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Translated by J. O. Sargent
WHEN spring again encircles the earth in her genial embrace, | |
| There rides from the gates of Bruges a party for the chase; | |
| Full many handsome falconers on shapely coursers ride, | |
| And withal the beautiful duchess by her loving husband’s side. | |
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| On her arm there sat a falcon. From the whiteness of his vest | 5 |
| At court they gave him the title of Dominican in jest: | |
| His head a black hood covered, a silver collar he wore, | |
| Which the inscription “Upwards” in golden letters bore. | |
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| A desolate heath outstretches, of bloom and verdure bare, | |
| Where only thorn-bushes flourish, in patches here and there: | 10 |
| On the left the bath of the herons, a little fish-pond, lay, | |
| And here they wash their plumage, and thus their haunt betray. | |
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| There ’s a rush into the water, and a scream from the crackling reeds, | |
| And a flight of frightened herons to the right and left succeeds, | |
| The vigorous falcons circling from the wrists of the hunters fly, | 15 |
| And mount, as the thoughts of man mount, to the azure of the sky. | |
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| And the eye of every hunter follows his falcon’s flight, | |
| As in its aerial circles it sweeps to the left and the right; | |
| Alertly in all directions the eager hunters move, | |
| The earth beneath them trembles, clouds of dust are whirled above. | 20 |
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| But see with mane all streaming there runs a riderless horse, | |
| How it snorts! how with fright it quivers! how it springs on its tangled course! | |
| Hold on! Seize the reins of the runaway! How and where fell the rider? Alas! | |
| There lies the beautiful duchess—and there is the blood-stained grass! | |
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| She leans her pallid countenance upon her husband’s breast, | 25 |
| As white as the evening cloud is when the last flush fades in the west; | |
| Ah! how from life’s genial sources the precious red streams start! | |
| Alas! how richly blossoms the crimson rose of her heart! | |
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| A pair of weeping children, a sister and a brother, | |
| Bend like twin angels, tenderly, over the pale, dead mother; | 30 |
| So bend twin dewy rosebuds on the same parent spray, | |
| Over the mother flower that storm-stricken fades away! | |
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| His head downcast in sadness, where her blood the green turf stains, | |
| By her side the white Dominican with mournful look remains; | |
| Would you know his little motto? he had been her own apt scholar, | 35 |
| “Upwards!” in golden letters still gleams upon his collar. | |
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