The Online Library of Liberty

A project of Liberty Fund, Inc.

• The Life of Goethe By Hjalmar H. Boyesen, Ph.d.
• Poems
• Dedication.
• Songs
• Sound, Sweet Song.
• To the Kind Reader.
• The New Amadis
• When the Fox Dies, His Skin Counts.
• The Heathrose.
• Blindman’s Buff.
• Christel.
• The Coy One.
• The Convert.
• Preservation.
• The Muses’ Son.
• Found.
• Like and Like.
• Reciprocal Invitation to the Dance.
• Self-deceit.
• Declaration of War.
• Lover In All Shapes.
• The Goldsmith’s Apprentice.
• Joy and Sorrow.
• March.
• Answers In a Game of Questions.
• Different Emotions On the Same Spot.
• Who’ll Buy Gods of Love?
• The Misanthrope.
• True Enjoyment.
• Happiness and Vision.
• The Farewell.
• The Beautiful Night.
• Apparent Death.
• Proximity.
• Living Remembrance.
• The Bliss of Absence.
• To Luna.
• The Wedding Night.
• Mischievous Joy.
• Farewell.
• The Exchange.
• November Song.
• To the Chosen One.
• First Loss.
• After-sensations.
• Proximity of the Beloved One.
• Presence.
• To the Distant One.
• By the River.
• Night Song.
• Calm At Sea.
• The Prosperous Voyage.
• Courage.
• Admonition.
• Welcome and Farewell.
• New Love, New Life.
• To Belinda.
• May Song.
• With a Painted Ribbon.
• With a Golden Necklace.
• To Charlotte.
• On the Lake.
• From the Mountain.
• Flower Salute.
• May Song.
• Premature Spring.
• Autumn Feelings
• Restless Love.
• The Shepherd’s Lament.
• Comfort In Tears.
• Longing.
• To Mignon.
• The Mountain Castle
• The Spirit’s Salute.
• To a Golden Heart That He Wore Round His Neck.
• The Bliss of Sorrow.
• The Wanderer’s Night-song.
• The Same.
• To the Moon.
• The Hunter’s Even-song.
• My Only Property.
• To Lina.
• Familiar Songs
• On the New Year.
• Anniversary Song.
• The Spring Oracle.
• The Happy Couple.
• Song of Fellowship.
• Constancy In Change.
• Table Song.
• Wont and Done.
• General Confession.
• Coptic Song.
• Another.
• Vanitas! Vanitatum Vanitas!
• Swiss Song.
• Fortune of War.
• Open Table.
• The Reckoning.
• Ergo Bibamus!
• Epiphanias.
• Finnish Song.
• Gypsy Song.
• From Wilhelm Meister.
• Mignon.
• The Same.
• The Harper.
• Philine.
• Ballads
• Mignon.
• The Harper.
• Ballad of the Banished and Returning Count.
• The Violet.
• The Faithless Boy.
• The Erl-king.
• Johanna Sebus
• The Fisherman.
• The King of Thule.
• The Beauteous Flower. Song of the Imprisoned Count.
• Sir Curt’s Wedding-journey.
• Wedding Song.
• The Treasure-digger.
• The Rat-catcher.
• The Spinner.
• Before a Court of Justice.
• The Page and the Miller’s Daughter.
• The Youth and the Millstream.
• The Maid of the Mill’s Treachery.
• The Maid of the Mill’s Repentance.
• The Traveller and the Farm-maiden.
• Effects At a Distance.
• The Walking Bell.
• Faithful Eckart.
• The Pupil In Magic.
• The Dance of Death.
• The Bride of Corinth.
• The God and the Bayadere. an Indian Legend.
• The Pariah. the Pariah’s Prayer.
• Legend.
• The Pariah’s Thanks.
• The First Walpurgis-night.
• Death-lament of the Noble Wife of Asan Aga.
• Antiques
• Leopold, Duke of Brunswick. 1785.
• To the Husbandman.
• Anacreon’s Grave.
• The Brethren.
• Measure of Time.
• Warning.
• SakÓntala.
• Solitude.
• The Chosen Cliff.
• The Consecrated Spot.
• The Instructors.
• The Unequal Marriage.
• Excuse.
• The Muse’s Mirror.
• PhŒbus and Hermes.
• The New Amor.
• The Garlands.
• The Swiss Alps.
• Elegies
• Roman Elegies.
• Alexis and Dora.
• Epigrams
• Venice, 1790.
• The Four Seasons.
• Spring.
• Summer.
• Autumn.
• Winter.
• Sonnets.
• The Friendly Meeting.
• In a Word.
• The Maiden Speaks.
• Growth.
• Food In Travel.
• Departure.
• The Loving One Writes.
• The Loving One Once More.
• She Cannot End.
• Nemesis.
• The Christmas-box.
• The Warning.
• The Doubters and the Lovers.
• The Epochs.
• Charade.
• Miscellaneous Poems.
• The German Parnassus.
• Mahomet’s Song.
• Spirit Song Over the Waters.
• My Goddess.
• Winter Journey Over the Hartz Mountains.
• To Father Kronos.
• The Wanderer’s Storm-song.
• The Sea-voyage.
• Prometheus.
• The Eagle and Dove.
• Ganymede.
• The Boundaries of Humanity.
• The Godlike.
• Royal Prayer.
• Human Feelings.
• Lily’s Menagerie.
• Love’s Distresses.
• To His Coy One.
• Petition.
• The Musagetes.
• Morning Lament.
• The Visit.
• The Magic Net.
• The Goblet.
• Night Thoughts.
• To Lida.
• Forever.
• From an Album of 1604.
• To the Rising Full Moon.
• Betrothed.
• At Midnight Hour.
• Lines On Seeing Schiller’s Skull.
• Trilogy of Passion.
• To Werther.
• Elegy.
• Atonement.
• April.
• May.
• June.
• Ever and Everywhere.
• Next Year’s Spring.
• Such, Such Is He Who Pleaseth Me.
• St. Nepomuk’s Eve. Carlsbad, May 15, 1820.
• The Freebooter.
• Reciprocal.
• Song of the Emigrants.
• Explanation of an Ancient Woodcut Representing Hans Sachs’ Poetical Mission.
• Thoughts On Jesus Christ’s Descent Into Hell.
• Art
• The Drops of Nectar.
• The Wanderer.
• Love As a Landscape-painter.
• Artist’s Evening Song.
• Parables
• Explanation of an Antique Gem.
• Cat-pie.
• Legend.
• The Critic.
• Authors.
• The Dilettante and the Critic.
• Celebrity.
• The Yelpers.
• The Wrangler.
• Joy.
• Playing At Priests.
• Songs.
• Poetry.
• A Parable.
• Cupid and Psyche.
• The Death of the Fly.
• By the River.
• The Fox and Crane.
• The Fox and Huntsman.
• The Stork’s Vocation.
• The Frogs.
• The Wedding.
• Burial.
• Threatening Signs.
• The Buyers.
• The Mountain Village.
• Symbols.
• Three Palinodias.
• Valediction.
• The Country Schoolmaster.
• The Legend of the Horseshoe.
• Epigrams.
• To Originals.
• The Soldier’s Consolation.
• Genial Impulse.
• Neither This Nor That.
• The Way to Behave.
• The Best.
• As Broad As It’s Long.
• Calm At Sea.
• The Rule of Life.
• The Same, Expanded.
• The Fair At Huehenefeld. July 25th, 1814.
• The Little Girl’s Wish.
• Epitaph.
• Admonition.
• My Only Property.
• Old Age.
• Courage.
• Rule For Monarchs.
• Memories.
• Paulo Post Futuri.
• The Fool’s Epilogue.
• On the Divan.
• God and World.
• Prooemion.
• The Metamorphosis of Plants.
• The Sages and the People.
• Rhymed Distichs.
• God, Soul and World.
• Distichs.
• West-eastern Divan.
• Moganni Nameh.
• Hafis Nameh.
• Uschk Nameh.
• Teskir Nameh.
• Rendsch Nameh.
• Hikmet Nameh.
• Timur Nameh.
• Suleika Nameh.
• Safi Nameh.
• Mathal Nameh.
• Parsi Nameh.
• Chuld Nameh.
• Hermann and Dorothea
• Fate and Sympathy.
• Hermann.
• The Burghers.
• Mother and Son.
• The Cosmopolite.
• The Age.
• Dorothea.
• Hermann and Dorothea.
• Conclusion.

Ballads

MIGNON.

• • KNOW’ST thou the land where the fair citron blows,
  • Where the bright orange midst the foliage glows,
  • Where soft winds greet us from the azure skies,
  • Where silent myrtles, stately laurels rise,
  • Know’st thou it well?
  • ’Tis there, ’tis there,
  • That I with thee, belov’d one, would repair!
• • Know’st thou the house? On columns rests its pile,
  • Its halls are gleaming, and its chambers smile,
  • And marble statues stand and gaze on me:
  • “Poor child! what sorrow hath befallen thee?”
  • Know’st thou it well?
  • ’Tis there, ’tis there,
  • That I with thee, protector, would repair!
• • Know’st thou the mountain, and its cloudy bridge?
  • The mule can scarcely find the misty ridge;
  • In caverns dwells the dragon’s olden brood,
  • The frowning crag obstructs the raging flood.
  • Know’st thou it well?
  • ’Tis there, ’tis there,
  • Our path lies—Father—thither, oh, repair!

THE HARPER.

• • “WHAT tuneful strains salute mine ear
  • Without the castle walls?
  • Oh, let the song re-echo here,
  • Within our festal halls!”
  • Thus spake the king, the page out-hied;
  • The boy return’d; the monarch cried:
  • “Admit the old man yonder!”
• • “All hail, ye noble lords to-night!
  • All hail, ye beauteous dames!
  • Star plac’d by star! What heavenly sight!
  • Who e’er can tell their names?
  • Within this glittering hall sublime,
  • Be clos’d, mine eyes! ’tis not the time
  • For me to feast my wonder.”
• • The minstrel straightway clos’d his eyes,
  • And woke a thrilling tone;
  • The knights look’d on in knightly guise,
  • Fair looks tow’rd earth were thrown.
  • The monarch, ravish’d by the strain,
  • Bade them bring forth a golden chain,
  • To be his numbers’ guerdon.
• • “The golden chain give not to me,
  • But give the chain to those
  • In whose bold face we shiver’d see
  • The lances of our foes.
  • Or give it to thy chancellor there;
  • With other burdens he may bear
  • This one more golden burden.
• • “I sing, like birds of blithesome note,
  • That in the branches dwell;
  • The song that rises from the throat
  • Repays the minstrel well.
  • One boon I’d crave, if not too bold—
  • One bumper in a cup of gold
  • Be as my guerdon given.”
• • The bowl he rais’d, the bowl he quaff’d:
  • “Oh, drink, with solace fraught!
  • Oh, house thrice-bless’d, where such a draught
  • A trifling gift is thought!
  • When Fortune smiles, remember me,
  • And as I thank you heartily
  • As warmly thank ye Heaven!”

