O nightingale! sweet bird—they say,
That peace abides with thee;
But thou hast brought from day to day
A triple woe to me.
The first, first woe my spirit knew,
My first, first woe was this,
My mother never train’d me to
A lover’s early bliss.
My second woe, my second woe,
Was that my trusty steed,
Whene’er I mounted, seem’d to show
Nor eagerness nor speed.
My third, third woe—of all the worst,
Is that the maid I woo,
The maid I lov’d the best—the first,
Is angry with me too.
Then grave an early grave for me,
Yon whiten’d fields among;
In breadth two lances let it be,
And just four lances long.
And o’er my head let roses grow,
There plant the red-rose tree;
And at my feet a fount shall flow,
O scoop that fount for me!
So when a youthful swain appears,
The roses he shall wreathe;
And when an old man bent with years,
He’ll drink the stream beneath.
THE YOUNG SHEPHERDS.
The sheep, beneath old Buda’s wall,
Their wonted quiet rest enjoy;
But ah! rude stony fragments fall,
And many a silk-wool’d sheep destroy;
Two youthful shepherds perish there,
The golden George, and Mark the fair.
For Mark, O many a friend grew sad,
And father, mother wept for him:
George—father, friend, nor mother had,
For him no tender eye grew dim:
Save one—a maiden far away,
She wept—and thus I heard her say:
“My golden George—and shall a song,
A song of grief be sung for thee—
’Twould go from lip to lip—ere long
By careless lips profaned to be;
Unhallow’d thoughts might soon defame
The purity of woman’s name.
“Or shall I take thy picture fair,
And fix that picture in my sleeve?
Ah! time will soon the vestment tear,
And not a shade, nor fragment leave:
I’ll give not him I love so well
To what is so corruptible.
“I’ll write thy name within a book;
That book will pass from hand to hand,
And many an eager eye will look,
But ah! how few will understand!
And who their holiest thoughts can shroud
From the cold insults of the crowd?” [168]
THOUGHTS OF A MOTHER.
Lo! a fir-tree towers o’er Sarajevo,
Spreads o’er half the face of Sarajevo—
Rises up to heaven from Sarajevo:
Brothers and half-sisters there were seated;
And the brother cuts a silken garment,
Which he holds, and questions thus his sister:
“Brother’s wife! thou sweet and lovely dovelet!
Wherefore art thou looking at the fir-tree?
Art thou rather dreaming of the poplar,
Or art thinking of my absent brother?”