LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. V^^ mpif Sup^rigli :|o UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 1 ^/ ^ Poems and Swedish TRSNSLimoNS. POEMS AND Swedish Translations BY FREDERICK PETERSON, M. D ^^ Except that I have associated for a season with the rose I am the same clay I was before.'''' — GULISTAN OF SAADI. J.3 BUFFALO, N. Y. ^^^^^^^S^-"^ ^ Peter Paul & Bro., Publishers, 363 Main Street. 1883. COPYRIGHT BY FREDERICK PETERSON,. M. D. 1883. Peter Paul & Bro., Printers. TO AGNES ETHEL THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED. CONTENTS. To MY Mother. . . . . iq To SiGFRIDE. . . . . -17 Sorrow. ..... 19 The Water-lilies. . . . . 21 The Quest. ..... 23. In the Rose-Garden of Saadi. . . . 25 The Poem. . . . . . 27 The Stars. — Franzen. . . . .29 An Unforgotten Song. . . 31 The Zoroastrian. . . . -33 The Robber. ..... 35 A Morning Song. . . . . -37 A Health. ..... 39 Christmas Eve. — Runeberg. . . .41 The Wayside Crucifix. ... 45 A Fancy. . . . . . -47 The Coffin of St. Julien. ... 49 The Coronation. . . . • 5^ At the Green Fir Tavern. . . . 53 Little Karin. — Swedish Folk-song. The Arrows. To A Songstress. For L. C. What Dying Is, . . . To T.iTTLE Rosalie. A Ballad of War-time. Why does it Sigh so Heavy in the Forest Malmstrdm. ... Necken. — Stagnelius. The Path. .... The Dream of the Hyacinth. An Extravaganza. . . . A Drinking Song. — Bellman. Winter. ..... Snow. , . . . The Sicilian Triad. Hide and Seek. . Remorse. ..... The Catacombs. The Bluebells' Chorus. A Rainy Night. In Prison. .... Roses on the Grave. — von Braun. Neckrosen. — Botiiger. A Wish. .... I WILL Slumber. — von Braun. The Wonderful Harp. — Swedish Folk-song. On the Moldau. .... 59 6i 63 65 67 69 73 75 77 79 81 83 85 87 89 91 93 95 97 99 101 103 ^05 107 109 117 To LiLi. . . . . . 119 The Little Collier-Boy. — Geijer. . . 121 The Laplander's Song. — Franzen. . . 125 The Crusader. . . . . ,129 Ashes to Ashes. . . . . 131 Cradle-song for my Heart. — Runeberg. . 133 Happiness. . . . . . 137 Her Soul and Body. . . . • ^39 To Elin. . . . . . 141; The Brook. .... . 143 The Lost Dreams. . . . .145 NoRRLAND. — Graf Strom. ' . . . -147 In the Harz. . . . . .151 The Pythoness. , . . . -153 Thy Bouquet. . . . . 155 Between THE Twilight AND the Dawn. . 157 Ebba af Hjelmsater. , . . . 159 The Death of Hope. . . . .161 With a Water-lily, — Ibsen. . . 163 The Flame in the Wind. . . • 165 The Bell. ..... 167 The Mummy. , . . . .169 To Music. . . . . . 171 To THE Silent King. . . . '173 Axel. . . . . .177 Notes to Axel. . . . . .219 " Hoiv the Jloivers of the aspen-plum flutter and turn ! Do I not think of you ? But your hotise is distant. The Master said, ^ It is the 7vant of thought about it. How is it distant /" " — K'UNG FOO-TSZE. To my Mother, 1 5 TO MY MOTHER. Through these long months thy love shall bless A lonely roamer over seas, So love me more and sorrow less. Each tender smile, each past caress — How very dear to him are these, Whom through long years thy love shall bless, 1 6 To my Mother. Who to his bosom aye^shall press The new-found flower of love — heartsease So love me more and sorrow less. To listening Fates each night address A low-voiced prayer upon thy knees, That they long years our love may bless. Perhaps the pitying Sisters guess How Hope the loveless bosom flees : Love, love me more — to sorrow less ! Love shall come back in tenderness, Across the months, across the seas, The steadfast love thy love does bless ; So love me more and sorrow less. To Sigfride. 17 TO SIGFRIDE. The sweetest flower that blows I give you as we part ; For you it is a rose ; For me it is my heart. The fragrance it exales, (Ah ! if you only knew) Which but in dying fails, It is my love of you. 1 8 To Sigfride. The sweetest flower that grows I give you as we part ; You think it but a rose ; Ah, me ! it is my heart. Sorrow. ig SORROW. She came as queen in robes of gray ; A doleful chant her maidens sung ; She drove alas ! all joy away, With her sad eyes and mournful tongue. And art thou really Sorrow ? ' ' her Some sudden fancy made me ask ; She answered not, but I aver, S/ie smiled, the rogue, behind her mask ! The Water-lilies. 21 THE WATER-LILIES. On slender piles above the river, The mansions of the lakemen stand ; The calm, blue waters kiss and quiver ; The airs bring perfume from the land. All day the lakemen dreaming lie, The fine airs over, waters under, On golden beds beneath the sky Which sunshine makes a golden wonder. 22 The Water-lilies. At night-fall close their four green doors, Lest some stray moonbeam, dangerous fellow. Should feast upon the precious stores Of perfume and of honey mellow. All night the lakemen lie in slumbers. The too sweet day in sleep forgetting ; The waves chime low in tuneful numbers ; No memory makes a vain regretting. Happy the lakemen dreaming so. Upon their couches golden-yellow, With nought of sorrow or of woe — Would I were with them, careless fellow ! The Quest. 