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Home  »  Poems of Places An Anthology in 31 Volumes  »  The Highland Maids of Cuenca

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Spain, Portugal, Belgium, and Holland: Vols. XIV–XV. 1876–79.

Spain: Cuenca

The Highland Maids of Cuenca

By Luis de Góngora (1561–1627)

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

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,

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.

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.

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

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,

To music of the waters,

Beneath the pinewood-bough.

Their flower-inwoven tresses,

That with the breezes played,

Or held with silver laces,

As Art had twined the braid,

In auburn ringlets waving,

Were glorious to behold,

The sunny rays outbraving,

Or rich Arabia’s gold.

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,

By glimpses high or low,

Some pearly foot was glancing

More white than driven snow.

Then one with lily fingers

Her castanets would try;

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,

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;

And dance, ye highland-daughters,

With joy and song, as now,

To music of the waters,

Beneath the pinewood-bough.