A 
 
 A = 
 
 =^c= 
 
 A^ 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 = 
 
 =^ 3J 
 
 S 
 
 ^= 33 
 
 
 ^^ ?z- > 
 
 4 = 
 
 
 1 m 
 
 =:^ ^ 
 
 6 m 
 
 
 A ^^S 
 
 
 4 = 
 
 =^=: -t 
 
 1 m 
 
 == J> 
 
 2 1 
 
 ^^^ — f 
 
 
 
 5 = 
 
 
 I •LATIONS 
 
 s 1 M 
 
 RSE 
 
 ;tl....;"'i''all' 
 
 i 111'"' 
 
 Hi ■ ■ llli. 
 
 •■•1!", '/ 
 
 , "• „ -^VS"' 
 
 '**'■ 1 -il 
 
 '■"•1 ir'; .;l|,ii...' ' <*'\' .■'"' ,' 
 
 
 
 .Ill . . .1' '. ' 
 
 
 V'- 
 
 1 
 

 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD 
 ENDOWMENT FUND
 
 n 
 
 In
 
 4 4^^/^/
 
 TRANSLATIONS IN VERSE
 
 Translations in "^ erse 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 French, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, 
 Swedish, German, and Dutch. 
 
 BY 
 
 COLLARD J. STOCK. 
 
 LON^DON : 
 ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.G. 
 
 1891.
 
 
 ^^H 
 
 
 ^^m 
 

 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 Sonnet. . . . FMx Arvers 
 The Benediction . Francois Coppie 
 
 PAGE 
 
 • 3 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 
 Sonnet, 
 
 Cervantes . 
 
 ■ 13 
 
 SONxNET , 
 
 Gongora 
 
 • 14 
 
 Epitaph 
 
 Alarcoii 
 
 • 15 
 
 SONETO BURLESCO 
 
 Lope dc Vega 
 
 . 16 
 
 Soneto Burlesco 
 
 1 J If 
 
 • 17 
 
 Sonnet . 
 
 Quevedo 
 
 . 18 
 
 To Lope de Vega 
 
 Calderon . 
 
 • 19 
 
 Love and Glory 
 
 Ramon de Camp 
 
 oamor 20 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Lope de Vega 
 
 . 23 
 
 FROM TH 
 
 E PORTUGUESE. 
 
 
 Cantata 
 
 Garfoo 
 
 • 27 
 
 Sonnet . 
 
 Camoens 
 
 • 31 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 32 
 
 7G5?G1
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Song of the Exile . Gottfalves Dias 33 
 The Song of the Tamoyo . ,, ,, 35 
 
 A Rhapsody .... ,■ .. 38 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN. 
 
 Sonnet Petrarch. . 41 
 
 Chorus Tasso . . 42 
 
 FROM THE SWEDISH. 
 
 The Bkazili.'V.n Maid . . Count Snoilsky 45 
 
 Velazquez .... ,, ,, 47 
 
 Thorough .... ,, ,, 48 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 To Petrarch .... Uhland . .51 
 The Forest Witch . . Von Boddien . 52 
 Philosophy of History . Paul Heyse . 54 
 
 FROM THE DUTCH. 
 
 Sonnet P. C. Hooft . 57 
 
 Sonnet ,, ,. . 58 
 
 Appendix 61
 
 FROM THE 1 RENCH
 
 SONNET. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OV KKLIX ARVERS. 
 
 MV soul its secret hath, my life its mystery ; 
 A love eternal at a breath conceived : 
 The ill is hopeless — silent I have lived, 
 And she that wrought it ne'er has known of me. 
 I shall pass near her — ah ! she will not see ; 
 Still at her side yet lonely I must wend. 
 And ser\'e my time on earlh until the end, 
 Not daring aught to ask, ungucrdoned be. 
 And she, whom God so tender made and sweet, 
 Will go her way, absorbed, and will not hear 
 This murmur of my love that tracks her feet ; 
 But, faithful to her duty, calm, austere. 
 Will say, if e'er these lines her eyes should greet, 
 ' Who is this w oman ?' c\cr unaware !
 
 THE BENEDICTION. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OK FRANCOIS COFFEE. 
 
 WE look Saragossa in the year eighteen-nine. 
 I was sergeant : a terrible day's work was 
 mine. 
 
 The town was captured — the houses by storm we 
 took 
 
 That still closely shut up had a treacherous look. 
 
 From their windows the shots in showers came rain- 
 ing : 
 
 ' 'Tis the fault of the priests ' the men muttered, com- 
 plaining ; 
 
 So that when in the distance we saw them in flight, 
 
 Although hard we had fought from the first dawning 
 light. 
 
