The Young Girl
–by Alphonse Brot
She is far from the soil where Ivandor rests,
A mob of suitors presses around her;
She weeps, she flees from their drunken disorder,
For her heart is possessed absolutely by death!
She sings tunes from her lovely land derived,
Those sung long past by a hero favoured in her choice;
Oh, you can scarcely guess, you dazzled by her voice!…
The devouring regrets that lay waste to her life;
If, near her, Ivandor for moments seemed to thrive,
Too soon for his beloved island he was killed:
His island weeps upon his war-like ashes still,
His Emma far from him shall not for long survive.
Raise a modest mausoleum for the maid,
Near winding woods, which both the lovers knew so well,
So that at last toward evening tender vows might knell
To come beguile at times her desolated shade!
–Translated by Olchar E. Lindsann
–by Alphonse Brot
She is far from the soil where Ivandor rests,
A mob of suitors presses around her;
She weeps, she flees from their drunken disorder,
For her heart is possessed absolutely by death!
She sings tunes from her lovely land derived,
Those sung long past by a hero favoured in her choice;
Oh, you can scarcely guess, you dazzled by her voice!…
The devouring regrets that lay waste to her life;
If, near her, Ivandor for moments seemed to thrive,
Too soon for his beloved island he was killed:
His island weeps upon his war-like ashes still,
His Emma far from him shall not for long survive.
Raise a modest mausoleum for the maid,
Near winding woods, which both the lovers knew so well,
So that at last toward evening tender vows might knell
To come beguile at times her desolated shade!
–Translated by Olchar E. Lindsann
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