「モンゴメリ・デジタル・ライブラリー」に寄せて

松本侑子　　　　　　　　

EVELYN HOPE

by Robert Browning

        I.

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!
  Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed;
  She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass;
  Little has yet been changed, I think:
The shutters are shut, no light may pass
Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink.

        II.

Sixteen years old, when she died!
  Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;
It was not her time to love; beside,
  Her life had many a hope and aim,
Duties enough and little cares,
  And now was quiet, now astir,
Till God's hand beckoned unawares,---
  And the sweet white brow is all of her.

        III.

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?
  What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
  Made you of spirit, fire and dew---
And, just because I was thrice as old
  And our paths in the world diverged so wide,
Each was nought to each, must I be told?
  We were fellow mortals, nought beside?

        IV.

No, indeed! for God above
  Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love:
  I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
Delayed it may be for more lives yet,
  Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few:
Much is to learn, much to forget
  Ere the time be come for taking you.

        V.

But the time will come,---at last it will,
  When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say)
In the lower earth, in  the  years  long  still,
  That body and soul so pure and gay?
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,
  And your mouth of your own geranium's red---
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in   fine,
  In the new life come in the old one's stead.

        VI.

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then,
  Given up myself so many times,
Gained me the gains of various men,
  Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
  Either I missed or itself missed me:
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
  What is the issue? let us see!

        VII.

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while.
  My heart seemed full as it could hold?
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,
  And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.
So, hush,---I will give you this leaf to keep:
  See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand!
There, that is our secret: go to sleep!
  You will wake, and remember, and understand.



　エヴリン・ホープ
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　ロバート・ブラウニング作


一、
　美しきエヴリン・ホープは逝（ルビ／い）ってしまった！
　　しばしたたずむ、彼女の枕辺に
　あれは彼女の書棚、これは彼女の寝床
　　彼女がつんだこのジェラニウムの花は
　早やくも枯れ始めている、ガラスのコップにさしたまま。でも
　　彼女は少しも変わらない
　部屋の扉は閉ざされ、光も射さない
　　ただ蝶番（ルビ／ちょうつがい）のすきまから、二すじの陽ざしがながくのびるだけ

二、
　彼女は逝ってしまった、わずか十六の若さで！
　　彼女は私の名を聞いたこともないだろう
　まだ恋を知らない年ごろ。そして
　　希望と抱負に満ちた乙女の人生
　若い娘としてすることは多々あり、しかし憂いはまだなく
　　静かにくつろぎ、また活発に楽しんでいたのに
　神の手に召されてしまった、誰も知らない間に
　　今や可憐な白い死顔がのこるのみ

三、　　
  ああ、エヴリン・ホープ、私が恋心を告げるのが遅すぎたのか？
　　君の魂はなんと清らかで美しいだろう
　あなたは良き星のもとに生まれ
　　精と火と露から創られた
　しかし私は君より三倍も年老いた男で
　　二人の人生の筋道は大きく離れていた
　私たちには何の関わりもなかった、そう言うべきであろうか？
　　われらは死に引き裂かれる運命で、縁もゆかりもない他人だったのか？

四、
　いや、そんなことはない。天にまします神は
　  恵み深く、全能である
　愛に報いる愛を創りたもうであろう
　　だから君亡き今でも言わせてもらおう、君は私のものだと！
  これからいくつもの命を生まれ変わり
    少なからぬ幾世をこえて
　多くを覚え、多くを忘れ
　　いつかまた君を私のものにするときが来るだろう

五、
　そのときが来たら、ついに来たなら
　　エヴリン・ホープよ、私は君に言うだろう
　かつて下界にいたころ、はるか遠い昔に
　　君は、身も心も美しくほがらかだったと
　君の髪は琥珀色（ルビ／こはくいろ）だったね、と私は言い当てるだろう
    君の唇は、このジェラニウムの花のように紅かったと
　そして君は、この私と何をするのだろう
　　過去から新しく生まれ変わった人生で

六、
  私は君に話すだろう。あれから私がどんな風に生きてきたか
　  何度も自分を見放し、あきらめてきたことを
　世の人の富を手に入れ
　　君をさがそうと時代をかき回し、世間を台なしにして
　私の心は君への思慕で一杯なのに、それでもただ一つのものがないと気づいていた
　　私はそのただ一つを恋い求めていたのか、それとも見つけられない喪失感が私を恋い求めていたのか
　エヴリン・ホープ、君がほしい、君を見つけたい！
　　まためぐりあったなら、どんなに素晴らしいだろう！

