THE BARD OF THE DIMBOVITZA.
 
 First Series. 
 
 HTHE BARD OF THE DIMBOVJTZA. Roumanian 
 J- Folk Songs, collected from the Peasants by HLENE VA- 
 CARESCO. Translated by CARMEN SYLVA and ALMA STRETTELL. 
 With an Introduction by CARMEN SYLVA. Printed on hand- 
 made paper, crown 8vo, cloth. ios.6d. (Out of print.) New 
 and cheaper edition. Crown 8vo, cloth. 51. Edition de luxe, 
 limited to Fifty signed and numbered copies, on imperial Japan 
 paper, bound in vellum. 4.2*. 
 
 " The poems have the wild melancholy and the fierce simplicity of 
 all true popular ballads, with an undertone of ghastly mystery that 
 reminds one of the Highland second-sight and Irish fairy tales. . . . 
 They are directly, passionately, fiercely human ; rich with a poetic 
 sympathy with external nature, but regarding it almost as the com- 
 rade and friend of man. . . . There are elements of the Greek joy in 
 all beautiful sights and sounds . . . but there is also a fierce love of 
 battle and of blood, such as rings through the Nibelungen epic." 
 FREDERIC HARRISON in The Fortnightly Re'vieiu. 
 
 World. " A real treasure-trove, a valuable addition to the litera- 
 ture of the world." 
 
 Notes and Queries. " We know nothing in folk-songs and little in 
 literature like these productions. They come straight from the heart 
 of a people, and have a passionate intensity and poetry like nothing 
 else with which we are familiar. ... In the way in which they fulfil 
 that highest function of imaginative poetry, eliciting from inanimate 
 nature sympathetic response to human aspiration and passion, they 
 are almost unique. Thus each poem is wrung out of the heart of a 
 peasant a passionate, suffering peasant the expression of coarse 
 enjoyment of life is marvellous, and the poignancy of anguish is 
 expressed in language that can only be beaten, and rarely then, in 
 the Elizabethan drama." 
 
 Manchester Guardian. " Few translations of the same type can 
 stand comparison with Fitzgerald's embroidery of Omar, yet one 
 certainly receives something of the same keen impression of freshness 
 and choiceness from these songs." 
 
 Times. " The translation is full of poetical feeling, and does credit 
 to its joint authors. The Dimbovitza is now a classic with which 
 every person of intelligence ought to possess some acquaintance." 
 
 LONDON : OSGOOD, McILVAINE AND CO., 
 45, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
 
 X HE BARD OF THE 
 DIMBOVITZA> s+ 
 
 ROVMANIAN FOLK-SONGS 
 
 SECOND SERIES 
 
 COLLECTED FROM THE PEASANTS BY 
 
 HELENE VACARESCO 
 
 TRANSLATED B~Y 
 
 CARMEN SYLVA 
 
 AND 
 
 ALMA STRETTELL 
 
 * 
 
 OCC 
 
 C.xcvn 
 
 OSGOOD, McILVAINE & CO. 
 45, ALBEMARLE STREET 
 
 LONDON, W.
 
 PC 
 
 73O 
 5"
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 THE appreciative reception given by the English public 
 to the first volume of translations made from Mdlle. 
 Vacaresco's remarkable collection of Roumanian Folk- 
 Songs, has encouraged the translators to put forth another 
 series of poems rendered into English from the same source, 
 in the hope that they may be received with equal favour. 
 
 Those who are familiar with the first volume of the 
 "Bard of the Dimbovitza," will remember that the songs 
 were collected in this one district of Roumania, to which 
 they are peculiar, and that Mdlle. Vacaresco laboured for 
 several years, with great perseverance and skill, to note 
 them down from the lips of the peasantry. 
 
 Such readers will not need to be told again of the 
 " Heiduck," the traditional hero and warrior of Roumanian 
 legend, the central figure of the romantic dreams of every 
 peasant maiden or of the luteplayer, on whose lips 
 most of these songs may be heard, as he wanders from door 
 to door, accompanying himself on the lute or " cobza," 
 from which his name is derived. 
 
 They will also be familiar with the peculiar construction
 
 vi Introduction. 
 
 of these poems, which are generally unrhymed, and " de- 
 pend more for rhythm on the cadence of each phrase, 
 than on any definite poetical form." It would be both 
 difficult and unsatisfactory to give examples of the mono- 
 tonous chants to which they are usually sung, as on the 
 peasants' lips they are unaccompanied by any instrument, 
 the Cobzar only singing to his lute. 
 
 In the present selection will be found one poem which 
 is sung by the youths, the maidens, and the Cobzar, alter- 
 nately, during the " Hora," or national dance, and while 
 the dancers move slowly round and round in a circle. 
 
 Another poem, "The Incantation," bears witness to the 
 belief in witches and spells still existing in Roumania ; and 
 Mdlle. Vacaresco herself was present at just such a scene 
 as the song calls up before us, when the witch began her 
 " spells " by waving a bough of hazel-wood over the dead 
 ashes on her hearth. 
 
 The poem called " Mad "has a pathetic interest from the 
 fact that it is not an imaginary composition, but was actu- 
 ally overheard, and noted down, from the lips of a woman 
 who had gone distraught upon the loss of her lover. This 
 poor creature could never be got to stay in her cottage, 
 but haunted a wood near the Vacaresco house, where she 
 would, of an evening, " light the fire " that she speaks of, 
 and could be heard singing her song beside it. 
 
 A few explanatory notes have been added for those 
 readers who are not familiar with the first volume of 
 the series.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION v 
 
 LUTEPLAYER'S SONGS : 
 
 The Luteplayer's Autumn Song 3 
 
 " Accursed " 6 
 
 The Orphan 8 
 
 The Necklace of Tears 10 
 
 The Soldier's Song 12 
 
 At the House 15 
 
 The Incantation 18 
 
 " My mother went away from me '' 21 
 
 On the Road 23 
 
 Cradle Song 25 
 
 Stillborn 27 
 
 The Hora 30 
 
 The Moon 35 
 
 The Two Knives 38 
 
 The Spring 4.0 
 
 The Song of the Young Maiden 42 
 
 The Widow 44 
 
 The Flower-Child , . 46 
 
 The Heiduck's Flowers 49 
 
 The Road to Prison 51 
 
 The Soldier's Wife 54 
 
 Mad 57 
 
 Gipsy Song 60 
 
 The Water of Prayer 61 
 
 No Son 62 
 
 Autumn Song 64
 
 viii Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Sleep 66 
 
 Forgotten 69 
 
 To the Maiden 71 
 
 The Song of the Cross-Sisters 73 
 
 Dirge of a Mother over her Son 77 
 
 The Song of the Old Well 81 
 
 Mothers' Tears 83 
 
 The Last Day 85 
 
 Her Pitcher 88 
 
 The Heart-Stealer 89 
 
 " It was not Sleeping Time " 91 
 
 Forsaken 93 
 
 He who remembers 95 
 
 The Cobzar's Last Song 97 
 
 SPINNING SONGS 101 
 
 NOTES 12 9
 
 LUTEPLAYER'S SONGS.
 
 LUTEPLAYER'S SONGS. 
 
 THE LUTEPLAYER'S AUTUMN SONG. 
 
 To-morrow the leaves will fall^ 
 
 But I only think of the gold of the harvests to come ; 
 
 So glorious the splendour will be of those harvests to come^ 
 
 That we never think again of the leaves that are falling. 
 
 WHEN she comes by 
 
 I go from hence, for then she must know that I love her ; 
 If she cross my path, I grow dumb, and beneath my fingers 
 I bid the cobza to hush, till the songs all ask me : 
 
 "Why dost thou bid us keep silence ? " 
 
 " Hush ! " I make answer, " for now my love goeth 
 
 by." 
 
 But when she abideth afar, oh then ! as the summer 
 Doth sing of the fleeting springtide, I sing of her. 
 I love her step in the dance, and its stir and rustle, 
 
 For it bids her girdle dance, and the flowers in her 
 
 hair. 
 
 When thou goest, O maiden, past the hut of thy Cobzar, 
 Let fall the flower from thy hair beside his door,
 
 4 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 For then it will strike root before my threshold, 
 
 And be to me a memory of thy soul. 
 The apple-tree felt light wings among its branches, 
 
 And said : " How soft and light ! " 
 
 Soft is the hay, that lies on the plain, to the footfall, 
 Yet thou dost not sit thee down 'mid the new-mown 
 
 hay. 
 
 When thou drawest water, O maiden ! thou dost not suffer 
 The water to keep the image it hath of thee, 
 And yet thou hast told my heart to keep it for ever. 
 As I wander on, I sing, if thou be not near me ; 
 I know full sure, the spell that would chain thee to me, 
 But I do not say the words, when thou goest by me, 
 For I love the stir and rustle of thy dancing 
 When it sets thy girdle gaily dancing too. 
 The gentle dreams of thy sleeping hours, I love them, 
 As I love the whirring of thy spindle fleet. 
 Refresh me with cool drink from the wooden pitcher, 
 For the weary wanderer's thirst is dear to thee ; 
 And whoso doth quench such thirst is beloved of Heaven, 
 That blesses the springs and rivers, which be not sparing 
 
 Nor from the wanderer cruelly turn away. 
 Beloved of Heaven, too, are the stars, that never 
 Withdraw themselves, nor hide their light from any, 
 Even from those who ne'er have looked on them. 
 
 I will pass away into Death, if thou let me die, 
 And never betray the place of my burial to thee ;
 
 'The Luteplayers Autumn Song. 5 
 
 Thou shalt ask the paths : " Which way doth lead to his 
 
 gravestone ? " 
 And other men's graves shall answer thee aloud : 
 
 " We are not his grave." 
 Then among the graves thou wilt wander with airy 
 
 footfall, 
 
 For I ever loved the rustle and stir of thy dancing, 
 That bids thy girdle dance, and the flowers in thy hair. 
 
 To-morrow the leaves will fall, 
 
 But I only think of the gold of the harvests to come; 
 
 So glorious the splendour will be of those harvests to come^ 
 
 That we never think again of the leaves that are falling.
 
 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 "ACCURSED." 
 
 The heavens lower ^ and the ravens fly. 
 Are ye forerunners of the snow, dark birds? 
 And shall we soon have snow upon our fields ? 
 
 IT was not me he cursed, he cursed my house. 
 
 And when I leave the house, my soul hath rest; 
 But when I enter in again, the curse 
 
 Awaits me at my door. 
 Would I might sleep beneath the open sky ! 
 But at the moonlight hour, One saith to me : 
 
 "Go back into thy house." 
 Nor can I answer : u Nay, a curse is on it." 
 
 It was not me he cursed, 
 He only cursed the bed whereon I sleep ; 
 
 Would I might lie upon the ground to sleep ! 
 But at the hour of sleep, One saith to me : 
 
 " Lie down upon thy bed." 
 It was not me he cursed, he only cursed 
 The food that was to nourish me, 
 
 The water that I drink. 
 Would I might die of hunger ! 
 But at the hour of hunger and of thirst, 
 
 There crieth One aloud within me, saying:
 
 " Accursed" 
 
 Eat then, and drink ! " 
 
 It was not me he cursed ; 
 He only cursed the paths I wander by ; 
 
 Would I might stay my steps ! 
 
 But at the hour of sunrise cometh One 
 And openeth wide my door and saith : " Go hence ! " 
 
 It was not me he cursed, 
 Only my chain, my girdle and my spindle ; 
 
 Would I need never touch them ! 
 
 But then One saith : " Take up 
 Thy girdle and thy spindle and thy chain.*' 
 
 It was not me he cursed j 
 But only all I see and touch, and those 
 
 To whom I draw me near. 
 And I would fain see nothing more, nor touch, 
 
 Nor draw me near to any. 
 And to the graves I go, that I may die ; 
 Then from the graves One riseth and saith : " Live ! 
 
 The heavens lower, and the ravens fly. 
 
 Are ye forerunners of the snow, dark birds? 
 
 And will there soon be snow upon our fields?
 
 Luteplayers Son^s. 
 
 THE ORPHAN. 
 
 One scarce can see the moonlight in the gloaming^ 
 But when nig ht falls ^ it lights up all the heavens. 
 The rivers, they are sister s^ since they flow 
 Down from the self-same mountain. 
 
 Go not at night-time through the village ; 
 
 The dogs sleep not thou mightest,too, meet souls. 
 
 But yet I bade my mother's soul to wait 
 
 Beside the well for me. 
 Into the well I shall look down to see her, 
 Yet shall not dare to gaze upon her face ; 
 But she will take a long, long look at me, 
 To see my face, my girdle and my shift. 
 And then upon my girdle there will be 
 Many more pearls to-morrow, on my shift 
 
 More golden spangles. 
 
 Upon the house, too, she will look, and then 
 Sunshine will linger round the house to-morrow. 
 Upon my heart, too, she will look, and then 
 
 My heart will be at rest. 
 And I shall ask : " How is it in the grave ? " 
 Then shall I see her image, in the well, 
 
 With finger on its lip.
 
 The Orphan. 9 
 
 And I shall ask her : " Dost thou yearn for me ? " 
 Then shall I see her image in the well, 
 
 Drying its eyes ; 
 And in her girdle I shall see the flowers, 
 
 Yea, all the flowers I cast upon her grave. 
 And nothing will she say to me, but I shall feel her glance. 
 Then she will make a sign to me, that I should give her 
 drink ; 
 
 And in her name 
 
 I will bring drink to all the village huts. 
 And oh ! how I shall grieve, because the well 
 Is all too deep for me to kiss her image. 
 I shall still seek her after she is gone, 
 Then shall I hear the stone that falls again 
 Upon her grave, as though it struck my heart. 
 For by the well I bade my mother's soul 
 
 To wait for me. 
 
 One scarce can see the moonlight in the gloaming, 
 But when night falls, it lights up all the heavens. 
 The rivers, they are sisters, since they flow 
 Down from the self-same mountain.
 
 IO Luteplayer' s Songs. 
 
 THE NECKLACE OF TEARS. 
 
 The Luteplayer sang before my cottage door ; 
 I hearkened to his lay and said: " Sing on I " 
 But the Cobzar, he only knows one song. 
 
 THE little maid was fain to make herself 
 
 A necklace fine, 
 
 As silv'ry as the moonlight's silver glance, 
 Or as the river when the moonbeams shine. 
 
 And so she asked the river : " Speak, wilt thou 
 
 Give me thy waves that in the moonlight dance ? " 
 And then she went and asked the moon : "Wilt thou 
 Give me thy glance ? " 
 
 " Not so," the moon replied, " because the night, 
 
 My glance doth need." 
 " Not so," the river answered her, " for I 
 Must keep my waters for the thirsty mead." 
 
 The little maid was fain to make herself 
 
 A necklace fine ; 
 
 Then said the sons of men : " Come, take our tears 
 To fashion this bright silver chain of thine."
 
 The Necklace of Tears. 1 1 
 
 Then each one gave her his most precious tears, 
 
 And glad were they 
 
 To deck the maiden's throat ; and all the tears 
 Thus whispered low together, and did say : 
 
 " Whence art thou, sister, from what heart dost come ? " 
 Then each one told the grief that did befall 
 Her parent heart, and each one thought herself 
 Saddest of all. 
 
 So now the maiden had her necklace bright, 
 More silvery than yonder river's wave, 
 Or glance of moonlight, yet when she put on 
 That necklace brave, 
 
 The tears all told her whence they came, and grew 
 So heavy, that beneath the burden sore, 
 The maiden died, and on her grave that chain 
 Weighs evermore. 
 
 The Luteplayer sang without my cottage door ; 
 I hearkened to his lay and said : " Sing on ! " 
 But the Cobzar^ he knows one only song.
 
 12 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S SONG. 
 
 The leaves all strove together in the forest^ 
 Because the wind passed through ; 
 
 The leaves all strove together in the forest^ 
 And sore the forest grieved ; 
 
 Yet in the forest strove the leaves together 
 Because the wind passed through. 
 
