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From The Bard of the Dimbovitza, Roumanian Folk-Songs Collected from the Peasants by Hélène Vacaresco, translated by Carmen Sylva and Alma Strettel; London: James R. Osgood, McIlvaine & Co., 1897; pp. 60-79.


LUTEPLAYER’S SONGS

Part IV


60

THE SOLDIER.

THE soldier was a-weary.
I spake: “Come, sit thee down;”
I gave him water from my wooden pitcher,
And asked him: “Hast thou quenched thy thirst?”
The soldier looked deep down into mine eyes,
And I, I saw his smile.


The maize was full of sunshine,
The sunshine made my distaff bright as gold;
My necklace had red beads.


But yet, the soldier went away
When he had drunk the water from my pitcher,
Rested his weariness upon my threshold.
The threshold still doth say:
“His weariness he rested here on me,”
And still my heart remembereth his smile.
But shouldest thou again come down this road
That looks toward my house,
Then linger not
Since thou must soon pass on.
Go drink from out the river,
And rest thee in the forest;

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For if thou come back here again, my heart
Will have two sorrows.


I love the hero and his name is sweet
To call to mind, as chimes of Sunday bells.
When he goes by, the children gaze at him,
The sun looks down to see him, how he goes
On to his death.
For he will die in fullest light
Of glorious day;
His soul will shout for joy, to leave the earth
In radiant day. —
I love the hero.
And sweet will be the maiden’s love to thee,
Though all unknown — for like a star above,
So is the maiden, giving light to all,
Yet keeping all her fire within herself.
And thou shalt die, not knowing of this love,
Though thou hast drunk from out my wooden pitcher,
Rested thy weariness upon my threshold
                  I love the hero!


The soldier was a-weary,
I said: “Come, sit thee down;”
I gave him water from my wooden pitcher,
And asked him: “Hast thou quenched thy thirst?”
The soldier looked deep down into mine eyes,
And I, I saw his smile.


62

THE BLACK HEART.

A HEART there was — poor heart — as black as night,
And naught in all the world could make it white.

Poor heart, it prayed the doves, as they flew by,
To droop their soft white wings o’er it, and try
If that might help — but it was all in vain,
For black as night the poor heart did remain.
And then it begged the moon, a long, long while
To gaze upon it with her silv’ry smile.
And long the moon gazed down, full many a night,
Yet still in vain — the poor heart grew not white.
The river with its waters washed it o’er,
E’en as it doth the pebbles on its shore,
And even as on tender corn, the rain
Fell fast upon it — yet was all in vain.
The sun looked pitying down, compassionate,
On the heart’s blackness and its bitter fate.
At last a heart, a happy heart, came by,
— Happy, for it was white — and drawing nigh,
Touched the black heart — and lo! it broke in two,
Yet ere it broke, as white as snow it grew,
And of its fragments, every one did prove
White as the feathers of a turtle-dove.

There was a heart — poor heart — as black as night,
And naught in all the world could make it white.


63

THE DRAUGHT OF TEARS.

To the sound of thy voice the rivers gladly flow.
The fruit on my trees, my plum-trees, still is green,
The sun ev’ry morning looketh down and saith:
            “What, not yet ripe?”

FOR he doth thirst no more,
Therefore for others’ thirst he has no pity.
He lets the rain lie heavy on his cloak,
And blesses not the rain,
Sees the brooks flow, and blesses not the brooks;
He gazes on the well’s cool deeps,
For this is he, who drank of his own tears;
His thirst is quenched for ever.
He let them trickle down into his glass,
Let the sun glitter on them, and the moon
            Mirror herself therein.
And sun and moon both said: “What crystal water!”
Then did he put his lips to it and drink.
And his lips spake: “What fiery, burning water!”
This is the man, who drank of his own tears.


64

To the sound of thy voice the rivers gladly flow.
The fruit on my trees, my plum-trees, still is green,
The sun ev’ry morning looketh down and saith:
            “What, not yet ripe?”


65

MOURN NOT.

On the bench beside my door
Two men did sit them down.
Weary they seemed, and whispered there together,
                  Then went their way;
And who they were, I could not ever learn.

HE whom I love is dead,
And yet I mourn him not,
Because he told me that I must not weep.


The maize grows high, and low are all the rivers;
The maids go wading through them, and the water
Just wets their aprons, and their girdles too.


                  For him I weep not,
For dearer was his grave to him than I;
And I will not be jealous of his grave,
Or envy it for my belovèd’s sleep.
Ah no! but to the grave I say:
“Keep him, for he is thine!”
Only the grave hath taken, too, my smile,
My gaily ringing voice, and lightsome step.
“Give me back these,” I say unto the grave;

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The grave replies: “Not so, for else were he
Left all so lonely here!”
Then to my love I say: “Awake, awake,
And bring me back again my lightsome step,
My voice that rang so gaily, and my smile.”
But yet he hearkens not.
So now I must go down into the grave,
To get them back from him.
Only I know, when I am in the grave,
And see my heart’s belovèd,
There shall I stay for ever, with my smile,
My gaily ringing voice, and lightsome step.

