From The Bard of the Dimbovitza, Roumanian Folk-Songs Collected from the Peasants by Hélène Vacaresco, translated by Carmen Sylva and Alma Strettel; London: James R. Osgood, McIlvaine & Co., 1897; pp. 80-104.
THE DEAD SOLDIER.
When all the leaves have fallen,
Still on the bough some two or three remain,
And through the winter these poor leaves remember
That they must have the pain
Of falling when sweet spring is in the sky.
He slept beside the furrows, and I came
And watched his sleep.
Hard by the village they had fought,
And so they brought him dead into the village.
That battle was the first they fought, and he,
He was the first who fell.
Beneath the trees they laid him — none had time
To think of digging any grave for him;
And he was happy, thus to wait a while
Without his grave — and hear the battle’s din.
And when they came upon the morrow’s morn
To dig his grave,
He sorrowed, that he must go down to it
Not knowing, and all impotent to ask,
Which way the fight had gone.
Into his grave they shut him fast,
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And told him naught of it;
And ever since he still doth ask himself
Which way it went — nor can he sleep in peace.
When all the leaves have fallen,
Still on the bough some two or three remain,
And through the winter these poor leaves remember
That they must have the pain
Of falling when sweet spring is in the sky.
WHERE THE SONG’S DWELL.
Now tell me, where dwell all thy songs — beneath thy necklace
fine?
Thy necklace, with its four brave rows, or in that heart of
thine? —
I answer — Here within my heart dwell all these songs of
mine.
Two brothers loved her, and for this, for this the maid is
dead.
More white and clean her cottage was, her threshold
narrower
Than others be. She loved the dance, she loved the
strawberry red;
And yet it was her love that brought the maiden’s death
to her.
— They slew her with the self-same knife, and deep the
four hands pressed
That blade into her heart; — the heart wept all its blood,
and cried:
“Alas! her Sunday shift, her chain, the pinks upon her
breast,
Her girdle, to the apron’s hem, with crimson I have
dyed!”
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And then it asked; “Where will ye dig the grave where
she shall lie?
Beneath the hill, where sings the mill, and bright the
sunbeams smile?
Or by the road, that wanderers may see, in passing by,
Her grave, and as an alms for her, may cross themselves
the while?”
"Now tell me, where dwell all thy songs — beneath thy necklace
fine?
Thy necklace, with its four brave rows, or in that heart of
thine? —
I answer — Here dwell all these songs, within this heart of
mine.
HE THAT BETRAYETH NOT.
I saw thy face was changed,
Yet age went not over thee.
The hazel still is green, yet the corn will be yellow soon.
I GAVE my heart to him that betrayeth not.
He said: “Come back in a hundred years again,
And thou shalt find it safe beneath my mantle still.”
Yet in a hundred years we both shall be but dust;
How can I ask him then to give me back my heart?
He that betrayeth not, he lovèd me;
And happier am I than the first spring days.
But he is never happy, for he hath seen the world,
And knows that life is like a nest in the winter,
The heart of man is always cold therein.
Therefore he took my heart to keep for a hundred years,
Even in the dust.
Nor will he suffer Death to touch it, nor the earth
To quicken it.
But he will say to Death and Earth: “This is her heart,
That I in a hundred years have promised to give her back.”
Then Death and Earth will wonder at him that betrayeth not.
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And my heart will sleep, there in the dust of thy hand,
There, in thy hand of dust.
I saw thy face was changed,
Yet age went not over thee.
The hazel still is green, yet the corn will be yellow soon.
THE OTHER ONE.
The river, last night, swept the bridge away,
And so we must wade through the river to-day.
The maidens sing as they wade, and are gay.
A LITTLE sister the dead child had,
Since it died, little sister has grown more glad,
And saith to her mother: “Its own sweet smile
The one that is dead unto me did give;
And all the life, that it might not live,
Now lives in me.” But the mother, the while,
Fell a-weeping, and bowed her head,
And remembered the child that was dead.
The river, last night, swept the bridge away,
And so we must wade through the river to-day.
The maidens sing as they wade, and are gay.
THE OUTCAST.
Go not over the little bridge,
It is too old.
