Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant Part 21

LOVE AND FOLLY.

FROM LA FONTAINE.

Love's worshippers alone can know The thousand mysteries that are his; His blazing torch, his tw.a.n.ging bow, His blooming age are mysteries.

A charming science--but the day Were all too short to con it o'er; So take of me this little lay, A sample of its boundless lore.

As once, beneath the fragrant shade Of myrtles fresh in heaven's pure air, The children, Love and Folly, played, A quarrel rose betwixt the pair.

Love said the G.o.ds should do him right-- But Folly vowed to do it then, And struck him, o'er the orbs of sight, So hard he never saw again.

His lovely mother's grief was deep, She called for vengeance on the deed; A beauty does not vainly weep, Nor coldly does a mother plead.

A shade came o'er the eternal bliss That fills the dwellers of the skies; Even stony-hearted Nemesis, And Rhadamanthus, wiped their eyes.

"Behold," she said, "this lovely boy,"

While streamed afresh her graceful tears-- "Immortal, yet shut out from joy And sunshine, all his future years.

The child can never take, you see, A single step without a staff-- The hardest punishment would be Too lenient for the crime by half."

All said that Love had suffered wrong, And well that wrong should be repaid; Then weighed the public interest long, And long the party's interest weighed.

And thus decreed the court above: "Since Love is blind from Folly's blow, Let Folly be the guide of Love, Where'er the boy may choose to go."

THE SIESTA.

FROM THE SPANISH.

Vientecico murmurador, Que lo gozas y andas todo, etc.

Airs, that wander and murmur round, Bearing delight where'er ye blow!

Make in the elms a lulling sound, While my lady sleeps in the shade below.

Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest, Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er.

Sweet be her slumbers! though in my breast The pain she has waked may slumber no more.

Breathing soft from the blue profound, Bearing delight where'er ye blow, Make in the elms a lulling sound, While my lady sleeps in the shade below.

Airs! that over the bending boughs, And under the shade of pendent leaves, Murmur soft, like my timid vows Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves--

Gently sweeping the gra.s.sy ground, Bearing delight where'er ye blow, Make in the elms a lulling sound, While my lady sleeps in the shade below.

THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA.

FROM THE SPANISH.

To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde, The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade.

The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound, With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound.

He pa.s.sed the city portals, with swelling heart and vain, And toward his lady's dwelling he rode with slackened rein; Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third, From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard.

"Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the Moor, "Thou wouldst neither pa.s.s my dwelling, nor stop before my door.

Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood, That one in love with peace should have loved a man of blood!

Since not that thou wert n.o.ble I chose thee for my knight, But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight.

Ah, thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to see How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree.

Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fife Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife.

Say not my voice is magic--thy pleasure is to hear The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear.

Well, follow thou thy choice--to the battle-field away, To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they.

Thrust thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand, And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand.

Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead, On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed.

Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks, From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguenza's rocks.

Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long, And in the life thou lovest, forget whom thou dost wrong.

These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine own, Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone."

She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry cheek, Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak.

THE DEATH OF ALIATAR.

FROM THE SPANISH.

'Tis not with gilded sabres That gleam in baldricks blue, Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez, Of gay and gaudy hue-- But, habited in mourning weeds, Come marching from afar, By four and four, the valiant men Who fought with Aliatar.

All mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of m.u.f.fled drum.

The banner of the Phoenix, The flag that loved the sky, That scarce the wind dared wanton with, It flew so proud and high-- Now leaves its place in battle-field, And sweeps the ground in grief, The bearer drags its glorious folds Behind the fallen chief, As mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of m.u.f.fled drum.

Brave Aliatar led forward A hundred Moors to go To where his brother held Motril Against the leaguering foe.

On horseback went the gallant Moor, That gallant band to lead; And now his bier is at the gate, From which he p.r.i.c.ked his steed.

While mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of m.u.f.fled drum.

The knights of the Grand Master In crowded ambush lay; They rushed upon him where the reeds Were thick beside the way; They smote the valiant Aliatar, They smote the warrior dead, And broken, but not beaten, were The gallant ranks he led.

Now mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of m.u.f.fled drum.

Oh! what was Zayda's sorrow, How pa.s.sionate her cries!

Her lover's wounds streamed not more free Than that poor maiden's eyes.

Say, Love--for didst thou see her tears-- Oh, no! he drew more tight The blinding fillet o'er his lids To spare his eyes the sight.

While mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of m.u.f.fled drum.

Nor Zayda weeps him only, But all that dwell between The great Alhambra's palace walls And springs of Albaicin.

The ladies weep the flower of knights, The brave the bravest here; The people weep a champion, The Alcaydes a n.o.ble peer.

While mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of m.u.f.fled drum.