BALLAD

Of the Banished and Returning Count.

• • OH, enter, old minstrel, thou time-honor’d one!
  • We children are here in the hall all alone,
  • The portals we straightway will bar.
  • Our mother is praying, our father is gone
  • To the forest, on wolves to make war.
  • Oh, sing us a ballad, the tale then repeat,
  • ’Till brother and I learn it right;
  • We long have been hoping a minstrel to meet,
  • For children hear tales with delight.
• • “At midnight, when darkness its fearful veil weaves,
  • His lofty and stately old castle he leaves,
  • But first he has buried his wealth.
  • What figure is that in his arms one perceives,
  • As the Count quits the gateway by stealth?
  • O’er what is his mantle so hastily thrown?
  • What bears he along in his flight?
  • A daughter it is, and she gently sleeps on:”—
  • The children they hear with delight.
• • “The morning soon glimmers, the world is so wide,
  • In valleys and forests a home is suppli’d,
  • The bard in each village is cheer’d.
  • Thus lives he and wanders, while years onward glide,
  • And longer still waxes his beard;
  • But the maiden so fair in his arms grows amain,
  • ’Neath her star all-protecting and bright,
  • Secur’d in the mantle from wind and from rain”—
  • The children they hear with delight.
• • “And year upon year with swift footstep now steals,
  • The mantle it fades, many rents it reveals,
  • The maiden no more it can hold.
  • The father he sees her, what rapture he feels!
  • His joy cannot now be controll’d.
  • How worthy she seems of the race whence she springs,
  • How noble and fair to the sight!
  • What wealth to her dearly-lov’d father she brings!”—
  • The children they hear with delight.
• • “Then comes there a princely knight galloping by,
  • She stretches her hand out, as soon as he’s nigh,
  • But alms he refuses to give.
  • He seizes her hand, with a smile in his eye:
  • ‘Thou art mine!’ he exclaims, ‘while I live!’
  • ‘When thou know’st,’ cries the old man, ‘the treasure that’s there,
  • A princess thou’lt make her of right;
  • Betroth’d be she now, on this spot green and fair’ ”—
  • The children they hear with delight.
• • “So she’s bless’d by the priest on the hallowed place,
  • And she goes with a smiling but sorrowful face,
  • From her father she fain would not part.
  • The old man still wanders with ne’er-changing pace,
  • He covers with joy his sad heart.
  • So I think of my daughter, as years pass away,
  • And my grandchildren far from my sight;
  • I bless them by night, and I bless them by day”—
  • The children they hear with delight.
• • He blesses the children: a knocking they hear,
  • The father it is! They spring forward in fear,
  • The old man they cannot conceal—
  • “Thou beggar, would’st lure, then, my children so dear?
  • Straight seize him, ye vassals of steel!
  • To the dungeon most deep, with the fool-hardy knave!”
  • The mother from far hears the fight;
  • She hastens with flatt’ring entreaty to crave—
  • The children they hear with delight.
• • The vassals they suffer the Bard to stand there,
  • And mother and children implore him to spare,
  • The proud prince would stifle his ire,
  • ’Till driven to fury at hearing their prayer,
  • His smouldering anger takes fire:
  • “Thou pitiful race! Oh, thou beggarly crew!
  • Eclipsing my star, once so bright!
  • Ye’ll bring me destruction, ye sorely shall rue!”—
  • The children they hear with affright.
• • The old man still stands there with dignified mien,
  • The vassals of steel quake before him, I ween,
  • The Count’s fury increases in power;
  • “My wedded existence a curse long has been,
  • And these are the fruits from that flower!
  • ’Tis ever denied, and the saying is true,
  • That to wed with the base-born is right;
  • The beggar has borne me a beggarly crew,”—
  • The children they hear with affright.
• • “If the husband, the father, thus treats you with scorn,
  • If the holiest bonds by him rashly are torn,
  • Then come to your father—to me!
  • The beggar may gladden life’s pathway forlorn,
  • Though aged and weak he may be.
  • This castle is mine! thou hast made it thy prey,
  • Thy people ’twas put me to flight;
  • The tokens I bear will confirm what I say”—
  • The children they hear with delight.
• • “The king who erst govern’d returneth again,
  • And restores to the Faithful the goods that were ta’en,
  • I’ll unseal all my treasures the while;
  • The laws shall be gentle, and peaceful thereign.”
  • The old man thus cries with a smile—
  • “Take courage, my son! all hath turn’d out for good,
  • And each hath a star that is bright,
  • Those the princess hath borne thee are princely in blood,”—
  • The children they hear with delight.

THE VIOLET.

• • EXHALING sweet a violet stood,
  • Retiring, and of modest mood,
  • In truth, a violet fair.
  • Then came a youthful shepherdess,
  • And roam’d with sprightly joyousness,
  • And blithely woo’d
  • With carols sweet the air.
• • “Ah!” thought the violet, “had I been
  • For but the smallest moment e’en
  • Nature’s most beauteous flower,
  • ’Till gather’d by my love, and press’d,
  • When weary, ’gainst her gentle breast,
  • For e’en, for e’en
  • One quarter of an hour!”
• • Alas! alas! the maid drew nigh,
  • The violet fail’d to meet her eye,
  • She crush’d the violet sweet.
  • It sank and died, yet murmur’d not:
  • “And if I die, oh, happy lot,
  • For her I die,
  • And at her very feet!”

THE FAITHLESS BOY.

• • THERE was a wooer blithe and gay,—
  • A son of France was he,—
  • Who in his arms for many a day,
  • As though his bride were she,
  • A poor young maiden had caress’d,
  • And fondly kiss’d, and fondly press’d,
  • And then at length deserted.
• • When this was told the nut-brown maid,
  • Her senses straightway fled;
  • She laugh’d and wept, and vow’d and pray’d,
  • And presently was dead.
  • The hour her soul its farewell took,
  • The boy was sad, with terror shook,
  • Then sprang upon his charger.
• • He drove his spurs into his side,
  • And scour’d the country round;
  • But wheresoever he might ride,
  • No rest for him was found.
  • For seven long days and nights he rode,
  • It storm’d, the waters overflow’d,
  • It bluster’d, lighten’d, thunder’d.
• • On rode he through the tempest’s din,
  • Till he a building spied;
  • In search of shelter crept he in,
  • When he his steed had tied.
  • And as he grop’d his doubtful way,
  • The ground began to rock and sway,—
  • He fell a hundred fathoms.
• • When he recover’d from the blow,
  • He saw three lights pass by;
  • He sought in their pursuit to go,
  • The lights appear’d to fly.
  • They led his footsteps all astray,
  • Up, down, through many a narrow way
  • Through ruin’d desert cellars.
• • When lo! he stood within a hall,
  • A hundred guests sat there,
  • With hollow eyes, and grinning all;
  • They bade him taste the fare.
  • He saw his sweetheart ’midst the throng,
  • Wrapp’d up in grave-clothes white and long;
  • She turn’d, and—*

THE ERL-KING.

• • WHO rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
  • The father it is, with his infant so dear;
  • He holdeth the boy tightly clasp’d in his arm,
  • He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.
• • “My son, wherefore seek’st thou thy face thus to hide?”
  • “Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side!
  • Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?”
  • “My son, ’tis the mist rising over the plain.”
• • “Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh, come thou with me!
  • Full many a game I will play there with thee;
  • On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
  • My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold.”
• • “My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
  • The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?”
  • “Be calm, dearest child, ’tis thy fancy deceives;
  • ’Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves.”
• • “Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
  • My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care;
  • My daughters by night their glad festival keep,
  • They’ll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep.”
• • “My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
  • How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?”
  • “My darling, my darling, I see it aright,
  • ’Tis the aged gray willows deceiving thy sight.”
• • “I love thee, I’m charm’d by thy beauty, dear boy!
  • And if thou’rt unwilling, then force I’ll employ.”
  • “My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
  • Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last.”
• • The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
  • He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child;
  • He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,—
  • The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.

JOHANNA SEBUS

• • THE dam breaks down, the ice-plain growls,
  • The floods arise, the water howls.
  • “I’ll bear thee, mother, across the swell,
  • ’Tis not yet high, I can wade right well.”
  • “Remember us too! in what danger are we!
  • Thy fellow-lodger, and children three!
  • The trembling woman!—Thou’rt going away!”
  • She bears the mother across the spray.
  • “Quick! haste to the mound, and a while there wait,
  • I’ll soon return, and all will be straight.
  • The mound’s close by, and safe from the wet;
  • But take my goat too, my darling pet!”
• • The dam dissolves, the ice-plain growls,
  • The floods dash on, the water howls.
  • She places the mother safe on the shore;
  • Fair Susan then turns tow’rd the flood once more.
  • “Oh, whither? Oh, whither? The breadth fast grows,
  • Both here and there the water o’erflows.
  • Wilt venture, thou rash one, the billows to brave?”
  • “They shall, and they must be preserved from the wave!”
• • The dam disappears, the water growls,
  • Like ocean billows it heaves and howls.
  • Fair Susan returns by the way she had tried,
  • The waves roar around, but she turns not aside;
  • She reaches the mound, and the neighbor straight,
  • But for her and the children, alas, too late!
• • The dam disappear’d, like a sea it growls,
  • Round the hillock in circling eddies it howls.
  • The foaming abyss gapes wide, and whirls round,
  • The women and children are borne to the ground;
  • The horn of the goat by one is seiz’d fast,
  • But, ah, they all must perish at last!
  • Fair Susan still stands there, untouch’d by the wave;
  • The youngest, the noblest, oh, who now will save?
  • Fair Susan still stands there, as bright as a star,
  • But, alas! all hope, all assistance is far.
  • The foaming waters around her roar,
  • To save her, no bark pushes off from the shore.
  • Her gaze once again she lifts up to Heaven,
  • Then gently away by the flood she is driven.
• • No dam, no plain! to mark the place
  • Some straggling trees are the only trace.
  • The rushing water the wilderness covers,
  • Yet Susan’s image still o’er it hovers.—
  • The water sinks, the plains reappear.
  • Fair Susan’s lamented with many a tear,—
  • May he who refuses her story to tell,
  • Be neglected in life and in death as well!

THE FISHERMAN.