 ERE I go to the wars, O mother mine, 
 
 Take thou me by the hand, 
 And bless my weapon, and softly lay 
 
 Thy finger on my brow, 
 And the sign of the cross thou dost make thereon, 
 
 Watch over me shall keep 
 
 The while I sleep. 
 The ways shall be white that I travel by ; 
 
 The maidens shall come forth 
 And stand at their doors and give me smiles j 
 
 And forth the sun shall come 
 From behind the clouds, and be all amazed 
 
 When he sees how cheerful I can be, 
 
 Cheerful as he. 
 For when he is dying, he hides him not; 
 
 And when my hour is nigh,
 
 The Soldiers Song. 13 
 
 I will shine, O mother, and glow with light 
 
 Because I go forth to die. 
 The bird that gave me its plumes for my cap 
 
 Will be glad of it by and by, 
 For one of those plumes shall be reddened with blood, 
 
 Because I go forth to die. 
 And thy kiss, my bride, my little bride, 
 
 That close on my mouth doth lie, 
 It will not be loth to rest on my lips, 
 
 Because I go forth to die. 
 And the sign of the cross that thou mad'st o'er me, 
 
 Will be glad I go forth to die. 
 
 When I am dead, little mother mine, 
 Then charge the heavens, the sun, the stars, 
 To look yet on me in my death, 
 So that they surely all may know 
 How brave a child, O mother ! thou hast borne. 
 And go thou by my bride's low door 
 
 What time she makes the old well shriek 
 
 In drawing water up ; 
 Or when she calls the turtle-doves about her 
 
 In going through the wood ; 
 Then tell her of the soldier's death, 
 Speaking as of some other man 
 
 Unto some other maid ; 
 
 But if my sweetheart drop her spindle, saying: 
 " That was a hero ! "
 
 14 Luteplayer* s Songs. 
 
 Then shalt thou speak my name to her ; 
 For then she will forget to weep, 
 But will begin to bless me, rather. 
 And thou shalt say to our dear Earth, 
 That I have given my blood for her, 
 Therefore she, too, shall give to thee 
 
 Most bounteous harvests ; 
 For I, I shed my blood for her ! 
 And tell thy heart thy child is very happy, 
 Happy to die, even as the sunshine dieth, 
 In glowing, radiant light, 
 Thy cross upon his brow. 
 
 The leaves all strove together in the forest^ 
 Because the wind went through ; 
 
 The leaves all strove together in the forest, 
 And sore the forest grieved ; 
 
 Yet in the forest strove the leaves together 
 Because the wind went through.
 
 At the House. 1 5 
 
 AT THE HOUSE. 
 
 Take whichsoever way tbou wilt, for the ways are all alike ; 
 But do thou only come / bade my threshold wait thy 
 
 coming. 
 
 From out my window one can see the graves and on my life 
 The graves^ too, keep a watch. 
 
 AND hast thou, sister, asked the wind from whence he 
 comes to-night, 
 
 That such strange things he tells ? 
 
 Him whom I love, I never knew yet I knew that if he 
 came 
 
 He would bring pain to me, 
 
 A bridge across the river lies, and the river every spring 
 Doth bear the bridge away. 
 
 Oh sister, hark ! to-night the wind from far away doth 
 blow ! 
 
 To-day he saw a house that stands with windows open 
 wide. 
 
 And lo ! the house forsaken was, and black the threshold- 
 stone.
 
 1 6 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 There stood two men and they did point their fingers at 
 
 that house, 
 And on his finger one had blood ; the other's finger 
 
 shook. 
 " How many kisses ? " asked the one, and then the other 
 
 asked : 
 " How many tears ? " A maiden, too, stood there and 
 
 watched the men, 
 And with the spindle in her hand, she pointed at the house. 
 
 A bridge across the river lies, and the river every spring 
 Doth bear the bridge away. 
 
 The spindle in the maiden's hand, it shook and trembled 
 
 too. . . . 
 White was her shift about her neck a crimson chain of 
 
 blood. 
 " That was my house," she spake once more : " That 
 
 was my threshold-stone." 
 Then back she wended to her grave, and to her grave sank 
 
 down. 
 And still the men did stand and point their fingers at that 
 
 house. 
 
 Take whichsoever way thou wilt the ways are all 
 alike ;
 
 At the House. 1 7 
 
 But do thou only come I bade my threshold wait thy 
 
 coming. 
 
 From out my window one can see the graves and on my lift 
 The graves keep watch.
 
 1 8 Luteplayer's Songs. 
 
 THE INCANTATION. 
 
 THOU little hazel-bough, 
 
 Thou that dost grow so near the river 
 
 That it is fain to kiss thee, 
 
 Thou that wilt never see the sun, 
 
 Because thou growest all too near the river, 
 
 I plucked thee when the sun knew nought thereof, 
 
 Upon my left breast I did bear thee hither, 
 
 And 'twixt my fingers took thee. 
 
 Fall on the ashes gently do not stir them, 
 
 For ashes love to slumber ; 
 Hide close beneath them and then go thy way, 
 
 Thou little hazel-bough ; 
 Then shall the tree from which thou earnest forth 
 
 Bear loveliest buds in April, 
 If thou wilt go, thither where I shall bid thee, 
 
 Where my beloved dwells. 
 
 He sleeps. Now shalt thou ask him if he dream, 
 
 And bid him dream of me. 
 Thou shalt become the sorrow of his heart, 
 
 O little hazel-bough j
 
 The Incantation. 19 
 
 And tell him that the sorrow of his heart 
 
 Dreams but of me ; 
 Thou shalt disturb his life with a desire. 
 
 Where is my sweetheart ? speak, when will he come ? 
 
 I have charged sleep to leave him j 
 The water that he drinks, to bring before him 
 
 In every drop mine image ; 
 The fragrance of his bread, to call my kiss 
 
 To his remembrance. 
 
 His couch shall murmur all my songs to him, 
 The whiteness of my veil encompass him 
 
 Even as the light ; 
 My step shall sound unceasing in his ears, 
 
 And it shall seem to him 
 As though he saw me always coming toward him, 
 
 Yet never reach the goal. 
 
 And when his house saith : " Hither come and rest,** 
 Then shall he answer : " Rest dwells not in thee j " 
 And to the threshold's stone he thus shall speak : 
 
 " Thou dreary stone ! " 
 
 And to the merry birds : " How sad ye are ! " 
 And to the sorrowing grave : " How glad art thou ! n 
 Nor ever shall he taste his bread's sweet savour 
 Without complaint, till he hath had my kiss. 
 
 This shalt thou do, thou little hazel-bou^h, 
 
 * tD * 
 
 Thou that dost grow so near the river
 
 20 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 That it is fain to kiss thee, 
 Thou that canst never see the sun 
 Because thou growest all too near the river.
 
 My Mother went away from Me." 2 \ 
 
 MY MOTHER WENT AWAY FROM ME.' 
 (GIPSY SONG.) 
 
 My mother went away from me so wide and vast the plain ; 
 My fire will soon be dying out^ as stars at daybreak ^uane. 
 Art thou not coming back^ O love^ to feed the fire again? 
 
 BESIDE my fire the wand'rer sat him down, 
 
 Since then it dieth out. 
 
 And with the wand'rer, too, my soul went hence. 
 Whither my soul went, now I ne'er can know, 
 Because he told not, whither went his steps. 
 The forest saw him pass, and said to me : 
 " I could not keep the wand'rer in my shade.'* 
 The river said : " Nor I upon my banks." 
 
 A Heiduck he was, I know, one of the race of the 
 
 Heiducks, 
 Who are never weary of fighting, whom the sun doth love 
 
 to see j 
 
 And whom the dreams of maidens do also love to see ! 
 " What shall I bring thee back from the wars ? " he asked 
 
 me 
 "Wilt thou the finest veil wilt thou the slend'rest 
 
 spindle ?
 
 22 Lute p lay er s Songs. 
 
 A girdle all full of pearls, or a silver necklet heavy 
 To lie on thy little heart, and burden it with its weight ? 
 A bracelet wilt thou have, that shall ring upon thine arm ? 
 Or wilt thou have my heart, wherein thy heart hath 
 
 nested ? 
 What shall I bring ? " Then I said : " I would rather 
 
 have blood than all ; 
 That will redden my girdle so white with the reddest of 
 
 pearls, 
 That will weigh down my necklet of silver, and make my 
 
 bracelet 
 
 Ring merrily on mine arm. 
 I will lay it, too, on the heart whereon my heart hath 
 
 nested. 
 And shall not then both hearts grow warm thereby ? " 
 
 I said ; 
 " I would rather have blood than all ! " 
 
 My mother went away from me so wide and vast the plain ; 
 My fire will soon be dying out^ as stars at daybreak wane. 
 Art thou not coming back^ O love^ to feed the fire again f
 
 On the Road. 23 
 
 ON THE ROAD. 
 
 Her veil is soft as a summer-cloud; 
 And when she passes^ the flowers are sad 
 That they cannot follow her. 
 
 ONE can see the road from the river's edge 
 
 Always I look along the road, 
 For down it something always comes 
 Towards me, something that doth smile, 
 
 And something that doth weep. 
 It is a woman, and a child. 
 And the weeping woman faster goes 
 Than doth the smiling child. 
 And both would give a drink to me, 
 But the woman doth fetch the water up, 
 And handeth me the pitcher full, 
 
 Quicker than doth the little child. 
 The pitcher's rim is broken. 
 Then both go hence and I only think 
 Of the woman that weeps but I forget, 
 Always forget, the smiling child, 
 Because it did not still my thirst j 
 And every day I go and watch 
 The road, to see them coming.
 
 24. Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 Her veil is soft as a summer-cloud; 
 And when she passes^ the flowers are sad 
 Because they cannot follow.
 
 Cradle Song. 25 
 
 CRADLE SONG. 
 
 THE wind came flying through my chamber, 
 And when he saw me, he was joyful, 
 
 Because I looked on thee. 
 Thou didst not heed the wind's rejoicing, 
 For thou wert hearkening to my song. 
 
 I will sing to thee 
 
 Of the soldier-host 
 
 That yestereven marched hence to war, 
 And to whom with homage we bade farewell. 
 The earth was proud to feel their footsteps, 
 The sunshine proud to be their sunshine. 
 Thou too shalt be a soldier, child, 
 So that thy land may love and bless thee. 
 The corn upon the fields grows fairer 
 
 When rain hath fallen, 
 Yet blood the earth hath need of too; 
 Therefore I give thee to the earth. 
 Thou wilt become so brave a soldier, 
 That even the mountain, to behold thee, 
 Will one day draw her veil of mist aside, 
 And o'er thy lot I will not sorrow,
 
 26 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 Nor mourn the days thou didst not live. 
 O Earth, I give my child to thee ! 
 
 When thou shalt see thy foe lie dying, 
 
 Thy thoughts will turn toward Death, and kindly 
 
 Thou wilt look back, and tenderly, on Life, 
 
 Since Death is in thy thoughts. 
 Along white roadways thou shalt travel, 
 
 Whereon men thirst, 
 
 Beneath the tent lie down at even 
 
 In bitter cold. 
 Glorious thy lot will be yea, even 
 
 Like to the eagle's and the sun's ; 
 Men raise their heads when they would look at them. 
 Thou mayst not think of maidens' girdles, 
 
 Nor of their eyes, 
 
 And thou shalt say to them : 
 
 "I must go hence." 
 For thou wilt be a soldier, O my child ! 
 
 The wind came flying through my chamber, 
 And when he saw me he was joyful, 
 
 Because I looked on thee. 
 Thou didst not heed the wind's rejoicing, 
 For thou wert hearkening to my song.
 
 Stillborn. 27 
 
 STILLBORN. 
 
 Amid the springing grain flowers^ too^ spring up. 
 Therefore they drink the dew 
 That the sky sends upon the springing grain. 
 The threshold of the cottage was all wet 
 Because last night such heavy dew hath fallen. 
 
 WOMAN ! take up thy life once more 
 
 Where thou hast left it ; 
 Nothing is changed for thee, thou art the same, 
 
 Thou, who didst think 
 
 That all things would be wholly changed for thee. 
 No dirge doth echo through thy dwelling-place ; 
 
 One cannot mourn as dead 
 
 That which hath never lived. 
 Yet had I made for him a dirge so sweet ! 
 Telling therein, that he was all thy hope, 
 
 And that he did not well 
 To go ere he had looked upon the world 
 
 To think so ill of what he ne'er had seen. 
 Woman ! while thou didst bear him, hast thou ever 
 Told him of graves ? or spoken of the sorrow 
 Of barren wombs ?
 
 28 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 Didst thou not tell him of thy womb's rejoicing 
 
 Over his life ? 
 
 And that spring sometimes comes upon this earth, 
 And that some souls there are, that do remember ? 
 Nay, thou didst think on sorrow 
 While thou hadst joy within thee j 
 
 And sorrow frightened him. 
 Thou didst not tell him, that thy cottage-windows 
 
 Looked toward the plain ; 
 That rivers love the flowers upon their banks, 
 And that the storks come home ; 
 That there are birds that sing, and men as well, 
 And that their songs are sweet. 
 Nay, but thou spak'st to him of graves, and so 
 Their rest grew dear to him. 
 Now can I make no tender dirge o'er him. 
 
 I never saw him live. 
 Return thee to thy hearth, 
 And think of him before thine empty hearth ; 
 Saying, while thou dost muse of him : 
 
 " How empty is my hearth ! " 
 Toward thy husband stretch thou forth thy hand 
 
 With gentle smile, that he 
 May smile again, and think of Death no more. 
 
 For Death it was not 
 
 That passed through this thy house but it was Life 
 That would not take up her abode therein. 
 Thou didst but ask him from afar :
 
 Stillborn. 29 
 
 a Wilt thou indeed be mine ? " 
 
 As one may ask the stars ; 
 The stars reply : " Nay, we belong to no one." 
 Thou didst but say to him from far : 
 
 " I love thee ! " 
 
 Even as one may say it to the sky ; 
 The sky makes answer : " Nay, the love of men 
 
 Is nought to me ! " 
 
 Go, woman, to thy daily work again 
 Nothing is changed for thee. 
 
 Amid the sprouting seeds flowers^ too, are growing, 
 
 And so they drink the rain 
 
 That the sky sends upon the sprouting seeds. 
 
 The threshold of thy cottage is so wet 
 
 Because last night such heavy dew hath fallen.
 
 Lufef foyer's Songs. 
 
 THE HORA. 
 
 (TO BE SUNG DURING THE DANCE.) 
 THE MAIDENS. 
 
 HE turned his head away, 
 
 That he might not see my hut ; 
 
 My apple-trees were all in bloom, 
 
 The dogs were sleeping when he passed. 
 
 He turned his head away. 
 
 THE LADS. 
 
 And do ye know which way he went, 
 Or the likeness that he bore ? 
 What shape his glistening daggers were, 
 The fashion of his mantle's hem, 
 The colour of his steed ? 
 
 THE COBZAR. 
 
 He was a Heiduck, yet he passed 
 So swiftly by, we ne'er shall know 
 What skill he showeth in the dance, 
 Or what the shape his daggers wore. 
 He drank from out the river clear, 
 And cast no glance upon the maidens.
 
 The Hora. 3 1 
 
 THE MAIDENS. 
 
 Oh speak ! why looked he not this way ? 
 What was it he misliked in us ? 
 Our girdles' hues our merry songs ? 
 
 THE COBZAR. 
 
 He loves another woman ! 
 
 THE MAIDENS. 
 
 Oh speak ! where is her threshold ? 
 What flowers grow by it ? 
 
 THE COBZAR. 
 
 This woman hath no threshold, 
 For flowers she careth not ; 
 But yet she danceth smiling, 
 And to her the Heiduck goes. 
 
 THE LADS. 
 
 And was his way yet long ? 
 His steed seemed weary. 
 
 THE COBZAR. 
 
 Soon to a cloister he will come ; 
 And he will knock upon its door, 
 Asking if she be there. 
 Then will the cloister answer him : 
 Go further."
 
 32 Luff player's Songs. 
 
 And through the forest he will go, 
 But will not find her. 
 And even sleep will not bring back 
 Her image for she danceth, smiling ; 
 And in the dance she whirls so fast, 
 That none can hear her heart a-beating. 
 
 THE MAIDENS. 
 
 More slowly had we danced for him. 
 Speak ! do his fingers love the spindle ? 
 
 THE COBZAR. 
 