七、
　エヴリン、君を愛している、いつもいつまでも
　　君への想いでいっぱいの私の心にも
　君のうららかな若い笑顔
　　紅く可愛い唇、金色のつややかな髪を覚えておく場所はある
　だからああ、この詩をかきつけた紙を持っていてくれ
　　さあ、君の小さく冷たい手に持たせるよ！
　これは二人の秘密だ、さあ、やすらかに眠れ！
    いつか生まれ変わった君は、すべてを思い出し、知るだろう（松本侑子訳）

COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION

by John Greenleaf Whittier

This ballad was written on the occasicn of a Horticultural Festival. Cobbler Keezar was a noted character among the first settlers in the valley of the Merrimac.

THE beaver cut his timber
  With patient teeth that day,
The minks were fish-wards, and the crows
  Surveyors of highway, --

When Keezar sat on the hillside
  Upon his cobbler's form,
With a pan of coals on either hand
  To keep his waxed-ends warm.

And there, in the golden weather,
  He stitched and hammerd and sung;
In the brook he moistened his leather,
  In the pewter mug his tongue.

Well know the tough old Teuton.
  Who brewed the stoutest ale,
And he paid the goodwife's reckoning
  In the coin of song and tale.

The songs they still are singing
  Who dress the hills of vine,
The tales that haunt the Brocken
  And whisper down the Rhine.

Woodsy and wild and lonesome,
  The swift stream wound away,
Through birches and scarlet maples
  Flashing in foam and spray, --

Down on the sharp-horned ledges
  Plunging in steep cascade,
Tossing its white-maned waters
  Against the hemlock's shade.

Woodsy and wild and lonesome,
  East aud west_and north and south ;
Only the village of fishers
  Down at the river's mouth ;

Only here and there a clearing,
  With its farm-house rude and new,
And tree-stumps, swart as Indians,
  Where the scanty harvest grew.

No shout of home-bound reapers,
  No vintage-song he heard,
And on the green no dancing feet
  The merry violin stirred.

"Why should folk be glum," said Keezar
  " When Nature herself is glad,
And the painted woods are laughing
  At the faces so sour and sad ?"

Small heed had the careless cobbler
  What sorrow of heart was theirs
Who travailed in pain with the births of God,
  And plauted a state with prayers,--

Hunting of witchies and warlocks,
  Smiting the heathen horde,--
One hand on the mason's trowel,
  And one on the soldier's sword!

But give him his ale and cider,
  Give him his pipe and song,
Little he cared for Church or State,
  Or the balance of right and wrong.

"'Tis work, work, work," he muttered, --
  "And for rest a snuffle of psalms!"
He smote on his leathern apron
  With his brown and waxen palms.

"Oh for the purple harvests
  Of the days when I was young!
For the merry grape-stained maidens,
  And the pleasant songs they sung!

"Oh for the breath of vineyards,
  Of apples and nuts and wiee!
For an oar to row and a breeze to blow
  Down the grand old river Rhine!"

A tear in his blue eye glistened,
  And dropped on his beard so gray.
"Old, old am I," said Keezar,
  "And the Rhine flows far away!"

But a cuntling man was the cobbler;
  He could call the birds from the trees,
Charm the black snake out of the ledges,
  And bring back the swarming bees.

All the virtues of herbs and metals,
  All the lore of the woods, he knew,
And the arts of the Old World mingled
  With the marvels of the New.

Well he knew the tricks of magic,
  And the lapstone on his kllee
Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles
  Or the stone of Doctor Dee.

For the mighty master Agrippa
  Wronght it with spell and rhyme
From a fragment of mystic moonstone
  In the tower of Nettesheim

To a cobbler Minnesinger
  The marvellous stone gave he, --
And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar,
  Who brought it over the sea.

He held up that mystic lapstone,
  He held it up like a lens,
And he counted the long years coming
  By twenties and by tens.

"One hundred years," quoth Keezar,
  "And fifty have I told:
Now open the new before me,
  And shut me out the old!"

Like a cloud of mist, the blackness
  Rolled from the magic stone,
And a marvellous picture mingled
  The unknown and the known.

Still ran the stream to the river,
  And river and ocean joined;
And ther were the bluffs and the blue sealine,
  And cold north hills behind.

But the mighty forest was broken
  By many a steepled town,
By many a white-walled farm-house,
  And many a garner brown.

Turning a score of mill-wheels,
  The stream no more ran free;
White sails on the winding river,
  White sails on the far-off sea.

