We present this work in honor of the poet’s 180th birthday.
Arthur O’Shaughnessy Irish 1844 – 1881
We are the music makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; — World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world’s great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire’s glory: One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song’s measure Can trample a kingdom down.
We, in the ages lying, In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself in our mirth; And o’erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world’s worth; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth.
A breath of our inspiration Is the life of each generation; A wondrous thing of our dreaming Unearthly, impossible seeming — The soldier, the king, and the peasant Are working together in one, Till our dream shall become their present, And their work in the world be done.
They had no vision amazing Of the goodly house they are raising; They had no divine foreshowing Of the land to which they are going: But on one man’s soul it hath broken, A light that doth not depart; And his look, or a word he hath spoken, Wrought flame in another man’s heart.
And therefore to-day is thrilling With a past day’s late fulfilling; And the multitudes are enlisted In the faith that their fathers resisted, And, scorning the dream of to-morrow, Are bringing to pass, as they may, In the world, for its joy or its sorrow, The dream that was scorned yesterday.
But we, with our dreaming and singing, Ceaseless and sorrowless we! The glory about us clinging Of the glorious futures we see, Our souls with high music ringing: O men! it must ever be That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, A little apart from ye.
For we are afar with the dawning And the suns that are not yet high, And out of the infinite morning Intrepid you hear us cry — How, spite of your human scorning, Once more God’s future draws nigh, And already goes forth the warning That ye of the past must die.
Great hail! we cry to the comers From the dazzling unknown shore; Bring us hither your sun and your summers; And renew our world as of yore; You shall teach us your song’s new numbers, And things that we dreamed not before: Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers, And a singer who sings no more.
Blossius Aemilius Dracontius Tunisian c. 455 – c. 505
Suddenly Cypris and her dove-drawn chariot descended from the quarter where the fiery night wheels its constellations over southern shores. Her purple doves wore bridles woven out of flowers, a red rose linked the gently undulating traces, the birds’ beautiful yoke was lilies mixed with roses. She flicked a purple whip to keep the team on course. She steered the wing beats; she controlled the feathered oars.
What sober intoxication gives me voice for glorious cause? Muses, pure adornment of Parnassus, do I not see you now? I hear the sound of your sweet strings and the strength of lovely choirs. All gives rise in me to exultant speech. Nations! Receive my song joyously. Stormy winds! Be silent. I desire to sing of brave Anna’s glory.
In their songs, eternally in glory, incomparable Pindar and Horace rose up to the very stars in heaven like swift, bold eagles. But if the voice of my lyre would equal my sincere zeal, which burns eternally for Anna, then Orpheus of Thrace himself, together with Amphion of Thebes, would surely marvel at its sweetness.
Sing, my lyre, a sweet song. Sing of Anna, who is happy; sing, to the greater downfall of all our foes, to their eternal misfortune. O her bravery and might! O the joyous delight of all her subjects! Conquering everything, her bravery inspires dread. Happiness leads us to a strange ecstasy; it removes our sorrowful thoughts, swelling our hearts with pride.
Was it Neptune himself built these walls that stand so proudly near the sea? Do they not resemble those of Troy, which sought long to be in quarrel with arms most powerful in combat and with a battle-hardened warrior? Do not all call the Vistula River now by the name of Skamander? Does Mount Stalzenberg not now bear the name of Ida?
That is not Troy, of fables’ subject; not one Achilles alone wages battle. Every warrior storms more valiantly than the son of Thetis. What leader shines with wondrous helmet? Is it not Minerva hurling her spear? ‘Tis evident that Heaven sent her, for in all respects she is a goddess; fearful is she even without her shield or aegis. ‘Tis the Russian Empress Anna.
And ‘tis Russian warriors have surrounded Danzig, hostile city. Each who fought there deserved to be called Mars, for in might each was more wondrous than Mars: ready to shed his blood freely, or carry off a complete victory in Anna’s name. All embolden themselves with Anna’s good fortune; only Anna is their strong hope, and because Anna is gracious to them they take greater anger at her enemies.
Beautiful and favorable sun of the European and Asian sky! O Russian monarch! Many times blessed, because you are so dear to your subjects, because you rule them so benignly! Your name is already fearful to the world and the universe will not contain your glory. Wishing to be obedient to you, all of it marvels at the flower of beauty.
But what do I behold? Do my eyes not deceive me? A youth opposed to Hercules, raising high his proud brow, desires to be the marvel of the entire world! With unwise counsel, Danzig, as if made drunk with heady beverage, opposes – and now openly so – the mighty empress of all Russia. Judging rashly, it does not see the abyss, as on a moonless night.
Into its very heart it accepts as a friend Stanislaus, who comes a second time in search of a crown. It hopes for defense through fields o’er which Neptune has flowed, but fearing the Russian Perun it seeks assistance of the nation that dwells along the banks of the Seine. But to its own loss does this nation beat drums for the advantage of Weichselmünde.
