Edward
Anonymous Ballad

“Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude,
            Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude,
      And why sae sad gang ye, O?”
“O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude,
            Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude,
      And I had nae mair but he, O.”

“Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,
            Edward, Edward;
Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,
      My dear son, I tell thee, O.”
“O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed,
            Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed,
      That erst wa sae fair and free, O.”

“Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair,
            Edward, Edward;
Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair;
      Some other dule ye dree, O.”
“O I hae kill’d my father dear,
            Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my father dear,
      Alas, and wae is me, O!”

“And whatten penance will ye dree for that,
            Edward, Edward?
Whatten penance will ye dree for that?
      My dear son, now tell me, O.”
“I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,
            Mither, mither;
I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,
      And I’ll fare over the sea, O.”

“And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’,
            Edward, Edward?
And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’,
      That were sae fair to see, O?”
“I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’,
            Mither, mither;
I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’,
      For here never mair maun I be, O.”

“And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
            Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
      When ye gang owre the sea, O?”
“The warld’s room: let them beg through life,
            Mither, mither;
The warld’s room: let them beg through life;
      For them never mair will I see, O.”

“And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
            Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
      My dear son, now tell me, O?”
“The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,
            Mither, mither;
The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear:
      Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!”

Views: 57

Il Sogno
by Pietro Metastasio (1698-1782)

Pur nel sonno almen talora
vien colei, che m’innamora,
le mie pene a consolar.
Rendi Amor, se giusto sei,
più veraci i sogni miei,
o non farmi risvegliar.
Di solitaria fonte
sul margo assiso al primo albore, o Fille,
sognai d’esser con te. Sognai, ma in guisa
che sognar non credei. Garrir gli augelli,
frangersi l’acque e susurrar le foglie
pareami udir. De’ tuoi begli occhi al lume,
come suol per costume,
fra’ suoi palpiti usati era il cor mio.
Sol nel vederti, oh Dio!
pietosa a me, qual non ti vidi mai,
di sognar qualche volta io dubitai.
Quai voci udii! Che dolci nomi ottenni,
cara, da’ labbri tuoi! Quali in quei molli
tremuli rai teneri sensi io lessi!
Ah se mirar potessi
quanto splendan più belle
fra i lampi di pietà le tue pupille,
mai più crudel non mi saresti, o Fille
Qual io divenni allora,
quel che allora io pensai, ciò che allor dissi,
ridir non so. So che sul vivo latte
della tua mano io mille baci impressi;
tu d’un vago rossor tingesti il volto.
Quando improvviso ascolto
d’un cespuglio vicin scuoter le fronde:
mi volgo, e mezzo ascoso
scopro il rival Fileno,
che d’invido veleno
livido in faccia i furti miei rimira.
Fra la sorpresa e l’ira
avvampai, mi riscossi in un momento,
e fu breve anche in sogno il mio contento.
Partì con l’ombra, è ver,
l’inganno ed il piacer;
ma la mia fiamma, oh Dio!
idolo del cor mio,
con l’ombra non partì.
Se mai per un momento
sognando io son felice,
poi cresce il mio tormento,
quando ritorna il dì.

Views: 40

The Sweets of Evening
by Christopher Smart (1722-1771)

The sweets of Evening charm the mind,
      Sick of the sultry day;
The body then no more’s confin’d,
But exercise with freedom join’d,
      When Phoebus sheathes his ray.

The softer scenes of nature sooth
      The organs of our sight;
The Zephyrs fan the meadows smooth,
And on the brook we build the booth
      In pastoral delight.

While all-serene the summer moon
      Sends glances thro’ the trees,
And Philomel begins her tune,
Asteria too shall help her soon
      With voice of skilful ease.

A nosegay, every thing that grows,
      And music, every sound
To lull the sun to his repose;
The skies are coloured like the rose
      With lively streaks around.

Of all the changes rung by Time
      None half so sweet appear,
As those when thoughts themselves sublime,
And with superior natures chime
      In fancy’s highest sphere.

Views: 41

Satia Te Sanguine
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

If you loved me ever so little,
      I could bear the bonds that gall,
I could dream the bonds were brittle;
      You do not love me at all.

