«Escenas nocturnas de otros tiempos»: Joanna Baillie; poema y análisis.
Escenas nocturnas de otros tiempos (Night Scenes of Other Times) es un poema gótico de la escritora escocesa Joanna Baillie (1762-1851), publicado en 1790.
A menudo los muertos, esos seres a los que imaginamos en una nebulosa actividad, retornan para aplacar el dolor de sus deudos. Escenas nocturnas de otros tiempos, uno de los mejores poemas de Joanna Baillie, en cambio, imagina en sus muertos la total ausencia de tacto, y conjetura que algunos retornos son una especie de invitación, un llamado, oscuro y terrible, a cruzar ese umbral que sólo se atraviesa en un sentido.
Escenas nocturnas de otros tiempos.
Night Scenes Of Other Times, Joanna Baillie (1762-1851)
(Traducido al español por Sebastián Beringheli para El Espejo Gótico)
Los vientos salvajes braman sobre mi cabeza,
Y la luz pálida de la víspera se desarma;
¿Dónde encontraré un refugio amistoso
Para ocultarme de la noche?
A mi alrededor yace un vasto desierto,
Ninguna habitación cerca;
Oscuro e impenetrable es el páramo,
Y llena la mente de miedos extraños.
Tú, árbol distante, cuya cima solitaria
Se ha doblado ante innumerables tormentas,
Ya no decepcionarás mi esperanza
Al tomar la silueta de mi amante;
Pues nubes salvajes rodan sobre mi cabeza
Negras como tu orgullo maldito.
¡Cuán profundo gruñe la furiosa tempestad
En los flancos de la montaña!
A salvo descansa el ciervo en las alturas
En su guarida hueca,
El miedo no perturba sus sueños,
Allí donde el cazador no se atreve.
Bajo el helecho duerme el pájaro,
Sobre el sueño retorcido de las víboras;
De vuelta en su roca el ave nocturna se arrastra,
Olvidando su llanto habitual.
Pues la cólera de los espiritus de la noche
Cabalgan sobre el aire atribulado;
Y a sus cubiles, en huida salvaje,
Las bestias ingnotas se precipitan.
¿Pero dónde descansas tú, amor mío?
¿Qué refugio cubre tu cuerpo?
O será que esta gélida ráfaga invernal
Sólo azota sobre mi.
Entonces, sobre el páramo desolado, lenta y triste,
Una silueta apareció;
¿Será mi amante, que con su forma
Vuelve infantiles todos mis miedos?
La silueta se acercó, pausada y melancólica,
No era el paso ágil de mi amante,
De sus mejillas huía la juventud;
Y las sonrisas de bienvenida se diluyeron.
Espectral y horroroso a la vista,
Sus rasgos duros se revelaron;
Siniestra se tornó su altura,
Y sus ropas eran sangrientas.
"¡Calma tus temores, oh, Margaret!
Todo el dolor es ahora algo vano:
Pues ya nunca retornará Eduardo
De su pacífico y eterno descanso."
"En lo profundo debajo del montículo
Yace su cabeza; y sólo emergerá
Cuando atrone la llamada terrible
Que convocará a todos los muertos."
Margaret ya no sintió bramar la salvaje tormenta,
Ella inclinó su adorable cabeza;
Y sobre la ráfaga gélida enviada por su amante,
Su espíritu apacible lo siguió.
'The wild winds bellow o'er my head,
And spent eve's fading light;
Where shall I find some friendly shed
To screen me from the night?
'Ah! round me lies a desert vast,
No habitation near;
And dark and pathless is the waste,
And fills the mind with fear.
'Thou distant tree, whose lonely top
Has bent to many a storm,
No more canst thou deceive my hope,
And take my lover's form;
'For o'er thy head the dark cloud rolls,
Black as thy blasted pride.
How deep the angry tempest growls
Along the mountain's side!
'Securely rests the mountain deer
Within his hollow den,
His slumber undisturb'd by fear,
Far from the haunts of men.
'Beneath the fern the moorcock sleeps,
And twisted adders lie;
Back to his rock the night-bird creeps,
Nor gives his wonted cry.
'For angry spirits of the night
Ride in the troubled air,
And to their dens, in wild affright,
The beasts of prey repair.
'But oh! my love! where do'st thou rest?
What shelter covers thee?
O, May this cold and wint'ry blast
But only beat on me!
'Some friendly dwelling may'st thou find,
Where, undisturbed with care,
Thou shalt not feel the chilly wind
That ruffles Marg'ret's hair.
'Ah no! for thou did'st give thy word
To meet me on the way;
Nor friendly roof, nor coastly board
Will tempt a lover's stay.
'O, raise thy voice, if thou art near!
Its weakest sound were bliss:
What other sound my heart can cheer
In such a gloom as this?
'But from the hills with stunning sound
The dashing torrents fall;
Loud is the raging tempest round,
And mocks a lover's call.
'Ha! see across the dreary waste
A gentle form appears!
It is my love, my cares are past,
How vain were all my fears?'
The form approach'd, but sad and slow,
Nor with a lover's tread;
And from his cheek the youthful glow,
And greeting smile was fled.
Dim sadness hung upon his brow;
Fix'd was his beamless eye:
His face was like the moon-light bow
Upon a wint'ry sky.
And fix'd and ghastly to the sight,
His strengthen'd features rose;
And bended was his graceful height,
And bloody were his clothes.
'O Marg'ret, calm thy troubled breast!
Thy sorrow now is vain:
Thy Edward from his peaceful rest
Shall ne'er return again.