Below in the noisy village
  The flags were floating gay,
And shore on a thousand faces
  The light of a holiday.

Swiftly the rival ploughmen
  Turned the brown earth from their shares;
Here were the farmer's treasures,
  There were the craftsman's wares.

Golden the goodwife's butter
  Ruby her currant-wine;
Grand were the strutting turkeys,
  Fat were the beeves and swine.

Yellow and red were the apples,
  And the ripe pears russet-brown,
And the peaches had stolen blushes
  From the girls who shook them down.

And with blooms of hill and wildwood,
  That shame the toil of art,
Mingled the gorgeous blossoms
  Of the garden's tropic heart.

"What is it I see?" said Keezar:
  "Am I here, or am I there?
Is it a fete at Bingen?
  Do I look on Frankfort Fair?

"But where are the clowns and puppets,
  And imps with horns and tail?
And where are the Rhenish flagons?
  And where is the foaming ale?

"Strange things, I know, will happen,--
  Strange things the Load permits;
But that droughty folk should be jolly
  Puzzles my poor old wits.

"Here are smiling manly faces,
  And the maiden's step is gray;
Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking,
  Nor mopes, nor fools, are they.

"Here's pleasure without regretting,
  And good without abuse,
The holiday and the bridal
  Of beauty and of use.

"Here's priest and there is a Quaker,
  Do the cat and dog agree?
Have they burned the stocks for ovenwood?
  Have they cut down the gallows-tree?

"Would the old folk know their children?
  Would they own the graceless town,
With never a ranter to worry
  And never a witch to drown?"

Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar,
  Laughed like a school-boy gay;
Tossing his arms above him,
  The lapstone rolled away.

It rolled down the rugged hillside,
  It spun like a wheel bewitched,
It plunged through the leaning willows,
  And into the river pitched.

There, in the deep, dark water,
  The magic stone lies still,
Under the leaning willows
  In the shadow of the hill.

But oft the idle fisher
  Sits on the shadowy bank,
And his dreams make marvellous pintures
  Where the wizard's lapstone sank.

And still, in the summer twilights
  When the river seems to run
Out from the inner glory,
  Warm with the melted sun,

The weary mill-girl lingers
  Beside the charmed stream,
And the sky and the golden water
  Shape and color her dream.

Fair wave the sunset gardens,
  The rosy signals fly;
Her homestead beckons from the cloud,
  And love goes sailing by.

目次に戻る

AMONG THE HILLS

by John Greenleaf Whittier

For weeks the clouds had raked the hill's
  And vexed the vales with raining,
And all the woods were sad with mist,
  And all the brooks complaining.

At last, a sudden night-storm tore
  The mountain veils asunder,
And swept the valleys clean before
  The besom of the thunder.

Through Sandwich notch the west-wind sang
  Good morrow to the cotter;
And once again Chocorua's horn
  Of shadow pierced the water.

Above his broad lake Ossipee,
  Once more the sunshine wearing,
Stooped, tracing on that silver shield
  His grim armorial bearing.

Clear drawn against the hard blue sky,
  The peaks had winter's keenness;
And, close on autumn's frost, the vales
  Had more than June's fresh greenness.

Again the sodden forest floors
  With golden lights were checkered,
Once more rejoicing leaves in wind
  And sunshine danced and flickered.

It was as if the summer's late
  Atoning for its sadness
Had borrowed every season's charm
  To end its days in gladness.

I call to mind those banded vales
  Of shadow and of shining,
Through which, my hostess at my side,
  I drove in day's declining.

We held our sideling way above
  The river's whitening shallows,
By homesteads old, with wide-flung barns
  Swept through and through by swallows;

By maple orchards, belts of pine
  And larches climbing darkly
The mountain slopes, and, over all,
  The great peaks rising starkly.

You should have seen that long hill-range
  With gaps of brightness riven, --
How through each pass and hollow streamed
  The purpling lights of heaven, --

Rivers of gold-mist flowing down
  From far celestial fountains, --
The great sun flaming through the rifts
  Beyond the wall of mountains!

We paused at last where home-bound cows
  Brought down the pasture's treasure,
And in the barn the rhythmic flails
  Beat out a harvest measure.

We heard the night-hawk's sullen plunge,
  The crow his tree-mates calling:
The shadows lengthening down the slopes
  About our feet were falling.

And through them smote the level sun
  In broken lines of splendor,
Touched the gray rocks and made the green
  Of the shorn grass more tender.

