Poems (Hooper)/Gastibelza

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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.
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