Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 136.pdf/459

A FLORENTINE CARNIVAL SONG, ETC.

A FLORENTINE CARNIVAL SONG Of THE
SIXTEENTH CENTURY.

COMPOSED BY ANTONIO ALAMANNI,

AND SUNG BY A COMPANY OF MASQUERS, HABITED AS
SKELETONS, ON A CAR OF DEATH DESIGNED BY PIERO
DI COSIMO.

Sorrow, tears, and penitence
Are our doom of pain for aye:
This dead concourse riding by
Hath no cry but penitence!

E'en as you are, once were we:
You shall be as now we are:
We are dead men, as you see:
We shall see you dead men, where
Nought avails to take great care,
After sins, of penitence.

We too in the Carnival
Sang our love-songs through the town;
Thus from sin to sin we all
Headlong, heedless, tumbled down:
Now we cry, the world around,
Penitence! oh, penitence!

Senseless, blind, and stubborn fools!
Time steals all things as he rides:
Honors, glories, states, and schools,
Pass away, and nought abides;
Till the tomb our carckse hides,
And compels this penitence.

This sharp scythe you see us bear,
Brings the world at length to woe:
But from life to life we fare;
And that life is joy or woe:
All heaven's bliss on him doth flow
Who on earth does penitence.

Living here, we all must die;
Dying, every soul shall live:
For the king of kings on high
This fixed ordinance doth give:
Lo, you all are fugitive!
Penitence! Cry penitence!

Torment great and grievous dole
Hath the thankless heart mid you:
But the man of piteous soul
Finds much honor in our crew:
Love for loving is the due
That prevents this penitence.

Sorrow, tears, and penitence
Are our doom of pain for aye:
This dead concourse riding by
Hath no cry but penitence!

Cornhill Magazine.J. A. S.

---

Say not the struggle naught availeth,
⁠The labor and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
⁠And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
⁠It may be, in yon smoke concealed.
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
⁠And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
⁠Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
⁠Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,
⁠When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
⁠But westward, look, the land is bright.

A. H. Clough.

---

SONNET.

I know a royal castle-builder. He
Has planned (in clouds) a house beyond compare,
And furnished it with treasures passing rare
Gathered from distant lands across the sea.
Fountains gush forth; and many a curious tree
Shadows rich lawns broidered with bright parterre
Of scented shrubs and flow'rs. And birds are there
Well skilled in notes of sylvan minstrelsy.
Closed is the door. Unopened are the gates.
The blossoms droop, and eke the birds are dumb,
The builder sadly sits as one who waits
For some loved friend — alas! who does not come.
In his fair mansion will he ever dwell?
One little maid — and only she — can tell.

Evening Mail.

---

FAREWELL.

My love, I love thee with a love undying,
But love so fraught with sorrow that my heart,
Weary of waiting for a bright to-morrow,
Will say for thy sweet sake, dear love, we part!

Farewell, my darling! Yes, my own forever,
Wher'er I go, by land or sea, my star,
My star to guide me, guard me, ah, oh never
Can we forget, although we're sundered far!

Have pity, God! oh, hold her in thy keeping,
Upon her way I pray thee shed thy light.
Farewell! One kiss! Oh, cease thy bitter weeping,
I go into the night!

W. S. Reed.