• • THE waters rush’d, the waters rose,
  • A fisherman sat by,
  • While on his line in calm repose
  • He cast his patient eye.
  • And as he sat, and hearken’d there,
  • The flood was cleft in twain,
  • And, lo! a dripping mermaid fair
  • Sprang from the troubled main.
• • She sang to him, and spake the while:
  • “Why lurest thou my brood,
  • With human wit and human guile
  • From out their native flood?
  • Oh, could’st thou know how gladly dart
  • The fish across the sea,
  • Thou would’st descend, e’en as thou art,
  • And truly happy be!
• • “Do not the sun and moon with grace
  • Their forms in ocean lave?
  • Shines not with twofold charms their face,
  • When rising from the wave?
  • The deep, deep heavens, then lure thee not,—
  • The moist yet radiant blue,—
  • Not thine own form,—to tempt thy lot
  • ’Midst this eternal dew?”
• • The waters rush’d, the waters rose,
  • Wetting his naked feet;
  • As if his true love’s words were those,
  • His heart with longing beat.
  • She sang to him, to him spake she,
  • His doom was fix’d, I ween;
  • Half drew she him, and half sank he,
  • And ne’er again was seen.

THE KING OF THULE.

• • IN Thule liv’d a monarch,
  • Still faithful to the grave,
  • To whom his dying mistress
  • A golden goblet gave.
• • Beyond all price he deem’d it,
  • He quaff’d it at each feast;
  • And, when he drain’d that goblet,
  • His tears to flow ne’er ceas’d.
• • And when he felt death near him,
  • His cities o’er he told,
  • And to his heir left all things,
  • But not that cup of gold.
• • A regal banquet held he
  • In his ancestral hall,
  • In yonder sea-wash’d castle,
  • ’Mongst his great nobles all.
• • There stood the aged reveller,
  • And drank his last life’s-glow,
  • Then hurl’d the holy goblet
  • Into the flood below.
• • He saw it falling, filling,
  • And sinking ’neath the main,
  • His eyes then clos’d forever,
  • He never drank again.

THE BEAUTEOUS FLOWER.

Song of the Imprisoned Count.

• • Count.
  • I KNOW a flower of beauty rare,
  • Ah, how I hold it dear!
  • To seek it I would fain repair,
  • Were I not prison’d here.
  • My sorrow sore oppresses me,
  • For when I was at liberty,
  • I had it close beside me.
• • Though from this castle’s walls so steep
  • I cast mine eyes around,
  • And gaze oft from the lofty keep,
  • The flower cannot be found.
  • Whoe’er would bring it to my sight,
  • Whether a vassal he, or knight,
  • My dearest friend I’d deem him.
• • The Rose.
  • I blossom fair,—thy tale of woes
  • I hear from ’neath thy grate.
  • Thou doubtless meanest me, the rose,
  • Poor knight of high estate!
  • Thou hast in truth a lofty mind;
  • The queen of flowers is then enshrin’d,
  • I doubt not, in thy bosom.
• • Count.
  • Thy red, in dress of green array’d,
  • As worth all praise I hold;
  • And so thou’rt treasur’d by each maid,
  • Like precious stones or gold.
  • Thy wreath adorns the fairest face,
  • But still thou’rt not the flower whose grace
  • I honor here in silence.
• • The Lily.
  • The rose is wont with pride to swell,
  • And ever seeks to rise;
  • But gentle sweethearts love full well
  • The lily’s charms to prize.
  • The heart that fills a bosom true,
  • That is, like me, unsullied too,
  • My merit values duly.
• • Count.
  • In truth, I hope myself unstain’d,
  • And free from grievous crime;
  • Yet I am here a prisoner chain’d,
  • And pass in grief my time.
  • To me thou art an image sure
  • Of many a maiden, mild and pure,
  • And yet I know a dearer.
• • The Pink.
  • That must be me, the pink, who scent
  • The warder’s garden here;
  • Or wherefore is he so intent
  • My charms with care to rear?
  • My petals stand in beauteous ring,
  • Sweet incense all around I fling,
  • And boast a thousand colors.
• • Count.
  • The pink in truth we should not slight,
  • It is the gardener’s pride;
  • It now must stand expos’d to light,
  • Now in the shade abide.
  • Yet what can make the Count’s heart glow
  • Is no mere pomp of outward show;
  • It is a silent flower.
• • The Violet.
  • Here stand I, modestly half hid,
  • And fain would silence keep;
  • Yet since to speak I now am bid,
  • I’ll break my silence deep.
  • If, worthy Knight, I am that flower,
  • It grieves me that I have not power
  • To breathe forth all my sweetness.
• • Count.
  • The violet’s charms I prize indeed,
  • So modest ’tis, and fair,
  • And smells so sweet; yet more I need
  • To ease my heavy care.
  • The truth I’ll whisper in thine ear:
  • Upon these rocky heights so drear,
  • I cannot find the lov’d one.
• • The truest maiden ’neath the sky
  • Roams near the stream below,
  • And breathes forth many a gentle sigh,
  • Till I from hence can go.
  • And when she plucks a flow’ret blue,
  • And says “Forget-me-not!”—I, too,
  • Though far away, can feel it.
• • Ay, distance only swells love’s might,
  • When fondly love a pair;
  • Though prison’d in the dungeon’s night,
  • In life I linger there;
  • And when my heart is breaking nigh,
  • “Forget-me-not!” is all I cry,
  • And straightway life returneth.

SIR CURT’S WEDDING-JOURNEY.

• • WITH a bridegroom’s joyous bearing,
  • Mounts Sir Curt his noble beast,
  • To his mistress’ home repairing,
  • There to hold his wedding-feast;
  • When a threatening foe advances
  • From a desert, rocky spot;
  • For the fray they couch their lances,
  • Not delaying, speaking not.
• • Long the doubtful fight continues,
  • Victory then for Curt declares;
  • Conqueror, though with wearied sinews,
  • Forward on his road he fares.
  • When he sees, though strange it may be,
  • Something ’midst the foliage move;
  • ’Tis a mother, with her baby,
  • Stealing softly through the grove!
• • And upon the spot she beckons—
  • “Wherefore, love, this speed so wild?
  • Of the wealth thy storehouse reckons,
  • Hast thou nought to give thy child!”
  • Flames of rapture now dart through him,
  • And he longs for nothing more,
  • While the mother seemeth to him
  • Lovely as the maid of yore.
• • But he hears his servants blowing,
  • And bethinks him of his bride;
  • And ere long, while onward going,
  • Chances past a fair to ride;
  • In the booths he forthwith buys him
  • For his mistress many a pledge;
  • But, alas! some Jews surprise him,
  • And long-standing debts allege.
• • And the courts of justice duly
  • Send the knight to prison straight.
  • Oh, accursed story, truly!
  • For a hero, what a fate!
• • Can my patience such things weather?
  • Great is my perplexity.
  • Women, debts and foes together,—
  • Ah, no knight escapes scot free!

WEDDING SONG.

• • THE tale of the Count our glad song shall record
  • Who had in this castle his dwelling,
  • Where now ye are feasting the new-married lord,
  • His grandson of whom we are telling.
  • The Count as Crusader had blazon’d his fame,
  • Through many a triumph exalted his name,
  • And when on his steed to his dwelling he came,
  • His castle still rear’d its proud head,
  • But servants and wealth had all fled.
• • ’Tis true that thou, Count, hast return’d to thy home,
  • But matters are faring there ill.
  • The winds through the chambers at liberty roam,
  • And blow through the windows at will.
  • What’s best to be done in a cold autumn night?
  • Full many I’ve pass’d in more piteous plight;
  • The morn ever settles the matter aright.
  • Then quick, while the moon shines so clear,
  • To bed on the straw, without fear.
• • And whilst in a soft pleasing slumber he lay,
  • A motion he feels ’neath his bed.
  • The rat, an he likes it, may rattle away!
  • Ay, had he but crumbs there outspread!
  • But lo! there appears a diminutive wight,
  • A dwarf ’tis, yet graceful, and bearing a light,
  • With orator-gestures that notice invite,
  • At the feet of the Count on the floor
  • Who sleeps not, though weary full sore.
• • “We’ve long been accustom’d to hold here our feast,
  • Since thou from thy castle first went;
  • And as we believ’d thou wert far in the East,
  • To revel e’en now we were bent.
  • And if thou’lt allow it, and seek not to chide,
  • We dwarfs will all banquet with pleasure and pride,
  • To honor the wealthy, the beautiful bride”—
  • Says the Count with a smile, half-asleep:—
  • “Ye’re welcome your quarters to keep!”
• • Three knights then advance, riding all in a group,
  • Who under the bed were conceal’d;
  • And then is a singing and noise-making troop
  • Of strange little figures reveal’d;
  • And wagon on wagon with all kinds of things—
  • The clatter they cause through the ear loudly rings—
  • The like ne’er was seen save in castles of kings;
  • At length, in a chariot of gold,
  • The bride and the guests too, behold!
• • Then all at full gallop make haste to advance,
  • Each chooses his place in the hall;
  • With whirling and waltzing, and light joyous dance,
  • They begin with their sweethearts the ball.
  • The fife and the fiddle all merrily sound,
  • They twine, and they glide, and with nimbleness bound,
  • They whisper, and chatter, and clatter around;
  • The Count on the scene casts his eye,
  • And seems in a fever to lie.
• • They hustle, and bustle, and rattle away
  • On table, on bench, and on stool;
  • Then all who had join’d in the festival gay
  • With their partners attempt to grow cool.
  • The hams and the sausages nimbly they bear,
  • And meat, fish and poultry in plenty are there,
  • Surrounded with wine of the vintage most rare;
  • And when they have revell’d full long,
  • They vanish at last with a song.
  • * * * * * *
  • And if we’re to sing all that further occurr’d,
  • Pray cease ye to bluster and prate;
  • For what he so gladly in small saw and heard,
  • He enjoy’d and he practis’d in great.
  • For trumpets, and singing, and shouts without end
  • On the bridal-train, chariots and horsemen attend,
  • They come and appear, and they bow and they bend,
  • In merry and countless array.
  • Thus was it, thus is it to-day.

THE TREASURE-DIGGER.

• • ALL my weary days I pass’d
  • Sick at heart and poor in purse.
  • Poverty’s the greatest curse,
  • Riches are the highest good!
  • And to end my woes at last,
  • Treasure-seeking forth I sped.
  • “Thou shalt have my soul instead!”
  • Thus I wrote, and with my blood.
• • Ring round ring I forthwith drew,
  • Wondrous flames collected there,
  • Herbs and bones in order fair,
  • Till the charm had work’d aright.
  • Then, to learned precepts true,
  • Dug to find some treasure old,
  • In the place my art foretold:
  • Black and stormy was the night.
• • Coming o’er the distant plain,
  • With the glimmer of a star,
  • Soon I saw a light afar,
  • As the hour of midnight knell’d.
  • Preparation was in vain.
  • Sudden all was lighted up
  • With the lustre of a cup
  • That a beauteous boy upheld.
• • Sweetly seem’d his eyes to laugh
  • ’Neath his flow’ry chaplet’s load;
  • With the drink that brightly glow’d,
  • He the circle enter’d in.
  • And he kindly bade me quaff;
  • Then methought: “This child can ne’er,
  • With his gift so bright and fair,
  • To the arch-fiend be akin.”
• • “Pure life’s courage drink!” cried he:
  • “This advice to prize then learn,—
  • Never to this place return
  • Trusting in thy spells absurd;
  • Dig no longer fruitlessly.
  • Guests by night, and toil by day!
  • Weeks laborious, feast-days gay!
  • Be thy future magic-word!”

