BLONDEL'S SONG UNDER THE PRISON WINDOW OF RICHARD CŒUR-DE-LION. SEDAINE. TRANSLATED BY THE EDITORS. O RICHARD, O my King, The world forgets thee! I, only I, lament That ill besets thee. I, in the wide world only I, Would break the chains that bind thee. The universe forgets, and I Alone would seek and find thee. O Richard, O my King, The world forgets thee! I, only I, lament That ill besets thee. Yet sure one heart beside Must sore regret thee. That ills beset thee! Monarch, thy truest friends The laurel's glory wear not; They who the myrtle bear Their loyal love forswear not! In weal or woe, Of selfish gain The troubador is leal to thee O Richard, O my King, The world forgets thee! I, only I, lament That ill besets thee. O Richard, O my King, The world forgets thee! O Richard, can it be That all the world forgets thee? Must I alone lament That ill besets thee? TO THE NEAPOLITANS. THOMAS Moore. Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are! That shrunk at the first touch of liberty's war On, on like a cloud, through their beautiful vales, From each slave-mart of Europe, and shadow their shore ! Let their fate be a mock-word, let men of all lands Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, When each sword, that the cowards let fall from their hands, Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls. And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven, To think as the doomed often think of that heaven They had once within reach that they might have been free. When the world stood in hope-when a spirit that breathed The fresh hour of the olden time, whispered about; And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheathed, But waited one conquering cry to flash out! When around you the shades of your mighty in fame, Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you! Oh, shame! that in such a proud moment of life, One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world, That then-oh! disgrace upon manhood-even then You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath; Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death. It is strange, it is dreadful! shout, Tyranny, shout Through your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er!" If there lingers one spark of her life, tread it out, And return to your empire of darkness once more. SWEDISH BATTLE-SONG. ALTENBURG. FEAR not, O little flock, the foe, What though your courage sometimes faints, Be of good cheer, -your cause belongs Though hidden yet from all our eyes, As true as God's own Word is true, A jest and byword are they grown; Amen, Lord Jesus, grant our prayer! So shall thy saints and martyrs raise A mighty chorus to Thy praise, World without end. Amen. THE LORD OF BUTRAGO. SPANISH BALLAD. TRANSLATION OF JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. "YOUR horse is faint, my King, my lord! your gallant horse is sick, His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick; Mount, mount on mine, oh, mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly! Or in my arms I'll lift Your Grace. Their trampling hoofs are nigh! |