23 THE QUEST. " Where is my body? I cannot find it ! ** I have been seeking the wide world over. " O who could hide it, O who could bind it, '^ From me a roamer, a lonely rover ? '' Where is my body ? I cannot find it ! " When from the earth-life her soul was parted, It stood in silence and woe and wonder, And now her spirit seeks broken-hearted Her body lying the green earth under — Ah ! from her body her soul is parted. 24 The Quest. And ever vainly her gentle spirit Is seeking, seeking the wide world over ; She loved the earth-life, she would be near it ; She seeks her body, the lonely rover, Ah, ever vainly, the gentle spirit ! In the Rose- Garden of Saadt. 25 IN THE ROSE-GARDEN OF SAADL A rare old garden this is, Saadi ; You made it centuries ago, But roses here still bloom and blow, And souls are called here from the body To wander happily to and fro. A rare old garden, Saadi, this is, To walk in when the winds are brusk ; These flowers exale an opiate musk Which soothes the spirit in its blisses Afloat upon the purple dusk. 26 In the Rose- Garden of Saadi. This garden, Saadi, rare and old is ; Whom can I ask to share its bloom. Its damask vapors and perfume. Its red beds where the sunset's gold is ? Whom else to share it, Saadi, whom ? Hie Poem. 27 THE POEM. Alas ! (how sad a word alas is !) I would again I were that room in So dear because of one dear woman Whom Memory meets but never passes, The chamber her great eyes illumine- Alas ! how sad a word alas is ! She was a Poem, a sweet thing created By God or some undreamed-of forces, Planned ere the suns began their courses. And in long ages after fated To seek again her secret sources — A gentle Poem, some sweet thing created. 28 The Poem, How very sad my soul, alas, is. To be again the splendid room in. Which those two torches do illumine, Where Memory halts and never passes Because of love of one dear woman, But kneels remote in shadowy masses ! V The Stars. 29 THE STARS. From the Swedish of F. M. Franzen. Little Fanny looked so glad At the shining stars and said, ** With how many eyes I see ' ' God look down on me ! ' ' ^' God is also still more near, " Fanny ! see the flowers here. " Just as God's eyes, flowers thus '^ Friendly look on us." 30 The Stars. '^ Mother ! now first clear and fair " Do I see Him. Know you where ? *' There from out your eyes I see '' God smile down on me ! " An Unforgotten Song. 31 AN UNFORGOTTEN SONG. One day to me an angel gave A melody unknown of men ; Down in my heart I made a grave- The song I buried then. I did not make the grave so deep, But that through many a lonely hour, Its ghost now haunts me in my sleep, With all its mournful power. 32 An Unf or gotten Song. The music murmurs in my sleep In melody unknown to men ; I did not make its grave so deep But that it comes again. The Zoroastrian. 33 THE ZOROASTRIAN. As once perhaps in olden days Beneath the far-off Persian skies, Some reverent one of patient ways Did hours before the sun arise To hasten in the starlit morn Up some high hill when winds were cold, To wait the moment day is born, To kneel before the disk of gold ; And when the long rays were descried, Which leaped forth from the golden rim Of that great star he deified. To pour out orisons to him — As may have done this devotee, I wake, I wait, I kneel to thee. The Robber. 35 THE ROBBER. Quick ! see the lawless brigand go Around the hill and through the wold, With pearls and diamonds all aglow And all agleam with stolen gold ! Now hidden in the secret woods, He hath no longer need to fret, But softly counts his precious goods- The robber is the rivulet. A Morning Song. 37 A MORNING SONG. The night is gone, the winds renew, The stars have vanished one by one ; The flowers lift their cups of dew And drink a health unto the sun. The air is full of orchard blooms, And soft the white drifts come and go ; They fill the orchard's ample rooms With their sweet-scented summer snow. 38 A Morning Song. I could no longer find my woes, Were I to seek them all the day ; They are too deep in summer snows, The orchard blooms are in the way. A Health. 39 A HEALTH. A strange Knight with his visor drawn, With gleaming eye and glancing spear, Sought entrance at the gate at dawn ; His princely voice and air austere Bespoke both Knight and steed good cheer- But ere the eve the guest was gone. Aye, ere the eve came red and brown Up from the ocean with the breeze, The stranger left the coast and town. But with the fairest maid of these, To cross the gray November seas. And bind her to his foreign crown. 