 With our eyes by dust blinded, mouths bitter and 
 black 
 
 From the cartridge's sombre kiss 'midst the smoke's 
 rack, 
 
 4
 
 We fired gaily and always more briskly disposed 
 At all tliose long dark cloaks and broad hats dis- 
 closed. 
 My battalion followed a deep narrow lane ; 
 I marched watching the roofs right and left, not in 
 
 vain, 
 In my rank as sergeant with the light infantrj'. 
 Then I saw a swift, sudden red glare in the 
 
 sky, 
 That faded and glowed like a forge's hot breatli ; 
 We heard loud shrieks of women butchered to death 
 Afar off, 'midst the hoarse and funereal din. 
 We strode o'er the dead at each moment ; within 
 Dark hovels our men entered, lowering the head , 
 Then came out with their bayonets reeking and 
 
 red. 
 And with the blood on their hands marked a cross on 
 
 the wall ; 
 For in these narrow passes we made sure before all 
 That behind us we had not left one of our foes. 
 We advanced without drum-beat, no war-march 
 
 arose, 
 And thoughtful our officers looked ; the veterans, 
 
 too, 
 Were anxious, keeping shoulder to shoulder all 
 through, 
 
 5
 
 For, as if we were mere raw recruits, our hearts 
 
 sank. 
 All at once, at the turn of a street deep and dank, 
 Shouts for help from French voices were heard : rush- 
 ing on 
 We reached our friends in peril and straight fell upon 
 A troop of gallant grenadiers in full retreat, 
 Driven ingloriously out into the street 
 From a convent's enclosure, only defended 
 By a score of swart monks, who like demons de- 
 scended 
 With shaven crowns and black robes with white cross 
 
 woven : 
 Barefoot, with blood-stained arms, their sleeves all 
 
 cloven, 
 They struck our men down, each with a crucifix im- 
 mense. 
 It was tragic. We opened a platoon fire dense, 
 I and the others there, and so swept clear the place. 
 Coldly, cruelly — for the troops, worn out, felt base 
 And butcherlike deahng around this hangman's fate — 
 We killed that dreadful group of heroes at the gate : 
 But when once consummated was this vile deed of 
 
 war. 
 And when the thick gray smoke had blown on high 
 afar.
 
 We saw beneath the bodies that entangled lay 
 Long rivulet;; of blood run down the steps away. 
 Behind, with open door, the gloomy church loomed 
 
 vast. 
 The lights, like stars of gold, through dusk their 
 
 radiance cast. 
 The incense all around its languorous perfume shed, 
 And deep in the choir low'rds the altar turned his 
 
 head. 
 As though no sound o{ battle had reached his ear at all, 
 A white-haired priest whose figure towered grave and 
 
 tall: 
 The ottice of the day he was ending tranquilly. 
 This evil memory comes back so clear to me. 
 That while I tell you now I seem to see again 
 The old convent with its high Moorish-fronted fane. 
 The dead monks" great brown l)odies, the hot sun that 
 
 shone. 
 Making the crimson lilood smoke on the pavement 
 
 stone, 
 And through the l)lack frame of the low door's dark 
 
 outline 
 That priest and that aliar glittering like a shrine. 
 And ourselves standing, fixed there, looking almost 
 
 cowed. 
 At that time of my life 1 was one who swore loud, 
 
 7
 
 A godless young fellow, and still many can tell 
 
 How once, when our troopers were sacking a 
 
 chapel. 
 Just to show off my pluck and my wit, I would 
 
 dare 
 Light my pipe at the high altar candles, nor care 
 What I did — hard campaigner — in impudence sheer — 
 But so white looked that old man he filled me with 
 
 fear. 
 
 ' Fire !' cried an ofticer. 
 
 No one moved. The priest heard 
 For certain, but of that not a sign once ajjpeared, 
 And he faced us, with the sacrament in his hand ; 
 I'or the mass now had reached the point, you under- 
 stand, 
 Where the priest turns to bless the faithful. O'er the 
 
 head 
 His arms raised high aloft almost like wings seemed 
 
 spread, 
 And each one backward shrank when with the gold 
 
 monstrance 
 He made the sign of the cross in the air. His glance 
 Told that he no more feared than before flock devout ; 
 And when his fine voice, chanting and lengthening 
 out 
 
 8
 
 The notes, as the priests all do in their Orcnnts, 
 Said 
 
 ' Betiedicat vcs omnipotens Deus,^ 
 
 ' Fire !' cried again the fierce voice, ' or you reckon 
 
 with me.' 
 Then one of our men, a soldier — a coward was lie — 
 At last levelled his musket and fired. The old man 
 Turned very pale, but fearless once more began. 
 Not lowering his gaze, flashing with courage stern ; 
 ' Pater et Filius,^ he said. 
 
 What rage could turn 
 Or what bloodthirsty madness overwhelm man's liraiii 
 Enough to send a shot then from our ranks again ? 
 I know not ; and yet that infamous deed was done. 
 The monk, with one hand grasping the altar, still 
 
 held on, 
 And trj'ing once more to bless us — it must be told — 
 Raised with the other hand the great monstrance of 
 
 gold. 
 For the third time he traced the sign of pardon : 
 
 now. 
 With a voice that sounded far away and faint and low, 
 But well we heard it, for deep silence came on us, 
 I le said, with closing eyes, 
 
 ' Et Spirit us Seznrtits,' 
 9
 
 Then fell dead, having ended his last prayer. 
 