THE RAT-CATCHER.

• • I AM the bard known far and wide,
  • The travell’d rat-catcher beside;
  • A man most needful to this town,
  • So glorious through its old renown.
  • However many rats I see,
  • How many weasels there may be,
  • I cleanse the place from ev’ry one,
  • All needs must helter-skelter run.
• • Sometimes the bard so full of cheer
  • As a child-catcher will appear,
  • Who e’en the wildest captive brings,
  • Whene’er his golden tales he sings.
  • However proud each boy in heart,
  • However much the maidens start,
  • I bid the chords sweet music make,
  • And all must follow in my wake.
• • Sometimes the skilful bard ye view
  • In form of maiden-catcher too;
  • For he no city enters e’er,
  • Without effecting wonders there.
  • However coy may be each maid,
  • Howe’er the women seem afraid,
  • Yet all will love-sick be ere long
  • To sound of magic lute and song.

THE SPINNER.

• • AS I calmly sat and span,
  • Toiling with all zeal,
  • Lo! a young and handsome man
  • Pass’d my spinning-wheel.
• • And he prais’d,—what harm was there?—
  • Sweet the things he said—
  • Prais’d my flax-resembling hair,
  • And the even thread.
• • He with this was not content,
  • But must needs do more;
  • And in twain the thread was rent,
  • Though ’twas safe before.
• • And the flax’s stonelike weight
  • Needed to be told;
  • But no longer was its state
  • Valu’d as of old.
• • When I took it to the weaver,
  • Something felt I start,
  • And more quickly, as with fever,
  • Throbb’d my trembling heart.
• • Then I bear the thread at length
  • Through the heat, to bleach;
  • But, alas, I scarce have strength
  • To the pool to reach.
• • What I in my little room
  • Span so fine and slight,—
  • As was likely, I presume—
  • Came at last to light.

BEFORE A COURT OF JUSTICE.

• • THE father’s name ye ne’er shall be told
  • Of my darling unborn life;
  • “Shame, shame,” ye cry, “on the strumpet bold!”
  • Yet I’m an honest wife.
• • To whom I’m wedded, ye ne’er shall be told,
  • Yet he’s both loving and fair;
  • He wears on his neck a chain of gold,
  • And a hat of straw doth he wear.
• • If scorn ’tis vain to seek to repel,
  • On me let the scorn be thrown.
  • I know him well, and he knows me well,
  • And to God, too, all is known.
• • Sir Parson and Sir Bailiff, again,
  • I pray you, leave me in peace!
  • My child it is, my child ’twill remain,
  • So let your questionings cease!

THE PAGE AND THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER.

• • Page.
  • WHERE goest thou? Where?
  • Miller’s daughter so fair!
  • Thy name, pray?
• • Miller’s Daughter.
  • ’Tis Lizzy.
• • Page.
  • Where goest thou? Where?
  • With the rake in thy hand?
• • Miller’s Daughter.
  • Father’s meadows and land
  • To visit, I’m busy.
• • Page.
  • Dost go there alone?
• • Miller’s Daughter.
  • By this rake, sir, ’tis shown
  • That we’re making the hay;
  • And the pears ripen fast
  • In the garden at last,
  • So I’ll pick them to-day.
• • Page.
  • Is’t a silent thicket I yonder view?
• • Miller’s Daughter.
  • Oh, yes! there are two;
  • There’s one on each side.
• • Page.
  • I’ll follow thee soon;
  • When the sun burns at noon,
  • We’ll go there, ourselves from his rays to hide.
  • And then in some glade all-verdant and deep—
• • Miller’s Daughter.
  • Why, people would say—
• • Page.
  • Within mine arms thou gently wilt sleep.
• • Miller’s Daughter.
  • Your pardon, I pray!
  • Whoever is kiss’d by the miller-maid,
  • Upon the spot must needs be betray’d.
  • ’Twould give me distress
  • To cover with white
  • Your pretty dark dress.
  • Equal with equal! then all is right!
  • That’s the motto in which I delight.
  • I am in love with the miller-boy;
  • He wears nothing that I could destroy.

THE YOUTH AND THE MILLSTREAM.

• • Youth.
  • SAY, sparkling streamlet, whither thou
  • Art going!
  • With joyous mien thy waters now
  • Are flowing.
  • Why seek the vale so hastily?
  • Attend for once, and answer me!
• • Millstream.
  • Oh, youth, I was a brook indeed;
  • But lately
  • My bed they’ve deepen’d, and my speed
  • Swell’d greatly,
  • That I may haste to yonder mill,
  • And so I’m full and never still.
• • Youth.
  • The mill thou seekest in a mood
  • Contented,
  • And know’st not how my youthful blood
  • ’S tormented.
  • But doth the miller’s daughter fair
  • Gaze often on thee kindly there?
• • Millstream.
  • She opes the shutters soon as light
  • Is gleaming;
  • And comes to bathe her features bright
  • And beaming.
  • So full and snow-white is her breast,—
  • I feel as hot as steam suppress’d.
• • Youth.
  • If she in water can inflame
  • Such ardor,
  • Surely, then, flesh and blood to tame
  • Is harder.
  • When once is seen her beauteous face,
  • One ever longs her steps to trace.
• • Millstream.
  • Over the wheel I, roaring, bound,
  • All-proudly,
  • And ev’ry spoke whirls swiftly round,
  • And loudly.
  • Since I have seen the miller’s daughter,
  • With greater vigor flows the water.
• • Youth.
  • Like others, then, can grief, poor brook,
  • Oppress thee?
  • “Flow on!”—thus she’ll, with smiling look,
  • Address thee.
  • With her sweet loving glance, oh, say,
  • Can she thy flowing current stay?
• • Millstream.
  • ’Tis sad, ’tis sad to have to speed
  • From yonder;
  • I wind, and slowly through the mead
  • Would wander;
  • And if the choice remain’d with me,
  • Would hasten back there presently.
• • Youth.
  • Farewell, thou who with me dost prove
  • Love’s sadness!
  • Perchance some day thou’lt breathe of love
  • And gladness.
  • Go, tell her straight, and often too,
  • The boy’s mute hopes and wishes true.

THE MAID OF THE MILL’S TREACHERY.

• • WHENCE comes our friend so hastily,
  • When scarce the Eastern sky is gray?
  • Hath he just ceas’d, though cold it be,
  • In yonder holy spot to pray?
  • The brook appears to hem his path,
  • Would he barefooted o’er it go?
  • Why curse his orisons in wrath,
  • Across those heights beclad with snow?
• • Alas! his warm bed he hath left,
  • Where he had look’d for bliss, I ween;
  • And if his cloak too, had been reft,
  • How fearful his disgrace had been!
  • By yonder villain sorely press’d,
  • His wallet from him has been torn;
  • Our hapless friend has been undress’d,—
  • Left well nigh naked as when born.
• • The reason why he came this road,
  • Is that he sought a pair of eyes,
  • Which, at the mill, as brightly glow’d
  • As those that are in Paradise.
  • He will not soon again be there;
  • From out the house he quickly hied,
  • And when he gain’d the open air,
  • Thus bitterly and loudly cried:—
• • “Within her gaze, so dazzling bright,
  • No word of treachery I could read;
  • She seem’d to see me with delight,
  • Yet plann’d e’en then this cruel deed!
  • Could I, when basking in her smile,
  • Dream of the treason in her breast?
  • She bade kind Cupid stay awhile,
  • And he was there, to make us bless’d.
• • “To taste of love’s sweet ecstasy
  • Throughout the night, that endless seem’d,
  • And for her mother’s help to cry
  • Only when morning sunlight beam’d!
  • A dozen of her kith and kin,
  • A very human flood, in-press’d,
  • Her cousins came, her aunts peer’d in,
  • And uncles, brothers, and the rest.
• • “Then what a tumult, fierce and loud!
  • Each seem’d a beast of prey to be;
  • The maiden’s honor all the crowd,
  • With fearful shout, demand of me.
  • Why should they, madmen-like, begin
  • To fall upon a guiltless youth?
  • For he who such a prize would win,
  • Far nimbler needs must be, in truth.
• • “The way to follow up with skill
  • His freaks, by love betimes is known:
  • He ne’er will leave, within a mill,
  • Sweet flowers for sixteen years alone.—
  • They stole my clothes away,—yes, all!
  • And tried my cloak besides to steal.
  • How strange that any house so small
  • So many rascals could conceal!
• • “Then I sprang up, and rav’d and swore,
  • To force a passage through them there.
  • I saw the treacherous maid once more,
  • And she was still, alas, so fair!
  • They all gave way before my wrath,
  • Wild outcries flew about pell-mell;
  • At length I manag’d to rush forth,
  • With voice of thunder, from that hell.
• • “As maidens of the town we fly,
  • We’ll shun you maidens of the village!
  • Leave it to those of quality,
  • Their humble worshippers to pillage!
  • Yet if ye are of practis’d skill,
  • And of all tender ties afraid,
  • Exchange your lovers, if ye will,
  • But never let them be betray’d.”
• • Thus sings he in the winter-night,
  • While not a blade of grass was green.
  • I laugh’d to see his piteous plight,
  • For it was well-deserv’d, I ween.
  • And may this be the fate of all,
  • Who treat by day their true loves ill,
  • And, with foolhardy daring, crawl
  • By night to Cupid’s treacherous mill!

THE MAID OF THE MILL’S REPENTANCE.

