To the Valkyries
FOR THE Funeral OF THE E MPRESS -Q UEEN E LIZABETH
G OLDEN-HAIRED Valkyries, ye who delight to spur on your horses
Swimming above the clouds, tresses astream in the wind,
From the monotonous moaning, the dreary drone of the clergy,
Now, as ye fly past, snatch Wittelsbach's Lady away!
Ah, how terribly Fate thy tottering House o'erwhelmeth!
How are thy grey hairs, Hapsburg, brought down in woe to the grave!
Peace, O ye in the gloom of Arad and Mantua keeping
Vigil, ye ghostlike shapes, women dishevelled and wild!
Golden-haired even as ye are, O Valkyries, rider of horses
Even as ye, bear her unto a balmier clime!
Where 'neath lovely Corcyra the azure Ionian crooneth
Unto the orange groves, dreamily lapping the shore.
Calm o'er the hills of Epirus the white moon riseth, and far as
Leucas lengthens her torch, tremulous over the waves.
There doth Achilles await her. O Valkyries, purge from her noble
Bosom the stain of the wound dealt by that villainous blade.
And from her soul, ye gracious, ye healing divinities, purge the
Scars of her sorrow, the black nightmare of Empire away!
Then let the stainless rose of Bavaria wake to the music,
Piercing and sweet, of the lyres, unto new harmonies tuned.
Never hath Heine's muse sung sweetlier: whose is the sighing
Voice that re-echoes his notes from the Leucadian steep?
Peace, unbroken, profound as the calm of Elysian meadows,
Reigns o'er that ghost-haunted shore, silent, sleep-charmed by the moon.
G OLDEN-HAIRED Valkyries, ye who delight to spur on your horses
Swimming above the clouds, tresses astream in the wind,
From the monotonous moaning, the dreary drone of the clergy,
Now, as ye fly past, snatch Wittelsbach's Lady away!
Ah, how terribly Fate thy tottering House o'erwhelmeth!
How are thy grey hairs, Hapsburg, brought down in woe to the grave!
Peace, O ye in the gloom of Arad and Mantua keeping
Vigil, ye ghostlike shapes, women dishevelled and wild!
Golden-haired even as ye are, O Valkyries, rider of horses
Even as ye, bear her unto a balmier clime!
Where 'neath lovely Corcyra the azure Ionian crooneth
Unto the orange groves, dreamily lapping the shore.
Calm o'er the hills of Epirus the white moon riseth, and far as
Leucas lengthens her torch, tremulous over the waves.
There doth Achilles await her. O Valkyries, purge from her noble
Bosom the stain of the wound dealt by that villainous blade.
And from her soul, ye gracious, ye healing divinities, purge the
Scars of her sorrow, the black nightmare of Empire away!
Then let the stainless rose of Bavaria wake to the music,
Piercing and sweet, of the lyres, unto new harmonies tuned.
Never hath Heine's muse sung sweetlier: whose is the sighing
Voice that re-echoes his notes from the Leucadian steep?
Peace, unbroken, profound as the calm of Elysian meadows,
Reigns o'er that ghost-haunted shore, silent, sleep-charmed by the moon.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.