THE SONG OF THE TRAVELER
Like to a leaf that is fallen and withered,
Tossed by the tempest from pole unto pole;
Thus roams the pilgrim abroad without purpose,
Roams without love, without country or soul.
Following anxiously treacherous fortune,
Fortune which e’en as he grasps at it flees;
Vain though the hopes that his yearning is seeking,
Yet does the pilgrim embark on the seas!
Ever impelled by the invisible power,
Destined to roam from the East to the West;
Oft he remembers the faces of loved ones,
Dreams of the day when he, too, was at rest.
Chance may assign him a tomb on the desert,
Grant him a final asylum of peace;
Soon by the world and his country forgotten,
God rest his soul when his wanderings cease!
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Often the sorrowing pilgrim is envied,
Circling the globe like a sea-gull above;
Little, ah, little they know what a void
Saddens his soul by the absence of love.
Home may the pilgrim return in the future,
Back to his loved ones his footsteps he bends;
Naught will he find but the snow and the ruins,
Ashes of love and the tomb of his friends,
Pilgrim, begone! Nor return more hereafter,
Stranger thou art in the land of thy birth;
Others may sing of their love while rejoicing,
Thou once again must roam o’er the earth.
Pilgrim, begone! Nor return more hereafter,
Dry are the tears that a while for thee ran;
Pilgrim, begone! And forget thine affliction,
Loud laughs the world at the sorrows of man.
—Translated by Arthur P. Ferguson.
SONNET: TO THE VIRGIN MARY
(Written in Manila, about the year 1880)
Dear Mary, soul of peace, our consolation,
That to the heavy-stricken heart doth bring
The cool sweet waters from the all-healing spring,
From that skied throne where since thy coronation
Our hearts are bowed in tender adoration,
Lean down to hear my grief’s vague whispering,
And o’er me, bruised and broken, deign to fling
The shining robe of thy serene salvation.
Thou art my mother, placid Mary; thou
Mine only hope, my one sure source of strength.
Wild is the sea and inky dark the night.
One beacon shines!—the star upon thy brow. [[342]]
Sharp sin assails me; but thy look at length
Puts sin and grief and thoughts of death to flight!
—Translated by C. E. R.