4© A Health, Deep, deep this bitter cup I drain In honor of her gentle eyes, Her tender mouth that showed no pain, Her hair blown under alien skies, Of her become the plunderer's prize, Of her I shall not see again ! Christmas Eve. 41 CHRISTMAS EVE. From the Swedish of Runeberg. The moon shone white upon the down ; The hungry lynx cried in the hedge ; The dog's long howl came from the town, When someone walked at the forest edge, Whose hut lay out upon the wold j The Christmas Eve was drear and cold. He quickened wearily his pace, Upon the pathway drifted o'er. To meet his dear ones' sweet embrace ; To them some Christmas bread he bore Asked at a wealthy farmer's gate — For they themselves but bark-bread ate. 42 Christmas Eve. It darkened more and more, when lo ! He saw a boy alone and still, Who sat upon the drifted snow And breathed within his fingers chill ; And by the twilight still undimmed Half- frozen he already seemed. " Ah, whither goest thou, poor son? " Come home with me and warm thee, pray ! So said, he took the frozen one And erelong reached the garden way Which to his humble cottage led, His guest with him and loaf of bread. His wife beside the fireplace sat. The youngest child upon her breast. " You were so long in coming that '' You must be tired. Come here and rest, ^^ And you come too ! " — so kind, so true. The stranger to the hearth she drew. Christmas Eve. 43 It was not long before her care Had made the red flames livelier rise ; Unmindful then herself to spare, She took the bread with glad surprise, And with a bowl of milk in store. Both forward for the supper bore. Then quickly from the straw-strewn floor Unto the table sparely laid The happy children went before, But by the wall the stranger staid ; Yet kindly she the little guest Led to a place among the rest. When now the thankful prayer was said, For each a share of bread she broke. — ** Let blessed be that gift of bread I " So from the bench the strange lad spoke. And tears his shining eyes forsook As he the offered portion took. 44 Christmas Eve. But when she turned to break again, Quite whole had grown the loaf he blessed- She fixed her eyes in wonder then Upon the lad, her little guest. When still more marvellous than before, He seemed to be the same no more. For clear as stars his eyes now gleamed ; A halo from his forehead shone ; A robe, fall'n from his shoulders, seemed Like mist upon the breezes blown, And suddenly an angel, fair As any in the skies, was there. Their home was full of blissful light ; Each heart with hope and joy was fraught j It was an unforgotten night Within the good-man's humble cot; No feast was fairer or more blest, Because an angel was their guest. The Wayside Crucifix. 45 THE WAYSIDE CRUCIFIX. A wooden Christ, a wooden cross — They mark this still and sacred spot, Where people pause to pray who pass That He forget them not. The winds are cold and black the skies. The rain falls from that drooping face Like tears, like tears from sorrowing eyes. And floods the holy place. 46 The Wayside Crucifix. It is a pitying Christ ! alas ! And shall I halt or shall I flee ? O should I pray here as I pass That He forget not me ? A Fancy. 47 A FANCY. Some snapping asunder of strings hath bereft us Of thy musical laughter so sadder than weeping ; And some kind of calmness and silence is left us By thy marvellous sleeping. Thy innocent heart it has throbbed into breaking, And a trance in thy face makes it paler and colder- How blest is the fancy there may be a waking When the ages are older ! A Fancy, 48 That somewhere away in the barren abysses My shadow may meet thine, and mingle in meeting With sweeter caresses than those of our kisses, Which on earth were so fleeting ! That mine may afar in strange regions draw near it, Abroad in the cold, in the dim-lighted spaces ; That again and again and again the dark spirit It may clasp in embraces ! O Fancy, sweet Fancy, steal, steal away reason. And tell me when comes this divorcement from sorrow, And when shall this bliss be, this heavenly season — Tomorrow ? Tomorrow. The Coffin of St. Julien. 49 THE COFFIN OF ST. JULIEN. Lines in a bottle cast into the sea. Stranger, in this narrow cell Dwelled a soul with love to cheer it ; Ah, whose was it ? mark it well ! 'Twas St. Julien's gentle spirit. Sweet and sacred was this saint ; Health was his — now ours we term it His own glow our cheeks doth paint — Heirs of this immortal hermit. 50 The Coffin of St. Juli en. Lone and old he did much good From this cell — O Time endear it Now we feel our lives imbued With the sparkle of his spirit. Stranger, hear the praise we sing In sad verse, for gods confirm it Go — and other votaries bring To the Coffin of the Hermit ! The Coronation, 51 THE CORONATION. Go, Memory, return, you know the way Along the many paths which have been ours, Go till you reach the gloomy aisle of firs That leads up to that little country church, And lay these flowers upon the grave of her — Pansies they are which she had loved so much. And think, O messenger^ that where you walk Once in the old time Death came in to her ! A clear, melodious voice, nor far, nor near. Nor full, nor faint, nor measurable in tone. Had read to her the legends on the stones And died away above the golden hiils. And there before a cavern's marble door, Smiling she stood, but started suddenly, For straight she knew upon her temples hung The tangled poppies and sad cypress crown : She felt them — drooped her head — and entered in, Leaving the green day and the sunlit fields. At the Green Fir Tavern. 