 The monstrance thrice rebounded on the stone, and 
 
 there 
 Even we, the old troopers, were standing hushed, 
 
 aghast. 
 Gazing with gloomy eyes as we grounded arms at 
 
 last, 
 With horror in our hearts — forget it I ne'er can — 
 Before the hideous murder of that martyred man. 
 
 10
 
 FROM THE SPANISH
 
 SONNET. 
 
 IROM THE SPANISH OK CERVANTES. 
 
 T F from this seething gulf and raging sea, 
 
 ■■- Where death the wild storm threatens in each 
 wave, 
 My life 'midst all these hard assaults I save 
 And reach the land again, safe, glad, and free ; 
 
 Then, while these hands are raised on high by me, 
 With humble soul and mind content I'll crave 
 That Love may know, and Heaven itself, that gave 
 The sovereign good, my gratitude may see. 
 
 My sighs then as thrice happy I shall deem 
 And count as pleasurable all my tears. 
 As cooling balm the fire that in me burns ; 
 
 Given by Ixjve's hand the rudest blows will seem 
 As help to soul and body each a]:ipears, 
 That to no slender good, but greatest, turns. 
 
 (See Appendix, Note A.) 
 
 '3
 
 SONNET. 
 
 (••ROM THE SPANISH OF GONGORA. 
 
 GOLD, no, 'lis lightning, crimson sky aglow, 
 Shall best set forth the splendour of your 
 morn, 
 Like as your purple age doth show, whose dawn 
 Now bears twin stars like suns upon its brow. 
 
 Bird that is mute but emulous, although 
 In vain, of the more tuneful who are born 
 Of Art— from willow tree which leaves adorn, 
 Leaves that are grey, indeed, but still that grow, 
 
 Your radiance I will sing ; how far beyond 
 All verse your sunrise and the hope to me 
 Of the bright hours with which your day will shine. 
 
 To such great beauty let my voice respond ; 
 But though Apollo wills that may not be, 
 For yours the beauty is, the voice is mine. 
 
 (See Aripendix, Note E.) 
 
 14
 
 DECIMA. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF AI.ARCON. 
 
 Epitaph. 
 
 BENEATH this stone .1 slanderer lies 
 Who even spoke ill of himself ; 
 His ashes thus laid on the shelf 
 This tomb dolh immortalize. 
 He left a memory to the wise 
 Of living well and living ill ; 
 With that he died against his will, 
 C.iving all men to comprehend 
 How an ill deed could make an end 
 Of him, and all his ill words kill. 
 
 (See Appendix, Note C)
 
 S ONE TO BURLESCO. 
 
 FROM TilE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. 
 
 P 
 
 ROUD towers the lofty palaces between 
 
 That once did crown those seven hills that 
 rise, 
 And now 'gainst bare horizons to our eyes 
 Scarce give a sign that you have ever been ! 
 
 Ye schools of Greece, the famed abodes serene 
 Of Plutarchs, Platos, Xenophons— the wise : 
 Theatre, where wild beasts fought mid Demos' cries : 
 Olympiads, lustra, baths, the temple scene : 
 
 Whr.t wondrous powers have to destruction hurled 
 The greatest pomp of human glory known. 
 With empires, arms, the wisdom of the world ? 
 
 O solace great to my vain hope I own ! 
 If you to such brief ruins Time has whirled, 
 No marvel he has spoiled my threadbare gown ! 
 
 (See Appendix, Note D.) 
 
 I6
 
 S ONE TO BURLESCO. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OK LOPE UE VEGA. 
 
 IT was the month when most the days are fair, 
 I n which the flowery meads give most delight, 
 When first I saw you, for whom now I write, 
 Lady, so many fooHsh love-songs rare. 
 
 Fruitless are all the pleadings that I dare ; 
 And, as your favour is denied me quite, 
 You triumph, cruel one, for in this plight 
 The glory is all yours, mine all the care. 
 
 That octave verse has not turned out so ill : 
 But let the muses not cry lie on me 
 If this great sonnet ere the end I praise. 
 
 Now I have got that sentence out ; yet still, 
 If, as I think, I do not end it, sec, 
 I'll throw in a refrain of other days. 
 
 17
 
 SONNET. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF QUEVEDO. 
 
 THE brief year of our mortal life doth bear 
 All things away, mocking the visage bold 
 Of valiant steel and of the marble cold 
 That its hard front 'gainst Time to raise w^ould dare. 
 
 Before the foot can walk it straight must fare 
 Along the way to death, whither is rolled 
 My life obscure ; the dark sea will enfold 
 That poor and turbid stream in its waves drear. 
 
 Every short moment is one long step past 
 Which on this march against my will I make ; 
 At rest, asleep, I haste without reprieve. 
 
 Then a short sigh — a bitter one — the last — 
 Is Death, the heritage that we must take ; 
 But if 'tis Law, not Penalty, why grieve ? 
 
 (See Appendix, Note E.) 
 
 i8
 
 DECIMA. 
 
 KROM THE SPANISH OF CALDERON. 
 
 To Lope de Vega. 
 