The maples bending o'er the gate,
  Their arch of leaves just tinted
With yellow warmth, the golden glow
  Of coming autumn hinted.

Keen white between the farm-house showed,
  And smiled on porch and trellis,
The fair democracy of flowers
  That equals cot and palace.

And weaving garlands for her dog,
  'Twixt chidings and caresses,
A human flower of childhood shook
  The sunshine from her tresses.

On either hand we saw the signs
  Of fancy and of shrewdness,
Where taste had wound its arms of vines
  Round thrift's uncomely rudeness.

The sun-brown farmer in his frock
  Shook hands, and called to Mary:
Bare-armed, as Juno might, she came,
  White-aproned from her dairy.

Her air, her smile, her motions, told
  Of womanly completeness;
A music as of household songs
  Was in her voice of sweetness.

Not fair alone in curve and line,
  But something more and better,
The secret charm eluding art,
  Its spirit, not its letter: --

An inborn grace that nothing lacked
  Of culture or appliance, --
The warmth of genial courtesy,
  The calm of self-reliance.

Before her queenly womanhood
  How dared our hostess utter
The paltry errand of her need
  To buy her fresh-churned butter?

She led the way with housewife pride,
  Her goodly store disclosing,
Full tenderly the golden balls
  With practised hands disposing.

Then, while along the western hills
  We watched the changeful glory
Of sunset, on our homeward way,
  I heard her simple story.

The early crickets sang; the stream
  Plashed through my friend's narration:
Her rustic patois of the hills
  Lost in my free translation.

"More wise," she said, "than those who swarm
  Our hills in middle summer,
She came, when June's first roses blow,
  To greet the early comer.

"From school and ball and rout she came,
  The city's fair, pale daughter,
To drink the wine of mountain air
  Beside the Bearcamp Water.

"Her step grew firmer on the hills
  That watch our homesteads over;
On cheek and lip, from summer fields,
  She caught the bloom of clover.

"For health comes sparkling in the streams
  From cool Chocorua stealing:
There's iron in our Northern winds;
  Our pines are trees of healing.

"She sat beneath the broad-armed elms
  That skirt the mowing meadow,
And watched the gentle west-wind weave
  The grass with shine and shadow.

"Beside her, from the summer heat
  To share her grateful screening,
With forehead bared, the farmer stood,
  Upon his pitchfork leaning.

"Framed in its damp, dark locks, his face
  Had nothing mean or common, --
Strong, manly, true, the tenderness
  And pride beloved of woman.

"She looked up, glowing with the health
  The country air had brought her,
And, laughing said: 'You lack a wife,
  Your mother lacks a daughter.

" 'To mend your frock and bake your bread
  You do not need a lady:
Be sure among these brown old homes
  Is some one waiting ready, --

" 'Some fair, sweet girl with skilful hand
  And cheerful heart for treasure,
Who never played with ivory keys,
  Or danced the polka's measure.'

"He bent his black brows to a frown,
  He set his white teeth tightly.
' 'T is well,' he said, 'for one like you
  To choose for me so lightly.

" 'You think because my life is rude
  I take no note of sweetness:
I tell you love has naught to do
  With meetness or unmeetness.

" 'Itself its best excuse, it asks
  No leave of pride or fashion
When silken zone or homespun frock
  It stirs with throbs of passion.

" 'You think me deaf and blind: you bring
  Your winning graces hither
As free as if from cradle-time
  We two bad played together.

" 'You tempt me with your laughing eyes,
  Your cheek of sundown's blushes,
A motion as of waving grain,
  A music as of thrushes.

" 'The plaything of your summer sport,
  The spells you weave around me
You cannot at your will undo,
  Nor leave me as you found me.

" 'You go as lightly as you came,
  Your life is well without me;
What care you that these hills will close
  Like prison-walls about me?

" 'No mood is mine to seek a wife,
  Or daughter for my mother:
Who loves you loses in that love
  All power to love another!

" 'I dare your pity or your scorn,
  With pride your own exceeding;
I fling my heart into your lap
  Without a word of pleading.'

"She looked up in his face of pain
  So archly, yet so tender:
'And if I lend you mine,' she said,
  'Will you forgive the lender?

" 'Nor frock nor tan can hide the man;
  And see you not, my farmer,
How weak and fond a woman waits
  Behind the silken armor?

" 'I love you: on that love alone,
  And not my worth presuming,
Will you not trust for summer fruit
  The tree in May-day blooming?'

