watch the pipe clouds melting die.They melt and die – but ever darken,
As night comes on and hides the day;
Till all is black; – then, brothers, hearken!
And if ye can, write down my lay!
In yon black loaf my knife is gleaming,
Like one long sail above the boat; —
– As once at Pesth I saw it beaming,
Half through a curst Croatian throat.
Now faster, faster whirls the ceiling,
And wilder, wilder turns my brain;
And still I'll drink – till, past all feeling,
The soul leaps forth to light again.
Whence come these white girls wreathing round me?
Baruska! – long I thought thee dead!
Kacenka! – when these arms last bound thee,
Thou laidst by Rajhrad cold as lead!
Now faster, faster whirls the ceiling,
And wilder, wilder turns my brain;
And from afar a star comes stealing,
Straight at me o'er the death-black plain.
Alas! – I sink – my spirits miss me,
I swim, I shoot from sky to shore!
Klarà! thou golden sister – kiss me!
I rise – I'm safe – I'm strong once more.
And faster, faster whirls the ceiling,
And wilder, wilder turns my brain;
The star! – it strikes my soul, revealing
All life and light to me again.
Against the waves fresh waves are dashing,
Above the breeze fresh breezes blow;
Through seas of light new light is flashing,
And with them all I float and flow.
But round me rings of fire are gleaming:
Pale rings of fire – wild eyes of death!
Why haunt me thus awake or dreaming?
Methought I left ye with my breath.
Aye glare and stare with life increasing,
And leech-like eyebrows arching in;
Be, if ye must, my fate unceasing,
But never hope a fear to win.
He who knows all may haunt the haunting,
He who fears nought hath conquered fate;
Who bears in silence quells the daunting,
And sees his spoiler desolate.
Oh wondrous eyes of star-like lustre,
How ye have changed to guardian love!
Alas! – where stars in myriads cluster
Ye vanish in the heaven above.
I hear two bells so softly singing:
How sweet their silver voices roll!
The one on yonder hill is ringing,
The other peals within my soul.
I hear two maidens gently talking,
Bohemian maidens fair to see;
The one on yonder hill is walking,
The other maiden – where is she?
Where is she? – when the moonlight glistens
O'er silent lake or murm'ring stream,
I hear her call my soul which listens:
'Oh! wake no more – come, love, and dream!'
She came to earth-earth's loveliest creature;
She died – and then was born once more;
Changed was her race, and changed each feature,
But oh! I loved her as before.
We live – but still, when night has bound us
In golden dreams too sweet to last,
A wondrous light-blue world around us,
She comes, the loved one of the Past.
I know not which I love the dearest,
For both my loves are still the same;
The living to my heart is nearest,
The dead love feeds the living flame.
And when the moon, its rose-wine quaffing
Which flows across the Eastern deep,
Awakes us, Klarà chides me laughing,
And says, 'We love too well in sleep!'
And though no more a Vojvod's daughter,
As when she lived on Earth before,
The love is still the same which sought her,
And she is true – what would you more?
Bright moonbeams on the sea are playing,
And starlight shines o'er vale and hill;
I should be gone – yet still delaying,
By thy loved side I linger still!
My gold is gone – my hopes have perished,
And nought remains save love for thee!
E'en that must fade, though once so cherished:
Farewell! – and think no more of me!
'Though gold be gone and hope departed,
And nought remain save love for me,
Thou ne'er shalt leave me broken-hearted,
For I will share my life with thee!
'Thou deem'st me but a wanton maiden,
The plaything of thy idle hours;
But laughing streams with gold are laden,
And sweets are hidden 'neath the flowers.
'E'en outcasts may have heart and feeling,
E'en such as I be fond and true;
And love, like light, in dungeons stealing,
Though bars be there, will still burst through.'
PICTURES FROM THE NORTH
It is worth while to live in the city, that we may learn to love the country; and it is not bad for many, that artificial life binds them with bonds of silk or lace or rags or cobwebs, since, when they are rent away, the Real gleams out in a beauty and with a zest which had not been save for contrast.
Contrast is the salt of the beautiful. I wonder that the ancients, who came so near it in so many ways, never made a goddess of Contrast. They had something like it in ever-varying Future – something like it in double-faced Janus, who was their real 'Angel of the Odd.' Perhaps it is my ignorance which is at fault – if so, I pray you correct me. The subtle Neo-Platonists must have apotheosized such a savor to all æsthetic bliss. Mostly do I feel its charm when there come before me pictures true to life of far lands and lives, of valley and river, sea and shore. Then I forget the narrow office and the shop-lined street,