 A LTHOUGH the persecuting tongue 
 ^ ^ Of envy oft the wise may fear, 
 No scath from it his fame shall Ijear, 
 For 'tis as though his praise it sung. 
 Those who most presume are stung 
 By envy, Lope, against thee ; 
 In their presumption thou wilt see 
 What thy glories merit : so 
 That those who most thy greatness show 
 Are those most full of jealousy. 
 
 (See Appendix, Note F.) 
 
 19
 
 LOVE AND GLORY. 
 
 KROM THE SPANISH OF RAMON DE CAMPOAMOR. 
 
 UPON the sand and on the wind 
 All things that are seem founded ! 
 The world of earth is bounded 
 Like the world of the nobler mind. 
 Of Love and Glory aye we find 
 The base is naught but air and sand : ' 
 Castles with which illusion's wand 
 The world and the heart doth fill — 
 Those of the world of sand arc still, 
 Those of the heart fade in cloudland ! 
 
 (See Appendix, Note G.) 
 
 20
 
 SONNET. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. 
 
 OH, Christ divine 1 my Life through all these 
 years, 
 From Thy great beauty whither do I flee ? 
 That I affront Thy face how can it be 
 Which gazes on me bathed in blood and tears ? 
 
 Filled am I with confusion and wild fears — 
 Knowing myself and not amending me ; 
 I should be shamed of so offending Thee, 
 My guardian angel's voice cries in my ears. 
 
 With those pierced hands hold back my wandering 
 feet, 
 Thou Heavenly Love ; but with what hope may I 
 Pray for their help who nailed them with my own ? 
 
 O (jod, where have my senses been to cheat 
 My soul, turning my back on Thee ; and why ? 
 Didst Thou not on the Cross for me atone ? 
 
 23
 
 FROM THE PORTUGUESE
 
 CANTA TA. 
 
 FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF GAR^AO. 
 
 NOW in the red East afar yet faintly gleaming 
 The proudly swelling sails of the swift Trojan 
 
 fleet 
 Amidst the azure billows of the sun-gilt ocean 
 Flying on the wings of the winds are liid from sight. 
 The wretched, hapless Dido 
 
 Uoth wander through the royal palace loud lamenting, 
 And still with tear-swoU'n eyes in vain she seeks 
 
 The fugitive Eneas. 
 Nought but deserted solitary streets and squares 
 The new-built Carthage to her gaze reveals : 
 Upon the naked shore with awful tumult breaking 
 Rage through the livelong night the waves in solitude : 
 And on the gilded pinnacles of lofty domes and 
 
 temples 
 Nocturnal birds do screech with harsli foreboding 
 
 voice. 
 
 (See Appendix, Note H.) 
 27
 
 And from the marhle sepulchre with terror she 
 
 imagines 
 That from the cold ashes of the dead Sicheus 
 A thousand times she hears a feeble voice arise, 
 Crying with deep-drawn sighs, Elissa, Ellssa. 
 Then to the awful deities of Orcus she 
 The sacrifices due makes ready ; 
 But suddenly she sees, affrighted, 
 Around the altars smoking with fragrant incense 
 A black scum boiling in the rich sculptured vessels : 
 
 And the wine poured in libations 
 Seems to her eyes transformed to crimson seas of 
 blood. 
 
 She raves in wildest frenzy ; 
 
 Pallid is grown her lovely face. 
 Her silken tresses flow down all dishevelled ; 
 Unconscious and with trembling foot she enters 
 The once delightful chamber 
 Where from the now faithless lover 
 
 She heard with deep emotion 
 Sighs so heartbroken mingled with soft complaints. 
 But there the cruel Fates did show to her 
 The Ilian garments, that still hanging 
 From the gilded couch with dazzling gleam re- 
 vealed 
 The glittering shield and the bright Teucrian sword. 
 
 28
 
 With a convulsive hand she snatches suddenly 
 
 From out its sheath the blade refulgent, 
 
 And on the adamantine piercing steel 
 
 Her tender breast snow-white and cr>stalHne she 
 
 hurls : 
 And in bubbles of foam plashing and murmuring 
 Leaps the hot life-blood forth from the deadly wound : 
 With the red-spouting gore bedewed and sprinkled 
 Tremble the Doric columns of the hall. 
 Thrice does she strive in vain to rise, 
 And three times fainting back upon the couch again 
 Her body falls, while unto Heaven she raises 
 Her tortured dying eyes. 
 Then gazing at the lustrous armour 
 Of the fled Dardan chief, 
 These her last utterances did she repeat. 
 And the most pitiful and mournful accents 
 Still floating through the golden arches of the roof 
 Long afterwards were heard in plaintive sad laincnt. 
 
 O ye sweet treasures 
 Source of deep pleasures 
 To my glad eyne. 
 While Fate beguiled 
 And the Gods smiled 
 Consent benign : 
 29
 
 Of Dido mournful 
 
 The soul receive, 
 
 From all these troubles 
 
 My heart relieve. 
 
 Unhapp)' Dido 
 
 Has lived out her days : 
 
 She of proud Carthage 
 
 The high walls did raise. 
 