53 AT THE GREEN FIR TAVERN. Down through the windows open wide, To fix the noonday on the floor , The fir-tree's gloomy fingers glide — They glide and pause and glide once more. There sits the round-faced drowsy host ! Perhaps some song is in his pipe, Some song to lull, some smoke-like ghost Of Bacchus when the grape is ripe. 54 ^^ the Green Fir Tavern. Without a gray old harper stands, And through the noiseless golden noon, The strings pour forth beneath his hands A wailing, sweet Italian tune. A lonely traveller sits and dreams. And dreams have filled his soul anew ; The mountain wine, the music, seems To set his sad heart singing too. For Her the harper strikes the strings ; The traveller's dream, this song, is Hers ; And loud of Her the throstle sings Within the twilight of the firs. Little Karin. 55 LITTLE KARIN. A Swedish folk-song. Once served the little Karin Within the young king's hall ; She was a bright star beaming Among the maidens small. Among the maidens beaming, She seemed a star aglow ; And once the young king whispered To little Karin so : 56 Little Karin. " And hear thou, little Karin, '' Say, wilt thou now be mine ? '* Gray charger and gold saddle — '* These both shall straight be thine.'' '' Gray charger and gold saddle '^ I do not care for — no, '' Give them to thy young queen and " Let me with honor go ! " " And hear thou, little Karin, " Say, wilt thou now be mine ? '' My reddest crown and golden, " That also shall be thine." '^ Thy reddest crown and golden ^' I do not care for — no, ^' Give that to thy young queen and '' Let me with honor go ! " Little Karin. 57 '' And hear thou, little Karin, '' Say, wilt thou now be mine ? " The half of all my kingdom, '' That also shall be thine." '' The half of all thy kingdom ^' I do not care for — no, '' Give that to thy young queen and '' Let me with honor go ! " '' And hear thou, little Karin. '* If thou wilt not be mine, '' Then into the spiked barrel *' Shall go that form of thine ! " '' If into the spiked barrel '' To put me thou art bent, ^'' God's angels fair shall see it *' That I am innocent." 58 Little Karin. So in the spiked barrel They little Karin bound, And all the king's retainers They rolled her round and round. But then there came from Heaven Two white doves fair to see ; They took up little Karin — And straightway there were three. And up from Hell came flying Two ravens black to see ; They took the young king with them- And straightway there were three. The Arrows. 59 THE ARROWS. I am sore wounded ; I sat in the woodland As the moon rose ; I arose when the moon did, And walked in the woodland ; How sad the wind blows ! She came when the moon did, The sweet rose, the fair rose Love deifies. Ah ! I am sore wounded, By the keen arrows That came from her eyes. To a Songstress. 6i TO A SONGSTRESS. For L. C. A tone melodious and low As we have sometime heard in dreams, With mellow modulated flow Of murmurs under streams, A tone blithe birds in happy valley. On branches swaying to and fro, May answer clear and musically. That tone is thine, and since to me It seems as sweet and rare a note As e'er was plained by bird, or bee That singeth in a lily's throat, Then let these lines faint, far and lowly, Speak mutely praises unto thee, As echoes of their echoes wholly. 62 To a Songstress. But if thy voice be sweet and rare As tunes of rill and bird and bee, Thyself art like the lily fair Wherein the bee sings gleefully ; And well do they who feel the power Of one dear song of thine declare, ^' Yea, thou art like unto a flower ! " What Dying Is. 63 WHAT DYING IS. To leave the turmoil and the careful tumult, And wander vaguely to a pleasant region, Where green fields glow with sheen of summer sunset, And narrow farther to a sylvan vista, Whence issue sounds to soothe the spirit's trouble; To hear the laugh and gurgle of low waters, And young birds sing with a diviner music. And young birds carol with a lovelier music, And evening winds that walk with fainter footfall Unto the white clouds and the bluer sky-depths ; To rest a little some green willow under. Whose branches whisper in that shadow-garden, And hold that hand which hath the tenderest pressure, And touch sweet lips just as thine eyes are closing : This is that failing ere the sunset's fading, This is that dying ere the morn immortal ! 64 What Dying Is. To see blue-hooded violets reposing Among the grasses twining to caress thee And kiss thy cheek, as if thou wert a sister, And warm thee with their breath of heavenly odor, As if thou wert to them indeed a sister ; To find some quiet in the willow vista, Some little slumber in that shadow-garden : This is that evening of thy dreamless sleeping, This is that slumber ere the life immortal ! A gentle waking to a newer beauty, A gradual unfolding to the soul-life, As though a rose's chrysalid transported Into the blooming valley of that Eden ; A slow unfolding of an early blossom ; A little kneeling at the sapphire portals. And consciousness of all surcease of heartache. Tumultuous tremor as the soul receiveth The grander splendor of the spheral chorus. That joy which " passeth human understanding This is that coming of another morning. This is that morning of the life immortal ! To Little Rosalie. 