by Andrew Lang
I made him a bed to sleep with me ;
"Look on me once before you sleep.
And look on the flower' of my fair body.
"Flowers of April, and fresh May-dew,
Dew of April and buds of May ;
Two white blossoms that bud for you,
Buds that blossom before the day."
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THE MILK WHITE DOE.
FRENCH VOLKS-LIED.
IT was a mother and a maid
That walked the woods among,
And still the maid went slow and sad,
And still the mother sung.
" What ails you, daughter Margaret ?
Why go you pale and wan ?
Is it for a cast of bitter love.
Or for a false leman ? "
" It is not for a false lover
That I go sad to see ;
But it is for a weary life
Beneath the greenwood tree.
" For ever in the good daylight
A maiden may 1 go,
But always on the ninth midnight
I change to a milk white doe.
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TRANSLylTIONS.
" They hunt me through the green forest
With hounds and hunting men ;
And ever it is my fair brother
That is so fierce and keen."
" Good-morrow, mother." " Good-morrow, son ;
Where are your hounds so good ? "
"Oh, they are hunting a white doe
Within the glad greenwood.
" And three times have they hunted her,
And thrice she 's won away ;
The fourth time that they follow her
That white doe they shall slay."
Then out and spoke the forester,
As he came from the wood,
" Now never saw I maid's gold hair
Among the wild deer's blood.
"And I have hunted the wild deer
In east lands and in west ;
And never saw I white doe yet
That had a maiden's breast."
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TR/1NSLATIONS.
Then up and spake her fair brother,
Between the wine and bread.
" Behold, I had but one sister,
And I have been her dead.
' But ye must bury my sweet sister
With a stone at her foot and her head,
And ye must cover her fair body
With the white roses and red.
" And I must out to the greenwood.
The roof shall never shelter me ;
And I shall lie for seven long years
On the grass below the hawthorn tree."
159
A LA BELLE HELENE.
{After Rotisard.)
MORE closely than the clinging vine
About the wedded tree,
Clasp thou thine arms, ah, mistress mine !
About the heart of me.
Or seem to sleep, and stoop your face
Soft on my sleeping eyes,
Breathe in your life, your heart, your grace,
Through me, in kissing wise.
Bow down, bow down your face, I pray,
To me, that swoon to death.
Breathe back the life you kissed away.
Breathe back your kissing breath.
So by your eyes I swear and say,
My mighty oath and sure,
From your kind arms no maiden may
My loving heart allure.
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TRANSLATIONS.
I '11 bear your yoke, that 's light enough,
And to the Elysian plain.
When we are dead of love, my love.
One boat shall bear us twain.
They '11 flock around you, fleet and fair,
All true loves that have been,
And you of all the shadows there.
Shall be the shadow queen.
Ah shadow-loves, and shadow-lips /
Ah, while V is called to-day,
Love me, my love, for summer slips,
And August ebbs away.
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THE BURIAL OF MOLIERE.
(AFTER J. TRUFFIER.)
DEAD â he is dead! The rouge has left a trace
On that thin cheek where shone, perchance, a tear,
Even while the people laughed that held him dear
But yesterday. He died, â and not in grace,
And many a black-robed caitiff starts apace
To slander him whose Tartuffe made them fear,
And gold must win a passage for his bier.
And bribe the crowd that guards his resting-place.
Ah, Moliere, for that last time of all,
Man's hatred broke upon thee, and went by.
And did but make more fair thy funeral.
Though in the dark they hid thee stealthily,
Thy coffin had the cope of night for pall,
For torch, the stars along the windy sky !
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BEFORE THE SNOW.
(AFTER ALBERT GLATIGNY.)
THE winter is upon us, not the snow,
The hills are etched on the horizon bare,
The skies are iron grey, a bitter air,
The meagre cloudlets shudder to and fro.
One yellow leaf the listless wind doth blow,
Like some strange butterfly, unclassed and rare.
Your footsteps ring in frozen alleys, where
The black trees seem to shiver as you go.
Beyond lie church and steeple, with their old
And rusty vanes that rattle as they veer,
A sharper gust would shake them from their hold.
Yet up that path, in summer of the year.
And past that melancholy pile we strolled
To pluck wild strawberries, with merry cheer.
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THE CLOUD CHORUS.
;FR0M ARISTOPHANES.)
Socrates speaks.
HITHER, come hither, ye Clouds renowned, and
unveil yourselves here ;
Come, though ye dwell on the sacred crests of Olympian
snow,
Or whether ye dance with the Nereid choir in the
gardens clear,
Or whether your golden urns are dipped in Nile's overflow.
Or whether you dwell by Maeotis mere
Or the snows of Mimas, arise ! appear !
And hearken to us, and accept our gifts ere ye rise and go.
The Clouds sing.
Immortal Clouds from the echoing shore
Of the father of streams, from the sounding sea,
Dewy and fleet, let us rise and soar.
Dewy and gleaming, and fleet are we !
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TRANSLATIONS.
Let us look on the tree-clad mountain crest,
On the sacred earth where the fruits rejoice,
On the waters that murmur east and west,
On the tumbling sea with his moaning voice
For unwearied glitters the Eye of the Air,
And the bright rays gleam ;
Then cast we our shadows of mist, and fare
In our deathless shapes to glance everywhere
From the height of the heaven, on the land and air,
And the Ocean stream.
Let us on, ye Maidens that bring the Rain,
Let us gaze on Pallas' citadel,
In the country of Cecrops, fair and dear
The mystic land of the holy cell.
Where the Rites unspoken securely dwell.
And the gifts of the Gods that know not stain
And a people of mortals that know not fear.
For the temples tall, and the statues fair,
And the feasts of the Gods are holiest there.
The feasts of Immortals, the chaplets of flowers
And the Bromian mirth at the coming of spring,
And the musical voices that fill the hours.
> And the dancing feet of the Maids that sing !
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