MOTHER AND SON

Thus entertaining themselves, the men sat talking.  The mother
Went meanwhile to look for her son in front of the dwelling,
First on the settle of stone, whereon ’twas his wont to be seated. 
When she perceived him not there, she went farther to look in the stable,
If he were caring perhaps for his noble horses, the stallions,
Which he as colts had bought, and whose care he intrusted to no one. 
And by the servant she there was told:  He is gone to the garden. 
Then with a nimble step she traversed the long, double court-yards,
Leaving the stables behind, and the well-builded barns, too, behind her;
Entered the garden, that far as the walls of the city extended;
Walked through its length, rejoiced as she went in every thing growing;
Set upright the supports on which were resting the branches
Heavily laden with apples, and burdening boughs of the pear-tree. 
Next some caterpillars removed from a stout, swelling cabbage;
For an industrious woman allows no step to be wasted. 
Thus was she come at last to the end of the far-reaching garden,
Where stood the arbor embowered in woodbine; nor there did she find him,
More than she had hitherto in all her search through the garden. 
But the wicket was standing ajar, which out of the arbor,
Once by particular favor, had been through the walls of the city
Cut by a grandsire of hers, the worshipful burgomaster. 
So the now dried-up moat she next crossed over with comfort,
Where, by the side of the road, direct the well-fenced vine-yard,
Rose with a steep ascent, its slope exposed to the sunshine. 
Up this also she went, and with pleasure as she was ascending
Marked the wealth of the clusters, that scarce by their leafage
                                                  were hidden. 
Shady and covered the way through the lofty middlemost alley,
Which upon steps that were made of unhewn blocks you ascended. 
There were the Muscatel, and there were the Chasselas hanging
Side by side, of unusual size and colored with purple,
All set out with the purpose of decking the visitor’s table;
While with single vine-stocks the rest of the hillside was covered,
Bearing inferior clusters, from which the delicate wine comes. 
Thus up the slopes she went, enjoying already the vintage,
And that festive day on which the whole country, rejoicing,
Picks and tramples the grapes, and gathers the must into vessels: 
Fireworks, when it is evening, from every direction and corner
Crackle and blaze, and so the fairest of harvests is honored. 
But more uneasy she went, her son after twice or thrice calling,
And no answer receiving, except from the talkative echo,
That with many repeats rang back from the towers of the city. 
Strange it was for her to seek him; he never had gone to a distance
That he told her not first, to spare his affectionate