NOON.
FROM THE SPANISH.
The sun, 'midst shining glory now concealed
Upon heaven’s highest seat,
Darts straightway down upon the parched field,
His fierce and burning heat;
And on revolving noonday calls, that he
His flushed and glowing face
May show the world, and, rising from the sea,
Aurora’s reign displace.
The wandering wind now rests his weary wings,
And, hushed in silence, broods;
And all the vocal choir of songsters sings
Among the whispering woods.
And sweetly warbling on his oaten pipe,
His own dear shepherd-maid,
The herd-boy leads along his flock of sheep
To the sequestered shade;
Where shepherd youths and maids in secret bowers,
In song and feast unite
In joyful band, to pass the sultry hours
Of their siesta light.
The sturdy hunter, bathed in moisture well,
Beneath an oak-tree’s boughs,
Beside his faithful dog, his sentinel,
Now yields him to repose.
All, all is calm, is silent. O how sweet,
On this enameled ground,
At ease recumbent, from its flowery seat,
To cast your eyes around!
The busy bee, that round your listening ear
Murmurs with drowsy hum;
The faithful turtles, perched on oak-trees near,
Moaning their mates’ sad doom.
And ever in the distance her sweet song
Murmurs lorn Philomel;
While the hoar forest’s echoing glades prolong
Her love and music well.
And 'midst the grass slow creeps the rivulet,
In whose bright limpid stream
The blue sky and the world of boughs are met,
Mirrored in one bright gleam.
And of the elm the hoar and silvery leaves,
The slumbering winds scarce blow,
Which, pictured in the bright and tremulous waves,
Follow their motion slow.
These airy mountains, and this fragrant seat,
Bright with a thousand flowers;
These interwoven forests, where the heat
Is tempered in their bowers!
The dark umbrageous woods, the dense array
Of trunks, through which there peers
Perchance the town, which, in the glow of day,
Like crystal light appears!
These cooling grottoes! O retirement blest!
Within thy calm abode
My mind alone can from her troubles rest,
With solitude and God.
Thou giv’st me life, and liberty, and love,
And all I now admire,
And from the winter of my soul dost move
The deep enthusiast fire.
O bounteous Nature, ’tis thy healing womb
Alone can peace procure!
Thither all ye, the weary, laden, come,
From storms of life secure.
Anonymous Translation. Juan Melendez Valdes, 1754–1817.