'A treach'rous friend has brought me low,
And fix'd my early doom;
And laid my corpse, with feigned woe,
Beneath a vaulted tomb.
'To take thee to my home I sware,
And here we were to meet:
Wilt thou a narrow coffin share,
And part my winding sheet?
'But late the lord of many lands,
And now a grave is all:
My blood is warm upon his hands
Who revels in my hall.
'Yet think thy father's hoary hair
Is water'd with his tears;
He has but thee to soothe his care,
And prop his load of years.
'Remember Edward when he's gone,
He only liv'd for thee;
And when thou'rt pensive, and alone,
O Marg'ret call on me!
'Yet deep beneath the mould'ring clod
I rest my wounded head;
And terrible that call, and loud,
Which shall awake the dead.'
'No Edward, I will follow thee,
And share thy hapless doom:
Companions shall our spirits be,
Tho' distant is thy tomb.
'O! never to my father's tower
Will I return again!
A bleeding heart has little power
To ease another's pain.
'Upon the wing my spirit flies,
I feel my course is run;
Nor shall these dim and weary eyes
Behold to-morrow's sun.'
Like early dew, or hoary frost,
Spent with the beaming day,
So shrunk the pale and wat'ry ghost,
And dimly wore away.
No longer Marg'ret felt the storm,
She bow'd her lovely head;
And with her lover's fleeting storm,
Her gentle spirit fled.
Joanna Baillie (1762-1851)
And spent eve's fading light;
Where shall I find some friendly shed
To screen me from the night?
'Ah! round me lies a desert vast,
No habitation near;
And dark and pathless is the waste,
And fills the mind with fear.
'Thou distant tree, whose lonely top
Has bent to many a storm,
No more canst thou deceive my hope,
And take my lover's form;
'For o'er thy head the dark cloud rolls,
Black as thy blasted pride.
How deep the angry tempest growls
Along the mountain's side!
'Securely rests the mountain deer
Within his hollow den,
His slumber undisturb'd by fear,
Far from the haunts of men.
'Beneath the fern the moorcock sleeps,
And twisted adders lie;
Back to his rock the night-bird creeps,
Nor gives his wonted cry.
'For angry spirits of the night
Ride in the troubled air,
And to their dens, in wild affright,
The beasts of prey repair.
'But oh! my love! where do'st thou rest?
What shelter covers thee?
O, May this cold and wint'ry blast
But only beat on me!
'Some friendly dwelling may'st thou find,
Where, undisturbed with care,
Thou shalt not feel the chilly wind
That ruffles Marg'ret's hair.
'Ah no! for thou did'st give thy word
To meet me on the way;
Nor friendly roof, nor coastly board
Will tempt a lover's stay.
'O, raise thy voice, if thou art near!
Its weakest sound were bliss:
What other sound my heart can cheer
In such a gloom as this?
'But from the hills with stunning sound
The dashing torrents fall;
Loud is the raging tempest round,
And mocks a lover's call.
'Ha! see across the dreary waste
A gentle form appears!
It is my love, my cares are past,
How vain were all my fears?'
The form approach'd, but sad and slow,
Nor with a lover's tread;
And from his cheek the youthful glow,
And greeting smile was fled.
Dim sadness hung upon his brow;
Fix'd was his beamless eye:
His face was like the moon-light bow
Upon a wint'ry sky.
And fix'd and ghastly to the sight,
His strengthen'd features rose;
And bended was his graceful height,
And bloody were his clothes.
'O Marg'ret, calm thy troubled breast!
Thy sorrow now is vain:
Thy Edward from his peaceful rest
Shall ne'er return again.
'A treach'rous friend has brought me low,
And fix'd my early doom;
And laid my corpse, with feigned woe,
Beneath a vaulted tomb.
'To take thee to my home I sware,
And here we were to meet:
Wilt thou a narrow coffin share,
And part my winding sheet?
'But late the lord of many lands,
And now a grave is all:
My blood is warm upon his hands
Who revels in my hall.
'Yet think thy father's hoary hair
Is water'd with his tears;
He has but thee to soothe his care,
And prop his load of years.
'Remember Edward when he's gone,
He only liv'd for thee;
And when thou'rt pensive, and alone,
O Marg'ret call on me!
'Yet deep beneath the mould'ring clod
I rest my wounded head;
And terrible that call, and loud,
Which shall awake the dead.'
'No Edward, I will follow thee,
And share thy hapless doom:
Companions shall our spirits be,
Tho' distant is thy tomb.
'O! never to my father's tower
Will I return again!
A bleeding heart has little power
To ease another's pain.
'Upon the wing my spirit flies,
I feel my course is run;
Nor shall these dim and weary eyes
Behold to-morrow's sun.'
Like early dew, or hoary frost,
Spent with the beaming day,
So shrunk the pale and wat'ry ghost,
And dimly wore away.
No longer Marg'ret felt the storm,
She bow'd her lovely head;
And with her lover's fleeting storm,
Her gentle spirit fled.
Joanna Baillie (1762-1851)
Poemas de Joanna Baillie. I Poemas del romanticismo.
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El análisis, resumen y traducción al español del poema de Joanna Baillie: Escenas nocturnas de otros tiempos (Night Scenes Of Other Times) fueron realizados por El Espejo Gótico. Para su reproducción escríbenos a elespejogotico@gmail.com
Gracias por traducir este poema no lo conocia asi como tampoco conocia a la autora pero despues de leerlo estoy interesado en seguir descubriendo mas poesia de Joanna Baillie
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