What didst thou, mother, when thou wert a maiden?—

I was young.—

Didst thou, like me, hark to the moon's soft footfalls,

Across the sky?

Or didst thou watch the little stars' betrothal?—

Thy father cometh home, leave the door open—

Down to the fountain didst thou go, and there

Thy wooden pitcher filled, didst thou yet linger

Another hour with the full pitcher by thee—

I was young,—

And did thy tears make glad thy countenance?

And did thy sleep bring gladness to the night?

And did thy dreams bring gladness to thy sleep?

And didst thou smile even by graves, despite

Thy pity for the dead?

Thy father cometh home, leave the door open—

Loved'st thou strawberries and raspberries,

Because they are as red as maidens' lips?

Didst thou love thy girdle for its many pearls,

The river and the wood, because they lie

So close behind the village?

Didst love the beating of thy heart,

There close beneath thy bodice,

Even though't were not thy Sunday bodice?

—Thy father cometh home, leave the door open.

These specimens will give an idea of the charm, the grace, the pathos, and the melody of these Roumanian songs, which are like the breath of wild mountain air, full of the voices of the birds and streams, the wailings of the wind, and the sad plaints of the human heart. There is scarce a page in the not very voluminous collection which is not marked with some untaught grace of thought or language, and which has not the charm and power of simple and strong emotion. However literal they may be, and the impression is very strongly conveyed of their absolute faithfulness, they also owe much to the fine grace and skill and to the melody of the verse into which they have been rendered in a foreign language, and the lovers of poetry owe a grateful debt to Carmen Sylva and Miss Alma Strettell, who had been already favorably known for her translations of Greek folksongs for the artistic quality of their translations. No richer treasury of primitive poetry has been disclosed for many years.