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Translated by C. T. Brooks
LOVELY was the night of May, | |
| Clouds of silvery whiteness | |
| O’er the blooming spring away | |
| Sailed in fleecy lightness. | |
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| Meadow, grove, and mountain’s brow | 5 |
| Silent rest were taking; | |
| No one but the moonshine now | |
| On the roads was waking. | |
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| Glare and din of day had fled, | |
| Ceased each warbler’s numbers,— | 10 |
| Spring her fairy children led | |
| Through the realm of slumbers. | |
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| Whispering breeze and brooklet crept | |
| Slow with silent paces, | |
| Fragrant dreams of flowers that slept | 15 |
| Filled the shadowy spaces. | |
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| But my rough postilion now | |
| Cracked his whip, and, flying, | |
| Left the vale and mountain’s brow | |
| To his horn replying. | 20 |
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| O’er the hill, across the plain, | |
| Loud the hoofs resounded, | |
| As through all the bright domain | |
| On the good steeds bounded. | |
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| Wood and mead, as on we sped, | 25 |
| Flew with scarce a greeting; | |
| Town and country by us fled, | |
| Like a dream still fleeting. | |
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| In the lovely May-moonlight | |
| Lay a churchyard nested, | 30 |
| And the traveller’s roaming sight | |
| Solemnly arrested. | |
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| On the mountain-side the wall | |
| Seemed with age reclining, | |
| And, above, a sad and tall | 35 |
| Crucifix was shining. | |
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| Driver, at a slower pace, | |
| Up the road advances, | |
| Stops, and toward the burial-place | |
| Reverently glances: | 40 |
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| “Horse and wheel must tarry here,— | |
| Sir, ’t is not for danger,— | |
| But there lies one sleeping near | |
| Was to me no stranger! | |
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| “’T was a lad most rare and true,— | 45 |
| Ah, the sorrow ponder! | |
| None so clear the post-horn blew | |
| As my comrade yonder! | |
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| “Always must I linger here, | |
| And, with mournful pleasure, | 50 |
| To the dead one’s waiting ear | |
| Blow his favorite measure!” | |
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| Toward the churchyard now he blew | |
| Such entrancing numbers, | |
| Well might pierce the dull ground through, | 55 |
| Stir the dead man’s slumbers. | |
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| And a blast upon the air | |
| From the heights came flying,— | |
| Was the dead postilion there | |
| To his songs replying? | 60 |
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| On, again, and faster still, | |
| On the good steeds bounded,— | |
| Long that echo from the hill | |
| In my ear resounded. | |
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