"Alone the hangbird overhead,
  His hair-swung cradle straining,
Looked down to see love's miracle, --
  The giving that is gaining.

"And so the farmer found a wife,
  His mother found a daughter:
There looks no happier home than hers
  On pleasant Bearcamp Water.

"Flowers spring to blossom where she walks
  The careful ways of duty;
Our hard, stiff lines of life with her
  Are flowing curves of beauty.

"Our homes are cheerier for her sake,
  Our door-yards brighter blooming,
And all about the social air
  Is sweeter for her coming.

"Unspoken homilies of peace
  Her daily life is preaching;
The still refreshment of the dew
  'Is her unconscious teaching.

"And never tenderer hand than hers
  Unknits the brow of ailing;
Her garments to the sick man's ear
  Have music in their trailing.

"And when, in pleasant harvest moons;
  The youthful huskers gather,
Or sleigh-drives on the mountain ways
  Defy the winter weather, --

"In sugar-camps, when south and warm
  The winds of March are blowing,
And sweetly from its thawing veins
  The maple's blood is flowing, --

"In summer, where some lilied pond
  Its virgin zone is baring,
Or where the ruddy autumn fire
  Lights up the apple-paring, --

"The coarseness of a ruder time
  Her finer mirth displaces,
A subtler sense of pleasure fills
  Each rustic sport she graces.

"Her presence lends its warmth and health
  To all who come before it.
If woman lost us Eden, such
  As she alone restore it.

"For larger life and wiser aims
  The farmer is her debtor;
Who holds to his another's heart
  Must needs be worse or better.

"Through her his civic service shows
  A purer-toned ambition;
No double consciousness divides
  The man and politician.

"In party's doubtful ways he trusts
  Her instincts to determine ;
At the loud polls, the thought of her
  Recalls Christ's Mountain Sermon.

"He owns her logic of the heart,
  And wisdom of unreason,
Supplying, while he doubts and weighs,
  The needed word in season.

"He sees with pride her richer thought,
  Her fancy's freer ranges;
And love thus deepened to respect
  Is proof against all changes.

"And if she walks at ease in ways
  His feet are slow to travel,
And if she reads with cultured eyes
  What his may scarce unravel,

"Still clearer, for her keener sight
  Of beauty and of wonder,
He learns the meaning of the hills
  He dwelt from childhood under.

"And higher, warmed with summer lights,
  Or winter-crowned and hoary,
The ridged horizon lifts for him
  Its inner veils of glory.

"He has his own free, bookless lore,
  The lessons nature taught him,
The wisdom which the woods and hills
  And toiling men have brought him:

"The steady force of will whereby
  Her flexile grace seems sweeter;
The sturdy counterpoise which makes
  Her woman's life completer;

"A latent fire of soul which lacks
  No breath of love to fan it;
And wit, that, like his native brooks,
  Plays over solid granite.

"How dwarfed against his manliness
  She sees the poor pretension,
The wants, the aims, the follies, born
  Of fashion and convention!

"How life behind its accidents
  Stands strong and self-sustaining,
The human fact transcending all
  The losing and the gaining.

"And so in grateful interchange
  Of teacher and of hearer,
Their lives their true distinctness keep
  While daily drawing nearer.

"And if the husband or the wife
  In home's strong light discovers
Such slight defaults as failed to meet
  The blinded eyes of lovers,

"Why need we care to ask? - Who dreams
  Without their thorns of roses,
Or wonders that the truest steel
  The readiest spark discloses?

"For still in mutual sufferance lies
  The secret of true living;
Love scarce is love that never knows
  The sweetness of forgiving.

"We send the Squire to General Court,
  He takes his young wife thither;
No pronder man election day
  Rides through the sweet June weather.

"He sees with eyes of manly trust
  All hearts to her inclining;
Not less for him his household light
  That others share its shining."

Thus, while my hostess spake, there grew
  Before me, warmer tinted
And outlined with a tenderer grace,
  The picture that she hinted.

The sunset smouldered as we drove
  Beneath the deep hill-shadows.
Below us wreaths of white fog walked
  Like ghosts the haunted meadows.

Sounding the summer night, the stars
  Dropped down their golden plummets;
The pale are of the Northern lights
  Rose o'er the mountain summits,

Until, at last, beneath its bridge,
 We heard the Bearcamp flowing,
And saw across the mapled lawn
  The welcome horm-lights glowing.

