Blue-Grey, and white, and white-of-rose, The flowers of the West's fore-dawn unclose. I feel the dusky softness whirr Of colour, as upon a dulcimer "Her" dreaming fingers lay between the tunes, As when the living music swoons But dies not quite, because for love of us --knowing our state How that 'tis troublous-- It wills not die to leave us desolate. Nils Lykke Beautiful, infinite memories That are a-plucking at my heart, Why will you be ever calling and a-calling, And a-murmuring in the dark there? And a-reaching out your long hands Between me and my beloved? And why will you be ever a-casting The black shadow of your beauty On the white face of my beloved And a-glinting in the pools of her eyes? A Song of the Virgin Mother _In the play "Los Pastores de Belen."_ From the Spanish of Lope de Vega. As ye go through these palm-trees O holy angel; Sith sleepeth my child here Still ye the branches. O Bethlehem palm-trees That move to the anger Of winds in their fury, Tempestuous voices, Make ye no clamour, Run ye less swiftly, Sith sleepeth the child here Still ye your branches. He the divine child Is here a-wearied Of weeping the earth-pain, Here for his rest would he Cease from his mourning, Only a little while, Sith sleepeth this child here Stay ye the branches. Cold be the fierce winds, Treacherous round him. Ye see that I have not Wherewith to guard him, O angels, divine ones That pass us a-flying, Sith sleepeth my child here Stay ye the branches. Planh for the Young English King _That is, Prince Henry Plantagenet, elder brother to Richard "Coeur de Lion."_ From the Provençal of Bertrans de Born "Si tuit li dol elh plor elh marrimen." If all the grief and woe and bitterness, All dolour, ill and every evil chance That ever came upon this grieving world Were set together they would seem but light Against the death of the young English King. Worth lieth riven and Youth dolorous, The world o'ershadowed, soiled and overcast, Void of all joy and full of ire and sadness. Grieving and sad and full of bitterness Are left in teen the liegemen courteous, The joglars supple and the troubadours. O'er much hath ta'en Sir Death that deadly warrior In taking from them the young English King, Who made the freest hand seem covetous. 'Las! Never was nor will be in this world The balance for this loss in ire and sadness!