65 TO LITTLE ROSALIE. If you were in my garden, maiden, The flowers would say : " This truly is our little sister '^ Of yesterday, '' The one we thought the angels laid in *' Her dreams away — '* How sweeter, dearer since we missed her ! The flowers would say. They would your tiny form so treasure, You could not go, Your wee, wee feet and hanging tresses Entangle so, That you would lie amidst their pressure And sheen and glow And sweet breath and old-time caresses, And could not go. 66 To Little Rosalie. The trees would look down glad and smiling Upon you too ; The rose-buds would burst quick asunder To look at you, The skies find such blue eyes beguiling As lovers do, And brown bees haunt your mouth in wonder, But fear of you. A Ballad of War-time. 67 A BALLAD OF WAR-TIME. At night upon a lonely road A traveller hurries fast, And who has known his drear abode Will look at him aghast ! He comes from distant foreign lands, And something strange he bears ; He holds his own head in his hands, And wo fully it stares. 68 A Ballad of War-time. A soldier is he, and was slain By cruel scimetar, And long, long years his form has lain By high-walled Temesvar. Each night his home to find he tries, Beside the Elbe wave — In vain ! when dawn is come he lies In this same cursed grave. Ah, piteous fate, that he who shed For love his patriot blood. Restless and longing, even dead, Must lie in hated sod ! At night upon a lonely road A traveller hurries fast, And who has known his drear abode Will look at him aghast ! Why does it Sigh so Heavy in the Forest ? 69 WHY DOES IT SIGH SO HEAVY IN THE FOREST ? From the Swedish of B. E. Malmstrbm. A little lad is sitting a bleak autumnal even In quiet playing by a yellow lind ; He sees the lighted windows above him in the Heaven, And hears the leaves in prattle on the wind ; But while he sits in fancy and many visions sees, The even of September grows darker in the trees ; Then does it sigh so heavy in the forest. yo If'/iy does it Sigh so Heavy in the Forest f The little lad he listened, becoming sad in mood, Then rose and ran along the path in haste ; He thought dark thoughts of evil that froze his very blood, And went astray upon the heather waste ; He thought then of his father, his mother, sisters dear : '' God help me who am little; I would I were not here ! " Then does it sigh so heavy in the forest. The moon ascends now softly from out the cloudy rift And casts its silver mantle o'er the earth ; The frightened shadows hurry to the mountain bases swift, And elfish trolls are flitting to the north ; The mountain summits gleam, but the wildwood it is murk, And owls pour forth their dirges within the rainy birk ; Then does it sigh so heavy in the forest. The little lad then hastened across the moorland wide. And thought of many an olden fairy lay. While night went on and over and stars of Heaven did glide, But from his homeward path he went astray. *' Ye gentle stars above me, that move so loftily, " Ye withered little blossoms, O tell it, tell it me, '^ Who was it sighed so heavy in the forest? ' JV/iy does it Sigh so Heavy in the Forest ? 71 But all the stars were silent, and little blossoms still, And many tears of bitterness he shed ; Then came he to an elf-grot, with winged swiftness, till He stood amidst their airy ring and said : " O ye that move in dances on the heather-growing lea, '* Ye beautiful small sisters, O tell it, tell it me, ' ' Who was it sighed so heavy in the forest ? ' ' The little queen of elfins now in her smiling way Caressed the lad upon his rosy cheek : '' Weep not, thou pretty lo^t one, although so far astray, *' Although so frightened in the woodland bleak, *' But sit here on the greensward of the heather-growing lea, '' And dry thine eyes so tearful and I will tell to thee " Who was it sighed so heavy in the forest. '' When night descends serenely upon the land and deep, *' And noisy day begins to vanish slow, "And underneath the green isle the billows go to sleep, '* And all the beauteous stars commence to glow — " Then mirror-clear and beaming becomes the heavenly dome, " And hosts of kindly angels beneath it mutely roam • "And weep their silver tears upon the earth. 