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Translated by Edward Churton
IN Jucar’s pinewood alleys, | |
| Where Jucar’s floods are thrown | |
| Deep down the mountain-valleys | |
| O’er sounding beds of stone, | |
| I saw the highland-daughters | 5 |
| Troop forth to dance and play | |
| To music of bright waters, | |
| And winds that swept the spray: | |
| Fair as the fabled wan ones, | |
| That dwell in haunted flood, | 10 |
| Or Huntress Queen’s companions, | |
| That range the wild green wood. | |
| But these were Cuenca’s daughters; | |
| By Cuenca’s mountain-seat | |
| Proud were the mingling waters. | 15 |
| To kiss their fairy feet. | |
| And O, with what fresh gladness | |
| Their fair young hands they twined, | |
| Fast friends, unvexed by sadness, | |
| Or fears of change unkind. | 20 |
| They came, their stores to gather | |
| Of pine-cones from the spray, | |
| With freedom and fair weather | |
| To light them on their way, | |
| Where through dark branches straying | 25 |
| Came gleams from sunny skies, | |
| As though blind Love were playing | |
| With Day’s ten thousand eyes. | |
| Dance on, ye highland-daughters, | |
| In youth and joy, as now, | 30 |
| To music of the waters, | |
| Beneath the pinewood-bough. | |
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| Their flower-inwoven tresses, | |
| That with the breezes played, | |
| Or held with silver laces, | 35 |
| As Art had twined the braid, | |
| In auburn ringlets waving, | |
| Were glorious to behold, | |
| The sunny rays outbraving, | |
| Or rich Arabia’s gold. | 40 |
| Their flowing skirts around them, | |
| And bodice green or blue, | |
| With Hope’s gay cincture bound them, | |
| Or Heaven’s own sapphire hue: | |
| And ever in their dancing, | 45 |
| By glimpses high or low, | |
| Some pearly foot was glancing | |
| More white than driven snow. | |
| Then one with lily fingers | |
| Her castanets would try; | 50 |
| Her voice was like the Singers | |
| Of dewy Castaly; | |
| It charmed each feathered chorist | |
| That sings in wild green wood, | |
| It stilled the waving forest, | 55 |
| And stayed the falling flood. | |
| Still through dark branches straying | |
| Glance gleams from sunny skies, | |
| As though blind Love were playing | |
| With Day’s ten thousand eyes; | 60 |
| And dance, ye highland-daughters, | |
| With joy and song, as now, | |
| To music of the waters, | |
| Beneath the pinewood-bough. | |
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