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Translated by Louisa Stuart Costello
I. “I STOOD beside the running stream, | |
| And heard the mournful death-bird | |
| ‘Tina, know’st thou, ’t is no dream, | |
| Thou art bought and sold to-day?’ | |
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| “Mother, mother, is it true, | 5 |
| What the death-bird said he knew? | |
| Am I, for the love of gold, | |
| To the aged Baron sold?” | |
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| “Ah! dear child, I cannot tell; | |
| Ask thy father for the truth.” | 10 |
| “Father, is it fixed to sell | |
| To old age thy daughter’s youth?” | |
| |
| “Daughter, urge me not, I pray; | |
| Ask thy brother,—he can say.” | |
| “Lannik!—brother!—speak the word, | 15 |
| Am I sold to Jauioz’s lord?” | |
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| “Sister, thou art sold. Be wise, | |
| For thy price was brought to-day; | |
| Let no tears bedim thine eyes, | |
| Let thy gear be brave and gay. | 20 |
| Fifty crowns of silver white, | |
| Fifty more of gold so bright, | |
| Jauioz’s lord for thee has paid, | |
| Be thy fortune marred or made!” | |
| |
| “Mother, shall thy child be drest | 25 |
| In the white robe, or the red? | |
| Which would suit a bride the best? | |
| Or will black be well instead, | |
| That my sister Helen sewed?” | |
| “Daughter, ask me not. The road | 30 |
| Will be rough, and dark the way; | |
| Dress thee quickly, for thy steed, | |
| Yon black courser, trapped so gay, | |
| Waits to bear thee hence with speed.” | |
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II. ’T was not far she rode when loud | 35 |
| On the air came sounds she knew; | |
| ’T was the bells that rang so proud, | |
| Then she wept: “St. Anne, adieu! | |
| All my native bells, farewell! | |
| Ye have tolled my funeral knell!” | 40 |
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| By the Lake of Pain 1 she passed: | |
| There she saw a ghastly band; | |
| White their garments, and the blast | |
| Drove their shadowy barks to land. | |
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| Crowds of spectres were the crew, | 45 |
| Souls who seek in vain for rest; | |
| Hard her struggling breath she drew, | |
| And her head sunk on her breast. | |
| |
| When the Vale of Blood she neared, | |
| All that ghastly band, with speed, | 50 |
| Following in pursuit appeared | |
| Close behind her coal-black steed! | |
| Hideous forms and sights of fear | |
| Press her nearer and more near. | |
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| All her senses chilled with woe, | 55 |
| Full of horror and dismay, | |
| Motionless and pale as snow, | |
| At the Baron’s gate she lay. | |
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III. “Wake thee, Tina, ’t is thy lord; | |
| Seat thee by the blazing hearth; | 60 |
| See, they spread the festal board, | |
| Hark the minstrels and the mirth!” | |
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| By the fire the Baron stands, | |
| Black his raven locks as night, | |
| Eyes that glow like flaming brands, | 65 |
| Hair and beard all hoary white. | |
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| “Long I ’ve sought this blooming maid, | |
| She is mine, at last!” he said. | |
| “Come, fair girl, and view my store, | |
| Count my riches o’er and o’er, | 70 |
| Come with me from room to room.” | |
| “Baron Jauioz, take me home! | |
| Rather, by my mother’s side, | |
| Counting billets for our fire, | |
| Would I all my life abide; | 75 |
| And no riches I desire.” | |
| “See, my caves are filled with wine, | |
| Drink,—’t is sweet, a cure for care.” | |
| “Brighter does the streamlet shine | |
| Where my father’s flocks repair!” | 80 |
| “Come and choose throughout the town | |
| Broidered robes all rich and grand.” | |
| “Better is a woollen gown | |
| Made me by my mother’s hand.” | |
| “Come, behold this cincture bright | 85 |
| Dazzling all whene’er you move.” | |
| “Better is the girdle white | |
| Which my sister Helen wove!” | |
| “Girl! thy words are harsh and cold, | |
| Hatred in each look is told! | 90 |
| Curses on my gold that bought thee! | |
| Curses on my heart that sought thee! | |
| Idiot that I was,—my gain | |
| Is but tears, reproach, and pain.” | |
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IV. “Little birds that roam so free, | 95 |
| Hear my voice, and list to me. | |
| You can to my village hie, | |
| I, alas! am captive here; | |
| I am sunk in misery, | |
| You are full of joyous cheer. | 100 |
| To my village when ye rove | |
| All my friends your eyes may view. | |
| To my mother bear my love, | |
| To my father bear it, too. | |
| Bless my mother day by day, | 105 |
| To our priest my greetings tell, | |
| To my brother whispering say, | |
| I have pardoned him,—farewell!” | |
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V. Months were gone: ’t was midnight deep, | |
| All was hushed in silent sleep; | 110 |
| Not a footstep pressed the floor, | |
| Nothing stirred, above, around, | |
| When a soft voice at the door | |
| Murmured words of mournful sound: | |
| “Father, mother, wake and pray, | 115 |
| And your mourning weeds prepare, | |
| For my soul a requiem say, | |
| Comfort me with many a prayer, | |
| Heave the sigh, and shed the tear, | |
| For your child lies on her bier.” | 120 |
