SLEEVE.

SLEEVE.


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/1


text: Page:กม ร ๕ - ๒๔๓๙.pdf/3

title: Page:กม ร ๕ - ๒๔๓๙.pdf/3


text:
Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/50

Where poplars solitary grow I passed so oft alone, And all thy neighbours knew me well, By thee I was not known.

Beneath thy shining window oft Up looking did I stand, A whole world round thee understood, Thou didst not understand.

How often did I wait to hear From thee a whispered word, How happy should I then have been, Had I thy voice but heard.

O but an hour of love with thee, An hour to be thy friend, To hear thy whisp’ring accents sweet, And then this life to end.

If from thine eye serene had come To me a ray of love, Then for all future times would shine A new star’s light above.

Thou wouldst have lived for ages long, For ever in my rhyme, And thou wouldst shine, with marble arms, As beauty’s mould sublime.

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/50


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/6

SUMMER BONNETS.

TOPAZ SILK JACKET.


text:
Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/51

 And thou wouldst be for aye adored, So beauteous, with no peer, Like fairies from the times of yore, That in our dreams appear.

I loved thee with a heathen’s eyes, With painful passion hot, That from my father’s fathers came To be my earthly lot.

But seldom do I pass to-day, Mine eyes no longer burn, Nor do I care if sadly thou For me thy head dost turn.

For in thy gesture, gait, to-day Thou art like all, and I Indifferently look at thee With dead man’s sightless eye.

O if thy soul had then been filled With sacred ecstasy, Thou wouldst have lit on earth love’s lamp To burn eternally.

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/51


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/7

NAME FOR MARKING.

MID-SEASON BOURNOUS SHAWL.


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/8

NAME FOR MARKING.

THE SOUVENIR DRESS.


text:
Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/52

By secret love of thee I thought it right To keep full silence, deemed this pleasèd thee, I in thy looks saw an eternity Of dreams consuming with their high delight.

I can no more. My longing, love’s great might Lends wingèd words to that sweet mystery, And, all on fire, I would consumèd be In that dear heart that would with mine unite.

That I am burning how canst thou not feel? My lips with thirst for thee are parched and dry; Fair maid, alone thou canst my fever heal.

A breath of thine alone may soothe my sigh, And when thou smil’st my thought with joy doth reel, O end my pain—come to my breast, come nigh!

Like clouds o’er plains have passed the years so long, And back again they’ll never more be wiled, They charm no longer as they charmed, beguiled The youth, those tales and riddles, that sweet song,

Scarce understood, delightful for the child, With meaning full, for which I much did long— In vain surrounds me now thy shadows’ throng O hour of mystery, O twilight mild!

Of life’s dear past how can I hear the chimes, And make thee tremble now again, my soul? In vain I play my lyre, in vain I hearken:

’Tis dumb the lovely voice of those old times, My youth is far, my joy is lost, the whole, And Time runs fast behind… My mind doth darken!

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/52


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/9

EMBROIDERY ON FLANNEL.

TOILET-COVER, OR COUNTERPANE.


text:
Page:Pentagon-Papers-Part IV. C. 2. a.djvu/84

Rh

67. Khanh's proposals were reported in Lodge msg to Secretary of State, 4 May 1964 (Saigon 2108). (In CF1O - Orange Tab)

68. Talking Paper for Secretary of Defense, "General Khan's Conversation with Lodge," 7 May 1964. (In Vietnam 381: 1-15 May file)

69. Baltimore Sun, 22 May 1967.

70. JCSM-426-64, referred to in MeNaughton memorandum to Deputy SecDef, "fiorth Vietnan Operations," 25 May 1964). (In Vletnan 381: 16-31 May file)

71 CJCS memorandum to SecDef, "Readiness to Implement NSAM 288," 23 May 1964 (JCSM-445-64). (In Vietnam 381: 16-31 May file)

72 CJCS memorandum for Sechef, "Air Campaign Against North Vietnam," 30 May 1964 (JcsM-460-44). (In Vietnam 381: 16-31 May file)

71 Rusk msg to Ambassador Lodge, 21 May 1964 (State 2027).

72 Lodge msg to Secretary Rusk, 26 Ney 1961, (Stete 2318). (Excerpt in Back-up Notebook)

75 From a draft memorandum to President Johnson, on North Vietnam," 23 May 1965. "Scenario for Strikes (In State Dept Material, Vol I)

75 Ibid.

77 Rusk msg to Ambassador Lodge, 22 May 1964 (State 2049). (In. file of materials prepared for Secretary McNamara, "Honolulu Conference on, Southeast Asia," CF11)

78Draft memorandum to President, 23 May 1964.