 They love the dagger more. 
 And the Heiduck knows full well 
 That she doth but wait for him 
 That she may kill him ; 
 And that, when he shall be dead, 
 In her mantle she will shroud him ; 
 That her dancing and her smiling 
 Will cease but to this end, 
 That she may kill him. 
 But the Heiduck's soul thereat rejoices ; 
 He goes to her and when he sees her, 
 Thus will the Heiduck speak: "Now kill me, 
 For I have come." 
 
 THE LADS. 
 
 Tell us no more, Cobzar ; 
 We had loved this woman too.
 
 The Hora. 
 
 THE MAIDENS. 
 
 Tell us no more, Cobzar ; 
 
 Lest we should love the Heiduck. 
 
 THE LADS. 
 
 But green is yet the maize, 
 And of our sweat hath need. 
 
 THE MAIDENS. 
 
 And we at evening-tide 
 Must be upon our thresholds. 
 
 THE COBZAR. 
 
 This woman hath no threshold. 
 For flowers she careth not ; 
 But yet she danceth, smiling. 
 
 THE LADS. 
 
 The flowers she treadeth down 
 Must surely love her dancing. 
 
 THE MAIDENS. 
 
 And he must love her dancing, 
 The young Heiduck, far better 
 Than the dancing of our spindles, 
 o 
 
 33
 
 34 Luteplayer's Songs. 
 
 He turned his head away 
 That he might not see my hut ; 
 My apple-trees were all in bloom ; 
 The dogs were sleeping when he passed. 
 He turned his head away.
 
 The Moon. 35 
 
 THE MOON. 
 
 A green, green tree in my courtyard stands, 
 'The sunshine loves it, the breezes rock it ; 
 But when snow hath fallen, the tree for getteth 
 That April once was here. 
 
 THE moon, she fears the sunshine sore, 
 Because the sunshine knows full well 
 
 Wherefore the moonlight is so pale. 
 The moon is loth that the sun should tell 
 Her secret ; and she hides away 
 When the sun conies forth, that so, perchance, 
 
 The sunshine may forget. 
 But I am brother to the sun, 
 He telleth me his secrets all 
 How he hath taught the birds to sing, 
 The ears of corn to turn to gold, 
 The forests to grow green. 
 And thus he hath betrayed to me 
 Wherefore the moon is pale.
 
 36 Lutep layer's Songs. 
 
 The moon, she is a maiden's heart, 
 
 And love once dwelt therein, 
 Ah, in those days the maiden's heart 
 
 Was sunshine through and through ; 
 But when love left the maiden's heart, 
 
 'Twas then that it grew pale. 
 And Heaven took it up on high, 
 Yet sadly still it looketh down 
 Upon the earth, where love did dwell, 
 
 And paler grows the while. 
 
 The moon, she fears the sunshine sore, 
 Because the sunshine knows full well 
 
 Wherefore the moonlight is so pale. 
 
 The rivers say, when she appears : 
 
 " O little maid's pale heart, 
 Come, rest in us ! " and in their sleep 
 
 The birds all say to her : 
 *' Come, go to sleep in our nests with us ! 
 
 The grave saith : "Maiden's heart, 
 Pale heart, make me grow paler too ! " 
 And everything to slumber turns 
 
 That so that heart may sleep. 
 Yet though she see them slumb'ring all, 
 
 She slumbers not, nor nods her head, 
 But stands and watches Sleep.
 
 The Moon. 37 
 
 A green, green tree in my courtyard grows. 
 
 The sunshine loves it, the breezes rock it ; 
 But when snow hath fallen, the tree forgetteth 
 That April once was here.
 
 38 Lutepiayer's Songs. 
 
 THE TWO KNIVES. 
 
 White blossoms hath the acacia-tree^ 
 
 My necklet hath blue beads. 
 The Cobzar's voice goes echoing through the night. 
 
 Two gleaming knives my brother had, 
 
 That, glistening, on the wall hung crossed j 
 And why he loved those knives so well 
 I could not ever think. 
 
 When down into the river cool 
 
 The sun hath sunk, the plain grows red. 
 
 And if my Love had love for me, 
 All my life long I'd sing thereof, 
 
 And spin him shirts so fine. 
 
 When in the chamber night is black, 
 I hear the knives that talk together. 
 One saith : " 'Twas I that pierced the wife ; " 
 The other : " I that killed the husband." 
 Saith one : " Such lukewarm blood had she, 
 Like eggs beneath the mother's wing ! " 
 The other : " Such red blood had he, 
 As red as wine in glass ! "
 
 The Two Knives. 39 
 
 tc And whosoe'er would reach that house 
 
 Must wade the river through. 
 The house, it knew not that we came 
 
 To kill that man and wife. 
 Her white veil round her head she wore, 
 
 Bracelets were on her arm, 
 She listened to the river's flow, 
 
 And with it her last hour flowed by. 
 
 And ever since that time, the souls 
 Of wife and husband hither come, 
 
 At night, to curse us both. 
 They say : ' Why gleam ye on the wall, 
 
 Crossed on the wall, ye knives, 
 
 What have ye done with that our blood ? ' 
 Then we make answer to the souls : 
 
 4 The river washed the blood away, 
 
 The river hurries hence.' 
 
 ' What have ye done with our blood ? ' they ask 
 c We dried it in the sun, and yet 
 
 The sun is shining still.' 
 
 * What have ye done with our blood ? ' they ask 
 c We drank it, and we gleam ! ' ' 
 
 White blossoms hath the acacia-tree, 
 
 My necklet hath blue beads. 
 The Cobzar's singing echoes through the night.
 
 40 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 THE SPRING. 
 
 The snow has fallen, and we shall not find 
 The path that leads unto the huts again^ 
 
 Yet we look up and see the clear blue sky y 
 From whence the snow has fallen. 
 
 I CHARGE thee, drink no water from that spring, 
 
 Thy soul would burn ; 
 For in the evening late, the maiden's soul 
 
 Did drink therefrom. 
 
 Snow-white the soul is, and it thirsteth ever. 
 " Happy are ye," it saith unto the flowers, 
 " That every night drink dew ! " 
 And to the rivers, too, it saith : " Ah me, 
 
 The plains are happy, for ye water them." 
 Then to the spring the soul draws nigh, lamenting 
 
 That it must pine so sore, 
 And saith : *' I surely thought to still my thirst 
 
 There in the grave, 
 But Death is arid, so I have come back." 
 
 And when two lovers chance to meet that soul 
 
 The while it drinks, 
 They too for ever thirsting will remain,
 
 The Spring. 41 
 
 And down into the grave, to still that thirst, 
 They too will go. 
 
 I charge thee, drink no water from that spring, 
 For in the evening late, the maiden's soul 
 Doth drink therefrom. 
 
 The snow has fallen^ and we shall not find 
 The path that leads back to the huts again. 
 
 Yet we look up and see the clear blue 
 From whence the snow has fallen.
 
 42 Luteplayer's Songs. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE YOUNG MAIDEN. 
 
 A star hath fallen on the spot 
 
 Where thou art singing 
 
 Thy bracelets' ringing 
 Keeps all the birds awake. 
 
 THOU that dost watch o'er children's sleep 
 
 And gently rockest them, 
 Thy voice is dear to sucking babes, 
 
 The aged love thy voice ; 
 Come now and sing a song for me, 
 
 Thy voice, I love it too ; 
 Yea, like the river's rippling sound 
 
 As through the maize it flows, 
 Or like the poplar's whispering 
 
 That by my threshold grows. 
 Sing me the song of the young, young maid, 
 
 That bids her spindle dance, and sets 
 Her heart a-dancing too. 
 
 A horseman rode across the ford, 
 
 Into the water fell his sword. 
 What would become of the maiden's heart 
 
 Once empty of its love ?
 
 The Song of the Young Maiden. 43 
 
 What will the swordless horseman do ? 
 I lay and drank at the water's edge, 
 
 The sword came swimming by me ; 
 I thrust it into my girdle fast, 
 And dear is the weight of the sword to me, 
 
 It sings me songs of battle. 
 
 Horseman that wentest through the ford, 
 Wouldest thou fain get back thy sword ? 
 
 Then come and sit thee down by me, 
 
 Beneath my threshold's poplar-tree. 
 There dance my heart and spindle both, 
 
 Because the sword of the fight doth tellj 
 I will give it thee back, but yet I trow 
 
 Thy thoughts are all of my spindle now ! 
 
 I have sung the song of the young, young maid. 
 
 A star bath fallen on the spot 
 
 IVhere thou art singing 
 
 Thy bracelets' ringing 
 Keeps all the birds awake.
 
 44 Luteplayer's Songs. 
 
 THE WIDOW. 
 
 The sun is hidden far behind the willows ; 
 The willows shivered^ for they hid the sun. 
 
 IF a knock sounded on my door at even, 
 
 First I should think that it was him returning, 
 But soon I should remember he was dead, 
 
 And know it was his dear soul home returning j 
 Then should I bid it enter at the door 
 
 And come close, close beside me. 
 And his dear soul would ask me : 
 " The children, and the maize-fields, and the cattle, 
 
 How fare they all ? " 
 And I would answer his dear soul : " All well ; " 
 
 That it might rest and fall asleep in peace. 
 Yet would I not, that his dear soul should ask me : 
 
 " How fares it with the sorrow of thy soul ? " 
 For since unto the dead one may not lie, 
 I must perforce give answer : " 'Tis not healed." 
 Then his dear soul 
 
 Never again could fall asleep in peace. 
 
 Moreover, his dear soul will surely ask 
 For flowers of me, and I will give it flowers, 
 
 Yet would I not, it asked me for a drink,
 
 The Widow. 45 
 
 For one can give the dead no drink save tears, 
 
 And I would not it should perceive that these 
 
 Were tears of mine. 
 Then his dear soul 
 
 Were fain to see our children, and the house, 
 To know if all were yet unchanged, and I 
 
 Would show him house and children, for they all 
 
 Are yet unchanged. 
 Yet would I not, that his dear soul should ask me 
 
 To show my face quick-sighted are the dead, 
 And he would see my face all drawn with sorrow. 
 Ah no ! for when upon the door at even 
 
 His dear soul knocketh, 
 I must be able thus to answer him : 
 
 "All here within goes well yea, in my heart, 
 
 And on my face ; 
 I have forgotten thee, go hence and sleep 
 
 In peace again," for ne'er the dead must weep 
 
 " All here goes well." 
 Then his dear soul would wend its way again 
 
 Back to the grave, nor turn to look behind ; 
 And never more would his dear soul arise 
 
 To knock upon my door at eventide. 
 
 The sun is hidden far behind the willows ; 
 The willows shivered, for they hid the sun.
 
 46 Luteplayer's Songs. 
 
 THE FLOWER-CHILD. 
 
 (OR FOUNDLING.) 
 
 To-day is Sunday, come away and dance ! 
 
 I passed the lads anon, and they were singing. 
 
 The forest said : " Oh hearken^ how they sing! 
 
 SHE will not come to-morrow, 
 
 Nor came she yesterday, 
 
 She who could end the stranger's life I lead. 
 
 Perhaps I meet her every day, 
 
 And she doth turn away her face 
 
 To hide her tears from me ; for if I saw 
 
 That she was weeping, straightway I should cry 
 
 " Lo, this is she ! " 
 She turns away from me her face 
 That she my sorrow may not see, 
 For if she saw my sadness, then 
 She never could refrain from crying : 
 
 "Thou art my child !" 
 Perhaps she sees me standing at his side, 
 And dares not say : " That is thy father ! " 
 For fear that I might hate him, 
 And, with him, hate her too.
 
 The Flower-Child. 47 
 
 Yet both I love, even as the flower its root. 
 
 I curse them not I say to them in dreams : 
 
 " Blessed be the hour, wherein ye loved each other." 
 
 And never would I tell them of my sorrows. 
 
 And if they asked concerning them, 
 
 I would reply: "But I am happy ! 
 
 And to the graves I never go ; 
 
 The graves beguile me not." 
 
 This would I tell them, and my sorrow 
 
 Within my heart's depths I would hide, 
 
 As rain in hollow stones is hidden, 
 
 As one who dies, doth hide the secret 
 
 Of his last suffering and woe. 
 
 And those who see me never say : 
 
 " How full his heart is ! " rather all men think 
 
 That it is empty, empty quite, my heart. 
 
 I love the happy children of the mothers, 
 
 Because I hear them say : " My mother ! " 
 
 I listen, that I too may learn to say it, 
 
 And when I am, alone, repeat it low. 
 
 But when I say it, 'tis as though I had 
 
 A different voice from them, the mothers' children, 
 
 For whom the mothers pray upon their knees, 
 
 And weave them shirts so fine, the livelong day, 
 
 And sing them off to sleep with lullabies. 
 
 O mother, whom perchance I see 
 
 In every path, and every day 
 
 Washing the hemp beside the river
 
 48 Luff player 9 s Songs. 
 
 If thou wert dead, how would I love thy grave, 
 
 How gladly linger by it, 
 
 And cover it with flowers, 
 
 Not naming thee, but saying: 
 
 " I am a son of Earth, and love this grave 
 
 Because a little earth doth cover it, 
 
 And who it is sleeps here, I do not know." 
 
 Oh mother, nay ! thou never canst be dead, 
 
 For surely, ere thy death, thou wouldst have called me, 
 
 And bidden me love thy grave. 
 
 Thou surely wouldst have feared 
 
 To be so cold therein 
 
 Without thy poor child's love ! 
 
 Nay, but thou livest, mother; 
 
 Then come one evening, while I am asleep, 
 
 And look upon my sleep ; 
 
 Then in the morning I can say : " At least 
 
 She looked upon my sleep." 
 
 To-day is Sunday, come away and dance ! 
 
 I passed the lads anon, and they were singing. 
 
 The forest said: " Oh hearken^ how they sing ! "
 
 The Heiduck' s Flowers. 49 
 
 THE HEIDUCK'S FLOWERS. 
 
 Look never upon me in my sleep 
 
 The while I dream^ 
 For then thou wouldst see upon my face 
 The smiles of my dream^ or else its tears. 
 The wind hath driven the clouds away. 
 
 TO-DAY I waked early, and first of all 
 
 I saw the sun, and then the road 
 
 Where men went by, with pipe in mouth. 
 
 One was a Heiduck, and in his hand 
 
 He carried a flower and his youth it was. 
 
 In his mouth he carried another flower 
 
 And his song was that j and another flower 
 
 He bore in his girdle and that was his love. 
 
 I went with my spade to dig on the plain, 
 
 From the well I drank water, 
 
 And looked at the trees ; 
 
 And then in the shade of the trees I slept. 
 
 And at even I came to my house again, 
 
 I saw the moon rise as I went ; 
 
 And again on the road I saw men pass by, 
 
 One was the Heiduck. 
 
 A faded flower 

 
 50 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 He bore in his hand and that was his youth. 
 In his mouth he carried a faded flower 
 And that was his song. 
 
 And a faded flower 
 
 He bore in his girdle and that was his love. 
 I bade him not enter my dwelling-place j 
 He went on through the darkening night. 
 
 Look never upon me in my sleep 
 
 The while I dream, 
 For then thou wouldst see upon my face 
 The smiles of my dream^ or the tears of my dream. 
 The wind hath driven the clouds away.
 
 Road to Prison. 5 1 
 
 THE ROAD TO PRISON. 
 
 Onward floweth the water, onward through meadows broad; 
 " How happy" the meadows say, " art thou, to be rippling 
 
 onward" 
 
 And my heart is beating, beating, beneath my girdle here ; 
 " O heart" the girdle saith> "how happy art thou, that 
 
 thou beatest ! " 
 
 THE road that I tread, is not dusty from wanderers' foot- 
 steps, 
 
 Nor from the oxen, that go their way to the ploughing, 
 Nor from the passing of lovers 
 
 Nay, but the footsteps of prisoners have left the road full 
 of dust, 
 
 And the clang of their chains hath brought sorrow to all 
 the trees by the way ; 
 
 The clang of those chains the trees never more can forget, 
 
 Nor can they in their prison yonder, forget the trees and 
 their sorrow. 
 
 And there in the way the prisoners met the young maiden, 
 And they wept when they saw her so young 
 
 And the maiden gave drink to them all, and went hence 
 with their blessing.
 
 52 Luteplayer's Songs. 
 
 They thought of their houses, that over them wept, and 
 of those 
 
 Who wept in the houses. 
 
