(Ojos Tristes, Ojos Tristes)
By Diego de Saldaña
EYES so tristful, eyes no tristful,
Heart so full of care and cumber,
I was lapped in rest and slumber,
Ye have made me wakeful, wistful!
In this life of labor endless 5
Who shall comfort my distresses?
Querulous my soul and friendless
In its sorrow shuns caresses.
Ye have made me, ye have made me
Querulous of you, that care not, 10
Eyes so tristful, yet I dare not
Say to what ye have betrayed me.
II.
Some day, some day
(Alguna Vez)
By Cristóbal de Gastillejo
SOME day, some day,
O troubled breast,
Shalt thou find rest.
If Love in thee
To grief give birth, 5
Six feet of earth
Can more than he;
There calm and free
And unoppressed
Shalt thou find rest. 10
The unattained
In life at last,
When life is passed,
Shall all be gained;
And no more pained, 15
No more distressed,
Shalt thou find rest.
IV.
Glove of black in white hand bare
GLOVE of black in white hand bare,
And about her forehead pale
Wound a thin, transparent veil,
That doth not conceal her hair;
Sovereign attitude and air, 5
Cheek and neck alike displayed,
With coquettish charms arrayed,
Laughing eyes and fugitive; —
This is killing men that live,
‘T is not mourning for the dead. 10
From the Swedish and Danish.
Introductory Note
MR. LONGFELLOW spent the summer of 1835 in Sweden, where he occupied himself with the study of the language and literature, and with travel and observations of Swedish character. “The Swedish language,” he wrote, “is soft and musical, with an accent like the lowland Scotch. It is an easy language to read, but difficult to speak with correctness, owing to some grammatical peculiarities…. Sweden has one great poet, and only one. That is Tegnér, Bishop of Wexiö, who is still living. His noblest work is Frithiof’s Saga, a heroic poem, founded on an old tradition.” After his return to America, Mr. Longfellow wrote an article on the poem for the North American Review, giving in it the translations which are placed first in this section. 1
His friend Mr. Samuel Ward four years later urged him to translate another of Tegnér’s poems, of which Mr. Longfellow had shown him a brief specimen; and in reply Mr. Longfellow wrote, under date of October 24, 1841: “How strange! While you are urging me to translate Nattvardsbarnen [The Children of the Lord’s Supper] comes a letter from Bishop Tegnér himself, saying that of all the translations he has seen of Frithiof, my fragments are the only attempts ‘that have fully satisfied him.’ ‘The only fault,’ he says, ‘that I can find with your translation is, that it is not complete. I take the liberty of urging you to complete the task, that I may be able to say that Frithiof has been translated into at least one language.’ Highly complimentary is the Bishop to my humble endeavor…. After this kind letter, can I do less than over-set the Nattvardsbarnen?” In his willingness, he at once set about the translation, and wrote his friend, November 6th: “It is Saturday night, and eight by the village clock. I have just finished the translation of The Children of the Lord’s Supper; and with the very ink that wrote the last words of it, I commence this letter to you. That it is with the same pen, too, this chirography sufficiently makes manifest. With your permission I will mend that. The poem is indeed very beautiful; and in parts so touching that more than once in translating it I was blinded with tears. Perhaps my weakness makes the poet strong. You shall soon judge.” In the introduction to the volume containing the poem, Mr. Longfellow, made the following remarks regarding his translation: — 2
“The translation is literal, perhaps to a fault. In no instance have I done the author a wrong by introducing into his work any supposed improvements or embellishments of my own. I have preserved even the measure, that inexorable hexameter, in which, it must be confessed, the motions of the English muse are not unlike those of a prisoner dancing to the music of his chains; and perhaps, as Dr. Johnson said of the dancing dog, ‘the wonder is not that she should do it so well, but that she should do it at all.’” 3
Passages from Frithiof’s Saga.
I.
Frithiof’s Homestead
By Esaias Tegnér
THREE miles extended around the fields of the homestead, on three sides
Valleys and mountains and hills, but on the fourth side was the ocean.
Birch woods crowned the summits, but down the slope of the hillsides
Flourished the golden corn, and man-high was waving the rye-field.
Lakes, full many in number, their mirror held up for the mountains, 5
Held for the forests up, in whose depths the high-horned reindeers
Had their kingly walk, and drank of a hundred brooklets.
But in the valleys widely around, there fed on the greensward
Herds with shining hides and udders that longed for the milk-pail.