O beautiful lips, O bosom
      More white than the moon’s and warm,
A sterile, a ruinous blossom
      Is blown your way in a storm.

As the lost white feverish limbs
      Of the Lesbian Sappho, adrift
In foam where the sea-weed swims,
      Swam loose for the streams to lift,

My heart swims blind in a sea
      That stuns me; swims to and fro,
And gathers to windward and lee
      Lamentation, and mourning, and woe.

A broken, an emptied boat,
      Sea saps it, winds blow apart,
Sick and adrift and afloat,
      The barren waif of a heart.

Where, when the gods would be cruel,
      Do they go for a torture? where
Plant thorns, set pain like a jewel?
      Ah, not in the flesh, not there!

The racks of earth and the rods
      Are weak as foam on the sands;
In the heart is the prey for gods,
      Who crucify hearts, not hands.

Mere pangs corrode and consume,
      Dead when life dies in the brain;
In the infinite spirit is room
      For the pulse of an infinite pain.

I wish you were dead, my dear;
      I would give you, had I to give,
Some death too bitter to fear;
      It is better to die than live.

I wish you were stricken of thunder
      And burnt with a bright flame through,
Consumed and cloven in sunder,
      I dead at your feet like you.

If I could but know after all,
      I might cease to hunger and ache,
Though your heart were ever so small,
      If it were not a stone or a snake.

You are crueller, you that we love,
      Than hatred, hunger, or death;
You have eyes and breasts like a dove,
      And you kill men’s hearts with a breath.

As plague in a poisonous city
      Insults and exults on her dead,
So you, when pallid for pity
      Comes love, and fawns to be fed.

As a tame beast writhes and wheedles,
      He fawns to be fed with wiles;
You carve him a cross of needles,
      And whet them sharp as your smiles.

He is patient of thorn and whip,
      He is dumb under axe or dart;
You suck with a sleepy red lip
      The wet red wounds in his heart.

You thrill as his pulses dwindle,
      You brighten and warm as he bleeds,
With insatiable eyes that kindle
      And insatiable mouth that feeds.

Your hands nailed love to the tree,
      You stript him, scourged him with rods,
And drowned him deep in the sea
      That hides the dead and their gods.

And for all this, die will he not;
      There is no man sees him but I;
You came and went and forgot;
      I hope he will some day die.

Views: 46

La Vie antérieure
by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)

J’ai longtemps habité sous de vastes portiques
Que les soleils marins teignaient de mille feux,
Et que leurs grands piliers, droits et majestueux,
Rendaient pareils, le soir, aux grottes basaltiques.

Les houles, en roulant les images des cieux,
Mêlaient d’une façon solennelle et mystique
Les tout-puissants accords de leur riche musique
Aux couleurs du couchant reflété par mes yeux.

C’est là que j’ai vécu dans les voluptés calmes,
Au milieu de l’azur, des vagues, des splendeurs
Et des esclaves nus, tout imprégnés d’odeurs,

Qui me rafraîchissaient le front avec des palmes,
Et dont l’unique soin était d’approfondir
Le secret douloureux qui me faisait languir.

Views: 35

The Emperor of Ice-Cream
by Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Views: 25

Scorn Not the Sonnet
by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch’s wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens soothed an exile’s grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains–alas, too few!

Views: 23

Ode
by Jean-Baptiste Rousseau (1671-1741)

Pourquoi, plaintive Philomèle,
Songer encore à vos malheurs,
Quand, pour apaiser vos douleurs,
Tout cherche à vous marquer son zèle?
L’univers, à votre retour,
Semble renaître pour vous plaire;
Les Dryades à votre amour
Prêtent leur ombre solitaire.
Loin de vous l’aquilon fougueux
Souffle sa piquante froidure;
La terre reprend sa verdure;
Le ciel brille des plus beaux feux:
Pour vous l’amante de Céphale
Enrichit Flore de ses pleurs;
Le zéphyr cueille sur les fleurs
Les parfums que la terre exhale.