 And the dust of the road, and the scorching fire of the sun, 
 They felt them no more, the while they thought on these 
 
 things j 
 They strained their ear to catch the song of the birds, 
 
 The last they might hear for so long j 
 And they blessed the birds, because they had been the last 
 
 To sing on their way. 
 
 So wearily went they hence, as though all their life they 
 must wander, 
 
 And already had wandered for long. 
 To the men they did meet they said : " And yet we are 
 
 all your brothers ; " 
 
 And the clang of their chains went with them. 
 And one on his brow yet bore the tears of his mother, 
 Another the kiss of his wife and the brows were all 
 
 darkened alike. 
 Yet each one smiled, as though he would say : " See, I 
 
 smile ! " 
 They dreaded the threshold, awaiting them there at the 
 
 end; 
 Yet were they in haste to o'erstep it, and hide from the day 
 
 Their weariful smile and their chains. 
 And over the threshold, one following another, they stepped, 
 And the first one that crossed it, did envy the last, for 
 that he
 
 The Road to Prison. 53 
 
 Had yet to o'erstep it. 
 Of their homes they thought, and their sins, yet they 
 
 sorrowed more deeply 
 For their homes than for all their sins. 
 Their dreams were distraught with anguish, and each one, 
 
 awakening, 
 Would say to his fellow : " I know not whereof I have 
 
 dreamed 
 
 I dreamed that so white was the road, and that prisoners' 
 footsteps 
 
 Had left the road full of dust." 
 
 Onw ardflow eth the water, onward through meadows broad, 
 " How happy" the meadows say, " art thou, to be rippling 
 
 onward ! " 
 
 And my heart is beating, beating, beneath my girdle here ; 
 " O heart" the girdle saitb, " bow happy art thou, that 
 
 thou beatest ! "
 
 54 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 Knoirfst thou what the harvest-fields are saying ? 
 
 " We have loved the sunshine all too dearly ; 
 Therefore now they mow us down^for loving 
 The sunshine over-much." 
 
 HE slept beneath the lime-tree, and it looked upon his 
 
 sleep. 
 Fresh from the battle he had come, and home with him 
 
 he brought 
 The scent of blood upon his clothes j and all the flowers 
 
 were sad 
 Because the wind loved that the best, 
 
 Better than all their scents. 
 
 Ah ! soldier, thou young soldier, coming from the battle, 
 Thou didst not see me going by, with the rustling of ripe 
 
 grass, 
 
 For thou wert lost in dreaming only of the battle, 
 And dearer is thy sword to thee than any glance of mine. 
 The eagle loves the sunshine better than his eyrie, 
 And dark the hut would seem to thee after the glee of 
 
 fight, 
 
 The joy of breaking like a storm over the fields of dead. 
 And dearer is thy wound to thee, than any kiss of mine.
 
 The Soldiers Wife. 55 
 
 Now wilt thou yet require of me, that I our son should 
 give thee, 
 
 To join the hosts of war. 
 
 Thy courser speeds as swiftly, as clouds before the storm- 
 wind, 
 
 And scarcely have our women the time to reach their 
 threshold, 
 
 To see him flying onward, or ever he is gone. 
 
 But thou no more dost love it, the quietness of the thres- 
 hold ; 
 Thou lov'st thy sword, he knows it, 
 
 And as for love of women, he biddeth thee forget it, 
 And saith : " Touch not their veil." 
 
 When wilt thou be returning to this thy home again ? 
 
 The morning marvels not to find thee, 
 
 The evening saith : " What, not yet come ? " 
 
 My hand hangs idly rocking the cradle, while I muse 
 
 Upon him in the battle j 
 And who will give him drink, I wonder, 
 And who will lull his sleep, or wailing 
 Will sing his dirge when he is dead. 
 The plain is wide, and o'er it the little birds go roaming, 
 So doth my heart, but thou no longer 
 Dost love the loving of my heart. 
 
 Thy courser speeds so swiftly, 
 
 That e'en the moon can scarcely from out the clouds come 
 gliding
 
 56 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 In time to see him flying, or ever he is gone. 
 
 But thou no more dost love it, the moonlight's restfulness. 
 
 J C? 
 
 And thou upon the earth wilt slumber gladly, thinking 
 
 That it shall be thy grave ; 
 Even as the rain, rejoicing to know that thou shalt sink 
 
 Down into earth. 
 
 My voice is dumb and silent, since thine I hear no longer ; 
 My step is slow and heavy, since thine no more I follow ; 
 Nor do I any longer put flowers in my girdle ; 
 
 My necklet, too, now slumbers, 
 Because it hears no longer the beating of my heart. 
 Thy courser speeds so swiftly, I scarce have time to loosen 
 My veil to see him flying, or ever he is gone. 
 
 Knoufst thou what the harvest-fields are saying ? 
 
 " We have loved the sunshine all too dearly ; 
 Therefore now they mow us down^for loving 
 The sunshine over-much."
 
 Mad. 57 
 
 MAD. 
 
 We shall not see again the foot of the willows 
 Until the river is low. 
 
 I NEVER bade him stay, because it was written, 
 
 In my fate it was written, that I should see him go. 
 
 And still the fire burns on, as though it could warm me. 
 To-morrow is Sunday, the peasant-folk will be joyful. 
 
 Then do not think, that I bade him stay beside me ; 
 
 He went but he returned, and returns every evening. 
 
 Sit by the fire, draw closer yet, beloved j 
 
 Thou art not as cold as I, it still can warm thee. 
 
 I am so cold, dost see, that to me it is nothing, 
 For I am always cold. 
 
 Ah ! but how good thou wert to return, my beloved, 
 
 To return to me and which was the way that thou 
 earnest ? 
 
 Was it there, where beside the road the mill-wheel is 
 singing ? 
 
 Or down by the path all enwreathed with the raspberry- 
 bushes, 
 
 The boughs that have reddened my lips with their beauti- 
 ful berries ?
 
 58 Luteplayer s Songs. 
 
 But, nay ! how good thou art to return, my beloved ! 
 And if the dead should return, one would say to them 
 
 surely : 
 
 " How good ye are to return ! " yet I love thee far better 
 Than all my dead over whom I lament with sore weeping. 
 How good thou art, that thou livest, nor lettest me 
 
 weep. 
 And know, that the moon, too, is here, and her stars 
 
 without number ; 
 
 I love thee far better than them, nor do look at them ever 
 The while thou art with me, but lo ! when thou leavest 
 
 me, straightway 
 
 I look at them then, and of thee we hold converse together. 
 I lighted the fire, for I knew that thou wouldest be coming, 
 And beside it with thee I sit whispering, whispering softly. 
 Then my sorrow flies hence ; but I put the fire out when 
 
 thou goest. 
 " For wherefore, indeed, should I burn without him ? " 
 
 saith the fire. 
 
 When thou comest again, take the path by the raspberry- 
 bushes, 
 
 Inquire not thy way of another, nor ask of another 
 To give thee a drink nay, ask of no other woman, 
 
 Keep all thy thirst for me. 
 
 The other women, they have their veils 1 and their spindles. 
 What song shall I choose ? what song wilt thou have me 
 
 sing thee ? 
 
 1 Note i.
 
 Mad. 59 
 
 The river went by and bore hence the tears of the widow. 
 The leaves of the nut-trees will soon be sere in the forest ; 
 And I am young and yet old, and I waken pity. 
 Yet why have men pity upon me since I am so happy ? 
 I lighted the fire, for I knew that thou wouldest be coming. 
 
 We shall not see again the foot of the willows 
 Until the river is low.
 
 60 LtUteplayers Songs. 
 
 GIPSY SONG. 
 
 WITH trembling hand I touched the shift's white fold, 
 The beads of blue that clasped thy neck about. 
 Before my tent the fire burnt bright of old j 
 See now the fire is out. 
 
 Beneath the hill, at witching eventide, 
 Thou gavest me thy fresh, sweet lips of yore ; 
 My heart within my breast for gladness cried ; 
 Hark now it beats no more. 
 
 As o'er the grass, beneath the poplars there, 
 We gaily stepped, the high noon overhead, 
 Then Love was born was born so strong and fair. 
 Knowest thou ? Love is dead. 
 
 Because thy soul was dark, to evil turned, 
 Therefore it was Love had no power to hold. 
 Before my tent the fire once brightly burned ; 
 See now the fire is cold.
 
 Water of Prayer. 61 
 
 THE WATER OF PRAYER. 
 
 Go not forth at the time the flowers are sleeping. 
 The flowers mislike that one should watch their sleep. 
 
 EVERY morning 
 
 There came a child, and set without my door 
 A pitcher filled, and said : " Oh ! pray for her, 
 Oh ! pray for her, the while ye drink this water." 
 " And is her grave already green ? " I asked ; 
 The child made answer : " Nay, it still is young." 
 I looked among the graves until I found 
 The youngest grave and then I prayed for her, 
 
 The while I drank that water. 
 
 Go not forth at the time the flowers are sleeping, 
 For flowers mislike that one should watch their sleep.
 
 62 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 NO SON. 
 
 The furrows my oxen draw are the straightest of all; 
 
 And in my belt I carry so many knives 
 
 That they girdle my waist about. 
 TJje rain doth bid the birds fly home to their nests. 
 
 I HAD a dream, that at last thou wert born to me, 
 Thou for whom 'tis so hard to be born to me. 
 That was a waking dream that I dreamed, at noon, 
 With eyes fixed long on the furrows all full of seed. 
 Some shoots already were breaking forth from the furrows, 
 
 And said : " We, we are born ! " 
 Then did I envy my field for its fatherhood ; 
 It seemed to me, as though I were now the father 
 Of a brave, strong son, who was setting forth for the 
 
 battle 
 
 And I wept at parting, yet gloried over the fight. 
 And then it seemed to me that I was the father 
 Of a shepherd-lad, who drove his flock to the mountains ; 
 I saw the mountain smiling upon my shepherd, 
 And saw that the heart of the shepherd was smiling too 
 
 And I rejoiced. 
 
 Then it seemed to me that I was a father's father ; 
 I saw the children greeting him on his threshold,
 
 No Son. 63 
 
 And the kindliness of that greeting filled my soul, 
 And all his house, too, overflowed with it, 
 And like a sun, his joy shone forth to me. 
 But the real sun sank down beneath the furrows, 
 And I seemed to myself the father of my sorrow, 
 
 And of my loneliness. 
 These to my hut I carried back with me, 
 
 And to my wife I spake : 
 "Wife, we are all alone and full of sorrow !" 
 Silent was she, for she knew not how to answer ; 
 Silent were both our hearts, for they were empty. 
 Then of all loneliness, and pain, and sorrow 
 
 I felt myself the father 
 
 The son of the graves I felt myself, and the husband 
 Of yon dumb woman, whose womb would be silent ever, 
 
 As were our hearts. 
 
 Then, that we might forget, we looked at the furrows, 
 All full of seed and some shoots already were breaking 
 Forth from the furrows, and said : " We, we are born ! " 
 Nor did one of us ask the other : " Whereon art thou 
 
 looking ? " 
 We only looked at the growing seeds together. 
 
 The furrows my oxen draw are the straightest of all ; 
 
 And in my belt I carry so many knives 
 
 That they girdle my waist about. 
 The rain doth bid the birds Jly home to their nests.
 
 64 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 AUTUMN SONG. 
 
 The birds have flown , because the mists were falling ; 
 
 As night drew on^ I saw them passing by. 
 The fire burns bright and louder howls the wind, 
 
 The wind is sad because he is so cold. 
 
 UPON my leathern belt thy hand was resting, 
 
 I felt it touch my knife. 
 I told thee then to let my heart sleep on ; 
 
 My heart needs rest so sorely. 
 But yet those eyes of thine, they would not suffer 
 
 My heart to sleep in peace ; 
 
 Thou saidst to me, that thou perchance might'st die 
 And then I pictured how thy death would be, 
 And felt that at the very thought thereof 
 
 My heart grew sad as sad as wandering birds 
 
 When mists are falling. 
 The burden of thee is most dear to Earth, 
 
 Therefore thou must not die. 
 
 But if thou didst, the whole wide world would wish 
 To die, and be a sharer in thy death. 
 Thy grave would draw me to it and entice me, 
 Beside thy gravestone I should sit me down, 
 Or roam around thy house,
 
 Autumn Song. 65 
 
 To see thy dear soul roaming round the house. 
 Then to thy soul I would cry out : " Oh ! stay, 
 Oh ! stay by me," with such a strength of love, 
 That strong thy soul need be to break away. 
 But know, the soul that wanders round a house 
 
 Is never happy. 
 
 Thou wouldst not that thy soul should be unhappy ? 
 Then stay thou here on earth j for see, the stars 
 
 Are all too far for thee. 
 And even the stars, too, must be glad to feel 
 They have a little sister here on earth. 
 Come, touch my knife, that I may be a hero, 
 
 But never touch my heart, 
 For then it will not sleep, and human hearts 
 
 Must sleep, that they may live. 
 
 The birds have flown , because the mists were falling ; 
 
 As night drew 0, / saw them passing by. 
 The fire burns bright and louder howls the 
 
 The ivind is sad because he is so cold.
 
 66 Lutep layer's Songs. 
 
 SLEEP. 
 
 Beneath the poplars by my door 
 
 Didst sit thee down, 
 
 And on my door didst look^ but never enter. 
 Why dost thou love the poplars' shade so much ? 
 
 SLEEP said : " I know so many things j 
 
 Dreams do I know, and sighs. 
 More than the forest that ceaseless murmurs, 
 More than the river that weeps, I know, 
 
 More than the wind that sings. 
 And I know more than the hearts of men, 
 
 Since I can silence their hearts." 
 So then the forest, the wind, and the river, 
 And the hearts of men, all said to Sleep : 
 "Come, tell us what thou dost know." 
 Then Sleep replied : " I will tell you softly." 
 And he said to them : " Rest I know. 
 And I know, besides, what the maiden hideth 
 What the wife doth not dare to tell ; 
 From the breath of their lips I guess it. 
 Death envies me, for whoso would find me, 
 He need not go down to the grave. 
 And Death speaks thus to me : ' Why dost thou let them
 
 Sleep. 67 
 
 Awaken a^ain ? ' But I let men awaken 
 
 O 
 
 That they may hold me more dear. 
 
 And I lay a smile on their lips, moreover, 
 
 Instead of the tears they have shed. 
 
 ' Thou hast the face of my heart's beloved,' 
 
 The maiden saith to me ; and the wife : 
 
 'The voice of my husband hast thou.' 
 
 Death suffereth me to seek through the graves, 
 
 And bring forth those who long have slept 
 
 To those who sleep but an hour. 
 And those who sleep but an hour, they bless me 
 For giving back those who for long have slept. 
 
 * Thou hast the taste of the freshest water,' 
 The thirsting traveller saith to me. 
 
 'Thou hast the look of my home,' saith the wand'rer. 
 
 And in his shade the Past doth let me 
 
 Seek those who have suffered sore, and bring them 
 
 Up before those who made them suffer; 
 
 And those who made them suffer, tremble 
 
 At sis;ht of those who have suffered sore. 
 
 O 
 
 * Lo ! thou hast blood upon thy hand ! ' 
 
 Saith the man who hath stained his knife, to me. 
 
 4 Thou hast a dagger in thy hand,' 
 
 Saith the man who hath betrayed, to me. 
 
 I am so gentle, yet so dread, 
 
 That all mankind is fain to have me, 
 
 Because they love me and yet fear. 
 
 I dwell in nests, since they are lofty j
 
 68 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 In graves, because grass covers them. 
 And the hearts of men have need of me ; 
 And I have need of their joys and sorrows 
 
 To fashion dreams of them. 
 And he who lies asleep is sacred. 
 Men say of one who sleeps : * Heaven loves him ; 
 
 For see, he sleeps.' 
 But he who cannot sleep, arouses 
 Uneasiness in all men's hearts, 
 
 They say of him, c He cannot sleep.'" 
 
 Beneath the poplars by my door 
 
 Didst sit thee down, 
 
 And on my door didst look^ yet never enter. 
 Why dost thou love the poplars' shade so much f
 
 Forgotten. 69 
 
 FORGOTTEN. 
 