 Now naked and bare 
 
 Her shade alone 
 
 In Charon's bark there, 
 
 The hideous one, 
 
 Goes ploughing the stream 
 
 Black as night without gleam 
 
 Of Phlegethon. 
 
 30
 
 SONNET. 
 
 FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS. 
 
 LOVE is a fire whose flame cloth burn unseen 
 A wound whose aching smart we do not fee 
 Contentment discontent with its own weal ; 
 A teasing pain, though neither deep nor keen : 
 
 It is not liking more than liking e'en ; 
 Wandering alone 'midst crowds that seem unreal ; 
 Not to content one's self with Heaven's own seal ; 
 A care that only gain by loss doth mean : 
 
 'TLs to be captured with one's own consent ; 
 The victor to the vanquished here must sen'e ; 
 Keep faith with one who on our death is bent : 
 
 Mow can its fickle favour e'er preserve 
 In human hearts consistence of intent, 
 Since to itself contrarious Love doth swerve ? 
 
 31
 
 SONNET. 
 
 FROM THE PORTUGUESE OP CAMOENS. 
 
 A S shepherd Jacob served seven weary years 
 
 -^^- Laban for Rachel, fairest mountaineer, 
 But not the father did he serve, 'twas her ; 
 For her alone as his reward he cares. 
 
 His days in hope of one sole day he bears, 
 Himself with sight of her contenting there ; 
 But using guile her father, trickster rare. 
 Instead of Rachel's hand now gave him Leah's. 
 
 The shepherd sad, seeing that with deceit 
 His shepherdess was thus to liim denied, 
 As were he undeserving of his wife. 
 
 Began to serve seven other years complete, 
 Saying : More would I gladly sen'e beside 
 Were not, for love so long, so short our life. 
 
 32
 
 THE SONG OF THE EXILE. 
 
 FROM THE PORTUGUESE OK GONCALVES DIAS. 
 
 MINE is the land where waves the palm 
 And where the tuneful thrush doth sing : 
 The birds that here make minstrelsy 
 Have harsher note and duller wing. 
 
 Our sky has more and brighter stars, 
 Our fields are full of dazzling flowers, 
 
 Our forests glow with richer life. 
 
 More love breathes through our life's glad hours. 
 
 And when at night alone I muse 
 
 I find a deeper pleasure there. 
 In my own glorious land of palms, 
 
 Where the birds' music fills the air. 
 
 (See Appendix, Note I.) 
 
 33 C
 
 My country has such varied charms, 
 I ne'er can find aught like them here ; 
 
 And when alone at night I muse 
 I find a deeper pleasure there : 
 
 Mine is the glorious land of palms, 
 Where the thrush pours its music rare. 
 
 God grant me that I may not die 
 
 Until I home return again, 
 Once more to gaze on beauties there 
 
 Whicli here I ever seek in vain : 
 Until again I see the palms 
 
 And hear the thrush's flute-like strain. 
 
 34
 
 THE SONG OF THE TAMOYO* 
 
 KROM THE PORTUGUESE OF GONCALVES DIAS. 
 
 WEEP thou not, little son, 
 Oh, weep not, for life 
 Is a desperate strife ; 
 
 'Tis a fight hard and long. 
 If the combat unsparing 
 Make the weak cower despairing, 
 It can but inspirit 
 The brave and the strong. 
 
 We live but a day long ! 
 The strong fears not dying, 
 'Tis the thought of base flying 
 
 Alone he can fear ; 
 And swift his bow bending, 
 His shaft surely sending, 
 He strikes down a foeman. 
 
 Condor or tapir, f 
 
 * The Tamoyos were the tribe of Indians who originally iii- 
 habited the province of Kio de Janeiro in Brazil, 
 t Tapir is pronounced tapper. 
 
 35
 
 The strong man, the craven, 
 Alike envy his daring, 
 When they see him, uncaring, 
 
 In the battle rejoice ; 
 And their hoary heads bending, 
 The old men attending, 
 In solemn war councils, 
 
 Shall list to his voice. 
 
 If thou livest, be chief, 
 
 If thou die well thou'lt sleep, 
 
 And thy tribe still shall keep 
 
 Thy fame bright and clear ; 
 For thy life never caring, 
 Be brave and be strong ! 
 Till death 'tis not long. 
 
 Then of death have no fear. 
 
 Since thy forefathers fought, 
 Let their spirit adorn thee ; 
 A Tamoyo has borne thee, 
 
 Thou shalt prove thy valour. 
 Be a warrior peerless. 
 Strong, hardy and fearless, 
 The pride of thy people 
 
 In peace and in war. 
 36
 
 But if traitorous fortune, 
 In some direful hour, 
 Hurl thee into the power 
 
 Of the treacherous foe ; 
 When the last moment's near 
 Be thou calm, without fear, 
 Remember thy bold deeds, 
 
 The warrior dies so ! 
 
 And fall like some great tree 
 When riven asunder 
 Down crashes like thunder 
 
 Its vast length on the ground ; 
 So the strong man should die ! 
 As life fades from his eye 
 He triumphs, his glory 
 Shall wider resound. 
 
