Ma Dame, afore, er I was ded, Whan I was in mi lusti lif, Ther fel into myn herte a strif Of loue, which me overcom, So þat þerafter hiede I nom, And þoghte I wolde loue a kniht: That laste wel a fourtenyht, ffor it no lengere mihte laste, So nyh my lif was ate laste. Bot now, allas, to late war That I ne hadde him loued ar: ffor deþ cam so in haste bime, Er I þerto hadde eny time, That it ne mihte ben achieued. Bot for al þat I am relieued, Of þat mi will was good þerto, That loue soffreþ it be so That I schal swiche a bridel were. Now haue ȝe herd al myn ansuere: To godd, ma Dame, I ȝou betake, And warneþ alle for mi sake, Of loue þat þei ben noght ydel, And bidd hem þenke vpon mi brydel. And wiþ þat word al sodeinly Sche passeþ, as it were a Sky, Al clene out of þis ladi sihte. And þo for fere hire herte afflihte, And seide to hirself, Helas! I am riht in þe same cas: Bot if I liue after þis day, I schal amende it, if I may. And þus homward þis lady wente, And changede al hire ferste entente, Wiþinnne hire herte and gan to swere That sche none haltres wolde bere. THE SONG OF THE VULTURE By ELIA DEMIRJIBASHIAN (1851–1908) A great black bird like to a great black cloud Hovers forever o’er my spirit bowed. He is my guardian angel, but alack! Darker than night he is—than hell more black. A fearful-looking bird, with wings wide spread, Ill-omened as the Devil, and as dread; He hovers round my wasted body, till I wonder if I yet have life or will. Upon his wings no spot of white appears, His plumage black sheds horror down, and fears. Black are his talons—sharp, like daggers fell; And like a hound I hear him howl and yell. His wide-spread pinions hide the light from me; Heaven dark, and earth a dungeon black I see. All is in shadow—air and earth and skies— He even hides the lightning from my eyes. I cannot see the paleness of my face, I cannot see the maiden’s smiling grace; Black is the lake, the stars and lilies dark; What was that cry? The bird’s dread calling!—Hark! I seem to totter on the brink of hell And think the evil fowl my corpse can smell. I seem to hear the goblins fight with him— Away with thee!—ours is this booty grim!” But he is cruel, strong, and merciless— This great black bird;—he heeds not my distress. Ten years I’ve lived beneath his deadly wings— Ten years unceasingly my death-bell rings. Ten years ago one night it came to pass On Moda’s rock I sat and dreamed; alas, My foe came to me—Carnal was his name: He shouted, “Vain are Life and Love and Fame!” Youthful I was, and armed with Love and Hope I struggled. “Oh, my soul, arise and cope With this thy foe, and vanquish him,” I cried. But ’twas in vain, as I full soon espied.