 At the tree's foot a hay-fork hath been /*/?, 
 And all day long it hears the biro's a-singing. 
 Beside the mill grows thyme. 
 
 I AM forgotten 
 
 And if the sun doth glance in through my window, 
 
 I am amazed that he remembers me. 
 
 The grass but grows from custom in my field, 
 
 I too from custom let my spindle dance. 
 
 The road that leadeth to my house, doth hear 
 
 The echo of no footstep. And the morning 
 
 Saith to me : " Thou art the forgotten one." 
 
 He whom I loved, he took his horse, his mantle, 
 
 And, singing, rode from hence. 
 
 At night I dream 
 
 I see him ride through river and through forest 
 Until he reaches a great village. There 
 At the third hut he stops, 
 
 And on the threshold waits for him a maiden ; 
 The maiden speaks : " Thou from afar that comest, 
 Riding through streams and forests, 
 Hast thou no wife, far off in distant lands, 
 Who sorely mourns for thee ? "
 
 70 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 He answers: "I have none." And then the maiden 
 
 Doth smile on him, and he beside her tarries. 
 
 Anon he takes his horse once more, and cometh 
 
 Unto another village, and there stops 
 
 At the third hut, wherein men laughing drink. 
 
 "And the men give him drink, and ask him, saying: 
 
 " Is there not one thou dost the while remember, 
 
 In emptying this glass ? " 
 
 He answers : " There is no one." 
 
 Again he mounts his horse and comes a-riding 
 
 Through a wide meadow, full of naught but stones ; 
 
 At the third stone he stays, 
 
 And there beside the third stone standeth One, 
 
 Her arms outstretched toward him, 
 
 And asketh him : " Or ever thou embrace me, 
 
 Say, is there no one thou wouldst fain embrace ? M 
 
 He answers : " There is no one." 
 
 For surely, the forgotten one am I 
 
 And he I love, can ne'er remember me. 
 
 The earth remembers not the golden maize 
 
 When it is cut. The sky forgets the cloud ; 
 
 The furrows, even, do forget the rain. 
 
 And if the sun doth glance in through my window, 
 
 I am amazed that he remembers me. 
 
 At the tree's foot a hay-fork hath been left. 
 And all day long it bears the birds a-singing. 
 Thyme grows beside the mill.
 
 To the Maiden. 7 1 
 
 TO THE MAIDEN. 
 
 / weep because the wind is sighing^ 
 But thou^ thou singest in the sun. 
 Two little birds came past us flying 
 Why I am weeping^ asketb one ; 
 The other asks -why thou art singing ; 
 One answer makes the sky : " In sooth^ 
 For very wantonness of youth ! " 
 
 OH ! do not ever from a grave pluck flowers, 
 The dead have naught but flowers left to-day, 
 
 The while our youth is ours. 
 Thy hand is toying with thy necklet gay ; 
 And all the boughs their little nests have they. 
 
 Oh ! let no laugh the graves' deep silence break, 
 Silence alone is left unto the dead. 
 
 Thy belt six turns doth make * 
 About thy waist. And when didst bend thy head 
 To drink " Oh, drink again ! " the river said. 
 
 Tell not the graves, how fair are the spring days, 
 Forgetfulness is all the dead have here. 
 
 I shut thine eyes' deep gaze 
 Within my very soul's recesses, dear ; 
 Thy spindle's whirring ceaseless fills mine ear. 
 1 Note 2.
 
 Luteplayer s Songs. 
 
 The threshold of thy house I love to tread, 
 The threshold smiles amid its flowers at me. 
 
 But do not tell the dead 
 That Love endureth, and may constant be. 
 They never would believe or list to thee. 
 
 I weep because the wind is sighing, 
 But thoUj thoit singest in the sun.
 
 The Song of the Cross-Sisters. 73 
 
 THE SONG OF THE CROSS-SISTERS. 1 
 
 Along both of the roads there are copses of nut-trees growing ; 
 
 On one they are yet green^ 
 
 But on the other^ their leaves have dropped already 
 SW, we will take the road where they yet are green. 
 
 O SISTER ! speak, why didst thou not straightway tell me ? 
 Three distaffs we emptied together, and yet, thy hand 
 
 I saw it not tremble. 
 
 When I spoke of him 
 
 Thou didst bend thy head to drink from the wooden 
 pitcher 
 
 I thought thou wert parched with thirst. 
 O sister ! was it from graves thou didst learn to keep 
 silence, 
 
 That thou hast kept silence so ? 
 
 And dost thou not think that the graves would be far, far 
 happier 
 
 If they could only speak ? 
 
 When I told thee of him 
 Thou didst but toy with my girdle's fluttering fringes, 
 
 And I thought thy fingers were idle. 
 How it is in his dwelling-house, thou hast never asked me, 
 
 1 Note 3.
 
 74 Luteplayer's Songs. 
 
 For hadst thou asked, I straightway had understood thce, 
 
 And known thou didst love him too j 
 Then with all my heart I had striven not to love him j 
 But now we love him both, we two together, 
 
 ' O J 
 
 And these two loves of ours are even as the river, 
 That weeps because of its eternal flowing, 
 
 Yet cannot cease to flow. 
 Now I begin to hate thee, and thou art hateful 
 
 In all thou dost, to me ; 
 
 I cannot hear my thoughts for thy spindle's whirring, 
 And my heart, what time it hears thee singing, deemeth 
 
 Thou singest but a dirge. 
 We glance at each other, whene'er he comes towards us, 
 
 To mark which hoped for him most ; 
 And she hath smiling lips, to whom he shows favour, 
 But knives beneath her eyes the other beareth. 
 And when he goeth hence, we glance at each other, 
 
 To mark which sorrows most. 
 
 THE CROSS-SISTER. 
 
 O sister ! sister ! of glass so white are thine ear-rings, 
 And when thou dancest, upon the face they caress thee , 
 
 Then fain would I dance by thee. 
 But now I am fain to see thee dead, yet am fearful 
 Lest thou shouldst die, for then he might weep for thee, 
 And then I should know, it was thee alone that he 
 loved j
 
 T^he Song of the Cross- Sisters. 75 
 
 And if that be so indeed, I will not know it. 
 The tree knows naught of the axe that shall come to 
 fell it, 
 
 And rejoiceth in the sun. 
 If I ask of thee, why thou wearest so many a necklet, 
 
 No answer thou givest me. 
 But every day I seem to see thee grow fairer, 
 And fear that thou, indeed, art she whom he loveth, 
 And that it is thy heart's rejoicing makes thee 
 
 So passing fair. 
 
 The wool upon thy spindle doth seem far whiter j 
 And when beside the well I see thee standing, 
 
 I ask : " Why stands she there ? " 
 Fearing, lest thou be there but to await him. 
 Nor am I even at rest when thou art sleeping, 
 Because thou surely in thy dreams must see him, 
 And he, perchance, in dreams doth say he loves thee, 
 When my image is not there to say : " Thou liest." 
 O sister, sister ! when didst thou grieve thy mother, 
 Or I forget to give drink to the thirsty wand'rer, 
 That God now sends such punishment upon us ? 
 Far rather would I die with no holy taper, 
 Or see from off my cottage wall to-morrow 
 
 The flowers wiped away, 1 
 Than have a sorrow, that only grows more heavy 
 
 When it is shared with thee. 
 
 Nay ! I would bless the woman who would sing me 
 1 Note 4.
 
 7 6 Lute player's Songs. 
 
 Dirges upon my threshold, that Death might take me 
 
 Within a month away. 
 
 And yet I will not die, for he would not sorrow j 
 Then should I surely know he loveth thee. 
 
 Along both of the roads there are copses of nut-trees growing ; 
 
 On one they are yet green. 
 
 But on the other, their leaves have falfn already 
 See y we will take the road where they yet are green.
 
 Dirge of a Mother over her Son. 77 
 
 DIRGE OF A MOTHER OVER HER SON. 
 
 I SAW a floweret on the meadow , 
 
 It grew among the new-mown hay j 
 
 The golden maize was not so fair, 
 
 Yet, seeing that flower, the little birds all wept. 
 
 Thou floweret on the meadow, 
 
 How comest thou among the new-mown hay ? 
 
 Cast down thy mantle, 
 
 Down by the road-side here; 
 
 Cast down thy sickle, 
 
 There, on the other side, 
 
 And get thee home ! Go home 
 
 Stay not upon the bridge, 
 
 Stay not beside the well, 
 
 And stay not at the crossways. 
 
 So I went home. 
 I found the door half-open, 
 
 And the door spake : "Not from the wind that bloweth !" 
 I found the chamber darkened ; 
 
 The chamber spake : " Not because night hath fallen ! " 
 Then I remembered yonder little flower. 
 
 I saw thee sleep
 
 7 8 Luteplayer's Songs. 
 
 And understood right well 
 That yonder little flower was thy soul, 
 That sent me to thy body, 
 And I was not to stay upon the bridge, 
 Nor stay beside the well, 
 Nor loiter at the crossways. 
 Yet had I known 
 
 That yonder little flower was thy soul, 
 I gladly would have stayed by it awhile ; 
 Only thy soul was fain 
 
 Quickly to consummate its blossoming, 
 And therefore sent me hence 
 That so it might not have to take its flight 
 Before my very eyes. 
 
 And here am I what wiliest thou of me f 
 
 Lo, nothing any more ! 
 What knowledge now is thine ? 
 
 A deeper one than ours. 
 Where art thou going, thus, without us all ? 
 And which of us hath ere forsaken thee, 
 That thou shouldst so forsake us ? 
 Hast thou not ever shared our water with us, 
 And wilt not now share Death ? 
 What will the seeds be saying 
 Thou didst entrust to Earth, 
 
 When they come forth and find thee here no more ? 
 Beneath thy casement, see, the maidens pass,
 
 Dirge of a Mother over her Son. 79 
 
 The river passeth too ; 
 And on the morrow is a festival ; 
 Hast told thy grave thereof? 
 Perchance, if thou hadst told it, 
 The grave had left thee to enjoy the Day 
 
 P'or that one day. 
 
 And didst thou tell thy grave thou hadst a mother ? 
 For she, the mother of all flowers and harvests, 
 
 Had surely felt some pity. 
 Nay, rather hast thou told the Earth, perchance, 
 
 That we are rich in tears, 
 
 And since the Earth was dry and lacked refreshment, 
 She took thee hence that she might drink our tears. 
 Ah, but thou didst not tell her 
 
 That bitter are our tears, 
 Or she had feared to taste such bitterness, 
 
 And ne'er had taken thee. 
 
 
 
 See, here am I 
 
 Yet dost thou not so much as raise thy head. 
 One hour already have I cried to thee, 
 And yet shall cry for many weary hours. 
 
 See, here am I, yea, here ! 
 But it is naught to thee that I have come, 
 And stayed not on the bridge, 
 Nor stayed beside the well, 
 Nor loitered at the crossways. 
 
 See, I am here !
 
 8o Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 I saw a floweret on the meadow 
 
 It grew among the new-mown hay ; 
 
 The golden maize was not so fair, 
 
 Yet, seeing that flower, the little birds all wept. 
 
 Thou floweret on the meadow, 
 
 How earnest thou among the new-mown hay ?
 
 The Song of the Old Well. 81 
 
 THE SONG OF THE OLD WELL. 
 
 Thou too wilt soon go hence from me once 
 
 Oh thoUj who earnest once to me before ; 
 
 Afy threshold will see my sorrow^ and it will know 
 
 That I am weeping for that thou didst go. 
 
 I SLEEP, yet I love to be wakened, and love to see 
 
 The fresh young faces bending over me, 
 
 And the faces of them that are old, I love them too, 
 
 For those as well in the days of their youth I knew. 
 
 The song of the wind in the trees, and the voice of the bird, 
 
 I hear them not and yet 'tis as though I heard, 
 
 For I feel that the birds are singing, there on high, 
 
 And I feel that above the strong wind bloweth by. 
 
 I sleep, yet I love to be wakened, day by day, 
 
 For I am the comforter, here beside the way ; 
 
 A welcome sight to the weary wand'rer's eye, 
 
 As to the maidens, who at eve draw nigh 
 
 To sing their songs to me and I know them well, 
 
 Yea, all their songs and all their dreams could telL 
 
 Whoso is tired, I love his weariness, 
 
 And I love the wand'rer's grief of heart no less, 
 
 Who comes from far. The thirst of the herds I love, 
 
 And to hear the pipe of the shepherd's flute above. 
 
 G
 
 82 LiUteplayers Songs 
 
 And he who fain would wake me from my sleep 
 
 Must stoop him down to me, for I am deep, 
 
 But yet, when one doth speak to me, his quest 
 
 I answer from the depths of my deep breast. 
 
 I love the moss that round my brink grows green, 
 
 Whereon the young folk come and sit, I ween, 
 
 And that the maids sometimes, with idle hand, 
 
 Stroke gently with their spindles as they stand. 
 
 In joy and sorrow, they all of them come to me, 
 
 And I welcome them all ; for though asleep I be, 
 
 I love to be wakened. And something in me doth sleep 
 
 Something I know not, 'tis my soul so deep 
 
 That none can draw or drink it, for the Earth 
 
 It was, that gave my soul, her daughter, birth. 
 
 My soul in my depths doth sleep, and it is she 
 
 Who maketh answer, when they awaken me. 
 
 Thou too wilt soon go hence from me once more. 
 Oh tbotty who earnest once to me before ; 
 My threshold will see my sorrow^ and it will know 
 That I am weeping for that thou didst go.
 
 Mothers' Tears. 83 
 
 MOTHERS' TEARS. 
 
 On the bank beside the ditch he laid his mantle^ 
 That he might sleep the whole long night therein. 
 Didst thou give water to the oxen yonder f 
 For they were sore athirst. 
 
 I LAID me down in the grass, where it was trackless ; 
 Then a woman came by through the grass and spake to 
 
 me: 
 
 " Canst thou tell, where lies the path ? " 
 I said to the woman : " I know not." And she replied : 
 " Never yet have I found a path beneath my feet, 
 And the villages always are far away from me ; 
 I never can reach a threshold, and even the graves 
 
 Are always far off from me." 
 Then I asked : " Did thy womb bring forth a son, or a 
 
 daughter ? " 
 And she answered : " A son it was came forth from my 
 
 womb; 
 
 Since then my husband has shunned me, and I went forth, 
 Forth to the plains and my child hears my voice no more ; 
 But upon his father he smiles. 
 
 I was fain to hinder his smiling and wept over him, 
 Yea, covered his face with my tears.
 
 84 Lufef layer's Songs. 
 
 Since then the child is accursed, for a mother's tears 
 Weigh heavily on her children the child is accursed. 
 And lo ! the child has cursed me too, for my weeping. 
 So then I fled forth o'er the plain." 
 
 On the bank beside the ditch he laid his mantle, 
 That he might sleep the whole long night therein. 
 Didst thou give water to the oxen yonder ? 
 For sore athirst were they.
 
 The Last Day. 85 
 
 THE LAST DAY. 
 
 When thou hast passed her by 
 
 And seest her no more, 
 
 I will tell thee who she is. 
 
 And thou wilt grieve to hear ; 
 
 Thou wilt not turn again to look upon her. 
 
 I CAN so well remember 
 That, thy last day on earth. 
 So well do I remember, 
 That everyone keeps saying: 
 "Why dost thou think of it?" 
 And every day that dawneth 
 I see, as on that day, 
 The sunshine in my chamber j 
 And every day that dawneth 
 Is like that day to me. 
 Since then have all my days 
 Belonged but to the grave 
 Even as of yore, to earth 
 Each of thy days belonged ; 
 But that one day alone, 
 That thou didst live for me. 
 It was thy last, I knew it,
 
 86 Lutep layer's Songs. 
 
 And so I took it all ; 
 Nor would suffer thee, a moment 
 To look upon the courtyard, 
 And the apple-trees in blossom, 
 Or to glance toward the plain j 
 Nor to gaze upon the faces 
 That thou so soon wert leaving ; 
 But I came and stood before thee, 
 And said : " To them thy life, 
 Thy whole life, hath belonged, 
 
 This, thy last day, I take ! " 
 And thou didst not weep nor sorrow, 
 Thou didst answer : " It is well ; " 
 And that day, for me didst live it 
 
 With all thy heart. 
 This I remember ever. 
 I knew the grave was waiting, 
 But I bade it wait a while. 
 There was something on our threshold 
 That watched with fierce impatience 
 The setting of the sun. 
 And One called out upon me: 
 " See there, the sun is setting ! w 
 And as the sun sank down 
 Thou hadst lived out for me 
 That, thy last day on earth ; 
 And thy first night of death 
 Belongs to our first sorrow.
 