72 Why does it Sigh so Heavy in the Forest ? " Then sees in Heaven's great mirror, poor earth, her form of sin, '' And finds herself a black and spurned abode ; *' She reckons up her sins and all murders, lies within, '' Of which a thousand years have formed her load ; " And through her vital marrow death's shudders tremble then, " Confesses every mountain and prays then every glen, *' Then does it sigh so heavy in the forest." " Have thanks, thou queen of elfins ! I shall forget no more, '' Nor shall I fear my homeward way to go ; ** Lo ! there the moon beams brightly upon my path before. '^ Farewell ! we shall not soon forget, I know, ** Each other, and though lowly and very poor I be, '' Yet unto God I promise that never shall for me " It sigh so heavy in the forest ! " Necken. 73 NECKEN. From the Swedish of E. J. Stagnelius. Golden clouds at eve are glancing ; Elves upon the heath are dancing, And the leave-crowned Necken ever Rings his harp in the silver river. Lo ! a lad where trees are sighing, In the violets' vapor lying. Hears the sound the waters weave in Night, and calls through quiet even ; 74 Necken. " Poor old minstrel, wherefore chanting? * ' Will not sorrows cease their haunting ? " Though thou field and wood enliven '' Still by God thou art not forgiven. '^ Paradise's moonlit shadows, " Eden's flower-crowned meadows, *' Angels high, whose lights enfold them — ^'' Will thine eyes no more behold them ?" Tears the old man's face are laving; Down he dives in the waters waving, While his harp grows still and never Sings again in the silver river. The Path. 75 THE PATH. I leave my home at early day, To follow silent through the wood A crooked, rambling, pleasant way, With flowers and birds a multitude. The rivulet glides by swift and still ; Loud rondels sings the happy thrush ; But oft I leave him when I will. And seek the deeper woodland hush. 76 The Path. Presently it is afternoon ; Then from the mountain steal the shades ; The sun will leave the valley soon, And in the mist the pathway fades. But ah ! can I have lost my way ? There is no mark there is no light ; The path may baffle and betray ; Where does it lead to ? It is night. The Dream of the Hyacinth. 77 THE DREAM OF THE HYACINTH. *' Last night the Dream -god made of me " A mortal maiden, and I lay ^' Pale in the grass beneath a tree '' Until a young knight came that way. ' * He took me in his arms and said, '' He loved me, I should be his bride ; *' He kissed my lips till they were red '' And called me sweet-breathed, purple-eyed." 78 The Dream of the Hyacinth. So dreams the flower ; its dream is deep ; It cannot tell me, but I know ; How long will these magicians keep The maid in this miholy sleep Before again they let her go ? An Extravaganza. 79 AN EXTRAVAGANZA. After a Nocturne of Chofin. Have I a lover Who is noble and free ? — / would he were nobler Than to love me. — Emerson. Thou art so near me, I do hold thee, I clasp this clay which thou dost seem of ; Thou art so distant — I enfold thee, But thou art far from that I dream of. Below, the river hurries madly — Thou art so near me, I do hold thee — The river — ah, I ponder sadly How I but clasp thee, kiss, enfold thee ! 8o An Extravaganza. Come, love, come to me and discover How I but clasp, enfold and kiss thee ; Thou art so noble, but thy lover. He must not love thee, can not miss thee. Deep down in this forgetful river, Come, love, come with me, I do hold thee- One moment's pain — my soul forever Shall clasp thee, kiss thee and enfold thee. A Drinking Song. 81 A DRINKING SONG. From the Swedish of Bellman. Drink out thy glass ! see, Death is waiting for thee, Whetting his sword upon thy threshold here ! Be not afraid ! he but the grave before thee Opens, then closes haply yet for a year. Movitz, consumption hangs threatening o'er thee ! Strike now the octave ! Tune up thy strings and sing of spring and good cheer f Yellow complexion, thin cheeks faintly blooming, Breast sunken in and flattened shoulderblade — Let's see your hand ! each vein, so blue and fuming. Seems as if swelled and in moist vapor clad — Damp are thy. hands and their veins stiff as clay now ! Strike up and play now I Empty thy bottle^ sing and drink and be glad ! Winter. 83 WINTER. Now round the rivulet's castle walls Resound no more the summer's praises, But scarce heard through its frozen halls A melody runs in secret places : For though the wood lies deep with snow Which veils from us the mosses' slumbers, The stream with soft, unceasing flow Goes gliding down in golden numbers. 84 Winter. What language speaks the beauteous stream, With murmurs under its green apsis, Unconscious voicings of its dream, And music of its gentle lapses ? Is this but gravity which sings ? Or blithe joy in a sense of being, Or knowledge of more wondrous things. And miracles beyond our seeing ? Snow. 85 SNOW. Some snowflakes fallen from afar, Pale, cold, of shining purity. Seem like unto a beauteous star. But they are much more like to thee- I cannot write how like they are. The sun may look out any day. And they will seek again the skies, But not till melted quite away To drops which sparkle like thine eyes- Ah, me, if thou wouldst melt as they ! 86 Snow. Because so beautiful and far, So pale and cold in purity, I deem them like a lovely star. But they are much more like to thee- Ah, Heaven, how very like they are ! The Sicilian Triad. 