The trees that have been felled lie on the earth,
And the birds that still would perch upon their boughs
Must fly very close to earth.
WHY do they ask me: “Is it thou?”
Nay, nay, I know of nothing;
No one has told me aught, yet all are afraid of me,
The stones upon the road shrink from my footsteps,
But I am wearier far than if I had trodden them.
I am always left alone, and yet I hear voices always;
My sleep is never disturbed, and yet I feel
As though I had never slept.
Know ye why I am weary, so very weary,
That if the grave should say to me: “Lie down
Here in my lap and rest, “I would bless the grave?
It is this — I carry one upon my shoulders,
I carry him onward ever, and feel his hands
About my throat — his breath upon my neck.
It is he that makes my step so heavy,
And drives me wild, too, with the sound of his voice,
It is he that drinks my sleep.
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And when I ask him: “Whither shall I take thee,
That I may have to carry thee no more?”
He points to the horizon.
He is as heavy as a widow’s heart.
I know, too, all his thoughts, and his thoughts burn me,
Because he thinks upon my sorrow.
And when we pass some hut, I say:
“Let us linger here awhile, this hut seemeth pleasant to me,”
But he answers: “Never a hut may open its doors to thee.”
And when I ask him: “Friend, art thou not yet weary?”
He answers: “I? I rest in thy weariness,
Refresh myself in thy sweat.”
Even on my own hearth
I can never set him down over against me,
He clings to my shoulder always —
I know not even his face.
Then I say to him: “Thou unknown one!”
And he answers me: “Thou accurst!”
Go not over the little bridge,
It is too old.
The trees that have been felled lie on the earth,
And the birds that still would perch upon their boughs
Must fly very close to earth.
BARREN
Flow through the plains, river, flow onward afar;
My soul is broken within me, the days flee by.
When the sun in his might appeareth, the birds sing aloud,
With flowers the maidens gleefully deck their hair.
I know my cottage, because ’tis the smallest of all,
And the storks already have built them two nests thereon.
I AM she, that hath borne no children;
Yet there is no hath cursed me, I look the same as the
others.
But the nests pity me even;
The sun, the mother of stars, hath compassion upon me,
and saith:
“O childless woman! what dost thou with all the days I
make bright?”
Mine ear is full of the murmur of rocking cradles.
“For a single cradle,” saith Nature, “I would give every
one of my graves.”
Joy shrinketh and turneth from me, like the setting sun
from the earth.
Fruitful women draw nigh me, and tenderly clasp my
hand;
But alone am I and powerless, when the anguish sweeps
over me.
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My threshold makes question and asks me: “Speak, oh,
when will he come?
And I have no words to answer.
I feel a horror come o’er me of all the days and the nights.
Yet beneath my heart there singeth, unceasing, a voice
in me,
And I ask: “Is it his, perchance?”
But nay, for I know it is only the voice of my yearning
desire.
And then I speak to the rivers: “Would ye make the
plains fruitful indeed?”
I am filled with hate for the earth, that is fruitful and
faileth not.
Only the graves I love, for in them naught quickens more.
Oh, what a flood of laughter he would bring to this
threshold of mine!
And oh, how sweetly slumber beneath the sun of my
smile!
Oh, and how were I blessèd, if I could but look in his
eyes,
Drowning my gaze in his, and therein wholly forgetting
That other joys were on earth!
Then would the nests and the huts call me their sister, if
only
His mother were I!
For I hear his voice that singeth, unceasing, beneath my
heart,
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For I know that he lives in me, only he cannot be born,
And I may possess of him nothing except my yearning
desire!
Mine ear is full of the murmur of rocking cradles.
Flow through the plains, river, flow onward afar;
My soul is broken within me, the days flee by.
When the sun in his might appeareth, the birds sing aloud,
With flowers the maidens gleefully deck their hair.
I know my cottage, because ’tis the smallest of all,
And the storks already have built them two nests thereon.
HE THAT TOOK NOTHING.
See how it raineth! and the corn is cut upon the plain,
And I have left my sickle, too, forgotten ’mid the grain;
Now there it lies — ah, woe is me! beneath the falling rain.