 The Last Day. 87 
 
 Now to the grave, to-morrow, 
 
 And all the endless future, 
 
 For ever doth belong. 
 
 The grave said : " I have finished 
 
 Everything have I taken, 
 
 Now therefore I may close." 
 
 When thou hast passed her by. 
 And seest her no more, 
 I will tell thee who she />, 
 And thou wilt grieve to hear. 
 Thou wilt not turn again 
 To look upon her.
 
 Lutff layer's Songs. 
 
 HER PITCHER. 
 
 Now the sun takes leave of us and after him, as he goeth y 
 IVe gaze, and see the plains that sorely mourn his departing ; 
 It snowed this morning, yonder upon the mountains. 
 
 FRESH water my sweetheart hath in her pitcher always, 
 And on her shoulder beareth the little pitcher, 
 Tarrying on the way to give drink to all men. 
 And thus she speaks to each one as he drinketh : 
 
 " In the name of the dead, then, drink." 
 And when she sleeps in the hut, she leaves on her threshold 
 
 Her pitcher standing. 
 
 Then the widow doth go by and drink from the pitcher j 
 And there came at night a dead man, too, to drink ; 
 He spake : " How sweet it is, the maiden's water." 
 Then the dead man lifted the pitcher upon his shoulder, 
 And bore it to the graves, that he might extinguish 
 
 The graves' undying thirst ; 
 And thus the dead man spake to the others, saying : 
 
 " In the name of the living, drink." 
 
 Now the sun takes leave of us and after him, as he goeth, 
 We gaze, and see the plains that sorely mourn his departing ; 
 It snowed this morning, yonder upon the mountains.
 
 The Heart-Stealer. 
 
 THE HEART-STEALER. 
 
 The moon glides on above the willows gleaming^ 
 And now the willows all night long keep dreaming 
 Of that, the moon's soft ray. 
 
 GIVE me thy heart, O maiden, let me hide it 
 Where hides my heart, the dagger close beside it 
 That, 'neath my girdle here, doth keep it warm. 
 
 And so thy tender, fluttering heart I'll carry 
 
 Far through the night from hence, nor ever tarry, 
 
 But o'er the plains and through the forests storm. 
 
 And as I pass them like a flash, unheeding, 
 
 All men will say : " See yon bold rider speeding, 
 
 Who bears from hence his loved one's heart afar." 
 
 Thy heart shall feel, in fight, mine thrill with gladness. 
 I'll show it all the world, its joy and sadness 
 Yea, those that weep and those that blessed are. 
 
 The huts, the graves, and all things, I will show them, 
 Thy tender, fluttering heart shall see and know them, 
 While thou dost tarry by thy door and say :
 
 90 Luteplayer's Songs. 
 
 "Will he, who stole my heart, be soon returning ? " 
 My steed storms on thy envious heart is yearning 
 To see it all, this world so far away ; 
 
 Nor will return till then and there 's no knowing 
 But thou wilt have, O maiden, to be going 
 To fetch it back again thyself some day. 
 
 Then to the forest thou wilt say : " Hast spied him, 
 The rider who bore hence my heart beside him ? " 
 The forest answers : " Hence he bore it fast." 
 
 Then to the plain thou sayest : " Hast thou spied him, 
 He who went hence and bore my heart beside him ? " 
 The plain replies : " He ! he long since is past ! " 
 
 Then wilt thou weep and not thy spindle's dancing, 
 Thy red, red pinks, thy silver necklet glancing, 
 Nay, nor the maize fields, e'er could comfort thee 
 
 For this thy heart and therefore thou art keeping 
 It safely locked within thy bosom sleeping, 
 Beneath thy girdle, nor wilt give it me j 
 
 For well thou know'st, my courser loves his speeding, 
 And I am one of those who flies unheeding 
 Along his onward course, that none can stay. 
 
 The moon glides on above the willows gleaming, 
 And now the willows all night long keep dreaming 
 Of that) the moons soft ray.
 
 // was not Sleeping Time** 91 
 
 IT WAS NOT SLEEPING TIME." 
 
 Ob, go not forth to-night, 
 
 A star has fallen ; 
 
 ""Twere better thou shouldst wait until the sunrise. 
 The fragrance of the new-mown hay 
 
 Arises from the plain. 
 
 THE child with milk-white teeth 
 Bore a dagger too near his heart j 
 And the dagger pierced its way 
 Deep down to the heart of the child} 
 The heart fell asleep in its blood. 
 
 Then forth from the heart his mother drew the dagger, 
 
 But the heart awakened not ; 
 
 And she said : " Who will give me my child again, or 
 
 beside him 
 
 Lay me in the grave to sleep ? " 
 Yet the heart did never awaken. 
 Then down in the earth they laid him, 
 The little child whose heart had fallen asleep ; 
 But as it lay in the earth, behold, it awakened, 
 And thus it spake : " 'Twas not yet time for sleeping j 
 
 Little mother, come tell me why 
 
 I have gone to sleep or ever 'twas time for sleeping.
 
 92 Lute player's Songs. 
 
 Had I told thee, then, I was weary, 
 
 That thus thou hast put me to sleep ? 
 
 And wherefore art thou not beside me, little mother, 
 
 To sing me lullabies, since I have awakened ? 
 
 I yearn for thy smile, and for flowers, little mother, 
 
 For our dwelling-house, that looketh toward the forest, 
 
 For my father, coming home with spade on his shoulder. 
 
 Little mother, oh tell me why 
 
 I have gone to sleep or ever 'twas time for sleeping ! " 
 
 O/>, go not forth to-night^ 
 
 A star has fallen ; 
 
 "Twere better thou shouldst wait until the sunrise. 
 The fragrance of the new-mown hay 
 
 Arises from the plain.
 
 Forsaken. 93 
 
 FORSAKEN. 
 
 More softly the moon looks down on thee, than on others 
 
 Would she tell thee a secret, then, 
 
 That she looks more softly down on thee, than on others ? 
 
 IN thy girdle wear a flower, 
 
 And make believe to all that thou art happy 
 
 Yea, and look up at heaven, for it alone 
 
 Can understand thy sorrow. 
 
 The birds sing songs to thee, but vain is their singing, 
 They cannot make thee smile, 
 For thou art she, whom smiles have all forsaken. 
 Thou dost hear his step, that goeth hence to that other 
 And thou know'st his step, as it sounds on that other's 
 
 threshold ; 
 And the heart of the wife is full of rising tears, 
 
 As the buds are full of sap. 
 
 But yet from thee there shall come no blossom forth, 
 A desert is thy heart, like a grave forsaken ; 
 Thy heart is like a field where falls no dew, 
 For the dew of thy tears no more doth touch thy husband, 
 And his wife's white veil is fair to his eyes no more. 
 His eyes love that other's veil, that other's smiling ; 
 And thou art she, whom smiles have all forsaken.
 
 94 Luteplayer's Songs. 
 
 "Mother," the children ask : " why dost smile no longer ? " 
 Then dost thou say to them : " Lo, ye are his children ! " 
 And weepest sore, and his house with thy tears is darkened, 
 
 As the mist doth darken the plains. 
 Then thy husband flees from the house, because it is 
 
 darkened, 
 
 And saith to that other : " Behold, my house is darkened." 
 And when thou seest her, then dost thou start and tremble, 
 As though thou didst love her, whom thou durst not hate ; 
 For ye twain have the self-same love. 
 Her sin, that begets thy sorrow, thou sorely hatest, 
 
 Yet dost envy her her sin, 
 For heavier weighs on thee thy sinless sorrow, 
 
 Far heavier, than sin. 
 
 And thou dost grieve that thou hast no curse upon thee, 
 That thou canst not say : " I suffer through the curse." 
 And thy children thou dost not love, for they are his 
 
 children, 
 
 Yet lovest them all the more, that they are his children ; 
 Thou dost hear his step, that goeth hence to that other, 
 And knowest that he helps her draw the water 
 Up from the well, and loves the path she hath trodden, 
 The while he shuns the path that thou didst take. 
 For his wife's white veil is fair to his eyes no longer. 
 
 More softly the moon looketh down on thee than on others ; 
 
 Would she tell thee a secret^ then, 
 
 That she looks more softly down on thee than on others ?
 
 He who Remembers. 95 
 
 HE WHO REMEMBERS. 
 
 The cow has fall 'n the little cow-herd weeps. 
 The rain has washed the pebbles upon the way. 
 Black flowers have I upon my mantle white. 
 
 I SAID to him who remembers, 
 
 " What is it that thou dost see ? " 
 
 He answered : " I see my heart." 
 
 Then I said to him : " Look at the mountains, 
 
 Look at the plains, and the mill 
 
 That waits to rest till the sunset, 
 
 And waits till the sunrise to waken ; 
 
 Then look at the houses, their pitchers 
 
 All brimming over with water, 
 
 And everywhere mats on the ground, 
 
 And daggers upon the wall. 
 
 Or see the fountain, that boweth 
 
 And raiseth itself again, 
 
 Like the forest when wind is blowing ; 
 
 The streets, where behind their waggons, 
 
 The men call aloud as they go. 
 
 Oh, do but look at it all ! " 
 
 " I see only my heart," he answered, 
 
 " And it is so dark therein
 
 9 6 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 That I scarce can tell what it holdeth, 
 But if I turn for a moment 
 Mine eyes away, there is Something 
 Moveth within, and that Something 
 Saith to me : Look at thy heart." 
 
 The cow hasfatfn the little cow-herd weeps. 
 The rain hath washed the pebbles upon the roads^ 
 Black flowers have I upon my mantle white.
 
 T/ie Cobzars Last Song. 97 
 
 THE COBZAR'S LAST SONG. 
 
 THE merry Spring, he is my brother, 
 
 And when he comes this way 
 Each year again, he always asks me : 
 
 " Art thou not yet grown grey ? " 
 But I, I keep my youth for ever, 
 
 Even as the Spring his May. 
 
 To ride and hunt the whole world over 
 
 I want no flying steed, 
 For I have seen it all, each village, 
 
 And every flowery mead j 
 Men's hearts and their desires, though never 
 
 They showed them me, indeed ! 
 
 No cloud I need be, through the heavens 
 
 From end to end to fly 
 For just as though it were my dwelling, 
 
 I know the broad blue sky ; 
 And thus I say to all the people : 
 
 " My house is there on high." 
 H
 
 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 And once, indeed, a little maiden 
 
 Would give her heart to me, 
 Her tender heart, but I made answer : 
 
 " Thus do I counsel thee, 
 O maiden, keep it for some other, 
 
 Mine it may never be ! " 
 
 As onward through the whispering forest 
 
 Upon my way I sped : 
 " Whence didst thou get, I prithee tell me, 
 
 Thy songs ? " the forest said. 
 " From each one of thy leaves," I answered, 
 
 " Thy green leaves over head." 
 
 Upon the luteplayer's grave red flowers 
 
 In freshest bloom shall keep, 
 The sun will love to look upon them, 
 
 And even be fain to creep 
 Down to the grave where lies the Cobzar, 
 
 To see him in his sleep. 
 
 There with his songs the Cobzar lieth, 
 
 Nor feeleth lonely so ; 
 And Earth will thank him for his singing 
 
 Who did her beauty know, 
 And sang of it her springs and winters, 
 
 Her joys, her hopes, her woe.
 
 The Cobzar's Last Song. 99 
 
 Then will the luteplayer awaken 
 
 With joyful heart and young, 
 Because his songs, amid the living, 
 
 Are still on every tongue j 
 And tales of his, by children's cradles, 
 
 To lull the babes are sung. 
 
 " Where is my lute ? " he will be asking, 
 When he awakes once more ; 
 
 " My mantle, that was wont to cover 
 My heart so well before ? 
 
 Where is my heart, indeed, that treasured 
 So many songs of yore ? " 
 
 And when the grave to him remembrance 
 
 Of that his death doth bring, 
 Then will he smile, as dead he lieth, 
 
 O'er that and everything ; 
 And turn him with a smile to slumber 
 
 Again, remembering. 
 
 As for his songs a dewy blossom 
 
 Shall spring from every one, 
 The dew men drink for hearts' refreshing; 
 
 His grave beneath the sun 
 Will be so green, that all the weary 
 
 Shall sit them down thereon.
 
 ioo Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 And all shall take him for their brother, 
 Who wept with them and smiled ; 
 
 And Mother Earth shall claim him, saying: 
 " Behold, this was my child." 
 
 The luteplayer's grave, the sun doth love it ; 
 And shines thereon so mild. 
 
 The merry Spring, he is my brother, 
 And when he comes this way 
 
 Each year again, he always asks me : 
 " Art thou not yet grown grey ? " 
 
 But I, I keep my youth for ever, 
 Even as the Spring his May.
 
 Alone. i o i 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 For when a little flower beholds 
 For the first time the snow, it wonders 
 To see it white, so white. 
 And the flower says : " The snow will never 
 Do me a hurt, will never harm me, 
 It is so white ! " 
 
 THOU toldest me some tale, one evening, 
 
 Beside the fire, 
 
 And I looked out upon the plain. 
 
 The maize was ripe, and round about 
 
 Maize covered all the plain. 
 
 And I looked out and watched the plain, 
 
 That in thine eyes I might not look ; 
 
 I broke into thy speech, to give thee 
 
 A drink, and once again, to show thee 
 
 The maize upon the plains out yonder. 
 
 When wilt thou come again, to tell me 
 
 Some tale ? I know not what thou toldest, 
 
 And yet thy voice I can remember ; 
 
 I know, that now thou art gone hence, 
 
 And I were wrong to follow thee. 
 
 Thou wouldst not tarry here amongst us ; 
 
 But if the house seemed sad,
 
 IO2 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 Why didst thou never speak of it? 
 
 For then I would have laughed and straightway 
 
 Glad would the house have been. 
 
 And if to thee the threshold-stone 
 
 Seemed dreary, why didst never say so ? 
 
 I would have planted flowers around it, 
 
 Till thou no more couldst see the stone. 
 
 And if thou didst not love my presence, 
 
 Why didst not tell me so ? and straightway 
 
 I had gone hence into my grave, 
 
 That thou might'st tarry in the house. 
 
 Because, for feet of wayfarers 
 
 All roads are long ; 
 
 Strange villages know not his heart ; 
 
 The wand'rer's sadness makes not sad 
 
 A stranger's heart ; 
 
 They have their hearth, their wife, their mother, 
 
 The river, too, from whence they drank 
 
 Since childhood's days ; 
 
 And so they ask the wanderer : 
 
 " Why hast thou left thy mother and thy wife ? " 
 
 Beside the fire thou toldest me 
 Some tale, and thou didst watch the fire, 
 That so thou might'st not see my tears. 
 Into the fire my tears flowed down, 
 Then to the tears thus spake the fire : 
 " And would ye quench me ? "
 
 Alone. 103 
 
 Thou toldest me some tale and I, 
 I broke into thy speech, to give thee 
 A drink, and then once more to show thee 
 The maize upon the plain. 
 
 For when a little flower beholds 
 For the first time the snow^ it wonders 
 To see it white^ so white ; 
 And the flower says: " The snow will never 
 Do me a hurt will never harm me t 
 It is so white ! "
 
 104 Luteplayer's Songs. 
 
 THE SONG THAT WAS ACCURSED. 
 
 / never told the wind I loved him well, 
 And yet I love so well 
 
 To hear him rustling sweep across the forest. 
 The long spring evenings will come back again, 
 Then will the meadow to the blossoms say : 
 " Here are ye, once again ! " 
 
 AND who can ever know, how much I weep 
 
 Here in my empty house ? 
 No one can know, since empty is the house. 
 I used to sing a song, whereof my love 
 Said to me once: " Oh, never sing that song ! 
 Bad fortune it will bring me." 
 But then my love went hence, and I, I thought 
 So much on him, always so much on him, 
 That to my lips the song came back once more. 
 Then there did stop one evening by my door 
 A wayfarer and thus I spake to him : 
 " O thou, that comest from the ways afar, 
 And further yet along the ways shalt go, 
 Where is my heart's beloved, dost thou know ? " 
 His knife was stained with blood and yet I felt 
 No fear, because I thought upon my love.
 
