But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells, Through the pine-forests on the shore of Chiassi, When Eolus unlooses the Sirocco. Already my slow steps had led me on Could see no more the place where I had entered. And lo! my farther course cut off a river, All waters that on earth most limpid are, Would seem to have within themselves some mixture, Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal, Although it moves on with a brown, brown current, Under the shade perpetual, that never Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. BEATRICE, FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXX. XXXI. EVEN as the Blessed, in the new covenant, Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave, So, upon that celestial chariot, A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis, They all were saying: "Benedictus qui venis,” I once beheld, at the approach of day, The orient sky all stained with roseate hues, And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed, Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers, With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil, Even as the snow, among the living rafters Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds, And then, dissolving, filters through itself, Even such I was, without a sigh or tear, But, when I heard in those sweet melodies Compassion for me, more than had they said, “Oh, wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him?" The ice, that was about my heart congealed, Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast. Confusion and dismay, together mingled, Forced such a feeble "Yes!" out of my mouth, Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 'tis discharged, So I gave way under this heavy burden, SPRING. FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES D'ORLEANS. Fifteenth Century. GENTLE Spring!-in sunshine clad, And thou,-thou makest the sad heart gay. The sleet and the snow, and the wind and the rain; Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old, And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, And, snugly housed from the wind and weather, Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly, THE CHILD ASLEEP. FROM THE FRENCH. SWEET babe! true portrait of thy father's face, Upon that tender eye, my little friend, Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me! I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ;'Tis sweet to watch for thee,-alone for thee! His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow; Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm? Awake, my boy !—I tremble with affright! Awake, and chase this fatal thought!— Unclose Thine eye but for one moment on the light! L L |