87 THE SICILIAN TRIAD. Where are they gone, Ah, whither fled, The songs at dawn ? Where are they gone ? We muse upon Their singers dead. Where are they gone. Ah, whither fled ? Sweet sounds they drew From heath and hill, Where soft winds blew — Sweet sounds they drew, Grown faint and few And almost still ; Sweet sounds they drew From heath and hill. SS The Sicilian Triad. Ah, now no more Such songs are sung ! The years of yore Come now no more, With their sweet lore In sweeter tongue. Ah, now no more Such songs are sung ! Hide and Seek. 89 HIDE AND SEEK. Though loitering far, I hear the shout Of happy children in their play ; Some hide and others seek them out — How sweet it were to be as they ! Ah ! merrily their voices come Across the churchyard green to me ; God well may bless the distant hum Of rosy children in their glee ! 90 Hide and Seek. Play, little ones, and run and shout Among the purple heather blooms ! If some day cares should be about, Or old, wan Sorrow seek you out — Then run and hide among the tombs Remorse. 9 r REMORSE. I saw you once and in that hour I wrote a song to last a day, Which said your body seemed a flower, Your soul its fragrance seemed alway. You thought me bold ; and now I sigh Because the sorry rhyme I rue j Alas ! a thoughtless wretch was I Who dared compare a flower to you ! The Catacombs. 93 THE CATACOMBS. Remember ? How one word can stir These desolate recesses, As if a magic word it were Which curses or which blesses ! The labyrinth is damp and dark ; Here woe, grief, sin are buried ; Ah, read the lines the torches mark, By which the walls are serried ! 94 The Catacombs. Up, up into glad day again ! New hopes the sunlight forges, While here in darkness, death and pain Pale Memory holds her orgies ! The Bluebells^ Chorus. 95 THE BLUEBELLS' CHORUS. Chanson fantastiqiie . Our carillon will carol on Li mellow melody To invisible dead Isabella Who is a bell to be, When the grass grows green upon her grave And swallows follow free, To cling and swing and sing again Upon their trysting tree. Our carillon will carol on In firmer murmur then, When the grass is green as ber}^l on The new grave in the glen, When invisible dead Isabelle Is made a flower again, 'I'o chime and rhyme all time with us And know no more of men. A Rainy Night. 97 A RAINY NIGHT. The night is dark and long winds moan ; Without the firelight casts no glow ; The rain repeats its undertone Unceasingly of woe. Strange ! but it seemed a face looked in, So piteously and yet so mild ; Some mother dead it must have been, Who seeks her sorrowing child. 98 A Rainy Night. '' Come to me, grieve no more, ah, stay ! '* May I not be beloved too ? " I will throw off these robes of clay '' To roam the earth with you." Then all the window seemed aflame From features heavenly, womanly, '* Mother of God, I know thy name — " Turn not thy face from me ! " It is a dream — the long winds moan ; Without the firelight casts no glow ; The rain repeats its undertone Unceasingly of woe. In Prison. 99 IN PRISON. Dear maid ! put your head to my breast, you will hear The prisoner drearily pacing his cell — What's this ! does he stumble or dream you are near, And dreaming you near does he stumble as well ? For twenty long years in the gloom I have heard The prisoner's footsteps — for twenty or more — Life-sentence it is — and he never has stirred From his steady, strong tramp till this hour before ! loo In Prison. Dear maid ! put your head to my breast, you will hear The prisoner knock in the gloom of his cell — How he strikes on the walls, in his frenzy and fear, Lest you go and not hear what he wishes to tell ! Roses on the Grave. loi ROSES ON THE GRAVE. From the Swedish of W. von Braun, Down among the marbles of the churchyard Thekla went one even with fresh roses To be laid upon her brother's headstone As an offering of silent sorrow. When she slowly came unto the green mound Where the dear departed lay low-hidden, Fell she on her knees in sad devotion, While her prayers flew upward unto Heaven And her tears fell downward on the velvet. Then descended Consolation, mild-eyed angel, To the sisterly and faithful bosom. — Suddenly disturbed by heavy sighing I02 Roses on the Grave. Near she saw a low, smooth grave made newly, And upon that grave a pallid maiden, Bowed and withered like a frozen lily. Souls by grief and sadness overburdened Find in others sweet, enduring friendship, And her own affliction now forgetting, Thekla falteringly approached the mourner,. Threw her arms around her softly saying : " Poor, poor sister, tell me whom thou grievst for ! The maid was mute but to her heart she pointed, *' Poor, poor sister, why art thou so tearless ? " The maid was mute but to her brow she pointed. " On the grave thou hast not any roses ; " Wilt thou not have half of these my flowers? " Sadly smiling to her cheeks she pointed. To those cheeks so whitely wan and wasted, And she spoke then in a broken whisper : *' Have I not upon the grave laid roses? " Then fell Thekla on the poor one's bosom, And she wept but questioned not thereafter. Neckrosen. 