 Then trj- thou thine arms, 
 Into life hew thy way, 
 Whether gloomy or gay 
 
 'Tis a fight hard and lor.g ; 
 If the combat unsparing 
 Make the weak cower despairing, 
 It can hut inspirit 
 
 The brave and the strong. 
 37
 
 A RHAPSODY. 
 
 FKOM THE PORTUGUESE OF GON^ALVES DIAS. 
 
 AH ! let mc not die without finding at least 
 For a moment, it may Ije, in life's weary waste 
 A love that is equal to mine : 
 Grant, Heavenly Powers, that on earth I may meet 
 An angel, a woman, your handiwork sweet, 
 Whose feelings with mine may entwine. 
 
 A soul that is sister to mine, and whose eyes 
 Can read my heart's thought though unuttered, and 
 rise 
 Through joy's broad clear sunshine with me ; 
 Then united, bound close, with a tie none may sever, 
 To the heavens we will soar, leaving earth's gloom 
 for ever. 
 Rapt in love's endless ecstasy.
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN
 
 SONNET. 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN OF I'ETRARCH. 
 
 I FELT already in my heart grow less 
 The spirit that from you receives its life ; 
 And since each earthly creature in its strife 
 'Gainst death doth naturally seek redress, 
 
 I loosed Desire, now curbed with much duress, 
 And sent it on the almost forgotten way 
 Whither, indeed, it calls me night and day, 
 But I lead elsewhere its unwillingness. 
 
 Me shamefaced and lingering did it bring 
 To see again those sweet eyes, which I fly 
 For fear that I to them be wearying. 
 
 Now I shall live awhile ; for there doth lie 
 In but your glance such power o'er my life's spring ; 
 Then, if I yield not to Desire, I die. 
 
 (See Appendix, Note J.) 
 
 41
 
 CHORUS 
 
 FROM T]IE FOURTH ACT OF TASSO's 'AMINTA. ' 
 
 WHAT Death would looiien thou, O Love, dost 
 bind, 
 The friend of Peace art thou, as he of War, 
 And in her triumph dost triumphant reign : 
 When round two gentle souls thy fetters wind 
 Thou makest Earth seem as the Heavens are, 
 While yet to dwell here thou dost not disdain. 
 On high there is no anger : men regain 
 P'rom thee tranquillity : and inward hate, 
 Seignior, thou drivest from each gracious heart : 
 A thousand Furies at thy glance depart : 
 Thy force supernal can almost create 
 From mortal things one glad eternal state. 
 
 4a
 
 FROM THE SWEDISH
 
 THE BRAZILIAN MAID. 
 
 FROM THE SWEDISH OF COUNT SNOILSKY. 
 
 NO, I shall ne'er forget the wondrous girl 
 Who shone at the Seine Prefect's fete so 
 bright ; 
 Star of Brazil — a stray guest of the night 
 'Midst Europe's puppets deep in fashion's whirl. 
 Fresh as South-West wind o'er Atlantic swirl, 
 She calmly gazed around with great clear eyes : 
 Each painted belle felt danger's keen surmise, 
 Fluttered each heart in cage of silk and pearl. 
 To stately grand-croix scarce a glance she threw, 
 Daughter of ancient forests, in whose sky 
 Glitters the Southern Cross the dusk night through. 
 We all drew near with words of flattery. 
 Then smiled America at Europe's crew 
 With laugh unmoved that rang most silvery. 
 
 (See Appendix, Note K.) 
 45
 
 II. 
 
 Once did I listen to a traveller old— 
 A seaman, weather-beaten, rough, was he- 
 Telling his tale of wanderings bold and free 
 Through tropic forests which new worlds enfold ; 
 A network grown for ages, uncontrolled, 
 Of climbing plants which no steel may sever, 
 Where nature's barrier mocks man's endeavour, 
 Blunting his axe's edge and crying ' Hold !' 
 Then, so 'tis said, resounds through leafy night 
 A laugh defiant, of unmeasured scorn 
 And challenge to the Old World's unequal might. 
 That wondrous voice is of the forest born, 
 And Pan through it of cultured man makes light. 
 Fair maid, learn'dst thou that laugh from sylvan faun ? 
 
 46
 
 VELAZQUEZ* 
 
 FROM THE SWEDISH OF COUNT SNOILSKY. 
 
 THE Beautiful in Art is but the True ? 
 Then stands Velazquez, laurel - crowned 
 alone : 
 Each stroke he draws seems life and force to own, 
 Limns he a princeling or a beggar crew. 
 Each pikeman's face looks out with swarthy hue. 
 As if well known, from misty Flemish days. 
 When Breda's governor gives the city keys 
 To brave Spinola— pledge of victory due. 
 Look at ' The Topers !' blissful, rosy red. 
 They reck not of their shirtless, sorry plight, 
 While down the ivy-wreath slips round the head. 
 So paints Velazquez and one other wight : 
 Poet, 'of brow with melancholy spread,' 
 Come not, I pray, with Raphael's name forthright. 
 
 * The principal works of the great Spanish painter, Velazque^i 
 are in the Museo in Madrid. The masterpieces referred to in 
 the sonnet arc named respectively ' Las Lanzas ' (the surrender 
 of Breda) and ' Los Fiorrachos.' 
 
