A spindle of hazel-wood had I;

Into the mill-stream it fell one day

The water has brought it me lack no more.

As he lay a-dying the soldier spake—

"I am content.

Let my mother be told in the village there,

And my bride in the hut be told,

That they must pray with folded hands,

With folded hands for me."

The soldier is dead—and with folded hands,

His bride and his mother pray.

On the field of battle they dug his grave,

And red with his life-blood the earth was dyed,

The earth they laid him in.

The sun looked down on him there and spake,

"I am content."

And flowers bloomed thickly upon his grave,

And were glad they blossomed there.

And when the wind in the treetops roared,

The soldier asked from the deep, dark grave,

"Did the banner flutter then?"

"Not so, my hero," the wind replied,

"The fight is done, but the banner won,

Thy comrades of old have borne it hence,

Have borne it in triumph hence."

Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:

"I am content."

And again he heard the shepherds pass,

And the flocks go wand'ring by,

And the soldier asked, "Is the sound I hear,

The sound of the battle's roar?"

And they all replied: "My hero, nay!

Thou art dead, and the fight is o'er,

Our country joyful and free."

Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:

"I am content."

Then he heareth the lovers laughing pass,

And the soldier asks once more:

"Are these not the voices of them that love,

That love and remember me?"

"Not so, my hero," the lovers say:

"We are those that remember not;

For the spring has come and the earth has smiled,

And the dead must be forgot."

Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:

"I am content."

A spindle of hazel-wood had I;

Into the mill-stream it fell one day,—

The water has brought it me back no more.

As has been said, the underlying and predominant element of these Roumanian folk-songs is melancholy, and rarely, if ever, in those of any nation, is the sorrow of death and parting more vividly and powerfully expressed. The voices speak from beyond the grave, but they seem to intensify rather than lighten the grief, and the calm and beauty of nature bring no consolation to the stricken heart, but only deepen the agony. This dirge for a child will speak to every one who has known anguish, as with the voice of the wailing wind:—

The river went weeping, weeping,

Ah, me, how it did weep!

But I would never heed it,

The weeping of the river,

Whilst thou were at my breast.

The stars—poor stars—were weeping,

But I would not hear their weeping,

Whilst yet I heard thy voice.

Unhappy men drew nigh, and told me of their woe,

They said: "We are the sorrow of all humanity."

But I had no compassion for human misery,.

Whilst thou wert with me still.

Then these, the river with its weeping,

The piteous stars, the miserable men,

All prayed the earth's dark depths to take thee from me,

That so my woe might understand their woe;

And now—I weep.

Yet weep I not for human misery,

N
or for the stars' complaining,

Nor for the river's wailing.

I weep for thee alone, most miserly,

Keep all my tears for thee!

Now I must rock forever empty arms,

That grieve they have no burden any more.

Now I must sing, and know, the while, no ears

Are there to hearken.

The birds will ask me, "To whom singest thou?"

The moon look down and ask, "Whom rockest thou?"

The grave will be right proud, while I am cursed,

That I did give her thee.

My womb upbraideth me because I gave

To Death the gift that once she gave to me,

The gift that sprung from her.

Now must I see thy sleep and never know

Whether this sleep be sweet.

Then do I ask of Earth

"Is the sleep sweet indeed

That in thy lap we sleep?"

But, ah! thou knowest Earth misliketh pity,

And loves to hold her peace!

Wilt thou then answer in her stead, and say,

"What do the birds, O mother,

Since I have gone to sleep?

And the river with its pebbles,

Since I have gone to sleep?

And thy broken heart, O mother,

Thy little heart, dear mother,

Since I. have gone to sleep!

Does my father guide the oxen

Walking beside the ploughshare.

Since I have gone to sleep?"

Oh, say all this to me!

Answer instead of Earth that knows no pity,

And loves to hold her peace.

The river went weeping, weeping,

Ah, me, how it did weep!

But I would never heed it,

The weeping of the river,

Whilst thou were at my breast.

The stars, poor stars, were weeping,

But I would not hear their weeping,

Whilst yet I heard thy voice.

And this other has a beautiful and touching sentiment:—

The river last night swept the bridge away,

And so we must wade through the river to-day.

The maidens sing as they wade, and are gay.

A little sister the dead child had,

Since it died little sister has grown more glad,

And saith to the mother: "Its own sweet smile

The one that is dead unto me did give,

And all the life that it might not live

Now lives in me." But the mother, the while

Fell a-weeping, and bowed her head,

And remembered the child that was dead.

The river last night swept the bridge away,

And so we must wade through the river to-day.

The maidens sing as they wade, and are gay.

There are other sources of grief than that of simple death, whose sorrow can weep itself away, the tragedies of crime and sin and the agonies of remorse. There is an occasional touch of that ferocity which rejoices in a bloody revenge, as would be natural to a passionate people, and which is manifested in the Song of the Dagger.

The dagger at my belt that dances

Whene'er I dance:

But when I drink the foaming wine cup,

Then it grows sad;

For it is thirsty, too, the dagger,

It thirsts for blood.

But for the most part the songs which relate to violence and bloodshed are the expressions of the remorse that follows the crime, and with a touch of the prevailing mysticism in the reproach of natural objects. The water refuses to quench the thirst of the murderer, and the trees to give him shelter, and he wanders on an endless way haunted by the voice of his crime. The poem entitled The Outcast expresses this feeling of mysterious remorse and unending and unavailing expiation.