On the bench beside my door
Two men did sit them down.
Weary they seemed, and whispered there together,
                  Then went their way;
And who they were, I could not ever learn.


67

THE LUTEPLAYER’S SONG.

THE flame will catch thy floating veil,
      If thou dancest round the fire,
Beware, then, for I love thy veil
      Full well, my heart’s desire;


More than the moonlight, or my lute’s
      Sweet plaintive melody,
More than the heart that was mine own
      Until I gave it thee.


So many songs I sang thee, love,
      From the whole wide world’s store;
Did none find favour with thy heart,
      Wouldst thou hear none once more?


How on the Heiduck’s stern, black brow,
      One gleaming star there shone,
Because his sweetheart, sorrowing, laid
      Her parting kiss thereon?


Hast thou forgotten, too, the song
      Of the maiden proud and fair,
Whose spindle was of hazel wood,
      Slender, and light as air?


68

Or of the phantom, who each night
      His tombstone bore away,
That on his grave flowers might, instead,
      Have time to bloom, ere day?


Dost thou remember none of them,
      The songs I sang of yore?
Did none find favour with thee, love,
      Wouldst thou hear none once more?


For I am the Cobzar, my hand
      Is light — my heart, I ween,
Is brimming over more with song
      Than all the forest green;


For it knows winter storms — not I,
      I’m warm as is a nest,
So that I warm the very snow,
      It melts upon my breast.


Men’s pain and anguish do but lend
      My living songs more fire,
Their weeping is as wine to me,
      To stir me and inspire.


For I am the Cobzar. No rock,
      No stream can bar my way,
Nor waterfall nor tangled wood;
      I’m light of foot and gay.


69

The sky itself must envy me,
      For we are of one mind;
And if thou be not weary, hark
      To me, as to the wind.


And love me, love me, little one,
      That I of bliss may sing;
Then leave me, that with tears and woe
      My mournful song may ring;


And die! My song must know death too,
      And what its sorrows are,
That it may learn despair’s true ring;
      Die then! I am Cobzar!


70

FAITHLESS.

A woman came into my field at even,
And asked of me: “How fares it with thy crops?”
I said: “Right well — the crops stand thick and high.”



YET did she always tell me that she loved me —
Only, she loved that other better far;
So one dark night they fled away together.
Her face the moon hid, not to see them going,
Nor have to tell me, how she gladly went.
I heard no echo of their horses’ hoofs,
Yet now I hear them ever in mine ears.
At night I waken with a start, and say:
“Those be their horses’ hoofs!”
I never saw them kiss — yet always see it.
And now at night I waken with a start,
And say: “I see their kisses!”
I would not, she should weep as I am weeping,
For she would lack the strength of soul to hold
The bitter curses back.
And I am ever on the eve of cursing,
Yet have I never cursed her to this day.
If I could bless her, I were glad; yea, gladly
Would pray for her, and give her all my prayers

71
Instead of this my pain.
Yet still my fancy sees her happy cottage,
And peaceful sleep, that knows no grievous dread.
Then I upbraid myself, for having sorrow
So long as she can smile,
For being one, who, if perchance remembered,
Could make her laughter cease. —
I ask all other women: “Where, where is she?”
And Fate: “What hast thou done, to take her from me?”
I fain would have his blood, whom so she loves;
Yet would not see him, no, not e’en to kill him!
If but my knife alone could find the way,
Then would I tell it: “Go — I wait thy coming!”
Yet would that blood strike horror to my soul —
And that man’s death could never comfort me.
And neither will I die, for in the grave
I should no longer see the sun she sees,
Nor the same stars, nor the same wide, blue heaven;
Nor suffer still upon the self-same earth
Where she has happiness.
And I am glad the same sun should look down
Upon my sorrow and her joy, for so
I seem to share some one thing with her still.


That other now doth her spindle’s whirr! —
Yet is it not my will that he should die,
Since I could never kill him — and his death
Naught could avail me now.

72
What shall I do to hold from cursing her? —
Nay, rather, school myself to say to her:
“Now ease thy heart, I have forgiven thee;
Thy hearth be peaceful, fruitful be thy womb,
And ever green the threshold of thy door;
Nor let thy laughter cease, remembering me.”


A woman came into my field at even,
And asked of me: “How fares it with thy crops?”
I said: “Right well — the crops stand thick and high.”


5

HAY.

YESTERDAY’S flowers am I,
And I have drunk my last sweet draught of dew.
Young maidens came and sang me to my death;
The moon looks down and sees me in my shroud,
       The shroud of my last dew.