OF all the lads that joined the dance, each took some
sign from me —
One took my girdle, and thou know’st full well which
that may be,
The one, my sister of the cross, I fashionèd with thee.
My chain, sweet sister of the cross, another took; what
needs
To tell thee which — the one that hath two strings of
golden beads.
Another took my flower from me — and which one, dost
thou know?
It is, my sister of the cross, the floweret that doth blow
In autumn days among the grass where thick the plum-
trees grow.
But only one took naught away — and know’st thou, sister,
who?
He, of whom oft I spake to thee, when I most silent grew.
He, little sister of the cross, it is I love so true.
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Then quick run after him, he dwells beside the mill-pool
deep,
And through his slumbers murmuring on, their watch the
waters keep.
O happy water, that may sing and lull him in his sleep!
Then quickly run thou after him, my sister, do not stay
To watch the flocks upon the hill, that browse the live-
long day;
Bring him a girdle and a chain, yea, and a flower — and
say:
“I found them hard beside the mill, and all of them are
thine.”
But stay not longer, lest thou too shouldst love him, sister
mine;
That we may both not have to weep together, oh beware!
My tears could not love thy tears, nor yet my care thy
care;
They could not dwell within my hut, nor would be
welcome there.
See how it raineth! and the corn is cut upon the plain,
And I have left my sickle, too, forgotten ’mid the grain;
Now there it lies — ah, woe is me! beneath the falling rain.
DIRGE.
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG MAN.
HOW thou art sleeping, sleeping!
Thy horse, without, hath neighed;
The plains around have heard it,
And wondering stand the plains;
“Why dost thou neigh at morning
So early, gentle horse?”
The maize hath bowed its head;
The plain, its mother, felt it,
Then was the plain afraid;
“Why dost thou bend above me,
Now that no wind is blowing,
Thou maize, proud child of mine?”
Oh wander, wander — never turn about —
On through the wood, where little birds are singing,
Down to the village wander,
On through the courtyard, where the oxen lie —
Oh wander, wander, neither turn thee back,
Oh wander, wander, never turn about,
But seek the house and tread the threshold’s stone,
Then pass into the chamber;
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What there thou seest, tell aloud to none
Yea, do as though thou, seeing, didst not see;
For thou wilt wish thou wert the threshold-stone,
And hadst no need to look on such a sight.
How thou art sleeping now!
Heaven envied mother Earth because of thee;
Then would not Earth that Heaven should envy her,
Because Heaven gave her
The sunshine’s joy,
The stars’ mild light,
The blessings of the blossom-bringing rain.
So in requital, Earth gave thee to Heaven.
Then go thou up to Heaven,
Sent from the Earth;
For all the Earth hath naught so fair as thou.
Go, laden with the whole world’s lamentations,
Go hence with all its tears.
Yea, I have washed thee with my tears,
And shrouded thee in sighs,
Then go, that Heaven may be content — but let it
Ask for no more, since it hath taken thee.
How thou art sleeping, sleeping!
Dark days may threaten this thy land to-morrow —
But thou hast left the road;
Thy bride be fain to veil her head1 to-morrow —
But thou hast left the road.
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For thee, to-morrow
Is as an overthrown and empty nest.
How thou art sleeping, sleeping!
Where is thy breath?
And yet the wind still breathes!
Where is thine eyes’ dear light?
And yet our eyes are open!
Now hast thou cast thy spade upon the ground,
And lain thee down to die!
Thy horse, without, hath neighed;
The plains around have heard it,
And wondering stand the plains;
“Why dost thou neigh at morning
So early, gentle horse?”
The maize hath bowed itself;
The plain, its mother, felt it,
Then was the plain afraid;
“Why dost thou bend above me,
Now that no wind is blowing,
Thou maize, proud child of mine?”
Footnotes
1 Note 5. Among the Roumanian peasants, no married woman is ever seen with her head uncovered; on the other hand, girls must always go bare-headed. Hence the expression “be fain to veil her head” means wishing to be a wife.
DIRGE.
ON THE DEATH OF A MAIDEN.
Down from the hill I went
On to the plain, and on the plain I saw
The budding meadows — and a tender maiden
Who fiercely strove with Death.
DEAD! she is dead!
The glory of the day is gone.