• • Youth.
  • AWAY, thou swarthy witch! Go forth
  • From out my house, I tell thee!
  • Or else I needs must, in my wrath,
  • Expel thee!
  • What’s this thou singest so falsely, forsooth,
  • Of love and a maiden’s silent truth?
  • Who’ll trust to such a story!
• • Gypsy.
  • I sing of a maid’s repentant fears,
  • And long and bitter yearning;
  • Her levity’s chang’d to truth and tears
  • All-burning.
  • She dreads no more the threats of her mother,
  • She dreads far less the blows of her brother,
  • Than the dearly-lov’d one’s hatred.
• • Youth.
  • Of selfishness sing and treacherous lies,
  • Of murder and thievish plunder!
  • Such actions false will cause no surprise,
  • Or wonder.
  • When they share their booty, both clothes and purse,—
  • As bad as you gypsies, and even worse,
  • Such tales find ready credence.
• • Gypsy.
  • “Alas, alas! oh, what have I done?
  • Can listening aught avail me?
  • I hear him toward my room hasten on,
  • To hail me.
  • My heart beat high, to myself I said:
  • ‘O would that thou hadst never betray’d
  • That night of love to thy mother!’ ”
• • Youth.
  • Alas! I foolishly ventur’d there,
  • For the cheating silence misled me;
  • Ah, sweetest! let me to thee repair,—
  • Nor dread me!
  • When suddenly rose a fearful din,
  • Her mad relations came pouring in;
  • My blood still boils in my body!
• • Gypsy.
  • “Oh, when will return an hour like this?
  • I pine in silent sadness;
  • I’ve thrown away my only true bliss
  • With madness.
  • Alas, poor maid! O pity my youth!
  • My brother was then full cruel in truth
  • To treat the lov’d one so basely!”
• • The Poet.
  • The swarthy woman then went inside,
  • To the spring in the courtyard yonder;
  • Her eyes from their stain she purified,
  • And,—wonder!—
  • Her face and eyes were radiant and bright,
  • And the maid of the mill was disclos’d to the sight
  • Of the startl’d and angry stripling!
• • The Maid of the Mill.
  • Thou sweetest, fairest, dearly-lov’d life!
  • Before thine anger I cower;
  • But blows I dread not, nor sharp-edg’d knife,—
  • This hour
  • Of sorrow and love to thee I’ll sing,
  • And myself before thy feet I’ll fling,
  • And either live or die there!
• • Youth.
  • Affection, say, why buried so deep
  • In my heart hast thou lain hidden?
  • By whom hast thou now to awake from thy sleep
  • Been bidden?
  • Ah, love, that thou art immortal I see!
  • Nor knavish cunning nor treachery
  • Can destroy thy life so godlike.
• • The Maid of the Mill.
  • If still, with as fond and heartfelt love,
  • As thou once didst swear, I’m cherish’d,
  • Then nought of the rapture we used to prove
  • Is perish’d.
  • So take the woman so dear to thy breast!
  • In her young and innocent charms be bless’d,
  • For all are thine from henceforward!
• • Both.
  • Now, sun, sink to rest! Now, sun, arise!
  • Ye stars, be now shining, now darkling!
  • A star of love now gleams in the skies,
  • All-sparkling!
  • As long as the fountain may spring and run,
  • So long will we two be blended in one,
  • Upon each other’s bosoms!

THE TRAVELLER AND THE FARM-MAIDEN.

• • He.
  • CANST thou give, oh, fair and matchless maiden,
  • ’Neath the shadow of the lindens yonder,—
  • Where I’d fain one moment cease to wander,
  • Food and drink to one so heavy laden?
• • She.
  • Would’st thou find refreshment, traveller weary,
  • Bread, ripe fruit and cream to meet thy wishes,—
  • None but Nature’s plain and homely dishes,—
  • Near the spring may soothe thy wanderings dreary.
• • He.
  • Dreams of old acquaintance now pass through me,
  • Ne’er-forgotten queen of hours of blisses:
  • Likenesses I’ve often found, but this is
  • One that quite a marvel seemeth to me!
• • She.
  • Travellers often wonder beyond measure,
  • But their wonder soon see cause to smother;
  • Fair and dark are often like each other,
  • Both inspire the mind with equal pleasure.
• • He.
  • Not now for the first time I surrender
  • To this form, in humble adoration;
  • It was brightest midst the constellation
  • In the hall adorn’d with festal splendor.
• • She.
  • Be thou joyful that ’tis in my power
  • To complete thy strange and merry story!
  • Silks behind her, full of purple glory,
  • Floated, when thou saw’st her in that hour.
• • He.
  • No, in truth, thou hast not sung it rightly!
  • Spirits may have told thee all about it;
  • Pearls and gems they spoke of, do not doubt it,—
  • By her gaze eclips’d,—it gleam’d so brightly!
• • She.
  • This one thing I certainly collected:
  • That the fair one—(say nought, I entreat thee!)
  • Fondly hoping once again to meet thee,
  • Many a castle in the air erected.
• • He.
  • By each wind I ceaselessly was driven,
  • Seeking gold and honor, too, to capture!
  • When my wand’rings end, then oh, what rapture,
  • If to find that form again ’tis given!
• • She.
  • ’Tis the daughter of the race now banish’d
  • That thou seest, not her likeness only;
  • Helen and her brother, glad though lonely,
  • Till this farm of their estate now vanish’d.
• • He.
  • But the owner surely is not wanting
  • Of these plains, with ev’ry beauty teeming?
  • Verdant fields, broad meads, and pastures gleaming,
  • Gushing springs, all heav’nly and enchanting.
• • She.
  • Thou must hunt the world through, would’st thou find him!—
  • We have wealth enough in our possession,
  • And intend to purchase the succession,
  • When the good man leaves the world behind him.
• • He.
  • I have learn’d the owrer’s own condition,
  • And, fair maiden, thou indeed canst buy it;
  • But the cost is great, I won’t deny it,—
  • Helen is the price,—with thy permission!
• • She.
  • Did then fate and rank keep us asunder,
  • And must Love take this road, and no other?
  • Yonder comes my dear and trusty brother;
  • What will he say to it all, I wonder?

EFFECTS AT A DISTANCE.

• • THE queen in the lofty hall takes her place,
  • The tapers around her are flaming;
  • She speaks to the page: “With a nimble pace
  • Go, fetch me my purse for gaming.
  • ’Tis lying, I’ll pledge,
  • On my table’s edge.”
  • Each nerve the nimble boy straineth,
  • And the end of the castle soon gaineth.
• • The fairest of maidens was sipping sherbet
  • Beside the queen that minute;
  • Near her mouth broke the cup,—and she got so wet!
  • The very devil seem’d in it!
  • What fearful distress!
  • ’Tis spoil’d, her gay dress!
  • She hastens, and ev’ry nerve straineth,
  • And the end of the castle soon gaineth.
• • The boy was returning, and quickly came,
  • And met the sorrowing maiden;
  • None knew of the fact,—and yet with Love’s flame,
  • Those two had their hearts full laden.
  • And, oh, the bliss
  • Of a moment like this!
  • Each falls on the breast of the other,
  • With kisses that well nigh might smother.
• • They tear themselves asunder at last,
  • To her chamber she hastens quickly;
  • To reach the queen the page hies him fast,
  • Midst the swords and the fans crowded thickly.
  • The queen spied amain
  • On his waistcoat a stain;
  • For nought was inscrutable to her,
  • Like Sheba’s queen—Solomon’s wooer.
• • To her chief attendant she forthwith cried:
  • “We lately together contended,
  • And thou didst assert, with obstinate pride,
  • That the spirit through space never wended,—
  • That traces alone
  • By the present were shown,—
  • That afar nought was fashion’d,—not even
  • By the stars that illumine yon heaven.
• • “Now see! while a goblet beside me they drain’d,
  • They spill’d all the drink in the chalice;
  • And straightway the boy had his waistcoat stain’d
  • At the furthermost end of the palace.—
  • Let them newly be clad!
  • And since I am glad
  • That it serv’d as a proof so decided,
  • The cost will by me be provided.”

THE WALKING BELL.

• • A CHILD refus’d to go betimes
  • To church like other people;
  • He roam’d abroad, when rang the chimes
  • On Sundays from the steeple.
• • His mother said: “Loud rings the bell,
  • Its voice ne’er think of scorning;
  • Unless thou wilt behave thee well,
  • ’Twill fetch thee without warning.”
• • The child then thought: “High overhead
  • The bell is safe suspended”—
  • So to the fields he straightway sped
  • As if ’twas school-time ended.
• • The bell now ceas’d as bell to ring,
  • Rous’d by the mother’s twaddle;
  • But soon ensu’d a dreadful thing!—
  • The bell begins to waddle.
• • It waddles fast, though strange it seem;
  • The child, with trembling wonder,
  • Runs off, and flies, as in a dream;
  • The bell would draw him under.
• • He finds the proper time at last,
  • And straightway nimbly rushes
  • To church, to chapel, hastening fast
  • Through pastures, plains and bushes.
• • Each Sunday and each feast as well,
  • His late disaster heeds he;
  • The moment that he hears the bell,
  • No other summons needs he.

FAITHFUL ECKART.

• • “OH, would we were further! Oh, would we were home,
  • The phantoms of night tow’rd us hastily come,
  • The band of the Sorceress sisters.
  • They hitherward speed, and on finding us here,
  • They’ll drink, though with toil we have fetch’d it, the beer,
  • And leave us the pitchers all empty.”
• • Thus speaking, the children with fear take to flight,
  • When sudden an old man appears in their sight:
  • “Be quiet, child! children, be quiet!
  • From hunting they come, and their thirst they would still,
  • So leave them to swallow as much as they will,
  • And the Evil Ones then will be gracious.”
• • As said, so ’twas done! and the phantoms draw near,
  • And shadowlike seem they, and gray they appear,
  • Yet blithely they sip and they revel:
  • The beer has all vanish’d, the pitchers are void;
  • With cries and with shouts the wild hunters, o’erjoy’d,
  • Speed onward o’er vale and o’er mountain.
• • The children in terror fly nimbly tow’rd home,
  • And with them the kind one is careful to come:
  • “My darlings, oh, be not so mournful!”—
  • “They’ll blame us and beat us, until we are dead.”—
  • “No, no! ye will find that all goes well,” he said;
  • “Be silent as mice, then, and listen!
• • “And he by whose counsels thus wisely ye’re taught,
  • Is he who with children loves ever to sport,
  • The trusty and faithful old Eckart.
  • Ye have heard of the wonder for many a day,
  • But ne’er had a proof of the marvellous lay,—
  • Your hands hold a proof most convincing.”
• • They arrive at their home, and their pitchers they place
  • By the side of their parents, with fear on their face,
  • Awaiting a beating and scolding.
  • But see what they’re tasting: the choicest of beer!
  • Though three times and four times they quaff the good cheer,
  • The pitchers remain still unemptied.
• • The marvel it lasts till the dawning of day;
  • All people who hear of it doubtless will say:
  • “What happen’d at length to the pitchers?”
  • In secret the children they smile, as they wait;
  • At last, though, they stammer, and stutter, and prate,
  • And straightway the pitchers were empty.
• • And if, children, with kindness address’d ye may be,
  • Whether father, or master, or alderman he,
  • Obey him, and follow his bidding!
  • And if ’tis unpleasant to bridle the tongue,
  • Yet talking is bad, silence good for the young—
  • And then will the beer fill your pitchers!

THE PUPIL IN MAGIC.