Yesterday’s flowers, that are yet in me,
Must needs make way for all to-morrow’s flowers.
The maidens, too, that sang me to my death
Must even so make way for all the maids
       That are to come.
And as my soul, so too their soul will be
Laden with fragrance of the days gone by.
The maidens that to-morrow come this way
Will not remember that I once did bloom,
For they will only see the new-born flowers.
Yet will my perfume-laden soul bring back,
As a sweet memory, to women’s hearts
       Their days of maidenhood.
And then they will be sorry that they came
       To sing me to my death.
And all the butterflies will mourn for me;
       I bear away with me
The sunshine’s dear remembrance, and the low

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       Soft murmurs of the spring.
My breath is sweet as children’s prattle is;
I drank in all the whole earth’s fruitfulness,
to make of it the fragrance of my soul
       That shall outlive my death.
Now to the morrow’s flowers will I say:
       “Dear children of my roots!
I charge you, love the sun as I have loved,
And love the lovers, and the little birds,
That when ye bloom anew,
They never may remember I am dead,
But always think they see the self-same flowers;
Even as the sun that ever thinks he sees
The self-same birds and lovers upon earth,
Because he is immortal, and for this
       Never remembers Death.”


Yesterday’s flowers am I,
And I have drunk my last sweet draught of dew.
Young maidens came and sang me to my death;
The moon looks down and sees me in my shroud,
       The shroud of my last dew.


75

IN THE MOONLIGHT.

To-morrow
The days of gladness will be done for me;
Heavy and overcast my soul will be,
And day will seem like night for me to-morrow.

HIS spade he cast aside,
And told us all the story of his grief.
And thus he spake to us: “I had a daughter,
Gay silver spangles she was wont to wear.
“Father,” she said,
“Which is the way that leadeth to the plain?
I love the plain, when the moon looks thereon,
And I would have the moon look, too, on me.”
I followed her, one evening,
My child I followed down into the plain,
And then I saw how the moon looked on her,
While she held converse with a dead man there.
She gently stroked his head, and gave him drink,
And snowed him all the loveliness of earth.
Between them stood the cross from off his grave.
I heard the dead man ask her:
“What dost thou all day along upon the earth?”
My child made answer: “I await the night.”

76
Then he went hence, bearing his cross away,
And hence my daughter went, bearing her grief.
Then dead upon the earth I stretched my child,
That so she might be one with him, the dead, —
Yea, then I slew my child.

To-morrow
The days of gladness will be done for me;
Heavy and overcast my soul will be,
And day will seem like night for me to-morrow.


77

THE MURDERER.

Whoso toucheth maidens’ spindles,
His heart grows light, as the first leaf unfolding
      Upon a tree that groweth green.
For light a maiden’s heart is, when it sees
      The first leaf growing green.

HE hath wandered on the roads so long already,
They are amazed, to see him not yet weary.
So long beneath the sunshine he hath wandered,
The sun doth ask: “Must thou not quench thy thirst?”
The fountain asks him: “Art thou not yet thirsty?”
The spring doth murmur: “Wilt thou drink, O man?”
So many nights he hath not slept, Night asks him:
“Can I not lull thee for a while so sleep?”
He gives them all one answer: “Let me be.”
He hates them all, because they pity him.
And horror-struck he shrinks from Pity.
Since Pity horror-struck, would shrink from him,
If she but knew.
He cannot wipe the sweat from off his brow
For fear it should be blood.
No water can he drink from spring or fountain
For fear it should be blood;
And neither will he dream, for fear of blood,

78
Nor look upon his hands, nor pass his hand
Across his face, for the hands fear the face,
The face the hands.
He fears his very footprints,
And the colour of his shadow;
He asks his shadow: “Why dost follow me?”
He asks his threshold: “Know’st thou me?”
And he can scarcely step across his threshold,
Because the house seemeth to hate him so,
And hateful is to him.
He asks of everyone: “Didst thou, too, know him?”
They make reply: “Of what man speakest thou?”
And then he wonders, that they do not know. —
Those other eyes
Ceaselessly glare on him — that Other One
Says to him: “Now we always are together;”
And gently talks with him, as with a friend;
And leads him round about his house and saith:
“Come in into my house;” —
And shows the hearth to him and saith:
“Sit down beside my hearth;” —
And shows him, too, his couch, and saith to him:
“Lie down upon my couch;” —
Shows him the spot where once his grave will be,
And saith: “Even here,
Down here into my grave, too, thou shalt come;” —
Shows him his hands, saying: “Because thy blood
Hath made them red, I am afraid of blood.”


79

Whoso toucheth maidens’ spindles,
His heart grows light, as the first leaf unfolding
      Upon a tree that groweth green.
For light a maiden’s heart is, when it sees
      The first leaf growing green.






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