Carrer's ballads are esteemed the best of his poems; and I may offer
an idea of the quality and manner of some of his ballads by the
following translation, but I cannot render his peculiar elegance, nor
give the whole range of his fancy:
THE DUCHESS.
From the horrible profound
Of the voiceless sepulcher
Comes, or seems to come, a sound;
Is't his Grace, the Duke, astir?
In his trance he hath been laid
As one dead among the dead!
The relentless stone he tries
With his utmost strength to move;
Fails, and in his fury cries,
Smiting his hands, that those above,
If any shall be passing there,
Hear his blasphemy, or his prayer.
And at last he seems to hear
Light feet overhead go by;
"O, whoever passes near
Where I am, the Duke am I!
All my states and all I have
To him that takes me from this grave."
There is no one that replies;
Surely, some one seemed to come!
On his brow the cold sweat lies,
As he waits an instant dumb;
Then he cries with broken breath,
"Save me, take me back from death!"
"Where thou liest, lie thou must,
Prayers and curses alike are vain:
Over thee dead Gismond's dust--
Whom thy pitiless hand hath slain--
On this stone so heavily
Rests, we cannot set thee free.
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