The threshold’s light is quenched!
Who will go forth now in the morning early,
To wake again the old well’s echoes deep,
And whose gay singing will reply at even,
Now, to the plaintive voices of the sheep?
Who will now send the sound of laughter ringing
Adown our pathways steep?
Who now will set the merry spindle dancing,
And deftly catch it, when it slips away?
The very sun shone but for her alone —
God! Thou hadst better have let die the sun!
For her the maize shook out its golden hair —
Oh! hadst Thou rather taken from the maize,
Its golden hair, my God!
The stars at night all fell from out the sky,
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Only that they might reach her!
And now the earth will take and hide her from
Whenever she did pass the fresh-turned furrows,
The earth would say to her:
“Fair maid, how gladly would I make thee mine,
To cradle thee and rock thee in my lap,
There, where all roots do quicken.
For see, I give the plain so many flowers,
Flowers that glitter in the light of day;
Now would I have this one, this only flower,
All to myself.
Her would I gently cover,
Nourish myself with her.”
So the earth took her;
And clasps her now so closely in its arms.
But yet the maiden to the earth made answer:
”Good, fresh earth, take me not!
I would not thou shouldst clasp me in thine arms
Will not the quickening of the seeds suffice thee,
And the light step of lovers?
O good, fresh earth,
Let me not ever come to sleep beneath thee!
For I would veil my head, and be a wife,
A woman, strong for toil;
And I will bear thee fair and noble children
To till thy ground.
Good, fresh earth, take me not!”
But the earth took her.
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And the earth holds her fast within its arms,
And gives her back no more.
Down from the hill she went and o’er the meadows,
Wandering through deep night, and strove with Death,
Even as tangled spindles strive together.
Dead! she is dead!
The glory of the day is gone,
The threshold’s light is quenched.
Who will go forth, now, in the morning early,
To wake again the old well’s echoes deep?
And whose gay singing will reply at even,
Now, to the plaintive voices of the sheep?
Who will now send the sound of laughter ringing
Adown our pathways steep?
DIRGE.
ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.
THE river went weeping, weeping!
Ah me! how did it weep!
But I would never heed it,
The weeping of the river,
Whilst thou wert at my breast.
The stars — poor stars — were weeping,
But I would not hear their weeping
Whilst yet I heard thy voice.
Unhappy men draw nigh me and told me of their woe,
They said: “We are the sorrow of all humanity.”
But I had no compassion for human misery.
Whilst thou wert with me still.
Then these — the river with its weeping,
The piteous stars, the miserable men,
All prayed the earth’s dark depths to take thee from me,
That so my woe might understand their woe;
And now — I weep
Yet weep I not for human misery,
Nor for the stars’ complaining,
Nor for the river’s wailing,
I weep for thee alone, most miserly,
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Keep all my tears for thee!
Now I must rock for ever empty arms,
That grieve they have no burden any more.
Now I must sing, and know the while, no ears
Are there to hearken.
The birds will ask me: “To whom singest thou?”
The moon look down and ask: “Whom rockest thou?”
The grave will be right proud, while I am cursed,
That I did give her thee.
My womb upbraided me, because I gave
To Death the gift that once she gave to me,
The gift that sprung from her.
Now I must see thy sleep, and never know
Whether this sleep be sweet.
Then do I ask of Earth:
“Is the sleep sweet indeed,
That in thy lap we sleep?”
But ah! thou knowest, Earth misliketh pity,
And loves to hold her peace!
Wilt thou, then, answer in her stead, and say:
“What do the birds, O mother,
Since I have gone to sleep?
And the river with its pebbles
Since I have gone to sleep?
And thy broken heart, O mother,
Thy little heart, dear mother,
Since I have gone to sleep?
Does my father guide the oxen,
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Walking beside the ploughshare,
Since I have gone to sleep?”
Oh, say all this to me!
Answer instead of Earth, that knows no pity,
And loves to hold her peace.
The river went weeping, weeping!
Ah me! how it did weep!
But I would never heed it,
The weeping of the river,
Whilst thou wert at my breast.
The stars, poor stars, were weeping,
But I would not hear their weeping,
Whilst yet I heard thy voice.