The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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       Vict. What mad jest

      Is this?

       Prec. It is no jest; indeed it is not.

       Vict. Prithee, explain thyself.

       Prec. Why, simply thus.

      Thou knowest the Pope has sent here into Spain

      To put a stop to dances on the stage.

       Vict. I have heard it whispered.

       Prec. Now the Cardinal,

      Who for this purpose comes, would fain behold

      With his own eyes these dances; and the Archbishop

      Has sent for me—

       Vict. That thou mayst dance before them!

      Now viva la cachucha! It will breathe

      The fire of youth into these gray old men!

      'T will be thy proudest conquest!

       Prec. Saving one.

      And yet I fear these dances will be stopped,

      And Preciosa be once more a beggar.

       Vict. The sweetest beggar that e'er asked for alms;

      With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw thee

      I gave my heart away!

       Prec. Dost thou remember

      When first we met?

       Vict. It was at Cordova,

      In the cathedral garden. Thou wast sitting

      Under the orange-trees, beside a fountain.

       Prec. 'T was Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees

      Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy.

      The priests were singing, and the organ sounded,

      And then anon the great cathedral bell.

      It was the elevation of the Host.

      We both of us fell down upon our knees,

      Under the orange boughs, and prayed together.

      I never had been happy till that moment.

       Vict. Thou blessed angel!

       Prec. And when thou wast gone

      I felt an acting here. I did not speak

      To any one that day. But from that day

      Bartolome grew hateful unto me.

       Vict. Remember him no more. Let not his shadow

      Come between thee and me. Sweet Preciosa!

      I loved thee even then, though I was silent!

       Prec. I thought I ne'er should see thy face again.

      Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow in it.

       Vict. That was the first sound in the song of love!

      Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound.

      Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings

      Of that mysterious instrument, the soul,

      And play the prelude of our fate. We hear

      The voice prophetic, and are not alone.

       Prec. That is my faith. Dust thou believe these warnings?

       Vict. So far as this. Our feelings and our thoughts

      Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present.

      As drops of rain fall into some dark well,

      And from below comes a scarce audible sound,

      So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter,

      And their mysterious echo reaches us.

       Prec. I have felt it so, but found no words to say it!

      I cannot reason; I can only feel!

      But thou hast language for all thoughts and feelings.

      Thou art a scholar; and sometimes I think

      We cannot walk together in this world!

      The distance that divides us is too great!

      Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars;

      I must not hold thee back.

       Vict. Thou little sceptic!

      Dost thou still doubt? What I most prize in woman

      Is her affections, not her intellect!

      The intellect is finite; but the affections

      Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted.

      Compare me with the great men of the earth;

      What am I? Why, a pygmy among giants!

      But if thou lovest—mark me! I say lovest,

      The greatest of thy sex excels thee not!

      The world of the affections is thy world,

      Not that of man's ambition. In that stillness

      Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy,

      Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart,

      Feeding its flame. The element of fire

      Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature,

      But burns as brightly in a Gypsy camp

      As in a palace hall. Art thou convinced?

       Prec. Yes, that I love thee, as the good love heaven;

      But not that I am worthy of that heaven.

      How shall I more deserve it?

       Vict. Loving more.

       Prec. I cannot love thee more; my heart is full.

       Vict. Then let it overflow, and I will drink it,

      As in the summer-time the thirsty sands

      Drink the swift waters of the Manzanares,

      And still do thirst for more.

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