• • I AM now,—what joy to hear it!
  • Of the old magician rid;
  • And henceforth shall ev’ry spirit
  • Do whate’er by me is bid;
  • I have watch’d with rigor
  • All he used to do,
  • And will now with vigor
  • Work my wonders too.
• • Wander, wander
  • Onward lightly,
  • So that rightly
  • Flow the torrent,
  • And with teeming waters yonder
  • In the bath discharge its current!
• • And now come, thou well-worn broom,
  • And thy wretched form bestir;
  • Thou hast ever serv’d as groom,
  • So fulfil my pleasure, sir!
  • On two legs now stand,
  • With a head on top;
  • Waterpail in hand,
  • Haste, and do not stop!
• • Wander, wander
  • Onward lightly,
  • So that rightly
  • Flow the torrent,
  • And with teeming waters yonder
  • In the bath discharge its current!
• • See! he’s running to the shore,
  • And has now attain’d the pool,
  • And with lightning speed once more
  • Comes here, with his bucket full!
  • Back he then repairs;
  • See how swells the tide!
  • How each pail he bears
  • Straightway is supplied!
• • Stop, for, lo!
  • All the measure
  • Of thy treasure
  • Now is right!—
  • Ah, I see it! woe, oh, woe!
  • I forget the word of might.
• • Ah, the word whose sound can straight
  • Make him what he was before!
  • Ah, he runs with nimble gait!
  • Would thou wert a broom once more!
  • Streams renew’d forever
  • Quickly bringeth he;
  • River after river
  • Rusheth on poor me!
• • Now no longer
  • Can I bear him;
  • I will snare him,
  • Knavish sprite!
  • Ah, my terror waxes stronger!
  • What a look! what fearful sight!
• • Oh, thou villain child of hell!
  • Shall the house through thee be drown’d?
  • Floods I see that wildly swell,
  • O’er the threshold gaining ground.
• • Wilt thou not obey,
  • Oh, thou broom accurs’d?
  • Be thou still, I pray,
  • As thou wert at first!
• • Will enough
  • Never please thee?
  • I will seize thee,
  • Hold thee fast,
  • And thy nimble wood so tough,
  • With my sharp axe split at last.
• • See, once more he hastens back!
  • Now, oh, Cobold, thou shalt catch it!
  • I will rush upon his track;
  • Crashing on him falls my hatchet.
• • Bravely done, indeed!
  • See, he’s cleft in twain!
  • Now from care I’m freed,
  • And can breathe again.
• • Woe, oh, woe!
  • Both the parts,
  • Quick as darts,
  • Stand on end,
  • Servants of my dreaded foe!
  • Oh, ye gods, protection send!
• • And they run! and wetter still
  • Grow the steps and grows the hall.
  • Lord and master, hear me call!
  • Ever seems the flood to fill,
  • Ah, he’s coming! see,
  • Great is my dismay!
  • Spirits rais’d by me
  • Vainly would I lay!
• • “To the side
  • Of the room
  • Hasten, broom,
  • As of old!
  • Spirits I have ne’er untied
  • Save to act as they are told.”

THE DANCE OF DEATH.

• • THE warder looks down at the mid hour of night,
  • On the tombs that lie scatter’d below;
  • The moon fills the place with her silvery light,
  • And the churchyard like day seems to glow.
  • When see! first one grave, then another opes wide,
  • And women and men stepping forth are descried,
  • In cerements snow-white and trailing.
• • In haste for the sport soon their ankles they twitch,
  • And whirl round in dances so gay;
  • The young and the old, and the poor, and the rich,
  • But the cerements stand in their way;
  • And as modesty cannot avail them aught here,
  • They shake themselves all, and the shrouds soon appear
  • Scatter’d over the tombs in confusion.
• • Now waggles the leg, and now wriggles the thigh,
  • As the troop with strange gestures advance,
  • And a rattle and clatter anon rises high,
  • As of one beating time to the dance.
  • The sight to the warder seems wondrously queer,
  • When the villanous Tempter speaks thus in his ear:
  • “Seize one of the shrouds that lie yonder!”
• • Quick as thought it was done! and for safety he fled
  • Behind the church-door with all speed;
  • The moon still continues her clear light to shed
  • On the dance that they fearfully lead.
  • But the dancers at length disappear one by one,
  • And their shrouds, ere they vanish, they carefully don,
  • And under the turf all is quiet.
• • But one of them stumbles and shuffles there still,
  • And gropes at the graves in despair;
  • Yet ’tis by no comrade he’s treated so ill;—
  • The shroud he soon scents in the air.
  • So he rattles the door—for the warder ’tis well
  • That ’tis bless’d, and so able the foe to repel,
  • All cover’d with crosses in metal.
• • The shroud he must have, and no rest will allow,
  • There remains for reflection no time;
  • On the ornaments Gothic the wight seizes now,
  • And from point on to point hastes to climb.
  • Alas for the warder! his doom is decreed!
  • Like a long-legged spider, with ne’er-changing speed,
  • Advances the dreaded pursuer.
• • The warder he quakes, and the warder turns pale,
  • The shroud to restore fain had sought;
  • When the end,—now can nothing to save him avail,—
  • In a tooth form’d of iron is caught.
  • With vanishing lustre the moon’s race is run,
  • When the bell thunders loudly a powerful One,
  • And the skeleton falls, crush’d to atoms.

THE BRIDE OF CORINTH.

• • ONCE a stranger youth to Corinth came,
  • Who in Athens liv’d, but hop’d that he
  • From a certain townsman there might claim,
  • As his father’s friend, kind courtesy.
  • Son and daughter, they
  • Had been wont to say
  • Should thereafter bride and bridegroom be.
• • But can he that boon so highly priz’d,
  • Save ’tis dearly bought, now hope to get?
  • They are Christians and have been baptiz’d,
  • He and all of his are heathens yet.
  • For a newborn creed,
  • Like some loathsome weed,
  • Love and truth to root out oft will threat.
• • Father, daughter, all had gone to rest,
  • And the mother only watches late;
  • She receives with courtesy the guest,
  • And conducts him to the room of state.
  • Wine and food are brought,
  • Ere by him besought;
  • Bidding him good-night, she leaves him straight.
• • But he feels no relish now, in truth,
  • For the dainties so profusely spread;
  • Meat and drink forgets the wearied youth,
  • And, still dress’d, he lays him on the bed.
  • Scarce are clos’d his eyes,
  • When a form in-hies
  • Through the open door with silent tread.
• • By his glimmering lamp discerns he now
  • How, in veil and garment white array’d,
  • With a black and gold band round her brow,
  • Glides into the room a bashful maid.
  • But she, at his sight,
  • Lifts her hand so white,
  • And appears as though full sore afraid.
• • “Am I,” cries she, “such a stranger here,
  • That the guest’s approach they could not name?
  • Ah, they keep me in my cloister drear,
  • Well nigh feel I vanquish’d by my shame.
  • On thy soft couch now
  • Slumber calmly thou!
  • I’ll return as swiftly as I came.”
• • “Stay, thou fairest maiden!” cries the boy,
  • Starting from his couch with eager haste:
  • “Here are Ceres’, Bacchus’ gifts of joy;
  • Amor bringest thou, with beauty grac’d!
  • Thou art pale with fear!
  • Lov’d one, let us here
  • Prove the raptures the Immortals taste.”
• • “Draw not nigh, O youth! afar remain!
  • Rapture now can never smile on me;
  • For the fatal step, alas! is ta’en,
  • Through my mother’s sick-bed phantasy.
  • Cur’d, she made this oath:
  • ‘Youth and nature both
  • Shall henceforth to Heav’n devoted be.’
• • “From the house, so silent now, are driven
  • All the gods who reign’d supreme of yore;
  • One Invisible now rules in heaven,
  • On the cross a Saviour they adore.
  • Victims slay they here,
  • Neither lamb nor steer,
  • But the altars reek with human gore.”
• • And he lists, and ev’ry word he weighs,
  • While his eager soul drinks in each sound:
  • “Can it be that now before my gaze
  • Stands my lov’d one on this silent ground?
  • Pledge to me thy troth!
  • Through our father’s oath,
  • With Heav’n’s blessing will our love be crown’d.”
• • “Kindly youth, I never can be thine!
  • ’Tis my sister they intend for thee.
  • When I in the silent cloister pine,
  • Ah, within her arms remember me!
  • Thee alone I love,
  • While love’s pangs I prove;
  • Soon the earth will veil my misery.”
• • “No! for by this glowing flame I swear,
  • Hymen hath himself propitious shown:
  • Let us to my father’s house repair,
  • And thou’lt find that joy is not yet flown.
  • Sweetest, here then stay,
  • And without delay
  • Hold we now our wedding-feast alone!”
• • Then exchange they tokens of their truth;
  • She gives him a golden chain to wear,
  • And a silver chalice would the youth
  • Give her in return of beauty rare.
  • “That is not for me;
  • Yet I beg of thee,
  • One lock only give me of thy hair.”
• • Now the ghostly hour of midnight knell’d,
  • And she seem’d right joyous at the sign;
  • To her pallid lips the cup she held,
  • But she drank of nought but blood-red wine.
  • For to taste the bread
  • There before them spread,
  • Nought he spoke could make the maid incline.
• • To the youth the goblet then she brought,—
  • He too quaff’d with eager joy the bowl.
  • Love to crown the silent feast he sought,
  • Ah! full love-sick was the stripling’s soul.
  • From his prayer she shrinks,
  • Till at length he sinks
  • On the bed and weeps without control.
• • And she comes, and lays her near the boy:
  • “How I grieve to see thee sorrowing so!
  • If thou think’st to clasp my form with joy,
  • Thou must learn this secret sad to know:
  • Yes! the maid, whom thou
  • Call’st thy lov’d one now,
  • Is as cold as ice, though white as snow.”
• • Then he clasps her madly in his arm,
  • While love’s youthful might pervades his frame:
  • “Thou might’st hope, when with me, to grow warm,
  • E’en if from the grave thy spirit came!
  • Breath for breath, and kiss!
  • Overflow of bliss!
  • Dost not thou, like me, feel passion’s flame?”
• • Love still closer rivets now their lips,
  • Tears they mingle with their rapture blest,
  • From his mouth the flame she wildly sips,
  • Each is with the other’s thought possess’d.
  • His hot ardor’s flood
  • Warms her chilly blood,
  • But no heart is beating in her breast.
• • From the door she will not now remove,
  • ’Till she gains full certainty of this;
  • And with anger hears she vows of love,
  • Soft caressing words of mutual bliss.
  • “Hush! the cock’s loud strain!
  • But thou’lt come again,
  • When the night returns!”—then kiss on kiss.
• • In her care to see that nought went wrong,
  • Now the mother happen’d to draw near;
  • At the door long hearkens she, full long,
  • Wond’ring at the sounds that greet her ear.
  • Tones of joy and sadness,
  • And love’s blissful madness,
  • As of bride and bridegroom they appear.
• • Then her wrath the mother cannot hold,
  • But unfastens straight the lock with ease:—
  • “In this house are girls become so bold,
  • As to seek e’en strangers’ lusts to please?”
  • By her lamp’s clear glow
  • Looks she in,—and oh!
  • Sight of horror!—’tis her child she sees.
• • Fain the youth would, in his first alarm,
  • With the veil that o’er her had been spread,
  • With the carpet, shield his love from harm;
  • But she casts them from her, void of dread,
  • And with spirit’s strength,
  • In its spectre length,
  • Lifts her figure slowly from the bed.
• • “Mother! mother!”—Thus her wan lips say:
  • “May not I one night of rapture share?
  • From the warm couch am I chas’d away?
  • Do I waken only to despair?
  • It contents not thee
  • To have driven me
  • An untimely shroud of death to wear?
• • “But from out my coffin’s prison-bounds
  • By a wondrous fate I’m forc’d to rove,
  • While the blessings and the chaunting sounds
  • That your priests delight in, useless prove.
  • Water, salt, are vain
  • Fervent youth to chain,
  • Ah, e’en Earth can never cool down love!
• • “When that infant vow of love was spoken,
  • Venus’ radiant temple smiled on both.
  • Mother! thou that promise since hast broken,
  • Fetter’d by a strange, deceitful oath.
  • Gods, though, hearken ne’er,
  • Should a mother swear
  • To deny her daughter’s plighted troth.
• • “From my grave to wander I am forc’d,
  • Still to seek The Good’s long-sever’d link,
  • Still to love the bridegroom I have lost,
  • And the life-blood of his heart to drink;
  • When his race is run,
  • I must hasten on,
  • And the young must ’neath my vengeance sink.
• • “Beauteous youth! no longer may’st thou live;
  • Here must shrivel up thy form so fair;
  • Did not I to thee a token give,
  • Taking in return this lock of hair?
  • View it to thy sorrow!
  • Gray thou’lt be to-morrow,
  • Only to grow brown again when there.
• • “Mother, to this final prayer give ear!
  • Let a funeral pile be straightway dress’d;
  • Open then my cell so sad and drear,
  • That the flames may give the lovers rest!
  • When ascends the fire
  • From the glowing pyre,
  • To the gods of old we’ll hasten, bless’d.”

