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Translated by C. T. Brooks
THE SENTINEL his weary hours | |
| Keeps guard in quarantine; | |
| Across the stream, in paths of flowers, | |
| The Turkish maid is seen. | |
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| Between, the roaring Danube’s tide, | 5 |
| Like death’s dark river, rolls, | |
| Whose waters earth and heaven divide, | |
| Mortals and blessed souls. | |
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| What things are done in that bright sun, | |
| To those who linger here, | 10 |
| Like memory’s lost or hope’s unwon | |
| And unborn joys appear. | |
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| The flowers that there perfume the air | |
| So far from him they seem, | |
| As if Heaven’s bowers, in long-gone hours, | 15 |
| Had shown them in his dream. | |
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| The golden fruits that glow among | |
| Yon groves of balm and spice | |
| Are in his eyes as if they hung | |
| On trees of Paradise. | 20 |
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| Yon Turkish maid, who walks beside | |
| The pleasant river-shore, | |
| Seems like a gentle ghost to glide,— | |
| A shape of earth no more. | |
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| Through the white veil her lustrous eyes | 25 |
| In liquid beauty gleam, | |
| As when, mild-glimmering from the skies, | |
| The stars through cloud-fleece beam. | |
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| The soldier kindles at the sight | |
| With such a yearning love, | 30 |
| As draws by night, in full moonlight, | |
| The wanderer’s soul above. | |
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| His vision seems about to pass | |
| To that far spirit-land,— | |
| But other images, alas! | 35 |
| Quite earthly, are at hand. | |
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| Full many a scout, to-night, is out, | |
| He hears them brushing by; | |
| Bright gleams the steel, and from the heel | |
| Dust-clouds—hoof-lightnings—fly. | 40 |
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| In moss-divan, upon the shore, | |
| The Aga’s smoke-pipe-cup | |
| See, like a musket-barrel, pour | |
| Its peaceful salvos up! | |
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| Then, full of wrath, the soldier grounds | 45 |
| His musket on the shore | |
| So heavily, the welkin sounds | |
| With hollow ring and roar! | |
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| “Shame that these vigorous limbs all day | |
| Must haunt this lazy shore, | 50 |
| Dead as a boundary tree, to play | |
| Nurse at a pest-house door! | |
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| “Your bridges here, come, Pontoneer, | |
| For wagon and for horse! | |
| Come, Commissary, boats for the ferry, | 55 |
| Over with all the force! | |
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| “We, too, must battle for the Lord! | |
| The fight our sires begun, | |
| Yonder, by our good Christian sword, | |
| Must be fought out and won! | 60 |
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| “See on yon mosque the crescent fly! | |
| Sir Captain, what disgrace! | |
| Up, plant the holy cross, there, high, | |
| Far worthier of the place! | |
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| “Sir Priest, you see how error’s veil | 65 |
| Shrouds many a lovely brow, | |
| That prays, within the Church’s pale | |
| And at her font, to bow!” | |
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| Take courage, Faith, be not afraid! | |
| Who would have dreamed, awake, | 70 |
| An unbelieving Turkish maid | |
| Could such good Christians make! | |
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