It is often curious how a
literal rendering, even when it gives quite the meaning, will not do,
because of the different ranks of the two words in their respective
languages."
"I have heard you say," said Harry, "that the principles of the
translation of lyrics have yet to be explored."
"Yes. But what I have just said, applies nearly as much to prose as to
the verse.--Sing, Harry. You know it well enough."
"Part is in recitative,"
"So it is. Go on."
"To enter into the poem, you must suppose a lover waiting in an arbour
for his lady-love. First come two recited lines of expectation; then two
more, in quite a different measure, of disappointment; and then a
long-lined song of meditation; until expectation is again aroused, to be
again disappointed--and so on through the poem.
"THE TRYST.
"That was the wicket a-shaking!
That was its clang as it fell!
No, 'twas but the night-wind waking,
And the poplars' answering swell.
Put on thy beauty, foliage-vaulted roof,
To greet her entrance, radiant all with grace;
Ye branches weave a holy tent, star-proof;
With lovely darkness, silent, her embrace;
Sweet, wandering airs, creep through the leafy woof,
And toy and gambol round her rosy face,
When with its load of beauty, lightly borne,
Glides in the fairy foot, and brings my morn.
Hush! I hear timid, yet daring
Steps that are almost a race!
No, a bird--some terror scaring--
Started from its roosting place.
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