THE GOD AND THE BAYADERE.

An Indian Legend.

• • MAHADEVA, Lord of earth,
  • For the sixth time comes below,
  • As a man of mortal birth,—
  • Like him, feeling joy and woe.
  • Hither loves he to repair,
  • And his power behind to leave;
  • If to punish or to spare,
  • Men as man he’d fain perceive.
  • And when he the town as a trav’ller hath seen,
  • Observing the mighty, regarding the mean,
  • He quits it, to go on his journey, at eve.
• • He was leaving now the place,
  • When an outcast met his eyes,—
  • Fair in form, with painted face,—
  • Where some straggling dwellings rise.
  • “Maiden, hail!”—“Thanks! welcome here!
  • Stay!—I’ll join thee in the road.”—
  • “Who art thou!”—“A Bayadere,
  • And this house is love’s abode.”
  • The cymbal she hastens to play for the dance,
  • Well skill’d in its mazes the sight to entrance,
  • Then by her with grace is the nosegay bestow’d.
• • Then she draws him, as in play,
  • O’er the threshold eagerly:
  • “Beauteous stranger, light as day
  • Thou shalt soon this cottage see.
  • I’ll refresh thee, if thou’rt tir’d,
  • And will bathe thy weary feet;
  • Take whate’er by thee’s desir’d,
  • Toying, rest, or rapture sweet.”—
  • She busily seeks his feign’d suff’rings to ease;
  • Then smiles the Immortal; with pleasure he sees
  • That with kindness a heart so corrupted can beat.
• • And he makes her act the part
  • Of a slave; he’s straight obey’d.
  • What at first had been but art,
  • Soon is nature in the maid.
  • By degrees the fruit we find,
  • Where the buds at first obtain;
  • When obedience fills the mind,
  • Love will never far remain.
  • But sharper and sharper the maiden to prove,
  • The Discerner of all things below and above,
  • Feigns pleasure, and horror, and maddening pain.
• • And her painted cheeks he kisses,
  • And his vows her heart enthral;
  • Feeling love’s sharp pangs and blisses,
  • Soon her tears begin to fall.
  • At his feet she now must sink,
  • Not with thoughts of lust or gain,—
  • And her slender members shrink,
  • And devoid of power remain.
  • And so the bright hours with gladness prepare
  • Their dark, pleasing veil of a texture so fair,
  • And over the couch softly, tranquilly reign.
• • Late she falls asleep, thus bless’d,—
  • Early wakes, her slumbers fled,
  • And she finds the much-lov’d guest
  • On her bosom lying dead.
  • Screaming falls she on him there,
  • But, alas, too late to save!
  • And his rigid limbs they bear
  • Straightway to their fiery grave.
  • Then hears she the priests and the funeral song,
  • Then madly she runs, and she severs the throng:
  • “Why press tow’rd the pile thus? Why scream thus, and rave?”
• • Then she sinks beside his bier,
  • And her screams through air resound:
  • “I must seek my spouse so dear,
  • E’en if in the grave he’s bound.
  • Shall those limbs of grace divine
  • Fall to ashes in my sight?
  • Mine he was! Yes, only mine!
  • Ah, one single blissful night!”
  • The priests chaunt in chorus: “We bear out the old,
  • When long they’ve been weary, and late they’ve grown cold;
  • We bear out the young, too, so thoughtless and light.
• • “To thy priests’ commands give ear!
  • This one was thy husband ne’er;
  • Live still as a Bayadere,
  • And no duty thou need’st share.
  • To death’s silent realms from life,
  • None but shades attend man’s frame,
  • With the husband, none but wife,—
  • That is duty, that is fame.
  • Ye trumpets, your sacred lament haste to raise!
  • Oh, welcome, ye gods, the bright lustre of days!
  • Oh, welcome to heaven the youth from the flame!”
• • Thus increas’d her torments are
  • By the cruel, heartless quire;
  • And with arms outstretching far
  • Leaps she on the glowing pyre.
  • But the youth divine outsprings
  • From the flame with heav’nly grace,
  • And on high his flight he wings,
  • While his arms his love embrace.
  • In the sinner repentant the Godhead feels joy;
  • Immortals delight thus their might to employ,
  • Lost children to raise to a heavenly place.

THE PARIAH.

The Pariah’s Prayer.

• • DREADED Brama, lord of might!
  • All proceed from thee alone;
  • Thou art he who judgeth right!
  • Dost thou none but Brahmins own?
  • Do but Rajahs come from thee?
  • None but those of high estate?
  • Didst not thou the ape create,
  • Aye, and even such as we?
• • We are not of noble kind,
  • For with woe our lot is rife;
  • And what others deadly find
  • Is our only source of life.
  • Let this be enough for men,
  • Let them, if they will, despise us;
  • But thou, Brama, thou should’st prize us,
  • All are equal in thy ken.
• • Now that, Lord, this prayer is said,
  • As thy child acknowledge me;
  • Or let one be born instead,
  • Who may link me on to thee!
  • Didst not thou a Bayadere
  • As a goddess heavenward raise?
  • And we too, to swell thy praise,
  • Such a miracle would hear.

LEGEND.

• • WATER-FETCHING goes the noble
  • Brahmin’s wife, so pure and lovely;
  • He is honor’d, void of blemish,
  • And of justice rigid, stern.
  • Daily from the sacred river
  • Brings she back refreshment precious;—
  • But where is the pail and pitcher?
  • She of neither stands in need.
  • For with pure heart, hands unsullied,
  • She the water lifts, and rolls it
  • To a wondrous ball of crystal;
  • This she bears with gladsome bosom,
  • Modestly, with graceful motion,
  • To her husband in the house.
• • She to-day at dawn of morning
  • Praying comes to Ganges’ waters,
  • Bends her o’er the glassy surface—
  • Sudden, in the waves reflected,
  • Flying swiftly far above her,
  • From the highest heavens descending,
  • She discerns the beauteous form
  • Of a youth divine, created
  • By the God’s primeval wisdom
  • In his own eternal breast.
  • When she sees him, straightway feels she
  • Wondrous, new, confus’d sensations
• • In her inmost, deepest being;
  • Fain she’d linger o’er the vision,
  • Then repels it,—it returneth,—
  • And, perplex’d, she bends her floodwards
  • With uncertain hands to draw it;
  • But, alas, she draws no more!
  • For the water’s sacred billows
  • Seem to fly, to hasten from her;
  • She but sees the fearful chasm
  • Of a whirlpool black disclos’d.
• • Arms drop down, and footsteps stumble,
  • Can this be the pathway homewards?
  • Shall she fly, or shall she tarry?
  • Can she think, when thought and counsel,
  • When assistance, all are lost?
  • So before her spouse appears she—
  • On her looks he—look is judgment—
  • Proudly on the sword he seizes,
  • To the hill of death he drags her,
  • Where delinquents’ blood pays forfeit.
  • What resistance could she offer?
  • What excuses could she proffer,
  • Guilty, knowing not her guilt?
• • And with bloody sword returns he,
  • Musing, to his silent dwelling,
  • When his son before him stands:
  • “Whose this blood? Oh, father! father!”
  • “The delinquent woman’s!”—“Never!
  • For upon the sword it dries not,
  • Like the blood of the delinquent;
  • Fresh it flows, as from the wound.
  • Mother! mother! hither hasten!
  • Unjust never was my father,
  • Tell me what he now hath done.”—
  • “Silence! silence! hers the blood is!”
  • “Whose, my father?”—“Silence! Silence!”
  • “What! oh, what! my mother’s blood!
  • What her crime? What did she? Answer!
  • Now, the sword! the sword now hold I;
  • Thou thy wife perchance might’st slaughter,
  • But my mother might’st not slay!
  • Through the flames the wife is able
  • Her beloved spouse to follow,
  • And his dear and only mother
  • Through the sword her faithful son.”
  • “Stay! oh, stay!” exclaim’d the father:
  • “Yet ’tis time, so hasten, hasten!
  • Join the head upon the body,
  • With the sword then touch the figure,
  • And, alive, she’ll follow thee.”
• • Hastening, he, with breathless wonder,
  • Sees the bodies of two women
  • Lying crosswise, and their heads too;
  • Oh, what horror! which to choose!
  • Then his mother’s head he seizes,—
  • Does not kiss it, deadly pale ’tis,—
  • On the nearest headless body
  • Puts it quickly, and then blesses
  • With the sword the pious work.
  • Then a giant form uprises.—
  • From the dear lips of his mother,
  • Lips all godlike—changeless—blissful,
  • Sound these words with horror fraught:
  • “Son, O son! what overhast’ning!
  • Yonder is thy mother’s body,
  • Near it lies the impious head
  • Of the woman who hath fallen
  • Victim to the judgment-sword!
  • To her body I am grafted
  • By thy hand for endless ages;
  • Wise in counsel, wild in action,
  • I shall be amongst the gods.
  • E’en the heav’nly boy’s own image,
  • Though in brow and eye so lovely,
  • Sinking downwards to the bosom
  • Mad and raging lust will stir.
• • “ ’Twill return again forever,
  • Ever rising, ever sinking,
  • Now obscur’d, and now transfigur’d,—
  • So great Brama hath ordain’d.
  • He ’twas sent the beauteous pinions,
  • Radiant face, and slender members
  • Of the only God-begotten,
  • That I might be prov’d and tempted;
  • For from high descends temptation,
  • When the gods ordain it so.
  • And so I, the Brahmin woman,
  • With my head in heaven reclining,
  • Must experience, as a Pariah,
  • The debasing power of earth.
• • “Son, I send thee to thy father!
  • Comfort him! Let no sad penance,
  • Weak delay, or thought of merit,
  • Hold thee in the desert fast;
  • Wander on through ev’ry nation,
  • Roam abroad throughout all ages,
  • And proclaim to e’en the meanest,
  • That great Brama hears his cry!
• • “None is in his eyes the meanest—
  • He whose limbs are lame and palsied,
  • He whose soul is wildly riven,
  • Worn with sorrow, hopeless, helpless,
  • Be he Brahmin, be he Pariah,
  • If tow’rd heaven he turns his gaze,
  • Will perceive, will learn to know it:
  • Thousand eyes are glowing yonder,
  • Thousand ears are calmly list’ning,
  • From which nought below is hid.
• • “If I to his throne soar upward,
  • If he sees my fearful figure
  • By his might transform’d to horror,
  • He forever will lament it,—
  • May it to your good be found!
  • And I now will kindly warn him,
  • And I now will madly tell him
  • Whatsoe’er my mind conceiveth,
  • What within my bosom heaveth.
  • But my thoughts, my inmost feelings—
  • Those a secret shall remain.”

