At thought of a tragedy never told. 
The flowers, the grass, and the humming bees
Were blithe and gay in the sun and breeze,
Yet no kind hand had ever strewn
Sweet flowers, where only weeds had grown,
And nothing brightened the lonely mound
Whose edge was lost in the trodden ground. 
At length to the churchyard gate I went,
And asked of a woman old and bent,
“Who was the girl, whose cross of stone
Bears nothing save these words alone,—­
  ’Emily’s Grave’?”
“Alas!” she answered, “many a year
Hath passed since I beheld her bier;
She was young, and came from a humble nest,
And credulous too, like all the rest;
So a stranger met her here one day
And caught her in his net straightway. 
He said he was rich, and she should shine
Like a queen in his castle by the Rhine,
And, winning her love, he took her hence
To where she found it was all pretence. 
He had basely lied to the simple maid,
And, wearying soon of a girl betrayed,
Abandoned her; then home once more
She came, to sink at her mother’s door. 
Of shame and grief she was quickly dead,
For here she could no more lift her head;
And her mother, wishing to efface
All memory of her child’s disgrace,
Reared that small cross, to which she gave
The title only,—­’Emily’s Grave’”.

(From the German.)

SERENADE TO NINON

Ninon, Ninon, what life canst thou be leading? 
Swift glide its hours, and day succeeds to day;
How dost thou live, still deaf to Love’s sweet pleading? 
To-night’s fair rose to-morrow fades away. 
To-day the bloom of Spring, Ninon, to-morrow frost! 
What!  Thou canst starless sail, and fear not to be lost? 
Canst travel without book?  In silence march to strife? 
What! thou hast not known love, and yet canst talk of life? 
I for a little love would give my latest breath;
And, if deprived of love, would gladly welcome death! 
What matter if the day be at its dusk or dawn,
If from another’s life our own heart’s life be drawn? 
O youthful flowers, unfold!  If blown o’er Death’s cold stream,
This life is but a sleep, of which love is the dream;
And when the winds of Fate have wafted you above,
You will at least have lived, if you have tasted love!

(From the French of Alfred de Musset.)

THE RED TYROLEAN EAGLE

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle,
Why are thy plumes so red? 
“In part because I rest
On Ortler’s lordly crest;
There share I with the snow
The sunset’s crimson glow.”

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle,
Why are thy plumes so red? 
“From drinking of the wine
Of Etschland’s peerless vine;
Its juice so redly shines,
That it incarnadines.”

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle,
Why are thy plumes so red? 
“My plumage hath been dyed
In blood my foes supplied;
Oft on my breast hath lain
That deeply purple stain.”