LOVE IN THE AGE OF CHIVALRY.

FROM PEYRE VIDAL, THE TROUBADOUR.

The earth was sown with early flowers, The heavens were blue and bright-- I met a youthful cavalier As lovely as the light.

I knew him not--but in my heart His graceful image lies, And well I marked his open brow, His sweet and tender eyes, His ruddy lips that ever smiled, His glittering teeth betwixt, And flowing robe embroidered o'er, With leaves and blossoms mixed.

He wore a chaplet of the rose; His palfrey, white and sleek, Was marked with many an ebon spot, And many a purple streak; Of jasper was his saddle-bow, His housings sapphire stone, And brightly in his stirrup glanced The purple calcedon.

Fast rode the gallant cavalier, As youthful hors.e.m.e.n ride; "Peyre Vidal! know that I am Love,"

The blooming stranger cried; "And this is Mercy by my side, A dame of high degree; This maid is Chast.i.ty," he said, "This squire is Loyalty."

THE LOVE OF G.o.d.

FROM THE PROVENcAL OF BERNARD RASCAS.

All things that are on earth shall wholly pa.s.s away, Except the love of G.o.d, which shall live and last for aye.

The forms of men shall be as they had never been; The blasted groves shall lose their fresh and tender green; The birds of the thicket shall end their pleasant song, And the nightingale shall cease to chant the evening long; The kine of the pasture shall feel the dart that kills, And all the fair white flocks shall perish from the hills.

The goat and antlered stag, the wolf and the fox, The wild-boar of the wood, and the chamois of the rocks, And the strong and fearless bear, in the trodden dust shall lie; And the dolphin of the sea, and the mighty whale, shall die.

And realms shall be dissolved, and empires be no more, And they shall bow to death, who ruled from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e; And the great globe itself, so the holy writings tell, With the rolling firmament, where the starry armies dwell, Shall melt with fervent heat--they shall all pa.s.s away, Except the love of G.o.d, which shall live and last for aye.

FROM THE SPANISH OF PEDRO DE CASTRO Y AnAYA.

Stay rivulet, nor haste to leave The lovely vale that lies around thee.

Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve, When but a fount the morning found thee?

Born when the skies began to glow, Humblest of all the rock's cold daughters, No blossom bowed its stalk to show Where stole thy still and scanty waters.

Now on the stream the noonbeams look, Usurping, as thou downward driftest, Its crystal from the clearest brook, Its rushing current from the swiftest.

Ah! what wild haste!--and all to be A river and expire in ocean.

Each fountain's tribute hurries thee To that vast grave with quicker motion.

Far better 'twere to linger still In this green vale, these flowers to cherish, And die in peace, an aged rill, Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish.

SONNET.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF SEMEDO.

It is a fearful night; a feeble glare Streams from the sick moon in the o'erclouded sky; The ridgy billows, with a mighty cry, Rush on the foamy beaches wild and bare; No bark the madness of the waves will dare; The sailors sleep; the winds are loud and high.

Ah, peerless Laura! for whose love I die, Who gazes on thy smiles while I despair?

As thus, in bitterness of heart, I cried, I turned, and saw my Laura, kind and bright, A messenger of gladness, at my side; To my poor bark she sprang with footstep light, And as we furrowed Tago's heaving tide, I never saw so beautiful a night.

SONG.

FROM THE SPANISH OF IGLESIAS.

Alexis calls me cruel: The rifted crags that hold The gathered ice of winter, He says, are not more cold.

When even the very blossoms Around the fountain's brim, And forest-walks, can witness The love I bear to him.

I would that I could utter My feelings without shame, And tell him how I love him, Nor wrong my virgin fame.

Alas! to seize the moment When heart inclines to heart, And press a suit with pa.s.sion, Is not a woman's part.

If man come not to gather The roses where they stand, They fade among their foliage; They cannot seek his hand.

THE COUNT OF GREIERS.

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.

At morn the Count of Greiers before his castle stands; He sees afar the glory that lights the mountain-lands; The horned crags are shining, and in the shade between A pleasant Alpine valley lies beautifully green.

"Oh, greenest of the valleys, how shall I come to thee!

Thy herdsmen and thy maidens, how happy must they be!

I have gazed upon thee coldly, all lovely as thou art, But the wish to walk thy pastures now stirs my inmost heart."

He hears a sound of timbrels, and suddenly appear A troop of ruddy damsels and herdsmen drawing near: They reach the castle greensward, and gayly dance across; The white sleeves flit and glimmer, the wreaths and ribbons toss.

The youngest of the maidens, slim as a spray of spring, She takes the young count's fingers, and draws him to the ring; They fling upon his forehead a crown of mountain flowers, "And ho, young Count of Greiers! this morning thou art ours!"

Then hand in hand departing, with dance and roundelay, Through hamlet after hamlet, they lead the Count away.

They dance through wood and meadow, they dance across the linn, Till the mighty Alpine summits have shut the music in.

The second morn is risen, and now the third is come; Where stays the Count of Greiers? has he forgot his home?

Again the evening closes, in thick and sultry air; There's thunder on the mountains, the storm is gathering there.