And, musing on the tale I heard,
  'T were well, thought I, if often
To rugged farm-life came the gift
  To harmonize and soften;

If more and more we found the troth
  Of fact and fancy plighted,
And culture's charm and labor's strength
  In rural homes united, --

The simple life, the homely hearth,
  With beauty's sphere surrounding,
And blessing toil where toil abounds
  With graces more abounding.

目次に戻る

CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT

by Rosa Hartwick Thorpe

Slowly England's sun was setting oe'r the hilltops far away,
  Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;
And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,--
  He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she, with lips all cold and white,
  Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night!"

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
  With its walls tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls dark, damp and cold,--
"I've a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die
  At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.
Cromwell will not come till sunset;" and her lips grew strangely white,
  As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not ring to-night!"

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart
  Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart),
"Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;
  Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour.
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right:
  Now I'm old, I will not miss it. Curfew bell must ring to-night!"

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,
  As within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,
  "At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must "die.
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;
  One low murmur, faintly spoken. "Curfew must not ring to-night!"

She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door,
  Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before.
Not one moment paused the maiden, But with eye and cheek aglow,
  Staggered up the gloomy tower, Where the bell swung to and fro;
As she climbed the slimy ladder, On which fell no ray of light,
  Upward still, her pale lips saying, "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell;
  Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.
See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; 'tis the hour of curfew now,
  And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light,
  As she springs, and grasps it firmly: "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Out she swung,-- far out. The city Seemed a speck of light below,--
  There twixt heaven and earth suspended, As the bell swung to and fro.
And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,
  Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell.
"Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white,
  Stilled her frightened heart's wild throbbing: "Curfew shall not ring tonight!"

It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more
  Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before,
Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done
  Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,
  Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.

O'er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; and her brow,
  Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now.
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands, all bruised and torn;
  And her sweet young face, still hagggard, with the anguish it had worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light.
  "Go! your lover lives," said Cromwell. "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die,
  All his bright young life before him. Neath the darkening English sky,
Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet;
  Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet.
In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white,
  Whispered, "Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring to-night."

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The Maiden's Vow

by Baroness caroline Nairne Oliphant

I've made a vow, I'll keep it true,
  I'll never married be;
For the only ane that I think on
  will never think o'me.

Noe gane to a far distant shore,
  Their face nae mair I'll see;
But often will I think o'them,
  That winna think o'me.

Gae owre, gae owre noo, gude Sir John,
  Oh, dinna follow me;
For the only ane I ere thocht on,
  Lies burried in the sea.


「乙女の誓い」　
                             キャロライン・ネアン・オリファント
                            （試訳）松本侑子

私は誓ったの、 きっと守り抜くでしょう
　決して結婚しないと
なぜなら、愛するただ一人のあの人は
　決して私を想うことはないから

今はもはや遙かな国へ船出した
　あの人たちに会うことはないでしょう
されど私はしげく思い出すでしょう
　私を想うことのないあの人たちを

向こうへ行って、離れて、優しいジョン、
　どうか私を追わないで
なぜなら、私が愛したたった一人のあの人は
　海の墓場に沈んだのだから

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NELLY OF THE HAZEL DELL

In the Hazel Dell my Nelly's sleeping,
Nelly lov'd so long!
And my lonely watch I'm nightly keeping, 
Nelly, lost and gone. 
Here in moonlight often we have wander'd 
Thro' the silent glade;
Now where leafy branches all point downward; 
Litlle NelIy's laid. 
All alone my watch I'm keeping 
In the Hazel Dell, 
For my darling Nelly's near me sleeping.
Nelly, dear,farewell.


「はしばみ谷のネリー」
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　作詞者不明
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　（試訳）松本侑子

はしばみ谷のネリー　死の眠りについた、
愛したネリー　さようなら！
私はひとり　通夜に寝ずの番をする
喪われ、あの世へ逝ったネリー。
月の光を浴びて、私たちは彷徨ったのに
閑かな林を抜けて。
今や、葉のおい茂る枝もみなうなだれ
その地面に小さなネリーが横たわる。
私はたったひとり、夜通しネリーを見守る
このはしばみ谷で。
かわいいネリーは、私の傍らで眠っているのだから。
ネリー、いとしい人よ、さらば。

_The Annotated Anne of Green Gables_ ed. by Wendy E.Barry, Margaret Anne Doody, Mary E.Doody Jones: ISBN 0-19-510428-5/Oxford University Press, 1997 によると、Nelly of the Hazel Dellの出典は以下のとおり。

"[Nelly of] The Hazel Dell" by George Frederick Root(1852), as found in the collection Heart Songs Dear to the American People(1909).

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