I the time to kill attempted
With my thoughts, and yet this thinking
Made me at the last quite weary,
And a little mournful even.
Weary, then, and mournful sank I
On the soft moss-bank beside me.
Under yonder mighty ash-tree,
Where the little streamlet flow’d,
Which, with its mysterious plashing
So mysteriously befool’d me,
That all thoughts and power of thinking
From my spirit pass’d away.
And a raging yearning seized me
For a dream, for death, for madness,
For that woman-rider, whom I
In the spirit-march had seen.
O ye lovely nightly faces,
Scared away by beams of morning,
Tell me, whither have ye fleeted?
Tell me, where ye dwell at daytime?
Under olden temples’ ruins,
Far away in the Romagna
(So ’tis said) Diana refuge
Seeks by day from Christ’s dominion.
Only in the midnight darkness
From her hiding place she ventures,
And rejoices in the chase
With her heathenish companions.
And the beauteous fay Abunde
Of the Nazarenes is fearful,
And throughout the day she lingers
Safe within her Avalun.
This fair island lies deep-hidden
Far off, in the silent ocean
Of romance, that none can reach save
On the fabled horse’s pinions.
Never there casts care its anchor,
Never there appears a steamer,
Full of wonder-seeking blockheads,
With tobacco-pipes in mouth.