Proud of its fire and iron no less than of its warriors everywhere, Danzig already places its machines on embankments against the Russians. That it is rich in many stores, it shouts, “Long live Stanislaus!” It encourages anger in its soldiers who do not have stout hearts and look only to preserving their lives by flight.
O Danzig! Oh, what are you daring? Collect your senses! Counsel with them. You are approaching destruction. Why have you stopped? Why do you hesitate? Surrender! Wherefrom have you such audacity that you do not pale before Anna? Of their own will entire nations submit themselves without a battle. In order not to pay her tribute the Chinese rulers twice revere her.
Whosoever beseeches kindness of her learns that in kindness Anna has no equal. There is no one upon the world more generous to him who inflicts no war upon her. Her sword, wound with the olive branch, is fierce in battle, not in peace. O Danzig, abandon this wicked thought. You see the Alcidae are ready. You behold the terrible woes of your inhabitants; you hear wrathful Anna herself.
You are closely surrounded on all sides by thousands of courageous athletes. You have no hope of withstanding the bolts of lightning raining down on you, smashing everything before them. And that thunder is real, not false. On the ramparts there is no longer any defense. The earth opens up abysses; buildings fly up in the air; many fortifications are seized.
Even though all the powers came ardently to your defense now, Danzig; if the elements themselves defended you; even if brave soldiers came to you from all over he world and freely spilled their life’s blood for you – verily these can in no way save you, and though they made bold effort, they cannot puck you from the hands of Anna.
See, hostile nations, how brave are the Russian people! Fire does not harm them, nor water; their chests are bared to everything. See how they rush to the assault! How they batter themselves without giving way! The thunder of cannon scares them not; they go as to dance at a wedding celebration, and through the smoky clouds it is clear to whom all bravery is familiar.
Within the walls of poor Danzig town, fears are on the rise; buildings crumble into dust; the siege is everywhere triumphant. When from the last remaining wall the city magistrate beholds that all their hope in aid from distant lands and in the good will of Stanislaus was just in vain, he shouts, standing dumbstruck like an ignoramus: “Oh! Our glory has fallen!”
What I prophesied desires to come true: Danzig already begins to tremble; each person thinks now just of surrender as he thought earlier of fighting. He thinks this way of saving himself from the bombs flying in the air and from the spirit bearing death in plague. Everyone shouts: it is time to begin – To all it was an unbearable burden. Ah! It is time to open all the city’s gates to Anna’s triumphant army.
And so it passed. Surrender’s sign is made; at Anna’s feet Danzig has fallen. The warrior has begun rejoicing at his success; the fire has been extinguished; to all, the roads are free. Soaring, Glory flies everywhere and proclaims with her trumpet: “Anna is supreme in fortune! Anna, O our Anna! Braver than all is she! Anna more august than Augustus! The beauty and honor of all nations!”
Desist, lyre! ‘Tis time to end your song. Who is it can properly bear praise to the greatness of our Anna and sing of a courage higher than hers? In this there is much praise to Anna, that she is loved by God Himself. I desire her to conquer by this, and she is always able to conquer whomsoever dares oppose her. With that, “Long live Anna!” I exclaim.
We present this work in honor of the 565th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Ausiàs March Spanish 1400 – 1459
Day’s terrified to lose her last bright features, Seeing the night spread darkness overhead. Small creatures dare not close their eyes for slumber. The sick and weak ail even more in bed. Then evil men can freely do their worst Who’d have the cover of darkness last all year. Not I who am tormented as no other Yet do no harm. I long for daylight clear.
I do no harm, and yet do worse than murder A thousand guiltless men for ruthless fun: I summon all my powers for self-betrayal And do not count on clemency from dawn. No, every night I blast my brain concocting Treasonous plots planned out for all day long. No fear of death or dungeon life deter me From visiting against myself such wrong.
Beauty of Prudence: I know it’s my doing That love’s tight noose has twisted around me. Straight is the path I take without delay To end, unless your mercy set me free.
When I come to the stream in Mount Turyu whose beauty I have long since heard of, I see the mountains mirrored in the waters dotted with floating peach blossoms. Where is the fairyland, my boy? This alone is the place.
Oh Abu Souar! Rub your bird with oil to excite him and mount a steed that can catch up with mine. Under me is a thoroughbred that brings tears to my eyes as he dashes forward into the wind. No sooner had I let my bird go than he caught a houbara and a red hare! I chased them away with tough riders, though, great hunters that deserve not the slightest blame. I search the desert, then return home loaded with game. My turkli and I enjoy wintering in the Sahara.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 125th birthday.
Jibanananda Das Indian 1899 – 1954
Again and again through the day I meet a cat. In the tree’s shade, in the sun, in the crowding brown leaves. After the success of a few fish bones Or inside a skeleton of white earth I find it, as absorbed in the purring Of its heart as a bee. Still it sharpens its claws on the gulmohar tree And follows the sun all day long.
Now I see it and then it is gone, Losing itself somewhere. On the autumn evening I have watched it play, Stroking the soft body of the saffron sun With a white paw. Then it caught The darkness in paws like small balls And scattered it all over the earth.
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