 The Song that was Accursed. 105 
 
 Then said the wand'rer : " Sing that song, to me, 
 
 And I will tell what hath befallen him, 
 
 Yea, then I'll speak to thee of him, thy love." 
 
 So I forgot and sang 
 
 I even forgot the promise that I swore 
 
 The wand'rer, trembling, listened at my door j 
 
 And then I saw his face was wan and pale 
 
 " Lo, I," he said, " am thy beloved's soul ! 
 
 Since thou hast sung this song accursed be ! " 
 
 I said : " And I have sung it unto thee, 
 
 All for love's sake ! " But still his soul went hence 
 
 For evermore and I, I am accurst, 
 
 And now, all round about me, everything 
 
 Sings me that song he bade me never sing. 
 
 / never told the wind I loved him well. 
 And yet I love so well 
 
 To hear him rustling sweep across the forest. 
 The long spring evenings will come back agaln^ 
 Then will the meadow to the blossoms say : 
 " Here are ye, once again ! "
 
 106 Luteplayer's Songs. 
 
 THE LAMENT OF THE ORPHAN. 
 
 A woman passed 
 
 Who craved a drlnk^ and 1 gave her a draught of water ; 
 She blessed my threshold^ and went upon her way 
 Blessing the threshold. 
 
 I WILL tell it my little mother in her grave ; 
 
 For as she lay a-dying, she said to me : 
 
 " What time thou hast a sorrow, come and tell me 
 
 There in my grave ; 
 
 For deep in my grave I shall not ever suffer, 
 
 And thou wilt think, because I keep silence always, 
 
 That I understand ; 
 
 And so with me thou wilt have shared thy sorrow, 
 
 For half of it I'll take into my grave, 
 
 Yet never cease my slumbers, the while thou weepest, 
 
 But thou wilt cease thy tears when thou seest my slumber." 
 
 I will go to my little mother in her grave, 
 
 And say to her : " Art thou sleeping, little mother ? 
 
 It is only I I that have brought my sorrow ; 
 
 For thou alone must know it to thee I trust it, 
 
 Even as we trust 
 
 The dead to Earth, that never gives them forth,
 
 The Lament of the Orphan. 107 
 
 But with indifference receives them all 
 
 Mother ! my little mother ! how well and wisely 
 
 Thou didst to die, that thou might'st not know my 
 
 sorrow 
 
 In thy grave now canst thou say : 1 1 am she that died 
 That she might not look upon her daughter's sorrow.' 
 My little mother, thou didst never know him ! 
 And I am glad 
 
 He was unknown to thee, for thou wouldst have loved him 
 Even as I love, 
 
 Yea, wouldst have wept for him, since I am weeping. 
 I have never asked : ' Who is it shall be his wife ? ' 
 I have never sought out her path, that I might meet her ; 
 I will not say, when it comes to pass I meet her : 
 1 Thou hast taken my share of earthly bliss from me, 
 Broken my bread, and drained my pitcher dry ; 
 Thee, thee I have to thank for all my tears ! ' 
 I will not tell her this, but will go, and leave her. 
 Nor will I say to him, if I needs must meet him : 
 * Be thou accurst, that thou didst take this woman ! ' 
 Nor will I even try to turn him from her, 
 Since she it was, that Fate for him appointed. 
 I will but say to him : c Do not look upon me, 
 Because I weep 
 
 Yet not for thee I weep, but for my mother, 
 My little mother in her grave, I weep.' 
 This will I make him think, that his heart may rest, 
 That with all his heart he may smile upon that woman,
 
 io8 Luteplayers Songs. 
 
 And that remorse through me may never creep 
 
 Into his house. 
 
 But thou, little mother, since thy heart now rests, 
 
 Let me tell all, all, here before thy grave, 
 
 That I may keep the strength to tell him never ! 
 
 Ah ! for it matters nothing more to thee, 
 
 My little mother, and thou dost sleep so soundly 
 
 That I may wail aloud, and thou need'st not think : 
 
 * My child it is that wails, who is forsaken 
 
 Of him she loved.'" 
 
 A woman passed 
 
 Who craved a drink, and 1 gave her a draught of water ; 
 She blessed my threshold^ and went upon her way 
 Blessing the threshold.
 
 Gipsy- Song. 1 09 
 
 GIPSY-SONG. 
 
 Two blades upon my knife there be. 
 One love my heart hath^ only one ; 
 The heaven hath one only sun. 
 My heart hath twofold misery. 
 O dagger-blades^ O sun in heaven^ 
 Tfe gleam and burn from morn till 
 And my hearfs woe is killing me. 
 
 I ASKED the river : " Tell me why 
 
 Thou art so sad ? " It made reply : 
 
 " I drank those tears that thou didst shed." 
 
 " O river," once again I said, 
 
 " What did those tears then whisper thee ? " 
 
 " We drank thy glance," it answered me. 
 
 And then I asked the river's flood : 
 
 " What wouldest thou yet drink ? " " Her blood ! " 
 
 I spake : ct O river, flowing past, 
 
 What will her blood say ? " " Cold I grow." 
 
 I spake : " O river, flowing fast, 
 
 What wilt thou answer ? " " Better so." 
 
 I asked once more the river's flood : 
 
 " What wouldest thou yet drink ? " " Her blood ! "
 
 1 1 o Luteplayer's Songs. 
 
 Two blades upon my knife there be. 
 
 One love my heart hath y only one ; 
 
 The heaven hath one only sun^ 
 
 My heart hath twofold misery. 
 
 O dagger-blades^ O sun in heaven^ 
 
 Ye gleam and burn from morn till even. 
 
 And my heart's woe is tilling me.
 
 The Stranger. 1 1 1 
 
 THE STRANGER. 
 
 / passed before her house. 
 
 She stood upon her threshold, and did not see me pass. 
 
 And far and long the way stretched out before me. 
 
 A STRANGER came into my dwelling-place, 
 
 I gave my hand to him ; 
 
 He sat him down beside my hearth, and leaned 
 
 His brow upon his hands ; 
 
 And then he asked me : " Hast thou many oxen ? " 
 
 His feet were full of dust. 
 
 I did not ask him : " From what village com'st thou ? " 
 
 Beside my door he had set down his sack, 
 
 And in the sack was nothing, save a stone. 
 
 I passed before her house, 
 
 She stood upon her threshold, and did not see me pass, 
 
 And far and long the way stretched out before me.
 
 1 1 2 Luteplayer *s Songs. 
 
 SOLDIER'S SONG. 
 
 The long days are over, and now the long evenings 
 Have come, and we sit by the fireside and sing ; 
 We sing in remembrance of them, the dead heroes, 
 And all round about us their souls, too, do sing. 
 
 I SLEEP 'neath the stars with my hand on my heart, 
 I go on my way in the glow of the sun ; 
 I say to the stars : " And when dead ye shall see me " 
 I say to the sun : " Thou shalt yet see my blood ; " 
 For the stars love to look on my slumbers so peaceful, 
 And the sun loves to see, when I valiantly fight. 
 My weapon is light as the leaf to the tree is 
 As the first of white blooms on the apple-tree's bough ; 
 And I would die young, in the apple-tree's shadow, 
 That so its white blossoms might rain upon me. 
 But if I should die in the maize, all wind-withered, 
 Yet still would the maize rustle on in the wind ; 
 And if I should die by the old well, down yonder, 
 They still would draw water there, just as of yore. 
 But there on thy breast, where thy tears, O beloved ! 
 Would rain down upon me there must I not die ; 
 For I am of those who would journey hence gladly, 
 In the glow of the sun, with a smile on their face.
 
 Soldier's Song. 1 1 3 
 
 No woman there'll be to wail dirges above me, 
 
 But only one man, that shall dig me my grave. 
 
 How fair and how soft the moon shines on this evening ! 
 
 Perhaps, my heart's love, it has looked upon thee, 
 
 And stands all amazed at the sight of thy beauty, 
 
 And is gentle to all amid whom thou dost dwell. 
 
 But swift as a swallow the wind flieth over, 
 
 Perhaps he has lifted thy veil even now, 
 
 And loves all the world, since so fair it doth flutter. 
 
 The grave of the hero is dear to the wand'rer, 
 
 As dear as though o'er it thy footfall had passed ; 
 
 For it gladdens the graves when thou passest across them ; 
 
 And the wanderer loveth the grave of the hero ; 
 
 And the hero is glad in his grave, when the wand'rer 
 
 Makes the sign of the cross o'er the place of his rest. 
 
 The remembrance of men goeth forth with the hero, 
 And beareth him company unto his death j 
 And his dying is sacred and blest, as the cradle 
 Where lieth a child ; 
 
 Yea, the banner above him is pure as the wrappings 
 That cover the child, 
 
 And the kiss that Death gives him is sweet as the kisses 
 Of mother to child. 
 
 In all men's remembrance his slumber is hallowed, 
 And blest by the songs that they sing on their hearth ; 
 Men say in the spring, when the blossoms are opening : 
 " He sees them no more." 
 
 I
 
 114 Lutep layer's Songs. 
 
 They say to his mother : " We greet thee, O mother ! 
 
 For thou art his mother." 
 They say to his wife : " Be thou blessed, O woman ! 
 
 For thou art his wife." 
 
 They say to his children : " His children are ye." 
 Then, like pilgrims, these go to his grave, and they thank 
 
 him 
 
 For being their son and their husband, their father ; 
 And he doth rejoice, for he feels them beside him, 
 Yea, there by his grave. 
 
 The stars love to look on his slumbers so peaceful ; 
 The sun loves to see, when he valiantly fights. 
 
 The long days are over^ and now the long evenings 
 Have come, and we sit by the fireside and sing ; 
 We sing in remembrance of them^ the dead heroes. 
 And all round about us their souls^ too^ do sing.
 
 SPINNING SONGS.
 
 SPINNING SONGS. 1 
 
 I. 
 
 T/)e child was weary^ it has gone to sleep. 
 
 COME down to-morrow to the river-side, 
 
 We will pluck flowers together, 
 
 The white ones thou, and I the crimson ones ; 
 
 And thou shalt put the white ones in thy hair, 
 
 The crimson I will cast upon the road, 
 
 That they may wither 'neath the wand'rer's step. 
 
 Oh, sister, 
 Why hast thou no compassion for the flowers ? 
 
 The child was weary ^ it has gone to sleep. 
 
 Into the maize-field come with me to-morrow, 
 There we shall see the sun, and then the moon ; 
 The sun will be for thee, for me the moon. 
 And thou shalt bless the sun, 
 But I the moon shall curse. 
 
 Oh, sister, 
 Why hast thou no compassion for the moon ? 
 
 The child was weary^ it has gone to sleep, 
 1 Note 5.
 
 ii8 Spinning Songs. 
 
 Come to draw water from the well to-morrow, 
 There will we fill our pitchers ; 
 And thou shalt drink from one till it is empty ; 
 The other I will break. 
 
 Oh, sister, 
 Why hast no pity for the crystal water ? 
 
 The child was weary^ it has gone to sleep. 
 
 Shalt come with me to-morrow to the fields ; 
 There we shall find two lads, 
 One very sad, the other one right merry. 
 Thine is the merry one, and mine the sad. 
 Thou on the lips wilt kiss the merry one. 
 The sad one I shall slay. 
 
 Oh, sister, 
 Why hast thou no compassion for his sadness ? 
 
 The child was weary , it has gone to sleep.
 
 Spinning Songs. 119 
 
 II. 
 
 OH, look no more on me, I have grown old. 
 
 And thou dost yearn for youth. 
 Then dost thou come and stand upon thy threshold 
 That thou the yearning mayst forget ; 
 But it forgets thee not and follows thee, 
 Speaking with voice as of a little child : 
 And lo ! thou seest thyself as once thou wert, 
 When very young thou wert 
 Three flowers in thy girdle, 
 Two flowers behind thine ear. 
 
 Oh, look no more on me, I have grown old. 
 
 Yet will I look, for I would see thy sorrow. 
 The plain is budding, through it flows the river j 
 Why dost not sit thee down beside the river, 
 And beg of it to bear thy pain away, 
 Away from thee, far out into the world, 
 That thou mayst hear no talk of it again ? 
 
 Oh, look no more on me, I have grown old.
 
 1 20 Spinning Songs. 
 
 Let be my pain, 
 For it belongeth to the house ; 
 What would the house do without pain, I wonder r 
 It brings me Night and every day it brings 
 Three flowers for my girdle, 
 Two flowers for mine ear. 
 In vain I say to it : " Why, dost not see 
 How old I am, and have no use for flowers ? " 
 Beside the window I lie down and watch 
 The dawning of the day. 
 
 And the day wonders at the world's fair splendour. 
 Time was, the day did wonder at my beauty, 
 When I was young. 
 
 Oh, look no more on me, I have grown old.
 
 Spinning Songs. 1 2 1 
 
 III. 
 
 / had two flowers. One is withered now , 
 The other mourn eth for her sister. 
 
 WHY dost thou tremble, neighbour ? 
 
 I saw One pass 
 No wanderer it was. 
 
 Who was it then, that thou art trembling thus ? 
 
 It was the child, the child 
 
 That I yet bear within me, 
 
 That from my womb escaped, 
 
 To look upon the world before its birth. 
 
 Neighbour ! Thou didst but dream it. 
 
 / had two flowers. One is withered now ; 
 The other mourneth for her sister. 
 
 Now will the child be sad, here in my womb, 
 For it has seen the earth ;
 
 122 Spinning Songs. 
 
 And seen that I am wan with bearing it ; 
 Yea, seen that Earth is reeking with man's sweat, 
 And that she covereth the dust of man. 
 
 All this it will forget, oh, neighbour, neighbour ! 
 When once it sees the sun. 
 
 / had two powers. One is withered now ; 
 The other mourneth for her sister.
 
 Spinning Songs. 123 
 
 IV. 
 
 BE silent ! for my sister slumbereth, 
 
 And if she be awakened, then she weeps. 
 
 I will not wake her, have no fear ; but this, 
 
 This only, I must tell thee : 
 
 'Twas at the season of the linden's flowering, 
 
 'Twas then she died. And they did take her from me, 
 
 Leaving me naught of her, except her necklet, 
 
 The necklet from her throat, 
 
 That once was warmed all through by her warm blood. 
 
 Upon a nail I hung it, on the wall 
 
 And put a spray of basil over it. 
 
 The little necklace never moves, and yet 
 
 The beads all talk together, 
 
 Whene'er the sun peeps in and makes them glitter ; 
 Then do they look like tears upon the wall. 
 And when the sun comes in, one sees full well 
 That withered is the spray of basil now. 
 
 Be silent ! for my sister slumbereth, 
 
 And if she be awakened, then she weeps.
 
 124 Spinning Songs. 
 
 I will not wake her, but just this alone 
 I must yet tell thee, that the beads all say : 
 " Why do they leave us hanging on the wall 
 Beside this withered branch ? 
 The whole day long do we await the sun, 
 And when he comes, he makes us look like tears. 
 The tears run down, and then the tears dry up, 
 But we remain for ever." 
 She died, and they have taken her away, 
 Away from me, and left me naught of her, 
 Except this necklet. 
 
 Be silent ! for my sister slumbereth, 
 
 And if she be awakened, then she weeps.
 
 Spinning Songs. 125 
 
 V. 
 
 The fire is s/umb'ring, 
 IVho will waken it ? 
 
 HE whom I love spake thus to me : 
 " Give me thy songs j " 
 So I have given him all my songs, 
 
 And now he sings them, that he may be strong 
 
 About his work for in those songs I told him 
 
 That sunshine says to Earth : 
 
 " Thou shalt bear most beauteous children, 
 If so be thy sons are brave." 
 
 The fire is 
 
 Who will waken it ? 
 
 He whom I love spake thus to me : 
 
 " Tell me thy dreams ; " 
 So then I told him all my dreams, 
 
 And he remembers them ; 
 
 For in my dreams I saw 
 A Heiduck proud, his right hand red with blood.
 
