Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Spain, Portugal, Belgium, and Holland: Vols. XIV–XV. 1876–79. | | | | Spain: Darro, the River | | Moorish Ballad | | José Zorrilla (1817–1893) |
| | Translated by S. Eliot
RISING ’neath the moon’s dim ray, | |
| Far away, | |
| Stands a Moorish tower tall; | |
| The Darro’s waters, swift and pure, | |
| Flow obscure | 5 |
| Below its frowning wall. | |
| |
| Above the stream the sad elms sigh | |
| Mysteriously, | |
| Making soft music to the ear; | |
| And close among the meadow reeds | 10 |
| And tangled weeds | |
| The night breeze whispers near. | |
| |
| On the shore of yellow sand | |
| Flowers expand, | |
| Outpouring perfume wild; | 15 |
| Birds of plumage, fair and bright, | |
| Sing by night, | |
| Amidst the flowers mild. | |
| |
| Waters, dropping, sparkling, fall | |
| Dashing all | 20 |
| Down the rocks’ rough sides; | |
| And like the image of a dream, | |
| The broken stream | |
| Paints pictures as it glides. | |
| |
| Thrown open to a wayward breeze, | 25 |
| The jalousies | |
| Welcome its murmurs breathed around; | |
| Within the dark balcony wide, | |
| The Sultan’s bride | |
| Stands as in silence bound. | 30 |
| |
| Yet, soft! she sings, half hidden there, | |
| The midnight air | |
| Is touched with gentle sound, | |
| And the bride’s voice, in breathings low, | |
| Is lost below | 35 |
| Upon the herb-grown ground. | |
| |
| Only to that plaintive voice, | |
| With wakeful noise | |
| The nightingale replies, | |
| Warbling in tuneful ease, | 40 |
| Among the trees | |
| That in the garden rise. | |
| |
| This sweet and strange accord | |
| Of voice and bird | |
| Swells round that solemn tower; | 45 |
| Hushed, as if listening, seem | |
| The breeze, the stream, | |
| Elm, palace, field, and flower. | |
| |
| There sang the Sultan’s bride, | |
| And there replied | 50 |
| The bird in harmony,— | |
| And there the Sultan stood, | |
| And murmurs heard, | |
| While watching jealously. | |
| |
| “They give me love of price untold, | 55 |
| Rich pearls and gold, | |
| And bring me garlands dear; | |
| Yet say, O flower! to fortune rare | |
| And beauty fair, | |
| What still is wanting here? | 60 |
| |
| They give me festival and state, | |
| And gardens great, | |
| To Eden’s paradise near; | |
| But, garden, say,—with fortune rare | |
| And beauty fair, | 65 |
| What still is wanting here? | |
| |
| “They give me plumes as bright | |
| As fleecy light, | |
| Veiling the charms they fear; | |
| O, say, thou bird! to fortune rare | 70 |
| And beauty fair, | |
| What still is wanting here? | |
| |
| “Nothing appears in frightful guise | |
| Before my eyes, | |
| Nothing calls forth a tear; | 75 |
| Then say, O moon! to fortune rare | |
| And beauty fair, | |
| What still is wanting here?” | |
| |
| So far she sang,—when silently | |
| And suddenly | 80 |
| A shadow came across the light,— | |
| It was the Sultan, at the side | |
| Of his fair bride,— | |
| She started, half in fright. | |
| |
| “Thou hast all things,” said he to her, | 85 |
| “In thy tower,— | |
| Flowers and jewels dear; | |
| Tell me, loved one, to thy portion, | |
| To thy passion, | |
| What still is wanting here? | 90 |
| |
| “What is there in the garden old, | |
| Or waters cold, | |
| What has the bird or flower, | |
| That with the dawn of every day | |
| I do not lay | 95 |
| At thy own feet, a dower? | |
| |
| “Tell me what thou wishest, sweet one, | |
| Charm or fortune,— | |
| Ask me even for a folly.” | |
| “Sultan, these birds that I love, singing, | 100 |
| These flowers springing, | |
| Have air and liberty!” | | | | |
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