THE PARIAH’S THANKS.

• • MIGHTY Brama, now I’ll bless thee!
  • ’Tis from thee that worlds proceed!
  • As my ruler I confess thee,
  • For of all thou takest heed.
• • All thy thousand ears thou keepest
  • Open to each child of earth;
  • We, ’mongst mortals sunk the deepest,
  • Have from thee receiv’d new birth.
• • Bear in mind the woman’s story,
  • Who, through grief, divine became;
  • Now I’ll wait to view His glory,
  • Who omnipotence can claim.

THE FIRST WALPURGIS-NIGHT.

• • A Druid.
  • SWEET smiles the May!
  • The forest gay
  • From frost and ice is freed;
  • No snow is found,
  • Glad songs resound
  • Across the verdant mead.
  • Upon the height
  • The snow lies light,
  • Yet thither now we go,
  • There to extol our Father’s name,
  • Whom we for ages know.
  • Amid the smoke shall gleam the flame;
  • Thus pure the heart will grow.
• • The Druids.
  • Amid the smoke shall gleam the flame;
  • Extol we now our Father’s name,
  • Whom we for ages know!
  • Up, up, then, let us go!
• • One of the People.
  • Would ye, then, so rashly act?
  • Would ye instant death attract?
  • Know ye not the cruel threats
  • Of the victors we obey?
  • Round about are plac’d their nets
  • In the sinful heathen’s way.
  • Ah! upon the lofty wall
  • Wife and children slaughter they;
  • And we all
  • Hasten to a certain fall.
• • Chorus of Women.
  • Ay, upon the camp’s high wall
  • All our children lov’d they slay.
  • Ah, what cruel victors they!
  • And we all
  • Hasten to a certain fall.
• • A Druid.
  • Who fears to-day
  • His rites to pay,
  • Deserves his chains to wear.
  • The forest’s free!
  • This wood take we,
  • And straight a pile prepare!
  • Yet in the wood
  • To stay ’tis good
  • By day, till all is still,
  • With watchers all around us plac’d,
  • Protecting you from ill.
  • With courage fresh, then, let us haste
  • Our duties to fulfil.
• • Chorus of Watchers.
  • Ye valiant watchers, now divide
  • Your numbers through the forest wide,
  • And see that all is still,
  • While they their rites fulfil.
• • A Watcher.
  • Let us, in a cunning wise,
  • Yon dull Christian priests surprise!
  • With the devil of their talk
  • We’ll those very priests confound.
  • Come with prong, and come with fork,
  • Raise a wild and rattling sound
  • Through the livelong night, and prowl
  • All the rocky passes round.
  • Screech-owl, owl,
  • Join in chorus with our howl!
• • Chorus of Watchers.
  • Come with prong, and come with fork
  • Like the devil of their talk,
  • And with wildly rattling sound,
  • Prowl the desert rocks around!
  • Screech-owl, owl,
  • Join in chorus with our howl!
• • A Druid.
  • Thus far ’tis right,
  • That we by night
  • Our Father’s praises sing;
  • Yet when ’tis day,
  • To Thee we may
  • A heart unsullied bring.
  • ’Tis true that now,
  • And often, Thou
  • Fav’rest the foe in fight.
  • As from the smoke is freed the blaze,
  • So let our faith burn bright!
  • And if they crush our olden ways,
  • Who e’er can crush Thy light?
• • A Christian Watcher.
  • Comrades, quick! your aid afford!
  • All the brood of hell’s abroad:
  • See how their enchanted forms
  • Through and through with flames are glowing!
  • Dragon-women, men-wolf swarms,
  • On in quick succession going!
  • Let us, let us haste to fly!
  • Wilder yet the sounds are growing,
  • And the arch-fiend roars on high;
  • From the ground
  • Hellish vapors rise around.
• • Chorus of Christian Watchers.
  • Terrible enchanted forms,
  • Dragon-women, men-wolf swarms!
  • Wilder yet the sounds are growing!
  • See, the arch-fiend comes, all-glowing!
  • From the ground
  • Hellish vapors rise around.
• • Chorus of Druids.
  • As from the smoke is freed the blaze,
  • So let our faith burn bright!
  • And if they crush our olden ways,
  • Who e’er can crush Thy light?

DEATH-LAMENT OF THE NOBLE WIFE OF ASAN AGA.

• • WHAT is yonder white thing in the forest?
  • Is it snow, or can it swans perchance be?
  • Were it snow, ere this it had been melted,
  • Were it swans, they all away had hasten’d.
  • Snow, in truth, it is not, swans it is not;
  • ’Tis the shining tents of Asan Aga.
  • He within is lying, sorely wounded;
  • To him come his mother and his sister;
  • Bashfully his wife delays to come there.
• • When the torment of his wounds had lessen’d,
  • To his faithful wife he sent this message:
  • “At my court no longer dare to tarry,
  • At my court, or e’en amongst my people.”
• • When the woman heard this cruel message,
  • Mute and full of sorrow stood that true one.
  • At the doors she hears the feet of horses,
  • And bethinks that Asan comes,—her husband,
  • To the tower she springs, to leap thence head-long.
  • Her two darling daughters follow sadly,
  • And whilst weeping bitter tears, exclaim they:
  • “These are not our father Asan’s horses;
  • ’Tis thy brother Pintorowich coming!”
• • So the wife of Asan turns to meet him,
  • Clasps her arms in anguish round her brother:
  • “See thy sister’s sad disgrace, O brother!
  • How I’m banish’d—mother of five children!”
  • Silently her brother from his wallet,
  • Wrapp’d in deep red silk, and ready written,
  • Draweth forth the letter of divorcement,
  • To return home to her mother’s dwelling,
  • Free to be another’s wife thenceforward.
• • When the woman saw that mournful letter,
  • Fervently she kiss’d her two sons’ foreheads,
  • And her two girls’ cheeks with fervor kiss’d she.
  • But she from the suckling in the cradle
  • Could not tear herself, so deep her sorrow!
• • So she’s torn thence by her fiery brother;
  • On his nimble steed he lifts her quickly,
  • And so hastens, with the heart-sad woman,
  • Straightway tow’rd his father’s lofty dwelling.
• • Short the time was—seven days had pass’d not,
  • Yet enough ’twas; many mighty princes
  • Sought the woman in her widow’s mourning,
  • Sought the woman,—as their wife they sought her.
• • And the mightiest was Imoski’s Cadi,
  • And the woman weeping begg’d her brother:
  • “By thy life, my brother, I entreat thee,
  • Let me not another’s wife be ever,
  • Lest my heart be broken at the image
  • Of my poor, my dearly-cherish’d children!”
• • To her prayer her brother would not hearken,
  • Fix’d to wed her to Imoski’s Cadi.
  • Yet the good one ceaselessly implor’d him:
  • “Send, at least a letter, O my brother,
  • With this message to Imoski’s Cadi:
  • ‘The young widow sends thee friendly greeting;
  • Earnestly she prays thee, through this letter,
  • That, when thou com’st hither, with thy Suatians,
  • A long veil thou’lt bring me, ’neath whose shadow
  • I may hide, when near the house of Asan,
  • And not see my dearly-cherish’d orphans.’ ”
• • Scarcely had the Cadi read this letter,
  • Than he gather’d all his Suatians round him,
  • And then tow’rd the bride his course directed,
  • And the veil she ask’d for, took he with him.
• • Happily they reach’d the princess’ dwelling,
  • From the dwelling happily they led her.
  • But when they approach’d the house of Asan,
  • Lo! the children saw from high their mother,
  • And they shouted: “To thy halls return thou!
  • Eat thy supper with thy darling children!”
  • Mournfully the wife of Asan heard it,
  • Tow’rd the Suatian prince then turn’d she, saying:
  • “Let, I pray, the Suatians and the horses
  • At the lov’d ones’ door a short time tarry,
  • That I may give presents to my children.”
• • And before the lov’d ones’ door they tarried,
  • And she presents gave to her poor children,
  • To the boys gave gold-embroider’s buskins,
  • To the girls gave long and costly dresses,
  • To the suckling, helpless in the cradle,
  • Gave a garment, to be worn hereafter.
• • This aside saw Father Asan Aga,—
  • Sadly cried he to his darling children:
  • “Hither come, ye dear unhappy infants,
  • For your mother’s breast is turn’d to iron,
  • Lock’d forever, clos’d to all compassion!”
• • When the wife of Asan heard him speak thus,
  • On the ground, all pale and trembling, fell she,
  • And her spirit fled her sorrowing bosom
  • When she saw her children flying from her.

[* ]This ballad is introduced in Act II. of Claudino of Villa Bella, where it is suddenly broken off, as it is here.