Poems (Hooper)/Gastibelza

by Lucy Hamilton Hooper

GASTIBELZA.

Gastibelza l'homme à la carabine
     Chantait ainsi.

'Twas Gastibelza with the carabine
      Who sang one day,
Knows any one of you the fair Sabine,
      My lady gay?
Peasants, the night creeps o'er the Mount Falov,
      Dance, sing, be glad—
The wind that comes across the mountain-tops
      Will drive me mad.

Knows any of the dwellers here Sabine,
      My fair Senora?
Her mother was the ancient Maugrabine
      Of Antiquera.
Who, like an owl, shrieked nightly in yon tower,
      Gray, ivy-clad—
The wind that comes across the mountain-tops
      Will drive me mad.

Yes, dance and sing, enjoy the fleeting good
      The hour has brought.
She was so young, the joy within her eyes
      Awakened thought.
Give something to that old man with the child,
      Those beggars sad—
The wind that comes across the mountain-tops
      Will drive me mad.

Near her, in truth, the queen would ugly seem
      When she, one day,
Passed o'er Toledo's bridge at eventide
      In plain array.
Around her neck an antique rosary
      That day she had—
The wind that comes across the mountain-tops
      Will drive me mad.

The king, who saw her, to his nephew said,
      (She was so fair):
"For but one smile from her, one single kiss,
      One silken hair,
To give Peru and Spain, O prince Don Ruy,
      I would be glad!"
The wind that comes across the mountain-tops
      Will drive me mad.

I know not if I loved this lady—yet
      This I can say:
That I, poor dog, to win from her one glance
      Of soul-born ray,
I would have served a galley-slave ten years,
      And still been glad—
The wind that comes across the mountain-tops
      Will drive me mad.

One day when all was sweetness, light, and life,
      One summer day,
She and her sister to the river came
      To sport and play.
And at her sister's foot and her white knee
      One glance I had—
The wind that comes across the mountain-tops
      Will drive me mad.

'Tis growing dark, O peasants, dance and sing!
      Sabine, I'm-told,
Her dovelike beauty and her love one day
      All—all she sold,
Just for a jewel, for the golden ring
      Count Saldayne had—
The wind that comes across the mountain-tops
      Will drive me mad.

Allow me, pray, to lean against this bench,
      For I am weary;
She fled then with this Count, alas, she fled!
      My tale is dreary.
Over the road that leads to La Cerdayne
      No trace we had—
The wind that comes across the mountain-tops
      Will drive me mad.

I saw her pass my dwelling, that was all;
      And now each day,
Each hour, in weariness and in disgust
      Passes away.
My sword hangs on the wall, I idly dream,
      My soul is sad—
The wind that comes across the mountain-tops
      Has driv'n me mad.
Victor Hugo.