Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 56, Number 348

And weep above his bier.

And when from that hot trance I pass,
Great Love, I feel thy charm;
There hangs my lady’s picture near—
A picture yet so warm!

How fair she was, reclining there;
What languish in her look!
How thrill’d her glance through all my frame!
The very pencil shook.

Her eyes, her cheeks, her lovely lips,
Were all the world to me;
And in my breast a younger life
Rose wild and wantonly.

Oh! turn again, and bide thee here,
Nor fear such rude alarms;
How could I think of battles more
With thee within my arms!

But thou shalt lend thy perfect form
To all I fashion best;
I’ll paint thee first, Madonna-wise,
The infant on thy breast.

I’ll paint thee as a startled nymph,
Myself a following fawn;
And still pursue thy flying feet
Across the woodland lawn.

With helm on head, like Mars, I’ll lie
By thee, the Queen of Love,
And draw a net around us twain,
And smile on heaven above.

And every god that comes shall pour
His blessings on thy head,
And envious eyes be far away
From that dear marriage-bed!

There is abundance of spirit here. For once, in describing the battle and fall of Patroclus, Goethe seems to have caught a spark of Homeric inspiration, and the lines ring out as clearly as the stroke of the hammer on the anvil. There is no rhyme in the original, which, we confess, appears to us a fault; more especially as the rhythm is that of the ordinary ballad. We have, therefore, ventured to supply it, with as little deviation otherwise as possible. It is for the reader to judge whether the effect is diminished.

Our next selection shall be “The God and the Bayaderé”—a poem which is little inferior in beauty to the Bride of Corinth, and which, from its structure, opposes to the translator quite as serious a difficulty. The subject is taken from the Hindoo mythology, and conveys a very touching moral of humanity and forbearance; somewhat daring, perhaps, from its novelty, and the peculiar customs and religious faith of an eastern land, yet, withal, most delicately handled.

The God and the Bayaderé.

An Indian Legend

I

Mahadeh, earth’s lord, descending
To its mansions comes again,
That, like man with mortals blending,
He may feel their joy and pain;
Stoops to try life’s varied changes,
And with human eyes to see,
Ere he praises or avenges,
What their fitful lot may be.
He has pass’d through the city, has look’d on them all;
He has watch’d o’er the great, nor forgotten the small,
And at evening went forth on his journey so free.

II

In the outskirts of the city,
Where the straggling huts are piled,
At a casement stood a pretty
Painted thing, almost a child.

“Greet thee, maiden!” “Thanks—art weary?
Wait, and quickly I’ll appear!”
“What art thou?”—“A Bayaderé,
And the home of love is here.”
She rises; the cymbals she strikes as she dances,
And whirling, and bending with grace, she advances,
And offers him flowers as she undulates near.

III

O’er the threshold gliding lightly
In she leads him to her room.
“Fear not, gentle stranger; brightly
Shall my lamp dispel the gloom.
Art thou weary? I’ll relieve thee—
Bathe thy feet, and soothe their smart;
All thou askest I can give thee—
Rest, or song, or joy impart.”
She labours to soothe him, she labours to please;
The Deity smiles; for with pleasure he sees
Through deep degradation a right-loving heart.

IV

And he asks for service menial,
And she only strives the more,
Nature’s impulse now is genial
Where but art prevail’d before.
As the fruit succeeds the blossom,