Bianca, or, The Young Spanish Maiden

"Féicité passéQui ne petit revenir,Tourment de la pensée,Que n’ai-je en te perdaut, perdu le souvenir!

Come, let us go, your cheeks are pale,But half my life I leave behindMethinks my friend is richly shrined,But I shall pass; my work will fail.

Yet in these ears till hearing dies,One set slow boll will seem to tollThe passing of the sweetest soulThat ever looked with human eyes.

I hear it now, and o’er and o’er,

I hear it now, and o’er and o’er,Eternal greetings to the dead;And ‘Ave, Ave, Ave’, said,‘Adieu, adieu’ for evermore!

"She was thinking of a hunter,From another tribe and country,Young and tall and very handsome,Who one morning, in the Spring-time,Came to buy hor father’s arrows,Sat and rested in the wigwam,Lingered long about the doorway,Looking back as he departed.She had hoard her father praise him,Praise his courage and his wisdom;Would he come again for arrowsTo the falls of MinnehahaMinnehaha, laughing water?On the mat her hands lay idleAnd her eyes were very dreamy.”

By all the fond kissesI have given, By the plump little arms cleaving twine,By the bright eye whose language was heavenBy the rose on the cheek pressed to mine.

"And who—can I finish the story?Has seen them all shrink from his grasp,Departed the crown of his glory—No wife and no children to clasp!"

"Oh saw ye not BiancaShe is gone into the WestTo dazzle when the sun is downAnd rob the world of rest.",

Devant les trahisons et les têtes coitrbéés,Jo eroiserai los bras, indigné, mais sereinSombre fidélité pour les choses tombées,Sois ma force ot ma ,joie et mon pilior d’airain!

Oui, tant qu’il sora là, qu’ou cède on qn’on persiste,O France! France aimée ot qu'on pleure tonjoursJe ne roverrai pas ta terre douco et triste,Tombeau do mes aïeux ot nid do mes amours!

Je ne reverrai ta rive qui nous tente,France! hors le devoir, hélas! j'oublîrai tout.Parmi los éprouvés je plantoral ma tente:Je resterai proscrit, voulant rester debout.

J’accepte l'âpre exil, n'eût-il ni fin ni terme;Sans cherchor à savoir et sans considérerSi quolqu'un a plié qu’on aurait cru pills ferme,Et si plusieurs s'en vont qui devraieut demeurer.

Si l'on n’est plus quo mule, oh bien, j'en suis! Si mêméIls no sout plus quo cent, je brave encore Sylla;S'il en demeure dix, jo serai le dixième;Et s’il n’en resto qu’un, je serai celui-là!

Ask me no more, the moon may draw the sea,The clouds may stoop from heaven and take the shapeFrom fold to fold of mountain or of cape,

Yet ah! too fond when have I answered thee—Ask me no more!

Ask me no more; thy fate and mine are sealed

I strove against the stream and all in vainLet the great river bear me to the main:

No more, dear love, for at a touch I yieldAsk me no more !"