arstekne:

The youth of Bacchus, detail (1884) by William-Adolphe Bouguereau

(Reblogged from arstekne)

As I walked down the road one fine summers morning,
Oh, the brown and the yellow ale
I met with a young man without any warning
Oh, love of my heart

He asked me if the woman by my side was my daughter
Oh, the brown and the yellow ale
And when I said she’s my wife his manner didn’t alter
Oh, love of my heart

He asked me if I’d lend her for an hour and a day,
Oh, the brown and the yellow ale
I said, “if she thinks that’s fair you can take her away.”
Oh, love of my heart

Then you take the high road and I’ll be off with her
Oh, the brown and the yellow ale
And I’ll meet you again by the ford of the river.
Oh, love of my heart

I waited by that ford for an hour and a quarter
Oh, the brown and the yellow ale
And when she came to me, ‘twas without shame I saw her.
Oh, love of my heart

When she told me her story, sure I lay down and I died,
Oh, the brown and the yellow ale
She sent two men for timber, and she never even cried.
Oh, love of my heart

A board of elder and a board of holly,
Oh, the brown and the yellow ale
And three great yards of a shroud all about me.
Oh, love of my heart

If me own little mother, she had never been a woman,
O the brown and the yellow ale
I would tell you many’s another tale about women.
Oh love of my heart

the brown and yellow ale lyrics

"The White Goddess" by Robert Graves on tree lore

The truth is, Clarence Mangan is no trans- 

lator at all. He is dominated by his own gen- 

uine erratic force, which throve under evil 

conditions, and had no clear outlet ; and he 

cannot contain the ebullition of his natural 

speech even in the majestic presence of Goethe. 

His mind is not serviceable ; he can give an 

able and courteous co-operation only when the 

demigod chances to agree with his native fire. 

The most striking internal evidence that he 

had not in him the first instinct of the transla- 

tor, is that he approaches Heine (whose abrupt 

beauty, if indeed it be conveyable at all, Man- 

gan in his trustier mood was curiously well 

fitted to convey into English), in order to 

A STUDY 89 

appraise him as ” darkly diabolical,” and to 

deplore his ” melancholy misdirection of glori- 

ous faculties.” As it was, Mangan wasted on 

the dreams of anybody else the time he was 

forbidden to devote to the inspirations of his 

own brain. It was his misfortune, his punish- 

ment also, that with the early loss of enthusi- 

asm, and ” that true tranquil perception of the 

beautiful,” which, as he himself feelingly says 

of an elder writer, ” a life led according to the 

rules of the divine law alone can confer on 

man,” there came an autumnal decadence : a 

sinking from the exercise of the creative faculty 

to that of the critical ; a relinquishment of the 

highest intellectual mood, which was his birth- 

right, for that of the spectator, the sceptic, the 

jaded philosopher. He recanted his belief in 

his own powers, and having done that, he held 

a false but consistent way. The things he 

accomplished in literature have the look of acci- 

dents and commentaries, as he wished ; the pride 

of his whole shadowed career was to figure in a 

mask unworthy of him. In such a spirit of 

evasion he took to his inexplicable trade of 

translating : accepting a suggestion, and scorn- 

fully elaborating it, or ironically referring to 

the gardens of Ispahan his own roses, whose 

color seemed too startling for the banks of the 

LifFey. 

MY HOME (26)

Morn and eve a star invites me,

One imploring silver star,

Woos me, calls me, lures me, lights me

To the desert deeps afar,

To a lovely orient land.

Where the sun at morning early

Rises fresh, and young, and glowing;

Where the air is light and bland.

And the falling raindrops pearly :

Therefore am I going, going

Home to this my lovely land.

Where the sun at morning early

Rises fresh, and young, and glowing;

Where the airs are light and bland.

And the rain is warm and pearly :

All unheeding, all unknowing,

I am speeding, I am going.

Going home to my, to my land,

To my only lonely island

In the desert deeps afar;

Yet unknowing, and undreaming
Why I go, or how, or whither,
Save that one imploring star,
Ever-burning, ever-beaming,
Woos me, lures me, lights me thither.

magan

"Morn and eve a star invites me,
One imploring silver star,
Wooes me, calls me, lures me, lights me.
To the desert deeps afar,”
“The wasted moon has a marvellous look
Amiddle of the starry hordes ;
The heavens, too, shine like a mystic book
All bright with burning words ;
The mists of the dawn begin to dislimn
Zahara’s castle of sand :
Farewell, farewell ! Mine eyes feel dim,
They turn to the lampless land,
‘Llah Hu !

My heart is weary, mine eyes are dim ;
I will rest in the dark, dark land.”

Magan
VEIL not thy mirror, sweet Amine,
Till night shall also veil each star!
Thou seest a twofold marvel there:
The only face so fair as thine,
The only eyes that, near or far,
Can gaze on thine without despair.

To Amine

By James Clarence Mangan (1803–1849)

The whole of Ulysses is a vast system of correspondences. “Signatures of all things I am here to read,” Stephen Daedalus muses as he walks along the strand, “seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot.” The “signatures” are to be read, not only in the still life along the seashore, but in all sorts of occurrences.
In a letter to Carl Friedrich Zelter in 1825, seven years before his death, Goethe wrote, “The world admires wealth and velocity—these are the things for which everyone strives. Railroads, the post, steamboats, and all possible modes of communication are the means by which the world overeducates itself and freezes itself in mediocrity. We will be,” he concluded, “with a few others, the last of an epoch that does not promise to return any time soon.”
Goethe

Silk purse