The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume II Part 46

My double treasure Death has filched from me, Which made me proud and happy midst my kind.

Nor may all empires of the world combined, Nor Orient gems, nor gold restore the key.

But if this be according to Fate's will, What may I do, but wander heavy-souled, With ever downcast head, eyes weeping still?

O life of ours, so lovely to behold, In one brief morn how easily dost thou spill That which we toiled for years to gain and hold!

IN MORTE. XLIII.

Yon nightingale who mourns so plaintively Perchance his fledglings or his darling mate, Fills sky and earth with sweetness, warbling late, Prophetic notes of melting melody.

All night, he, as it were, companions me, Reminding me of my so cruel fate, Mourning no other grief save mine own state, Who knew not Death reigned o'er divinity.

How easy 't is to dupe the soul secure!

Those two fair lamps, even than the sun more bright, Who ever dreamed to see turn clay obscure?

But Fortune has ordained, I now am sure, That I, midst lifelong tears, should learn aright, Naught here can make us happy, or endure.

IN VITA. CANZONE XI.

O waters fresh and sweet and clear, Where bathed her lovely frame, Who seems the only lady unto me; O gentle branch and dear, (Sighing I speak thy name,) Thou column for her shapely thighs, her supple knee; O gra.s.s, O flowers, which she Swept with her gown that veiled The angelic breast unseen; O sacred air serene, Whence the divine-eyed Love my heart a.s.sailed, By all of ye be heard This my supreme lament, my dying word.

Oh, if it be my fate (As Heaven shall so decree) That Love shall close for me my weeping eyes, Some courteous friend I supplicate Midst these to bury me, Whilst my enfranchised spirit homeward flies; Less dreadful death shall rise, If I may bear this hope To that mysterious goal.

For ne'er did weary soul Find a more restful spot in all Earth's scope, Nor in a grave more tranquil could win free From outworn flesh and weary limbs to flee.

Perchance the time shall be When to my place of rest, With milder grace my wild fawn shall return Here where she looked on me Upon that day thrice blest: Then she shall bend her radiant eyes that yearn In search of me, and (piteous sight!) shall learn That I, amidst the stones, am clay.

May love inspire her in such wise, With gentlest breath of sighs, That I, a stony corpse, shall hear her pray, And force the very skies, That I may wipe the tears from her dear eyes.

From the fair boughs descended (Thrice precious memory!) Upon her lap a shower of fragrant bloom Amidst that glory splendid, Humbly reposed she, Attired as with an aureole's golden gloom.

Some blossoms edged her skirt, and some Fell on her yellow curls, Like burnished gold and pearls, Even so they looked to me upon that day.

Some on the ground, some on the river lay, Some lightly fluttering above, Encircling her, seemed whispering: "Here reigns Love."

How many times I cried, As holy fear o'ercame, "Surely this creature sprang from Paradise,"

Forgetting all beside Her G.o.ddess mien, her frame, Her face, her words, her lovely smile, her eyes.

All these did so devise To win me from the truth, alas!

That I did say and sigh, "How came I hither, when and why?"

Deeming myself in heaven, not where I was.

Henceforth this gra.s.sy spot I love so much, peace elsewhere find I not.

My Song, wert thou adorned to thy desire, Thou couldst go boldly forth And wander from my lips o'er all the earth.

FRAGMENT. CANZONE XII. 5.

I never see, after nocturnal rain, The wandering stars move through the air serene, And flame forth 'twixt the dew-fall and the rime, But I behold her radiant eyes wherein My weary spirit findeth rest from pain; As dimmed by her rich veil, I saw her the first time; The very heaven beamed with the light sublime Of their celestial beauty; dewy-wet Still do they s.h.i.+ne, and I am burning yet.

Now if the rising sun I see, I feel the light that hath enamored me.

Or if he sets, I follow him, when he Bears elsewhere his eternal light, Leaving behind the shadowy waves of night.

FRAGMENT. TRIONFO D' AMORE.

I know how well Love shoots, how swift his flight, How now by force and now by stealth he steals, How he will threaten now, anon will smite, And how unstable are his chariot wheels.

How doubtful are his hopes, how sure his pain, And how his faithful promise he repeals.

How in one's marrow, in one's vital vein, His smouldering fire quickens a hidden wound, Where death is manifest, destruction plain.

In sum, how erring, fickle and unsound, How timid and how bold are lovers' days, Where with scant sweetness bitter draughts abound.

I know their songs, their sighs, their usual ways, Their broken speech, their sudden silences.

Their pa.s.sing laughter and their grief that stays, I know how mixed with gall their honey is.

FRAGMENT.

TRIONFO DELLA MORTE.

Now since nor grief nor fear was longer there, Each thought on her fair face was clear to see, Composed into the calmness of despair-- Not like a flame extinguished violently, But one consuming of its proper light.

Even so, in peace, serene of soul, pa.s.sed she.

Even as a lamp, so lucid, softly-bright, Whose sustenance doth fail by slow degrees, Wearing unto the end, its wonted plight.

Not pale, but whiter than the snow one sees Flaking a hillside through the windless air.

Like one o'erwearied, she reposed in peace As 't were a sweet sleep filled each lovely eye, The soul already having fled from there.

And this is what dull fools have named to die.

Upon her fair face death itself seemed fair.

TRANSLATIONS FROM ALFRED DE MUSSET.

THE MAY NIGHT.

MUSE.