Pour entendre vos doux accents
Les oiseaux cessent leur ramage;
Et le chasseur le plus sauvage
Respecte vos jours innocents.
Cependant votre âme, attendrie
Par un douloureux souvenir,
Des malheurs d’une sœur chérie
Semble toujours s’entretenir.
Hélas! que mes tristes pensées
M’offrent des maux bien plus cuisants!
Vous pleurez des peines passées;
Je pleure des ennuis présents;
Et quand la Nature attentive
Cherche à calmer vos déplaisirs,
Il faut même que je me prive
De la douceur de mes soupirs.

Views: 35

Erotion
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

Sweet for a little even to fear, and sweet,
O love, to lay down fear at love’s fair feet;
Shall not some fiery memory of his breath
Lie sweet on lips that touch the lips of death?
Yet leave me not; yet, if thou wilt, be free;
Love me no more, but love my love of thee.
Love where thou wilt, and live thy life; and I,
One thing I can, and one love cannot—die.
Pass from me; yet thine arms, thine eyes, thine hair,
Feed my desire and deaden my despair.
Yet once more ere time change us, ere my cheek
Whiten, ere hope be dumb or sorrow speak,
Yet once more ere thou hate me, one full kiss;
Keep other hours for others, save me this.
Yea, and I will not (if it please thee) weep,
Lest thou be sad; I will but sigh, and sleep.
Sweet, does death hurt? thou canst not do me wrong:
I shall not lack thee, as I loved thee, long.
Hast thou not given me above all that live
Joy, and a little sorrow shalt not give?
What even though fairer fingers of strange girls
Pass nestling through thy beautiful boy’s curls
As mine did, or those curled lithe lips of thine
Meet theirs as these, all theirs come after mine;
And though I were not, though I be not, best,
I have loved and love thee more than all the rest.
O love, O lover, loose or hold me fast,
I had thee first, whoever have thee last;
Fairer or not, what need I know, what care?
To thy fair bud my blossom once seemed fair.
Why am I fair at all before thee, why
At all desired? seeing thou art fair, not I.
I shall be glad of thee, O fairest head,
Alive, alone, without thee, with thee, dead;
I shall remember while the light lives yet,
And in the night-time I shall not forget.
Though (as thou wilt) thou leave me ere life leave,
I will not, for thy love I will not, grieve;
Not as they use who love not more than I,
Who love not as I love thee though I die;
And though thy lips, once mine, be oftener prest
To many another brow and balmier breast,
And sweeter arms, or sweeter to thy mind,
Lull thee or lure, more fond thou wilt not find.

Views: 33

Le Main
by Remy de Gourmont(1858-1915)

Main qui chantais, main qui parlais,
Main qui étais comme une personne,
Main amoureuse qui savais
Comment on prend, comment on donne;

Main sur laquelle on a pleuré
Comme d’une fontaine fraîche,
Main sur laquelle on a crié
D’amour, de joie ou de détresse;

Main qui reçus les confidences
Que la peur fait à la volupté,
Main de calme et d’impatience,
Main de grâce et de volupté;

Main que des dents ont mordue
Et que des ongles ont déchirée
Dans leur frénésie ingénue,
Main que des lèvres ont pansée;

Main des rêves, main des caressses,
Main des frissons, main des tendresses,
Main de la ruse et de l’adresse,
O main, maîtresse des maîtresses;

Main qui donnas tant de joies
A tant de chairs éperdues,
O main comme de la soie
Sur les belles poitrines nues;

Ô main, toi qui avais une âme
Pour l’heure douce du désir,
Et qui avais encore une âme
A l’heure âpre du plaisir,

Ô main, tu trembles encore aux souvenirs charnels !
Afin que tu éprouves des tendresses nouvelles,
Je te donne à l’amie qui régit mon destin :
Ses yeux sont des fleurs vives, ses cheveux sont des ailes,
Son esprit se promène, songeur et incertain.

Sois sage, ô main trop tendre, et cache le passé
Sous tes ongles, aux replis secrets de tes jointures,
Comme je cache au fond de mon vieux cœur blessé
Le souvenir sacré de belles meurtrissures.

Ô main, je te regarde avec mélancolie.

Views: 25