1. |
Misery of Mine
10:08
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Misery of mine, come
find me to say I'm not alone
in a place like this.
Far from the land
where I was born.
Amongst the flowers you've left,
amongst the flowers I'll stay.
Cruel heavens,
is this all that I am to you?
Tell me what I have done
to be threatened by you.
Oh, misery of mine, what
fault should I bear?
Now I know: my only crime
is to be born.
Tell me, you jailers:
what is this life?
Shadow, illusion and yet
no more than fiction of myself.
Even the rivers that start the spring,
hordes of flowers are born.
You dream of empires,
my friend.
Tell me, heavens, if you dare
what I am to you.
Why am I enclosed in such skin?
¡Mísero de mí!
Mírame, triste reflejo en el mar,
que resiste, que sufre,
a esta vida; agreste realidad.
¿Qué es la vida? Un suspiro, un sueño,
y los sueños, sueños son.
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2. |
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Red morn wearing.
Weary visions of my
faithless lover departed.
What dark sorrow
does God to me impart?
Doth he list to me crying?
For gone is gone,
and our promises lie far away,
down, down, down
to the tomb.
Grief broke and tore,
and I rose my pain to heavens high.
Die away
in the gloom.
But hark to the clatter,
so heavy and clear!
"Unlock the gate, my bride!
Till the dead midnight we run!
Ere the darkness shall pass,
ere we may lie down in our bridal bed."
Past silent trees and cold wraiths,
how flew the moon overhead.
Ride thro' the night!
And up to an iron gate,
burst doors with a deafening knell.
"At last, we have reached the spot,
for the dead travel fast!"
"Is my love afraid
of the quiet dead?
Come and dance on the tombstones,
by the gallows-tree!"
Body with no flesh,
the mask of life no more.
A scythe and a sandglass bore.
"Heaven keep you soul forevermore".
Groans from the Earth,
and shrieks in the air!
Now rests in silence
your heavy heart.
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3. |
Thy Doleful Farewell
13:20
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What beck'ning ghost,
along the moon-light shade
invites my steps
and points to yonder glade?
Is it in heav'n
a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender,
or too firm a heart?
Dim lights of life,
that burn a length of years
Useless, unseen,
as lamps in sepulchres;
Like eastern kings
a lazy state they keep,
And close confin'd
to their own palace, sleep.
What can atone,
oh ever-injur'd shade,
what can atone,
no friend's complaint,
no kind domestic tear.
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, by strangers mourn'd!
No hallow'd dirge
be mutter'd now
o'er thy silent tomb.
Yet shall thy grave
forever be
with rising flowers drest.
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings,
the ground, now sacred by reliques.
So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, tis all thou shall be!
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart,
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks now fading at the blast of death:
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, tis all thou shall be!
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4. |
Sur le long fleuve noir
17:23
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I
Sur l'onde calme et noire où dorment les étoiles
La blanche Ophélie flotte comme un grand lys,
Flotte très lentement, couchée en ses longs voiles...
-- On entend dans les bois lointains des hallalis.
Voici plus de mille ans que la triste Ophélie
Passe, fantôme blanc, sur le long fleuve noir;
Voici plus de mille ans que sa douce folie
Murmure sa romance à la brise du soir.
Le vent baise ses seins et déploie en corolle
Ses grands voiles bercés mollement par les eaux;
Les saules frissonnants pleurent sur son épaule,
Sur son grand front rêveur s'inclinent les roseaux.
Les nénuphars froissés soupirent autour d'elle;
Elle éveille parfois, dans un aune qui dort,
Quelque nid, d'où s'échappe un petit frisson d'aile:
- Un chant mystérieux tombe des astres d'or.
II
O pâle Ophélia! belle comme la neige!
Oui, tu mourus, enfant, par un fleuve emporté!
- C'est que les vents tombant des grands monts de Norwège
T'avaient parlé tout bas de l'âpre liberté;
C'est qu'un souffle, tordant ta grande chevelure,
A ton esprit rêveur portait d'étranges bruits;
Que ton coeur écoutait le chant de la Nature
Dans les plaintes de l'arbre et les soupirs des nuits;
C'est que la voix des mers folles, immense râle,
Brisait ton sein d'enfant, trop humain et trop doux;
C'est qu'un matin d'avril, un beau cavalier pâle,
Un pauvre fou, s'assit muet à tes genoux!
Ciel! Amour! Liberté! Quel rêve, ô pauvre Folle!
Tu te fondais à lui comme une neige au feu:
Tes grandes visions étranglaient ta parole
- Et l'Infini terrible effara ton oeil bleu!
III
- Et le Poète dit qu'aux rayons des étoiles
Tu viens chercher, la nuit, les fleurs que tu cueillis,
Et qu'il a vu sur l'eau, couchée en ses longs voiles,
La blanche Ophélia flotter, comme un grand lys.
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