VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS

UHLAND'S WHITE STAG

INTO the woods three huntsmen came,
Seeking the white stag for their game.

They laid them under a green fir-tree
And slept, and dreamed strange things to see.

(FIRST HUNTSMAN)

I dreamt I was beating the leafy brush,
When out popped the noble stag-hush, hush!

(SECOND HUNTSMAN)

As ahead of the clamorous pack he sprang,
I pelted him hard in the hide-piff, bang!

(THIRD HUNTSMAN)

And as that stag lay dead I blew
On my horn a lusty tir-ril-la-loo!

So speak the three as there they lay
When lo! the white stag sped that way,

Frisked his heels at those huntsmen three,
Then leagues o'er hill and dale was he—
Hush, hush! Piff, bang! Tir-ril-la-loo!

A PARAPHRASE OF HEINE

A PARAPHRASE OF HEINE

(LYRIC INTERMEZZO)

THERE fell a star from realms above-
A glittering, glorious star to see!
Methought it was the star of love,
So sweetly it illumined me.

And from the apple branches fell

Blossoms and leaves that time in June; The wanton breezes wooed them well With soft caress and amorous tune.

The white swan proudly sailed along
And vied her beauty with her note-
The river, jealous of her song,

Threw up its arms to clasp her throat.

But now-oh, now the dream is past-
The blossoms and the leaves are dead,
The swan's sweet song is hushed at last,
And not a star burns overhead.

OLD SPANISH SONG

I'm thinking of the wooing
That won my maiden heart
When he he came pursuing
A love unused to art.
Into the drowsy river

The moon transported flung
Her soul that seemed to quiver

With the songs my lover sung. And the stars in rapture twinkled On the slumbrous world belowYou see that, old and wrinkled,

I'm not forgetful-no!

407

He still should be repeating

The vows he uttered then-
Alas! the years, though fleeting,
Are truer yet than men!
The summer moonlight glistens
In the favorite trysting spot
Where the river ever listens
For a song it heareth not.
And I, whose head is sprinkled
With time's benumbing snow,
I languish, old and wrinkled,
But not forgetful-no!

What though he elsewhere turneth
To beauty strangely bold?
Still in my bosom burneth

The tender fire of old;

And the words of love he told me
And the songs he sung me then
Come crowding to uphold me,
And I live my youth again!
For when love's feet have tinkled
On the pathway women go,
Though one be old and wrinkled,
She's not forgetful-no!

UHLAND'S "CHAPEL"

YONDER stands the hillside chapel
'Mid the evergreens and rocks,
All day long it hears the song
Of the shepherd to his flocks.

Then the chapel bell goes tollingKnelling for a soul that's sped; Silent and sad the shepherd lad

Hears the requiem for the dead.

A HEINE LOVE SONG

Shepherd, singers of the valley,

Voiceless now, speed on before;
Soon shall knell that chapel bell
For the songs you'll sing no more.

A HEINE LOVE SONG

THE image of the moon at night
All trembling in the ocean lies,
But she, with calm and steadfast light,
Moves proudly through the radiant skies.

How like the tranquil moon thou art-
Thou fairest flower of womankind!
And, look, within my fluttering heart
Thy image trembling is enshrined!

BERANGER'S "TO MY OLD COAT."

STILL serve me in my age, I pray,

As in my youth, O faithful one;
For years I've brushed thee every day-
Could Socrates have better done?

What though the fates would wreak on thee
The fulness of their evil art?

Use thou philosophy, like me

And we, old friend, shall never part!

I think I often think of it

The day we twain first faced the crowd;
My roistering friends impeached your fit,
But you and I were very proud!
Those jovial friends no more make free
With us (no longer new and smart),
But rather welcome you and me

As loving friends that should not part.

409

The patch? Oh, yes-one happy night-
"Lisette," says I, "it's time to go'
She clutched this sleeve to stay my flight,
Shrieking: "What! leave so early? No!"
To mend the ghastly rent she'd made,
Three days she toiled, dear patient heart!
And I-right willingly I stayed—
Lisette decreed we should not part!

No incense ever yet profaned

This honest, shiny warp of thine, Nor hath a courtier's eye disdained Thy faded hue and quaint design; Let servile flattery be the price

Of ribbons in the royal mart

A roadside posie shall suffice

For us two friends that must not part!

Fear not the recklessness of yore

Shall reoccur to vex thee now;

Alas, I am a youth no more

I'm old and sere, and so art thou!

So bide with me unto the last

And with thy warmth caress this heart That pleads, by memories of the Past,

That two such friends should never part!

A SPRING POEM FROM BION

ONE asketh:

"Tell me, Myrson, tell me true:
What's the season pleaseth you?
Is it summer suits you best,
When from harvest toil we rest?
Is it autumn with its glory

Of all surfeited desires?