 47
 
 THOROUGH. 
 
 FROM THE SWEDISH OF COUNT SNOILSKY. 
 
 ONE and one only must thy purpose be, 
 Whole and decided : 
 From giant force but pygmy deed wouldst see 
 Were it divided. 
 
 Thou must at once thy choice for ever make, 
 
 For strife or pleasure : 
 Must choose the kernel or the husk to take — 
 
 Repent at leisure. 
 
 Some seek for pearls, others for bubbles mere, 
 
 On life's sea cruising : 
 Complain not if the bubble disappear— 
 
 'Twas thine ov/n choosing. 
 
 48
 
 FROM THE GERMAN 
 
 49
 
 TO PETRARCH. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 
 
 IF truth of Laura thou hast sung indeed, 
 Her saintly look, and gracious, heavenly mien- 
 And far from me be doubt or question keen 
 Of that which was thy soul's most inward creed ! 
 Was she a flower sprung from celestial seed— 
 An angel amidst toil and strife terrene — 
 A gentle stranger on this earth's rough scene 
 That homeward soon her winged flight did speed ? 
 Then do I fear that on yon golden star 
 
 Where thou, transfigured, now at last art come, 
 
 Thou never wilt the longed-for one regain ; 
 
 For she has flown meanwhile on high afar, 
 
 In holier spheres received has found her home, 
 
 And thou must sing thy love lament again. 
 
 51
 
 THE FOREST WITCH.* 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF G. VON BODDIEN. 
 
 A HORSEMAN rides at wildest speed through 
 ^ *- wood, o'er brier and bracken, 
 Nor will he heed the hovering form that becks his 
 
 course to slacken ; 
 • My couch is not on sunny heath, nor in the forest 
 
 gloaming. 
 Afar from me my bright love waits, and Cease, she 
 
 cries, thy roaming. 
 
 ' Begone, begone, thou phantom shape, why dost 
 thou vainly follow ? 
 
 Too cold thy slender cloudy form, thine eyes are dead 
 and hollow ! 
 
 My love has whiter arms than thou, her eyes like stars 
 are gleaming. 
 
 Her kiss is warm, her laugh rings clear, thy threaten- 
 ing is but seeming.' 
 
 * Written for Rubinstein's music. Published by Stanley 
 Lucas, Weber and Co., New Bond Street. 
 
 53
 
 The heron screams, the charger's flanks 'neath Iiloody 
 
 spurs are streaming, 
 The woman's form towers giant high I Is this awake 
 
 or dreaming ? 
 On, on they fly through wood, o'er wold, till like a 
 
 vulture stooping 
 With clutch and dash the shape descends, upon the 
 
 bridle swooping ; 
 
 And now she has him by the arm, while through the 
 
 darkness crashing, 
 The air grows hot, the rider swoons, the witch's eyes 
 
 are flashing. 
 Two paces from the fallen steed there in the forest 
 
 gloaming 
 The horseman in her arms lies dead, and 'Cease,' 
 
 love cries, ' thy roaming !' 
 
 S3
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF HISTORY 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OK PAUL HEYSE. 
 
 WIDER the world's delights are teeming, 
 More deep or high they hardly seem, 
 Though more good folks to-day are dreaming 
 In pleasant guise this life's old dream. 
 Yet he whose day began among 
 The group on Plato's lips that hung. 
 Who saw in Phidias' studio 
 A godlike form from marble grow, 
 Heard in the theatre at even 
 Antigone with Greek chorus given, 
 And with Aspasia and her coterie 
 Might sup as a familiar votary, 
 Has writ more pleasure on life's pages 
 Than we have after all these ages. 
 
 54
 
 FROM THE DUTCH
 
 SONNET. 
 
 FROM THE DUTCH OF PIETER CORNELISZOON HOOFT. 
 
 HOPE'S guiding stars, ye planets of my youth, 
 Eyes that I know are lit from heaven's fire, 
 Vou, when your windows close, from me retire 
 My life's support, joys full of tender truth ; 
 For you shut in a gladdening power, in sooth. 
 And friendly gaiety : Love with all its quire. 
 Wit, laughter, and each grace therein conspire, 
 And a whole world of charm and pleasure both. 
 Nature, who seems entombed in mists that lower, 
 Wanting your brightness, mourns her richest dower. 
 That you enshrine in space so narrow made ; 
 Yet 'tis not narrow, as without it seems. 
 But wide and wild enough to hold all dreams, 
 ^^^lerein my fickle soul so far has strayed. 
 
 (See Appendix, Note L. ) 
 
 57
 
 SONNET. 
 
 FROM THE DUTCH OF PIETER CORNELISZOON HOOFT. 
 
 MY Lady, Love, and I— hard strife have we, 
 Wherein all three may well be overthrown, 
 For I and Love aye burn for her alone. 
 And she loves but herself, spite Love and me. 
 If she through her self-love her ruin see. 
 Love without her will not long make his moan ; 
 And if you die, O Love, I too must own 
 My life, whose stay you were, will ended be. 
 Yet if it so befall not, what wait I 
 But grief from pain ? Lament from misery ? 
 Woe from my smart ? Despair from all my fear ? 
 Whilst Love himself my Lady comes to woo, 
 Who loves herself : when were foes like these two 
 In all the world so hard to lover e'er ? 
 