79 Memo for Record, "Possible Items for Back-up Book," 27 May 1964. (In Vietnam 381: 16-31 May file)

80 SNIE 50-2-64, "Probable Consequences of Certain U.S. Actions with Respect to Vietnam and Laos," 25 May 1964.

81 Ibid ., pp. 2-3

82 Ibid ., pp. 5-6 (underlining added)

83 McGeorge Bundy memorandum to Secretary Rusk, et.al ., "Draft - Basic RecommendatIon and Projected Course of Action on Southeast Asia," 25 May 1964 (»/Attachment). (In State Dept Material, Vol 1)

84 Attachment to Ibid ., p. 1

85 Ibid ., pp. 1-2 Rh


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/10


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/11


text:
Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/53

 ’Tis gone the life of Venice with its pride— No songs are heard, nor seen are lights of balls, On marble stairs, on portals, in the halls, The moon’s pale rays alone all whitening glide.

In the canals Oceanus wailing calls… He only will forever young abide, Fain would he give life’s breath to his sweet bride, His sounding waves are beating mouldering walls.

A churchyard silence o’er the town doth lower. A priest whom ages left in his old fane, St Mark strikes sinister the midnight hour.

In rhythmic numbers, softly, in deep strain, In language sibylline sounds from the tower: „The dead do not awake—it is in vain.“

How terrible the ocean’s wrath can be! He roars with rage and foaming arms will send To rule the world and to the clouds ascend, Till spent by storm he sinks back sullenly.

How vainly frightful thunderbolts defend The heaven… In the blue vault he doth see His palace, a strong fortress, on which he With grim assault his power would extend.

By lightning wounded, down he seems to fall, With whispered tales a breeze his anger stills, And in his depth is mirrored heaven’s high hall.

What he had so desired a dream fulfils: They are now his, the moon, the stars and all, He murmurs happily, with joy he thrills.

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/53


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/12


text:
Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/54

There are many flowers, but only Few of them a fruit will bear, All light seeking, but for many Early death is all their share.

It is easy to write verses When thou nothing hast to tell, Like the pearls bare phrases stringing, Word by word to rhyme them well;

But when longings, passions, tossing Prey upon thy mind and heart, Thou dost hear tumultuous voices, Listening then to all thou art.

At the doors of thought all knocking, Like the flowers for light they press, They all want this world to enter, Well adorned in speech’s dress.

For thy whole life’s deepest passions, For thy suffering soul which cries, Dost thou see the awful judges With their cruel icy eyes?

O then on thy head so heavy All the heaven seems to fall; Where to find the word that fitly Answers truth’s and beauty’s call?

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/54


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/13

SUMMER BONNETS.

CHILDREN'S FASHIONS.


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/14


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/15


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/16

 vcdn nrcvs&tfiiif.v. -it'r-

-i &• »imtfi by .Vi.-.Q!. I Stiim cxrrtBaiv fcr Ffcteraor.'a liaviaiAv


text:
Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/55

 Critics, you, like barren flowers, Ever fruitless, know it well: ’Tis most easy to write verses, When one nothing has to tell.

Of the masts by thousands leaving Shores which many an ocean laves, O how many will be shattered By the winds and by the waves.

Of the birds by thousands wand’ring, Many a one a grave soon finds, While still hopeful it is driven By the waves and by the winds.

If to high ideals aspiring, Or thy soul but fortune craves, Thou art driven wheresoever By the winds and by the waves.

Never understood the thought is That the song in wing’d words binds, Ever floating, far off echoed By the waves and by the winds.

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/55


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/79


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/82


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/83


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/84


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/85

 tw.

SUMMER WALKING DRESS.


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/86


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/87

NAME FOR MARKING.

SUMMER WALKING DRESS.


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/88

LETTERS FOR MARKING.

STUD WREATH.

i

INDIAN PATTERN FOR VEIL OR SLEEVE.


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/89

NAME FOR MARKING.

SHORT PURSE, IN NETTING.


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/90

CORNER FOR HANDKERCHIEF.


text: Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/91


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/92

THE NIAGARA.

THE SARATOGA.


text: Page:Rabindranath Tagore, His Life and Work.pdf/2


text: Page:Rabindranath Tagore, His Life and Work.pdf/3


text: Page:Rabindranath Tagore, His Life and Work.pdf/4


text:
Page:New Peterson magazine 1857 Vol. XXXII.pdf/5

CONTENTS.

The Two Flowers—By B. Semmers Dana, To my Mother in Heaven—By Frances Henrietia Sheffield, - - -  - ‘The Birds—By W. S. Gaffney,. - - The Old House—By Hattie Boomer, = - The Prayer—By Eva Evergreen, The Old North Wind—By G. W. B. ‘Mantinger,

VisoNs—By Ida Alton, = - =

We Met—By Fioley Johnson, - - ~

“Yes, Brother, I will Pray for Thee”—By Clarence May, - - = ee STEEL ENGRAVINGS.

The Interview, Fashions for July, colored. See-Saw. Fashions for August, colored, The Little Mitk-Mald, Fashions for September, colored. “Sweet Sixteen" Fashions for October, colored. The Harvest Home, 336

337 344 346 349 399

107

106

Fashions for November, colored. The First Copy-Book. Fashions for December, colored, Title Page.