103 NECKROSEN. From the Swedish of C. W. Bottiger. A lad leaping down to the ocean strand, There after a lily extended his hand ; But God ivill add unto his angels ! Meanwhile as he stood from the breakers there A mermaid arose green-mantled and fair. But God will add unto his angels ! I04 Neckrosen. " O bring me the lily which near to thee stands ; '^ I cannot quite reach it, so little my hands ! " But God will add unto his angels / The maid plucked the lily for him as he smiled. But lured him into the waters wild, I^or God would add unto his angels / A Wish. 105 A WISH. I fain would be a troubadour (If one poor wish be not a sin) With voice to charm and song to lure, And some melodious mandolin. Then I would sing a song so sweet, So strange and low and strong and brave, That it should pierce beneath my feet And thrill you in your quiet grave ! / Will Slumber. 107 I WILL SLUMBER. From the Swedish of W. von Braun. ^' Darling, in the gentle arms of slumber '* Seek that once thy heart's pain be forgotten," Said a hapless mother to her daughter Who the late departed bridegroom mourned for. ** Only one good friend on earth has sorrow — *' That is night with her sweet peace and quiet, '* Ah ! it is the hours so long and wakeful *' That have paled thy cheeks and dimmed thy glances, *' And my fresh new rose like tempests ravaged. '* Sleep, my poor one ! Dream's befriending angel " Will give back whom late thou wert forlorn of, '' Whom thou now dost weep, consumed of sorrow. io8 / Will Slumber. " Thou, who hast been naught but sweet, O hear me ! ^' Seek the rest which thou so much hast need of." Then the daughter breathed, ^' Yes, I will slumber, '* Seek the rest which I so much have need of. ** Long the night will be. O mother, bless me ! '^ '* Kiss me yet again, for I — will — slumber ! " From her mother's breast upon the swansdown Blest she drooped low, low adown and smiling, Clasped her soft, white, tender hands together, Pressing them against her heart with rapture ; Then her eyes even as she sighed closed slowly, And the mother by vain hope deluded Stole out gently from the slumberer pallid, That she might a heartfelt orison offer Unto Heaven for her sick daughter's slumber. Yes, she slumbered. Soon a pitying angel Gave her back whom late she was forlorn of, But it was not Dream's — 'twas Death's — dear angel. The Wonderful Hat p 109 THE WONDERFUL HARP. A Swedish folk-song. There lived a baron beside the sea, Young is my life ! And two young daughters fine had he. My heart it is heavy ! The elder was dark as the earth is dun ; Young is my life / The younger was white as the shining sun. My heart it is heavy ! no The Wonderful Harp. And sister whispered to sister so : Young is my life ! • ' Come, let us down to the seashore go ! " My heart it is heavy ! " Though you wash yourself both day and night, Young is my life ! " You will never like me be clear and white." My heart it is heavy I And now as they stood on the shore far from home, Young is my life ! Pushed the elder her sister down into the foam. My heart it is heavy I " O dearest, my sister, help, help me to land, Young is my life ! '' And to thee will I give my red gold-band ! ' My heart it is heavy I The Wonderful Harp. iii *' Be sure I shall have thy gold-band red, Young is my life / " But God's green earth shalt thou never more tread ! " My heart it is heavy / " O dearest, my sister, help, help me to land, Young is my life / " And to thee will I give my gold-crown grand ! " My heart it is heavy / " Be sure I shall have thy gold-crown red, Young is my life I " But God's green earth shalt thou nevermore tread ! " My heart it is h eavy ! ^' O dearest, my sister, help, help me to land. Young is my life / ^' And to thee will I give my bridegroom's hand ! " My heart it is heavy / 112 The Wonderful Harp. *' Be sure I shall soon with thy bridegroom wed, Young is my life ! " But God's green earth shalt thou nevermore tread ! " My heart it is heavy / " Greet then my father at home from me ; Young is my life ! " I drink to my bridal deep in the sea." My heart it is heavy ! " And greet at home my mother so good ; Young IS my life / ^^ I drink to my bridal deep in the flood." My heart it is heavy I " Unto my bridegroom greetings take ; Young is my life I '' In the sand my bridal bed I must make." My heart it is heavy ! The Wonderful Harp. 113 There dwelt an old harper down by the shore; Young is my life ! He saw how the billows a fair form bore. My heart it is heavy / He seized the maid where the breakers were, Young is my life / And fashioned a beautiful harp of her. My heart it is heavy / He took the snow-white breast of the maid, Young is my life / That her voice should sound from the harp he made. My heart it is heavy I He took the maiden's fingers small, Young is my life / Made ivory pins in the harp of all. My heart it is heavy ! TI4 ^^%