Then suddenly, like the notes of some deep-throated bird, her
rounded voice rang out in song so wildly sweet, and yet with
so eerie and sad a refrain, that it made the very blood stand
still. Up, up soared the golden notes, that seemed to melt far
away, and then to grow again and travel on, laden with all the
sorrow of the world and all the despair of the lost. It was
a marvellous song, but I had not time to listen to it properly.
However, I got the words of it afterwards, and here is a translation
of its burden, so far as it admits of being translated at all.
SORAIS' SONG
As a desolate bird that through darkness its lost way is winging,
As a hand that is helplessly raised when Death's sickle is swinging,
So is life! ay, the life that lends passion and breath to my singing.
As the nightingale's song that is full of a sweetness unspoken,
As a spirit unbarring the gates of the skies for a token,
So is love! ay, the love that shall fall when his pinion is broken.
As the tramp of the legions when trumpets their challenge are sending,
As the shout of the Storm-god when lightnings the black sky are rending,
So is power! ay, the power that shall lie in the dust at its ending.
So short is our life; yet with space for all things to forsake us,
A bitter delusion, a dream from which nought can awake us,
Till Death's dogging footsteps at morn or at eve shall o'ertake us.
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