ENGRAVINGS ON WOOD.

July Number, Forty-Three Engravings. August Number, Thirty Engravings. September Number, Thirty-Five Engravings. October Number, Thirty-Nine Engravings. November Number, Fifty-Three Engravings. December Number, Fifty-Nine Engravings.

MUSIC.

‘The Land O' the Leal. Stay! Stay! Visions of Youth and Grace! My Mother Dear. Roy's Wife of Aldivatloch, When Friend Moris Friend. The Last Rose of Winter. �


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Rh height in the close of this Poem. Strangely has the old Singer, in these his loose melodies, modulated the wild narrative into a poetic whole, with what we might call true art, were it not rather an instinct of genius still more unerring. A fateful gloom now hangs over the fortunes of the Nibelungen, which deepens and deepens as they march onwards to the judgment-bar, till all are engulfed in utter night.

Hagen himself rises in tragic greatness; so helpful, so prompt and strong is he, and true to the death, though without hope. If sin can ever be pardoned, then that one act of his is pardonable; by loyal faith, by free daring and heroic constancy, he has made amends for it. Well does he know what is coming; yet he goes forth to meet it, offers to Ruin his sullen welcome. Warnings thicken on him, which he treats lightly, as things now superfluous. Spite of our love for Siegfried, we must pity and almost respect the lost Hagen now in his extreme need, and fronting it so nobly. “Mixed was his hair with a gray colour, his limbs strong, and threatening his look.” Nay, his sterner qualities are beautifully tempered by another feeling, of which till now we understood not that he was capable,—the feeling of friendship. There is a certain Volker of Alsace here introduced, not for the first time, yet first in decided energy, who is more to Hagen than a brother. This Volker, a courtier and noble, is also a Spielmann (minstrel), a Fidelere gut (fiddler good); and surely the prince of all Fideleres; in truth a very phœnix, melodious as the soft nightingale, yet strong as the royal eagle: for also in the brunt of battle he can play tunes; and with a Steel Fiddlebow beats strange music from the cleft helmets of his enemies. There is, in this continual allusion to Volker’s Schwert-fidelbogen (Sword-fiddlebow), as rude as it sounds to us, a barbaric greatness and depth; the light minstrel of kingly and queenly halls is gay also in the storm of Fate, its dire rushing pipes and whistles to him: is he not the image of every brave man fighting with Necessity, be that duel when and where it may; smiting the fiend with giant strokes, yet every stroke musical?—This Volker and


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 n

m

,s;

.

THE SUPERIOR.


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BOTTOM OF PETTICOAT.

THE SUPERIOR.


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 NAME FOR MARKING.

BLACK SILK PAR-DESSUS.


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BRAIDING PATTERN.

THE NAHANT.


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HANDKERCHIEF BORDER.

BOTTOM OF SLEEVE.

MAT.


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 DESIGN IN BERLIN WOOL WORK.

EMBROIDERED BLOTTING-CASE.


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lviii Hagen are united inseparably, and defy death together. “Whatever Volker said pleased Hagen; whatever Hagen did pleased Volker.”

But into these last Ten Aventiures, almost like the image of a Doomsday, we must hardly glance at present. Seldom, perhaps, in the poetry of that or any other age, has a grander scene of pity and terror been exhibited than here, could we look into it clearly. At every new step new shapes of fear arise. Dietrich of Bern meets the Nibelungen on their way, with ominous warnings: but warnings, as we said, are now superfluous, when the evil itself is apparent and inevitable. Chriemhild, wasted and exasperated here into a frightful Medea, openly threatens Hagen, but is openly defied by him; he and Volker retire to a seat before her palace, and sit there, while she advances in angry tears, with a crowd of armed Hums, to destroy them. But Hagen has Siegfried’s Balmung lying naked on his knee, the Minstrel also has drawn his keen Fiddlebow, and the Huns dare not provoke the battle. Chriemhild would fain single out Hagen for vengeance; but Hagen, like other men, stands not alone; and sin is an infection which will not rest with one victim. Partakers or not of his crime, the others also must share his punishment. Singularly touching, in the meanwhile, is King Etzel’s ignorance of what everyone else understands too well; and now, in peaceful hospitable spirit, he exerts himself to testify his joy over these royal guests of his, who are bidden hither for far other ends. That night the wayworn Nibelungen are sumptuously lodged; yet Hagen and Volker see good to keep watch: Volker plays them to sleep: “under the porch of the house he sat on the stone: bolder fiddler was there never any; when the tones flowed so sweetly, they all gave him thanks. Then sounded his strings till all the house rang; his strength and the art were great; sweeter and sweeter he began to play, till flitted forth from him into sleep full many a careworn soul.” It was their last lullaby; they were to sleep no more. Armed men appear, but suddenly vanish, in the night;


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THE GOLCONDA.