Part 484 (1/2)

NADOWESSIAN DEATH-LAMENT.

See, he sitteth on his mat Sitteth there upright, With the grace with which he sat While he saw the light.

Where is now the st.u.r.dy gripe,-- Where the breath sedate, That so lately whiffed the pipe Toward the Spirit great?

Where the bright and falcon eye, That the reindeer's tread On the waving gra.s.s could spy, Thick with dewdrops spread?

Where the limbs that used to dart Swifter through the snow Than the twenty-membered hart, Than the mountain roe?

Where the arm that st.u.r.dily Bent the deadly bow?

See, its life hath fleeted by,-- See, it hangeth low!

Happy he!--He now has gone Where no snow is found: Where with maize the fields are sown, Self-sprung from the ground;

Where with birds each bush is filled, Where with game the wood; Where the fish, with joy unstilled, Wanton in the flood.

With the spirits blest he feeds,-- Leaves us here in gloom; We can only praise his deeds, And his corpse entomb.

Farewell-gifts, then, hither bring, Sound the death-note sad!

Bury with him everything That can make him glad!

'Neath his head the hatchet hide That he boldly swung; And the bear's fat haunch beside, For the road is long;

And the knife, well sharpened, That, with slashes three, Scalp and skin from foeman's head Tore off skilfully.

And to paint his body, place Dyes within his hand; Let him s.h.i.+ne with ruddy grace In the Spirit-land!

THE FEAST OF VICTORY.

Priam's castle-walls had sunk, Troy in dust and ashes lay, And each Greek, with triumph drunk, Richly laden with his prey, Sat upon his s.h.i.+p's high prow, On the h.e.l.lespontic strand, Starting on his journey now, Bound for Greece, his own fair land.

Raise the glad exulting shout!

Toward the land that gave them birth Turn they now the s.h.i.+ps about, As they seek their native earth.

And in rows, all mournfully, Sat the Trojan women there,-- Beat their b.r.e.a.s.t.s in agony, Pallid, with dishevelled hair.

In the feast of joy so glad Mingled they the song of woe, Weeping o'er their fortunes sad, In their country's overthrow.

”Land beloved, oh, fare thee well!

By our foreign masters led, Far from home we're doomed to dwell,-- Ah, how happy are the dead!”

Soon the blood by Calchas spilt On the altar heavenward smokes; Pallas, by whom towns are built And destroyed, the priest invokes; Neptune, too, who all the earth With his billowy girdle laves,-- Zeus, who gives to terror birth, Who the dreaded Aegis waves.

Now the weary fight is done, Ne'er again to be renewed; Time's wide circuit now is run, And the mighty town subdued!

Atreus' son, the army's head, Told the people's numbers o'er, Whom he, as their captain, led To Scamander's vale of yore.

Sorrow's black and heavy clouds Pa.s.sed across the monarch's brow: Of those vast and valiant crowds, Oh, how few were left him now!

Joyful songs let each one raise, Who will see his home again, In whose veins the life-blood plays, For, alas! not all remain!

”All who homeward wend their way, Will not there find peace of mind; On their household altars, they Murder foul perchance may find.

Many fall by false friend's stroke, Who in fight immortal proved:”-- So Ulysses warning spoke, By Athene's spirit moved.

Happy he, whose faithful spouse Guards his home with honor true!

Woman ofttimes breaks her vows, Ever loves she what is new.

And Atrides glories there In the prize he won in fight, And around her body fair Twines his arms with fond delight.