The precious hours she now accords Lament and hope, and gaze and sigh; To lose her were at once to die. Translation of Louisa S. Costello. I MUST BE WORTHY OF HER LOVE. FROM THE ROMANIC OF RAIMOND DE MIRAVALS. I ("Songs of the Troubadours.") MUST be worthy of her love, For not the faintest shade Of all the charms that round her move, Within my heart can fade. The glances of her gentle eyes Are in my soul enshrined; Her radiant smiles, her tender sighs, To see her is at once to learn What beauty's power can do ; From all that pleased before to turn, And wake to life anew. To feel her charms all else efface, It is enough to think on her, Translation of Louisa S. Costello. VIRELAY. FROM THE FRENCH OF JEAN FROISSART. OO long it seems ere I shall view The maid so gentle, fair, and true, Ah! for her sake, where'er I rove, Such precious virtues shine : O, tell her, Love!-the truth reveal, Such sad, consuming pain: While banished from her sight, I pine, And still this wretched life is mine, Till I return again. She must believe me, for I find So much her image haunts my mind, So dear her memory, That wheresoe'er my steps I bend, Is present to my eye. Too long it seems! Now tears my weary hours employ, Which happy love might keep. Of hopes too vainly dear! But useless are my anxious sighs, And keeps me lingering here. Translation of Louisa S. Costello. THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES. FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS. 'O make my lady's obsequies My love a minster wrought, And, in the chantry, service there That light and odor gave; And sorrows, painted o'er with tears, And round about, in quaintest guise, Was carved, "Within this tomb there lies Above her lieth spread a tomb When gracious God with both his hands He framed her in such wondrous wise, The fairest thing in mortal eyes. No more, no more! my heart doth faint Of her, who lived so free from taint, I think that she was ta'en Whom, while on earth, each one did prize, But naught our tears avail, or cries; Translation of Henry Francis Cary. TO MARY STUART. FROM THE FRENCH OF PIERRE DE RONSARD. A LL beauty, granted as a boon to earth, That is, has been, or ever can have birth, Compared to hers, is void, and Nature's care Ne'er formed a creature so divinely fair. In spring amidst the lilies she was born, The day that was to bear her far away— O, had I senseless grown, nor heard, nor seen! That I might weep, as weep amidst their bowers Or when the trees are riven by the storm! |