 126 Spinning Songs. 
 
 And thus, I told him, sunshine speaks to Earth : 
 
 " Brave children thou wilt have, 
 If on their hands thy men bear stains of blood." 
 
 The fire is slumVring, 
 Who will waken it ? 
 
 He whom I love, spake thus to me : 
 
 " Tell me, how thou wilt sleep within the Earth ? "- 
 
 So then I told, and hearing, he was glad ; 
 
 For I shall sleep, down there within the Earth, 
 
 With open eyes, and on my face a smile j 
 
 And in my eyes the Earth will be, 
 
 And in my mouth. 
 I told him that the sunshine says to Earth : 
 
 " Brave children thou wilt have 
 If they but understand how they may sleep 
 
 Right well in thee." 
 
 The fire is slumtfring y 
 Who will waken it f
 
 Spinning Songs. 127 
 
 VI. 
 
 My girdle I hung on a tree-top to/7, 
 
 So the songs of the birds, it hears them all. 
 
 O MAIDEN, who gave thee those lips so red, 
 That smile, and those songs ? 
 
 Lad, what is it to thee 
 
 Or why wouldst thou know who hath given them me ?- 
 And whither, O maiden, so fast art thou sped ? 
 To the plum-tree groves in the valley below, 
 
 Or there, where the orchards of apple-trees grow 
 Overhanging the cliff? 
 
 Lad, what is it to thee, 
 Since it is not thou that shalt go with me ? 
 
 My girdle I hung on a tree-top ta//, 
 
 So the songs of the birds^ it hears them all. 
 
 O maiden, and what in thy heart dost thou bear ? 
 A song, or a love ? 
 
 Lad, what is it to thee ? 
 
 If there's one that I love, sure, thou art not he. 
 Where wouldst thou I died of my love, then, where ?
 
 I2 8 Spinning Songs. 
 
 By the river, where over me flowers shall weep ? 
 
 In the hut, where the mother who lulled me to sleep. 
 
 Shall sing me my dirge ? 
 
 Lad, what is it to me, 
 Since I am not going to weep over thee ? 
 
 My girdle I hung on a tree-top tall, 
 
 So the songs of the birds^ it hears them all
 
 Spinning Songs. 1 29 
 
 VII. 
 
 He turned bis head^ he turned his head 
 But whether he was glad^ I do not know. 
 
 WHY hast thou, brother, no compassion on her ? 
 Weary she is, remorseful, and alone. 
 
 And didst thou go within her house, my sister ? 
 What saw'st thou in the house ? 
 
 I saw the little house was very poor ; 
 No flowers in the window, 
 
 No mat upon the threshold j 
 
 Hard as the heart of the wicked was her bed, 
 
 I said : " Thou wouldst lie softer on bare earth." 
 
 He turned his head^ he turned his head away^ 
 But whether he was glad^ I do not know. 
 
 What didst thou see, my sister, in the courtyard ? 
 
 Naught save some hay, all blackened by the rain, 
 And then a dried-up well, 
 
 Dry as a widow's heart. 
 
 What didst thou see upon her face, my sister ? 
 
 Furrows I saw upon her face, like ruts
 
 13 Spinning Songs. 
 
 Upon the roads when they are full of rain ; 
 And full of tears were these. 
 
 He turned his head^ he turned bis head 
 But whether he was glad^ I do not know. 
 
 Hast thou no pity on her, brother, brother ? 
 The carrion hath no pity on the vulture 
 That dies for having rent it and devoured it. 
 
 He turned his head^ hi turned his head away t 
 But whether he was glad^ I do not know.
 
 Spinning Songs. 1 3 1 
 
 VIII. 
 
 What dost thou bear in thine apron, little heart ? 
 
 FLOWERS I bear, and grass, and fruit from the garden. 
 
 My little mother died in the spring at even, 
 
 And I think of her, since then, in the long spring evenings, 
 
 Then do I hear no more the mill-wheel's murmur. 
 
 I put on my bravest dress 
 
 When I go to see my mother, there in the graveyard, 
 
 That so I may seem right merry to my mother. 
 
 And when I have the year's first-fruits, I fail not 
 
 To cast across my threshold two of them, 
 
 Yea, twain I give to the road, I give to the wand'rer, 
 
 That in Earth's depths my mother may not hunger. 
 
 What dost thou bear in thine apron^ little heart ? 
 
 The stranger came and said : " Why goest not with me ? 
 
 My village stands beside a cool, green valley, 
 
 Where flights of birds come by, and even in flying 
 
 They tarry on my cottage." 
 
 Then to the stranger I spake thus : " O stranger, 
 
 Go home without me, I would tarry here j
 
 132 Spinning Songs. 
 
 The sun and moon are wont to see me always 
 Here in my little hut ; 
 
 And a strange house would have no room, O stranger, 
 For these my sorrows and my joys ; no corner 
 Would there be found for me to stand my distaff, 
 And ever would thy house be saying, stranger: 
 "Of joys and sorrows we've enough already, 
 We have no room for thine ! " 
 
 What dost thou bear in thine apron^ little heart ?
 
 Spinning Songs. 133 
 
 IX. 
 
 CM, stay beside me , for alone am I. 
 
 O MOTHER, when my hair has all grown white 
 I'll shroud my veil so close about my head 
 That none will see my hair has grown so white j 
 And I shall know so many, many things ; 
 
 Shall know, why thou dost weep. 
 And he I love, he too will then be old, 
 Will put his cap of fur upon his head, 
 That none may see how white his hair has grown j 
 And I can say, at last, I love him, then. 
 So often shall I tell him so, 
 That it will make him grow quite young again. 
 And I shall say to him : " Dost thou remember 
 Upon that day, beside the well, when I 
 
 Would never smile on thee ? 
 
 That was because I loved thee." 
 Mother, but I would fain be growing old 
 That I might tell him sooner ! 
 
 Oh, stay beside me, for alone am I. 
 
 And the young maidens then will beg of me 
 To tell them of my life and I will tell them 
 About my life and all its many joys.
 
 134 Spinning Songs. 
 
 The tree doth think no more, my little daughter, 
 About its fruit, when winter-time has come j 
 And thou, thou too, thy smiles wilt all forget. 
 
 mother, O dear mother, say not so ! 
 Because I smile with twofold joy, to think 
 
 1 shall remember them when I am sad, 
 
 Too sad, to smile again. 
 My child, the birds do carol every spring, 
 
 Yet not the self-same birds. 
 The harvests ripen every year, but yet 
 Each time new seeds are sown. 
 Even so the heart of man sings once, once only ; 
 Once, and once only, doth his harvest ripen. 
 
 O mother, O dear mother, say not so ! 
 
 For when I have grown old 
 
 I'll smile upon the birds and on the harvests, 
 
 And say to them, " I too once bloomed and sang." 
 
 Oh) stay beside me^for alone am I.
 
 Spinning Songs. 135 
 
 X. 
 
 Tell me who she is, oh, tell me ! 
 
 SHE hath no mother more, and her father's name 
 
 Is all unknown to me. 
 With her, the self-same moment, flowers were born- 
 
 With her the flowers will die. 
 Nay, nay, I love her not j yet I look at her. 
 She wanders through the forest, and thereat 
 
 The forest doth rejoice. 
 
 Tell me who she is, oh, tell me ! 
 
 If Death should take 
 
 That which is sweetest upon earth away, 
 
 He would take her. 
 
 Strong will the children be that are born of her, 
 And from her breast the milk will stream in plenty, 
 Like rivers at the melting of the snow. 
 
 Tell me who she is, oh, tell me !
 
 136 Spinning Songs. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Go draw me water from the we 11^ 
 I am athirst. 
 
 AH ! what and if the well were dry ? 
 Then there is yet the river. 
 What if the river were dried up ? 
 Then hath the spring still water j 
 But oh ! a joyless heart, that hath 
 
 No other joy beside. 
 What hath befallen this thy heart ? 
 They came and took its joy away, 
 They came by night to take its joy, 
 And all the way was dark. 
 
 Go draw me water from the well^ 
 I am athirst. 
 
 And if the swallow were to die, 
 Yet were the lark still here ; 
 And if the hail laid low our corn, 
 The hay were left us still ; 
 But oh ! a loveless life, that hath 
 No other love beside.
 
 Spinning Songs. 137 
 
 What hath befallen that thy love ? 
 My love is dead. They murdered it 
 
 With a sure knife and sharp, 
 And with a hand that trembled not ; 
 
 I saw its blood, 
 
 Its blood, that through my fingers flowed ; 
 I could not stay the stream. 
 
 Go draw me water from the well^ 
 I am athirst.
 
 138 Spinning Songs. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Which dost thou love to hear the 
 My spindle or my voice f 
 
 THREE lads have died in the village there, 
 
 And one was my beloved. 
 
 Water from out the stream he drank, 
 
 There, where a star had bathed, 
 
 And then he died ; and I bewail him, 
 
 And sing my songs o'er him. 
 
 I see the star in the water still, 
 
 But he shall see it no more. 
 
 Which dost thou love to hear the best, 
 My spindle or my voice f 
 
 I said to the star : " For two whole nights 
 
 I would gaze on naught save thee, 
 
 If thou wouldst tell me where bides his soul. 
 
 Is it there in the flowers ? in my bracelet here ? 
 
 Or yon 'mid the ripe red corn ? 
 
 For if I knew 'twas in a flower, 
 
 I would water it oft and tend it well, 
 
 That it might bloom for aye.
 
 Spinning Songs. 139 
 
 And if 'twere in my bracelet here, 
 I'd pillow my head upon mine arm, 
 That so I might have fairest dreams 
 Yea, dreams all robed in white. 
 And if 'twere in the ripe red corn, 
 My sickle ne'er should mow it down, 
 But I would pluck it gently." 
 
 Which dost tbou love to hear the best^ 
 My spindle or my voice ? 
 
 Then thus the star replied to me : 
 
 " His soul is so far away, 
 
 That though thou shouldst take the fleetest steed, 
 
 Thou couldst not reach it ever. 
 
 Stay rather, leaning by thy hut, 
 
 Perchance the little soul will come, 
 
 Come flying up to thee ; 
 Yet never seek to hold it there, 
 But give it straight the fleetest steed, 
 That it may hasten hence once more, 
 
 That it may haste away." 
 
 IVhich dost thou love to hear the best, 
 My spindle or my voice ?
 
 140 Spinning Songs. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Upon my threshold thou wilt meet 
 
 An aged man him shalt thou bid come in. 
 
 Do not thou ask that maid again 
 Whither she fares she knows it not herself, 
 But-loveth to go wand'ring round about; 
 And those who pass her by disturb her not. 
 She wanders thus because she hath all knowledge 
 Of magic philtres. One she drank herself, 
 Not knowing that she drank it, and since then 
 The world is changed to her, and all the world 
 To her seems old yea, thou i,rt aged, and I ; 
 The forest has grown old an hundred years j 
 And she herself alone, she thinks, is young. 
 She laugheth at our age and wandereth on 
 Along the ways, to find the youth who'll love her ; 
 But never will she find him. 
 
 Before my threshold thou wilt meet 
 
 An aged man him shalt thou bid come in.
 
 Spinning Songs. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Pluck no more flowers before her, 
 For she never gathers one. 
 
 WHITHER the streams are flowing, 
 
 O mother, dost thou know ? 
 
 To the villages, through the forests, 
 
 And o'er the plains they wend. 
 
 And whither tears go streaming, 
 
 O mother, dost thou know ? 
 
 Tears that are wept by women, 
 
 Tears that they wipe away 
 
 With the back of their hand, and that trembling 
 
 Upon the hand yet lie ? 
 
 Tears flow into graves, to comfort 
 
 The dead for having died. 
 
 Pluck no more flowers before her. 
 For she never gathers one. 
 
 Who was it, this evening, mother, 
 That thou didst let in to thee ? 
 A woman it was, who sorely 
 Wept o'er her womb, that bear?
 
 H 2 Spinning Songs. 
 
 Only dead children ever. 
 
 She weeps, that the souls of those children 
 
 Have never looked on earth, 
 
 And she prays the souls of those children 
 
 To turn them back for a moment 
 
 That she may look on them. 
 
 Pluck no more flowers before her, 
 For she never gathers one. 
 
 And hath she not her cottage 
 
 Wherein she may tarry, mother ? 
 
 Nay, she was fain to show me 
 
 Her tears and they flowed before me ; 
 
 And she said of those unknown children : 
 
 " Golden hair like the sunrise 
 
 One would have had and that other 
 
 Cheeks as red as the sunset ; 
 
 Slender, like as my distaff, 
 
 She would have grown, and beside me 
 
 Singing would she have sat. 
 
 Yet dead in my womb I bare them. 
 
 Then Nature spake thus to me, saying, 
 
 'Art thou a grave?" 
 
 Pluck no more flowers before her, 
 For she never gathers one.
 
 Spinning Song. 143 
 
 SPINNING-SONG. 
 
 We went across yon bridge^ 
 But now the bridge has sunk. 
 
 LAST night I saw my brother in the garden, 
 
 Hither and thither went he, and he spake : 
 
 " If I but had a mantle 
 
 To hide my belt, 
 
 And the knife, too, that in my belt is thrust, 
 
 And the knife's thoughts, that I might hide them well 
 
 If I but had a mantle 
 
 Covering me over, even to my feet, 
 
 Along the ways I'd wander, 
 
 Beneath the acacia-trees, that are in blossom. 
 
 We went across yon bridge^ 
 But now the bridge has sunk. 
 
 Yet I have nothing, save a shirt, and that 
 Was with me at my work. 
 The knife has fearful thoughts, 
 Here in the garden I have let it lie,
 
 144 Spinning Songs. 
 
 Covered it with my fur-cap close and well ; 
 
 But though with my brow's sweat I water it, 
 
 Dry it remains and dead ; 
 
 No rain can make it, like the forest-trees, 
 
 Grow fresh and green. 
 
 And it will tell its thought, 
 
 Unto the night will tell it ! 
 
 We went across yon bridge^ 
 But now the bridge has sunk. 
 
 And it will say : c Why am I still so cold ? 
 
 No blood would ever warm me no, by God ! 
 
 Not though I drank it, drank it ! ' 
 
 Why do I fill the women with affright, 
 
 Why dost thou frighten them so sorely too, 
 
 That, seeing me, they tremble ? 
 
 Earth says : c And canst thou, then, not see the sun, 
 
 That thou art all so cold, 
 
 That thou complainest, thou dost quake with cold ? ' 
 
 We went across yon bridge^ 
 But now the bridge has sunk.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 NOTE i. 
 
 "THE other women have their veils," is as much as to say "they are 
 married j " for only married women may wear veils on their heads in 
 Roumania. 
 
 NOTE z. 
 
 "Thy belt six turns doth make about thy waist" The slender- 
 ness of a girl is measured by the number of times she can twist her 
 long soft belt or girdle about her waist. 
 
 NOTE 3. 
 
 The phrase "sister of the cross" has been used by the translators 
 to denote a sort of elective relationship which is common in Roumania, 
 and is distinguished by the untranslatable word "surata" a mere 
 variation of " sora,'' a sister. It is usual there for two girls who may 
 be no relation to each other, to choose one other out as sisters, 
 and this choice is hallowed by a special service in church, during 
 which their feet are chained together, to symbolize the bond that is 
 henceforth to unite them. This is regarded as so real a one, that 
 marriage with the brother of one's elective sister is forbidden, nor 
 can these two " sisters " marry two brothers. 
 
 NOTE 4. 
 
 It is the custom in Roumanian villages to paint a flower on the 
 wall of a house it which a maiden lives ; but if she is known to have 
 behaved ill, the village youths come and efface the painting from the 
 wall.
 
 146 
 
 Notes. 
 
 NOTE 5. 
 
 For the Spinning-songs, the girls all stand in a circle, spinning j 
 the best spinner and singer being in the middle. She begins to im- 
 provise a song, and at any moment she chooses, throws her spindle, 
 holding it by a long thread, to another girl, who has to go on 
 spinning while the first girl pulls out the flax a proceeding requir- 
 ing great dexterity and at the same time has to continue the 
 improvisation which has been begun. 
 
 CHISWICK PRESS : CHARLES WH1TTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURT, 
 CHANCERY LANE.
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 GAYLORD 
 
 PRINTED IN U S A
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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