‘Mid these scattered, now here and now there, were numberless flocks of 10
Sheep with fleeces white, as thou seest the white-looking stray clouds,
Flock-wise spread o’er the heavenly vault, when it bloweth in spring-time.
Coursers two times twelve, all mettlesome, fast fettered storm-winds,
Stamping stood in the line of stalls, and tugged at their fodder.
Knotted with red were their manes, and their hoofs all white with steel shoes. 15
Th’ banquet-hall, a house by itself, was timbered of hard fir.
Not five hundred men (at ten times twelve to the hundred)
Filled up the roomy hall, when assembled for drinking, at Yule-tide.
Thorough the hall, as long as it was, went a table of holm-oak,
Polished and white, as of steel; the columns twain of the High-seat 20
Stood at the end thereof, two gods carved out of an elm-tree;
Odin with lordly look, and Frey with the sun on his frontlet.
Lately between the two, on a bear-skin (the skin it was coal-black,
Scarlet-red was the throat, but the paws were shodden with silver),
Thorsten sat with his friends, Hospitality sitting with Gladness. 25
Oft, when the moon through the cloud-rack flew, related the old man
Wonders from distant lands he had seen, and cruises of Vikings
Far away on the Baltic, and Sea of the West, and the White Sea.
Hushed sat the listening bench, and their glances hung on the graybeard’s
Lips, as a bee on the rose; but the Scald was thinking of Brage, 30
Where, with his silver beard, and runes on his tongue, he is seated
Under the leafy beech, and tells a tradition by Mimer’s
Ever-murmuring wave, himself a living tradition.
Midway the floor (with thatch was it strewn) burned ever the fire-flame
Glad on its stone-built hearth; and thorough the wide-mouthed smoke-flue 35
Looked the stars, those heavenly friends, down into the great hall.
Round the walls, upon nails of steel, were hanging in order
Breastplate and helmet together, and here and there among them
Downward lightened a sword, as in winter evening a star shoots.
More than helmets and swords the shields in the hall were resplendent, 40
White as the orb of the sun, or white as the moon’s disk of silver.
Ever and anon went a maid round the board, and filled up the drink-horns,
Ever she cast down
her eyes and blushed; in the shield her reflection
Blushed, too, even as she; this gladdened the drinking champions.
II.
A Sledge-ride on the Ice
By Esaias Tegnér
KING RING with his queen to the banquet did fare,
On the lake stood the ice so mirror-clear.
“Fare not o’er the ice,” the stranger cries;
“It will burst, and full deep the cold bath lies.”
“The king drowns not easily,” Ring outspake; 5
“He who’s afraid may go round the lake.”
Threatening and dark looked the stranger round,
His steel shoes with haste on his feet he bound.
The sledge-horse starts forth strong and free;
He snorteth flames, so glad is he. 10
“Strike out,” screamed the king, “my trotter good,
Let us see if thou art of Sleipner’s blood.”
They go as a storm goes over the lake,
No heed to his queen doth the old man take.
But the steel-shod champion standeth not still, 15
He passeth them by as swift as he will
He carves many runes in the frozen tide,
Fair Ingeborg o’er her own name doth glide.
III.
Frithiof’s Temptation
By Esaias Tegnér
SPRING is coming, birds are twittering, forests leaf, and smiles the sun,
And the loosened torrents downward, singing, to the ocean run;
Glowing like the cheek of Freya, peeping rosebuds ‘gin to ope,
And in human hearts awaken love of life, and joy, and hope.
Now will hunt the ancient monarch, and the queen shall join the sport: 5
Swarming in its gorgeous splendor, is assembled all the court;
Bows ring loud, and quivers rattle, stallions paw the ground alway,
And, with hoods upon their eyelids, scream the falcons for their prey.
See, the Queen of the chase advances! Frithiof, gaze not at the sight!
Like a star upon a spring-cloud sits she on her palfrey white. 10
Half of Freya, half of Rota, yet more beauteous than these two,
And from her light hat of purple wave aloft the feathers blue.
Gaze not at her eyes’ blue heaven, gaze not at her golden hair!
Oh beware! her waist is slender, full her bosom is, beware!
Look not at the rose and lily on her cheek that shifting play, 15
List not to the voice beloved, whispering like the wind of May.
Now the huntsman’s band is ready. Hurrah! over hill and dale!
Horns ring, and the hawks right upward to the hall of Odin sail.
All the dwellers in the forest seek in fear their cavern homes,
But, with spear outstretched before her, after them the Valkyr comes.
