Written by
Mihai Eminescu |
'Tis eve on the hillside, the bagpipes are distantly wailing,
Flocks going homewards, and stars o'er the firmament sailing,
Sound of the bubbling spring sorrow's legend narrating,
And beneath a tall willow for me, dear one, you are waiting.
The wandering moon up the heavens her journey is wending,
Big-eyed you watch through the boughs her gold lantern ascending,
Now over the dome of the sky all the planets are gleaming,
And heavy your breast with its longing, your brow with its dreaming.
Cornfields bright flooded with beams by the clouds steeply drifted,
Old cottage gables of thatch to the moonlight uplifted,
The tall wooden arm of the well in the wind softly grating,
And the shepherd-boy's pipe from the sheep-pen sad "doina" relating.
The peasants, their scythes on their backs, from their labour are coming,
The sound of the "toaca" its summons more loudly is drumming,
While the clang of the village church bell fills the evening entire,
And with longing for you like a ****** my soul is on fire.
O, soon will the village be silent and scarce a light burning,
O, soon eager steps to the hillside again I'll be turning,
And all the night long I will clasp you in love's hungry fashion,
And in secret we'll tell to each other the tale of our passion.
Till at last we will fall fast asleep neath the shade of that willow,
Your lips drawn aside in a smile and your breast for my pillow,
O, to live one such beautiful night all these wonders fulfilling
And barter the rest of existence, who would not be willing?
English version by Corneliu M.
Popescu
Transcribed by Catalina Stoica
School No.
10, Focsani, Romania
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Written by
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe |
MY DEAR LADY GRANVILLE,--
THE reluctance which must naturally be felt by any one in
venturing to give to the world a book such as the present, where
the beauties of the great original must inevitably be diminished,
if not destroyed, in the process of passing through the
translator's hands, cannot but be felt in all its force when that
translator has not penetrated beyond the outer courts of the
poetic fane, and can have no hope of advancing further, or of
reaching its sanctuary.
But it is to me a subject of peculiar
satisfaction that your kind permission to have your name
inscribed upon this page serves to attain a twofold end--one
direct and personal, and relating to the present day; the other
reflected and historical, and belonging to times long gone by.
Of
the first little need now be said, for the privilege is wholly
mine, in making this dedication: as to the second, one word of
explanation will suffice for those who have made the greatest
poet of Germany, almost of the world, their study, and to whom
the story of his life is not unknown.
All who have followed the
career of GOETHE are familiar with the name and character of
DALBERG, and also with the deep and lasting friendship that
existed between them, from which SCHILLER too was not absent; recalling
to the mind the days of old, when a Virgil and a Horace and a Maecenas
sat side by side.
Remembering, then, the connection that, in a former century,
was formed and riveted between your illustrious ancestor and him
whom it is the object of these pages to represent, I deem it a happy
augury that the link then established finds itself not
wholly severed even now (although its strength may be
immeasurably weakened in the comparison), inasmuch as this page
brings them once more in contact, the one in the person of his own
descendant, the other in that of the translator of his Poems.
Believe me, with great truth,
Very faithfully yours,
EDGAR A.
BOWRING.
London, April, 1853.
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