 <;8
 
 APPENDIX
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 WITH the exception of Cervantes and Calderon, 
 probably verj' few of the Spanish poets of the 
 sixteenth and seventeenth centuries are well known 
 in this country ; and Camoens is almost the only Por- 
 tuguese poet whose name is familiar to English ears. 
 It may, therefore, not be out of place to add one or 
 two brief notes on some of those writers from whom 
 translations are given. 
 
 Note A. 
 Page 13.— Cervantes (1547-1616) is best known 
 to us by his Don Quixote, but he wrote many 
 plays, some of which remain, and various tales, 
 as well as pastoral romances. The sonnet is from 
 one of the latter, entitled Galatea. 
 
 Note B. 
 Page 14.— It was GONGORA (1561-1627) who first 
 introduced the ' cultivated style ' into Spanish litera- 
 ture. The poems written by him in his earlier period 
 possess a certain simplicity and dignity, but as these 
 did not succeed in attracting attention, he adopted 
 
 61
 
 the affected and extravagant manner, which had many 
 imitators and is classed as 'Gongorism.' He is too 
 often unintelligible to the best critics among his 
 countrymen, and commentaries have been written to 
 elucidate his obscure meaning. 
 
 Note C. 
 
 Page 15. — ^JuAN Ruiz de Alarcon y Mendoza 
 
 born in Mexico ; died in Spain, 1639) may be classed 
 
 with the most eminent Spanish dramatists of that 
 
 brilliant period of the National Theatre. This 
 
 Decima ' (ten-line stanza) was written by him on a 
 
 nobleman of unamiable reputation. 
 
 Note D. 
 
 Page 16. — The real founder of the Spanish theatre 
 was Lope de Vega {1562- 1635). The fertility of 
 his genius is astounding ; he is said to have written 
 1,500 plays, and these, with the epics, pastorals, 
 odes, and sonnets, which he continually poured 
 forth, gained for him the foremost place among his 
 contemporaries. He took priest's orders about 1614. 
 
 Note E. 
 
 Page 18. — Quevedo (1570-1647) attained his cele- 
 brity principally as a prose writer, by his theological 
 and metaphysical works, and also by his satires. 
 Naturally, however, his striking compositions in verse 
 are more pop'alar, and from these the sonnet is taken. 
 
 62
 
 Note F. 
 Page 19. — Wilh great powers of imagination and 
 invention, Caldero.x (1600-1681) yet takes rank 
 below his master, Lope de Vega. Some two 
 hundred plays and autos were written by him, and 
 with Philip IV. as his patron he furnished numerous 
 dramatic spectacles for the Court. 
 
 Note G. 
 Page 20. — This 'Decima' is from the Doloras of 
 the eminent living Spanish poet Campoamor. 
 
 Note H. 
 Page 27. — The Cantata de Dido is introduced in a 
 scene of the comedy entitled Assemblea on Fartida, 
 by Pedro Antonio Correa Garcao {1724- 1772). 
 A splendid edition de luxe of his works (sonnets> 
 odes, satires, epistles, and dramatic pieces) has been 
 published by the distinguished Brazilian delegate in 
 London, the Conselheiro J. A. de Azevedo Castro, 
 who has thus rendered a great literary service to- 
 Portugal. 
 
 Note L 
 
 Page 33.— Antonio Goncalves Dias (1823- 
 1864) is regarded as the great representative poet of 
 Brazil. The Caufdo do Exilio, written by him while 
 at the University of Coimbra, in Portugal, is probably 
 the best known of his compositions. He was a 
 
 63
 
 journalist, a dramatist, and a Government official ; he 
 visited Europe three times, and died on his last voyage 
 home to Rio de Janeiro. 
 
 Note J. 
 
 Page 41. — Sonetto XXXIX. (in the Canzoniere, 32), 
 In Viia di Madonna Laura. 
 
 Note K. 
 
 Page 45. — The poems translated from the Swedish 
 are from an early volume of Count Snoilsky (who 
 continues to write), published in Stockholm and 
 entitled Dikter. 
 
 Note L. 
 
 fage 57. — HOOFT (1581-1647) is one of the most 
 distinguished poets of the Republic of the Nether- 
 lands. Besides his lesser productions he wrote 
 several tragedies, and may be considered the founder 
 of the Dutch stage. He achieved equal celebrity in 
 prose, his History of the Netherlands being a model 
 •of style. 
 
 64
 
 This book is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below 
 
 wrr'n rn.nnr 
 
 ij^ JUL 8 
 
 MAY 2 9 
 
 1 
 
 1)^ 
 
 m'^ 
 
 e 
 
 ^n 
 
 lOm-ll, '50(2555)470 
 
 SMIVB«£ITY OF CALiFORNU: 
 
 LOS AnamjA^
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 416 412 5
 
 m