* * * * * 20
Then threw Frithiof down his mantle, and upon the greensward spread,
And the ancient king so trustful laid on Frithiof’s knee his head,
Slept as calmly as the hero sleepeth, after war’s alarm,
On his shield, or as an infant sleeps upon its mother’s arm.
As he slumbers, hark! there sings a coal-black bird upon the bough; 25
“Hasten, Frithiof, slay the old man, end your quarrel at a blow:
Take his queen, for she is thine, and once the bridal kiss she gave,
Now no human eye beholds thee, deep and silent is the grave.”
Frithiof listens; hark! there sings a snow-white bird upon the bough:
“Though no human eye beholds thee, Odin’s eye beholds thee now. 30
Coward! wilt thou murder sleep, and a defenceless old man slay!
Whatsoe’er thou winn’st, thou canst not win a hero’s fame this way.”
Thus the two wood-birds did warble: Frithiof took his war-sword good,
With a shudder hurled it from him, far into the gloomy wood.
Coal-black bird flies down to Nastrand, but on light, unfolded wings, 35
Like the tone of harps, the other, sounding towards the sun, upsprings.
Straight the ancient king awakens. “Sweet has been my sleep,” he said;
“Pleasantly sleeps one in the shadow, guarded by a brave man’s blade.
But where is thy sword, O stranger? Lightning’s brother, where is he?
Who thus parts you, who should never from each other parted be!” 40
“It avails not,” Frithiof answered; “in the North are other swords:
Sharp, O monarch! is the sword’s tongue, and it speaks not peaceful words;
Murky spirits dwell in steel blades, spirits from the Niffelhem;
Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks but anger them.”
IV.
Frithiof’s Farewell
By Esaias Tegnér
NO more shall I see
In its upward motion
The smoke of the Northland. Man is a slave:
The fates decree.
On the waste of the ocean 5
There is my fatherland, there is my grave.
Go not to the strand,
Ring, with thy bride,
After the stars spread their light through the sky.
Perhaps in the sand, 10
Washed up by the tide,
The bones of the outlawed Viking may lie.
Then, quoth the king,
“‘T is mournful to hear
A man like a whimpering maiden cry. 15
The death-song they sing
Even now in mine ear.
What avails it? He who is born must die.”
The Children of the Lord’s Supper
By Esaias Tegnér
PENTECOST, day of rejoicing, had come.
The church of the village
Gleaming stood in the morning’s sheen.
On the spire of the belfry,
Decked with a brazen cock, the friendly flames of the Spring-sun 5
Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles aforetime.
Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her cap crowned with roses,
Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the wind and the brooklet
Murmured gladness and peace, God’s-peace! with lips rosy-tinted
Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry on balancing branches 10
Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to the Highest.
Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned like a leaf-woven arbor
Stood its old-fashioned gate; and within upon each cross of iron
Hung was a fragrant garland, new twined by the hands of affection.
Even the dial, that stood on a mound among the departed, 15
(There full a hundred years had it stood,) was embellished with blossoms.
Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and the hamlet,
Who on his birthday is crowned by children and children’s children,
So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of iron
Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the time and its changes, 20
While all around at his feet, an eternity slumbered in quiet.
Also the church within was adorned, for this was the season
When the young, their parents’ hope, and the loved-ones of heaven,
Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of their baptism.
Therefore each nook and corner was swept and cleaned, and the dust was 25
Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the oil-painted benches.
There stood the church like a garden; the Feast of the Leafy Pavilions
Saw we in living presentment. From noble arms on the church wall
Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher’s pulpit of oak-wood
Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod before Aaron. 30
Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, and the dove, washed with silv
er,
Under its canopy fastened, had on it a necklace of wind-flowers.
But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece painted by Hörberg,
Crept a garland gigantic; and bright-curling tresses of angels
Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, from out of the shadowy leaf-work. 35
Likewise the lustre of brass, new-polished, blinked from the ceiling,
And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set in the sockets.
Loud rang the bells already; the thronging crowd was assembled
Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy preaching.
Hark! then roll forth at once the mighty tones of the organ, 40
Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible spirits.
Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast from off him his mantle,
So cast off the soul its garments of earth; and with one voice
Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem immortal
Of the sublime Wallín, of David’s harp in the North-land 45
Tuned to the choral of Luther; the song on its mighty pinions
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven,
And each face did shine like the Holy One’s face upon Tabor.
Lo! there entered then into the church the Reverend Teacher.
Father he hight and he was in the parish; a Christianly plainness 50
Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of seventy winters.
Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the heralding angel
Walked he among the crowds, but still a contemplative grandeur
Lay on his forehead as clear as on moss-covered gravestone a sunbeam.
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 137
